Hunter and Fox (7 page)

Things can never be as they were
. The blue-flamed Kindred reached out to him, but stopped a hair's breadth from his skin.
You must follow your flame-dream, youngest. Go to the World Builders.

Dimly, Byre heard Ungro finally labor down from the wagon, followed by the rasp of his indrawn breath. As if a mere mortal gaze disturbed them, the Kindred began to retreat into the earth. The stone slid aside, while their flame dimmed before disappearing entirely.

Byre stood transfixed, but their final words lingered in his mind.

We will be watching.

T
he Lady Kelanim was taking particular joy in her discomfort. Watching her out of the corner of one eye, Talyn could only glower as the mistress swept across the room dragging fine dresses behind her. She was presently engaged in pulling out every dress she owned and scattering them around her large bedchamber. A flock of chambermaids were trailing in her wake, busy trying to keep them from being stepped on while managing to hide their horror.

Kelanim seemed to be more interested in holding the fripperies up to the Hunter than offering them to Talyn—not that she minded that.

It was galling, though, how she also reveled in every opportunity to stick her with a subtle jibe. “This gown is divine. I wore it at the midwinter festival. It would almost be your color, but you can see it is totally unsuitable. Your shoulders are far too wide, they would snap the sleeves.”

Talyn did not rise to the insult. She had earned every muscle in her body in defense of her people. While Kelanim delved deeper into her cupboards, the Hunter roamed the room, idly flicking through the trinkets of the mistress's life: a thick gold bangle, screeds of lace underthings, and a positive mountain of makeup. A pile of papers caught her roving attention. They appeared to be religious images devoted to the Scion of Right, but when viewed from other angles they were something else entirely. Talyn's lips twitched. Some of the poses were almost physically impossible and deeply amusing.

Kelanim sailed over, her emerald eyes honing in on anything that her rival might find of interest. Her smile was like a dagger. “I would have thought this was more my area than yours…”

She was making sure Talyn knew all about her relationship with the Caisah.

The Vaerli let her finger linger on the picture. “Why would you think that my people never have sex, Kelanim? Do you think we had no joy in life? Or perhaps that we grew from the ground like vegetables?”

Something flickered across that dazzling face, and for an instant Talyn wondered if the mistress knew of her dalliances beyond V'nae Rae, but then those beautiful eyes turned icy. “Of course not, but it seems there is no other way for you now.”

Talyn smiled back as gently as she could. “Once there were many ways for us. In fact, some Vaerli were masters of the sex-magics, the
kahi atuae.
”

“I have heard of this,” Kelanim said stepping closer with a rustle of silk, her breath near to Talyn's skin, “but I had not believed it was true.”

She was probing for power. She would take any chance to keep the Caisah interested. The Vaerli glanced into the before-time and saw the parting of ways that lay in this discussion. After a moment she took half a step back. “But I am not one of those masters.”

“Certainly not.” Kelanim's voice trembled a little as she turned back to the dresses. “Our Caisah has taken all such pagan powers.”

The mistress decided quickly after that, and found a suitable dress near the back of her wardrobe.

“It is last season's fashion, but the sleeves will hide your brawn while white will suit you well enough. I will send my seamstress to adjust it for you this evening.”

With that Talyn was bundled out of the room like so much dirty laundry. It was no great loss to her to be expelled from that den of female intrigue.

While retreating to her own quarters, the Hunter passed through one of the tranquil garden courtyards. Few lingered in such places; the carved figures on the walls spoke of long-gone Vaerli, and it unsettled the Manesto even if they didn't acknowledge it. Talyn thought it was small-enough justice.

It was cool here even in summer, while the reflecting pool practically begged to be lingered by.

Glancing over her shoulder assured Talyn she was alone. It surprised her how Kelanim's words had stung; she'd thought herself well past caring what she looked like. And yet here out of the glare of the mistress' attention she allowed herself to look at what centuries of servitude had made her.

