Vengeance of the Hunter (15 page)

Tembriel tossed a nod in Faanshi’s direction. “Shot twice. You aren’t the only one who’s escaped a human master. And their laws against that never expire.”

In mounting agitation Faanshi swung her gaze from face to face. “You all speak as if you don’t want to do this.”

“We don’t,” Jannyn said. He’d cleaned up since she and Alarrah had healed him, but he was still paler than he should have been, and his voice was harsh and blunt. “With only a rumor of a vision to go on, Kirinil’s right, we might as well just surrender directly—”

“Jannyn, enough. Your point is made.” Gerren shot him a stern glance until he subsided, and only then did Dolmerrath’s leader turn back to Faanshi. “Whether we want to do this has become irrelevant. If your okinya’s vision is to be believed, we have no choice in the matter. What lies before us now is to find the path that’ll let us recover your Hawk as safely as we can.”

“The Lady of Time would not announce Her will and yet give no way for it to be made so.” There was nothing particularly pious in Semai’s voice as he spoke up for the first time. He stood by the entry curtain, his arms crossed lightly along his broad chest, and the words that reverberated from behind his
korfi
might almost have rattled forth from strangely conversational stone. “To me, the way seems clear. If we cannot safely reach this man alone, we must seek the aid of those who can.”

Gerren inclined his head, offering their Tantiu visitor a small smile, though that expression did little to ease the severity of his gaze. “As I was about to suggest. We’re not without allies in Shalridan, else we’d never have survived as long as we have, and we’d never be able to set foot in the city at all. There are ways we can do this, but Alarrah’s right—”

“Wait,” Alarrah said, while Tembriel and Jannyn started. Exclamations in Elvish burst out of them both. Faanshi didn’t know the words, but their shock and disapproval were plain, for it mirrored that on her sister’s face. “Did you just say
we?
”

“You can’t be thinking of going on this excursion,” Kirinil said.

“I’m sending none of you on a quest I wouldn’t undertake myself. And you can’t go.” Gerren snapped up a hand, forestalling the objection visibly roiling in his brother before it could erupt. “I’m expendable. The Wards on Dolmerrath are not, and they’ll fall if you’re Cleansed or killed.”

“The
hearts
of Dolmerrath will fall if the same happens to you! No, brother, I have to overrule you on this. You’re no more expendable than I am.”

“I second Kirinil’s sentiments.” Alarrah’s voice didn’t rise, but it resounded with fierce conviction nevertheless. “I saved your life once, Gerren. I don’t want to have to do it again.”

Gerren glowered at them both, but finally blew out a breath. “Jannyn, you’re staying. I know you have no love for humanity, and I need you to keep the rest of our scouts alive. There’s none among us better at that than you.”

Jannyn began to speak and then caught himself and nodded grudgingly, not bothering to hide his relief. “It’ll be done.”

“Good.” With that, Gerren turned to Jannyn’s sister. “Tembriel, Dolmerrath cannot go entirely undefended, and I will not risk our only fire-mage. I need you here with your brother.”

“Fortunately for us all, I can set humans on fire here just as well as in their nests. Especially if they keep coming to find us.”

“Try not to set anything or anyone on fire that isn’t absolutely necessary. Alarrah...”

In the handful of days Faanshi had known her
enorrè
, this daughter of her lost father, she had begun to learn the range of Alarrah’s moods. She’d seen her wary and frightened, elated and exhausted. Through it all the she-elf had maintained a well of calm and peace that seemed her greatest source of strength. No sign of calm, however, showed in her face now. Her cheeks were livid, and her eyes were afire now with a determination Faanshi had seen only once before—when they’d faced the Anreulag. “Do
not
tell me I’m not going.”

Gerren’s expression changed, growing strangely awkward and open, and reminding Faanshi all at once of how Julian had looked at
her.
He was, she recalled, the first person Alarrah had ever healed. “Faanshi must go, and we can’t leave Dolmerrath without a healer.”

“My sister has barely begun to learn her power, and she’s not getting across the Wards without me and Kirinil, much less to Shalridan.”

“I’ve saved lives,” Faanshi added earnestly, “but if I have to do it again, I would appreciate her guidance.”

Kirinil flashed a long considering stare from his brother to the older healer and back again, and then finally stepped forward, taking Gerren by the shoulder. “I side with Alarrah on this, brother. Our people need you here, and you can’t teach Faanshi her magic. Alarrah and I can.”

