Mercedes Lackey - Alta

“Hmm.” Kiron folded his arms over his chest and gave Orest a knowing look. “You know, I’ve heard that sometimes the female Fledglings have a lot of difficulty when they first become women.” He actually had heard that often enough around the temple—though possibly Orest hadn’t paid any attention to that sort of thing. He could be very single-minded, could Orest. Some might call him dense, but not Kiron; Orest could be absolutely brilliant when he chose to exercise his mind. The problem was convincing him of the need to do so. If Orest had a fault, it was that he concentrated only on what interested him and ignored or carelessly forgot everything else.

“What do you—” Orest began, then, to Kiron’s great amusement, flushed a deep and painful-looking scarlet. “Oh. Ah. Yes, that might be it. I’ve—ah—heard the same thing—”

Well. Maybe he does pay attention once in a while.

“But of course your father wouldn’t put it that baldly,” Kiron continued, as bland as cream.

“Of course he wouldn’t. And that must be it.” Embarrassed though he might be, Orest must have been grateful for the explanation, for he seized on it with evident relief. “I hope she feels better, but if anyone can make her feel well, it will be Aunt Re. She’s almost a Healer, she knows so much, and Aket-ten loves the farm.”

Orest returned to the vigil over his egg with the air of someone who has had a great deal of concern lifted from him. Kiron, for his part, went to check on Avatre (who was not at all interested in stirring from her warm sand, so that she looked like a heap of rubies half-buried in it), and then went for a walk in the rain.

After that first torrential downpour, the rains were no heavier here than any ordinary rainy season—but rumor said that things were otherwise in the kingdom of the enemy. With exquisite timing, the Magi had—so it was claimed—arranged for terrible storms to lash the Tian countryside coinciding with the highest point of the Flood coming down Great Mother River from the lands above the Cataracts. The result—supposedly—was going to be a flood of epic proportions. Not only farmlands would be flooded, but whole villages, towns, even parts of the great cities that were too low to escape.

If this was true, Kiron felt unexpectedly sorry for the Tian farmers and villagers. The mud brick used for their homes could not stand against rising waters; people would return after the waters had receded only to find that their houses had melted away in the flood. This was going to cause a lot of hardship and it wouldn’t be to the people who were waging this war, it would be to the poor farmers and craftsmen who just wanted to get on quietly with their lives and didn’t give a toss about where the border was. In fact, it would impact the poor serfs on captured Altan land the most—their Tian overlords could escape the flooding, but they would have nowhere to go.

It seemed a very unfair way to wage a war, when the people who were responsible for it were not the people paying the price.

And he knew very well what others would say about that—it was too bad for all those farmers and serfs, but that was the way that war went. And maybe it was, but it still seemed very unfair to him.

It had seemed a fine thing when the Jousters of Tia were grounded by storms that hadn’t affected anyone else so much—but this war on those who weren’t even part of the fighting was just—wrong.

In fact, everything he had learned about the Magi in the last three days had that same faint aura of wrongness about it.

Not that he had been able to learn much.

The Magi kept pretty much to themselves, up there in their “Palace of Wisdom” or whatever they called it. As if they were the only people in all of Alta to have a true grasp of wisdom. That seemed a case of monumental hubris to him. But you didn’t see a Magus out beyond the First Canal very much; people said they were doing important things, too important to leave their stronghold. Kiron had the feeling, though, that it was because they didn’t care to mix with those they felt were beneath them. It also seemed to him that they cultivated mystery and secrecy to the same extent that the Winged Ones eschewed it.

There was one time and place where he was seeing them though. Every morning, in the predawn, collecting Winged Fledglings. Every morning, the Fledglings lined up like a column of ants and marched silently out into the rain under the guidance of four Magi. By midmorning, they were returned, only they looked—drained. Blank-faced, pale, and stumbling with exhaustion. Kiron had a notion that this was exactly what they were—drained, that is. Hadn’t there been a tale going around the Jousters’ Compound in Tia that the sea witches had found a way to combine their power to send those new and powerful storms down on Tia? Well, it looked to him as if the Magi had indeed done just that. With one small addition to the story; it didn’t look to him as if they were troubling themselves with the small detail of cooperation and willing partnership.

If the returned Fledglings felt as bad as they looked—if this was what had happened to Aket-ten—well, he didn’t blame her one tiny bit for not wanting to be taken away a second time.

As he crossed the bridge from the Third Ring to the Second, he had the road mostly to himself. No one wanted to be out during the rains—except perhaps the swamp dragons. He wondered what being drained day after day was going to do to these Fledglings. It might make them stronger, but somehow he doubted it. It was far more likely to make them weaker, or burn them out altogether. Perhaps it was ungenerous of him, but nevertheless he had the feeling that such an outcome was not going to displease the Magi one bit. If the Magi had any real rivals for power and influence at all, it was the Winged Ones. Weakening the Winged Ones would only make the Magi stronger.

As for the rest, the only way to really find out anything was to get into the Magi’s stronghold—

As if I am likely to be able to get away with something like that! he scoffed at himself, hunching his back against a gust of cold, rain-filled wind. No, Lord Ya-tiren is right. Silver and gold will loosen tongues and I don’t have much of either.

What he did have, however, was a reason to go see Lord Ya-tiren. Not overtly to find out about Lord Ya-tiren’s daughter, but to report on his son’s excellent progress. Although he made no such similar reports to the other boys’ fathers, there was a special bond of obligation on both sides between himself and Lord Ya-tiren, and no one would think twice about Kiron going to pay a visit to his patron’s household during such an idle time, in order to tell him that the son he had been concerned about was thriving and making outstanding progress. So that was what he was ostensibly going to do now.

He said as much to the door servant, and his lordship’s steward, and the servant who came to bring him into his lordship’s presence. He was enthusiastic in his praise of Orest, which made all three servants smile, for Orest was a great favorite among them.

“Kiron, rider of Avatre!” Lord Ya-tiren greeted him, with a smile, as he entered the workroom where Ya-tiren was perusing a pile of letters. His lordship had a brazier burning beside his table to chase away the cold. On his table stood a fine alabaster lamp burning sweetly scented oil. The sound of the rain outside was muffled by the thick walls of his workroom, which were painted with scenes of duck hunting with cat and falcon. Kiron recalled Aket-ten telling him how she “spoke” to her father’s cats and birds to make sure they were in good condition for just that sport. “Come and sit, and tell me how my son gets on!”