Hunter and Fox (18 page)

“Well, we're moving on tomorrow, anyway,” the commander said. “Word just came that there have been some…incidents in the east. They're whispering the name of Baraca again, and the Swoop is being sent to calm things down.”

It was more likely to knock some heads together, and she guessed it must have been the rebellion her father alluded to. The eastern coast was the most volatile area of Conhaero; it might be a place of small lazy islands and fishing fleets, but somehow they still managed to cause the Caisah trouble. Every time the elusive rebel leader's name was mentioned it seemed the east woke to fruitless struggle. The Hunter had never met this Baraca, and according to the Caisah he was more myth than reality. So it was hard to imagine this rebellion giving the Swoop much difficulty, but nevertheless Talyn warned Azrul to be careful.

“You too, Hunter,” she said before ramming her helmet once more on her head. “There is change in the air, though I can't tell if it is for good or ill. Let's hope we both have a chance to meet again for that race.”

Then she was off in a cloud of yellow dust, disappearing into Perilous with a loud whoop. Syris pawed the ground and tossed his head.

Talyn could tell he was eager to be off, too. Still, she looked once over her shoulder to where Azrul had gone before urging Syris away.

The normal constraints of horse travel did not apply to her mount, a nykur being a creature of flame and water rather than flesh. The only thing stopping the pair of them crossing the width of Conhaero without pause was her Vaerli nature. Though stronger than latecomers to the land, the Vaerli still needed to heed the call of muscle and sinew.

They rode at a gallop from V'nae Rae. Talyn didn't look back once on her people's home, for already the call of her prey had a strong hold. The land around the castle was thick with signs of habitation: golden fields of wheat and corn, rolling hills peppered with the white backs of sheep, and everywhere thatch-roofed houses huddled together around the Road. All was held tightly together with the malkin of many people. Talyn could remember a time when the lands hereabouts could have been anything from thick woods to icy hilltops. Sometimes it was not a blessing to have lived so long.

Even the Caisah could not command all the land all the time, and soon only the Road remained static. The earth reverted once more to Chaos. Here Talyn let Syris have his head and enter the realm, where he was far more comfortable. The earth blurred and fell away until they rode through only a pattern of changing greens and browns with no discernible texture. Now there was no landscape to impede them. The nykur's chaotic nature guided them eastward.

The first night, she pulled him reluctantly to a stop and made camp on the back of a smooth green hillock. Talyn relied utterly on his senses to alert her to any Chaos creature in the area.

The sun was setting in a shimmer of ruby that rippled on the small lake at the foot of the hill. Lying back, she gnawed on a lump of dried fruit and tried to hone her senses to Finn. However, he was still hundreds of miles away, and Talyn could only feel his presence to the east.

The call of eagles broke her thoughts, and she levered herself up to watch as the Swoop appeared over the horizon. The great dark mass of birds broke from the clouds and spun and circled through the hills before heading east. At their head was the powerful form of the Whitefoam eagle, whose great talons and curved beak flashed through Talyn's vision before streaking past overhead. In its wake trailed a thousand predatory birds singing a song of war and magic that was thrilling to hear.

Talyn sighed. It would have been good to have the power of the Swoop, but even though she was ranked among them she had never taken the vow to the Lady of Wings. That face of the Scion of Right was an attractive one, but her Vaerli nature wouldn't let go of her that easily.

No, she left the majesty of the Swoop to Azrul, and if she felt any envy at her ability to take the form of the White Eagle it was always quickly smothered. The Vaerli Gifts, when she wrestled them back, would be enough for her.

Rolling herself in her blanket, Talyn slept a little under the stars in the cool Chaos night. The weak rays of the early morning woke her, and she saddled up quickly before riding on. The urge to reach her prey drove her hard. For three days she clung to Syris' back like a burr.

In the late afternoon of the third day Talyn was lost in the momentum of travel, feeling all pass around her like water, when old senses lit on a familiar feeling. It felt as though her breath was being tugged from her, in a way that was both exciting and terrifying.

