Hunter and Fox (20 page)

She must have realized her mistake. Anyone who lived in this area would have known that. She whispered an “Oh,” and was silent.

Finn couldn't help a well of fear building in his belly. He was suddenly aware that he was surrounded by strangers, none of whom he could trust, and a long way from any kind of aid. As if hearing that thought, the warm head of the Kindred butted against his hip. Perhaps it had meant to be a nuzzle. Finn reached down and absently patted it. Maybe there was one he could trust. Twice now the creature had saved his life, and if that wasn't loyalty he didn't know what was.

However, the creature was not quite the same as it had been. Finn would have sworn there hadn't been a long whiplike tail waving behind the Kindred before. He couldn't guess at the significance of that, but something within him said it was very important indeed.

The trail to her prey had grown very thin, and Talyn's heart was heavier by proportion. Even the land felt like it was betraying her. It had risen up around Syris, and they could not travel at speed through the deep Chaos. Forced to a pace not much more than that of a horse, they were vulnerable to the one present and regular danger of these lands: a Chaos storm. It had been a long time since she had been caught in one of those, and it was an experience she didn't wish to repeat.

It appeared Talyn had no choice. They both felt it begin—a shuddering beneath, rising up through stone and earth from the maelstrom deep below, passing through plant and air and into them. Despite everything, Talyn remained part of this world and she was still touched by its danger.

She found a spot to weather the storm quite near to an aggressively rushing river, slate gray in the half-light just before dawn. Syris tossed his head and those expressionless eyes for once lit up with interest on something other than violence. The nykur were deep-water creatures. Though he had no words, Talyn knew he was desperate to throw himself into it and feel the rush of water against his sides.

“Not yet,” she whispered. “Even I need to hide from the storm.”

Syris threw his head while daggerlike teeth sliced against one another, utterly contemptuous of such frailty. Still, he remained where he stood while she unbuckled her bedroll from his saddle. Then with a little coaching and a great deal of patience, she got Syris to hunker down on the ground.

Generations of people had tried many ways to survive a Chaos storm; the tribespeople who wandered the land would use trance and the boiled root of the hymnal plant to put themselves beyond the reach of the Chaos. The Vaerli had, before the Harrowing, no fear of the storms thanks to the First Gift, the ability to be one with the land. Now she would simply have to survive the storm as best she could.

Talyn laid the bedroll over Syris' back and clambered in underneath it to rest against his warm green, hairy belly. His sharp hooves could have torn her apart in a second, yet the nykur held back his rage. They had been, since the first day of her conquest, bonded together in trust. Talyn had no fear of him.

She did feel strangely fragile in the face of the approaching storm. She could only hope that with the blanket blocking out all of the outside world, it would be easier to weather the mental chaos.

Curled against Syris, as warm as a baby, Talyn let her eyes drift shut. Beneath her blanket, the world was reduced to the faint algal smell of Syris and the warmth of his hair against her face. Her heart was pounding a little now, nervous in the shadow of the storm.

It did not take long for it to find her. The sensation of heat passed over, making muscles twitch and her eyes fill with colors. Such storms were the product of the Chaos within the land itself, and vented into the outside world they could drive humans mad or suck the life from their bodies. She was used to the storms being violent, rattling bone and muscle; she could recall the last one pressing down on her like a lead weight, crushing her into sand, but this was as gentle as a warm breeze.

It washed through Talyn's mind, blinding her to reality and sensation—taking her away into the past, making her relive it like the present. It was more unwelcome than a host of physical discomforts, but it would not be denied.

The sweaty press of her brother's small form in her back. The scent of frightened horse beneath her. The dim outline of her mother leading them onward swimming before her eyes. The salt plain burned around them, and her brother's hands clasped around her waist were starting to hurt. Mother's presence felt uncomfortable too, as if her face was near to a fire.

The things she had seen and felt made her bite her lip in an attempt to hold back tears. The plains were not kind to those who cried. Father had told her that, and yet Father was not here. He had not been one of those burning as they ran from the gathering, which was comforting, but they had not been able to find him in the panic after.

Now there was only Mother—stern, not prone to giving comfort, and mortally wounded herself. She'd admitted all those in a steady voice not long after they had put the Bastion behind them. “I won't be able to get you far, children, so you must be strong.”

Mother glanced back, as if she could hear her daughter's fears, except the child knew she couldn't. Nothing but silence now ran between them. Even Byre's childish emotions no longer butted against hers.

She patted her brother's hand, trying to communicate some comfort, but he pulled away. “It hurts,” he cried, before subsiding with a sniffle.

Their mother's gaze turned to them at that noise, before searching the horizon—but there was no pursuit. The Caisah had dished out his punishment and there was no need for a chase.

Kourae the Light, the child had heard men whisper Mother's name when she passed. Most beautiful and most powerful of the Vaerli she'd been—not so, now. Her golden skin was burnt and blistered and her hair, which had once brushed the ground, now sat in singed clumps around her head. Only those proud eyes remained as astounding as ever—even without the pricks of light in them. Still she held herself straight: only one arm tucked around her belly and its grievous wound. Leaving a trail of blood for miles, she should have been dead hours ago. Some residual magic still clung to her, but it was failing and death was tucking its fingers about her. Perhaps it was just pride that kept her going, for she alone of all the gathering had raised a sword against the Caisah.

Kourae tripped over her own feet, and only a grip on the horse's bridle held her upright. The girl child managed to stop a strangled cry before it escaped her throat. Mother seldom tolerated weakness.

