Hunter and Fox

by Philippa Ballantine

  Carefully not turning his back on his persecutors, Byre tried to edge his way to the outskirts of the market. It wasn't easy; eyes were turned in his direction and his steps were dogged with a raft of whispers, like a boat's wake behind him. Old women hissed at him from the shelter of bright stalls, and some of the fruit sellers were preparing to lob their ripest wares in his direction.

  Before the Harrowing there might not have been cheers for the Vaerli, but at least there was not this loathing. He knew all too well the reason for the change; Talyn the Hunter had made his people feared as well as hated. He was only grateful that they didn't know how close he was to the Caisah's hound, or things could be a lot uglier.

  He found himself jogging, darting between the stalls, and hearing the rising tide of anger behind him. A tremendous bang made him leap back, just as the water seller's largest jug on the right of his head exploded in shards. One caught him under the eye, the pain sharp and sudden. Someone had a pistol back there. Though that was surprising, he wasn't about to look back and investigate.

  The market was disintegrating into two camps: those trying to catch him, and those trying to get out of their way. Things were thrown at him and everywhere there was screaming and shouting. Desperately Byre shoved a gold seller's stall onto its side and leapt over it toward the edge of the market.

  His ears were full of the sounds of feet and yelling. A weaver merchant grinned at him as he ran past. Byre caught only a glimpse of his face because then the world turned white. All the woven baskets, packed with birds, burst open in a cloud of wing-flapping and mad cooing. Feathers seemed to be everywhere.

  In the chaos his arm was yanked, then he found himself inside the warmth and darkness of a covered wagon. The lustrous eyes of a Mohl tribeswoman peered at him over a scarlet scarf. The contrast between her beautiful dark skin and the brightness of the cloth had him dazzled for a minute. She dropped the scarf and held a finger to her full lips in a commanding gesture.

  Byre didn't need any instruction; he found he was holding his breath already.

  The sound of the pursuit traveled on past.

  “Asthro. Thank you, lady.” He dipped his head. “I owe you my life.”

  She smiled enigmatically and beckoned him deeper into the wagon. In the manner of her people, his rescuer offered him a seat on a pile of marvelous tapestry cushions, and a tiny glass of sweet tea. Such hospitality after sudden danger made his head spin.

  Byre drank. He knew that she could not exchange words with a stranger, but once they had drunk together they would be strangers no more.

  Tucking her fabulously bright scarf about her, she set down her glass. “I am the Sofai of Mohl.”

  “I am called Byreniko.”

  She smiled again, a flash of white in the close darkness of the wagon. “Not your true name, I think.”

  “Near enough. Since the Harrowing none of my people have true names.”

  The Sofai nodded. “Just so.”

  Byre shifted awkwardly. “Thank you for helping me, honored one—not many would have dared to do that.”

  She offered him a slice of candied orange peel from an embossed brass bowl. “Hospitality is everything to my people. The Vaerli invited us to this world, so we still owe them guest right. We do not forget—even if others have.”

  Byre nibbled at the edge of the orange; it was tart and sweet, and the best thing he'd eaten for months. He glanced at his savior out of the corner of one eye because he knew staring was considered the height of rudeness to her people. He thought her young to be a Sofai—prophetesses of the Mohl were usually old women who worked long years to attain their power.

  Her voice was warm as the tea, thick with an accent that curled the edges of every word. “You have questions?”

  Byre paused and licked his lips. He was ill used to sharing—the fall of his people had seen to that—but this woman had saved him, and there was comfort in her dark eyes. “Two nights ago, I dreamed.”

  The faintest of lines creased her brow. “The Vaerli never dream.”

  “Seldom,” Byre corrected her, “but when we do, we know it means something.”

  “And what did you dream of in this important dream?”

  “Fire and pain…”

  All around him burned. All of his own flesh was gone, all he could hear were whispers in the brightness. He could not understand the words, which bothered him greatly. And something hovered at the edge of his vision—a presence that somehow felt friendly. He called out to it and demanded to know why he was there. The only answer came in a whisper. “Achelon.”

