Valor of the Healer (22 page)

“Welcome to Dolmerrath.” He turned eyes the deep fathomless blue of a sky beside a sunset to Faanshi and Julian. “I am Gerren, and this is Kirinil, my brother.” His companion inclined his silver-haired head to them. As he cleared parchments from part of the table in the center of the room to give them places to sit, Gerren considered Faanshi. “I hadn’t expected to see you quite this soon.”

Had he meant to address her first? Faanshi started and glanced to Julian, who’d taken no place at the table and instead stood in the doorway, with the others in the room all in his line of sight. He was no help, for his expression was unreadable as always, and he eyed her steadily, clearly expecting her to speak.

“
Eshallavan
,
akreshi
.” She offered a nervous bow as she sat, deeper than what she’d accorded the rag-and-bone man. It seemed required. Gerren had offered no title, but the others looked to him as they might a leader. “Please forgive me if we come too early. The
akresha
Alarrah thought we should, because of the Hawk.”

“Hawk?” Gerren demanded, while his brother pulled himself up sharply. “What Hawk?”

The looks in their eyes, the surprise tainted with fright, shot bolts of distress through Faanshi. Without her willing it her gaze shot back to Julian, who made no move toward her, but who caught her eye as soon as her head swiveled in his direction. “Tell them what you told Alarrah and me,” he said.

There was no reassurance in his voice or face, but his presence was reassurance enough; he was something familiar in a world that had turned new and strange all over again. She nodded, drew in a deep breath and sat up as tall as she could in the hopes that it would help her look braver.

“I’m not sure how to begin.” She inched her way through the tale of the battle in the church nevertheless, the memory of it dropping across her thoughts like a blanket of ice. “And when I healed Kestar, it was as though Almighty Djashtet took my soul and poured his into its place. I’ve seen him twice now in my dreams. As it is for me, so it is for him.” Her fingers rose in search of something that wasn’t there—his amulet. She felt its weight around her neck even now, and she had to grasp the cloth of her stolen shirt to keep her hand from fidgeting. “I don’t know how to make what happened to us stop, and he’s in peril now because of me. I swear to you that he’s a good man.”

Kirinil let out a low whistle, and then spoke up for the first time. “I never thought I’d hear those words spoken of a Knight of the Hawk in this place.” His voice was smoother and quieter than his brother’s, and more thoughtful.

“He
is
a good man! He doesn’t want to come after me, he’ll only do it because he’s commanded—”

“Which still means he’ll come after you,” Julian said.

Gerren’s face had gone pale, his frame rigid. He offered the Rook no agreement as he came round the table to stand before Faanshi’s chair—but neither did he argue. “Alarrah, I presume you’ve scried her,” he said, all inflection drained from his voice.

“Before we crossed the Wards. She leaks badly, but I thought it was her power.”

“It is.” Kirinil too came to stand before Faanshi, and at his words a prickling of new and unfamiliar magic rushed across her nerves. “But only in part. Something else is all over her. Her Hawk, I think. I can almost see him.”

“Bloody fucking—” The assassin cut off his own oath, and then, with more anger than she had ever seen him express, thrust his hand at Faanshi. “I made this girl a promise. Are you telling us that even after all the trouble of getting her here, you’re going to boot her back out the way she came?”

Both the other elves glanced away, their faces troubled, and Gerren himself blew out a long breath. “Very well then.” He met Faanshi’s eyes. “
Valannè
, I’ll speak plainly. Much as we need you in Dolmerrath—and power like what Alarrah says you carry could be the difference between life and death for us—if this Hawk of yours can use this link between you to find you, we can’t let you stay here. You’d bring death to us, not life. You’d bring the Anreulag.”

“Then I can’t stay.” No one looked shocked as Faanshi rose, fighting down her disappointment. If anything, the elves’ faces grew bleak, and Julian’s was already starkest of all. “I’ve already endangered Kestar. I won’t allow more.”

“Surely we can find a way to shield her!” Alarrah cried, throwing a glance from Gerren to Kirinil and back again. “To keep the Hawk from tracking her, or to break the link?”

