Hunter and Fox (13 page)

Talyn looked up at the lanky commander. “I cannot comment on the truthfulness of it, as it is merely a myth among my people, but his telling of it was…” she paused to choose her words carefully, “very moving.”

Azrul sighed and leaned back against the stone of the chapel for a moment, closing her eyes. “I wish I had been there. I could do with something to take my mind off all of this.” She gestured about her with something verging on desperation.

It was not the first time that Talyn had heard the Commander of the Swoop complain about the Caisah's missions. The Swoop, once the symbol of fortitude and religion, was now relegated to no more than a force of tyranny: another cog in their master's machine of domination.

For Azrul, there remained little choice. The tribes had few groups like the Swoop but, in the absence of an actual scion, they were ultimately ruled over by the leader of the Manesto. It was more than just tradition. It was a binding of the highest magic, and once this link had kept the tribes together in the maelstrom of the White Void. It was only Azrul's misfortune that had born her into a generation where that leader was the Caisah.

Talyn opened her mouth to find some platitudes, but instead found herself screaming in agony. It had been so long since she had shared the Second Gift that she quite forgot herself. The pain of the other swept over her, bringing her to her knees and making the world flair white. Dimly she heard Azrul's voice, her hand touching her shoulder, but she could do nothing but scream mindlessly. Against the back of her eyelids Talyn saw a knife flash, and a woman's hand wielding a huge mallet. The word
why
battered against her head as if someone was shouting it directly into her ear. All around was such fear and pain that for those moments Talyn's own body dissolved away. She wore another's skin and shared his fear and horror.

When it subsided she found herself sobbing on the floor, while Azrul held her hand and patted her back. She had not cried in centuries, but she did now. Talyn screamed his name, his secret deepest name, and it was not just the pain that made her do that, but also the knowledge that she was powerless to help her brother. Finally, when she had spent all the tears she felt her body had ever owned, she rolled over and stared at the beautiful vaulted ceiling.

“Please forget what you have seen and heard today, Azrul,” she finally said through a torn throat.

The commander sat back on her heels. “Only if you tell me what it was. If it is some affliction…”

“None that a healer can mend,” Talyn replied, getting to her feet. She staggered, and Azrul helped her to sit on the pedestal next to the Lady of Wings. “It is my brother. Somewhere out there, he is in terrible pain. I have not felt that connection for many, many years.”

Azrul frowned. “Then why now?”

“I do not know. It was not one of the Gifts returned to me by the Caisah. The Harrowing only left us the ability to sense each other, not empathize.” She shook her head. “Now I do not know what to do…”

“For if you go to help,” Azrul said softly, “you will both burn for it.”

Talyn's hand clenched; her whole body knotted with frustration. “I love my brother. We were close before the Harrowing, but I do not know what sort of man he has grown to. I know nothing of his foster parents or how he has lived all these years. But I would dearly love to find out.”

“He is not dying?”

“It is hard to kill a Vaerli—but he is in great pain.” With horror she found she was shaking. “He could still be slain, I did not see enough to know.” She turned her head in the direction he lay. The connection still vibrated like a plucked string, but the waves of agony were dimmed. It had been so sudden she did not even know how close he was. Talyn thought she had plumbed the depths of her despair, but she was obviously wrong. To know he was in danger and be unable to do anything about it was the worst torture. Every part of her wanted to find him, save him, but it would be death for both of them.

Azrul must have read it in her face, for she put her arm around the Hunter's shoulder and hugged her. “My brother was killed two years ago, a foolish fall off his horse. I loved him dearly too. If you can do anything…”

“What can I do?” Talyn snapped, pulling away. “I have no friends, no allies to ask for help to search for him.”

“I would think you could ask me,” Azrul replied quietly.

Looking down, the Hunter realized with a start that she had hurt the other woman with ill-thought words. “I would,” she said more gently, “but both of us are tied to the Caisah. We are his creatures, and I fear he might well be the cause of my brother's pain. Neither of us can afford to go against him.”

“Even if it means the death of your kin?”

Talyn couldn't answer that question. She had single-mindedly chased her goal without thought of the consequences, imagining that she had done the worst things possible to achieve it—but she had been wrong. To abandon her brother to death would be the very lowest.

“I must think about this,” she said slowly. “There must be something I can do…”

Azrul nodded, more than aware of the painful choices a minion of the Caisah must often make. “May the Lady of Wings light your way.” She sketched the Lady's Kiss in the air, a swooping gesture like a bird in flight from breast to lip with the fingertips.

Talyn returned the blessing, though she did not really believe in such nonsense, and quickly left the temple. Her thoughts whirled as they had not for centuries, and it was painful.

