Hunter and Fox (26 page)

The woman exchanged a look with his father. “The earth lets forth the souls of the dead.”

“The Great Cleft opens,” Retira said holding his gaze steadily, “and you may enter.”

The smile froze on Moyan's face and her fingers tightened on his father's shoulder.

“It's all right darling,” Retira murmured.

Her eyes were wide and somehow desperate. “You know what it is then—the Cleft? You can't let him go there!” She gestured wildly, as if to suggest they might as well climb into another of the strange pods and leave.

Retira's face sagged and he passed a weary hand over his face. “I am sorry, Byre. I should have told you sooner; the Cleft is the place we call Ellyria's Gate.”

The overwhelming fear from his dreams rose up all around him. Byre took a step back. Even in a land of chaos there were places, special and sacred places, which stood still. V'nae Rae and the Bastion were the most well known, but there were others, some that had never even been seen by Vaerli. The stories of Ellyria's trials were the first tales whispered to children, and the Gate was where she stepped from the mortal world into the realm of the Kindred.

His father was talking, his voice soothing, but the words were lost on Byre. It all made sense, the pain, the glimpses of Kindred, and the fire that had haunted his dreams.

“You can see it now.” Retira's hand rested heavily on Byre's shoulder. “Another as innocent and brave as Ellyria must go to the Kindred—must offer himself up for trial if the Gifts are ever to be returned to us.”

Byre laughed aloud. It was terrible irony that he had only just escaped one torture to be thrown into another. Only, the fires of the Kindred would be worse—far worse than anything humanity could dream up.

He shook off his father's hand. “You rescued me for this? Your own son a sacrifice to creatures you are too afraid to face yourself!” How the Sofai must have laughed after he had left her caravan—the sacrificial lamb having to find its own way to the altar.

“No,” Retira's voice shook. “Do not say that. If I could, I would have given myself to that place decades ago—but I cannot. The sacrifice must also be one from the line of Ellyria, and it was your mother who was of that blood.”

Moyan shot Retira a disgusted look. “You used me for this? Is this the only reason you claimed to love me, to get access to the Cleft?” She shot them both a withering look, and spinning on her heel, ran back to the houses.

Byre took a deep breath while watching his father trying to conceal his tears. Looking down at his boots in a confused mixture of rage and embarrassment, he tried to let his thoughts get beyond the pain he had seen in his vision.

One fact remained that did help: Ellyria had survived. Despite the pain of the Kindred's tests, she had triumphed, winning the Gifts for her people. Concentrating on that fact, keeping it before him like a good-luck talisman, Byre rested his hand on his father's shoulder.

They bleakly stared at each other for a while. Byre broke first, hugging his father hard. He noticed something else. Retira was thin, lighter than he remembered, and so much smaller too. It could not all be childish recollection. Whatever Byre had to suffer, his father had already given up more. He'd given up any chance of reunion with his people and his children by shedding the Gifts. He had even cut loose the ties of immortality and would die soon enough, perhaps never seeing the ending of the Harrowing.

Compared to that mighty sacrifice, Byre's chance to take the trials was insignificant.

“Forgive me, Father,” he whispered, pulling back and holding Retira at arm's length. “I spoke rashly. I know you would have done this if you could.”

“If there was another way…”

“Ellyria survived, Father. She triumphed, and I will gladly attempt the same.”

His father smiled grimly, but Byre wondered if he was thinking the very thing he was. Ellyria was a hero. Byre barely even knew his own race. He hugged his son tight until Byre could feel nothing but the warmth of his arms.

Retira spoke into his ear. “When the way opens, I will show you to the place, Byreniko. I will wait for you there until you emerge.”

Byre clutched his father and hoped that he could believe him. Neither was ashamed of the tears on their cheeks.

“Come then,” Retira said gruffly. “Let me soothe Moyan's feelings, and then we can get some rest.”

Byre turned to follow him, but just as he did a cool breeze touched his face. It was strange; it had no place in this vast cavern, surely. He couldn't understand it, yet his head felt clearer than it had for weeks and somehow a smile was on his lips.

Then the mist came pouring down from the rock above, enveloping him like a cloud. Though he called out, somehow he knew Retira would not hear.

A face formed in the mist, dark and beautiful, with sloe eyes and a curved mouth in which he could see the faintest of tipped teeth. The body that gradually resolved from the mist was tall, dark, and spare. The woman smiled and spoke softly. “Do not go with your father.”

“Who are you?” he asked, noticing how she very much resembled the Sofai in beauty and age. However, there was something else that made him think they had met before.

