Kindred and Wings (6 page)

Across the canyon, One-eyed Baraca was nearly down among the guard, leaping energetically from outcrop to cliff face with more athleticism than any mortal could manage. The sword in his hand gleamed, and Equo could almost feel sorry for the Caisah’s troops.

The Swoop sealed the trap at both ends. The white light bloomed where the birds swooped to the earth; when it cleared, there were the scions of the Lady of Wings in all their glory, young women in shining silver armor.

Originally they had been the defenders of the Manesto, following the scion that had led their tribe through the Void to Conhaero. Then the Caisah had come, done away with the scions somehow, and taken the Swoop for his own. Now, under the leadership of Azrul, the Swoop had managed to break free of that and dedicated themselves to this new Avatar, One-eyed Baraca. Whether that had been a good decision had not yet played out, just as it remained to be seen for Equo, Varlesh and Si.

The time for thinking was not now. Equo took a place at Varlesh’s side as they joined the hurried scamper down to crush the guard in their pincer movement. Si, their fey, gentler part had remained behind at the camp with the Vaerli seer Nyree.

The narrowness of the canyon certainly leveled the playing field. With the Swoop acting as a plug at each end, the number advantage the guard always had was nullified; in fact, it began to work against them. As troops at front and rear went hand to hand with the fury of the Swoop, others behind were rendered unable to move or get into action, so that when troops above them in the canyon began to fire arrows into the mass, panic began.

Baraca’s pikemen began to use the extra length of their weapons to punch down into the confused mass of guards. It was terrible work that should have made Equo ill, but his brain was no longer engaged; the mob and the rush of blood had taken over.

The smell of sweat, blood and spilled guts was primal and compelling. He found himself yelling along with the rest, thrusting and stabbing whatever he could find. Standing in a rank of fellow soldiers, he and Varlesh abandoned themselves to the unit. It was a taste of the power they had experienced when they had been not three but one.

Flesh had been the domain of the Form Bards, and yet here they were cutting and destroying it. The Song they had shared had been about beauty and control, but now they were destroying with madness just like everyone else.

It was not what they had ever meant to be about—reduced to mere mortals. All of this Equo was aware of, but only dimly. He let go of self and let himself become part of something much bigger and far more dangerous.

When he surfaced again, the battle, if it could be called that, was over. Around him Baraca’s troops were grinning wearily, splattered with gore, slapping each other on the back. The mixture of this with the red soil made for a truly horrific sight. Varlesh grasped Equo by the shoulder, turning him around. His eyes, too, were dark and sad.

That touch steadied Equo a little. Lifting his pike wearily, he looked down onto the field of carnage, and noted with horror that there were few survivors. Those that lay about groaning were being dispatched by troops moving among them with thin blades. The Swoop had gone—retreated once more to the sky. Only their leader Azrul remained behind.

It would be pleasant to strike vengeance and then fly away before the real horror settled in. The rest of the army did not have that luxury.

After looting the corpses for anything useful, the troops regrouped for the march back to their camp. Equo would have taken a place happily at the rear, but Varlesh maneuvered them through the tired and jubilant crowd to the front where Baraca and Azrul were.

The tall woman with her silver armor was talking animatedly with the rebel leader. Even though he couldn’t at once make out the discussion, Equo observed that her tone was deferential, even while she didn’t appear to be agreeing to whatever he was saying. To the Swoop any scion was the highest authority, but he recalled Nyree’s horror when they had first discovered One-eyed Baraca. It was this that made him cautious about their once-friend.

Azrul finally gave up whatever argument she was having, bowed once, and retreated from the scion.

Varlesh, though, had no such compunction; he elbowed his way forward to talk to Baraca. Equo smiled grimly. He, Varlesh and Si might have been one person once, but time had changed them. For himself, he had no desire to talk to the scion.

So, while Varlesh began discussing tactics with the rebel leader, Equo’s mind wandered, and he gradually let himself drop back a little into the camouflage of the crowd.

Their camp was not far off, and it didn’t take them long to get back to it. It was not much to come home to—in reality a pitiful affair. The scattering of campfires was desperately small compared to the might that the Caisah could muster, but nevertheless Equo found himself jogging toward it.