She found her way swiftly back to her room and drew the silver carved box once more from under her thin bed. Opening it quickly she removed her mother's sword with reverence and, laying it on the bed, pulled clear the maroon velvet of the lining. The
pae atuae
protected not only the weapon; underneath the padding of the box were other precious things: her stash of coin, two small carved stone figures of Kindred, some
pae atuae
poetry, and a silver ring. The money was what she'd come for but the ring drew her eye. It was unaccountably warm and heavy in her hand. She didn't even remember picking it up, though she couldn't forget where she had got it from. Some memories were impossible to shake off.

On impulse she tucked it into her pocket with the coins. Money had never really featured in her life before, but Talyn was glad now that she had considered it might one day. She had squirreled away thick gold coins, some from her bounties, others she had picked up in her many years, for a moment such as this. Though she was not one of them, she knew there were plenty of people who would work hard for gold. Hopefully she would be able to find out about Byre, and then perhaps she could do something to help him. It was not much of a plan, but it was certainly better than waiting for news of her brother's death to reach her.

Byre woke with a cry. Had it all been a horrific nightmare? The coolness of iron on his arms and legs soon put paid to that happy thought. Raising his head with as much care as he could, Byre carefully looked about, but the cell was empty. It was coming toward evening, and Flyyit had worked hard all day. She was hopefully exhausted from her efforts and would let him sleep soundly. Byre could only hope his torturer was not completely dedicated to her job.

His body ached with remembrance but the physical damage she had inflicted on him was already beginning to heal: all but one.

She had been right—the pain was incredible. Breaking his arm, she had bound it tightly at an impossible angle and all day his body had sought to set it right. The fight between the torturer and the Third Gift would have left Byre crippled if he had not used the mastery technique all Vaerli children learned. It was a way of setting aside pain, of going beyond it for a little while. It had been used since ancient times, particularly when dealing with Kindred who had no concept of pain and how much they could inflict on flesh. Tucked in a corner of his mind the agony still lingered, and it would return in greater strength soon enough.

For now at least, he would not go mad with the torture. His arm shattered and bound as it was would not slow him down should he manage to escape the cell.

And how will you manage that?
The Mastery had left him deaf to other things. He was not quite as alone as he might have thought. A single flame-eyed Kindred, present still only in ethereal form, lingered in the corner of the room.

“There is always a way to escape these situations,” Byre replied with firmness he really didn't feel. “Perhaps you might even want to help me as you did last time…”

The alien head twitched like a bird watching for prey or predator.
You really are a remarkable kin. None of your race has been able to see us in this form since the Harrowing.

Byre shifted, cautiously trying the strength of his manacles. “If I am so remarkable, then some help would be appreciated.”

The Kindred glided closer, nearer to his face so that he could actually see the far wall through its insubstantial body.
That would not serve our purpose
.

Byre knew full well the creature could use the stone around itself to fashion a useful body. He had seen them do it in defense of the wagon only a few days before. He ground his teeth in frustration. “Does it serve your purpose to watch me die in here? It will happen. She will have had her fun and then it will be over. What will you watch then? Will you let me die alone?”

The Kindred's voice almost seemed sad.
We can only watch—as Ellyria knew. But you are not alone
.

The words hung there for a moment and the peculiar intensity of the words pierced Byre through. He dredged his ancient memory for what he could recall of the Kindred. They were both danger and salvation to the Vaerli, but their thoughts were alien and unknown. Often what they did could indeed seem cruel, but there was always a reason. If only he could understand what that was.

The pain of Byre's broken and contorted body was beginning to break through his Mastery. It would not be long now before pain rendered him incapable of thought. In desperation he stretched forth his unbroken hand toward the Kindred. “Help me!”

You have all the help you need.

Then he did cry out. Flyyit would be sorry to miss his final crumbling. He sobbed and called out the secret names of those long lost to him. He saw their faces as he remembered them. Mother long dead, father long lost, but most of all his sister's fall—the person he most loved. He had hidden their memory away, stuffed them down beneath three hundred years of day-to-day existence, but now writhing on the floor of the cell he allowed it back. His Vaerli nature, so long denied, flooded through him, toe to fingertip, skin to heart. The Kindred's eyes leapt to life, full of flame and triumph.

Byreniko felt it again. He could hear them all: the lost, the angry, those near suicide, those who had stilled all thought of being Vaerli. So many feelings should have destroyed him. Instead he felt more complete than he had ever been. It was as if he had been blinded for centuries and was only now seeing.

He sought her out, and though her mind was tangled with self-loathing and despair, to feel his sister's thoughts again was very, very sweet.

His arm was still broken and trapped and he might well die very shortly, but Byre rolled so that he could see the sky outside and smiled.