“Well. If I’m to be overruled, so be it.” Gerren scowled at them all, but Faanshi noted the slight relaxation of his bearing as he glanced at Alarrah—as well as the grateful look her sister threw her and Kirinil both once Gerren’s gaze went elsewhere. Then Gerren strode to Alarrah and embraced her tightly. “Come back to me,
hìorollè
, fast as you can. If you can’t come back in seven days’ time, I’m going to have to begin evacuations, and I don’t want to take to the open sea and risk Adalonia’s navy without you.”

Faanshi didn’t know the elven word he uttered, but its meaning wasn’t hard to guess when she’d heard it uttered only between Alarrah and Gerren.

The she-elf returned his embrace and touched her brow to his. Softly, simply, Alarrah murmured, “I will.” Then she turned back to the room and looked with calm determination at them all. “Kirinil, Faanshi,
akreshi
Semai, gather what you need, but bring only what you must. We ride light, we ride fast and we ride with the next rising of the moon.”

Chapter Thirteen

Marriham
,
Kilmerry Province
,
Jomhas 30
,
AC 1876

Kestar had expected many things once he, Celoren and Father Enverly were taken under guard out of Arlitham Abbey. That the patrol would confiscate Cel’s and his weapons and amulets and deny them control of their own horses were both inevitable. Likewise, the patrol had permitted them no more than the barest minimum of personal items. No mentions were made of ropes or chains to bind them, and for that Kestar was grateful. Even if their comparative ease of movement meant only that the Hawks and other guards had them under constant watch at all times, and that if any of them showed the slightest sign of resistance, they would be shot on the spot.

Not that he could hope to run very far regardless, not when his fellow Hawks’ amulets could track him relentlessly down.

All of this Kestar accepted with numb resignation. But not in his wildest flights of fancy had he anticipated that their journey would take them into range of someone else’s fomenting rebellion—or that half their patrol would suddenly abandon them, taking Father Enverly along with them.

Amarsaed, with Wulsten and Yerredes flanking him, came for them in the morning. The Hawk captain was visibly seething, but to Kestar’s surprise and disquiet, he interrogated them only briefly, just long enough to determine that they’d seen nothing more than Follingsen coming to liberate the priest. Then, finally, he ordered them both chained at the wrists before they took to their horses.

No one offered Kestar or Celoren the slightest scrap of information, not while they were in earshot. And with the captain’s thunderous countenance scowling at them all, neither of the other two Hawks spoke more than the absolute minimum. They traveled swift and light out of Marriham, and only when their route began to reach disturbingly familiar roads did Kestar finally call out, “Captain, this isn’t the road to Shalridan.”

“Well spotted.” Amarsaed didn’t bother to turn in the saddle as he called back, his voice crackling with contempt. “In light of recent events, we’re taking a brief detour. We require reinforcements and suitable motivation to ensure that the two of you aren’t suddenly going to vanish out of our custody like the priest. We have orders to take another prisoner.”

Riding beside him, where the other two Hawks could keep them both in easy sight, Celoren went white-faced. “Oh gods, Kes, no,” he whispered.

Kestar’s spirits plummeted further, straight into his road-worn boots.

They were on the road to Bremany, and if Captain Amarsaed felt they required leverage to make sure he and Celoren wouldn’t escape, that could only mean one thing.

They were going to arrest his mother.

* * *

Vaarsen Hall put up no resistance, in no small part because a party of four more Hawks had preceded them and confined Ganniwer Vaarsen to her chambers until the captain’s patrol could arrive. Only grudgingly, and only with Wulsten and Yerredes to accompany them, did Captain Amarsaed permit Kestar and Celoren to be unchained so that they could go up to meet her. It was the tiniest of mercies, but under the circumstances, Kestar was willing to take what he could get. His heart leaped into his throat when Bron knocked at his mother’s door, and she called out a weary acknowledgement from within. “Enter, if you must.”

She didn’t come to meet them, and when Bron opened the door, Kestar glimpsed her sitting straight and stiff in a red-cushioned chair by the windows that overlooked a rolling expanse of floral gardens on the western side of Vaarsen Hall. Ganniwer was embroidering on a swath of spotless white linen, and she stabbed her needle into the cloth with such vindictive force that he was sure she was imagining holding a sword. He had to clear his throat before he could get her attention, and even then, his voice came out in a hoarse little croak.

“Mother.”

Only then did Ganniwer look up. She tossed the embroidery hoop and linen aside and sprang from her chair. Heedless of her skirts, she hurled herself at him and hugged him desperately close. “Kescha! Oh my son, I thought I’d never see you again. You didn’t try to come back here, did you? You should have known you wouldn’t be safe here!”

