His guards, having pulled themselves back into formation and regained their composure a little, laughed in a strained way. Kelanim scanned his face, certain she could see regret there. His people had died, after all. When he held out his hand to her, she took it without hesitation.
“Are you well, my lord?” Her voice was small but steady, she thought.
He cocked his head, an oddly bird-like gesture that seemed to convey momentary confusion. “I am . . . I have had my fill,” he replied in a flat, expressionless tone.
The horror always took a toll on him that no one else seemed to see. However, to Kelanim the Caisah was still the most beautiful man, and if he made mistakes, then that only proved he was human.
With the Rutilians close about them, they left the arena as quickly as possible.
He was silent all the way back to the Citadel, watching out the window of their carriage as people rushed away from the stadium. It was a scene of carnage as burned and terrified people streamed into the streets in an effort to get home. The Rutilian Guard kept them from slowing down their leader, pushing people out of the way of the carriage.
Kelanim ventured only one comment the whole ride: “Perhaps we should distribute some alms to the houses of healing?”
The response she got told her that the Caisah was deeply hurt by what had happened. “Traitors, every one of them,” he said with a snarl, and that was the end of that.
When they reached the safety of the Citadel he said nothing, but strode away, leaving her to make her way to the harem as best she could.
Every return to the shady confines of the ladies’ quarters was in itself a defeat—one that never went unobserved. Nanthrian, the statuesque ebony beauty, was leaning against the cooling stonewall and making no effort to disguise her smile of victory.
She was younger than Kelanim, and her maneuverings within the harem of mistresses were getting more blatant. Unfortunately, the Caisah had called for her twice the previous week alone.
Tonight, though, the elder mistress knew he would not be pleasant company. It could, in reality, be deadly to be around him. Deadly. That was a thought. Kelanim stopped next to Nanthrian and glanced up, as she let her fan droop to her side.
The younger woman’s deep brown cleavage was pushed up high by a deep scarlet robe, and this was not the type of robe the mistresses customarily wore in their chambers. Nanthrian must be ready to stage her feminine coup, willing to take a chance to lure the Caisah’s eye. Kelanim was not unaware of that sort of tactic—she had used it herself in the early days when she’d first come to Perilous.
“You are looking particularly prepared tonight,” she said.
The younger woman’s brown eyes flicked over the other’s disheveled hair and torn dress. “And you, madam, are looking less than you should. The Caisah should always be surrounded by beauty . . . not soot.” Her sneer was not her most becoming feature.
Kelanim straightened and took a step forward. “I shall be ready for my lord quickly, for he will call.”
Nanthrian laughed, stretching her long elegant neck and tracing the curve of her own bosom with one finger. “Not as quickly enough, old woman.”
Before Kelanim could open her mouth, the raven beauty had gathered up her skirts and strode off toward the door to the Caisah’s chamber.
As soon as that scarlet clad back was turned, her elder smiled to herself behind her fan. Let the young fool rush to him. The only thing he would want this night would be flesh to punish and a throat to hear screams come through. He might even kill the hapless girl, who was so very sure of the power of her beauty. If not, Nanthrian would be bruised and unattractive for a while. Kelanim could do with respite from the competition.
After her maids had loosened her robes, she dismissed them and finished undressing alone. Splashing rose water on her face, she loosened her auburn hair and flung off her corset. It was only then that she noticed the slip of paper tucked under the copper bowl.
Years in the oppressive atmosphere of the hall of mistresses had taught her the folly of opening such a flagrant note—the chance of deception and falling into one plot or another was too great. However, there was something about this particular note that made it different. Like the one she had received after the ball, this one was sealed by a single silver letter of Vaerli script.
Kelanim knew what they looked like, she had studied all she could find on the subject, even though she had never learned what each of them meant. The swooping sigil was the same, and sigils were often used to lock items.
When she laid her finger on it, it opened underneath her touch. Her maids were certainly not responsible for this.
