Hunter and Fox

by Philippa Ballantine

  His companions, apparently unconcerned, rode on, yelling and waving their rusty blades above their heads.

  Ungro swore loudly and pulled two wickedly curved knives out from under the seat. “Bastards, you'll not have nothing from me!” It was an almost-convincing act. Bandits could not afford to leave witnesses to an attack on the Caisah's wagons; the penalty for that was drawing and quartering.

  The leader rode in hard, seeking to knock the apparently vulnerable Byre off his feet and onto the rocks. The Vaerli stood still until the horse was almost upon him, then with a cry and wave he lunged forward. Bandit horses were not war-trained and this one, unused to sudden noise, twisted aside with its eyes rolling madly. Their attackers were no great horsemen and while the bandit struggled to turn his mount, Byre lunged forward with his stick. The silver knuckle of the oak staff snapped against the bandit's shoulder, twisting him out of the saddle to land with a thump on the ground.

  Before Byre could attack again, the other riders were upon him. He turned and leapt up among the rocks, forcing them to dismount or risk ruining their horses. One raced past the shouting Ungro and fired an arrow at him. With a thunk the driver was pinned to his seat through the shoulder. He roared in rage at the bandits' audacity. “Bloody cowards!”

  But the bandits still appeared to find Byre the greater risk. That was yet another problem with being Vaerli, and Talyn was responsible for this perception. But they wouldn't waste arrows on him, believing the folktale that none would be able to touch him, so perhaps the Hunter did him some good as well.

  Byre balanced lightly on his feet while his eyes darted between the three advancing bandits.

  His enemies taunted him. “Vaerli scum. We'll dice you up good and take your head for trophy.”

  A Vaerli must be buried with all his parts or risk the damnation of Chaos, and they knew it. One laughed as he swung at the cornered Vaerli. Byre caught the blade on his upraised stick and with a twist of his body downed the man with a swift riposte to the head.

  The two remaining enemies circled more warily while getting on either side of him. He waited calmly, his stick above his head, feet lightly placed in the guard position. One struck at his legs; he simply jumped back with a speed that would have done the Seventh Gift justice. Then, deftly changing the stick to his left hand, Byre caught the other brigand by surprise, thumping his stick with real force into his elbow. The man howled and dropped to the ground, screaming that his arm was broken.

  Spinning around to face the last uninjured bandit, Byre deliberately left his guard down, his head seemingly exposed. His enraged opponent took the bait. When he lunged, the Vaerli stepped nimbly back on his left foot and swung heavily out with his stick, catching the bandit directly in the face. He elicited a most satisfactory howl of outraged pain and dropped his sword.

  A life on the run had taught Byre how to look after himself, but it had also taught him realism. His odds of surviving so many opponents without a sword were slim.

  Indeed, the one he had knocked down was already getting up. The stick was meant for defense, to allow time to run, but he had nowhere to go—even the horses had fled.

  They rushed him as a group this time, taking the knocks and bruises he dealt out and bearing him to the ground. Swords gave way to knives and though he struggled, he was no match for three men. One caught at his hair, dragging his head back to feel the kiss of steel. “This will teach you,” he hissed.

  But exactly what lesson that would be, was suddenly lost.

  The men screamed all at once, a dreadful chorus of surprised pain. The blades rattled to the ground and Byre was able to scramble out from under his attackers. The earth itself had grabbed hold of them. For an instant he couldn't hear anything but the sound of bones breaking and stones rumbling. It was a dreadful cacophony as the bandits were pulled into the soil, still crying out in horror. Byre watched in frozen shock.

  When the Kindred emerged, he didn't know what to say; in his childhood he had seen only one, and that memory was dim and colored by childish fears.

  The two creatures, seething with the fires of the earth, slid through stone and turned their burning eyes on him. Immediately, he felt their immense sadness weigh upon him.

  “Thank you,” he managed to gasp out of a tight throat.

  There is no need to thank. The great curved head bent toward him with the intensity that a bird of prey might examine a mouse. That regard almost unmade him.

