The Hunter's Gambit

by Nicholas McIntire

  Aleksei wasn’t used to men he’d known since boyhood asking questions about his life or his relationships period, much less on such an intimate level. But bedding the Prince was a different matter entirely, especially when the Prince’s bedmate was the bloody Lord Captain. And a Ri-Vhan Hunter. And a man the Bondar brothers had beaten bloody little more than a year before behind Redman’s Pub for making their sister cry.

  Yet now he was bound to the bloody Prince of bloody Ilyar? And the Lord Captain to boot, not to mention the Prince’s Archanium Knight? Aleksei had been amused at the awed expressions on their faces when he’d provided even the simplest of details. Awe, and from Tom’s scent, more than a little jealousy.

  “Well,” Henry said, releasing Aleksei from his tight embrace, “I’m glad you decided to come here instead of somewhere else. If you can’t be safe at home, then….”

  A shout sounded from outside and Aleksei reached for his sword, only to realize that he’d left it on his bed upstairs. Running as fast as he could, he took the steps two at a time, not even bothering to buckle his belt on as he ran back downstairs and drew the blade.

  “Stay here, Da. Bolt the door.” he whispered as he rushed out into the night.

  The moment the night air hit him, Aleksei could feel them. Men. He sacrificed seconds to test the air for another unmistakable smell. Steel. Weapons had been drawn. He felt their edges cutting into the air.

  Assassins.

  He heard sounds of a fight from the barn, but as much as he wanted to help Kiriel and Ruslan, it was the band of five hiding behind the farmhouse that gave him the greatest concern. Their heartbeats pounded in his ears like a galloping thunder.

  He darted around the house, careful not to make a sound. Around the corner he saw them, just as he’d imagined. There were five, but their heads were all aimed at the barn. Obviously they hadn’t been expecting too much of a fight, because they weren’t paying very close attention.

  Aleksei slid up behind the nearest one, cutting his throat savagely and covering his mouth so that the only sound to escape was the light splash as the body landed in a pool of its own blood.

  His follow-up swing decapitated the next man. The sound of his head striking the ground alerted the others, but by then it was too late.

  Time slowed as Aleksei darted into the middle of them and wove his deadly tapestry, pulling a knife from one assassin hurling it into the eye of another. The remaining two drew short swords.

  Aleksei rolled to the side, coming up with a hard side-swipe that relieved one man of his arm. He gripped the armless man and ran him into the second man’s blade. As the first man dropped, Aleksei rammed his knife into the second man’s heart.

  He bent and retrieved his sword, then ran for the barn.

  The sounds of fighting had mostly ceased by the time he reached the barn door. Inside he found Kiriel and Ruslan, one holding a sickle, the other a pitchfork. Around them lay three dead men. The two remaining were holding knives, though they looked worse for wear.

  Aleksei walked in purposefully, cutting the first of two men down instantly. The second turned just in time for Aleksei to slide his sword into the man’s throat. He held the sword in place as the assassin fell to his knees. Then he slowly withdrew the blade. The man died with a gurgle.

  “Are you alright?” he asked, looking up at the two brothers.

  They looked pale, and he supposed they were probably in shock, but they appeared uninjured.

  “Let’s get back to the farmhouse. If there are any more of them, it’s best to keep together.”

  They followed him out of the barn and back towards the farmhouse. As they approached, Aleksei saw that the door had been kicked in and his heart quickened. Oh gods, why had he left his father alone?

  He burst into the house, shouting his father’s name, only to find Henry leaning against the wall, unharmed but exhausted. On the kitchen table lay a man, wheezing his last breaths. Aleksei had but to look at the bloody kitchen knife on the floor to understand why.

  “You….” the man on the table gasped, and Aleksei walked to his side.

  “Who sent you?” he demanded.

  “We…we didn’t…expect…you here. He said it…it would only be…be three.” The last words were breathed out haltingly as the man died.

