“Where are we headed?” Celoren said once they reached the inn’s little stable.
Kestar paused at the stable door, glancing westward. “The mountains,” he murmured. The gloom of night and foul weather hid the jagged peaks of the Garmbinn Range, but he knew they were there. They traversed most of Kilmerry Province from northeast to southwest, and the ride down to Camden through the nearest pass had caused much of his and Celoren’s exhaustion on this leg of the journey. What drew his eyes, though, wasn’t the memory of the day’s travel. Sunlight coming down the mountain. “Due west of here.”
“The peak right by the town? Are you sure?”
“As much as I can be.” Kestar thought hard, hoping for any other detail that might clarify their purpose. Nothing came forth. Due west it was, and hopefully whatever power granted him his premonitions—the gods or the Anreulag watching over one of Her Hawks—wouldn’t make him search every ridge and incline for ten miles before showing him what he apparently needed to seek. “Why?”
“The Duke of Shalridan’s summer home is up there. He owns that entire slope, most of the town we’re standing in and half the bloody province to boot. If you’re sure about this, we’d better have something more substantial than a dream to go on if we’re riding up his mountain in the middle of the night.”
“If there’s magic being worked up there, our authority takes precedence over any secular ranks, even dukes,” Kestar said, but the words sounded tentative even to him.
“If being the crucial word.”
Crucial enough to mean the difference between riding as active Hawks and being drummed out of the Order in disgrace, if they angered a powerful nobleman like Holvirr Kilmerredes by intruding upon his estate without just cause.
“I’m sure,” Kestar said at last. His certainty was ethereal, likely to fade into mist if he explored it too closely. But it was there. Something within him that he trusted, dreaded and couldn’t name wanted him to go up that mountain. “We’ll ride up only as far as we must, and avoid the duke’s home unless we have no other choice.”
Slowly Celoren nodded. “All right, but for gods’ sake, Kes, let’s be careful.”
Celoren appropriated a lantern from its hook by the stable door to light their way. Celoren’s chestnut Pasga took being roused and saddled in genial stride, but Kestar’s blood bay Tenthim was no more pleased than his rider at the prospect of a late-night excursion. It showed in the set of his ears and tail as Kestar coaxed him awake, and only a sugar cube convinced him to accept bit and bridle. He was too well trained to balk more than that, but Kestar wouldn’t have blamed the beast for shying away when he tried to mount, or refusing to be led out of the stall.
After all, he was being asked to carry his rider to look for something that might be only his imagination. If he’d been Tenthim, he’d have been angry too.
They rode for the town’s western reaches, the lantern glowing wanly against the night, flickering with the rhythm of Pasga’s trotting and the breeze that skittered down from the nearby slopes. The oddly familiar feel of the rainwashed wind, bracing against Kestar’s cheeks, pulled him a little straighter in the saddle. They were riding in the right direction.
But to what?
* * *
“Halt in the name of Holvirr Kilmerredes, Duke of Shalridan! Halt and state your business!”
The voice hailed them out of the darkness, accented by the clattering hooves of three approaching horses. As Celoren pulled Pasga back along the sloping mountain road, taking the lantern out of his line of sight, Kestar spotted the leader of the trio of guardsmen. He was a big burly fellow with red hair and beard, clad like his fellows in the livery of Lomhannor Hall, and sitting a horse that stood two hands over Tenthim. Scowling, he hurled a glare like a gauntlet at the Hawks.
Kestar nudged his stallion forward and lifted his empty hands. “The business of the Church, sir. We are Knights of the Hawk riding in the name of the Blessed Anreulag. We ask your leave to pass.”
Squinting, the man who’d hailed them gestured toward Kestar’s neck. “Your amulets then, if you would. If you’re who you say, show us.”
Though he was unaccustomed to being challenged for his rank, Kestar couldn’t deny the request—anyone in the right clothing could claim to be a Hawk, but the amulets would show their power only for true members of the Order. Nodding back at Celoren, he drew his forth. Then he cupped it within his palm, dipped his head and breathed the prayer that was the sign the guardsmen sought.