  Dropping his gaze, Byre scooped up his fallen stick, not quite understanding why the Kindred had come to his aid. The pact had been broken between his people and theirs, even before the Harrowing.

  Made by Kindred, but broken by Vaerli. The second Kindred's eyes ran with blue flame. He heard Byre's thoughts more easily than if he had spoken. It might have even been a form of humor, but Byre had no real way of telling.

  Lost one, the same creature was suddenly in front of him though he had not seen it move, its voice almost a purr. He felt the heat of it near to his face. Son of Ellyria Dragonsoul, we do not forget. You are the last of innocence and must be protected, because no sin weighs you.

  Byre laughed at that, thinking of all the dreadful things he had merely done to survive. He could have almost cried.

  You are on the path. You and yours have called us forth; already one of our kind has risked much for your line—just as we have this day. Without a face and expression to judge, it was impossible to tell what emotion was attached to that statement—joy or irritation.

  Byre did not know the words to bind or to summon. He had none of that lost knowledge, yet standing in the warmth of the Kindred he wished for them.

  Things can never be as they were. The blue-flamed Kindred reached out to him, but stopped a hair's breadth from his skin. You must follow your flame-dream, youngest. Go to the World Builders.

  Dimly, Byre heard Ungro finally labor down from the wagon, followed by the rasp of his indrawn breath. As if a mere mortal gaze disturbed them, the Kindred began to retreat into the earth. The stone slid aside, while their flame dimmed before disappearing entirely.

  Byre stood transfixed, but their final words lingered in his mind.

  We will be watching.

  The Lady Kelanim was taking particular joy in her discomfort. Watching her out of the corner of one eye, Talyn could only glower as the mistress swept across the room dragging fine dresses behind her. She was presently engaged in pulling out every dress she owned and scattering them around her large bedchamber. A flock of chambermaids were trailing in her wake, busy trying to keep them from being stepped on while managing to hide their horror.

  Kelanim seemed to be more interested in holding the fripperies up to the Hunter than offering them to Talyn—not that she minded that.

  It was galling, though, how she also reveled in every opportunity to stick her with a subtle jibe. “This gown is divine. I wore it at the midwinter festival. It would almost be your color, but you can see it is totally unsuitable. Your shoulders are far too wide, they would snap the sleeves.”

  Talyn did not rise to the insult. She had earned every muscle in her body in defense of her people. While Kelanim delved deeper into her cupboards, the Hunter roamed the room, idly flicking through the trinkets of the mistress's life: a thick gold bangle, screeds of lace underthings, and a positive mountain of makeup. A pile of papers caught her roving attention. They appeared to be religious images devoted to the Scion of Right, but when viewed from other angles they were something else entirely. Talyn's lips twitched. Some of the poses were almost physically impossible and deeply amusing.

  Kelanim sailed over, her emerald eyes honing in on anything that her rival might find of interest. Her smile was like a dagger. “I would have thought this was more my area than yours…”

  She was making sure Talyn knew all about her relationship with the Caisah.

  The Vaerli let her finger linger on the picture. “Why would you think that my people never have sex, Kelanim? Do you think we had no joy in life?
Or perhaps that we grew from the ground like vegetables?”

  Something flickered across that dazzling face, and for an instant Talyn wondered if the mistress knew of her dalliances beyond V'nae Rae, but then those beautiful eyes turned icy. “Of course not, but it seems there is no other way for you now.”

  Talyn smiled back as gently as she could. “Once there were many ways for us. In fact, some Vaerli were masters of the sex-magics, the kahi atuae.”

  “I have heard of this,” Kelanim said stepping closer with a rustle of silk, her breath near to Talyn's skin, “but I had not believed it was true.”

  She was probing for power. She would take any chance to keep the Caisah interested. The Vaerli glanced into the before-time and saw the parting of ways that lay in this discussion. After a moment she took half a step back. “But I am not one of those masters.”

  “Certainly not.” Kelanim's voice trembled a little as she turned back to the dresses. “Our Caisah has taken all such pagan powers.”

