Hunter and Fox

by Philippa Ballantine

  From there Byre had little more to share. Only tales of running and hiding, apart from the day he had so nearly rushed into his sister's arms. It was the bottom of despair for both of them. By some mad luck, the person they found that day, out of all Conhaero, was their sibling.

  Finally his tale whittled down to this day and place, and the Sofai who had set him on the path. Having found the end of his own tale, Byre asked, “And your life, Father? What has it been since the Harrowing?”

  Retira shielded his eyes as if ashamed of his emotion. “Nothing. Life has been nothing for three hundred years…just a slow sleep walk, without even oblivion to welcome me. No purpose. No joy.”

  He stopped for a moment and let the tears flow. Byre still didn't know him, but he didn't need a Gift to feel his terrible pain. Reaching over, he clasped his father to him. They held each other and cried, which might not have been as powerful as the lost Vaerli empathy but was still, as Retira said, better than not having each other.

  When they had shed all the tears they had, there was calm.

  Retira patted Byre's back and said matter-of-factly, “When your mother died and you were gone, I don't know why I did not look for the flames of death. That was what made it easy to go to the Hill when it was needed. If giving up the Gifts is the price I pay to see my children again, I am happy with the deal.”

  It was impossible to argue. Byre could see by the look in his father's eye he meant it very deeply—he could only dream of being a parent one day and knowing that feeling for himself. For the first time, he had the faintest of hope that it might happen. The Kindred had offered it.

  For a moment, Byre was overcome with fear and sadness, for it was quite possible that his father would not live to see the end of the Harrowing, if it should ever happen. He cleared his throat. “So, how far to the Great Cleft?”

  Retira sighed, and looked up into the darkening sky. “Closer than you think. There are those who have their own ways and magic that few know of. Luckily, you are now traveling with such a one.”

  He shook out a small blanket from his meager pack and handed it to Byre. “For now, you should rest. Your body will heal a lot faster with sleep, and we can afford to wait until then.”

  “What about you?” The night was drawing in cold amongst the ferns, and his father seemed frail without the protection of the Gifts.

  “I will watch,” he said, stretching his feet out toward the fire. “I would like to see you sleep. Your mother, no matter how busy she was, always tucked you in and sang—do you remember that?”

  Byre wrapped the blanket around himself and found a soft place in the earth to rest his head. He was surely not imagining the pulse of life he could hear under his ear. “I remember,” he whispered, even as his eyes closed.

  “My voice is not nearly as pretty as hers, but I remember the tune.” Retira began to sing, soft and low so that his voice did not travel far among the forest of ferns.

  Blessed are the people, sweet and happy we are.

  For I am a child of land, it sweeps me into its heart

  It carries me next to its skin, and all my troubles are gone.

  I whisper my thoughts to the Kin, and they sweep them away

  To be born and lost in the flame, where none sleep.

  His father's husky voice lulled him to sleep as if he were magically transported back to childhood, and Byre was able to forget, for a moment, everything around them. He drifted to sleep with a smile on his face.

  Oriconion had always been a hotbed of resistance. Equo knew the sorry history of this large port on the edge of the Great Lake very well; far from the reaches of Perilous, it had once been the home of people very different from its current inhabitants.

  He glanced to his right where Varlesh was stroking his beard and looking down to the tumble of yellow buildings wreathed in ominous smoke. “That can't be a good sign.” Away from outsiders Varlesh was not so jovial, his voice dropped to a quieter tone and his gestures became sparer. “They have begun. Damn it all, couldn't they wait for us?”

  “Apparently not,” Equo replied, “but we are here sooner than we expected to be, thanks to Finn.”

  “That boy is getting stranger every time we see him. Imagine—a Kindred! What next? Will he be riding a nykur like Talyn the Dark?” Not waiting for a reply, Varlesh stalked down the hill toward the town.

  Equo glanced at Si. “Well…will he?”

  An enigmatic smile crossed his companion's face. “Perhaps—perhaps more.” And then he followed after Varlesh. Equo sighed. Sometimes it felt like he was the only one with any brains.

  The Swoop would have been dispatched, for the Caisah always reacted the same way. That meant within a day or two there would be more bloodshed in Oriconion.

  Still, he followed in the wake of the others, trying to concentrate on the beauty of the town seen from afar—before the ugliness of the reality could be seen. Descending from the hill there was nothing dangerous-looking about it; golden rooftops of the local clay gleamed with the rays of the early morning sun. The fishing boats pulled up on the white sand shores seemed peaceful enough, and in the middle distance could be seen the dark circles of the villages on stilts, which punctuated the blueness of the lake. This web of manmade islands, wetlands, and submerged paths made Oriconion an excellent base for rebellion. The Caisah had tried many times to destroy what the Portree built—but they were a stubborn people.

  To the right, set in against the hills were the white-walled, golden-roofed tidy homes of the Manesto. To the left, exposed to the cruel southerly wind, were the huts of the dispossessed Portree, those whose carracks had been broken. These houses looked as if they had been thrown there, made of rubbish and flotsam from the lake.

