Talyn left the stable, making for her room with the pistol tucked under one arm and her blade in her left hand. The small bare room on the second floor had been hers for her entire service to the Caisah. Talyn had chosen it because it was one of the few rooms in the Citadel that was not shadowed by yester-time shades.
She dropped the pistol on the bed with disdain; it was the Caisah's weapon. Pistols had been unknown to the Vaerli but developed by the Manesto in recent years—though where the Caisah had found such knowledge was not known. What Talyn knew was that the weapon made her shiver. She had instructed the gunsmith to carve Vaerli symbols on it in an effort to halt that reaction, but it mattered little. Whatever of her people's nature remained inside her, it abhorred the gun and everything it stood for.
It was illegal for a Vaerli to carry weapons; she was the only sorry exception to that rule. Whenever possible she tried to share the fate of her people, and so carried no weapons while in V'nae Rae. Talyn had few rebellions against her fate, but at least she did not have to carry his weapon when not needed.
Under the narrow bed was a silver box worked with the Vaerli's flowing letter-magic, pae atuae. The box, like the blade it contained, had been her mother's, so Talyn would never take them into the Caisah's presence. To do so would sully a pure memory of one whom she'd loved.
Her own magics had been taken like everyone else's at the Harrowing. Not for hundreds of years had the pure sounds of music-magic, maie atuae, passed her lips. She raised one hand to her throat as if she could still feel them there.
What was the matter with her? A stolen glance across a cobblestone road, and her memories would not lie still.
Talyn placed the blade within the box, and the letter-magics rang like broken bells when she closed the lid, telling her that the protection spell was activated.
She washed the dirt of the road off and braided her hair back from her face. He had once said he did not like her unkempt in his presence. Talyn would give him no excuse to withhold the bounty price.
She walked expressionless down the corridor and four flights of steps to the Caisah's wing. Two swordsmen, most of their faces covered by shining helmets, with shields held at attention, stood guard outside the thick bronze doors. Talyn hardly noticed. As she walked to the door, the guard on the right eased his stance, but the other sprang forward. On closer inspection, she found she did not know his name—so he had to be new.
He stepped forward. “State your name and business!”
The older guard tugged on his arm. “It's Talyn, the Caisah's Hunter, you fool,” he hissed.
The other flinched when Talyn raised her arm, yet when she opened her hand it had no weapon, only the spiraling tattoo that marked all of the warriors of the Caisah's Swoop. It was identification enough; she had no desire to prove her place as Hunter. The Swoop was her master's bodyguard, and though she was never called upon to do their duties, she held high rank in their number. She occasionally even prayed at their temple—though more out of a desire to find a place of peace rather than real belief.
The newcomer's heartbeat fluttered at his neck, but Talyn had no interest in killing anyone unless it was for her bounty. Still, she wouldn't reassure any of the Caisah's men. Let him think she would come for him out of the shadows one night. Instead she gave him a little smile; the faintest curling of her lips, a slight revelation of teeth.
“You may pass,” he said, blinking abrupt sweat out of his eyes.
So Talyn the Dark went into the Caisah's inner sanctum to claim her reward.
The suite was smaller than many would have thought, the smooth white walls only broken by large murals of different parts of Conhaero: from the Blood Witches' caves, to the waters of the heated south. It was another outrage, for the Vaerli would never have been able to paint their world.
At the end of the hall the Caisah sat on a simple-enough chair; only the triple-headed serpent carved on its legs marked it apart from others in the room. It was where he held audiences and ruled the world. Talyn's boots echoed on the marble, and the skin between her shoulder blades itched the closer she got, but she did not flinch under his gaze.
Naturally there were others present: the chamberlain, the Lord of the Purse, Holder of the Keys, the sycophants, and the cortege of mistresses. The Caisah was not like other men except in this one area. His conquests extended not only to this herd of beauties but also to any woman who caught his passing fancy. This moment's queen hen was Kelanim, the First Mistress of his Court. She was glaring at Talyn over her fluttering fan with green eyes that inspired sighing odes from the court talespinners.
Despite their unparalleled beauty, the mistresses were a sad lot, really. The usual way to power for such a woman was to give their master sons—but the Caisah had never fathered any bastards. The terrible torture he had inflicted on one long-ago mistress for attempting to claim a pregnancy as his, said he knew he could not. The horrors the woman had endured were still remembered in legend—even after a century.
Talyn could smell the constant anger and fear that hovered around the harem. It was not a life she envied. Most of the flock were fragile and foolish, but not the First Mistress.
Kelanim was the beauty of the age, as everyone said; and if that had been all, the Hunter would not have given her a second thought. However, she sensed there was more lingering behind those renowned emerald eyes. For some reason the First Mistress had decided that Talyn was a threat—though she had never shared the Caisah's bed. It was unknown what bitter words she poured into his ear when Talyn was not around.
Kelanim tossed her mane of scarlet hair and whispered to one of her fellow mistresses behind the fan.
The Hunter gave her an askew smile and let her eyes rake over the exuberance of lace and satin she was wearing. Some deep part of her enjoyed rattling the cage of the jeweled beauty, but she only ever addressed the Caisah.