  The mistress decided quickly after that, and found a suitable dress near the back of her wardrobe.

  “It is last season's fashion, but the sleeves will hide your brawn while white will suit you well enough. I will send my seamstress to adjust it for you this evening.”

  With that Talyn was bundled out of the room like so much dirty laundry. It was no great loss to her to be expelled from that den of female intrigue.

  While retreating to her own quarters, the Hunter passed through one of the tranquil garden courtyards. Few lingered in such places; the carved figures on the walls spoke of long-gone Vaerli, and it unsettled the Manesto even if they didn't acknowledge it. Talyn thought it was small-enough justice.

  It was cool here even in summer, while the reflecting pool practically begged to be lingered by.

  Glancing over her shoulder assured Talyn she was alone. It surprised her how Kelanim's words had stung; she'd thought herself well past caring what she looked like. And yet here out of the glare of the mistress' attention she allowed herself to look at what centuries of servitude had made her.

  Staring into the water, she could see her mother reflected back, only hardened by life. Kelanim was right. Underneath the light shirt she could feel the rigidity of muscles honed by sword and shield. Hardly any feminine softness remained; her breasts bound as they were gave little away. If the Harrowing had never happened, then this would not be her body or her face. Her voice would have been all that was required of her. Life would have been the maie atuae. She had not been able to sing since that awful day.

  It was so foolish to let Kelanim's words affect her. Talyn slapped the water, shattering her reflection, and turned away.

  She had not seen Syris since they rode in, and knowing full well the dangers of that, her trail turned toward the stables. At least she was properly attired for this particular journey. The stable boys, used to seeing her there, looked up and smiled. For them it meant they did not have to deal with Syris.

  The nykur had the largest stall farthest from the rest of the horses, since the smell of meat unsettled his stable mates. While they liked barley and hay, he liked blood and flesh.

  Talyn climbed up and hung her arms over the top of the high gate to the stall. Syris glared at her with his dark eyes and pawed the thickly laid straw with one hoof. It was meant to be a chastisement.

  He was no horse, so she took his threats seriously. Still, she laughed and wiggled her fingers, daring him. He lunged, wicked teeth at the ready, but she was quicker—pulling back beyond the reach of his teeth and instead grabbing hold of his mane. He tugged and shook his head, but she held on.

  Finally, the nykur reluctantly let her stroke him. His mane bit and cut her fingers like rough grass, but the loss of a little blood was nothing to her.

  She let the nykur lick it delicately away with his barbed tongue. Such little rituals were a pleasant distraction from ridiculous talk of dances and dresses.

  Talyn was not so distracted that she did not hear the lurching steps of Faustin, Chief of the Horse, behind her. Hopping down from the gate, she gave the old man one of her rare smiles. Faustin was one of only two people she really smiled for in V'nae Rae these days. He was short like her, so neither had to look up at the other.

  His nut-brown face, wrinkled and off-center from an ancient encounter with Syris, lifted to see her too. “You planning on feeding that old devil your fingertips again?” His voice was gruff but laced with genuine affection.

  “Not today, I think the Caisah wants me to have them for his dance.”

  Unlike most people in the Citadel, the Chief of the Horse did not wince when the master was mentioned. He was rarely at the stables and as long as he did not interfere with the running of Faustin's little empire, he was of no consequence. It was the reason that Talyn liked the chief so much.

  Faustin leaned against the gate and watched Syris prance and snarl. “Still likes his bit of flesh does the old devil, though he's had none from my boys this week.”

  Talyn always found it curious how Faustin still admired and loved the nykur; his voice was never touched with anger or bitterness. “Not like he had from you.”

  The chief smiled in a distant, melancholy way. “That was a long time ago—not that I have forgotten the feeling of his teeth in my flesh, mind. He stopped me from getting around properly ever after.”

  Unlike her friend, Talyn could only faintly remember the unscarred, jaunty lad Faustin had been before Syris knocked him down and tore into him. In those early days he had not been worth saving a memory of. “Don't you hate him?”

