Hunter and Fox

by Philippa Ballantine

  For now at least, he would not go mad with the torture. His arm shattered and bound as it was would not slow him down should he manage to escape the cell.

  And how will you manage that? The Mastery had left him deaf to other things. He was not quite as alone as he might have thought. A single flame-eyed Kindred, present still only in ethereal form, lingered in the corner of the room.

  “There is always a way to escape these situations,” Byre replied with firmness he really didn't feel. “Perhaps you might even want to help me as you did last time…”

  The alien head twitched like a bird watching for prey or predator. You really are a remarkable kin. None of your race has been able to see us in this form since the Harrowing.

  Byre shifted, cautiously trying the strength of his manacles. “If I am so remarkable, then some help would be appreciated.”

  The Kindred glided closer, nearer to his face so that he could actually see the far wall through its insubstantial body. That would not serve our purpose.

  Byre knew full well the creature could use the stone around itself to fashion a useful body. He had seen them do it in defense of the wagon only a few days before. He ground his teeth in frustration. “Does it serve your purpose to watch me die in here? It will happen. She will have had her fun and then it will be over. What will you watch then? Will you let me die alone?”

  The Kindred's voice almost seemed sad. We can only watch—as Ellyria knew. But you are not alone.

  The words hung there for a moment and the peculiar intensity of the words pierced Byre through. He dredged his ancient memory for what he could recall of the Kindred. They were both danger and salvation to the Vaerli, but their thoughts were alien and unknown. Often what they did could indeed seem cruel, but there was always a reason. If only he could understand what that was.

  The pain of Byre's broken and contorted body was beginning to break through his Mastery. It would not be long now before pain rendered him incapable of thought. In desperation he stretched forth his unbroken hand toward the Kindred. “Help me!”

  You have all the help you need.

  Then he did cry out. Flyyit would be sorry to miss his final crumbling. He sobbed and called out the secret names of those long lost to him. He saw their faces as he remembered them. Mother long dead, father long lost, but most of all his sister's fall—the person he most loved. He had hidden their memory away, stuffed them down beneath three hundred years of day-to-day existence, but now writhing on the floor of the cell he allowed it back. His Vaerli nature, so long denied, flooded through him, toe to fingertip, skin to heart. The Kindred's eyes leapt to life, full of flame and triumph.

  Byreniko felt it again. He could hear them all: the lost, the angry, those near suicide, those who had stilled all thought of being Vaerli. So many feelings should have destroyed him. Instead he felt more complete than he had ever been. It was as if he had been blinded for centuries and was only now seeing.

  He sought her out, and though her mind was tangled with self-loathing and despair, to feel his sister's thoughts again was very, very sweet.

  His arm was still broken and trapped and he might well die very shortly, but Byre rolled so that he could see the sky outside and smiled.

  “Is the Harrowing ended?” he asked the Kindred with a voice that seemed to him to be that of all of his people.

  No. Nor have you yet earned the return of all Gifts, but you are the first kin to come even this far.

  Byre lay still for a moment, letting the connection subside—but only enough so that he could think for himself. “But it was the Caisah who caused the Harrowing. How did you make him return even one of them?”

  The Kindred was retreating, fading into the earth, leaving him with unanswered questions. Not all kin deserve to come home, and not all Gifts are given easily. The puzzle is not finished yet.

  Byre let his head drop. The creature was gone but the Second Gift remained. He held onto that, and the pain when it returned would not be enough to break him.

  Pelanor sat quietly on the stone floor, her eyes closed and her mind reaching out across distance to her gewalt. Alvick was so far away, but she could hear his blood pounding within her and taste his desire for her like sweetness on her tongue.

  “You failed.” The priestess' voice was soft in the darkness. “You know you cannot receive the Blood until the price is paid.”

  That irritated the young Witch. She had not studied hard for seven years to forget such a thing, but she showed none of these emotions when she replied. “The Caisah dismissed me. His power is one not even you could stand against, Mother.”

  A little dangerous to goad a priestess of the twelve-mouthed goddess, but no punishment came. She was now a full Blood Witch and not a mere acolyte.

  “There will be other chances, little one,” the priestess said. “The Hunter never stays too long by her master's side; there is no amusement in that for him. You must follow her in the wilds and take her there.”

  Again her elder was testing her. Pelanor rose. “There is no Witch alive or dead who can track a Vaerli. Their blood is immune to our magics.”

  Her elder remained silent, watching her out of narrowed eyes.

  Then Pelanor knew this was a test, and she and her gewalt's existence depended on passing it. The goddess might give the gift of the Blood, but the Council decided if she was worthy to be one of them. Although she might be nearly immortal, her vulnerability was Alvick, whom they had hustled away shortly after the ceremony.

  She thought on the nature of the Hunter and the magics that surrounded her. Finally after a short silence, she lifted her head and smiled. “The link between Hunter and prey is powerful.”

