Hunter and Fox (19 page)

Obviously the Manesto were feeling more threatened than ever, for a tall ironwork fence ran between their houses and the huts. The main gate was now on the Manesto side, the Portree's only opened to the lake. A cold shiver ran through Equo, but he grabbed Varlesh's hand and dragged it down. “Don't make a fuss, old man—we don't want to get ourselves killed today.”

His companion's eyes bulged, but he nodded curtly. Together they made their way to the stout town gate. Usually there was one wary guard on duty, so it was a sign of definite trouble that half a dozen guards, well-armed and bright-eyed, met them. Equo had to make a hasty explanation that they were here for scholarly study on the Portree history.

The guards laughed at that. “You'll be gone soon, then. They have nothing much to study except how they like the feel of a boot on their neck.”

Varlesh's hands clenched into fists.

“Maybe so,” Equo replied smoothly, “but it is our mission to find all people's tales before they are lost.”

The captain sniffed. “Well there has been some trouble lately, but the Praetor hasn't closed the quarter yet. It's your funeral.”

“Let's hope not,” Varlesh growled as they moved past the welcoming committee.

“I wonder how Nyree is faring,” Equo whispered. “With her working for the Portree in that clinic of hers.”

The three exchanged worried looks; it would make an excellent target for the Caisah to crush.

“We best find her fast,” Varlesh said. “No time for even an ale.”

When he said that, the other two men knew they were in serious trouble, but as they made their way to the heavily guarded gate, Equo knew what he was thinking. Once it had been
they
being persecuted and the Portree their saviors. The question was, could they now return the favor?

On the other side of the gate it was another world; a child with a bony chest was coughing near a beached boat, while a hollow-eyed dog skittered past. It had never been a wealthy place; still, the last time they had been here there had been no obvious hunger, and the streets had been bustling. Equo recalled with melancholy the spice-laden atmosphere and brightly dressed women calling out their catches for the day in the street.

Now the air was full of the scent of decay and despair.

Si's eyes were filling with tears; he always felt things more keenly. Equo could only imagine what he was sensing, and be glad he could not.

Varlesh fiddled idly with the tip of his pipe in his top pocket as if he could not bring himself to go any farther.

“We must find Nyree by nightfall,” Equo reminded them.

The clinic was buried among a tangle of narrow streets crowded with leaning houses. They barely saw a single soul along the way. Only a gap-toothed old man huddled on a doorstep rocking himself and humming told them that anyone lived here at all.

It was always the same in times of rebellion; those uninvolved tried to keep out of the way and those involved tried to do the same. It made for very quiet streets most of the time.

The clinic was a low building spreading through what had once been a beautiful flowering garden dedicated to the Bountiful Queen. Even when Nyree had come with her belief in the Kindred, the scion had remained, somehow content with the herb beds and small patches of flowers. Nyree seemed able to coexist with scions, though perhaps that was because she served much the same interests.

The trio went up to the wide-open doorway, and Equo could not help but think how mad that entrance was in a time of conflict. A couple of simply dressed Portree sat on the top step near the door, catching the last rays of the late afternoon sun. Both were young women bearing bandaged limbs and faces mottled by bruises. There was always a hint of oppression about their race, because on both sides of the White Void they had been on the losing side of every war. Still, their beautiful burnished brown faces and liquid eyes remained full of grace. Something about them always suggested oppression was on their terms, as if they could wait it out. The faintest lines of silver tracery on the garments of the slightly older woman indicated she was a
serf army
, mother of the water, which meant she had her own boat, her own crew, and was about as high as a Portree could be expected to go in this world.

Yet, when the three men bowed asking to see the Healer, she smiled shyly and led them herself into the cooler recesses of the house.

All was much as it had been on their last visit, only the beds of injured and sick were more plentiful, but the place smelt airy and nothing of decay seemed in evidence. Nyree always ran her clinic with ruthless efficiency.

Their Portree guide brought them to the only closed door in the building, a smoothed stone that nonetheless glided easily open under her hand. She poked her head around the other side, checking in a quiet voice before opening it wider and ushering them in. A quartet of older Portree women were working over a variety of herbs laid out on a long table before them. Their guide exchanged quick angular-sounding words with them, then she bowed slightly. “My apologies, but the Healer is attending a sick child in the lakeside district. She may be there for some time.”

