Winds of Fury by Mercedes Lackey

Falconsbane was completely unaware of that fact.
    Sometimes I wish he had gotten rid of me . . . how can I still be sane? Maybe I’m not . . .
    An’desha had been an unwitting and terrified spectator to far too many of Falconsbane’s atrocities—appalled at what was happening, and helpless to do anything about what was being done. And he knew, from stolen glimpses into Falconsbane’s thoughts, that the little he had been witness to was only the smallest part of what Falconsbane had done to his victims. His existence had all the qualities of the worst nightmare that anyone could imagine, and more than once he had been tempted to reveal himself, just to end the torment.
    But something had always kept him from betraying himself; some hope, however faint, that one day he might, possibly, be able to get his own body back and drive out the interloper. He never gave up on that hope, not even when Falconsbane had changed that body into something An’desha no longer recognized as his.
    He had welcomed the embrace of the Void, at least as an end to the madness. He had no more expected release from the Void than Falconsbane had.
    He had not been as weakened or as confused as his usurper when that release came, but caution made him very wary of trusting anyone with his secret. He had remained silent and hidden, and that, perhaps, is what had saved him.
    The coercions on Falconsbane had not taken hold of him , and he had come through the ordeal in far better shape than Falconsbane had. And to his surprise and tentative pleasure, he had discovered that the damage done to Falconsbane had permitted him some measure of control again—always provided that he did not try to control something while Falconsbane was using it.
    Falconsbane did not seem any more aware of An’desha’s presence than he had been before, not even when An’desha, greatly daring, had taken over the body, making it sit up, eat, and even walk, while Falconsbane was “asleep.”
    What all this meant, An’desha did not dare to speculate.
    But there had been other signs to make him hope, signs and even oblique messages, during the time that Falconsbane had waged war on the Tale’edras.
    The Black Riders . He had known who and what those mysterious entities were, even though Falconsbane had not. When they had appeared, he had nearly been beside himself with excitement. They were as much a message to him—or so he hoped—as they were a distraction to Falconsbane.
    And there had even been an earlier sign, at Falconsbane’s battle and subsequent escape from the ruins where the gryphons laired. He knew why the Kal’enedral had failed to slay Falconsbane, even if no one else did. They had not missed their mark—nor had concerned with sparing the Adept. Their later actions, in the guise of Black Riders, luring Falconsbane into thinking that he was being “courted” by another Adept, only confirmed that.
    They —or rather, She , the Star-Eyed, the Warrior—knew that An’desha was still “alive.” She would; very little was lost to the deity of both the Tale’edras and the Shin’a’in, so long as it occurred either on the Plains or in the Pelagirs. When the Black Riders sem the tiny horse and the ring to Falconsbane, An’desha was certain that they were also sending a message to him. The black horse meant that he had not been forgotten, either oy his Goddess or by Her Swordswom. The ring was to remind him that life is a cycle—and the cycle might bring him a chance to get his body and his life back again.
    The question was, now that he was far from the lands that he had known, could they act this far from the Plains? The Goddess was not known for being able to do much far from the borders of Her own lands. She had limited Her own power, of Her own will, at the beginning of time—as all the Powers had chosen to do, to keep the world from becoming a battleground