“Holy Voice of the Gods, light the way for Thy servants to stoop and strike in Thy name. Ani a bhota Anreulag, arach shae.”
Celoren murmured the words with him, his baritone blending with Kestar’s tenor into one voice. But the words were incidental, nothing more than a gateway for the energy in the silver. A miniature star of power sprang into life through his fingers, driving the chill from his bones, and the pall of his premonition’s confusion along with it. Reverently he squeezed the silver a little tighter before releasing it to settle, still aglow, against his chest.
Tenthim shifted, shuffling restively in contrast to Kestar’s own calm. He leaned forward to stroke the stallion’s head, but his eyes remained on the guardsmen’s leader. “Will that suit your purpose, sir?”
The other horses, as sensitive to the presence of power as Tenthim or Pasga, edged back on the road. As unsettled as their mounts, the guard leader’s companions shot looks at the Hawks and then at each other, and one sketched the four-pointed star sigil of the Church across himself. Their leader, however, was unperturbed.
“It’ll do, m’lord.” He dipped his head in gruff obeisance as the light from the amulets faded. “Forgive our hesitation, but there’s been an attempt on the life of His Grace the Duke tonight, and the assassins are still at large. My companions and I ride to Camden to alert the watch.”
Kestar and Celoren exchanged alarmed glances. The comfort of his amulet’s power aside, the thought of his premonition signaling an assassination flooded Kestar with dread. “Is the duke unharmed?” Celoren demanded.
“By the gods’ mercy and wisdom he was forewarned of the scoundrels’ plans, but they struck a blow against his lady wife.” The guard leader shifted in his saddle and gestured to his compatriots, though deference remained in his voice. “With your leave? Every moment we’re not riding is a moment wasted.”
Snapping out of his shock, Kestar kneed Tenthim out of the guardsmen’s path. “Ride, yes, please.” He beckoned the trio onward. “Don’t let us keep you.”
“We’ll ride to Lomhannor and offer our aid to His Grace at once.” Celoren guided Pasga alongside Tenthim. “Gods’ speed to your search!”
The expressions Celoren won with that pledge weren’t quite smiles—the guardsmen were too haggard for that. But there was thankfulness in their faces as the leader said, “I’m Steffen Athorsen, m’lords. Give my name to the sentries at the gate, and tell them ‘red wolf standing’ for tonight’s password. The Anreulag’s blessings upon you for lending your eyes and swords to our hunt.”
Once they’d thundered on down the road, leaving the Hawks alone once more, Celoren asked, “I trust you’ve no issue with this plan, Kes?” His brow furrowed, and his eyes brimmed with uncertainty. “Did you know what we’d discover?”
“No.” The other Hawk’s look discomfited him. Such a stare from strangers was one thing, but another thing entirely from his partner. “I swear it. I just felt this was the right road to take.”
“Then perhaps the Anreulag Herself guides us tonight.” Celoren didn’t star himself as the guardsman had done, but an uncharacteristic hesitance crept into his voice. “Perhaps She works through you.”
Kestar’s brain shied from that concept as the horses had shied from their amulets’ light, and he dropped his gaze away. “You’re starting to sound like a priest! Where’s the maiden-charmer who’s been my friend all these years?”
“Asleep in his bed back in Camden. I’d join him, except I’ve got a cloud-head to k
eep an eye on, so there’ll be no slumber for the virtuous for at least another few hours. Shall we see what’s befallen the duke?”
“We shall,” Kestar said, pleased for Cel’s lopsided grin and relieved that he didn’t pursue that troubling explanation for what had sent them out on the hunt. Why would the Blessed Anreulag work Her will through me? I’m a Hawk like any other.
Except that he wasn’t—he’d learned early on that no other Hawks had premonitions like his, and that was a problem he never wanted to examine too closely. His amulet accepted him, and those of his fellow Hawks never spoke against him, so it had always seemed safest to tell no one but his partner of the insights that sometimes came to him. The Anreulag Herself surely had to know—She saw and heard all. As long as he was able to use his insights in Her name, that was enough for Kestar. And whether through him or not, it seemed that the Voice of the Gods had given him and Celoren a purpose this night.