“I can teach her to shield herself,” Kirinil agreed, “but Lady help me, not in one night. It could take weeks for a new mage, perhaps longer.”

“Then I can’t stay,” Faanshi repeated. “
Akresha
—” She caught herself, and amended, “Alarrah, would you guide—”

Julian’s hand clapped down on her shoulder and spun her around to face him. “Girl, we’ve had this conversation. If you go anywhere else in Adalonia, you’re dead. You can’t control your power. Your features are too memorable. And even if that good, honorable Hawk of yours fails to track you, there are dozens more to pick up where he leaves off. Tykhe! If you’re that anxious to die, I’ll put an end to you right here!”

The Rook’s eye sparked with accusation, and his voice was heated now, beyond his usual harshness. With a strange lack of surprise, she stared up at him. How did she know, with the same bone-deep assurance that told her of Kestar Vaarsen’s mercy, that Julian cared about what happened to her? Her magic hadn’t pulled him back from death, yet the knowledge was there all the same. It braced something in her that nothing in the caves of this place, not even the three unearthly beings before them, was able to reach.

“I don’t want to die.” Tears prickled at her eyes as she looked back at the elves; her throat closed, trying to hold back the words she had to utter. “I don’t want to leave. But I won’t put this place in peril.
Akreshi
Gerren, thank you for your audience—” Her voice cracked, and before she could shame herself by openly weeping, she bowed over her hands and backed toward the curtained door. “I—I should go now.”

Julian caught up with her before she made it ten paces down the corridor. “Faanshi,” he called, hoarsely, as if he didn’t wish the elves to overhear.

She let him stop her, and even met his gaze as he reached her, forcing herself to stand taller. That she’d glimpsed pity and consternation in the faces of the elves was bad enough, but before Julian, she didn’t want to cry at all. “I have no right to ask,” she blurted, “because Rab is your friend and you should go back to him. But if you could stay with me—just a little longer—I’ll find a way to pay you.”

“Bugger the payment! I’m an assassin. A
human
. I can’t teach you what you need to know. I can’t teach you your magic.”

“But you can teach me to hide.” Faanshi trembled despite her resolution to conquer it, and feared that at any moment she’d run out of the courage the Lady of Time had granted her. Her hand latched on to his. “You can teach me to fight.”

He stood stock-still at her touch, then, reluctantly, his hand squeezed hers. “You’re a healer. Don’t sully that seeking to spill blood.”

“I may have to if I’m to stay free.”

For a moment Faanshi thought she saw that pained openness in the Rook’s face that she’d glimpsed before in the house of the rag-and-bone man. Then his expression settled, and he nodded once, in what she identified in wonder as respect. “Pray it won’t come to that—but yes, it may.”

“Will you come with me then? Will you show me what to do?” Their hands were still joined, she noticed, which filled her with odd, unsteady warmth. As she ventured a smile, Julian’s mouth quirked up into tentative reply, as if he wasn’t entirely sure how that expression should rest upon his face.

“Eh well,” he said, “let’s get out of here first.”

“You won’t get far without me.” The voice was whisper-soft, as quiet as Alarrah’s approach had been. Neither Faanshi nor Julian had seen her coming, and the two of them sprang back from one another in surprise, but if the elf woman noticed either the assassin’s wariness or the blush scalding Faanshi’s cheeks, she gave no sign. “Come with me to fetch your things,” she went on, “and then I’ll take you to your horse. Someone is going to have to help you cross the Wards.”

Julian’s eye narrowed. “And after that?”

Alarrah strode past them without a pause in her step—but Faanshi didn’t miss the quelling finger she raised to Julian, or the brooding glance she cast back over her shoulder to the curtain through which they’d emerged.

“After that, human,” she murmured, barely loud enough for them both to hear, “we’ll talk.”

Chapter Eighteen

Holvirr Kilmerredes was about to kill someone. Enverly knew it in the depths of his being—had known it, from the instant the guardsman on duty at the church had brought him word of Celoren Valleford unconscious, of Kestar Vaarsen fled. That the duke would also receive the news was inevitable, and that rage would grip him was beyond doubt. Enverly didn’t even need to be in his presence to know how his wrath would manifest. Kilmerredes’s wrath always found an outlet, and in times past, that outlet had generally been the girl.

