Hunter and Fox

by Philippa Ballantine

  Finn went into it with a smile on his face, even though he knew inside would be full of the bitter smell of too much beer and too many people. Once beyond the door he saw that indeed nothing had changed.

  He nudged his way to the bar and caught the publican's attention with the subtle lift of one finger. As was custom, in addition to his own pint of beer, he also ordered a shot of whiskey for the small altar to Brother of the Green that stood behind the counter. He was not the scion of Finn's tribe, but he was the traditional protector of public houses. It didn't do to offend him in a place like the Singing Fish.

  The publican smiled and poured the small offering over the pottery representation. Finn raised his glass and turned to survey the crowd. He didn't know any of those around him, but it was full of the atmosphere he liked. It was a touch of freedom. People spoke easily here. Perhaps this was how it had felt before the Caisah's coming, when the Vaerli ruled.

  “By the Crone's whiskers, Finnbarr the Fox!” His name struck him between the shoulder blades, and he jerked around half expecting to find a pack of guards blocking the door. Instead he saw three familiar and welcome figures.

  Varlesh rushed over and embraced him, smothering him against his rough jerkin, and clapping him so hard on the back that he coughed and spluttered. When he finally released Finn, he yelled right in his face, “Boyo, you look like you were dragged through a blackberry bush backward.”

  Finn smiled into the older man's broad, honest face. “Well, so would you if you'd been running from the Rutilian Guard for so many weeks.”

  Equo, dressed in black as usual with his graying hair pulled back into a ponytail, grinned thinly. “We had heard rumors about that.”

  Their third, Si, who usually said so little, chimed in, “But you still came.”

  “Just lucky I guess. Here, sit down everyone, have a beer.”

  “I gather you won't be paying, though.” Varlesh caught the barmaid's eye. “Let's take our drinks to a corner. Even here there are ears.”

  They found a dimly lit corner in the folds of the inn, and sat. Finn, Varlesh, and Equo drank, but Si remained quiet while scanning the inn with his piercing blue eyes.

  “Don't mind him.” Varlesh chortled, wiping foam from his beard. “He's always a bit paranoid.”

  “I'm getting that way, myself,” Finn replied.

  “Well, you shouldn't be surprised,” Equo whispered, “since you've been going through the whole kingdom telling the story of the Vaerli—what did you expect?”

  “Truthfully…I thought I might meet Talyn the Dark.” Seeing their shocked faces, he gave a short laugh. “I don't know what I was hoping for. Maybe just that they would understand a little.”

  Varlesh leaned back in his chair and waved his hand dismissively. “The teaming masses? Why bother, boyo? They don't care. The Vaerli are nothing to them. They're nothing to themselves either.”

  “The truth still matters,” Finn said firmly his eyes drifting to where Si was looking. Their quiet companion made him nervous—always on edge, always looking for trouble.

  Equo and Varlesh exchanged a glance, but they knew him better than to quibble.

  “Well, you've come to the place where there is a definite scarcity of that curious commodity,” Equo commented quietly.

  They talked on for an hour or more. They recalled times when they had traveled together, drinks drunk, and moments of horrendous crisis—which at the time had been terrifying but looked back on were for some reason deeply funny. Si was the only one who did not participate. Finn had long ago learnt not to try to reach him. When he spoke it was usually to impart words that seldom made any sense.

  Varlesh, though, more than made up for his friend's shortcomings. It was impossible to keep him quiet, and he only ever paused to drop some beer down the back of his throat.

  “So what's your plan?” Equo finally asked when the reminiscences were all done.

  Finn swallowed hard. “I guess I just want to make a difference. I want to tell the story, and see what happens.”

  “We all know what will happen,” Varlesh growled. “You'll end up with your head decorating the gate of Perilous, like a hundred fools before you.”

  “But you try, too,” Finn pointed out, dropping his voice to a mere whisper. “That's why you meet here, and I know about your links with—”

  “Nothing,” Equo hissed quickly. “You don't know anything about anything or anyone!”