“We must see her,” Si whispered to Equo.

The woman's eyes traveled uneasily to him as if she found something disturbing, but she replied evenly, “Rile can take you there.” In short order, a lean boy of about ten with the face of a mahogany cherub was summoned and given stern instructions by the
serf army
to take them directly to the Healer.

They left the relative beauty of the clinic and went deeper into the slum. The odd face was seen at the window, but there was the scent of gunpowder in the air and the three men could feel the danger increasing around them.

The huts here were little more than lean-tos and the streets were choked with filth and debris. Still their guide leapt from brick to brick in front of them, chattering away in his own language and apparently unaware of their discomfort.

He deposited them at a hut, much like any of the others; dropping to his knees, he began to draw pictures using a nearby mud puddle.

They entered cautiously to the rather refreshing smell of herbs and unguents, a sure sign that they did indeed have the right place.

Nyree had her back to the door, all her attention centered on a tiny child wrapped in bandages and blankets on a shaky bed in the corner.

In the nature of her kind, she knew they were there but didn't acknowledge them until she was done. Only then did Nyree turn and look at them through her ancient eyes.

She had the same golden-cast skin and small stature of Talyn the Dark, but her eyes were the most translucent, deepest blue. They were the kind of eyes to go mad in, and if they had been filled with stars, as they should have been, Equo could imagine they would have made him drop to his knees. Every time he saw Nyree a little bit more of his heart was lost to her, for she was what the Vaerli should be, not the twisted remains of the Caisah's pet.

Kissing the child lightly on the head, Nyree whispered, “Try to get some sleep, little one.”

Her voice was soft and light with the faintest of lilts to it. It sounded exactly the same as the day that she used it to refuse his offer of marriage. Equo felt his insides go hollow just looking at her and thinking of that time. She'd been the one to tend the wounds he received in their flight from the Rutilian Guard. He'd fallen in love with her and all her kindnesses. Still, when he'd proposed she'd gently declined in that unflappable voice of hers. She reminded him that there would be no children from such a union, as Vaerli only bred with Vaerli. She would not deny either of them that chance. No arguments or protestations had swayed her, and her calm rejections hurt more than simply saying she didn't love him.

Varlesh, who knew well enough the whole story, stepped forward. “It's good to see you, lass. Sorry it couldn't be under better circumstances.”

She shrugged her shoulders before greeting them effortlessly with a gentle kiss on the cheek, one for each of the trio. “Trouble comes when it will, and all too often here. You are looking thin, Equo. You mustn't let Varlesh get every meal, you know.” It was her gentle way of reproof.

He struggled under her kindness; it would have been much easier if she was cruel. His love would have withered long ago if that were the case.

Si clasped her hand, looking deep into those eyes, but whatever passed between them was not sexual, merely the recognition of one deep soul to another.

Nyree broke the look with a light laugh. “You cannot surely have stopped here for merely a social visit.” Was it Equo's imagination, or did her gaze linger on him?

Varlesh laughed. “Why, lass, we are here for the rebellion!”

She frowned at that, but gestured them to take a seat on the low wooden bench opposite. Folding her legs, she dropped down elegantly on the dirt. “And what exactly do you hope to achieve, apart from more death? I recall the last rebellion created nothing except orphans and widows.”

“The time is ripe,” Si said.

Nyree raised an eyebrow. “Indeed, and what makes you think that?”

“Have you not heard the word?” Varlesh clamped his pipe in his teeth, but in deference to the sick child did not light it.

Nyree frowned, so Equo leaned forward. “Everyone can feel it. Something has changed out there in the world. If you had the Gifts, you would see it even better than us.”

She pursed her lips and said somewhat tartly, “The stars are in alignment, the tea leaves tell the tale, and the innards of some poor bird give the right signs. Is that right?”

He felt for her; being cut off from her own heritage made such things painful to believe in, but it did not mean other magics did not exist. The world was ready for change, exploding for it, but he didn't know what to say. Si did.

“Kindred are moving, Nyree.”

Her hand flew to her lips.

“So you see,” Varlesh said tapping the end of his pipe against his teeth, “that is much better than any tea leaves.”

“A Kindred appeared to save our friend—right in front of Talyn,” Equo went on. “You should have seen her face.”