“Is the Harrowing ended?” he asked the Kindred with a voice that seemed to him to be that of all of his people.

No. Nor have you yet earned the return of all Gifts, but you are the first kin to come even this far.

Byre lay still for a moment, letting the connection subside—but only enough so that he could think for himself. “But it was the Caisah who caused the Harrowing. How did you make him return even one of them?”

The Kindred was retreating, fading into the earth, leaving him with unanswered questions.
Not all kin deserve to come home, and not all Gifts are given easily. The puzzle is not finished yet.

Byre let his head drop. The creature was gone but the Second Gift remained. He held onto that, and the pain when it returned would not be enough to break him.

P
elanor sat quietly on the stone floor, her eyes closed and her mind reaching out across distance to her
gewalt.
Alvick was so far away, but she could hear his blood pounding within her and taste his desire for her like sweetness on her tongue.

“You failed.” The priestess' voice was soft in the darkness. “You know you cannot receive the Blood until the price is paid.”

That irritated the young Witch. She had not studied hard for seven years to forget such a thing, but she showed none of these emotions when she replied. “The Caisah dismissed me. His power is one not even you could stand against, Mother.”

A little dangerous to goad a priestess of the twelve-mouthed goddess, but no punishment came. She was now a full Blood Witch and not a mere acolyte.

“There will be other chances, little one,” the priestess said. “The Hunter never stays too long by her master's side; there is no amusement in that for him. You must follow her in the wilds and take her there.”

Again her elder was testing her. Pelanor rose. “There is no Witch alive or dead who can track a Vaerli. Their blood is immune to our magics.”

Her elder remained silent, watching her out of narrowed eyes.

Then Pelanor knew this was a test, and she and her
gewalt
's existence depended on passing it. The goddess might give the gift of the Blood, but the Council decided if she was worthy to be one of them. Although she might be nearly immortal, her vulnerability was Alvick, whom they had hustled away shortly after the ceremony.

She thought on the nature of the Hunter and the magics that surrounded her. Finally after a short silence, she lifted her head and smiled. “The link between Hunter and prey is powerful.”

The priestess raised an eyebrow. “Well done, little one. You have only to wait until her prey is named…”

“And if I find that person then she will come to me.” Pelanor folded her hands and dropped her head once more. “Then if you do not object, Mother, I will meditate until the link is made and try to think of ways I may overcome the Hunter.”

“A fine idea.” The priestess pressed her hand against the Witch's forehead. “You will need much preparation if you are to accomplish what no other of us has: the defeat of a Vaerli.” There was no sound to mark her leaving, but the air was still suddenly.

Pelanor did not reply, instead fixing her mind on the glory that was bound to follow.

Few people looked directly at Talyn the Dark as she strode through the Lower City. Truthfully, she did not look about herself much, either. It was too distressing to see the tumble of houses leaning over the streets like drunken fools. Vaerli had never been enough in number to need a building beyond the walls of the Citadel itself. These days it seemed like the city was larger and harder to escape.

She would have also liked to ride Syris into the town, but the nykur was ill at ease in such close quarters, and she didn't need any incidents or further attention—not that she was able to move unnoticed through the streets.

A tide of rumor raced ahead of her. Children were yanked hurriedly into houses and even beggars scrambled to get out of her way. Naturally, there were others too, footpads, people who had lost kin to her bounties, these all lurked in the lower portions of the city. She could feel their regard from the shadows of the alleys, but the before-time whispered that they were too shy of death to approach.

It was not in Talyn's nature to be subtle. She had no contacts, and no shady go-between to smooth her path through the city's underbelly. So she went to the one place she knew such people could be found, the Singing Fish.

Pushing open the conveniently squeaky door of the public house, she heard the patter of conversation stop suddenly. Every eye was on her, and despite herself, she smiled. It was certainly a curious effect. Not that smiling did her any favors, either. A couple of nervous patrons leapt up and made for the back door.

Ignoring them, Talyn walked confidently up to the bar. Then, turning, she raised the full purse of gold. “You all know who I am, and you know despite everything I do, I do not lie. I need information, not on any bounty—but on my kin. Anyone who can find the location of my brother—known as Byreniko—will earn this purse…and my gratitude.”

Most kept watching her, but a couple exchanged glances as well. Good, she had some interest at least. She went on boldly, one eye always in the before-time. “He is most likely hidden, tortured even, but I will pay well for knowledge of his whereabouts, even more to secure his release. It is a simple matter that will earn you enough to last a lifetime.”

