Hunter and Fox (22 page)

“There is a group of fishing crannog to the north,” he replied gruffly. “We should get everyone there before dark. From there the rebels will be able to get them to safety.”

He went back to Si and Varlesh and thought hard on what she had said. The Caisah's wrath would be more than enough to deal with for now—they certainly didn't need anything darker or more mysterious than that.

Byre and his father rested. The earth moving beneath them was a soothing lullaby. He woke with a start to the sun's rays piercing through the canopy of rustling ferns.

His father was seated, just as he had been before, but his head was dropped against his chest, and a faint snore rumbled through the clearing.

They had spent the last few days hiding from Rutilian Guard as they swept through the Chaoslands. Normally the guard stayed on the Road but something drove them deep into land that was both dangerous and unknown.

Even Byre and Retira, with their experience, found the going hard. A Vaerli after the Harrowing was almost in as much peril as any other person in the Chaoslands. Creatures whose entire purpose was to hunt and eat prowled the inner lands. Even those that lived on plants could still pose a threat. The towering bulk of a thramorn had almost crushed them in their sleep while on her late-night feeding expedition. With the constant changing landscape, animals could not afford to wait for their food to wither and die, and many existed without sleep. The thramorn had no more noticed their camp than a person noticed a worm. Intent on scrounging as many tasty fern fronds as possible, her large foot had only barely missed Byre. A thramorn, for all its bulk, was as silent as a cat. With so many predators it had to be.

Though it had been frightening, Retira was not angry. He simply pointed out that both of them should have noticed the trees stripped by the river and been on watch. It was a basic mistake that he took the blame for, claiming the joy of traveling with his son had temporarily blinded him. His relaxed and jovial manner was something Byre remembered. It had always been their mother who had been the disciplinarian. She would not have been so forgiving.

Retira led Byre farther into the forest, pointing out where the land was already heaving itself upward. Within a week it would most likely be a mountain pass. He might have cut himself off completely from the Vaerli and their Gifts, but he still had a thousand years of experience of the wild. The land sense had been an invaluable tool, he conceded to Byre, yet he argued it had made Vaerli lazy. With the feeling of land in their heads they had not really needed to look more deeply at it.

“Have you noticed the changes in the tempo of the earth?” he asked.

Byre shrugged. “I have not spent so much time in the Chaoslands. With no one to teach me the ways…” He stopped, too embarrassed to go on.

“No one would expect you to remember. But I have spent much time wandering…perhaps more than is healthy. There is a change in the rhythm of the land. Places which raged are now silent, and the more placid areas are now so dangerous even I dare not go there. It has been happening gradually, but it is easy to see if you have the lifetime of our people. Still, I do not know why.”

The images of seething fire suddenly washed over Byre. He hadn't realized it consciously before, but the place of his dream was definitely underground. Could the lurking creature be a Kindred, or something even more menacing?

“What I do know,” Retira went on, not noticing his son's abrupt discomfort, “is that you must get to the Great Cleft soon. The Choana say it is open only for a few days in the year.”

Such knowledge was not a Vaerli thing. They might be masters of the earth, but they never ventured beneath. Byre caught himself from asking how his father knew such a thing, for the World Builders were known for their utter secretiveness. Even the Blood Witches had marginal contact with the other peoples of Conhaero, but the Choana had disappeared into the icy wastes. Only the broken bodies of those who sought them out told that they even still existed. They were dumped on the edge of the frozen plain, with warnings against further incursions carved into their chests. Even the Caisah did not bother them as long as they showed no signs of challenging him for power.

It mattered little how his father got his information. If it were true, then they might as well turn back now. Byre stated the obvious, though. “We cannot get there in time.”

Retira tapped the side of his nose and grinned. “Not by normal means. Even your sister's nykur could not manage it, but the old still have a trick or two to teach.”

Byre had learnt much of the Vaerli lore at his mother's knee. Even so, he couldn't imagine what his father was talking about. But there was no persuading an explanation past his father's smiling lips. He wanted to keep his secrets.

The following morning they packed up camp without Retira saying anything more. Used to silences and secrets in equal measure, Byre followed him down to the newly sprung river two hours' walk from their sleeping place. The heady taste of the Gifts had been withdrawn from him, and so the land gave none of Retira's mysteries away.

His father took out a small flute chased with silver but no word magics, and blew three sharp notes upon it. The earth rumbled and it was not the gentle easing of a Kindred from beneath. Instead it was a ripping sound, as if the very fabric of the soil was being torn. Byre winced in sympathy.