  The priestess raised an eyebrow. “Well done, little one. You have only to wait until her prey is named…”

  “And if I find that person then she will come to me.” Pelanor folded her hands and dropped her head once more. “Then if you do not object, Mother, I will meditate until the link is made and try to think of ways I may overcome the Hunter.”

  “A fine idea.” The priestess pressed her hand against the Witch's forehead. “You will need much preparation if you are to accomplish what no other of us has: the defeat of a Vaerli.” There was no sound to mark her leaving, but the air was still suddenly.

  Pelanor did not reply, instead fixing her mind on the glory that was bound to follow.

  Few people looked directly at Talyn the Dark as she strode through the Lower City. Truthfully, she did not look about herself much, either. It was too distressing to see the tumble of houses leaning over the streets like drunken fools. Vaerli had never been enough in number to need a building beyond the walls of the Citadel itself. These days it seemed like the city was larger and harder to escape.

  She would have also liked to ride Syris into the town, but the nykur was ill at ease in such close quarters, and she didn't need any incidents or further attention—not that she was able to move unnoticed through the streets.

  A tide of rumor raced ahead of her. Children were yanked hurriedly into houses and even beggars scrambled to get out of her way. Naturally, there were others too, footpads, people who had lost kin to her bounties, these all lurked in the lower portions of the city. She could feel their regard from the shadows of the alleys, but the before-time whispered that they were too shy of death to approach.

  It was not in Talyn's nature to be subtle. She had no contacts, and no shady go-between to smooth her path through the city's underbelly. So she went to the one place she knew such people could be found, the Singing Fish.

  Pushing open the conveniently squeaky door of the public house, she heard the patter of conversation stop suddenly. Every eye was on her, and despite herself, she smiled. It was certainly a curious effect. Not that smiling did her any favors, either. A couple of nervous patrons leapt up and made for the back door.

  Ignoring them, Talyn walked confidently up to the bar. Then, turning, she raised the full purse of gold. “You all know who I am, and you know
despite everything I do, I do not lie. I need information, not on any bounty—but on my kin. Anyone who can find the location of my brother—known as Byreniko—will earn this purse…and my gratitude.”

  Most kept watching her, but a couple exchanged glances as well. Good, she had some interest at least. She went on boldly, one eye always in the before-time. “He is most likely hidden, tortured even, but I will pay well for knowledge of his whereabouts, even more to secure his release. It is a simple matter that will earn you enough to last a lifetime.”

  She'd caused much harm to other people's families, but hopefully the lure of gold would erase that from people's minds. Tossing the purse lightly in one hand to make it jingle attractively, she turned to make her exit. “Leave a message at the Temple of the Lady of Wings if you wish to earn more money than fomenting rebellion will ever do.”

  At her back, the patrons sounded like angry bees, but if there were no rescuer there then at least the rumor would spread. It was the only plan she had. It was also Byre's only hope.

  The Caisah sat in the dark, and Kelanim hesitated at the doorway. She had made the mistake of interrupting his thoughts before—the bruises had taken weeks to subside from around her throat. Whatever dark shadows he battled, they put him on the edge of violence.

  Just how she had come to love the Caisah, Kelanim could not say. It was certainly not as if she had expected it. Her father, an insignificant official, had been trying to gain favor at the time, and she was the only thing of any value he had. So when Kelanim was sent dry-mouthed and terrified to Perilous she had only expected to hate. In fact, she had already planned to try to escape.

  But, from the moment she had seen him there was never any risk of her running away. Maybe it was his power or his fine looks, but she had never wanted to be anywhere else than at his side.

  The Caisah, still not perceiving her, sighed heavily and rested his head on his hand. She longed to rush to him, soothe his brow, and ask what was making him frown. She knew there was little chance he would share.

  Once only had he opened his thoughts to her. She had woken by his side just as morning broke; the dawning sun was just licking the window, and she had seen tears in his eyes. A soft touch on his hand, a look of love that even he could understand, and he'd whispered to her almost plaintively, “I was not meant to be like this; I was not made for immortality.”

  Even now she had no idea what he had meant. He'd immediately slammed the door to his innermost thoughts in her face. He answered no more of her questions, and if she ever spoke of that moment he would look at her blankly.

  Kelanim bit her lip. It was hard to love an immortal when she wasn't one herself. She knew all too well that there had been generations of clever and beautiful women before her, and all around was temptation that he might at any moment give in to. It was not just memory she had to contend with, because the presence of Talyn the Dark lingered over everything. She and the Caisah had shared so much together that it hardly mattered if they had shared a bed or not. Both were immortal and both recalled days and decades before her time.

  The mistress tightened her fists in the lush curtain fabric and held in her rage. It was almost the end of her time with him. She was smart enough to feel it. She would turn gray and go to ash, and there was nothing to be done about it. A child at least would have secured her place and bound him to her—but there was none. Everything had been tried, every witch-woman consulted, every vile preparation they recommended swallowed, but nothing of his quickened in her. She liked life too much to try to get pregnant with another man's child and pass it off as his.