  The Sofai repeated the word, rolling it round in her mouth with a curious expression on her face.

  “Do you know what it means, honored one?” Byre leaned forward. “I came to this town because it has the largest library on the coast—but the doors were locked against me. The officials take the Caisah's edicts very seriously.”

  She nodded sagely, but he noticed her fingers picked at the edge of her robe like a nervous child. “I have heard it in my own dreams; it is a name none now speak above the earth. It is the city of Choana.”

  The World Builders, like the Blood Witches, were not accommodating of visitors. Even before the Harrowing, no Vaerli or any of the twelve tribes had gone there.

  Though he was afraid as soon as she had spoken the words, he knew he must go. The Sofai must have read it in his face, for she leaned across and touched his hand. “If you must dare the Choana, then I will draw the sands for you.”

  It was the greatest of honors. He was not of the Mohl tribe, or even of the Manesto, but he did not refuse it. For a minute he remembered the Seers of his own people and wished there was one to guide him. It was an empty, foolish wish.

  At his nod of consent she drew the bottle of sands from where it lay under her clothes, near her skin. It was the finest Mohl glass, spun and twisted so that the various tubes containing the different colored sands were bound tightly together. She took his hand, placed it on her warm shoulder and then, humming to herself, she picked up the bottle. Spinning it between the palms of her hands, she let the sands pour out according to their own rules, mixing and gathering on the table below in a tracery of chaos. The wagon was suddenly full of the scent of warm spices that tickled Byre's nose. The Sofai with great reverence put the bottle down and turned her eyes to the patterns.

  “I see darkness around you—closer than your own shadow and deeper. But you shall break free of it, if you seek the fire instead. You must go to the Great Cleft in the earth—only there is peace to be found. The future is…” she whispered and paused, shaking her head. “Dim. I see change and pain, but more…there is someone within the flames. It knows you, it watches…”

  The sands suddenly ignited, and the table was flared with fire. The Sofai slumped forward and would have fallen into the flame if Byre had not caught her. He leapt about, beating the fire down with one of the cushions before noticing that her head scarf was charring. He tore it off and tossed it outside with a curse.

  The Sofai was stirring. He helped her sit up and found a last drip of the now-cool tea to pour through her lips. He was holding her as close as a lover and, suddenly realizing that himself, Byre blushed. It was more human contact than he had experienced for months.

  She smiled shyly and murmured, “Thank you,” before levering herself away from the table. “I am all right.”

  They both examined the sadly scarred tabletop.

  “That was my grandmother's marriage table,” she whispered.

  “I'm sorry.”

  “No, no.” She took his hand again. “It was not your fault. Something stood between the seeing and me. I pushed too far. But I did see the Great Cleft in Achelon—you are right to go there.”

  Byre looked away, unable to meet her eyes. “In truth, I am afraid—not for the journey, but for the taste of hope. I have been wandering for so long with nothing to sustain me. My people are broken, and our Gifts stolen, and I fear this dream is just a cruel joke of the
Caisah's.”

  “It cannot be,” she replied confidently. “I saw that you would be here. I was told to aid you, so there must be something else at work here.”

  The Mohl, unlike the other tribes of the Manesto, did not have any scion like the Brother of the Green or the Rainbow Mistress. He knew there were many tales about this strangeness. Some said they'd traversed the White Void without having one, while others whispered that they had in fact killed him as soon as they arrived in Conhaero. Whichever was the case, Byre was unsure what she was putting her faith in.

  “Then I will go to the World Builders, I will find an answer to the flame. I have been doing nothing for three hundred years. I don't even know…” he stopped suddenly, the revelation choking his throat.

  “Why you continue?” The Sofai lightly touched the back of his hand. “So many Vaerli have gone—but something is stronger in you.”

  “I was almost too young to remember the time before the Harrowing. I wasn't even raised by my own people. I am the least of my kind.”