She'd caused much harm to other people's families, but hopefully the lure of gold would erase that from people's minds. Tossing the purse lightly in one hand to make it jingle attractively, she turned to make her exit. “Leave a message at the Temple of the Lady of Wings if you wish to earn more money than fomenting rebellion will ever do.”

At her back, the patrons sounded like angry bees, but if there were no rescuer there then at least the rumor would spread. It was the only plan she had. It was also Byre's only hope.

The Caisah sat in the dark, and Kelanim hesitated at the doorway. She had made the mistake of interrupting his thoughts before—the bruises had taken weeks to subside from around her throat. Whatever dark shadows he battled, they put him on the edge of violence.

Just how she had come to love the Caisah, Kelanim could not say. It was certainly not as if she had expected it. Her father, an insignificant official, had been trying to gain favor at the time, and she was the only thing of any value he had. So when Kelanim was sent dry-mouthed and terrified to Perilous she had only expected to hate. In fact, she had already planned to try to escape.

But, from the moment she had seen him there was never any risk of her running away. Maybe it was his power or his fine looks, but she had never wanted to be anywhere else than at his side.

The Caisah, still not perceiving her, sighed heavily and rested his head on his hand. She longed to rush to him, soothe his brow, and ask what was making him frown. She knew there was little chance he would share.

Once only had he opened his thoughts to her. She had woken by his side just as morning broke; the dawning sun was just licking the window, and she had seen tears in his eyes. A soft touch on his hand, a look of love that even he could understand, and he'd whispered to her almost plaintively, “I was not meant to be like this; I was not made for immortality.”

Even now she had no idea what he had meant. He'd immediately slammed the door to his innermost thoughts in her face. He answered no more of her questions, and if she ever spoke of that moment he would look at her blankly.

Kelanim bit her lip. It was hard to love an immortal when she wasn't one herself. She knew all too well that there had been generations of clever and beautiful women before her, and all around was temptation that he might at any moment give in to. It was not just memory she had to contend with, because the presence of Talyn the Dark lingered over everything. She and the Caisah had shared so much together that it hardly mattered if they had shared a bed or not. Both were immortal and both recalled days and decades before her time.

The mistress tightened her fists in the lush curtain fabric and held in her rage. It was almost the end of her time with him. She was smart enough to feel it. She would turn gray and go to ash, and there was nothing to be done about it. A child at least would have secured her place and bound him to her—but there was none. Everything had been tried, every witch-woman consulted, every vile preparation they recommended swallowed, but nothing of his quickened in her. She liked life too much to try to get pregnant with another man's child and pass it off as his.

Yet there was a small hope. Unclenching her fist, Kelanim stared down in wonder at the note that had been slipped beneath her door this very morning. She had no clue as to who might have written it, but there in clear bold strokes were words of hope—the only ones she had ever had. The timing of it was exquisite. It was a dangerous task the letter set her, though, and should she be discovered Kelanim was in no doubt what her fate would be. Yet there was nothing else for her. Only lonely exile in the women's apartments awaited her. No other man would marry the Caisah's cast-offs for fear of the master changing his mind. She had seen enough of these once-mistresses, and their miserable ends, to be more afraid of that than the Caisah's anger.

Gathering up her courage, Kelanim went to him, being careful to rustle the fabric of her dress and give him warning. That beautiful face turned and she could almost see the emotions flee. He stood and pulled her against him.

Fiddling with the buttons of his elaborate coat, Kelanim said as coolly as she could, “So, has Talyn left yet to hunt down that fool of a talespinner?”

He shrugged easily with his mind still far away. “Such fare is too meager for my hawk.”

“Perhaps,” Kelanim whispered, snuggling closer, “but there is much talk in the Citadel.”

“Talk?”

“There is always talk, beloved.”

His lips twitched. He had no liking of such terms of endearment, but she knew him well. The Caisah might feign indifference, yet he always had a wary eye out for stirring rebellion.

Taking his silence as a good omen, Kelanim pressed on. “They say you are losing the will to rule. That you allowed a filthy spinner of tales to mock you in your own home.” She flinched, expecting him to lash out.

This time his temper held. His finger traced her cheek, cool and calculated. Kelanim worried he could feel the letter burning a hole in her pocket. Finally, he spoke. “My Hunter has had less grand prey of late, I suppose. And I cannot let such an insult go unpunished, can I?”

Catching his hand, she pressed it to her lips. “No, my lord, for you are mighty and dreadful.”

He laughed then, and let her draw him back to her room. Whatever dark thoughts and powers possessed her love, for a while he laid them aside and was just a man.

It had been a close thing. Finn had been upstairs at the Singing Fish that morning when Talyn the Dark came with her incredible offer. By the time he emerged from his room the whole place was in near-riot. The inn was now full of people clamoring to hear the story.