“You already know.” The mist was condensing, somehow adding to her solidity. Stepping forward she took his hand. “Part of her is in me, and that means I am part of you as well.”

“My sister.” Her skin was warm against his, warmer than it should have been. Byre could feel the reaction it provoked in his own. He closed his eyes at the joy of it and images flashed through his brain, a blue-eyed man who made her heart leap, a floor that seemed to be made of gold flickering like flame, and a Blood Witch who fought for her prize. Anger and determination boiled through him, and he knew it was not his. His strength was nothing compared to his sister's; it burned hot enough to consume.

With a gasp Byre pulled his hand away from the Witch he now knew was called Pelanor. “She sent you to save me.” It was a wonder that any thought of family still survived in the pit of pain and rage his sister had become.

The Witch was staring at him. “You have similar eyes, but yours are full of something else…is it light? You must not die; it is the agreement Talyn and I made.”

The kindness in her voice was unexpected and strange from a Blood Witch. He thought of his sister's face and that one brief moment when they had sought each other out. He recalled the broken bodies of his foster parents hung out to rot for the crime of taking in a Vaerli child. He remembered the moments in the torture cell when he had touched for a second the Gifts of his people, and felt all their despair and agony wash over him.

Like every creature that drew breath, Byre did not want to die, but neither did he want to go back to the existence of nothingness where he floated through his life and it was always so hard. If there were a way to find his people again, to talk to them, to hold their hands, then he would risk his immortality for it. He didn't know what the Phaerkorn saw in his eyes, but it was not hopelessness anymore.

Byre shook his head, looking toward the passage his father had disappeared down. Talyn still cared, which was good for her, but what he had learned from Retira meant he could not care about his own safety any more than Ellyria had.

The Blood Witch had made a Pact with his sister, and he would be unable to get past her if it came to that; no Vaerli without the Gifts could. So he took the chance of taking the Witch's hands in his own. They were warm with Talyn's blood. “I can't leave my father now…not when we are so close. Surely you have someone you would not abandon?”

He squeezed her fingertips, praying she knew what he meant. Pelanor's smooth brow furrowed and the corner of one of her teeth bit her lip. Byre was certain he was about to end up face down on the cold stone floor, but then she laughed. “You obviously have more winning ways than your sister. You do remind me of someone most precious. Go, I will watch.”

He didn't know what she meant, or what she would do at the Cleft. It was just another complication, thanks to his sister. One he really didn't need.

F
inn was staring at her, and it was quite unnerving. But Talyn was not about to tell him that.

The fact was, most breathing prisoners avoided looking at her. Finnbarr the Fox, though, watched her: sometimes out of the corner of one eye, sometimes brazenly over the fire as they traveled north toward the Bastion.

Perhaps the problem was that he didn't fully realize he was her prisoner. Maybe he thought that she'd saved him from the Named for some heroic purpose. Or maybe he was just full of foolish romantic notions—thinking he could influence her after that kiss.

Talyn put him right on that score on the second day. “I'm taking you directly to the Caisah as soon as we've been to the Bastion.”

“I thought you were supposed to take me straight to Perilous.” Right then, Talyn knew how much trouble he really was. Finnbarr the Fox was grinning. No one had ever talked to her like this. She should have stepped over the fire and backhanded his smile into the sand. That's what she should have done.

The sad reality was, she was weak. Whenever Finn's hands touched Talyn, or his breath tickled her neck as they rode, her skin warmed. The Hunter could only be glad he couldn't see the blood rush to her cheeks.

Talyn did not reply but glared at him menacingly. He looked back steadily.

Finn was a hard man to resist because his charm was the subtle kind that did not assault directly. A small smile, a little laugh, and somehow she could feel herself defusing. It was so strange—this gentle a man in a world of violence. Talyn had never met the like before.

Even now, with bitter words lying between them, there was no vinegar in his voice or accusation in those eyes.

Talyn flung the remains of her too-hard bread into the fire and tried not to think about what it might mean.

Finn shrugged and took out the curious length of string he'd been playing with for days.

Although he plainly expected no justification from her, Talyn still found herself giving some. “There is a place I must visit before I hand you over—the Bastion. I have business to attend.”

He stared at her over the fire. “You're taking me there? It's sacred to the Vaerli. Only they can walk the Salt.”

It was annoying to be told her own people's history. “I must go, therefore you must go.”

She'd made a mistake. Finn was frowning; he knew that as the Caisah's Hunter she'd never failed to deliver her bounty.

“Don't worry,” Talyn snapped. “I will still get you to V'nae Rae.”