Nyree closed her eyes. “Do not even mention her name, dear friend. Talyn the Dark is no longer numbered among the true Vaerli…but, it is as you say…a sign.”

It was impossible to tell if she would have given her blessing to the rebellion, because at that moment their guide came bursting through the hangings on the front door. His eyes were huge in his head as he threw himself on Nyree, gabbling out words and tugging on her sleeve.

She soothed him with a gentle hand on his face and spoke to him calmly in his own language. The news could not have been good, for when he finally stopped talking she hugged him, and her face was clouded with fear.

“I am sorry, my friends,” she said softly, “I think your visit has put you in mortal danger. The Swoop have arrived and are burning the riverside quarter.”

They could smell it now, the tang of smoke in the air, distant but threatening.

Equo's mouth went dry, while Varlesh rose to his feet with a roar like an angry bull. “What? By the Pure Maid, they have no right!”

“They think they do. It is retaliation for the uprising in the hills two days ago, which is retaliation by some angry boys here for the killing of a family the week before. It's an ugly and familiar circle.” Nyree rocked the sniffling boy. “We are cut off from the clinic, and they are burning their way back to the water.”

Equo felt a chill run through him, but Varlesh, as always, moved quicker. Scooping up the child on the bed, he tucked her under one arm as gently as he could. “We shall have to make for the lake, then.”

Nyree nodded, but her eyes were full of something Equo suspected was hopelessness. Few people knew the Swoop as well as the denizens of Oriconion.

Si moved forward and took the trembling boy from her while Equo took her hand. “We must hurry.”

She nodded and squeezed his fingers, but whatever troubled her she did not say. He could only hope it was not foresight.

F
inn was still unaware exactly what advantage it was traveling the Chaoslands with a Kindred. The black-eyed stone form trailed after them—but offered neither comment nor assistance. It was about as much use as a rock.

He and Pelanor followed the far more helpful stars. Finn's fellow traveler was proving to be an easy companion and much better at it than the Kindred. Over the last few days she had become less and less gregarious; she ate very little and sat morosely by the fire. Finn thought that she would at least complain about the lack of decent food and rough sleeping.

They clambered over and through a vast rock-filled world where even a moment's distraction could mean a painful injury and possibly death. It had been hard going even for him, well used to the perils of travel, but his mind had constantly strayed.

It wasn't just the threat of Talyn that haunted Finn; his own dark demons rose to tear at him. He could be leading this young woman into terrible danger, and he was worse than a fool to do it. It was only his own weakness that had let him accept her offer. He really couldn't have stood to be all alone with the shadows of fear.

Worthless. Doomed. Stupid.

The dark abyss was claiming Finn, and he couldn't even warn her.

Then there was Ysel. He'd failed there, too. His clumsy fingers would not find the pattern, and by their third night of rest Finn threw the thread away with a loud curse. Pelanor watched without comment from the other side of the campfire.

She was a neat and tidy girl who seemed to occupy very little space, as though her trim dark body knew exactly where to place itself at any given moment. She said very little, seemingly content, it seemed, to follow where he led. She shared nothing more of her tragedy and ignored his attempts to discuss it.

The Kindred's eyes never left him, and it never strayed beyond a few feet away. Finn ate his meager beans and thought about the tales he had learned at his master's side. Only Vaerli could Name Kindred and it was a very serious event. Naming gave a Kindred permanent form and a power that was rumored to be very great indeed. In his head he ruminated on what its name would be, but he didn't speak it.

Finn sat back, reclaimed his string, trying in equal measures to find the pattern and ignore his two quiet companions.

The night was not still about them. In the dark, the shift of the land could be almost heard: the grinding of rock against stone, the thrust of the mountains, and the complaining groan of the trees forced to change with the land. Only the stars were constant and somehow friendly, so Finn let his eyes wander there.

“Have you met Talyn the Dark?” Pelanor's voice was so unexpected that Finn took a long moment to process what she was asking.

Looking across at her, he tried to judge her interest, but her face was void of expression. Finn was suddenly more aware of the deathmark than ever. “Yes,” he muttered.

“What's she like? I have heard lots of stories.”

Finn's paranoia choked his throat. It was foolish—she couldn't possibly know that he was Talyn's prey. She was just a girl.