The few people left behind—the wounded, the healers and the children—began trotting toward the returning soldiers with cries of delight. Only Nyree did not.

The seer stood next to the healer’s tent, as beautiful as ever. She was small like all other Vaerli, with dark hair and caramel skin; hers was different, though, covered in the word magic that proclaimed she was the made seer—the
oidnafan.
The silvery script twisted over her flesh made it powerful art, and though it meant a great deal to her, every time Equo saw it his heart sank a little. It was one more thing that separated them.

The Vaerli eyes were also completely dark and full of pinpricks of light. Most called them stars. The Harrowing, the Caisah’s curse on the Vaerli, had denied them most of their Gifts. The one he loved had not reclaimed the Gifts of the Kindred, but she had found her seer’s powers. He was afraid of what she saw—and even more worried that it meant she could not love him as he loved her.

Seeing her, though, Equo couldn’t help himself—when she smiled, he rushed in and embraced her. Her small form tucked neatly in against him. Her dark head rested against his shoulder in just the right way. Nyree hugged him back, but not for as long as he wanted.

Pushing back, she glanced around him to where Baraca was receiving the adulation of his remaining troops. Her spine stiffened and her lips twisted. Her inability to convince anyone that the arrival of a scion was the beginning of a new Conflagration was frustrating her.

“Did you see Baraca use any magic?” she asked, glancing up at Equo with those haunting eyes.

“No, I don’t think so.” He frowned and considered what he had seen. “He took the front line, but I didn’t see anything obvious.”

Her shoulders relaxed a little. “Well, that is something, I suppose . . . but we have plenty of other worries.”

Equo caught Varlesh’s eye, and his brother followed after as Nyree turned once more back to the center of the camp.

The heat of midday was some hours off, yet already the temperature was working against them all. The two men paused to unwrap and soak their headscarves in a tub of water kept for this purpose in the middle of the camp. The chill was a great relief—even if just for a moment—but Nyree only let the men rest for a heartbeat. She hurried them into her tent, where the shade provided only minimal comfort from the oppressive weather.

Si, the third fragment of the whole they’d once been, was seated near the trestle table, and spread out before him was a strange collection of items: the wing of a seabird, a handful of mottled blue stones, a twisted and bleached branch of wood, and a skein of tangled red wool. The ways of seers were indeed mysterious.

The splintered Si was just as bad. He toyed with the objects as if they made perfect sense to him, his brow furrowed and concentrating on arranging them just so. Nyree stood at the entrance to the tent watching him out of the corner of her eye, hands on her hips, and spoke in a low voice. “The courier from the west did not arrive.”

Varlesh slumped back into the deepest shade in the tent he could find. “You mean we have no way of knowing if they are rising in rebellion, as well?”

“It is hard for me to see.” Nyree tapped her fingers on the table and looked out the flap. Baraca’s honor guard could be heard giving him a rousing round of cheers. “Something, or perhaps someone, is blocking my vision. I am more worried by what that could mean, than about the chance of any further people joining us.”

Varlesh cleared his throat. “I am sure Baraca is worried about supplies, troops, and all those things reinforcements bring with them. This is important.”

“Is it?” Now Nyree was describing a small circle in the tent, her hand pressed over her eyes, as if by narrowing her vision she could see the way ahead better.

Si leaned back in his chair, watching her but contributing nothing.

“You don’t know what you are saying,” Varlesh muttered while digging his clay pipe out of his pocket. “A scion has returned. If that is not a signal to rebel against the Caisah, then I do not know what could be!”

He was just saying what Equo was thinking, but Nyree rounded on him. “Have you ever considered,” she said through bared teeth, “that there is more going on in this world than the Caisah?” Her eyes flickered between the three men who all seemed equally in danger from her sudden wrath.

Seeing that they were not going to answer, she pulled out the remaining roughly-made stool and sat opposite them, for a moment saying nothing. Equo was sure that some of the fine writing on her skin was actually moving, flexing, almost as if it were alive or responding to something else.