She turned away, rolled into her blankets, and pretended to sleep. Not long after, she heard Finn curl up. She lay there listening to his breathing for what felt like hours before finding any rest herself.

It took another day riding fast into the Chaos before they reached the edge of the Salt Plains, and from there all speed ceased. Even a nykur like Syris could not blur into the plains.

It was the second most sacred site to the Vaerli, gifted to them by the Kindred as eternal. From its outmost limits, it was four days of arduous walking and a journey Talyn had never imagined making again.

She slipped down from Syris' back and looked calmly over the gleaming white plain where she had last seen her mother. The wind blew hard and sharp from the innermost reaches, and somewhere out there many bones would be gleaming on the Salt.

Finn drew a ragged breath and shaded his eyes to see past the glare. However, there was nothing to see—only a desolate expanse of white, cracked and pitted.

“Once,” Talyn found herself speaking, “you would have never been able to set foot on that plain. To even touch it was to endure painful death for anyone not Vaerli…but the Caisah crossed it and the power was broken. Now anyone can walk the Salt.”

“Not anyone. Even now it doesn't look that friendly.”

“It isn't. You'd be blind within a day unprotected.” She tore off the ragged hem of her tunic and held it out to him. “Bind your eyes with this. You should still be able to see enough to manage, but hopefully the glare won't wreck your vision.”

“I'm sure the Caisah will appreciate that.” He trusted her, taking the fabric without question. “You will still have to lead me.”

Talyn dropped her eyes before Finn did. “There are other things on the plain, too.” She pressed one of his hunting knives into his hand. “Just in case.”

“You're only letting me have this because you're arrogant enough to think I am no danger, but what happens when you are asleep?”

“Vaerli sleep little, but lightly,” she said with a smile, “and besides, even with my eyes closed I can bring you down.”

Most men would have grumbled at that, their honor pricked, but Finn simply shrugged and put the knife into his boot without further comment.

“We leave Syris here.” She was already removing the slim saddlebags from the nykur's back. “Some things on the Salt are drawn to his kind, and we don't need the attention.”

Syris smashed his foot contemptuously into the fringes of the Salt, making her laugh. Rubbing his cheek, Talyn blew gently into his nostrils, sharing breath, reassuring him. As always, there was no need for words between them; he would wait until the sun burned out of the sky for her to return.

With that somewhat melancholy thought, Talyn turned and nudged Finnbarr the Fox out into the white plain.

Her Vaerli eyes darkened and adjusted, narrowing to tiny slits, adapting to the conditions as her kind always had.

The walk to Bastion was a test in itself. It was always taken on foot and was always hard. It was traditional to travel without food, thus exposing the Vaerli to the elements, bringing their usual proud nature low. Reaching the Bastion was supposed to be a humbling experience, but looking at Finn, she just hoped this time to make it alive. Before the Harrowing, crossing the plain was tiring but not dangerous when the Seven Gifts protected the Vaerli. Times had changed.

The first day was the worst. Nothing rose against the horizon to break the monotony; there was only the thick white glare and a remorseless sky of blue. Talyn could already feel parts of her beginning to burn away under it. If it were not for the ever-constant need to lead Finn, she might have even enjoyed the sensation.

The truth of the matter was, with his eyes bound, he was reliant on the Hunter. In fact, even if his eyes were as well equipped as her own, he would still have been at her mercy. Only her people's memory could lead them through the featureless white.

At first she was callous and let Finn trail stumbling in her wake. His feet caught on the cracked earth and he fell, cursing, several times. Each time Talyn did not pause, though she listened to hear his complaints. None came.

The fifth time she swung around in exasperation and pulled Finn to his feet. He clenched his fingers tightly on hers. “I apologize. I don't make a very good blind person.”

Talyn caught the twitch of a smile in the corner of his lips, and despite her annoyance she could only admire a man who, while being a prisoner, blindfolded and in deadly peril, could still find something amusing in the situation.

“I doubt if I was in your place I would be laughing,” she said.

He tugged the protective cloth down farther about his eyes. “I don't know, mistress Vaerli. When you're at the bottom, sometimes the only comfort is a little laughter.”

She suspected he was trying to tell her something about her own situation, but she let him get away with it for now. Instead, Talyn pulled him closer. “Well, much as it amuses me to see you fall every three steps, it will slow us down.” Tucking his hand into her sword belt, she challenged him, “Keep pace with me, or I'll drag you on your belly all the way to the Bastion.”

And Finn did, matching her stride for stride so easily that she almost was tempted to break into a run just to test him. What was even stranger was that he decided to talk to her.