Finn chose his words with care. “She's beautiful in a sort of primal way. You can feel the danger in her, but it draws you in—a bit like dangerous currents in the ocean, if you know what I mean.”

A puzzled frown formed on Pelanor's forehead. “I have never seen the sea,” she muttered.

Finn shook his head. “Of course you haven't—my apologies.” He bent his eyes to the skein of wool on his fingers. “It's hard to explain until you meet her. Hopefully that won't ever happen.”

She sighed at this, sounding almost disappointed, but asked no more questions.

The night rolled on to the sounds of the land's shivers and shakes, and Finn found his frustration levels rising at the inability to find the pattern. He had just got to the point where he was going to throw it into the fire when Pelanor cried out.

It was the Kindred; gone was the odd but unassuming birdlike shape of dark gray, replaced instead by an edifice of glowing rock that towered over Pelanor. Finn leapt up and pulled her back. A stench of sulfur was in the air and heat was rolling off it. He looked up into the creature's eyes and saw that the darkness had been replaced with lavalike brilliance. A thousand tales of the danger of the Kindred suddenly sprang into his mind, and Finn cursed himself for ignoring them.

“Quick,” he found himself saying while tugging her after him. They ran from the circle of firelight and the creature that had changed so quickly. They forgot bedrolls and food in a hasty effort to save their skin.

Finn found Pelanor outpacing him; however scared he was, she was more so, it seemed. Her fingers slipped from his and he lost her in the dark ahead, despite the moon.

Stopping, Finn caught his breath and turned his head to listen for pursuit. Instead there came a terrifying howl from ahead, rattling the ground and making his heart leap within his chest. “Pelanor!” he called, and began running toward the sound.

His questions were quickly answered. For a second in the moonlight, it looked like a tree had grabbed his young charge. Her body was trapped in flailing long limbs, and then the stench of the thing washed over him.

It was not the Kindred; nothing made of fire and Chaos could smell that terrible. The body was indeed as tall as a small tree, and had no apparent face or eyes. Surrounding it were dozens of long flat “arms,” one of which was wrapped tight about his traveling companion. At the top of what might have been the head was a tapered trunk filled with bright teeth. His talespinning gave a name to something of such horror. It was the
Hashani'mort
, a Chaos Devourer, one of the many dangers of this land. They were attracted by magic and thus usually bypassed humans for more tasty prey. Clearly this one had mistaken Pelanor for something she did not have. As Finn's throat tightened, he wondered if perhaps it had been his meddling with the patterns that had drawn its attention.

She was hanging quite still in its grasp, but her face when she peered down at him was more baffled than terrified. She did not scream again, despite the horror of her situation.

His small bow was back at the camp, and he felt an idiot for having left it. Instead Finn blindly pulled from his boot the pair of long knives he always carried there. They were more for hunting than attacking a
Hashani'mort
, but if he stood around much longer there would be nothing left of Pelanor.

The long limbs lashed out at him, surprisingly quick for something that resembled a gray stumpy tree. The razor-sharp appendage whipped at his head, so Finn ducked, rolled, and came up right next to the trunk. The stench this close was thick and thoroughly nasty, and he could barely breathe. He slapped his foot against the side of the main body. Trying not to think about the smell or the way the skin crawled under his hand, Finn climbed the heaving torso as quickly as possible. He kept a good hold on the knives with one hand and breathed through his mouth as best he could.

Finally, he reached the limb that held Pelanor, and she reached out her hand to him. Still she did not cry out, though the
Hashani'mort
was squeezing her tightly, confusedly trying to get the magic from her.

Finn knew he would have to act quickly or choke on his own disgust. Flipping both knives into his left hand, he savagely slashed at the join between limb and torso. None of the tales ever told the whole gruesome story; no one mentioned the consequences when you cut a
Hashani'mort
. The skin ruptured like something rotten, spraying thick brown ichor over its attacker. Luckily he had his mouth closed when it did so, but unluckily he did not have enough time to duck. The vile liquid burned where it landed, and the smell was enough to make him lose his grip.

It was almost a relief to fall the short distance to the ground, but Finn landed hard enough to rattle his teeth. He looked up through blurry eyes, feeling his skin revolt at the coating it had received. All he could see was flames. Surely it was a trick of the ichor, for it seemed like a stream of fire shot over his head and slammed into the
Hashani'mort
.