What emerged was deep green, as large as one of the Caisah's carriages, and smelt musty like something kept too long in the dark. It took him a moment to recognize the protuberance as the stem of some massive plant.

Cautiously he touched the pod. It was warm under his hand and soft like flesh, but when he pushed harder it felt like steel was buried beneath. “What is it?” he asked his grinning father.

Retira blew another note on his flute, a descending one that sent shivers through the plant. It sprung apart, revealing a glossy cream interior like fine silk, and the smell changed to one of heady glory. It was as if a monster had shed its skin and become a butterfly. Byre did not know what to make of it.

Even more alarmingly, Retira tucked away his flute and actually stepped into the pod. He reclined in the smooth interior and patted a spot near him. “The Choana did not disappear, Byre, not at all; they have been beneath us all along. I found a place with them, and thanks to that you will not have to suffer the rigors of further travel. Come in.”

Byre paused at the entry of the pod. The curled lips were twitching, and he knew very well that they would close as soon as he was in. He had never suffered from a fear of being shut in, but he couldn't get the imagery of being swallowed out of his head.

Retira held out his hand. “I said it was safe. Don't you trust me?”

Now was not the time to point out how long they had been separated or to make some snappy comment about his father's mental health. It was a simple choice of go forward or fail. Not having anything to lose but his life, Byre stepped into the pod.

It closed around him with a sound almost like a sigh. It should have been dark, but there was a strange green-white light coming from the walls. It cast his father's face in alien, odd angles.

Byre gingerly took a spot next to him. As the pod lurched, he found himself grabbing reflexively for a handhold but there was none. Apparently it wasn't needed, though, for the surface he was sitting on was somehow attached to him.

“Don't worry,” Retira said. “Once we set off, the pod will move remarkably smoothly.”

“What is it…this thing, anyway?”

“Just what it seems. The Choana have the way of making growing things do their bidding—plants, that is, not animals. That is forbidden.”

For a second, Byre imagined what masters of matter could do if let loose on unsuspecting creatures. If they chose to, they could create nightmares. He said nothing, but swallowed his fears. He had put his trust in his father, and if he lost faith now he might as well have been left in the Caisah's cell.

“Now I'm going to get some rest.” Retira yawned. “The pod will take some time to get back to its root. Nothing will endanger you here.” And with that he turned over and, nestling into the interior, dropped to sleep.

Byre could do no such thing. The whole motion was unnatural and even though he was sure it was a plant, he still didn't trust it. And if he didn't trust the method of travel, could he really trust his father?

It was a hard thing to think about because the memories of his life before the Harrowing were his most cherished. But the toughened part of him that had lived his life since then realized he knew nothing of his father, really. Byre had the chilling worry that he was being led into danger, cynically tethered by his emotions.

He should ask. He should wake Retira and simply demand to know how they came to be traveling in this strange conveyance of Choana making. He should be brave enough to reveal his concerns.

Byre wasn't. The memories got in the way and he didn't know how to get past them. He had already lost three parents. So he closed his eyes and tried not to think about those questions.

The Sofai slipped into that space. It was far easier to think of her dark eyes and soft voice than closer problems. But there were questions there, too—what had she got him into?

P
elanor hung close to Finn. She definitely did not like the smell of these men that they had fallen in with—even less than that of her first traveling companion. They reeked of wildness and masculinity that put her further on edge.

Her nerves were wrecked—for she was hungry, deeply ferociously hungry. It made her stomach cramp and her eyes feel disconnected from her body. Every muscle was aching, her mouth dry, and suddenly she was beginning to remember what pain was.

Pelanor longed for Alvick, her mate, and her Blood. His gift would fill the need within her, ease the great hunger, and hold her back from the Dark Gate.

However, if she could not have Alvick then others could stand in his place.

Even now, walking behind Finn, she fantasized about lunging forward and burying her mouth around his flesh. His skin would part beneath her teeth and there would be relief from the dragging agony of the Hunger.

She could not—it was part of the test. So she managed to stay her hand…for now, at least.

Day was just beginning to shake itself out of the desert ahead, over the heads of their traveling companions. Pelanor swallowed. The sun was a burning blood red.

She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to get that delicious imagery out of her head.

“Are you all right, Pelanor?” Finn had dropped back and put his hand on her shoulder, concerned for a weak mortal woman in the desert.

“Not really,” she replied softly. “I mean, can we trust these people?” If only she could get him alone, maybe there was a chance she could satisfy the Hunger a little.

“After saving us last night?” He glanced at her with some humor. “Would you prefer we trust the
Hashani'mort
? You tell me, you're from the tribes.”