  Yet there was a small hope. Unclenching her fist, Kelanim stared down in wonder at the note that had been slipped beneath her door this very morning. She had no clue as to who might have written it, but there in clear bold strokes were words of hope—the only ones she had ever had. The timing of it was exquisite. It was a dangerous task the letter set her, though, and should she be discovered Kelanim was in no doubt what her fate would be. Yet there was nothing else for her. Only lonely exile in the women's apartments awaited her. No other man would marry the Caisah's cast-offs for fear of the master changing his mind. She had seen enough of these once-mistresses, and their miserable ends, to be more afraid of that than the Caisah's anger.

  Gathering up her courage, Kelanim went to him, being careful to rustle the fabric of her dress and give him warning. That beautiful face turned and she could almost see the emotions flee. He stood and pulled her against him.

  Fiddling with the buttons of his elaborate coat, Kelanim said as coolly as she could, “So, has Talyn left yet to hunt down that fool of a talespinner?”

  He shrugged easily with his mind still far away. “Such fare is too meager for my hawk.”

  “Perhaps,” Kelanim whispered, snuggling closer, “but there is much talk in the Citadel.”

  “Talk?”

  “There is always talk, beloved.”

  His lips twitched. He had no liking of such terms of endearment, but she knew him well. The Caisah might feign indifference, yet he always had a wary eye out for stirring rebellion.

  Taking his silence as a good omen, Kelanim pressed on. “They say you are losing the will to rule. That you allowed a filthy spinner of tales to mock you in your own home.” She flinched, expecting him to lash out.

  This time his temper held. His finger traced her cheek, cool and calculated. Kelanim worried he could feel the letter burning a hole in her pocket. Finally, he spoke. “My Hunter has had less grand prey of late, I suppose. And I cannot let such an insult go unpunished, can I?”

  Catching his hand, she pressed it to her lips. “No, my lord, for you are mighty and dreadful.”

  He laughed then, and let her draw him back to her room. Whatever dark thoughts and powers possessed her love, for a while he laid them aside and was just a man.

  It had been a close thing. Finn had been upstairs at the Singing Fish that morning when Talyn the Dark came with her incredible offer. By the time he emerged from his room the whole place was in near-riot. The inn was now full of people clamoring to hear the story.

  Circling the room, Finn gathered several versions of the event, most obviously embellished. He doubted very much that Talyn had killed fifty men on her way down the street, nor did he believe that she had been dressed in nothing but boots and sword. Talespinner that he was, he admired the effort and could imagine that by nightfall there would be a hundred different accounts leaving Perilous for new life in outlying districts. The pamphleteers would be hard at work all evening.

  He was sure that the Hunter had no idea what she had unleashed. Despite her great age Talyn had little contact with ordinary folk, but the talespinner had seen the power of story before.

  Three years before, Finn had been wintering in a small coastal village to the north. A hapless fisherman, who thought himself a spinner of a yarn or two, bragged about a fish of gold that he had hauled in just off the bay. Now, told to his neighbor over the back fence, the story would have gotten no farther than the village; but, by broadcasting it to a heaving public house with many well into their cups, he'd brought himself nothing but misery. Scarcely a week later and the villagers were inundated with people searching for this shoal of gold-filled fish. Some got rather angry when told there was no such thing. The fisherman who had started it all ended up with his boat holed and was forced to move to another village altogether.

  Telling a story wasn't as simple as it first seemed. Finn knew there was power in words that most didn't really understand. Within hours after she made her offer, the rumor had spread to practically everyone in the city—within days, it would have reached even the farthest corners of Conhaero. It would not just be a bag of gold Talyn was offering, it would be a chest, and more besides. Soon Perilous would be full of conmen, desperados, and the mentally unstable. They would be dragging every father, son, and husband they thought might pass as her brother to her doorstep. As Finn thought about it, he realized it would also make Vaerli va
luable property, and it wouldn't matter to them that getting two in a room was always fatal.

  It was almost comforting that Talyn had made such a mistake. It did, however, mean that his performance of last night was not the most interesting news of the day.

  “Know any Vaerli hereabouts, talespinner?” A tall fellow with beefy shoulders stood very close to Finn.

  Finn paused on a reply and looked around. Yes, he was right; they were all staring at him. He tried to sidle away from the gathering crowd. Though he was used to attention, this was not the kind he wanted. The gleam in their eye spoke of gold madness.

  They pressed closer, blocking his way to the door. The people were being absorbed into a crowd, losing their identity and becoming bold with it. They poked him, beginning to yell, and Finn tried his best not to panic at their odor and aggressiveness. He'd seen men torn apart in a mob by normal everyday people. He heard the publican yelling for order, but no one was listening. It seemed strangely funny that a talespinner might be dismembered by a crowd so desperately wanting a story.

  He was saved when Equo's spare shape interposed itself between the talespinner and the crowd.

  Spreading his hands and smiling charmingly, the new arrival said jovially to the crowd, “He really isn't that good.”

  “Half-rate talespinner if you ask me.” The top of an enormous green hat was just visible near the back. The voice was unmistakably Varlesh's.

  The crowd rippled with laughter.