  It had been many years since Equo had lived in one of those homes, but he still recalled it vividly. The Portree were not wealthy or particularly blessed in anything except for their knowledge of the water, but they had taken him, Varlesh, and Si, into their homes when the three men had been hunted by the Caisah. The Portree had risked what little they had for the strangers and for that earned their loyalty.

  Equo's musings on those times were cut short. Varlesh had stopped abruptly and was pointing toward the Manesto houses, his face flushed red. “That's new—what by the Wise Crone are they up to?”

  Obviously the Manesto were feeling more threatened than ever, for a tall ironwork fence ran between their houses and the huts. The main gate was now on the Manesto side, the Portree's only opened to the lake. A cold shiver ran through Equo, but he grabbed Varlesh's hand and dragged it down. “Don't make a fuss, old man—we don't want to get ourselves killed today.”

  His companion's eyes bulged, but he nodded curtly. Together they made their way to the stout town gate. Usually there was one wary guard on duty, so it was a sign of definite trouble that half a dozen guards, well-armed and bright-eyed, met them. Equo had to make a hasty explanation that they were here for scholarly study on the Portree history.

  The guards laughed at that. “You'll be gone soon, then. They have nothing much to study except how they like the feel of a boot on their neck.”

  Varlesh's hands clenched into fists.

  “Maybe so,” Equo replied smoothly, “but it is our mission to find all people's tales before they are lost.”

  The captain sniffed. “Well there has been some trouble lately, but the Praetor hasn't closed the quarter yet. It's your funeral.”

  “Let's hope not,” Varlesh growled as they moved past the welcoming committee.

  “I wonder how Nyree is faring,” Equo whispered. “With her working for the Portree in that clinic of hers.”

  The three exchanged worried looks; it would make an excellent target for the Caisah to crush.

  “We best find her fast,” Varlesh said. “No time for even an ale.”

  When he said that, the other two men knew they were in serious trouble, but as they made their way to the heavily guarded gate, Equo knew what he was thinking. Once it had been t
hey being persecuted and the Portree their saviors. The question was, could they now return the favor?

  On the other side of the gate it was another world; a child with a bony chest was coughing near a beached boat, while a hollow-eyed dog skittered past. It had never been a wealthy place; still, the last time they had been here there had been no obvious hunger, and the streets had been bustling. Equo recalled with melancholy the spice-laden atmosphere and brightly dressed women calling out their catches for the day in the street.

  Now the air was full of the scent of decay and despair.

  Si's eyes were filling with tears; he always felt things more keenly. Equo could only imagine what he was sensing, and be glad he could not.

  Varlesh fiddled idly with the tip of his pipe in his top pocket as if he could not bring himself to go any farther.

  “We must find Nyree by nightfall,” Equo reminded them.

  The clinic was buried among a tangle of narrow streets crowded with leaning houses. They barely saw a single soul along the way. Only a gap-toothed old man huddled on a doorstep rocking himself and humming told them that anyone lived here at all.

  It was always the same in times of rebellion; those uninvolved tried to keep out of the way and those involved tried to do the same. It made for very quiet streets most of the time.

  The clinic was a low building spreading through what had once been a beautiful flowering garden dedicated to the Bountiful Queen. Even when Nyree had come with her belief in the Kindred, the scion had remained, somehow content with the herb beds and small patches of flowers. Nyree seemed able to coexist with scions, though perhaps that was because she served much the same interests.

  The trio went up to the wide-open doorway, and Equo could not help but think how mad that entrance was in a time of conflict. A couple of simply dressed Portree sat on the top step near the door, catching the last rays of the late afternoon sun. Both were young women bearing bandaged limbs and faces mottled by bruises. There was always a hint of oppression about their race, because on both sides of the White Void they had been on the losing side of every war. Still, their beautiful burnished brown faces and liquid eyes remained full of grace. Something about them always suggested oppression was on their terms, as if they could wait it out. The faintest lines of silver tracery on the garments of the slightly older woman indicated she was a serf army, mother of the water, which meant she had her own boat, her own crew, and was about as high as a Portree could be expected to go in this world.

  Yet, when the three men bowed asking to see the Healer, she smiled shyly and led them herself into the cooler recesses of the house.

  All was much as it had been on their last visit, only the beds of injured and sick were more plentiful, but the place smelt airy and nothing of decay seemed in evidence. Nyree always ran her clinic with ruthless efficiency.

  Their Portree guide brought them to the only closed door in the building, a smoothed stone that nonetheless glided easily open under her hand. She poked her head around the other side, checking in a quiet voice before opening it wider and ushering them in. A quartet of older Portree women were working over a variety of herbs laid out on a long table before them. Their guide exchanged quick angular-sounding words with them, then she bowed slightly. “My apologies, but the Healer is attending a sick child in the lakeside district. She may be there for some time.”

  “We must see her,” Si whispered to Equo.

  The woman's eyes traveled uneasily to him as if she found something disturbing, but she replied evenly, “Rile can take you there.” In short order, a lean boy of about ten with the face of a mahogany cherub was summoned and given stern instructions by the serf army to take them directly to the Healer.