“Let’s ride. If there’s anything to be found at Lomhannor Hall, we’ll find it. Or them.”
* * *
They found the Duke of Shalridan’s estate in chaos. As Steffen Athorsen had pledged, his name and the password got the Hawks through the front gate, though they had to present those tokens of passage three times more on the way to the Hall itself. The ragged, exasperated voices of guards rent the air, along with footsteps and hoofbeats on all sides.
“No sign of them along the southern wall.”
“For gods’ sake, man, get the dogs to sniff them down!”
“Can’t, sir. The bastards poisoned ’em, every last hound in the kennel is down or dead!”
“Eastern grounds are secure. They must’ve doubled back to the west or north.”
By the time the Hawks reached Lomhannor’s main entrance, darkness had yielded to a predawn twilight through which torches and lanterns gleamed like will-o’-the-wisps. They teased at the edges of Kestar’s vision, and as he and Celoren dismounted in the long drive before the Hall, the dream haunted him. He knew what he had to do. Whatever his premonitions were, they led him to magic, and he was a Knight of the Hawk. To hunt down and eradicate magic from the realm was his avowed duty. Still, his clear purpose didn’t banish the veil of unreality that simple sleeplessness tugged across his thoughts—or the memory of light.
Celoren hailed the two yawning footmen who hurried out to meet them, handed off the horses and lantern to one, and announced to the other, “Lad, we know we’re here at an awkward hour, but take word to His Grace that Celoren Valleford and Kestar Vaarsen of the Hawks request an audience at his earliest convenience.”
Gangly with youth and clearly groggy, the footman nonetheless snapped alert at the Hawks’ stated ranks. “O-of course, m’lords,” he blurted. His feet were deft where his voice was not, and he leaped ahead to pull open the Hall’s massive oaken door. “Please come right in. The entry hall’s cold, but there’s a fire in the hearth in the front parlor—I’ll go seek out His Grace at once. Excuse me, m’lords.”
The boy escorted them through Lomhannor’s entry hall, a room that left little impression on Kestar past a sense of intimidating space and grandeur. Tired and chilled as he was, he had far greater interest in the parlor to which the footman led them. Their guide then bolted, leaving them to wait with as much patience as they could muster. Kestar frowned at the gleam of mahogany paneling and fixtures of polished bronze. Thanks to the promised hearth-fire, the parlor wasn’t an unpleasant place to bide their time, but its furnishings echoed the message of the entry hall, power rather than welcome.
They were still standing when the Duke of Shalridan found them. “May my Hall give safe nesting to the Hawks of the Blessed Anreulag.”
The words—a ritual greeting offered to their Order for as long as the Hawks had existed—rang with the authority that infused Lomhannor’s walls, but with a barbed edge to their grace. Holvirr Kilmerredes stood at the parlor door, poised like a bull about to paw the earth. His cravat hung undone, and his golden hair and fine white linen shirt were disheveled. None of these things detracted from the belligerence of his eye. He looked like a man who’d just chased off assassins from his doorstep, and ill pleased to find unexpected Hawks in their wake.
“May our vigilance keep and protect this Hall that shelters us in our flight.” Celoren gave the greeting’s traditional reply, inclining his head to the duke and then gesturing to Kestar. “This is Kestar Vaarsen. I’m Celoren Valleford. You honor us, Lord Kilmerredes. It’s a rare lord indeed who still upholds the ancient proprieties, and on a troubled night like this besides.”
“Forgive our intrusion, my lord. We learned what befell your house tonight on our way up the mountain,” Kestar said, dipping his own head low.
“Vaarsen,” Kilmerredes grunted, eyes gleaming in the parlor’s lamplight. “Of the Vaarsens of Bremany?”
That caught Kestar off guard, and for a few moments disquiet churned through him. With an effort he tamped it down. “Yes, my lord. Baron Dorvid Vaarsen was my father.”
“I see. So then, Vaarsen. If you already know what’s gone on under my roof tonight, why are you here?”