  Si was watching Finn now, his heavy forehead beetling over eyes that made the storyteller squirm in his seat.

  Finn fairly jumped when Varlesh grabbed his arm and growled, “Maybe we do the odd thing, but we always meet carefully, only ever in small groups. We certainly don't go about telling dangerous tales in every bar.” Sitting back, he pulled a pipe out of his coat and filled it with great care.

  “We think before we act,” Equo added.

  The rational part of Finn's brain knew they were right, but there was another stronger part of him, perhaps the bit that helped him find the boy in the pattern, which drove him on. “All I know is that I must speak up—in the very lap of the Caisah if necessary.”

  Varlesh shook his head, Equo sighed, but only Si said anything. “The truth does still matter.”

  Whatever his two companions may have thought, once Si spoke, their attitude changed. They always listened to what few words he threw out and, since Finn himself had only heard the other speak without being spoken to one other time, he was inclined to listen as well.

  Varlesh pulled his pipe momentarily out and downed a hefty gulp of ale. When he lowered it, he stared over the rim at Finn. “There are ways into the Citadel—ways that don't mean barging through the front door.”

  “I am sure that wasn't your plan,” Equo muttered.

  Finn ignored him.

  “It would be churlish of us to not help—especially if you're so set on it,” Varlesh went on. “There are those still in the city who know ways to get around your particular problem. If you will only wait a few days, we can sort something out for you.”

  Finn's mind drifted to other plans that could well occupy his time.

  “You're not thinking of something even more foolish, are you?” Si asked warily.

  The talespinner spread his hands and grinned. “There are always the celebrations to take in.”

  “I get suspicious when you give up that easily.” Varlesh slammed his mug down on the table. “Too crafty by half, you are.”

  Though Finn could feel Si's eyes fixed on him from under his hood, he shrugged. “Comes with the training I'm afraid.”

  Varlesh rolled his eyes skyward before sliding a small bag of coin across the table to him. “That should at least get you a decent room. If you get caught, you better not mention our names.”

  “I won't get into any trouble,” Finn promised. “I have a knack for these things.”

  “Mind you don't,” Varlesh's eyes narrowed. “There are more important things happening in the world than your foolishness.”

  Equo slid the last of his ale over to Varlesh, who downed it easily. “We'll be in touch in a couple of days, then.” And with that they departed hastily.

  Finn tucked the purse into his pocket and glanced around the bar. The place was full to capacity, as many wanted to see the games and events the Caisah would be staging in the next week. Finn sidled up to a few conversations and managed to get the information he needed. Tomorrow night would be the grand event; a masque ball where all of Conhaero's elite would wine and dine and laugh far too loudly. The gossip was that the Caisah's Hunter would be there—perhaps with the heads of her enemies hanging around her waist. Talyn the Dark had a fierce reputation and obviously liked to keep it that way. She brought men to her bed only in the provinces. She kept whatever desires she had mostly in check.

  Finn couldn't help thinking about her. Like the fairy captives in his own tales, some part of him longed for her despite everything.

  With a little bow to the locals he went to organi
ze his accommodation upstairs. Finn felt an urgent need to wash the dirt of the road off and rest a little before any more adventures.

  The pretty maid led him to a room that was small but better than he had enjoyed for months. Dropping his meager pack down on the bed, he did what he had been desperate to try since setting foot in the city. He took out the simple bit of string and, sitting himself cross-legged next to the bag, began to weave the patterns.

  His mind dipped and ranged far ahead with the sway of the thread, seeking out the boy, trying to find his fate. Something different was in the way. Finn felt a resistance, a tugging at the threads. It felt distinctly like someone was thrusting their fingers into the pattern and trying to pull it away from him. Finn hissed and struggled back, seeking the pattern desperately.

  A moment of fierce resistance, and then he felt it snap back. Finn was once more able to weave. Ysel's face appeared, pale in the dark with the shadow of a bruise down one side. Suddenly Finn felt his inability to reach the boy, to protect him.