“I knew, Mother. They caught us before we could leave Arlitham Abbey.” Kestar readily returned Ganniwer’s embrace, before pulling back to study her in anxious concern. “But I’m pleased at least that you can know that I’m alive.”

“For now, anyway,” Celoren said, which drew Ganniwer’s attention to him. He couldn’t quite manage a smile, not with Bron Wulsten standing vigil at the door just behind them, but he did incline his head to her in respect. “My lady. I hope you’re all right?”

With distinct reluctance, Ganniwer took a step back so that she could survey them both. “No,” she answered baldly. “My home is invaded, my activities constrained and now I learn that you both are arrested along with me.” Her gaze, fiery now, snapped past them to the third Hawk in the room. “I presume that
is
the case, sir?”

“Yes, my lady.” Wulsten’s reply was steady and so were his eyes, though his bearing and the frown tugging at his mouth betrayed his patent discomfort.

Kestar whirled on him, without sympathy. Out of deference to Ganniwer, Bron hadn’t drawn his pistol, but his hand lingered on it nevertheless—and Jekke Yerredes was waiting just outside the door. The woman was one of the smallest Hawks Kestar had ever met, but she was also one of the fastest. She, like Bron, was armed to the teeth. Striking the man, therefore, was not an option. “My mother is blameless,” he growled instead. “You have me. You can let her go.”

“We’re coming along quietly,” Celoren agreed. “Lady Ganniwer need not be involved.”

“You both of all people should know better than that.” Wulsten’s right hand stayed poised on the gun at his side, but with his left, he reached beneath his uniform shirt and pulled out his amulet. It glowed pale and blue between his fingers, and he held it out toward Kestar, letting it speak for itself before letting it drop to his chest. “And your mother has already testified that she assisted you once you escaped custody in Camden.”

Ganniwer laid a hand on Kestar’s shoulder, though all her attention lingered upon the other Hawk. “Of course I did, and as I said before, I wouldn’t expect you to understand. The Order never has placed much stock in the loyalty of blood.”

Wulsten’s frown flickered momentarily into a wince, all the sign he gave that the withering contempt in the baroness’s voice had struck him, and he was nervous or perhaps wise enough to refrain from engaging her. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. But she’ll still have to come to the tribunal in Shalridan with us.”

Yet again, wildly, Kestar wished he’d fled with Faanshi when he’d had the chance—and that he’d somehow been able to take both his mother and Celoren along with him.

Then, as if that notion of Faanshi was a conduit, all at once he felt something flaring deep within him. He’d built a vision of a meadow there, when the healer girl had saved his life and overwhelmed them both in the process. Through her, and with the grudgingly given advice of her elven teachers, he’d learned to build up that meadow to guard his innermost self and help Faanshi try to sever the link between them. Her presence had faded in his psyche, becoming nothing more than a memory of sunlight—but now he heard her voice shrieking from within that meadow’s heart.

Kestar
,
if you can hear me
,
come to the elves!

There were no further words, but they brought with them a surge of anxiety that he identified instantly as
hers.
That their link was only weakened and not gone entirely was something he’d have to consider later. For now, his head began to pound with the effort to answer her.

Faanshi
,
I
can’t!

“Kes?”

Celoren’s voice hauled his attention back to his physical surroundings—and Kestar realized he’d spoken aloud. His partner and his mother were both staring at him, wide-eyed with surprise and concern. Most tellingly of all, Bron Wulsten had snatched up his amulet again, and he held it up before him like a torch.

It was glowing more brightly now.

“I’m sorry,” the other Hawk said, and it didn’t soothe Kestar in the slightest that he sounded as though he meant it. “But now that you’re all in custody, you should prepare to leave for Shalridan. Lady Vaarsen, pack lightly, if you please. You have fifteen minutes.”

* * *

With a larger patrol now at his disposal, and out of deference to Ganniwer’s station, Captain Amarsaed commandeered a carriage in which to confine his three prisoners. Kestar couldn’t fault the man’s strategy—this way, he and his mother and Celoren could be kept locked up even in transit. With a carriage, too, they could carry extra weapons and ammunition—commandeered from Vaarsen Hall’s own stock—atop the carriage, well out of the prisoners’ reach. That frustrated Kestar once they got underway again, yet he couldn’t help a wave of relief that the captain hadn’t bothered to order him and Celoren back into chains. Locked into a carriage and under heavy guard, after all, there would be little either he or Cel could do to effect an escape.

They were, at least, finally able to talk in relative peace and privacy. Even if the first words uttered between them were no balm to any of their moods.