Now Faanshi was gone, her assassins and her Hawk with her, and Shaymis Enverly resolved he wouldn’t play the target in their stead. With strict orders he was not to be disturbed, he sequestered himself behind his study’s locked doors and applied himself to the secrets that blood and the words of a faded manuscript had to tell.

From a black market peddler in Dareli’s most ancient streets, he’d bought a chest of oak and iron so old that wood and metal alike were black with centuries. Within he’d found documents that triggered a warning from his amulet, just enough to advise that the crumbling pages carried power. And when he’d begun the task of copying and translating the text into his own journal, as fast as he dared before his handling damaged the manuscript beyond repair, he’d swiftly realized what treasure he’d finally found. The Rite of the Calling had been the most sacred prayer in the Church’s liturgy for all its existence, and its very words were protected against utterance and even remembrance by all but the High Priest or Priestess. A transcription of it should have been impossible.

Yet he held one now in his keeping.

The many subtle layers of magic on the pages sometimes rearranged letters or entire words, sometimes fading already timeworn ink into illegibility. This didn’t daunt him; the elimination of magic was his province as a priest, after all. All it took to work through them was his amulet, the words of the Cleansing prayer, and blood. Faanshi’s had suited him, though he’d never claimed much from her at any given time, with the eagle-eyed Ulima watching over her. But he’d taken enough to strip away almost every layer of magic on his prize.

With the one small sample of blood he’d taken from Vaarsen, he at last broke through the rest—even as he heard the duke bellowing beyond his study door.

His heart hammering, Enverly breathed the last syllable of the prayer and let it draw out into a sigh of exultation. Only then, once he was sure he was done, did he haul himself out of his chair. Kilmerredes’s hand, hammering on the door, compelled him to hurry. His frame, aching from his wound and his lack of rest, argued the opposite. He compromised with himself and did neither. With the most serenity he could ever remember feeling in the face of his master’s temper, he walked sedately to the door and opened it to receive him.

“My lord,” he said before the younger man could erupt, “please come in at once. We have it.”

With that, with no further prompting, the duke’s bearing changed completely. Eyes wide, he thrust Enverly back into the chamber so that he himself could close the door behind him. “You can read the damned thing now?”

“Every last word. The pages’ Wards trouble me no longer.”

Amazement such as he had never seen from his lord, not even when Faanshi’s magic had first risen, flooded the other man’s face. “You’re sure of the translation?”

“I will of course check it thoroughly, and then check it again.” Enverly allowed the smallest trace of satisfaction to curl his mouth. “But I’m already quite sure. Would you care to review my notes?”

The duke barged past him by way of reply, lunging at his desk and seizing the journal he’d left lying open there. He skimmed through the initial pages, and then stared hard at the final, critical words. When he looked up again, it was with another expression the priest had never seen him wear—fear.

“It can’t be this easy. How can you know it’ll work?”

“I can’t, my lord, not until we try it. The time and place must be right—it would never do to Call Her and have it go awry.” More than a little fear of his own coursed through Enverly at that admission, though not enough to overcome a rush of anticipation. “Especially if She should actually appear.”

Kilmerredes didn’t often star himself, but he did so now, his eyes distant with memory. “Tantiu soldiers died by the scores the first time we saw Her, Shaymis. There will be death again if we do this.”

Something of his fierce glee ebbed, for his patron was right. He’d seen it himself in the words he’d transcribed; the Rite of the Calling demanded blood, not only to summon the Voice of the Gods, but also to bend Her to the caller’s will. “There will,” he agreed, solemn now.

“She can have the elves if She wants them. But I’d rather She not spill Nirrivan blood if we can help it.”

“We may not have a choice, my lord. If Nirrivy is to rise again, if we use the Anreulag to take back our provinces, then the Bhandreid will send her troops. Some of them will be of Nirrivan blood. And Nirrivans will fall doing battle with them.”

