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strand of his own damp white hair tangled itself up in his fingers as he pushed open the tent flap, and he shook it loose impatiently. White hair—he looked Tayledras. Just as Tayledras as Firesong or Darkwind. There was no way that anyone would know he was Shin’a’in unless he told them. Was there a reason for that? Firesong had told him it was because of the magic, but if the Star-Eyed had chosen, She could have given him back his native coloring. For a little time, at least.
    He sat down on the pallet; it was covered with a blanket of Shin’a’in weaving—a gift from a Herald, who’d bought it while on her far-away rounds—and it still smelled faintly of horse, wood smoke, and dried grasses. The scent was enough, if he closed his eyes, to make him believe he was home again.
    If the Star-Eyed could remake my body, couldn’t She have taken away the magic, too?
    Magic. For a long time, he’d wanted to be a mage. Now he wished She had taken his magic away, but there was always a reason why She did or did not do something.
    He stared at the canvas walls, glowing in the late afternoon sun coming through the windows, and chewed his lower lip.
    If She left me with magic, it is because She wants me to use it for some reason that only She knows. Firesong keeps saying it’s my duty to do this, to Her as well as to myself. He felt a flash of hot resentment at that. Hadn’t he risked everything to defeat Falconsbane—not just the pain and death of his body, but the destruction of his soul and his self? Wasn’t that enough? How much more was he going to have to do?
    Then he flushed with shame and a little apprehension, for he was not the only one to have risked all on a single toss of the dice. What of those who had dared penetrate to Ancar’s own land to rid the world of Ancar, Hulda, and Falconsbane? If Elspeth had been captured, she would have been taken by Ancar for his own private tortures and pleasures. Ancar had hated the princess with a passion that amounted to obsession and, given the depravities that Falconsbane had overheard the servants whispering about, Elspeth would have endured worse than anything An’desha had faced.
    Then there was Darkwind. Falconsbane hated Darkwind k’Sheyna more than any human on the face of the world, and only a little less than the gryphons. If Darkwind had been captured, his fate would have been similar to the one Elspeth would have suffered. And as for Nyara—
    Nyara’s disposition would have depended on whether or not King Ancar had recognized her as Falconsbane’s daughter. If he had, he would have known she represented yet another way to control the Dark Adept, and she might have been kept carefully to that end. But if not—if Ancar had given her back to her father—
    She would have been wise to kill herself before that happened. In her case, it would not have been hate that motivated atrocity, but the rage engendered by having a “possession” revolt and turn traitor. Motivation aside, the result would have been the same.
    As for Skif and Firesong, the former would have been recognized as one of the hated Heralds and killed out of hand; the latter? Who knew? Certainly Falconsbane and Ancar would have been pleased to get their hands on an Adept, and given enough time, anyone could be broken and used, even an Adept of the quality of Firesong.
    No, he was not the only person who had risked everything to bring Falconsbane down, so he might as well stop feeling sorry for himself. Still, it hurt.
    That was precisely what Firesong would likely tell him, if Firesong had been there, instead of teaching young Herald-Mages the very basics of their Gift.
    Firesong.... Once again, a wave of mingled embarrassment and desire traveled outward in an uncomfortable flush of heat. Somehow Firesong had gone from comforter to lover, and An’desha was not quite certain how the transition had come about. For that matter, he didn’t think Firesong was quite sure how it had happened. It