Once they locked eyes, the rest of the Court faded to insignificance.
The Caisah of Conhaero, Master of Chaos watched her with a faintly puzzled look, as if this time he hadn't expected her to return. It was always like that. For her part Talyn looked directly back, examining him minutely for any change since their last meeting. She never saw any.
His skin was similar to that of a Vaerli, but his eyes were like none of her kin. They stood out bright blue against the golden tan of his face. The faintly curled black hair was perfectly oiled as always and exactly the same length. The Caisah was a paragon of lean male beauty. He was older than Talyn. Even though that was impossible. Even though no Manesto ever outlived a Vaerli. He was unnatural, but he could also be charming in his way.
One day, Talyn reminded herself, that beautiful neck would find itself at the sharp edge of her blade—maybe not this century, but sometime before she died.
He stood easily, for all the world like a man of twenty, and walked toward her—not letting her dictate where they met. His clothes were always simple but cut to show his broad shoulders and fine leg, a simple cambric shirt of cream and soft leather trousers. His mistresses parted like a flock of disturbed birds before him. Kelanim gave way last of all.
He took Talyn's hand when they drew level, and smiled. “I see once again you have not failed me.”
The Court fluttered around him, sharp eyes looking for any sign of his displeasure or delight. The mistresses as always unconsciously straightened, adjusting cleavage with efficient gestures.
“It was a simple matter, my lord,” Talyn said, dropping her eyes and letting her voice fade into calmness, “and the bounty a simple man.”
“Is that a note of admonishment?” He chuckled. “I believe you are wondering why I sent my Hunter after a man like that. You think perhaps he was not worthy of you?”
“It is not my place to question such things,” she replied softly.
He made no comment, instead wandering to the window to look out at something, or perhaps nothing. He did not invite her to join him, so Talyn could not tell.
She felt
a raven in the midst of peacocks, as uncomfortable in the Court as any place in her world. He ruled here, and her status was merely that of a slave to his sycophants. It was easy to admit it chafed her.
Despite herself, as always, she pondered the Caisah. He had become the sole reason for her existence, his missions her only goals, and yet she did not even know his name.
After so many centuries, he was still a mystery; why he did things or why he needed her at all were unknown.
Truth be told, they both had been studying each other for too long. It was an odd little battle, but one Talyn had to win.
She did hate him for all his beauty and power. He was evil, the killer of her people. If she had thought for one moment that he could die by a blade, she would have tried then and there. Too many Vaerli had already attempted that and failed horribly.
“Dear Talyn the Dark,” he said softly, and went back to his chair, “you give me the greatest amusement.” His eyes flickered to a place she could not follow. “Do you recall how you first came to enter my service?”
How many hundreds of times had he asked that? Each time, she gave him the same response. “You saved me.” This was in some ways true.
She had grown, become a woman, and wanted to die. When she found her brother's Wyrde in the tiny village near the coast, it had seemed right. The carved symbols told her everything she needed to know.
Two joined circles with a wavy line about them. This one has given up.
A spiraling line carved deeply—the symbol for the burning death.
Ignoring the increasing pain, they had found each other. Byre was a man now—so different to the bright-faced boy he'd been on that terrible day of the Vaerli destruction. Without words they accepted death, and reveled in the fact it would be with each other. It was the same fairly often with their people—to die in a loved one's embrace somehow became more attractive than living apart.
The pain passed through them like a wave beating against a shore, but it was a welcome pain in that instant. If they hurried they would at least feel the embrace of the other before the conflagration claimed them. They would at last be free.
It was not to be. The guards surrounded them. The Caisah's Swoop came between them and drove them apart. Talyn could still recall the final glimpse of her brother's dark head. A pit of great sorrow had claimed her, and she cried out. It was the last time she allowed such a weakness.
The Swoop had brought her to the Caisah. Why he had claimed her and offered a glimmer of hope, she had never been able to find out, and he never explained the reasons for his actions.
She hadn't sought out her brother again, and there was at least the comforting knowledge deep within her that he was alive somewhere.
The Caisah made a steeple out of his fingers and peered with empty eyes over them at her. “Yes, I saved you, and our little game continues.”
They had many little games, tricks within tricks, each searching for a break in concentration. It was not a game she would have chosen to play, but it was all she had. The only pity was, he knew it.
“Well,” he whispered, breaking his gaze with her, “you will want your reward, then.”
Talyn turned and deliberately smiled at Kelanim, knowing full well that the mistress was not allowed into the Puzzle Room.
Each time she had to stop herself from appearing too eager, even if they both knew she was. Nevertheless, Talyn followed the Caisah through the ochre door. The arched and polished ceiling reflected the nearly complete puzzle which in golden glory covered the floor. The only decoration in the room, apart from the puzzle itself, was an old-looking eagle sculpture that hovered over the far window.
The puzzle represented three hundred years of work for Talyn, and each piece was someone's death or lost freedom. Her parents would have been horrified, disgusted even, at what their daughter had become. However, the shadows had swallowed them long ago, so they did not have to live in a world of her limited choices.
Now, looking down at the hundreds of tiny pieces, Talyn could feel the vague fluttering of disquiet in the pit of her stomach. Each piece represented so much anger—so much loss. None of that showed on her face, though.