  “Hate?” Faustin looked at her with genuine puzzlement. “A fine beast like that? Never. He was just doing what instinct told him to. It was me who made the mistake.” He peered more closely at her. “You've asked me this before.”

  Talyn sighed. “I am sure I have explained how my memory gift works. Haven't I?”

  “Aye, that you have. Must be a shame though—living so long and remembering only little bits.”

  “Sometimes I think it is the greatest gift. That of forgetting.” She smiled bitterly.

  Faustin was beckoning over a wide-eyed stablehand who was carrying a small bucket. It smelt of blood, and he handed it quickly over to his chief before scampering back to the safety of the horses. Syris sidled closer to the gate, pressing his great clear eye against the gap and clashing his teeth together. It was a frightening sound, yet not necessarily always a sign of aggression.

  Faustin offered the bucket to Talyn, but she gestured it away. It would be good for the nykur to be fed by another besides her. The chief began sliding the tastiest morsels of liver and tongue through the special gap to the hungry beast. He was careful to keep his fingers well beyond the grasp of those teeth. Sometimes he even dared a pat on the remarkably soft nose. Talyn winced every time he did, but Syris did not even flinch. When Talyn had seen the stableboys try that, she had witnessed a few lose a finger or two.

  Perhaps the nykur had taken all his aggression out on Faustin when he was a lad, for he was meek as a lamb now—at least as long as the treats kept coming. Once they were finished, Syris snorted and retreated to the back of the stall.

  Faustin laughed. “The devil in him! I can never get a pat once the meat is finished. You'd think he didn't want to go soft on me.”

  “He likes you, but he doesn't want to become your pet.”

  “Ah well, I can respect that.” The old man looked faintly sad, though. “It must be a great thing to ride out on him.” He glanced down thoughtfully at his twisted leg.

  “The first time I got on his back he nearly killed me,” Talyn said. “I'd gone down to the river where he was lurking, and I lay down on the bank.”

  The chief stared at her as if she was mad. “And he didn't trample you to death? I would have thought first chance he got…”

  “Well, they might be as swift as water and as deadly as fire, but they have one real weakness. The nykur are very curious. So he climbs out of the water and comes over t
o nudge me. He's trying to work out what I am. That is when I leap up and onto his back.”

  Faustin slapped his good knee and lent forward in delight. “Now that I would pay gold to have seen. I guess you must have survived.”

  Getting into the unexpected joy of telling a tale, Talyn threw her hands in the air. “I thought I wasn't going to! He flung me around until all my body ached, trying to reach me with his teeth or break my spine. Finally, he threw himself down to roll on me.”

  Safely behind the gate, Syris could be heard scraping his hooves on the ground beneath the straw, perhaps reliving the trial himself. Faustin barked a laugh. “I can just see the old devil. You must have had to move pretty sprightly.”

  “I jumped out of his way, and when he got up I leapt back on. He made such sounds of anger that the very earth churned. The villagers all ran from their houses in fright. They came to see though, just as he charged into the water to be rid of me by drowning.”

  Faustin looked puzzled.

  “There are tricks we Vaerli know, some that even the Harrowing did not remove. He was not going to get rid of me that way and in time he came to realize that.”

  “Perhaps that if he stuck with you there would always be liver and sweetbreads.”

  Talyn knew that was the polite way of phrasing it. In truth Syris knew that there would always be fighting and chaos around her.

  “Still,” she said, getting up and watching the nykur through the gate, “I know he didn't really expect to be shut up here for so long.”

  Faustin was staring at Syris with unguarded desire, his face for a moment reflecting a young man's longing.

  Talyn knew then what had really happened. “You tried to ride him too.”

  His blue eyes gleamed. “That I did. I was young and so foolish and brave. I can't be sure, but he seemed to understand me. He looked at me with that dark eye of his, and before I knew it I was grabbing his mane and mounting.” He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together thoughtfully, perhaps recalling the cut of the knife-bladed hair on his hands. “It was a glorious feeling, for a while at least. I thought he liked me.”