  She laughed, low and soft. “And how can you judge that, pray, when you have met so few?”

  Unbidden, he chuckled too. “I suppose that is true.”

  Rising, the Sofai opened the camphor chest at the end of the wagon. “I see you have lost your stick, Byreniko. You cannot go through the world without a weapon.”

  “Mine was taken at the city gates. Apparently it's not enough to ban us from carrying swords.”

  He found a smooth fighting stick pressed into his hands, bound with silver. He looked closer, and could see the World Tree of his people etched upon it. He also recognized heart oak and the hand of a master in its making.

  “As you can see,” she said, “I did indeed foresee your coming.”

  “It is too much. I will be the best-equipped Vaerli in the world.”

  “Not quite,” he heard her murmur.

  He knew of whom she spoke. Ducking his head, Byre accepted the gift. “I have nothing to give you in return, honored lady…”

  Taking him to the entrance, she dared a look outside. Once ascertaining the way was clear, the Sofai turned her deep brown eyes upon him. “You have nothing now, Byreniko of the Vaerli, but I feel next time we meet there will be enough for you to offer.”

  Not quite knowing what to say, but feeling his skin heat under her gaze, Byre tucked the stick under his arm and darted from the wagon.

  The Sofai sighed to herself and glanced back over her shoulder to the ruination of her grandmother's table. The paths she had seen there were imprinted on her mind as the fire had so nearly been on her face. She had not dared to tell the Vaerli what she had seen, lest his courage fail him. Many betrayals lay ahead of him, and hers was only the first.

  Up close, the twelve open mouths of the goddess seemed larger. Pelanor stood trembling in the thin shift and awaited the moment of transformation. She could feel the cool wind of death flowing from those mouths—one of which she was about to throw herself into. Afterwards there would be no collar of pain or fear about her heart; she would be free of all mortal concerns.

  She risked a quick glance out of the corner of her eye to where Alvick stood at her side. He wore a matching shift of white but also the torc of the gewalt.

  The only other person in the narrow chamber was the priestess, dressed in a sheer robe of deepest red. She held the long knife nehmer, the life giver, straight before her, and her face was as impassive as that slice of steel.

  She gestured sharply toward the primus mouth, where the chaos was thickest, and Pelanor and Alvick stepped forward despite the chill in their bones. Pelanor held out her hand, and he took it before stepping in farther and folding her into his arms. She inhaled the strong clean scent of him, burying it into her memory, while holding tight to his friendship and goodness.

  Quickly the priestess bound them together, intoning the words to twine their souls, while the thick cord of the Making cut into their skin. “Two lives end, one greater begins. Now all strength comes from love and power from blood.”

  Pelanor looked into Alvick's eye, feeling his breath mingle with hers, his heart racing to the same beat. An overwhelming peace stole over her. It was not such a bad thing to share death and blood with someone you loved.

  Together then, they chanted her last living words. Almore sun lethe merya. We go together.

  No more time remained. The priestess' blade descended—faster than thought, surer than fate. Pelanor's body arched as the blade drove through her but only grazed the chest of Alvick. Her death and his blood—just as it had always been for the Phaerkorn. He kissed her then and took in her last mortal gasp. The priestess cried out, a wordless joyful sound, before she shoved them roughly into the last mouth of the goddess.

  They tumbled together. Pelanor had lost her breath, never to take it again. Her skin was cool, but her faith was all around. Alvick never let her go; he bound her to the edge of the living world, holding her back from the beyond by the barest threads. It was the most magnificent kind of love. She arched against him in rapture while taking his first Given, the honor of his blood, into her mouth. His flesh opened under her teeth willingly and the last mouth of the goddess gave them her boon. Tumbling through a rainbow of darkness, they became the eternal couple. Pelanor's heritage as a Blood Witch was secured. She had passed the test and so had Alvick. His love for her was found strong enough to hold her back from the gate of death.

  The goddess had accepted their gifts. She was the center of destruction and life and she now held them in her grasp forever.