  “What's happened?”

  Ysel looked at him sullenly, but didn't reply. “Where were you?”

  “I couldn't find you in the pattern. I'm sorry, I tried. What's happened?”

  The boy's lower lip trembled. “Soldiers came to the house.”

  “What did they want?”

  Ysel touched his cheek lightly. “They were looking for something…I don't know what. Anji argued with them, and I thought they wouldn't listen to her, but they went away after a while.”

  The boy had never mentioned a name before. Even though Finn had surmised he must have had a guardian of some sort, this was the first time he'd revealed she was a woman. The talespinner knew better than to press—when he'd tried before, the boy had somehow made the pattern tear apart.

  Instead, Finn told him about breaking into the Caisah's ball. He tried to make it sound like an adventure, but with little risk.

  Ysel's expression said he didn't really believe that. It was easy to forget he was just a young boy, because he was so very serious. He never gave the impression of running and playing or doing anything remotely childlike.

  “You'll be careful,” Ysel insisted, the same admonishment he always gave. “Dances can be dangerous.”

  Finn gave a short laugh but realized the boy wasn't joking.

  “And don't let the Caisah see you. For if you do—” Ysel stopped and glanced over his shoulder.

  He tried to soothe the boy. “I will try, Ysel, but it will be his party—”

  The threads in Finn's fingers began to shake and the pattern hummed. They started to pull apart. Finn tried desperately to hold them, but they had become elusive as puffs of smoke and unraveled before him.

  The boy's wide eyes disappeared into the void between threads, and Finn was left swearing impotently to himself.

  He never knew when his strange gifts would desert him. It was a good choice not to rely on them to get him inside the Citadel. His three friends could be trusted with that. Still, he couldn't shake the memory of Talyn's dark and tragic eyes. Two people were depending on him now and he was not one to take responsibility lightly.

  Rolling over, Finn let dreams take him where they would.

  Byreniko slept and dreamed once more. This time the voice of the Sofai accompanied him and like dark honey it drowned his senses. She was speaking in a language he could not grasp, though it sounded like an incantation, and his mind's eye followed it down into the darkness of the earth.

  Byre had no sense of his own body, but he could hear breathing, long and slow in the shadows. Fear gripped him and almost tipped him into panic. He knew instinctively whatever he could not see would swallow him whole. He was Vaerli, so there should have been nothing in Conhaero that could wake such fear in him. Yet here he was, broken by the unknown. It wanted him. It demanded all that he was. Nothingness waited.

  He woke with a shout in the back of the wagon. Ungro, the driver who had picked him up two days previously, glanced over his shoulder. His craggy face registered surprise as his lone passenger had up until now offered very little conversation.

  Byre raked his hair out of his eyes. “Sorry, bad dream.”

  “Had those myself, out here. It'd give anyone the jitters,” the driver replied before turning back and, with a flick of his reins, urging the carthorses onward.

  Waggoners out here were far less inclined to hatred of Vaerli—in fact, they often tried to find one before setting off into the Chaoslands. They thought it was good luck, imagining it might protect them and their cargo.

  Byre wasn't sure how much protection he truly was, but at least it was a way to get south fast. The guild of Waggoners used the seed-magic of their tribe to give their beasts incredible endurance. Managing to get a ride on one halved the time it would normally take, since the carthorses could run two days straight if allowed, and with a second person on board the Waggoner could let them.

  It would not take long to reach the jungles of the south. Already Byre could feel the back of his neck getting sweaty. Propping himself up amongst the stout wooden boxes in the wagon, he flicked the awning up a little and watched the world roll away from the road. The whole of the country was wonderfully golden and his Vaerli eyes ate it up. The horwey trees, growing on pure chaos, were tall and stately here. More adaptive than humanity, the trees would alter with their surrounds; low tough succulents if desert came, or flat tough mats if mountains appeared. The seasons were turning as well, coming toward a winter that in time would bring snow. He loved the change. It reminded him that things could be different and with each cycle there was at least hope.