Kilmerredes almost smiled. “As long as Nirrivy itself is reborn, I’ll see that price paid. I know what the people say of my House. I know they still blame my family for our conquering. I’ll have that stain taken from our honor, or I’ll die myself in the attempt.”

“Then we must choose the circumstances of our Calling wisely. These words do, after all, give you the power to become Ebhandreid of the realm.”

At that, finally, the duke laughed. “That’s an Adalon word, old friend. If we do this, we’ll do it right. I’ll be king. And you, of course, will be my High Priest. Of a new Church. A Nirrivan Church.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Still thunderstruck, the duke threw the journal down again and began to pace. “The right time, then. Gods, Shaymis, how long have we worked at this? To have it at hand, at last—but we can’t do it. Not yet. I need Faanshi brought back to me.” He paused and whirled back to him, gaze afire once more. “The Voice of the Gods Herself is within my grasp, and one wisp of a healer is not. This cannot stand.”

“My lord...” Enverly considered, disturbed by the almost manic light in his master’s eyes. “Have you considered that if we succeed at the Rite, we won’t need the girl?”

Kilmerredes strode to him and, with enough force to hurt, jabbed a finger into his still-wounded shoulder. “She. Is. Mine. I’ll have her back. I need her power to keep me alive if we’re about to rip this country apart. And I’ll have anyone who keeps her from me hanged, starting with our flown Hawk. Commit your notes to memory and then burn them, and the manuscript too. I need you to come with me to search.”

Doubt flickered in Enverly’s mind, but he buried it swiftly, for there was no arguing with Kilmerredes in this mood. “Vaarsen Hall, I presume? What if Lord Vaarsen isn’t there?”

Kilmerredes spun anew, striding for the door as quickly as he’d arrived. “Then we question his dear lady mother, and anyone else at that estate who might give him aid and comfort. Ready yourself, Shaymis. We ride out at dawn.”

* * *

Time blurred as Kestar rode.

Trained to Celoren’s weight on his back and unsettled by Tenthim’s absence, Pasga was a reluctant mount at first. Kestar had to guide him with a stern hand until he accepted that for once he’d carry a different rider. The chestnut couldn’t achieve Tenthim’s dazzling speed, but he did have a certain indefatigable strength. Once he started on his gallop he devoured the miles, and with them the hours of the journey.

The farther they went, the more Kestar’s wound ached. With every fall of Pasga’s hooves, pain rattled through his frame and robbed him of his breath. Soon he had to fumble into his coat pocket for the bottle of laudanum. Grudging sips blunted the edges of his pain, enough to let him stay ahorse, though it took little time for the drug to grow less helpful. Soon it only fogged his already unreliable senses, and he didn’t dare take more.

Night bled into morning, into afternoon and dusk. Kestar marked time only by the stallion’s needs for water or rest or food, and his own drives narrowed to keeping Pasga moving and himself upon his back. There was something he had to know. He had to make it to Bremany. Make it home.

When the pain in his chest grew so heavy that it threatened to tip him out of the saddle, he took more laudanum. At nightfall he welcomed the drenching summer shower that kept him awake. But its shock faded quickly, and so did he. At last he pulled a rope from Celoren’s saddlebag and lashed himself to the saddle, fearing that if he got off Pasga again before he reached his destination, he wouldn’t make it back on.

Faanshi flickered in and out of his awareness. Sometimes he felt her as though she rode with him—or within him. Once or twice he caught himself staring at the reins as he tried to remember how to tell Pasga to turn or stop or change his gait. And once or twice, the horse reacted in confusion of his own as he misjudged how he sat in the saddle.

Sometimes she was no more than a tantalizing spark in his consciousness, beckoning him back to the meadow deep in his mind. It would be easy to return there, to rest in the light. Fear and temptation spiked through him, lending strength to his grip on his amulet and the prayers he mumbled into the night. He needed no lantern, for his amulet blazed, and that too filled him with fear.

I
can’t
go
,
Faanshi
, he told her.