Inside, it was not written in Vaerli. She could read the one word clearly: Stables.
It appeared this day was not yet done with surprises.
Talyn let Syris have his head. She did not guide him in any particular direction and had no desire to. It felt good to let the chaos have its way with her for a time. She had not the Phage’s way of using the White Void, and she was glad of that.
The nykur carried her faster and faster until the world blurred into that halfway place where the landscape dropped away. Beyond the pull of reality, they could run as far and as quickly as they cared to.
The razor wire of Syris’ hair swirled around her face, cutting her cheeks and forehead. The pain was tiny—but better than the confusion that boiled inside her head. Finally, when it all had reached a level she could no longer endure, she called out to Syris until her voice was raw.
The nykur’s powerful legs ceased pounding the earth with such terrible vengeance, and instead slowed enough for him to take instruction from Talyn’s heels. Regretfully, she turned him deeper into the Chaoslands where primeval powers ruled and her new allies awaited.
The Phage were strangely solitary creatures. While they claimed to be the purest of the Vaerli, they were at odds with what Talyn remembered of her people before the Harrowing: they had been the most sociable of creatures. Her childhood memories, which she had picked out to be cherished and retained, were all raucous gatherings and laughter. Perhaps that was what niggled away at her—the worry that she had not chosen well in that mad moment after losing the Caisah. An even darker thought had begun to grow in the time since then: perhaps she had been manipulated in that darkness by the Phage themselves.
Luckily, before she was totally overrun by her thoughts, they reached water. Three days before, the lake had been much bigger, but this was the Chaoslands and nothing remained still or certain for long. The land, even as Talyn rode, was shifting upwards, thrusting into a mountain, and the lake draining away into a river. Soon there would be another environment. The Phage seemed to flourish in such wild places.
Talyn pulled the nykur to a halt. He stamped and clashed his long fangs together in protest, but obeyed. When she slid down from Syris he danced an angry circle around her. It would have been death for any other, but for her it was mere display. He finally came to a halt before her, not even breathing heavily after such exertion. “You won’t leave, will you, old friend?” Talyn asked, wrapping her hands around his muzzle and kissing the tip of the nykur’s nose. It was the only gentle part on his body—as soft and velvety as a horse’s.
The beast settled and hung his head, for all the world appearing resigned to remaining, and let out a long, very equine sigh. Everything around Talyn was wrong but this.
“I see you have found your beast.” The Phage emerged from the water as silent as a Kindred. The water had enveloped her, but she was not wet—another in a long line of curious things about her. Talyn wondered if it was because everything natural was repelled by them. Certainly, her own skin prickled and her stomach rolled when they were near.
Yet, she had not come alone as she had last time. At her side, with her small hand in the adult’s, was a child. Talyn was a poor judge of such things, but she thought that the girl looked to be about ten years old—if she had been mortal. Knowing the Phage even as little as she did, Talyn su
spected she was not. The child had a heart-shaped face, soulless black eyes, and most horrifying of all, a tiny row of shifting, shadowy nubs sprouting from her collarbone. Talyn counted four trapped Kindred already in service to the girl. But that was not what caused her hands to clench into fists.
Dark lines ran down the girl’s shoulder, from underneath her eerily wet shift dress. The pae atuae were written on the skin of the seers of her people, to help them see the path for the Vaerli. The Phage were a breakaway group of Talyn’s people, but they had never had seers of their own. Things had changed, apparently.
She averted her eyes for a moment, steeling herself to look at both of them. Behind her, she saw Syris recoil, stamping his cloven feet and shaking his head. She was pleased that he stood his ground. She did not want to be alone with her new master and the frightening child who had her gaze locked unflinchingly on Talyn.