  He'd been just a child when the Harrowing happened. Though he could remember it clearly, he could not recall ever having the full use of the Gifts like his older sister had. The Vaerli children took a long time to grow into their powers, and he had been many years away from that time.

  It perhaps made everything a little easier. He had, unlike the majority of his people, only felt the pull of suicide once in all the Harrowed Time. That moment still burned in his memory—but it had not been despair that had driven him there, only a desire to see his kin again.

  “You're the quietest Vaerli I've ever had in my wagon,” the driver said and spat the last of his magra leaf out onto the road, “and that's saying something!”

  Motivated by curiosity, Byre slipped over the seat and sat next to him. “So you've seen a few, then?”

  “More than you, I would say.” Ungro shot him a glance out of the corner of his eye as if afraid how his humor would be taken.

  Byre grinned in response. “And what are they like?’

  “Well,” the driver replied with a shrug, reached into his coat pocket, pulled out more magra and stuffed a wad against his gum, “they say the Vaerli used to keep to themselves. Course, they can't do that no more, so if folks are fair to them they'll talk well enough. Not much choice now, I guess.”

  “I suppose.” Byre stared at his hands for a minute, not quite knowing what to ask but still desperate for information.

  “One thing a lot of them mention is that Talyn the Dark. You know, the Caisah's Hunter?”

  That hurt. Byre could feel the steel of longing run through him. He hadn't heard her name in a very long time, yet he missed her like the sun. “What do they say?”

  “The usual. How she's outcast and not one of them anymore. They get this funny look on their face as well, sort of like they've eaten something nasty.” The driver flicked his reins. “Not that I'm blaming them, with her working for him that made the Harrowing.”

  “You seem to know a lot about my people. Most in Conhaero no longer care.”

  “They're good company mainly, and they tell a lot of stories. I've heard that there is even some talespinner that travels around collecting them. Course, he probably wants to save them before the Vaerli are all gone.”

  “He'd best hurry, then,” Byre whispered.

  Conversation ran out after that. They both sat still, listening to the r
elentless hammer of hooves on the road and watching the sun set. It was a peaceful and companionable silence, until the first riders came at them from the shelter of those golden trees.

  Another Vaerli might have frozen, paralyzed by the loss of Gifts, but Byre had never known them. He had always had to rely on his own skill and strength. Quickly sliding his stick out from under the seat, he glanced at Ungro. “Can we outrun them?”

  The driver shook his head, pulling out his blunderbuss and laying it across his knees. “Old Clopper can run for sure, but the rest are tired. We won't be able to for long.”

  Byre's sharp eyes picked out a section of cliff only a mile or so ahead. “Can we at least make it to that outcrop?”

  The driver squinted against the horizon. “Can't see what you mean, but if you say it's there, I believe you!” Ungro flicked the reins, and with a snort the carthorses broke into a thundering gallop. Stoutly built as the cart was, it began to heave alarmingly. Still, this would not be the first time it needed to outrun bandits.

  The five riders let out a whoop. Byre ran down the length of the rocking wagon and peered out the back. It was hard to tell yet who they were, but certainly they wanted something badly enough to risk a Waggoner's blunderbuss.

  Byre could only wish for some arrows, but it was as illegal to sell those to Vaerli as to sell a sword. He would have to rely on his stick and whatever natural abilities still remained.

  With a crunch the wagon lurched off the road and onto the rocky path he had pointed out.

  “It'd be good to see you use some of that Vaerli magic,” Ungro yelled over his shoulder.

  It didn't matter how much people knew that the Gifts were gone, they still expected the legends to be true. The before-time was something he had only heard about as a child.

  The wagon lurched again as the driver turned in a tight circle. Byre leapt off the back and ran quickly around to the front just as Ungro's blunderbuss roared. Byre had seen him pack it with wickedly sharp rocks that very morning. One of their pursuers screamed horribly, fell back in his stirrups and was carried away by his terrified mount.