Celoren shot Kestar a look, opened his mouth, and then closed it again without a word. Though the older Hawk had the more facile tongue, there was nothing he could say. Not when the duke had questioned Kestar, and not when Celoren had even less idea of their purpose than he. Composing a swift mental prayer to the Father, Mother, Son and Daughter, Kestar drew in a breath and opted for as much truth as he could risk.
“We received...word, my lord, of possible magical activity on your land.” That was as good a description as any of the dream that had driven him and Celoren into the night. “We rode here tonight to seek your permission to search the grounds. Only on arriving did we hear that Lomhannor had been breached.”
The duke stiffened. “Possible magical activity? Your amulets haven’t spoken?”
“No, my lord.” Kestar’s unease grew, but about this, he couldn’t lie. “They haven’t.”
“We’d hoped that if we could search the grounds—discreetly, of course—we might judge the veracity of what we were told,” Celoren hastily appended.
“If you wish to search, sirs, join my guardsmen on the hunt for the criminals who invaded my Hall,” Kilmerredes growled. “Only they could have brought magic here. And I’ll thank you to keep from alarming my people, particularly my lady wife, who lies ill. We need no further disruption tonight.”
“Of course, my lord.” Celoren held up his hands, palms out.
“Indeed, we don’t need to disturb any of your people, Lord Kilmerredes,” Kestar affirmed. “We’ll be glad to assist your men. We can spare the time from our patrol.”
“Thank you,” the duke barked as he spun on his booted heel and strode out the way he’d come. “Pardon me, gentlemen, for leaving you to it. I intend to look after my wife. Speak with my head groom if you require fresh horses.”
A sense of warning pulled Kestar’s nerves taut as a bowstring, yet he could point at no clear indication of what was wrong. Was he imagining things? Had he dragged Celoren up the mountain for nothing?
“We’d best be off to help the search.” Celoren pitched his voice for Kestar’s ears alone even after Holvirr Kilmerredes’s footsteps faded into the reaches of Lomhannor Hall. “If something’s here, perhaps this is the way to find it.”
His assurance, and the simple fact that his partner believed in what they were doing, heartened Kestar considerably. “Searching for assassins doesn’t fall within our purpose,” he pointed out nonetheless.
“It does if the assassins are using magic.”
“Let’s hope they are. Then at least there’ll be a reason I’m leading us both on a chase for wild geese.”
Celoren’s best rakish grin flared. “If we catch any, you can pluck them. I could use a new pillow.”
The humor helped too, lending more spring to Kestar’s step as they ventured back outside. Their horses, he mused, would have barely cooled down from the r
ide up the mountain. But he trusted no other mount but Tenthim to carry him through several hours’ hunting for fleeing would-be murderers. And more than his companion’s good spirits, the prayer Kestar whispered kept him moving into the gathering morning.
Holy Anreulag, grant that there will be something to find.
Chapter Four
Once they’d put several ridges of the Garmbinn Range between themselves and their pursuers, Julian began to think they might in truth elude capture. But not until they plunged into the trackless forest northwest of the mountains did he consider why they’d been able to flee in the first place—and then only because Rab brought it up.
“You’re all right? That girl really did heal you?”
Darkness had yielded to day, though Julian had no idea of the hour. They’d stopped to rest the horses on the deer track they’d been following, a trail so narrow they had no room to dismount, and the younger man had turned in the saddle to face him. The canopy of leaves diffused the sunlight, blurring the angles of green-tinged rays until they could have shone from any direction at all. After damage that should have flattened him—that had flattened him—and urgent hours of riding, he was almost spent. But where agony should have blazed, there was only electric warmth in his flesh, flashing out from where his wounds had been and leaving disconcerting tingles in its wake. With them came the recollection of haunted eyes and a hand whose one touch, he realized in cold dismay, had saved his life.
“I’m all right,” he muttered. “We’ve got to keep moving. The elves expect us by nightfall.”
Rab’s blond brows crinkled, and though his words still held his usual cultured drawl, his sky-blue eyes were unsure. “You were shot, your leg was broken, yet you’re not even bleeding. Who and what by all the gods was that girl?”
Valor of the Healer Page 4