Her lie had been discovered, and it was obvious that he was a lost cause. Although she assumed Finn was a jovial-enough fellow to mortals, to her he was simply irritating. She feared if she opened her mouth she would say something biting that would reveal herself. Still her lips twitched, aching to let out something.

“I'm glad you think it's funny.” Finn gave her a gentle shove, but she didn't tell him that it was no giggle she'd suppressed.

They walked for three hours, until the waves of heat rippled over the baking rocks. Finn was sweating, but neither Pelanor nor their guides complained.

Looking back over one shoulder she observed the one thing that did make her uncomfortable: the Kindred was watching her.

Blood Witches didn't exactly fear the Kindred—once passed through the mouth of the goddess, fear was supposed to be a mere memory. It was more that they were uncertain of them. Their magic was too different, too alien, and far removed from that of Blood to really be comprehended. Also, they saw things. Undoubtedly this Kindred could see through her lies and knew what she was.

So Pelanor struggled to understand it as well. In the back of her mind was the possibility that if she had to eliminate Finn it might well attack her. She narrowed her eyes. The tail was new, as Finn had pointed out. Though she knew nothing about their magics she wondered on its implications. The Kindred were awesome allies, able to call on their powers of fire and Chaos at any time, and if cornered even the earth itself could be their ally. Would her Blood magics be enough to counter such a threat?

Soon, though, there was no time to think about things as they crested the last hump of sand and rock. Before them was Caracel.

In the great ochre valley below was spread a sprawling mass of tents, bawling livestock, and more humanity than Pelanor had ever cared to see. The noise and the smells were offensive to her highly tuned senses.

“Amazing, isn't it?” Finn was by her side once more, a bright note in his voice. “All the Chaos tribes meet here once a year to trade, arrange marriages, dance, and compete. See there.” He raised one finger and pointed down into the center of the throng. “There's a large oasis here. It moves every year, but the tribes always find it.”

Much like a leech will find a vein, she thought to herself, but she was not fooled by his innocent remarks. “I know all that,” she snapped, “I've lived among them all my life.” Pelanor would not fall so easily into such an obvious trap.

Then she decided to ignore him for a while. Let him think what he would, he was not her prey and counted little in the scheme of things.

They were led down into the Caracel, and Pelanor had to steel herself before entering the stinking caldron of humanity. All around there was sound: the screeches of gap-toothed women, the squalls of angry infants, and the barking of unattended dogs.

She felt buffeted by it, lost without Alvick to hold her into reality, and washed away in a sea of humanity. Forgetting her previous decision, she grabbed Finn's arm, looking for something to hold her steady. It felt like every eye was on her, each one hostile. Were they aware of her hidden teeth? Some said sheep could sense the wolf.

Even a Blood Witch might not stand against a mob. Amongst her kind there were plenty of warning tales of Witches who had been exposed and then reviled by humans; people who could not possibly understand the twelve-mouthed goddess and the bargain made with Blood.

The tribesmen might be laughing and enjoying themselves at the moment, but whisper the word
Phaerkorn
and they would find anger quickly enough. The sooner she was face-to-face with her prey, the sooner she could be away with her mission completed.

Finn was looking at her strangely so her feelings must have somehow crept onto her face. She wiped away whatever disgust was there and tried her best to put on the mask of humanity.

As they followed their guides deeper into the tent-strewn chaos, he began peering around, looking through all the tribespeople with all their different costumes and headgear. After a moment Pelanor realized what he was doing: looking for her tribe, trying to match her costume with others.

The clothes she had stolen at random in her flight south, and she didn't need to be put in the position of trying to explain to their owner who she was.

She tugged cautiously on Finn's sleeve, trying to make herself as pitiful and beautiful as possible. “You know, I'm afraid we will see my tribe.”

Then she had to embroider herself another lie about a forced marriage, an angry chief, and her own flight through the Chaoslands.

“Well,” Finn said with a pat on her back, “I thought there was more that you weren't telling me. You don't have to be afraid.”

Biting back a reply, she tried to imagine herself elsewhere at that moment.
Alvick would have his throat thrown back, offering the gift of his blood. She would reach down…

The tribesman's voice interrupted her delightful reverie.

“This is our
yahma
.” Their guide gestured to a tent the color of sand. Seated outside was an old woman as gap-toothed and rotten as any they had seen on the way here. She was a folded, stinking pile of never-washed clothing with only old bones propping them up.

Pelanor shuddered. The old were the worst of all humans. They reeked of everything the Blood Witches fought against. Unfortunately, they also saw more than the young—something she didn't need right now. The
yahma
looked at her, and Pelanor knew there was nothing that escaped this old woman. She might be near the Dark Gate, but she had learned much on her way there.