Immediately Talyn called Syris to a stop. Mount and rider appeared abruptly in the middle of a dense forest of singular trees. Few things survived in the Chaos, but one plant had learned to tap into the power of the land and adapt with the flow. The horwey trees could be broad like conifers, spiky like cacti, or flowered like water lilies. They were so much a part of the land that some thought they were in fact Kindred.

Here they resembled a thick forest that the Caisah had planted to the north for his hunting amusement, with trees brought through the White Void, except this place was far more dangerous. Untamed creatures of Chaos made their home here, but it was not these that Talyn had sensed.

The tickle played deliciously on her skin. She slid from Syris' back and wandered farther into the trees out of sheer curiosity.

In the small valley beyond, the cloud was rippling like a curtain through the branches and below Talyn could see a faint sparkle, a dome of light that she knew the significance of.

Since the time of the Conflagration, few Vaerli had seen the Steps of Sacrifice, the
Arohai tuan
. They were carried on the streams of Chaos and could appear anywhere within Conhaero, and though they were the site of great loss to her people they were also held in great reverence.

So soon after seeing her father, could their appearance be a sign? Talyn crunched her way through the leaf-littered floor toward the light, feeling her heart race in her chest.

Shining white-blue with their own brightness, the stairs could have been hacked from ice. Three carved steps lead to a broad, clean dais. They looked harmless, yet here was where the Twelve Families had sacrificed their children and opened the way into the White Void.

Each step was carved with deep letters, the meaning of which had been deliberately erased by the Vaerli who came after. A whole branch of their letter magic had been prohibited so as to prevent any committing the same desperate act—an act that had so many consequences.

Hesitantly, Talyn climbed the steps, each moment expecting to be struck down, but there was nothing save icy stillness and a vague ringing in her senses. Reaching the top of the dais, she looked down. She tried to imagine that moment when the other races had first appeared here, breaking the Vaerli dominance on Conhaero.

“Beautiful, isn't it?” A whisper raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

Talyn spun about, horrified that her before-sense had given no warning.

The woman standing on the other side of the dais could have been her exact mirror image, except for the intricate pattern of tattooed swirls on her face and arms. The words they contained twined on themselves before disappearing under her simple shift.

Talyn swallowed hard on the implication; only one sort of Vaerli wore the
pae atuae
on their skin, and the last of the Seers had died at the Harrowing.

“I did indeed die,” the other woman replied to Talyn's thoughts, “but time for us—as you well know, Talyn the Dark—is a flexible thing.”

“Putorae?”

“We are much alike, you and I,” the Seer said, walking around her, taking her measure. “But then, we are related: third cousins by your mother's line.”

“How are you—”

The faintest suggestion of a finger was laid on her lips. “There are many ways open to Seers unknown to others.”

“I admit my ignorance,” Talyn replied tartly. “You were the last Seer. Your successor was not inducted; none remain to instruct any of us.”

Her eyes, dark with stars, were sadly unlike any living Vaerli's. “I know this. Do not think to lecture me, Talyn, not when I have been waiting so long for you here at the site of the beginning of the end.”

Talyn looked away while her mind ran with bitter thoughts. “Yes, the place where the Caisah came from.”

Putorae shook her head sadly. “Dear lost one, this was not his doing, it was ours. It was here we sealed our own fate. Fearful, we took the innocent lives of our children, and from that moment our future was written.”

Now, looking down, Talyn could see a dark pattern forming against the light of the stone: unrecognizable words made clear with ancient blood. There was a lot of it.

“You see it now. Blood does not fade. It was here your grandfather slit the throat of his eldest beloved son, sobbing as he did it, and the other families followed his lead.”

Talyn clapped her hands over her ears, aware that the stone was now ringing as if struck, but the sound was in her head, not her ears. Putorae's voice remained.

“We sealed our fate, and the Caisah was merely the instrument—but we can find our way back.”

The Steps were suddenly silent and Talyn took her hands away from her ears cautiously. “I'm finding the path for our people,” she told the long-dead Seer, and there was pride in her voice.