Pushing a hand through her hair, she looked down at the scattering of odd objects. When she spoke her voice was slightly unsteady. “I’ve been trying to understand what I see—there is so much. I can see it . . . but . . . I can’t understand . . .” Nyree trailed off.

“It is not your place to do this,” Si said, reaching across the table and taking her hand. “Things will make themselves clear at the right time. You are the made seer, you need the born seer to make a complete vision.”

The two of them looked hard at each other, until Equo felt a little twinge of jealousy. The Vaerli shook herself as if she were a suddenly soaked cat, and leaned back. “That is as may be, but she has not been revealed in a thousand years, so we have to go on with what we have.”

“And what we have is bugger all,” Varlesh muttered. “You seers are always rabbiting on with never a bloody point.”

The moment turned abruptly quiet again, and Equo wondered if the other man had pushed a little too far. Finally, the seer laughed, breaking the tension. “Then let me make this plain, old friend: there is one thing that Si and I agree on. One thing we have seen. If Conhaero is to survive the coming destruction, your people, the Ahouri, must rise and be as they were.”

“Crone’s nails!” Varlesh’s pipe snapped suddenly in his grip, while Equo leapt up as if scalded. Si alone remained calm; the only sign he had even heard her was a slight tilt of his head.

Equo pushed aside the tent flap and glanced frantically left and right, but luckily no one was nearby. Turning back, he grabbed Nyree’s arm, fingers digging into her flesh. “To even say that name, to even think it . . .” He stopped, shook his head, and then glared at her. “You must be insane!”

Nyree looked up at him as if he was a complete stranger, and under his palm a sudden heat bloomed. Equo felt it as if it were his own flesh burning—which in a way it was. He did not let go, though, stubborn in his absolute fear of the Ahouri being discovered. His jaw clenched tight, but after a minute Nyree smiled and laid her hand over his. She had made her point.

“It is time, Equo.” Her voice was low and soft, but there was no mistaking the steel at its very core. “Your people have lain hidden for far too long, and now they must come out of the shadows. All of the races of Conhaero must stand together when the Conflagration comes. The White Void will not be ignored.”

“The shadows are all we have, woman,” Varlesh barked, flicking the remains of his pipe into the corner of the tent. “If we come out, if we show ourselves, then what your own people suffered will look like a picnic by comparison. Do you think we did this terrible thing to ourselves without consideration? Do you think that we went to ground lightly?”

Equo couldn’t stand to see his other third and his love argue like this—even if voices had not yet become raised. He stepped between them and took Nyree’s hand. “The Ahouri were peaceful people, so we would bring nothing to this war of Baraca’s. It is not in our nature.”

She squeezed his hand, and locked her star-filled eyes with his. “It is not for the war that they are needed, dear heart. It is for something far grander and more important. Unity. The people of Conhaero must be united. Surely you know how wrong it is to be separate?”

They stared at each other for a long time before Varlesh, pulling out a fresh new pipe from his pocket, grunted. “You two can bloody hold hands all you like, but by the maid’s fair touch, you will not get the Ahouri involved merely by batting your eyelashes at him.”

“You can find them, though,” Nyree’s pitch black eyes gleamed with little pinpricks of light that appeared to be moving. “You know where they are.” It was not a question, it was a statement of fact.

“They still sing to us—in our dreams we can hear them.” Si’s voice low, musical, and infrequent, broke through to his brethren.

Equo felt his breath freeze in his chest. Such a sensation of peace stole over him that for a moment he couldn’t even feel if Nyree’s hand remained in his own. The rest of the world dimmed in the face of this hint of a remembered feeling: utter calm. It was the sensation that he could only recall in dreams; knowledge that he was whole.

Just one glance across the other parts of him—Si and Varlesh—and he knew that they had felt it too. This whisper of the past surely could not be ignored.

Varlesh cleared his throat and tugged at his beard while his eyes remained riveted upon Si. Their quietest but most potent member was the one who had the keeping of the ember of their remaining power. To any stranger, Si had the appearance of a madman—one that they took care of and managed. The complete opposite was in fact the truth. They relied on him more than any outsider could possibly guess.