Kindred and Wings (2 page)

A sudden nudge in the small of her back made Talyn whirl around, her hand going to her sword, but the green hairy face with the flaming eyes was not what she’d been expecting. It took a heartbeat for her to recognize it.

Talyn’s lips lifted in a rare smile, and something unclenched deep down within her.

“Syris,” she whispered, eyes burning with threatening tears. Her fingers immediately found the razor wire that was his hair. The tangled green strands of it drew blood, and just as she had many times before, she held out her fingers to let her mount lick the scarlet drops from her skin. The great dark eye regarded her while his neck tossed proudly, saying that their reunion was on his terms, and taking all the credit for it. Taller than any mere mortal horse, Syris contained chaos and was bound to her in ways that remained mysterious to Talyn. It was odd to find that one of the many things she’d thought lost was found again. It felt a little like hope.

The last time Talyn had seen him it had been on the edge of the Salt Plain. Yet she’d never meant to lose him; she’d reckoned on coming back to him, or perhaps ending up dead. It was always an option.

As it turned out neither of these things happened. Her new masters had come and taken her, and she’d never been able to get back to him. When she had thought of the nykur she’d imagined him returning to the chaos that was his home. It had been a form of comfort for her.

Having lost her direction, her people, and her place in the world, to find Syris here at her back was deeply moving. Her hand bunched around those dangerous strands of hair, and she did not care how deep they cut.

However, Talyn couldn’t afford to savor it as she might wish. Saddle-less as he was, she still mounted him, feeling his sharp hair slice her thighs even through her pants. It was a good feeling to be on his back again. She’d had too much of no feeling at all recently. The thick, seaweed smell of the nykur was cloying and wonderfully familiar. Despite her age and her predicament, Talyn let out a whoop of excitement. Let the courier wonder what that meant.

Unlike her prey, she had no need to urge her mount forward. Just as it had always been, the great beast of chaos followed her thoughts. With the sound of his saber teeth sliding against one another, he wheeled about and followed after the courier, great muscles bunching and firing under her. It was the essence of raw power.

As the Caisah’s Hunter, Talyn had undertaken many pursuits. This one was pitiful compared to those. Even if the courier’s horse had been the finest in Conhaero it wouldn’t have mattered. The nykur’s broad cloven feet pounded like rapid drum beats even on the unnatural road. It was the symbol of permanence the Caisah had carved on the heaving face of a world never meant to be still. Certainly there was irony that a creature of pure chaos was using it.

Ahead in the mist, she could once again make out the courier’s cape flapping wildly, and then the sound of the horse’s heavy breathing. Syris, by comparison, raced almost silently; head down, great green ears folded against his head. Talyn knew for sure that he was enjoying the race.

It was a taste of the power that had once come so easily. By the time the courier had heard their approach and glanced around, she and the nykur were on him. This time she leapt true and stuck.

Talyn and the courier crashed together, and her momentum unhorsed them both. He landed hard, all the breath expelled in one sharp gasp, and then she was on top of him, knife drawn. He never had any chance to recover.

The moonlight fell on his face and she realized how young her prey was. It had never mattered before, and it didn’t matter now. In the past, the Caisah pointed and she obeyed, dishing out death as required. This time she needed his dispatch—not his life.

“The Hunter,” the young man whispered his recognition, his eyes wide and terrified. It was the expected response. He smelled of sweat and fear. Syris, rearing and stamping behind her, must have also had made quite the impression.

Talyn smiled and did not correct him. Her own particular history with the Caisah was not one she was going to share with this, his smallest of minions.

“Give me the scroll,” she hissed over her teeth, hand clenching on his shirt. His fingers scrambled for the bag over his shoulder, but she was pressing him down and the knife at his throat was distracting.

Finally seeing his problem, Talyn slid to her feet and pushed him over on his stomach. Slitting open the bottom of his bag, she took out the long wrapped shape of the scroll. Even bundled up like this she could smell the musty paper that suggested it was indeed as old as she’d been told. She itched to open and read it. As ancient as she was, she could still be excited and curious, thanks mostly to the memory discipline she practiced. Nemohira meant she could pick and choose which memories she kept; it made her always acquisitive for new things.

Straightening, Talyn—once called the Hunter—looked down at the form of the shivering courier. The man had his face pressed into the ground and would not meet her eye again. As soon as he’d recognized her, the fight had seeped out of him into the hungry earth. He should be killed, as the Caisah would be eager to hear of her whereabouts, and this man would carry word of her. With the magical bonds broken, he could no longer track her, and Talyn wanted to remain elusive. This trembling man would race straight to the nearest outpost, and the Caisah would know her location by the morning. Undoubtedly there was a bounty on her head, so she had enough to worry about. She didn’t need the Rutilian guard tracking her down, too.

The weight of long-bladed knife in her hand told her what really needed to be done. In her time as a Hunter she’d done worse than kill an unarmed man in the dirt. It would be stupid to change her methods now.

Her fingers tightened on the hilt in preparation for the blow, and then the world dropped away.

Finn was lying on his stomach on the edge of the stream, stripped to the waist, his bare feet muddy while he concentrated on his outstretched hands in the water. Talyn laughed at the deadly serious expression on his face. The light slanting through the trees dappled over his back and lit his hair up all gold and foxy red. The laughter dried on her lips as she realized how beautiful that moment was. The kind you’d trap in amber and keep if you could. Just beyond the curve of the river, she could hear the sound of the surf. The trout Finn hunted were nearly home.

Talyn’s body still tingled with their afternoon of love, the places that had been scratched and licked remembering. It was strange to be so aware of her flesh. It made her feel normal—maybe even mortal.