  Aleksei stared at the corpse incredulously. He gripped the dead man’s arm, searching for a pulse, even a faint throb to suggest the man still clung to life. Nothing.

  He cursed violently and grabbed the body, pulling the corpse off the table and out into the yard. They weren’t expecting him? If they weren’t expecting him to be there, that meant they hadn’t been after him. And the only other person they could have targeted was….

  “Oh gods.” he grunted as he unceremoniously dropped the man’s corpse to the ground.

  “Aleksei?” his father said from the doorway.

  Aleksei turned, his mind racing, “Get your things, Da. We have to leave.”

  Henry frowned, “Leave? What are you….”

  Aleksei pointed at the man’s body, “They were here for you, not me. Someone is after you.”

  “That’s madness. Aleksei. Why would anyone want to kill me?” Henry demanded.

  Aleksei fixed his father with a steady gaze, “Because they can’t kill me. I have no family to speak of, besides you. They couldn’t deal with the Ri-Vhan. But you, you’re an easy target out here, all on your own.”

  Henry looked lost, “But…but surely….”

  “No.” Aleksei said forcefully, “We’re leaving. Right now. Kiriel and Ruslan will accompany us only as far as Voskrin. We’ll spend the night with Mother Margareta. No one will know to look for you there, and she’s a Magus besides. We’ll be safe there. And then in the morning, we leave.”

  “For where?”

  Aleksei answered with the safest, closest place he could think of, “Mornj.”

  “But Aleksei,” Kiriel began.

  “Do as I command.” the Lord Captain barked. “If we stay here, you die. This farm isn’t worth your lives. And as much as I love it, I’m not willing to give it mine, either. We leave, and we leave now.”

  The other three men glanced at each other, then turned back into the house and began collecting their things.

  There was no longer any question who was giving the orders.

  CHAPTER 33

  Old Wounds Asunder

  THE STREETS OF Kuuran shone in the midday sun, rose-colored sandstone blossoming from the soft green plains into undulating rows of civilization. Through the center of the great city flowed the mighty Ylik Water, a ribbon of soft azure and turquoise amidst the cherry glow of the city.

  Jonas regarded it all from far above, watching the Dalitian citizens and angels make their way about before he set his sights upon the golden prominence of the Basilica.

  The Basilica: seat of Angelic Rule and crown of vanity.

  Still, he supposed, there was something to be said for time and tradition. The Basilica was one of the oldest structures in Dalita, possibly in the known world. The only one he knew to be older was the Voralla. But then the Archanium Magi of old had always been more organized than the angels.

  Jonas flitted down into an alley and waited until he was sure no one was paying attention. With a thought he shifted into his human form, stepping out into the sunlight and High Street traffic.

  He had dressed as he thought the Angelus might expect to receive him. After all, this was not Ilyar. The humor of the nobles at home would not excuse his preference for casual dress here.

  No, here the archangels stood on high ceremony for afternoon tea, and those born into higher stations were expected to look the part. And while he did not cherish his emerald silk coat or his fine black trousers, he wore them well; the angels would find nothing lacking in his performance.

  He reached the arching entryway of the Basilica and sighed, but there was nothing for it. The information that might be within was wo
rth far more to Jonas than a day or two of discomfort. He stepped inside.

  If the ornate decorations that covered the outer walls of the Basilica hurt his eyes, the interior left him blind. The walls were covered in bright tapestries from Ilyar, the floors set in golden marble from Fanj. Priceless chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their crystal forged from the finest sands of Zirvah. It was the pinnacle of wealth in Dalita, the home of the Angelus, and the spiritual and political capital of the nation.

  He was less than ten paces within the structure when a low-ranking angel approached him, “Greetings. I am Zerdon. What is your business in the Basilica today?”

  Jonas smiled warmly, “I’m here to see the Angelus.”

  Zerdon’s eyes widened, “Truly? Have you an appointment?”

  Jonas shook his head, “Alas, there was no time. But the Angelus will see me.”