  How long they spent within her darkness could not be measured, but when finally Pelanor felt cool marble underneath her knees and heard Alvick gasping next to her she knew the material world had claimed them again.

  The descent into faith had not been easy. Her transformed body was trembling and seemed hardly hers to command. She felt Alvick's hand slip from hers, but the link between them was still there. His blood was hers now.

  The priestess's voice had changed, warm and loving, where before it had been cold and clinical. “Welcome back to the world, beloved of the goddess.” Gentle hands lifted Pelanor and Alvick up to stand bewildered in the light of their success.

  The new Blood Witch found that her newly sharpened eyes could pick out a dark figure at the end of the temple. She did not know the name of this person, but she knew his purpose. He smelt of earth and fire. A Vaerli had come to the temple and surprisingly he would provide her first blood price.

  The priestess beckoned him forward and he came, with the lightness of foot his people still possessed. Yet he looked tired, weighed down with the burden of the Harrowing, and Pelanor felt, even in her now-cold heart, sorry for him.

  He did not give his name, as was custom, instead presenting a box inlaid with silver and Vaerli magic. Opening it, the priestess took out three scrolls and ran her eye over them. “And these are most precious to you?” she asked quickly.

  A flicker of pain passed over the man's face. “Three songs of our ancient folk, lost and gone. We can no longer read the language. Even so, they are more precious to us than gold.”

  The priestess paused but heard truth in his words. “It is acceptable,” she said. Then, stepping back, she gestured to Pelanor. “Give this one the name of the blood, and it shall be done.”

  The Vaerli's head drooped, and his voice when it came was low and sad. “Talyn the Dark.” He glanced up, looking directly into the face of the newest Phaerkorn. “To save us all, and prevent another innocent life being lost, kill her. If you can…make it swift.”

  A mighty blood price. Pelanor's heart raced—a truly heroic one. By doing it, she would assure her place in the rolls of the Blessed and earn Vaerli gratitude for her people. Alvick's hand slipped into hers and he was grinning at her.

  Pelanor laughed aloud into the high reaches of the temple.

  Finn knew there were many evils in the world that the Caisah ruled, but looking around at the prosperous faces of the inhabitants of Perilous i
t was hard to see any. In a city whose streets bulged with traders, the only visible danger was that of being run over by a cart or wagon. They seemed to be everywhere, laden with spices, barrels, huge rolls of lush fabric, or baaing sheep. The scents alternately delighted and repulsed him. In this one city there was as much diversity as he'd seen in all his travels. The tribes of Manesto outnumbered the others ten to one. In his short trip from the Gates to the port itself he did see a group of cloaked and hooded Phaerkorn. Blood Witches abhorred the light, but he did catch a glimpse of a pale face under a hood. They were among the first wave of settlers from the White Void, but others had followed. He also saw a number of the tall and elegantly dark-skinned Mohl. They had high cheekbones and liquid eyes that marked them out as gazelle among sheep.

  As he walked the last few streets to his destination, a small efficient figure lingering near a corner in a long silver cloak and dark gray shirt caught his eye. The deep eyes, when they glanced up, caught at his before moving on. Finn's thoughts immediately went to Talyn the Dark, but this was a man with grizzled hair and his face was no mask of indifference—his anger was there for any to see. The Vaerli turned away from him, retreating into a private world of pain.

  Finn could only wonder why a Vaerli would be here. They could sense one another, and even this far from the Citadel he would know another was near—perhaps that it was even Talyn.

  Walking on, Finn made a conscious effort not to look back. His destination was not far now and his pace quickened. The streets did not feel as friendly as they had only moments before, and the back of his neck was itching.

  In many ways the Singing Fish was like any other inn on the edge of the port, yet it was special in ways few other places in Conhaero could claim to be. The Caisah's eye did not reach here. It was a freak of the Vaerli magic, a gap in the Chaos, and hence a gap in their enemy's power. The oddly shaped inn walls had been built to the exact shape and breadth of the discrepancy.