Having reached the most exalted position of any tribesperson, the
yahma
was the ultimate judge of her people. She chose the way they traveled, the waterholes that might be relied upon to still be there, and which couples deserved the protection and sanction of marriage. It was the role of the woman in the Chaoslands to carry the name forward, to guarantee the continuation of the tribe. It was the reason that many Blood Witches often hid in their number. Men herded their cattle and hunted what game they could find, while women sat in sheltered tents and dreamed whatever the Chaos storms brought.

This woman, sitting in front of her simple tent, had probably seen at least three generations of her menfolk burnt in the Chaoslands. Her eyes, deep and black, were staring at these new people in Caracel with sternness and wariness. Danger could come in pleasing shapes in these lands.

She was chewing a long-stemmed and battered pipe, which she continued doing with some concentration for a while. Finally she took it out. “More trouble, Hacel?” Her voice was cracked and bent like a piece of leather left out in the sun.

Their guide had not given up his name. As far as Pelanor knew, Hacel meant wanderer in their tongue, so she'd given nothing away even then.

“They were lost in the dust,
yahma
,” he bent over one knee until his thick crop of hair nearly dropped into the sand. “Also they were pursued by a
Hashani'mort
and protected by this.” He stepped aside, and the shifting small form of the Kindred was revealed. The
yahma
popped her pipe back into her mouth and chewed on it reflectively. The whole group seemed to hold its breath, waiting for a pronouncement. Even Pelanor, who cultivated little interest in humanity's doings, was curious what this old crone of the desert would make of the Kindred.

Whatever her conclusions were, the
yahma
kept them to herself. She waved the pipe, dismissing them. “They have the freedom of Caracel. Let them walk where they will.”

Finn grinned broadly at Pelanor. It was a curious thing about humans, how much they cared about the company of their fellows. A Blood Witch needed no other than her Union—they were a perfect couple, insular and independent.

So it was strange that Finn took her out into the madness of Caracel and insisted she enjoy. Certainly there were many things to see that she had never even heard of. An initiate was kept apart from the world, learning the Blood code and history of her kind. Caracel was so full of life that after her distaste had worn off, Pelanor found herself entranced and curious.

Apart from trade, the main business of Caracel was marriage—which was another alien concept. The mechanics, at least, she could appreciate. It was an incredibly colorful event, and it was the men who were the most involved. Each put an inordinate amount of care into the costume, for this was his only chance to impress a woman from another tribe.

Pelanor and Finn paused at a circle of tents where a group of men were preparing. The small triangles of brightly woven cloth hung from their hips, front and back. They greased their hair with yellow mud until it stood up in great spikes, and painted ochre stripes and swirls onto their faces.

Curious despite herself, Pelanor trailed the dancers as they took to the area set aside for the attracting of a mate. Here they stood for hours, hooting and leaping in a long line, accompanied only by the deep throb of a drum. Despite not understanding the words, their rhythmic song still managed to reach her. The beat was close to that she had heard near the Dark Gate, and could still hear if she concentrated on her link with Alvick. It was the sound of life, of blood and sex.

The women arrived just before dusk, dressed in lengths of thin linen. They were chattering like excited teenagers, which was pretty much what they were. They stood quietly by while the men began to whoop in time with the rhythm. They leapt, called, and flashed their garishly painted faces at the women.

Whatever this was meant to convey, it seemed to work. Women in twos and threes stepped forward and made their choice, leading the grinning men away.

Naturally, there would be sex waiting for them in the dark, a clumsy human trait that only attempted to be what the Union was. It could only ever be an echo.

Pelanor managed not to snort her amusement.

By the looks of him, Finn was thinking on that which waited for them in the night. But he was a human male and vulnerable like that. She was very grateful that Alvick was beyond all that nonsense.

Finn wasn't looking at her, but she didn't want to get into that particular sticky situation so she tugged imperiously on his sleeve.

“I'm tired, I need to rest.”

For an instant he looked confused, like she'd said something wrong. “Very well, we'll go back to our
yahma
's tent.”

They trudged back and every step Pelanor found herself thinking of blood: the taste of it, the rich iron smell of it, the thickness of it on the tongue.

She could feel her strength to resist the urge dwindling. So when they got back to the camp, she threw herself on the ground, wrapped a blanket around herself, and drifted into that half world of memory. At least there she could savor remembrance of Alvick's flavor and not be tempted by the humanity around her.

Talyn the Dark had better hurry to her prey soon, or there might not be much left of it.