  They left the relative beauty of the clinic and went deeper into the slum. The odd face was seen at the window, but there was the scent of gunpowder in the air and the three men could feel the danger increasing around them.

  The huts here were little more than lean-tos and the streets were choked with filth and debris. Still their guide leapt from brick to brick in front of them, chattering away in his own language and apparently unaware of their discomfort.

  He deposited them at a hut, much like any of the others; dropping to his knees, he began to draw pictures using a nearby mud puddle.

  They entered cautiously to the rather refreshing smell of herbs and unguents, a sure sign that they did indeed have the right place.

  Nyree had her back to the door, all her attention centered on a tiny child wrapped in bandages and blankets on a shaky bed in the corner.

  In the nature of her kind, she knew they were there but didn't acknowledge them until she was done. Only then did Nyree turn and look at them through her ancient eyes.

  She had the same golden-cast skin and small stature of Talyn the Dark, but her eyes were the most translucent, deepest blue. They were the kind of eyes to go mad in, and if they had been filled with stars, as they should have been, Equo could imagine they would have made him drop to his knees. Every time he saw Nyree a little bit more of his heart was lost to her, for she was what the Vaerli should be, not the twisted remains of the Caisah's pet.

  Kissing the child lightly on the head, Nyree whispered, “Try to get some sleep, little one.”

  Her voice was soft and light with the faintest of lilts to it. It sounded exactly the same as the day that she used it to refuse his offer of marriage. Equo felt his insides go hollow just looking at her and thinking of that time. She'd been the one to tend the wounds he received in their flight from the Rutilian Guard. He'd fallen in love with her and all her kindnesses. Still, when he'd proposed she'd gently declined in that unflappable voice of hers. She reminded him that there would be no children from such a union, as Vaerli only bred with Vaerli. She would not deny either of them that chance. No arguments or protestations had swayed her, and her calm rejections hurt more than simply saying she didn't love him.

  Varlesh, who knew well enough the whole story, stepped forward. “It's good to see you, lass. Sorry it couldn't be under better circumstances.”

  She shrugged her shoulders before greeting them effortlessly with a gentle kiss on the cheek, one for each of the trio. “Trouble comes when it will, and all too often here. You are looking thin, Equo. You mustn't let Varlesh get every meal, you know.” It was her gentle way of reproof.

  He struggled under her kindness; it would have been much easier if she was cruel. His love would have withered long ago if that were the case.

  Si clasped her hand, looking deep into those eyes, but whatever passed between them was not sexual, merely the recognition of one deep soul to another.

  Nyree broke the look with a light laugh. “You cannot surely have stopped here for merely a social visit.” Was it Equo's imagination, or did her gaze linger on him?

  Varlesh laughed. “Why, lass, we are here for the rebellion!”

  She frowned at that, but gestured them to take a seat on the low wooden bench opposite. Folding her legs, she dropped down elegantly on the dirt. “And what exactly do you hope to achieve, apart from more death? I recall the last rebellion created nothing except orphans and widows.”

  “The time is ripe,” Si said.

  Nyree raised an eyebrow. “Indeed, and what makes you think that?”

  “Have you not heard the word?” Varlesh clamped his pipe in his teeth, but in deference to the sick child did not light it.

  Nyree frowned, so Equo leaned forward. “Everyone can feel it. Something has changed out there in the world. If you had the Gifts, you would see it even better than us.”

  She pursed her lips and said somewhat tartly, “The stars are in alignment, the tea leaves tell the tale, and the innards of some poor bird give the right signs. Is that right?”

  He felt for her; being cut off from her own heritage made such things painful to believe in, but it did not mean other magics did not exist. The world was ready for change, exploding for it, but he didn't know what to say. Si did.

  “Kindred are mo
ving, Nyree.”

  Her hand flew to her lips.

  “So you see,” Varlesh said tapping the end of his pipe against his teeth, “that is much better than any tea leaves.”

  “A Kindred appeared to save our friend—right in front of Talyn,” Equo went on. “You should have seen her face.”

  Nyree closed her eyes. “Do not even mention her name, dear friend. Talyn the Dark is no longer numbered among the true Vaerli…but, it is as you say…a sign.”

  It was impossible to tell if she would have given her blessing to the rebellion, because at that moment their guide came bursting through the hangings on the front door. His eyes were huge in his head as he threw himself on Nyree, gabbling out words and tugging on her sleeve.

  She soothed him with a gentle hand on his face and spoke to him calmly in his own language. The news could not have been good, for when he finally stopped talking she hugged him, and her face was clouded with fear.

  “I am sorry, my friends,” she said softly, “I think your visit has put you in mortal danger. The Swoop have arrived and are burning the riverside quarter.”

  They could smell it now, the tang of smoke in the air, distant but threatening.

  Equo's mouth went dry, while Varlesh rose to his feet with a roar like an angry bull. “What? By the Pure Maid, they have no right!”

  “They think they do. It is retaliation for the uprising in the hills two days ago, which is retaliation by some angry boys here for the killing of a family the week before. It's an ugly and familiar circle.” Nyree rocked the sniffling boy. “We are cut off from the clinic, and they are burning their way back to the water.”