Finally, the once-Hunter gathered enough resolve to meet those eyes. The Phage waited at the water’s edge, with her hand now on the child’s shoulder, rubbing back and forward in a dire parody of maternal pride. While the child displayed the nubs of her forming Kindred, the older Phage was keeping her prisoners hidden. Talyn was thankful for that small mercy. For the moment the only hint of their presence was a slightly raised scar running around her neck just above her collarbone. The first time that Talyn had seen the snarling, snapping many-headed creature, her blood had almost frozen in her veins. Now she knew that only when using magic did the Phage need that nightmarish circle. Such knowledge gave her little comfort.
This Phage was the one she interacted with most often—though she had seen others. It had taken the longest time for this one to even deign to give Talyn her name. Naturally it was not her true name, but at least it gave the Vaerli something to use when addressing her. She did not introduce the child at her side, but her smile was parental enough to induce plenty of chills.
The Phage inspired fear in all who saw them—even without the circle of trapped heads—but there was one thing that kept Talyn from fleeing them: the sensation of connectedness.
As always the sensation of empathy fluttered on the edge of her senses—like a timid bird hovering near food. It was certainly not how she remembered it being before the Harrowing, but it helped her believe there was hope to be found in their presence.
Still she remained cautious—much as Syris was. The Phage might have offered her power, but they had yet to deliver on their promises. The tasks she’d been set might well be testing her capabilities and her integrity—or they could be a way to get her to dance to their tune without explanation.
Sliding the scroll tube out from under her belt, Talyn it held it out as casually as possible toward the adult Phage. “I have got you what you sent me for, Circe.”
The child, standing in the water, smiled at Talyn, and suddenly that dangling hope of connection did not matter one little bit. The once-Hunter wanted to turn about, throw herself on Syris, and ride until she passed out. She could not help but let her eyes linger on the dark lines peeking out from under the girls dress. Though she feared what the words might be, Talyn still wished she could get a better glimpse of the dark parody of Vaerli power.
Only the seers ever wore the pae atuae. It was a way to connect with the true power of this land, the Vaerli. Her mind whirled with exactly what that could mean, and she feared very much that it meant the Phage were trying to make their own seer. That thought alone was enough to fill her veins with ice and make Talyn wonder, even more strongly than before, what she had done allying herself to the Phage at all.
She had been hollowed out by the Caisah’s epic deception, the one in which he had sent her hunting and killing all over Conhaero for decades, for nothing. Her broken kin had known exactly the moment to strike.
As she looked down at the scroll she held out to Circe, she also began to mull over what was in the scroll.
The other woman’s eyes narrowed and she flinched away, not a great deal but enough for Talyn to take note of it. “You must keep hold of it, because your next task is to destroy it.”
That comment made her spine tingle. The empathic link was indeed weak but she could sense Circe was masking whatever her true feelings were. That also was something no Vaerli would have even attempted. The joy of the link was the sheer honesty of it. The coil of unease unraveled even further in the pit of Talyn’s stomach. At her back she heard Syris stamp his hoof in an echo of that distress.
Feeling her anger and consequently her frustration grow she tossed the scroll of parchment down at the edge of the water. “Do it yourself. Find yourself a fire and be done with it.”
Only now the child reacted, when she pulled back her teeth and hissed at Talyn like a feral cat. Circe slid her arm around the girl and pulled her behind her.
“You should have that taken care of,” Talyn said, managing to keep her voice flat and calm, even though her skin was almost ready to crawl right off her.
Circe let out a little laugh. “Little Veleda is just feeling a little fragile, not quite ready for the world.” Talyn could have sworn she felt more words hovering just on the tip of Circe’s tongue: But soon. Very soon . . .
As Circe patted the girl’s slick hair, she crooned something to her that Talyn could not understand. It did not sound pleasant or soothing to her ears, though. When she was done, she turned back to Talyn. “What you should be concerning yourself with,” she said with an eerie tilt of her head, “is that scroll and its destruction.”
Talyn’s hands curled into fists at her side. She had heard that tone of voice many times, standing before the Caisah. It meant she had much experience keeping quiet in the face of it.