With a heavy sigh, leaning his head back against the paneled oak behind him and closing his eyes, Celoren said to Ganniwer, “For what it’s worth, Bron wasn’t a bad sort at the Academy. It doesn’t gain us much to antagonize him.”

“I see no obligation to be polite to persons intending to do harm to my son.” Ganniwer swung her gaze to the son in question. “The patrol who came for me reported unrest in the countryside. I don’t suppose that girl who healed you and her friends might be responsible?”

Simultaneous hope and dread that that very thing might be true had already sprung up in Kestar. All he could think of was his great-grandmother Darlana, dying in Arlitham Abbey, and telling him bitterly of the Anreulag slaughtering the elf she’d loved along with many of his people. But he couldn’t put that into words, or his sudden fervent desire that Faanshi might reach his thoughts again, so he could demand of her what in the name of all the known gods she and her elven compatriots were doing. As it stood, he had to settle for telling his mother, “I have no way of knowing. I wish I did.”

Celoren opened his eyes again and gave him a long discomfited look. “Back at the Hall, it seemed like...like Faanshi was talking to you again. Did you...I mean, can you...?” He trailed off and tapped his own brow. “You can’t reach her?”

Kestar blushed, all too sympathetic to his partner’s awkwardness, for he was feeling it too; they’d both been Hawks too long to be comfortable casually discussing magic. “I don’t know how she did it in the first place, much less how to do it myself. And I’d rather not give our escorts’ amulets anything more to speak about than they already have.”

“They’ve already proclaimed you guilty,” Ganniwer pointed out. “Yet you cling to the wisps of their teaching. Kescha, they’re most likely going to kill you. I endorse accepting whatever strategy your healer and her friends might have to prevent this from happening.”

Her vehemence stunned Kestar even as part of him appreciated it, and he couldn’t help stare at her in bewilderment. “Mother, you do realize you speak heresy?”

“Fluently. Oh come now, don’t look so surprised. They took you from me when you were a baby, and your father’s soul was ripped in two by what he had to do at Riannach. I’ve seen the Anreulag with my own eyes, and I can believe in Her power. But I stopped believing years ago in what the Church and the Order do in Her name.”

Kestar swallowed. Ganniwer was regarding him with her usual steadfast conviction, yet now it made a strange new kind of sense; Celoren for his part watched them both and remained pointedly unobtrusive, even as their carriage rumbled back into motion. None of it seemed important now, as Kestar thought about his father. He barely remembered Dorvid Vaarsen. The Battle of Riannach had happened when he was too small to be aware of it, but he’d had the details emblazoned into his memory over and over again during his training at Hawksvale. Elven slaves in the town of Riannach, faced with conscription into the Bhandreid’s armies to carry out the ongoing war with Tantiulo, had revolted instead—and his father had led the combined force of Hawks and soldiers who’d had to put them down.

Not a single elf had survived the conflict. And ultimately, neither had his father. Dorvid Vaarsen had taken severe enough wounds in Riannach that the Bhandreid had granted him leave to retire from the Order. Kestar himself had seen him a single time, before he’d gone home to die at Vaarsen Hall. That stood out in his memory, being hugged by his pale, haggard father. With only one arm, for Dorvid had lost half of his right one.

Faanshi would have healed him.
But would he have let her?
“Mother, did Father ever—” yet again, he had to struggle for his words, “—know things before they happened?”

Ganniwer drew in a long shuddering breath at the question, and a wet sheen began to glimmer in her eyes. “Twice that I know of. He knew you were going to be a boy before I gave birth to you. And he knew the day he was going to die. That was why he insisted on going to Hawksvale to see you, one last time.”

“Did his amulet glow?” Celoren asked, his voice as quiet as hers.

“Those two times, yes, though never as brightly as Kestar’s does...did for him.” Ganniwer grimaced, wiped tears away from her cheeks, and then briskly reached into the reticule she’d been clutching ever since their journey had begun. “Then its light died along with him. They took your amulet, my son, but they didn’t take his. I think you should have it.”

The amulet she pulled forth was silver, as all Hawks’ amulets were, and with deep trepidation, Kestar accepted it from her. Each Hawk’s amulet was different. His father’s was two tiny, thin disks joined together by a hoop of brass; the front disk was a miniscule moon, and the back bore delicate etchings in a pattern of clouds. Kestar stared at it, wondering with a pang which of the silver disks might have been the one that glowed, and imagining that moon shining with pale blue light. It was dormant now, even in direct contact with his hand, proof that his father’s death had dissolved the blessing upon the amulet that had been made for him. With no glow to distract him, Kestar could focus instead on the texture of the engraved clouds and the supple leather cord, well-worn from many years, from which the amulet hung.