She was looking up at them, her face gray and limbs shaking, but her voice remained strong. “You know the way from here…the village of Annor—you remember it?”

Her daughter nodded as bravely as possible.

“Find some people to take Byre in. If you can make them a good family,” she paused to suck in a ragged breath. “Then go—get away before the Harrowing is complete.”

With that, she released the bridle and turned aside; no long speech, no declarations of love for her children. Vaerli were not used to words communicating what emotion should have.

The girl cried but made neither tears nor sound.

The past spun away, and the storm carried her somewhere else—somewhere warm and dark.

She could hear her own heart beating in her ears and a warm breeze running over her naked skin. It was dark, but she was not afraid because she was not alone. Strong male hands touched her with gentleness and care, and stranger still was the whisper in her mind, the empathic feeling of love. She was crying in awe that she was experiencing how Vaerli loved for the first time. Bodies touched and merged, but minds did too. A vast expanse of fears, secrets and deep passions was laid open to her, as hers was being to him. It was Finnbarr the Fox. Talyn didn't need to see those remarkable eyes; she could feel them locked on her in the darkness. His red-gold hair, she could only feel as silky thickness in her hand. Such intimacy should have terrified her, but she felt only freedom. To know and be known so deeply was horrifying and wonderful.

The Chaos storm could not last forever and the winds of change blew away.

“This one is weak.” The voice was deep like a resonant drum. Talyn leapt up and threw the blanket off. Behind her Syris surged to his feet, offering a strong back to what was suddenly a very dangerous situation.

The great opalescent eyes of a griffon were staring down at her, his wings of peacock blue blotting out everything else. The remains of the Chaos storm were scrolling away across the sky in streamers of greens and yellows, and Talyn could feel her own self-confidence going with them. For the griffon was not alone.

Glancing out the corner of one eye she could see a centaur, all muscle and straining strength, and her blood ran cold—for she recognized them.

Of all the Kindred, the Named were the most dangerous. Given names and forms by Vaerli, they had been set free of those bonds by the Harrowing. No more dangerous creatures lived in Conhaero.

She could sense nothing in the before-time. They were completely elemental and not bound to normal rules. Still, she dropped and rolled under Syris' belly, not thinking about anything but escape. She drew her mother's blade and pulled herself in one smooth movement onto the nykur's back. The remnants of the chaos storm were in the ether, but Syris was still faster than any mortal horse. He bolted forward like a bullet from a pistol, needing no urging. The smell of Named Kindred was not to his taste.

Talyn rode him as blindly as a normal human. The before-time meant nothing to the Named and she felt its loss with the pounding of her heart, and the fear that brought sweat to her brow.

So she didn't feel the griffon's dive at her. The faintest breeze told her a second too late, and then there was only the sudden red-hot pain as its claws locked around her. She cried out, fingers reaching for Syris but finding only air as she was carried from his back.

The world twisted and turned. Talyn got dizzying glimpses of the ground, but she managed to hold onto her blade. The pain was an amazing—an excruciating—wake-up call to the realities of flesh that she had ignored most of her life. This was how her victims felt, all the agony and the helplessness.

She was let fall, and this time her numbed fingers dropped her sword. It was useless anyway. She was too sore and bloodied to do anything more in that instant than roll over and groan. The griffon's claws had cut through bone and sinew. The Third Gift would take hours to heal the damage: if she lived that long.

The centaur danced closer; he was a golden, well-muscled creature, his equine part a bright chestnut, his human a swarthy male with curling black hair and eyes that brimmed flame.

“I know this one.” His voice was deep like ancient caverns and his vambrace-sized hooves edged closer to Talyn.

“Drynis Alorn,” she muttered, wiping blood from her eyes. Even among the Vaerli there were few that Named Kindred, for there was danger and power in such a doing. She recalled now her uncle's wife Mallor had the making of the centaur, though she did not know the fate of his Namer. However, there was one thing she was sure of. “You were imprisoned along with the rest of the Named. How did you escape?” Locking away the Named had been the last action of the Vaerli.

The fiery pits of his eyes burned brighter. “It was a crime that has been corrected, pitiful remnant of the Vaerli.” His great fist closed around her shoulder, dragging her upright to meet his gaze. Talyn caught her breath at the pain the mistreatment caused. “The Named now walk the earth once more, and soon we shall not be alone.”

She glared at him, wondering what he could mean. The sundering of the Gifts meant there could be no constraints on the Named now, and that could only spell trouble for everyone. Her eyes wandered to the blade, lying not far off.

Drynis laughed and gave her a little shake. Holding her aloft like some prize, he thundered, “Dare you try your mettle against me, little one?”

“Enough,” the griffon's voice interrupted the centaur's delight. “We have not the time for this. Kill her, eat if you will, but do not make us late.”

“Why eat one bitter Vaerli when sweeter meats await?” Drynis dropped her to the ground. “Besides, our masters may well want to question her.”

Talyn heard the words and was surprised. The Named had no masters except those who Named them. With the Harrowing, though, such bounds meant nothing.

Unfortunately, she could not afford the time to find out. Thrusting the pain of her wounds away, she surged upright, powering her legs with her remaining strength. She reached the blade in the sand as the centaur and griffon argued. It felt much better to have her hand wrapped around the hilt. She swayed slightly on her feet but kept her weight balanced evenly, ready for them this time. They would attack together, but they would also learn she was no easy victory.

The inhuman eyes blinked and the centaur's golden face creased with a broad smile full of sharp white teeth. “The little one thinks it has claws. Much has changed since your time; you don't even know that it's over, do you?”