“You have good intentions, lost child, but you cannot hope to find the road with your eyes shut and your heart closed.”

Not another lecture
, Talyn almost sighed. It seemed, after centuries of doing things on her own, everyone was now determined to try to drag the reins of her future about.

“You cannot see the world as a Seer does—without the Gifts, none of our race can. Conhaero is not what you think it is. We are not what you think we are.”

The knowledge of their origin was lost in the time of the Conflagration. It was something the Vaerli yearned to find out, but it had always been denied. “Tell me then, help me see!” Talyn heard the pleading note in her voice and no longer cared if she sounded weak.

Putorae dropped her eyes. “The time is not now. The Gifts must be recovered before such things may be discovered.”

It was always like this, it seemed. Knowledge was held out to Talyn, and then snatched away. Her patience for it was wearing thin.

“You must find Finnbarr called the Fox,” Putorae whispered softly. “Bring him to the Salt Plains—only a little magic remains here. I have another self waiting at the Bastion for you. This one has run its course.”

She was indeed growing thinner, her body dissolving in gray light; only the lines of her
pae atuae
still showed brightly in the dimness. Talyn held out her hand, willing her to hold form for a few moments longer. “But the Caisah—I am linked to him. I must take the Fox to V'nae Rae for him!”

Putorae's eyes were full of sorrow and stars, but her body was disappearing on the winds of time. “That is up to you to decide. How far the darkness has spread in you I cannot say.” And then she unraveled before Talyn's eyes like a broken string of smoke.

The living Vaerli stood there for a moment. A human would have been afforded the luxury of rage or frustration; he might have screamed or howled. Vaerli emotions were ethereal things without the Gifts, and Talyn found it hard to name or express that which she could barely understand.

Should she go to the Salt Plains as Putorae demanded? What sway could a long-dead Seer have over her when her own living father had failed to move her?

She still could not afford to think of such things; first she would find Finn, and then she would decide if she should obey the nefarious Caisah or insubstantial Seer.

W
hatever place the river had been conjured from, it was not a peaceful one. Still, through some happy chance, Byreniko and his father were not smashed to death on the rocks or held under the water by angry currents. Instead, they were washed up on a gentle bank many miles from the torture chambers.

Retira pushed back his graying hair, spat out a mouthful of water, and began laughing. It was infectious, and Byre found himself joining in even as they floundered their way to the bank. Once ashore, they found themselves in the soft-dense foliage of a fern forest. Byre had the strange feeling it was welcoming them; offering them a hiding place from those who must surely follow.

For all that, they could not get far without food and rest, especially since the hospitality of the Caisah had left Byre barely capable of movement.

Retira chose a spot in a small clearing, and they made what little meager camp they could. His father was as well provisioned as one could be for two people and had soon made fire in the half-light of a depression amongst the ferns.

Having waited so long to talk on things, it was strange how silence descended on them so completely. Byre found himself watching his father across the flames and trying to decide which of the clamoring questions he should let out first.

In the end, it was Retira who spoke. “I had word that your foster parents were killed, but that you had escaped from the farm. I'm so sorry.”

For such an old wound, it still hurt. “They were good people and they loved me as best they could. Talyn did well to find them for me.”

“Do not speak of her.” There was real anger in his voice. “Or give her no name rather than call her that.”

Immortality, once a blessing, could make Vaerli as hard as diamond, and though Byre would have liked to push the point, things were still too fragile for that.

His father stroked his moustache and cleared his throat. “You know, I have a unique perspective since going to the Hill; all my memories have been freed and it feels like a weight has been lifted off me.”

Byre didn't know what to say. He had many memories of his own—and many he would have liked to get rid of. When the Harrowing had happened he'd only been a child and his training in the memory Gift minimal, so daily the fear gnawed on him that one day they would break loose, and he would run mad. He tried to imagine what his father had held on to. “It is hard…sometimes,” he ventured, “to know what is precious and should be kept.”

His father nodded. “I retained all of mine. They say that way lies madness, and they are right; to have so much experience is a hard thing. I second-guessed myself a thousand times before coming to find you.”