  Zerdon offered no obstruction, he merely nodded his head, finally taking in Jonas' physiology. The angel stiffened, almost seeming offended by Jonas' presence. By his prodigious chest, and complete lack of wings.

  A man built for flight, but lacking the means.

  “As you say, milord. If you would be so kind as to visit the Offices of the Audience, I’m sure they can take care of you there.”

  Jonas nodded his appreciation, “Excellent, thank you.”

  He walked past the angel and in the opposite direction of the aforementioned Offices, heading instead through a large marble archway and into a large, overly elaborate corridor. As he walked he ignored the curious glances from passing angels. He doubted there were very many humans who used these passages, but then again, he wasn’t just anyone.

  A point that would be made all too clear in a very short while.

  After navigating several bends in the corridor, Jonas realized he’d become completely turned around. A very pretty young angel was walking past him, and he stopped her.

  “I beg your pardon, Angelica, but I’m afraid I’ve become lost. Which way is the Office of the Angelus?”

  The angel looked him up and down skeptically. If she noted his peculiar construction she didn’t let it show on her face, or in her voice. “I’m afraid I don’t recognize you.”

  Jonas nodded, “Understandable. I’ve just arrived from Ilyar, you see. I have an appointment with the Angelus.”

  “Regarding?”

  “The use of some of the Basilica’s more…sensitive facilities.” Jonas said, never dropping his smile.

  He understood the purpose of the interrogation, certainly. He would have been very suspicious had he encountered anyone in Kalinor searching for the Queen.

  The angel watched him for a few moments before nodding, “Very well, good sir, I will take you to the Fount myself. I am the Angel Leigha.”

  Jonas arched an eyebrow, “Ah, the first-born Cherub. I’m flattered.”

  Leigha’s finely-crafted features registered surprise. She seemed most interested to know how a man from Ilyar was so well versed in Dalitian royalty, especially obscure royalty. But rather than quiz him any further she began to lead the way down the hall.

  “Do you have a name, sir?” she asked as they walked.“I do, though you’ll forgive me if I don’t hand it out just at the moment. No offense is meant, I assure you, but the nature of my visit is sensitive.”

  Leigha nodded, “As you wish.”

  They walked in silence for what seemed hours, though Jonas knew it only amounted to a few minutes. When Leigha brought them to a halt, it was before a sharp drop-off in the corridor.

  Before them spanned a massive pool of brilliantly clear water. In the center of the pool, perhaps a hundred paces from the nearest shore, stood a small palace. The sheer scope of the Fount reminded Jonas of the Basilica’s massive scale.

  “Here you are, milord. The Office of the Angelus. Though if you were planning to swim, I would recommend you carry your boots as I’d imagine they would weigh you down.”

  Jonas smiled at her. He was amused to see that while she had fulfilled her promise to take him here, she had in no way truly aided him. Were he some foolish assassin he would pose no greater threat to the Angelus than an infant.

  “My most sincere thanks. Your assistance has been invaluable.”

  Jonas winked at her, then shifted into his sparrow form and flitted across the Fount. When he returned to his shape on the other side, he spared a satisfying glance behind him at the astonished angel, then stepped into the palace.

  The interior of the palace was far more comfortable than ostentatious, a distinct reversal after the gilt and glamour of the Basilica. Someone actually lived here, an observation made clearer from the pleasant and unassuming layout of the place.

  He was only a pace inside when a very alarmed archangel appeared in front of him, great silver wings billowing out behind him.

  “Explain yourself, human.” the angel bellowed, his voice echoing in the small confines of the room.

  Jonas frowned and touched the Archanium. The angel’s voice vanished from the room, leaving him surprised and enraged. Jonas beckoned him forward and whispered in his ear.

  The archangel stepped back incredulously, then gave a resigned nod.

  “Thank you.” Jonas said politely, releasing the Archanium.

  The angel grunted his grudging acceptance.