Circe patted Veleda on the head as she went on. “It will not be easy. What is made with power cannot merely be burned or shredded.” She smiled slyly. “Surely you have not forgotten the ways of the pae atuae so quickly?”
Word magic was the most ancient of Vaerli magics. Its use stretched back beyond the time that her people had been summoned to Conhaero. The myths had it that pae atuae had been one of the ways they had survived the great white of the Void.
“It was never going to be my magic.” She found herself skirting the issue, even as she watched with some trepidation, the little girl emerge from behind her elder. Veleda had such a look of adult cunning on her face that Talyn feared what the pae atuae carved on her body, but hidden by her dress, might actually say. She would bet that they were twisted versions of what the real seers should have worn.
“Even so,” Circe snapped as shadows began to twist like smoke around her shoulders, “you must know that the great words once set down are not easy to destroy. It must be in a certain time and place and by the right person. You—as a descendant of Ellyria—are the right person.”
“And the place and time?” Talyn asked, certain she would not like the answer.
The bunching of shapes at the Phage’s shoulder was resolving itself into the shapes of the Kindred, and the nubs around Veleda began to rise and sink like terrifying pustules. Syris was suddenly at Talyn’s back, pressing his tall shape against her and filling her nose with the scent of greenery, like fresh seaweed. The beast had no words, but he was well able to make her feel a little better knowing he was there.
Which was a fine thing, since now the tormented heads of the Kindred were breaking free of Circe’s flesh as well and beginning their odd, horrific and yet mesmerizing dance.
“The time and place will be of your choosing,” the Phage said finally, “because only dragon fire can destroy what Ellyria Dragonsoul made.”
A dragon, and there was only one of those that Talyn knew. It was not the dragon that worried her, as much as it was the one who had Named him. Finnbarr the Fox, who was so much more than a simple talespinner. Talyn swallowed and looked away.
“Wahirangi CloudLord will not do as I ask,” she whispered. “He was not Named by me, and dragons are not something I know how to deal with . . .”
“But you know how to dea
l with the one that Named him.” The Phage’s pale face looked even worse when it was plastered with a smile.
Veleda made Talyn start when she spoke. Her voice was high and clear, and made every hair stand up on the once-Hunter’s skin. “The Fox is hunting for his brother, and we happen to know where he is going. She who told him is weakened greatly. The dragon and the means of the scroll’s destruction will come to you.”
Talyn met her new master’s eyes and felt bile rise in the back of her throat. She opened her mouth and tried to find words. She wanted to rage—and not just at the Phage. She’d traded the mercurial Caisah in for the chill determination of these twisted versions of her own people. Now they would force her into contact with the one man she feared to see again.
For an instant she considered pulling out the pistol the Caisah had given her and shooting them both then and there. However, she had seen things in the months since her change of masters that made her realize that would be pointless. Much like the tyrant, the Phage were harder to kill than that.
It would be better to play along and see where all this was going.
Finally, she croaked out the words she did not want to let out. “Where shall I go?”
The blank eyes locked with hers, while the heads of the imprisoned Kindred moaned in eerie accompaniment. “You shall go to the sea. Where he was most happy.”
The words ran her through as sharply as any sword would have. “No,” she whispered, shaking her head and backing up a step. “Not back to the sea.” It was where she’d met Finn, fallen in love with him, and lost herself. Thanks to his breaking of her control, she remembered each of those precious dangerous moments as if they had happened yesterday.
The snarling, snapping circle of Kindred heads were suddenly silent, all watching her. It was so eerie that she suddenly wished for them to go back to their pain. The Phage watched her from cool, dark eyes. “Is the Hunter so very afraid of one little fox?”
“I am the Hunter no longer,” she replied, half-shouting so that she showed none of her vulnerabilities, “and Finn means nothing to me.”
Kindred and Wings Page 6