Byre swallowed his misgivings and instead voiced his other question. “How did you know where I was?”

“I have a friend, a friend who dreams. I think you know her…” The liquid eyes and the sweet scent of the Sofai filled his mind, and Byre knew he wouldn't discard those memories.

“I do indeed know her. In fact, she helped me, but she remained silent on everything else. What do my dreams mean, for instance?”

Retira poked the fire with a stick with his brow furrowed. He looked so old in the reflected light. The Sixth Gift had been removed with all the others at the Hill, so the outrage of gray in his hair would be followed in due time by wrinkles and decrepitude. The depth of that sacrifice was greater than Byre could comprehend all at once.

His father did not answer his question; instead he stared into the flames, and asked one of his own. “Do you love your people, Byre?”

“I hardly know them.” The words tumbled out before he could stop them.

Retira nodded somberly, eyes averted. “That is understandable. Sad, but not unexpected.”

Byre shifted uncomfortably. This grim man was not one he recalled from childhood.

“Your sister has chosen the wrong path,” Retira said. “I have tried to guide her, but she would not listen, so now you are the only hope for our people. Your journey to the Great Cleft is but the beginning. I came to free you and also to help.”

“Did the Sofai reveal something to you?”

“Many things; some I did not want to hear. Yet, going to the Hill has made me realize that living is not everything. Having the certainty of death before you…Well, it solidifies many things. The other races do not know what a gift they have in mortality. I have come to wonder if that could be why the Caisah is as mad as he is. Without the certainty of an end, what is a journey?”

His father was talking in riddles, and Byre felt as if he were dancing around the edges of something larger. It was not the Vaerli way to ask questions when the Gifts would have revealed much—and so none of them had learnt the skill.

Retira handed him a slice of jerked beef. “Do not look so worried, my boy. We are together, which is not as good as it might have been, but still better than loneliness in this world. Let me hear your life story. I want to know of those folk who raised you, and all that happened after, good and ill.”

Byre stared down at the ground and then began. He spared no detail. To lie, or to try to water down the pain that had been inflicted on him, would have been an insult to his father. He knew they were trying to reach each other with their words, groping like blind and weary wounded toward each other as best they could. So he told him about Syeth and his gentle wife Muri, and if he noticed Retira wince at the joy in his voice for that happy childhood, well, that was part of the honesty, also. He told of the day they'd hidden him in the woods when the mob came to claim the demon Vaerli child, and how later he crawled out in shame to find their tortured bodies hanging from the lintel. Syeth had been sure the mob would leave them be; he'd been strangely innocent and believed in the genuine kindness of people.

From there Byre had little more to share. Only tales of running and hiding, apart from the day he had so nearly rushed into his sister's arms. It was the bottom of despair for both of them. By some mad luck, the person they found that day, out of all Conhaero, was their sibling.

Finally his tale whittled down to this day and place, and the Sofai who had set him on the path. Having found the end of his own tale, Byre asked, “And your life, Father? What has it been since the Harrowing?”

Retira shielded his eyes as if ashamed of his emotion. “Nothing. Life has been nothing for three hundred years…just a slow sleep walk, without even oblivion to welcome me. No purpose. No joy.”

He stopped for a moment and let the tears flow. Byre still didn't know him, but he didn't need a Gift to feel his terrible pain. Reaching over, he clasped his father to him. They held each other and cried, which might not have been as powerful as the lost Vaerli empathy but was still, as Retira said, better than not having each other.

When they had shed all the tears they had, there was calm.

Retira patted Byre's back and said matter-of-factly, “When your mother died and you were gone, I don't know why I did not look for the flames of death. That was what made it easy to go to the Hill when it was needed. If giving up the Gifts is the price I pay to see my children again, I am happy with the deal.”

It was impossible to argue. Byre could see by the look in his father's eye he meant it very deeply—he could only dream of being a parent one day and knowing that feeling for himself. For the first time, he had the faintest of hope that it might happen. The Kindred had offered it.