Staring into the water, she could see her mother reflected back, only hardened by life. Kelanim was right. Underneath the light shirt she could feel the rigidity of muscles honed by sword and shield. Hardly any feminine softness remained; her breasts bound as they were gave little away. If the Harrowing had never happened, then this would not be her body or her face. Her voice would have been all that was required of her. Life would have been the
maie atuae
. She had not been able to sing since that awful day.

It was so foolish to let Kelanim's words affect her. Talyn slapped the water, shattering her reflection, and turned away.

She had not seen Syris since they rode in, and knowing full well the dangers of that, her trail turned toward the stables. At least she was properly attired for this particular journey. The stable boys, used to seeing her there, looked up and smiled. For them it meant they did not have to deal with Syris.

The nykur had the largest stall farthest from the rest of the horses, since the smell of meat unsettled his stable mates. While they liked barley and hay, he liked blood and flesh.

Talyn climbed up and hung her arms over the top of the high gate to the stall. Syris glared at her with his dark eyes and pawed the thickly laid straw with one hoof. It was meant to be a chastisement.

He was no horse, so she took his threats seriously. Still, she laughed and wiggled her fingers, daring him. He lunged, wicked teeth at the ready, but she was quicker—pulling back beyond the reach of his teeth and instead grabbing hold of his mane. He tugged and shook his head, but she held on.

Finally, the nykur reluctantly let her stroke him. His mane bit and cut her fingers like rough grass, but the loss of a little blood was nothing to her.

She let the nykur lick it delicately away with his barbed tongue. Such little rituals were a pleasant distraction from ridiculous talk of dances and dresses.

Talyn was not so distracted that she did not hear the lurching steps of Faustin, Chief of the Horse, behind her. Hopping down from the gate, she gave the old man one of her rare smiles. Faustin was one of only two people she really smiled for in V'nae Rae these days. He was short like her, so neither had to look up at the other.

His nut-brown face, wrinkled and off-center from an ancient encounter with Syris, lifted to see her too. “You planning on feeding that old devil your fingertips again?” His voice was gruff but laced with genuine affection.

“Not today, I think the Caisah wants me to have them for his dance.”

Unlike most people in the Citadel, the Chief of the Horse did not wince when the master was mentioned. He was rarely at the stables and as long as he did not interfere with the running of Faustin's little empire, he was of no consequence. It was the reason that Talyn liked the chief so much.

Faustin leaned against the gate and watched Syris prance and snarl. “Still likes his bit of flesh does the old devil, though he's had none from my boys this week.”

Talyn always found it curious how Faustin still admired and loved the nykur; his voice was never touched with anger or bitterness. “Not like he had from you.”

The chief smiled in a distant, melancholy way. “That was a long time ago—not that I have forgotten the feeling of his teeth in my flesh, mind. He stopped me from getting around properly ever after.”

Unlike her friend, Talyn could only faintly remember the unscarred, jaunty lad Faustin had been before Syris knocked him down and tore into him. In those early days he had not been worth saving a memory of. “Don't you hate him?”

“Hate?” Faustin looked at her with genuine puzzlement. “A fine beast like that? Never. He was just doing what instinct told him to. It was me who made the mistake.” He peered more closely at her. “You've asked me this before.”

Talyn sighed. “I am sure I have explained how my memory gift works. Haven't I?”

“Aye, that you have. Must be a shame though—living so long and remembering only little bits.”

“Sometimes I think it is the greatest gift. That of forgetting.” She smiled bitterly.

Faustin was beckoning over a wide-eyed stablehand who was carrying a small bucket. It smelt of blood, and he handed it quickly over to his chief before scampering back to the safety of the horses. Syris sidled closer to the gate, pressing his great clear eye against the gap and clashing his teeth together. It was a frightening sound, yet not necessarily always a sign of aggression.