The man glanced over his shoulder at her, his smile quicksilver and pure joy, before wriggling his fingers in the water some more. She was just about to say something, maybe make a joke at his expense, when Finn threw up his hands, letting out a whoop of delight. A gleaming brown trout flicked through the air, twisting and turning.

Together they raced to get hold of it, scrambling in the leaves, gasping and giggling. Talyn felt her breath choking with laughter. His fingers and hers got about the fish at the same time. Finn’s hazel eyes met hers with the kind of directness that rooted her to the spot. “You’ll remember this, won’t you, Talyn . . . I know I will . . .”

The accusatory tone of her love’s voice was the last thing she heard before the after-time let go of her. She came back to the present with a jerk. The courier was motionless on the ground, only now trying to glance out of the corner of his eye; trying to ascertain if this breath would be his last.

Talyn swayed slightly on her feet, considering with horror what had just happened. She cleared her throat. “Get up, get on your horse and ride for your life. If you’re not gone by the time I get to Syris . . .” She paused, hearing his shuddering breath, and went on. “Well, you understand the rest, I am sure.”

The mad scramble that followed Talyn was only barely aware of. The courier moved fast for one of the Manesto, catching his horse, mounting, and racing off in admirable time.

Talyn didn’t even turn her head to watch him go; her own thoughts were too big to entertain anything else. She was nemohira; it was one of the memory disciplines that made immortality possible to bear. Talyn had deliberately discarded all memories of loving Finn. They should never have been able to come back. They should have been lost forever.

Shakily she turned and walked over to Syris. The nykur’s hot breath on her neck was intensely real and helped drag her back from the edge of panic. Pressing her fingers in among his razor hair, she at least knew the present had her for the moment.

The nagging question remained: how had Finn done this? He was only a man, only a stupid Manesto talespinner, and yet he had returned memories she had chosen to throw away. It was impossible!

“By the Flames,” Talyn swore, spun around and, leaning against the burning heat of Syris, looked up at the stars. Finn had to be more than he seemed, and the most infuriating part was that she had no idea why. The more she tried to stuff down thoughts of him, the more the images bubbled up. None burned more brightly than the recollection of him Naming a Kindred, making him dragon. Of all the Names he could have given that primal creature of chaos, he had given him the greatest and most dangerous one.

It had been thrilling and terrifying, and it was something she had not revealed to her new allies, the Phage. It was a weakness she was not willing to expose to anyone—especially when she wasn’t sure what it meant.

Syris jogged sideways, his teeth making sounds like knives being sharpened as he curled his head about to regard her. Then he lowered that head and kicked with his back legs, as if to emphasize something she was missing.

Talyn flicked her head up, eyes suddenly darting around the trees, looking for shadows that might be holding gun or sword, or something far worse. For a long moment she thought the nykur was just riled up by the race and being reunited with her. Then the sky began to dance above them.

The former Hunter tilted her head and watched the clouds gathering above. She had seen every kind of weather in her time, and Conhaero’s skies could be almost as tumultuous as the land below, but she had never seen such a strange thunderhead. It was higher in the sky than was normal, and though it was flickering with blue light, no rumbling reached her.

Syris rolled his eye and stamped, narrowly missing her foot. By the time she jigged back out of the way, the odd formation had slid and rolled away with startling speed. It was almost as if it were being pulled by some enormous hand. She watched it for a few more moments, her insides twisting almost as much as the clouds. The clouds moved off beyond the mountains, flickering with occasional light.

Tilting her head, Talyn wondered what signs she wasn’t seeing. When the Harrowing had come upon her people, she had been young, not yet taught all the ways of the Vaerli. Not for the first time did she wonder what she’d missed. It mattered little now. Should she touch another of her kind, both of them would burn thanks to the curse placed on the Vaerli by the Caisah. It severely limited how much she could learn. However, there were some of her kin that she could ask.

With a great deal of weariness she mounted Syris. The smell of salt water rose from his body, an unwelcome reminder of memories she didn’t want.

“Time to introduce you to my new friends, old friend,” Talyn whispered into his ear. “You might not like it, but I am very glad to see you.”

If he had been a horse, he would have neighed to communicate his dissatisfaction, but the nykur was a creature of the Chaos, and the strange, distant storm had fired something within him. Syris reared on his hind legs before bolting off into the mist with her clinging to his back. Talyn tried to concentrate on the momentary joy of that as best she could. It was all she had.

Finn was used to bar fights—but usually observing them instead of being involved. He ducked as another chair came flying his way and knocked one of the enthusiastic participants full in the face. He dropped with a grunt, and Finn took the chance to clamber over his prone body.

The tiny inn was shaking and seemed in danger of coming apart at the seams. Barmaids howled like harpies and laid about them with their wooden trays with real vigor. One man was thrown over the bar before another energetically leapt after him. It was truly amazing how one small question could set off a chain of event in so spectacular a manner.

Finn felt his shirt suddenly being caught in a fist and was forced to jerk his elbow back savagely. His attacker’s startled curse was very satisfactory. As Finn slipped out of that situation, he found himself in a new one quickly: two larger men were bearing down on him. Unlike the majority of the brawlers, who were only interested in having a bit of rough entertainment, this pair had the air of determination in their stride. Their eyes were fixed on Finn as they shoved the mass of fighters out of the way. Formerly, he’d been able to make himself seem inconsequential, but he’d been made aware recently that the power he usually relied on in these situations was not working as it once had. Perhaps it had something to do with Naming a dragon . . .