For a moment, Byre was overcome with fear and sadness, for it was quite possible that his father would not live to see the end of the Harrowing, if it should ever happen. He cleared his throat. “So, how far to the Great Cleft?”

Retira sighed, and looked up into the darkening sky. “Closer than you think. There are those who have their own ways and magic that few know of. Luckily, you are now traveling with such a one.”

He shook out a small blanket from his meager pack and handed it to Byre. “For now, you should rest. Your body will heal a lot faster with sleep, and we can afford to wait until then.”

“What about you?” The night was drawing in cold amongst the ferns, and his father seemed frail without the protection of the Gifts.

“I will watch,” he said, stretching his feet out toward the fire. “I would like to see you sleep. Your mother, no matter how busy she was, always tucked you in and sang—do you remember that?”

Byre wrapped the blanket around himself and found a soft place in the earth to rest his head. He was surely not imagining the pulse of life he could hear under his ear. “I remember,” he whispered, even as his eyes closed.

“My voice is not nearly as pretty as hers, but I remember the tune.” Retira began to sing, soft and low so that his voice did not travel far among the forest of ferns.

Blessed are the people, sweet and happy we are.

For I am a child of land, it sweeps me into its heart

It carries me next to its skin, and all my troubles are gone.

I whisper my thoughts to the Kin, and they sweep them away

To be born and lost in the flame, where none sleep.

His father's husky voice lulled him to sleep as if he were magically transported back to childhood, and Byre was able to forget, for a moment, everything around them. He drifted to sleep with a smile on his face.

Oriconion had always been a hotbed of resistance. Equo knew the sorry history of this large port on the edge of the Great Lake very well; far from the reaches of Perilous, it had once been the home of people very different from its current inhabitants.

He glanced to his right where Varlesh was stroking his beard and looking down to the tumble of yellow buildings wreathed in ominous smoke. “That can't be a good sign.” Away from outsiders Varlesh was not so jovial, his voice dropped to a quieter tone and his gestures became sparer. “They have begun. Damn it all, couldn't they wait for us?”

“Apparently not,” Equo replied, “but we are here sooner than we expected to be, thanks to Finn.”

“That boy is getting stranger every time we see him. Imagine—a Kindred! What next? Will he be riding a nykur like Talyn the Dark?” Not waiting for a reply, Varlesh stalked down the hill toward the town.

Equo glanced at Si. “Well…will he?”

An enigmatic smile crossed his companion's face. “Perhaps—perhaps more.” And then he followed after Varlesh. Equo sighed. Sometimes it felt like he was the only one with any brains.

The Swoop would have been dispatched, for the Caisah always reacted the same way. That meant within a day or two there would be more bloodshed in Oriconion.

Still, he followed in the wake of the others, trying to concentrate on the beauty of the town seen from afar—before the ugliness of the reality could be seen. Descending from the hill there was nothing dangerous-looking about it; golden rooftops of the local clay gleamed with the rays of the early morning sun. The fishing boats pulled up on the white sand shores seemed peaceful enough, and in the middle distance could be seen the dark circles of the villages on stilts, which punctuated the blueness of the lake. This web of manmade islands, wetlands, and submerged paths made Oriconion an excellent base for rebellion. The Caisah had tried many times to destroy what the Portree built—but they were a stubborn people.

To the right, set in against the hills were the white-walled, golden-roofed tidy homes of the Manesto. To the left, exposed to the cruel southerly wind, were the huts of the dispossessed Portree, those whose carracks had been broken. These houses looked as if they had been thrown there, made of rubbish and flotsam from the lake.

It had been many years since Equo had lived in one of those homes, but he still recalled it vividly. The Portree were not wealthy or particularly blessed in anything except for their knowledge of the water, but they had taken him, Varlesh, and Si, into their homes when the three men had been hunted by the Caisah. The Portree had risked what little they had for the strangers and for that earned their loyalty.

Equo's musings on those times were cut short. Varlesh had stopped abruptly and was pointing toward the Manesto houses, his face flushed red. “That's new—what by the Wise Crone are they up to?”