Finn shook his head to clear it. Whatever it was, there was no doubt it was more effective than he had been; the fire scorched the area around Pelanor and the limb curled back in agony like a plant burned by the sun. She, unlike Finn, managed to drop to her feet like a cat. Amazingly, her face was impassive, as if she had not just had a near-death experience. Her eyes flicked to something behind Finn's head while he tried to clear the ichor from his eyes, worried that he would go blind.

Then there were many hands on him dragging him back, and he could hear Pelanor's voice calling his name. Other voices joined his companion's in a counterpoint to the dreadful howls, but it was an unfamiliar language.

Something cool was wiped across his eyes and suddenly he could see. What he saw was all flame and conflict. Finn blinked—almost disbelieving what his eyes were telling him.

It was the Kindred, tall as the
Hashani'mort
, attacking their attacker. Its skin, once all stone and innocence, now rolled with fire as if lava burned within it. Iron-tipped claws quickly finished off the gray writhing monster. Moments before, it had seemed so terrifying. Now Finn almost felt sorry for it.

A hand touched his shoulder and, wrenching his eyes away from the clash of might before him, he remembered that they were not alone. Five tall, dark warriors were huddled around them. Their simple but brightly patterned loin cloths marked them as Chaos nomads. They were watching the battle too, but their pointing and whispering suggested they were more interested than frightened. One, a man whose high cheekbones were illuminated by Kindred fire, tugged at Finn's sleeve and whispered haltingly, “We go…”

Looking at the devastation of smoldering and burning vegetation around them, Finn couldn't help but agree. Even if by some miracle they were not trampled by the two combatants, they could still be caught in minor bush fire.

The leader jerked his head to his men. One of them stepped forward and handed Finn a velvety leaf that, when he rubbed on his skin as they mimed, actually provided relief from the ichor. He then led them away, back toward their camp.

The five of them waited impassively at the edge of the light of the dying campfire, leaning lightly on their spears, while Finn and Pelanor gathered their possessions.

“What was that thing?” she asked finally.

“A
Hashani'mort
. They are drawn by magic and very hard to kill—unless you are a Kindred.”

“They are mortal enemies.” The leader of their rescuers spoke again, his command of the language somewhat better than it had first appeared. “A Kin will always hunt a
Hashani
for they are one of the few things that can hurt them.”

Finn performed a deep bow. “We thank you for your help. I am Finnbarr the Fox and this is Pelanor.”

He tipped his head in return, but in the custom of the wandering people did not volunteer his own name. Those who lived in the Chaos were few and knew the danger of naming names too early.

As they gathered their meager gear, Finn whispered to Pelanor, “Do you know this tribe?”

She shot him a puzzled look. “No, why should I?”

It was so odd that he stopped. The tribes of the Chaosland were sparse and relied heavily on each other for survival. She should have known not only their language, but maybe them personally as well.

His silence must have conveyed his surprise, for she ducked her head and muttered, “My father kept me away from strange men.” It was hardly an excuse. Then again, it was also hardly the time to argue.

Yet, if Finn's time in the wild had taught him anything, it was that people were seldom what they claimed to be.

A breath of heat fanned over them, and there was the Kindred. The tribesmen seemed unconcerned, watching out of implacable eyes as the massive figure strode toward them, oozing flame. Finn felt a tremor of real fear.

Luckily, it shrank as it approached until there was only a child-sized creature on clawed feet standing next to him, once more the color of stone. Those dark, clear eyes looked up at him, perhaps searching for approval.

Finn knew he was suddenly the center of attention; the tribesmen were muttering in their own tongue to one another. Their leader rubbed his chin, a speculative look on his face. “Is this one Named?”

Finn almost resented the implication. “Of course not!”

The leader nodded. “Good.” He turned to his men and spoke firmly in their own tongue. Their conversation faded, but Finn was certain their looks were more suspicious.

“We will take you to Caracel. Many Wise are there.” The leader bent and picked up Finn's sleeping roll.

“Who is Caracel?” Pelanor whispered urgently to him as they followed their rescuers into the night.

A chill sensation crept across Finn's skin. With one question she had confirmed her story as a lie. “Not who,” he replied as evenly as possible, “what. Caracel is the annual meeting of the all the tribes that walk the Chaos. They trade, marry, and celebrate living another year.”