You
are
like
me
, she replied. Her voice chimed in his hearing, pure as a mandolin chord. He felt her hands on his cheeks through the falling rain, banishing denial and doubt.

Blessed
Anreulag
,
is
it
true
,
do
I
have
elven
blood
,
am
I
tainted
,
forgive
me
,
Blessed
One
,
help
me
—

No answer came out of the watery darkness, and soon even that tumbled away in a wash of light.

When he came back to himself the air was suffused with the frail illumination of early morning. He was cold with rain and dew, shivering beneath his coat, for he’d forgotten to pull it closed. Pasga, stoically bearing the awkward angle at which he sat in the saddle, stood with his head lowered to graze at the damp grass. They were in a field. As voices shouted in the distance, Kestar realized they weren’t alone.

His fingers were numb as he struggled to hide his amulet beneath his shirt, and his head felt as though it had turned to stone overnight. As he tried to straighten, pain flared through his muscles, dimming the shapes of the approaching figures, a pair of young men in field hands’ clothing. He couldn’t remember how he’d kept Pasga to the roads, or when the chestnut had strayed into this fallow, open field in search of grass to fill his belly. Trying to sort out the memory made his head throb. It was all he could do to make sense of the field hands’ greeting, and to grasp that he recognized the land.

He was home.

“Ho there, you on the horse! Who are you and what are you doing on Vaarsen land?”

“Kestar Vaarsen,” he called back, and his voice cracked with the effort. Yet it was enough. They started at his reply, and when they got near enough to see his Hawk uniform, damp and disheveled though it was, they began to run.

“Is it really you, m’lord?”

“Gods, what happened, sir? Here now, let us help you.”

“Hold on there, Shonn. See how he’s tied himself to the saddle? He’s hurt!”

“Better get him up to—”

Kestar sagged forward as their voices slurred into gibberish and the world went gray in his sight. Part of him registered Pasga moving again, this time without his command. Someone was untying the rope that kept him in the saddle, and other hands were hoisting him down off the horse. Curious, concerned voices cried out around him, and he could muster only a single rasped request to answer the lot of them.

“Someone get me to my mother.”

* * *

Kestar’s sleep was deep and dreamless, but even in slumber his purpose never faded from his awareness. It snapped him awake without warning, sending one hand groping for Celoren’s sword and the other for his amulet. The latter was in its rightful place around his neck, but the sword was gone. Violently he started, afraid he was back in the cell in Camden—and as soon as he moved, strong hands seized him by the shoulders.

“Kestar! Be calm, my son, you’re safe.”

The voice cut through his alarm. As he woke in truth, he finally registered his state and his surroundings. He was warm and dry, clad in a clean nightshirt that fit loosely around his bandaged chest. He lay in the first real bed he’d occupied in days, in the chamber kept for him when he came home. Its furnishings were old and simple and functional, of lesser quality than what he might command as the next Baron of Bremany. But for a Hawk not even a decade removed from his years as a knight-cadet, their very austerity was a comfort.

So was the sight of the woman at his side. In contrast to the room, she was a creature of vivid colors. Her hair was red as flame, her eyes pure aquamarine, and freckles dappled her pale complexion with a liberal scattering of gold. Vivid too was her gown, the color of sunlit honey, trimmed in green at the bodice and wrists. Only when he looked closely could he see the age of gown and wearer alike, the fading of fine lawn and embroidered brocade, or the traceries of wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. But they were all familiar, and Kestar had never been happier to see anyone in his life.

“Mother.” Heedless of the ache in his chest, he sat up and hugged her with all his might. “Praise the gods. I didn’t know if I would make it here.”

Lady Ganniwer Vaarsen returned her son’s embrace but paid his wound more mind than he, holding him gently for a few moments and pulling back to arm’s length. “Don’t mistake my pleasure at seeing you, Kescha, but I’m afraid to ask what’s brought you home in such dreadful condition.” She squeezed Kestar’s shoulders as he dropped a panicked gaze to the amulet beneath his nightshirt. “Don’t worry—no one’s seen it but me. I threw everyone else out when I discovered it, getting you out of your wet clothes.”