  Jonas passed by the archangel and walked to the massive wooden door at the end of the hallway. He took a deep breath, composed himself as best he could, and stepped inside.

  The room itself was warmly lit, decorated in velvets and satins in greens, oranges, and a striking shade of peach. Behind a large, carved desk sat a small woman, her petite golden wings languishing behind her as she wrote.

  “Well, you got past Malachai. That’s impressive in itself, I suppose. What do you want?”

  She looked up and froze.

  The quill slipped from her tiny hand and splattered ink across her parchment, splashing a few drops across the front of her fine white gown. She didn’t notice.

  Kevara Avlon had lived a long and full life, though she was nowhere near its end. Jonas wondered if, in such a life, she had ever found herself so disoriented.

  “Upon my word,” she whispered, “but how you favor your father.”

  Jonas smiled, though there was little warmth in it, “Hello, Grandmother.”

  “I…I didn’t realize it had been so long.”

  Jonas walked forward and stopped at the edge of his grandmother’s desk, watching her casually. “In a palace full of mirrors, I hardly believe that you have missed the passage of time.”

  She looked up at him with her great, luminous blue eyes, “You inherited your mother’s cruelty.”

  “And my father’s sense of justice. Which do you fear more?”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but Jonas held up a hand.

  “It’s been twenty-two years since the death of your son, Kevara. Twenty-two years since you took my wings. Twenty-one since I was orphaned, and as many years since you abandoned me to the fate of a war-torn nation.”

  “Jonas, there are no words for what I have done to you. I know that.”

  Jonas leaned forward across the desk, “Perhaps, but do you feel it? Do you have any idea what it means to me, Kevara? You might have thought you were aiding justice by playing my mother’s accuser, but you cannot know what it is to grow up with only shadows and memories to comfort you at night.”

  She averted her eyes, “Why have you come here? Certainly you did not travel all the way from Ilyar to accuse me of making you an orphan. God knows I live with that every day as it is.”

  “No,” Jonas said softly, “I have not come to remind, but for payment.”

  Her eyes widened, “Payment?”

  “You owe me a very great debt indeed, Grandmother.” He spat the word. “And I would satisfy part of that debt today.”

  She spread her hands wide, “I have little to offer, I’m afraid, but what I possess is at your di
sposal. What do you require?”

  “Information.”

  Kevara Avlon sat straighter, “Go on.”

  “I want access to your records. Not the Basilica Library, but the personal library of the Angelus. I don’t want the texts you feed the masses. I want the truth.”

  She nodded, “I see. Well, I cannot promise you’ll find what you seek, but you are at the utmost freedom to look.”

  Jonas bowed his head slightly, “Many thanks.”

  Without waiting for another word, Jonas turned on his heel and stepped out of the room. He ignored the slightly puzzled, half-reverent look on the face of the archangel outside. As humiliating as Jonas knew it was for Malachai to be bested, it had to sting all the more being delivered at the hands of Jonas Belgi.

  He stopped a moment and addressed his grandmother’s consort, “The library?”

  Malachai regarded Jonas blankly for a moment, then nodded, “Follow me.”

  He led Jonas down a series of halls and finally to yet another wooden door, this one as unadorned as the last. “The library.” he said simply.

  Jonas pushed the door open and for a moment felt a thread of despair slide through his heart. Shelves upon shelves towered above him, bearing more volumes than he could ever hope to read in a hundred lifetimes. He turned to his grandfather.

  “Who knows these books?”

  The archangel frowned, “What do you mean?”

  “Who knows how these books are arranged? Surely there is a rhyme and reason to their organization. Who would know such a thing?”

  Malachai considered before answering, “The Angel Leigha would probably have the most useful knowledge for your purpose.”

  Jonas nodded, “Send for her, would you?”

  Malachai opened his mouth angrily, but Jonas stopped him with a glare. “Don’t pretend to be blameless in this sordid family tale. You are as much to blame for what transpired as she is.”