He faced Nyara, his hands aglow with raw power; she brought Need up into a guard position. From the way her stance changed, Skif knew she had given control of her body over to the old woman.
But magic does not need a blade to strike, and can kill from afar. Only Need had the ability to destroy the Adept. But if Falconsbane did not find a target other than his daughter, she might not survive to close with him.
Fear acted on him like a drug, sharpening his own reflexes, and making it seem as if everyone else moved at a crawl while he ran. Firesong was only now bringing up his hands to strike at the Adept, and he would be too late to stop the first attack on Nyara unless Skif redirected it.
He reached for his own blade, knowing he stood no chance against Falconsbane - but at least he could defend Nyara. Even if he died doing so -
:No, Chosen!: There was an equine scream and a flurry of hoofbeats. Cymry loomed up out of the darkness and rushed into Falconsbane. Mornelithe stumbled forward, face gone blank with surprise.
To meet Nyara, standing with Need braced, ready for him.
They had expected a combat, with Firesong taking on Falconsbane's magic, and Nyara striking at a moment of distraction.
Cymry evidently had other ideas.
She continued her rush right into the tent, and shoved the Adept right up onto the blade, impaling him on its full length.
Somehow, Nyara held steady, under the double impact of his body and the surprise that their clever foe had been so incredibly stupid.
Mornelithe gathered his power, instinctively grasping after the one thing he still controlled.
The witch-horse danced backward, neighing with triumph.
Nyara braced herself against him, but even so, she staggered back. He was half again her weight, after all. The force of the shove had carried him halfway up the blade; he stared stupidly at her, face-to-face. Pain took him as a triumphant conqueror, and death beckoned. His eyes flitted to the blade as his power ran away along with his own life-force and his red, red blood, flowing into the ground before him.
His magics failed, aborted by the trauma to his body.
His power was draining away, and so was his life. This body was dying, very quickly.
He could use what was left to have revenge on them - or he could escape and get his revenge another time.
He chose as he had always chosen, laughing in spite of the terrible pain that wracked this latest body he had stolen.
An'desha felt Falconsbane gather the last of his energies, and leap -
- and now, completely in control, he stared down with his own eyes. Pain seized him as a dog would seize a rag doll, and shook him, and he screamed as his vision failed and darkness came down around him - darkness, and despair -
But as the darkness descended, he saw light -
The Moonpaths! It was the old woman, standing on the Moonpaths, with a black abyss between him and her. She held out a hand to him.
"Here!" she said. "To me!"
He hesitated.
"Do you trust your Goddess?" she said. "Jump to me!"
A thousand thoughts flitted through his mind, but uppermost was that this must also be an Avatar of the Goddess, one that had cloaked Herself in the seeming of an old woman - yes, that made sense, for how else could he have spoken with Her? No human woman could have touched his mind on the Moonpaths!
- yes, and wasn't the last face of the Goddess that of the Crone? She who gave life and death?
Wasn't She the Goddess?
He must trust Her!
He leapt; She caught and held him - And She clung to him, and held him out of the abyss even as it opened up under his feet.
Skif caught the crumpling body, lowering it to the ground far more gently than he would have if he hadn't seen mat ghost of a frightened child looking out of the eyes just before the body fell. Nyara's eyes were closed, her face a wooden mask of concentration.
:Hold onto him, son. I'll be leeching a lot of your energy for this. Keep him steady. Nyara is going to have to pull me out a hair at a time.:
He stared at the wound; at the ashen face of what had been Falconsbane. Surely, Need could not save anything this time!
:Hush, fool. I have to Heal it all in my wake, but I can do it. I've Healed worse, once, and I wasn't even awake at the time. 'Course, I did have help.:
He had to close his eyes; a wave of dizziness came over him and did not pass, but only got worse. It felt like that moment, years ago, when he and Cymry had gotten washed over that cliff, and fell, and fell -
He was going to die like this, falling forever!
Panic -
:Chosen - touch me - :
It was Cymry; he caught her presence and held her, even as he was holding Falconsbane -
:An'desha, Chosen. Never Falconsbane again. Don't worry, I can hold you forever, if I must. My strength is yours. Take whatever is there for your own. With you always.:
The dizziness steadied, ebbed, faded. He opened his eyes.
Nyara stood beside him, leaning on the blade, panting as if she had just run for miles. There was no sign of the wound except the dark slit in An'desha's shirt, and the blood soaking into the ground. The chest rose and fell with full, even breaths, and under his hand the pulse was strong and steady. And even as he stared down at the miracle in his arms, the eyes opened, and looked up into his.
Innocent. Vulnerable. Terrified.
And no more Falconsbane's eyes than Nyara's were.
An'desha looked up into the face of the stranger, the one who had been making shadow-gryphons with his fingers, and who now held him carefully, with no sign of the hatred he must feel toward Falconsbane. He looked over at Nyara, who leaned heavily and wearily on a sword but took a moment to smile encouragingly.
They did know who and what he was!
And he looked at the sword. Which, he now realized, was the old woman.
:You lied to me!: he wailed, as he started to shake, still held in the terror of near-death.
:I never told you I was your Goddess,: came the tart reply :I only asked if you trusted Her.:
Firesong was hot on Falconsbane's trail, flying through the spirit-realms, a silver falcon. The traces faded with preternatural speed, and Firesong poured even more of his own life into tracing Falconsbane back to the little pocket of the Nether Planes where he had made his hiding place, his place of refuge, where death and time could not touch him. Through the swirling colors and chaos of the paths of power, he followed the spark that was Falconsbane, until he watched it dive into a pocket of blackness, an opening into a greater darkness. Small wonder he had not gone mad when trapped in the Gate's greater Void! He had practice, after all, in coping with such things.