Undaunted by neither her silence nor her reputation, Finn began to tell her stories. He recited tales of her own people—which was an uncomfortable sensation. She'd not heard those tales for three hundred years, and never from a person not Vaerli. After she got over her irritation, it was soothing to hear stories of the Pact, the Kindred, and the Seers of the past. When he got to the tale of the Harrowing, Talyn drew the line. “Not that story…not here.”

He didn't comment, instead telling her his own tale. Slowly she was drawn into Finn's past, his world of stories and hope and frustration. He opened up his experiences, that of a mortal man in the Caisah's domain. He took her into the frightened underbelly of inns and farms, where people were uncertain and terrified of the land they lived in. She could smell their sweat and hear their cries when the Chaos storms roared. He also talked about the hope: not just hope for them, hope for her own people too.

“You…you have met other Vaerli?” Talyn found her throat was tight about the words.

“Yes. I wanted to find out their stories. Everyone says they are a proud race, short on words. I think since the Harrowing they have changed—for they seemed eager enough to share them with me.”

“There is no law against it,” she whispered.

“I'm glad. It was good to hear their tales.”

Talyn cleared her throat. “How did they look?”

“Haunted and very sad; like they are waiting for something but don't know what.”

“You would know that better than I. In fact I have not seen a Vaerli in centuries…except…” She caught herself before she could tell Finn about seeing her brother or her father.

Under the blindfold it was hard to read his expression. He quickly filled in the awkward gap, pattering out stories of his childhood by the sea, miles of slippery seaweed and rock pools, seahorses and adventures on boats. It sounded idyllic and rather unreal.

Reality, though, had its own way of intruding; not all the guardians of the Bastion slept during the day. The perfect white salt began to ripple, almost imperceptibly at first. Talyn halted, eyes scanning the surface, straining all her senses. At her side, Finn was still talking, unaware under his blindfold of anything untoward.

“Quiet!” Talyn clamped down on his arm. Immediately he was silent, tilting his head and trying to hear what had got her attention.

It was no sound. It was a tickling sensation on the back of the neck, the faintest of tremors up through the soles of her boots. Her mind raced, recalling all the guardians and weighing up which it could possibly be.

The Salt exploded around them with an almighty bang. White spears as tall as a man erupted from the ground. A dozen or so surrounded them both in a threatening semicircle.

Finn had pushed his blindfold off and was squinting around him. The salt pillars shuddered, thin streams pouring off them, revealing faces of pure white malevolence carved like ancient warding masks. They were all teeth and rolling eyes.

Feeling rather than seeing Finn reach for that dagger in his boot, Talyn stayed his hand. “Don't move. They are the Old Souls of the Vaerli, ancestor-spirits, they are only here to see me. They won't attack one of their own. Stay near. It will be all right.”

The talespinner shifted close until his length was pressed against her and his breath was right on her ear. Taking his hand, Talyn drew him toward a path between the pillars. Barely had they taken a step before the gap was closed by another springing up there. The snarling faces turned toward them.

“Tell me again they know you,” Finn whispered with an edge of urgency.

Talyn was genuinely surprised. She was Vaerli, and they were meant to be guardians of the Salt. They should not have barred her way. None of her people's stories explained this, nor told her what to do next.

The faintest of tremors warned her just a moment before they would have been killed. Pushing Finn away, Talyn stepped back, but only enough to allow the sharp spear to pass in front of her toes. Drawing her pistol, she blew the face into a stinging rain of salt.

The rest of the pillars dropped, collapsing with the sound of thousands of crystals and a distant ominous rumble.

“Move,” she yelled and pulled Finn to his feet.

“But they're gone…” He staggered, for the ground was beginning to shake strongly enough for even the fool of a talespinner to feel.

If she'd been by herself, Talyn knew there would have been little danger. Her reflexes could have kept her ahead of the emerging pillars. It might have even been fun. Yet she wasn't—and left alone, Finn would have been dead in an instant.

They ran hard, ducking and rolling according to Talyn's before-sense. Her throat became raw from yelling directions at the hapless man, her eyes stung with salt, and she was suddenly soaked in sweat under her armor. If she let go of his arm, things would be much easier.

However, that would be failure. Talyn couldn't spare a second to glance at Finn, too busy listening to her Gift and trying to keep them both alive.

Unbelievably, Talyn saw a rocky outcrop rising from the plain. It stood out against the horizon and offered hope against all reason. She could be fairly sure it had not been there the last time she came this way, and absolutely positive it hadn't been there a few moments before.