Instead, dropping down to one knee she examined the leading, incomplete edge with an intensity she reserved only for this room—this task. Thin gold sheets made up the puzzle, each inscribed in swirls of silver that ran like water across it. They might have been words, a picture, or even a map; that was the most frustrating thing about it—only when the last piece was finally in place would the secret be revealed.
The Caisah lightly touched her shoulder and passed her the piece she had earned. Her eagle-sharp eyes quickly found the ragged edge where it would go, and she dropped it into place. Always, there was a moment where she half expected something to happen, but nothing followed except silence.
“When the puzzle is complete you will have your answer,” the Caisah repeated as he always did.
It felt like she was trapped in this room forever, with him and with the inscrutable puzzle. It was the same scene played again and again, the only difference being that each time a grand fear grew larger in her mind—the fear that it was all in vain.
Talyn ground her teeth, swallowing back those fears. This was the only hope for her people who were out there dying all alone, robbed of their birthright, and worse than strangers in their homeland. Killing the Caisah had been tried many times, and now this was the only way. The only hope.
Talyn did not cry, or tear her hair, or even say a word to the Caisah. Instead she rose to her feet and went to the door. She could still feel the puzzle against her back, as aware of it as the sun in the sky.
“Your escape is not going to be that easy, my Hunter.” The Caisah's voice drew her back. “I have no new bounty for you just yet, but there are still duties I expect of you.”
Talyn held her sigh in. Sometimes it came to this. The Caisah liked to display her on the odd occasion, preferably to rebellious lords who needed to be reminded of the creature their mighty master held on a tight leash. She had railed against such humiliation in the early days, attempting little rebellions such as wearing her ugliest clothes or not bathing for days beforehand. Those times were long gone. She was worn down to a nub, and the effort it took was no longer worth it. With as much dignity as she could muster, Talyn bowed.
The Caisah was not done with her quite yet. “The Lady Kelanim will assist you with finding something suitable, since I know your wardrobe is…minimal.”
He guided her out into the main chamber, one hand hovering inches from the small of her back; she could feel it like a poised knife. Kelanim snapped her fan closed and glided over, eyes brimming with delight.
“The Caisah has told me you will need to be outfitted.” Her voice was like poisoned honey. “The ball is a masquerade event, but I believe you alone will be unmasked.”
He chuckled behind her. “What would be the point of hooding the hawk? No one would know it among doves.”
Talyn would never have called the Court of the Caisah doves, neither was she pleased to be singled out in this way. Despite all her years of discomfort, she let out the smallest of displeased sighs.
The Caisah leapt on it immediately. “Come now, my Hunter. These celebrations are special events—four hundred years since I saved Conhaero. That is worth marking, I would think.”
She hardly needed to be reminded, but had been desperately hoping to be away on a bounty.
“There will be music and dancing, and games of all sorts to mark the occasion. Everyone from Praetors to clan lords will be arriving. I would have you there for all of them.”
“As always, I obey,” Talyn replied evenly. “May I go now?”
He was stroking Kelanim's perfect face, but his words were for her. “Won't you stay here the night?”
It was her preferred custom to sleep beyond the walls of the Citadel. The voices of the lost troubled her inside: the whisperings and echoes of laughter, the cries from yester-times.
“Done? I have changed nothing in it! If you have any objection to the stability of the place then I suggest you discuss it with one of your elders.”
That was a barbed jibe, even for him, and anger that usually simmered now bubbled to the surface in Talyn. “V'nae Rae was given to us by the Kindred; its permanence a symbol of the pact between us. It should never have been yours.”
Kelanim was forgotten and suddenly the Caisah was standing directly behind her. She could feel his breath ruffle the hair on top of her head. “I have taken many things that are not mine, Talyn. It is something I thought you had learned to accept.” His words were like sharp needles in her back.
Talyn let the habit of disinterest roll over her, smothering the power of her own anger. “I thought so, too,” she said and headed for the door.
As always the Caisah snatched the last word. “You will stay within Perilous for the duration of the celebrations.”
So she would be his dragon in a gilded cage, and all the worse for knowing she helped make it.
The blow came from behind, so quick that even if Byreniko had been paying attention, he would not have been able to avoid it. He was on the ground spitting blood before even seeing his assailant. The taste of dust was hardly new, though.
“Vaerli scum,” the surprisingly wiry and dirty man yelled, drawing the attention of others in the market. Ever since the loss of the Third Gift, people often took a perverse delight in knocking Vaerli to the ground, especially in seething little towns like this one. Many leagues from the baleful eye of the Caisah at V'nae Rae, they practiced the same bloody sports that he favored. Byreniko wouldn't be the first Vaerli to end up in the arena in a distant rural town. If they were especially perverse they might throw another of his kin in, too—some people liked to watch the Harrowing consume Vaerli in flames while consuming their lunch in the stands.
He got to his feet quickly before a mob could gather and looked about for an escape route. On closer examination, this had not been one of his better ideas. Though he longed to wade in and give as had been given to him, his saner part prevailed.
Hunter and Fox Page 3