Faustin offered the bucket to Talyn, but she gestured it away. It would be good for the nykur to be fed by another besides her. The chief began sliding the tastiest morsels of liver and tongue through the special gap to the hungry beast. He was careful to keep his fingers well beyond the grasp of those teeth. Sometimes he even dared a pat on the remarkably soft nose. Talyn winced every time he did, but Syris did not even flinch. When Talyn had seen the stableboys try that, she had witnessed a few lose a finger or two.

Perhaps the nykur had taken all his aggression out on Faustin when he was a lad, for he was meek as a lamb now—at least as long as the treats kept coming. Once they were finished, Syris snorted and retreated to the back of the stall.

Faustin laughed. “The devil in him! I can never get a pat once the meat is finished. You'd think he didn't want to go soft on me.”

“He likes you, but he doesn't want to become your pet.”

“Ah well, I can respect that.” The old man looked faintly sad, though. “It must be a great thing to ride out on him.” He glanced down thoughtfully at his twisted leg.

“The first time I got on his back he nearly killed me,” Talyn said. “I'd gone down to the river where he was lurking, and I lay down on the bank.”

The chief stared at her as if she was mad. “And he didn't trample you to death? I would have thought first chance he got…”

“Well, they might be as swift as water and as deadly as fire, but they have one real weakness. The nykur are very curious. So he climbs out of the water and comes over to nudge me. He's trying to work out what I am. That is when I leap up and onto his back.”

Faustin slapped his good knee and lent forward in delight. “Now that I would pay gold to have seen. I guess you must have survived.”

Getting into the unexpected joy of telling a tale, Talyn threw her hands in the air. “I thought I wasn't going to! He flung me around until all my body ached, trying to reach me with his teeth or break my spine. Finally, he threw himself down to roll on me.”

Safely behind the gate, Syris could be heard scraping his hooves on the ground beneath the straw, perhaps reliving the trial himself. Faustin barked a laugh. “I can just see the old devil. You must have had to move pretty sprightly.”

“I jumped out of his way, and when he got up I leapt back on. He made such sounds of anger that the very earth churned. The villagers all ran from their houses in fright. They came to see though, just as he charged into the water to be rid of me by drowning.”

Faustin looked puzzled.

“There are tricks we Vaerli know, some that even the Harrowing did not remove. He was not going to get rid of me that way and in time he came to realize that.”

“Perhaps that if he stuck with you there would always be liver and sweetbreads.”

Talyn knew that was the polite way of phrasing it. In truth Syris knew that there would always be fighting and chaos around her.

“Still,” she said, getting up and watching the nykur through the gate, “I know he didn't really expect to be shut up here for so long.”

Faustin was staring at Syris with unguarded desire, his face for a moment reflecting a young man's longing.

Talyn knew then what had really happened. “You tried to ride him too.”

His blue eyes gleamed. “That I did. I was young and so foolish and brave. I can't be sure, but he seemed to understand me. He looked at me with that dark eye of his, and before I knew it I was grabbing his mane and mounting.” He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together thoughtfully, perhaps recalling the cut of the knife-bladed hair on his hands. “It was a glorious feeling, for a while at least. I thought he liked me.”

Talyn lightly touched his shoulder. “He did, otherwise he would have killed you.”

“Well, as it turned out, the old devil changed my life for the better. With a crippled leg I got a lot more serious about horses. Now, here I am Chief. Funny how life finds a path for you even when it seems darkest.”

Talyn left the stable hearing those words settle deep inside her. They were words of hope that were not what she was used to, but the old chief could be right. Things felt very dark at the moment, no end in sight, so perhaps it was a sign.

The masque would start with the full moon the next day, but there were other festivities that the Caisah insisted she accompany him to. Luckily only the masque would require her to dress appropriately.

Today it was the battle games, the letting of blood to appease the lust of the Caisah. She would have to sit at his shoulder and watch, something that always turned her stomach. Her battles were for the freedom of the Vaerli. These sports were for baser reasons.