Hunter and Fox

by Philippa Ballantine

  The trio of men stood a little apart, but still Varlesh drew the others farther away from Nyree, his eyes somber as stones. “Azrul will tell him, even if he didn't feel our magics.”

  Equo nodded, feeling the euphoria of the Union wearing off. “But, what will he do is the question…”

  Varlesh rubbed his eyes wearily. “He most likely suspected the Ahouri were not dead, but this time he has proof. He's losing interest in the Vaerli, and now he will think we started the rebellion. What do you think he will do?”

  They stared bleakly at each other. Si took their hands. “It was time. It was the right time for us.”

  It wouldn't make death any easier, but Equo smiled. “It was good to sing the Union again.”

  “Aye.” Varlesh chuckled. “Good to know that it is still there and we haven't totally forgotten.”

  Equo looked down at their hands: Varlesh's thick and broad, marred with calluses; his own long and tapered with fingers made for music or writing; and Si's soft as a child.

  “We will endure,” Si reminded them. “As before.”

  “Yes.” Equo relaxed a little. “We are still well protected. He may search all he likes. He will find no trace of our people.”

  “Equo?” Nyree's voice interrupted their reverie. They jumped and danced apart. Outsiders sometimes mistook their odd relationship for something else entirely. But the Vaerli obviously had more concerns on her mind. “I need to talk to you.”

  He stepped away, making what he hoped was a warning expression to Si and Varlesh while Nyree's back was turned.

  He was expecting a thousand questions, or at least a comment or two on the unexpected magic they had just performed. Instead she led him toward the water's edge and pulled up the edge of her sleeve. “What do you think of that?”

  On the delicate underside of her wrist was a faint blue line of the flowing text of the Vaerli. It twirled a short distance down where the veins disappeared under her shirt. He couldn't help running a fingertip along that line and shivered at the feeling of her soft skin. “It's very pretty.”

  “I suppose it may be, but it wasn't there this morning. And in fact, though I can't be sure, I think it wasn't there until you sang.” There was real fear in her voice.

  “You know what it means, then?”

  She sighed, tugging down her sleeve, and dropped her eyes away from his. “There were always two Seers of the Vaerli, one made, one born. I was to be the made one, the Hysthshai, for my generation. I was the apprentice of Putorae…”

  “The one killed by the Caisah?”

  “The very same: the last of the seers. I had not yet begun to receive the pae atuae, the word magic that all the Hysthshai are marked with. But I had studied by her side for all of my childhood. I was ready.” She sighed heavily. “But Putorae was killed, the born seer was not revealed, and the pae atuae did not appear. Then we had more concerns than the lack of seers.”

  Equo wanted to hold her and offer some meager comfort against the pain which was obviously resurfacing. For a second his hand hovered above her turned back, but he lowered it awkwardly. “We have to help these people right now, Nyree.” He reminded her of her duty instead.

  “But that is it,” she replied quietly. “Putorae saw many things in the future and I was the one to learn them all. In the few weeks before she went to the Caisah, she was troubled by these visions. Today you made one of them come to pass, the revelation of the Ahouri.”

  Equo's throat went dry. He hadn't really expected Nyree not to know, she was both ancient and well educated.

  She had turned while he was standing there stunned and now she was holding him fast with her peerless eyes.

  “There were things Putorae knew,” she said. “Things not all Vaerli did. She told me of our greatest horror, and it does not wear the Caisah's face. I cannot say more, but I fear that if this vision has appeared, it heralds that the rest may come to pass also.”

  The tone of her voice, an odd dark look, and Equo suddenly realized she suspected him of something sinister. He pulled back, disturbed that she did not perceive the truth of his nature.

  “There is a group of fishing crannog to the north,” he replied gruffly. “We should get everyone there before dark. From there the rebels will be able to get them to safety.”

  He went back to Si and Varlesh and thought hard on what she had said. The Caisah's wrath would be more than enough to deal with for now—they certainly didn't need anything darker or more mysterious than that.

  Byre and his father rested. The earth moving beneath them was a soothing lullaby. He woke with a start to the sun's rays piercing through the canopy of rustling ferns.

  His father was seated, just as he had been before, but his head was dropped against his chest, and a faint snore rumbled through the clearing.

  They had spent the last few days hiding from Rutilian Guard as they swept through the Chaoslands. Normally the guard stayed on the Road but something drove them deep into land that was both dangerous and unknown.

  Even Byre and Retira, with their experience, found the going hard. A Vaerli after the Harrowing was almost in as much peril as any other person in the Chaoslands. Creatures whose entire purpose was to hunt and eat prowled the inner lands. Even those that lived on plants could still pose a threat. The towering bulk of a thramorn had almost crushed them in their sleep while on her late-night feeding expedition. With the constant changing landscape, animals could not afford to wait for their food to wither and die, and many existed without sleep. The thramorn had no more noticed their camp than a person noticed a worm. Intent on scrounging as many tasty fern fronds as possible, her large foot had only barely missed Byre. A thramorn, for all its bulk, was as silent as a cat. With so many predators it had to be.

  Though it had been frightening, Retira was not angry. He simply pointed out that both of them should have noticed the trees stripped by the river and been on watch. It was a basic mistake that he took the blame for, claiming the joy of traveling with his son had temporarily blinded him. His relaxed and jovial manner was something Byre remembered. It had always been their mother who had been the disciplinarian. She would not have been so forgiving.

  Retira led Byre farther into the forest, pointing out where the land was already heaving itself upward. Within a week it would most likely be a mountain pass. He might have cut himself off completely from the Vaerli and their Gifts, but he still had a thousand years of experience of the wild. The land sense had been an invaluable tool, he conceded to Byre, yet he argued it had made Vaerli lazy. With the feeling of land in their heads they had not really needed to look more deeply at it.

  “Have you noticed the changes in the tempo of the earth?” he asked.

  Byre shrugged. “I have not spent so much time in the Chaoslands. With no one to teach me the ways…” He stopped, too embarrassed to go on.

  “No one would expect you to remember. But I have spent much time wandering…perhaps more than is healthy. There is a change in the rhythm of the land. Places which raged are now silent, and the more placid areas are now so dangerous even I dare not go there. It has been happening gradually, but it is easy to see if you have the lifetime of our people. Still, I do not know why.”

  The images of seething fire suddenly washed over Byre. He hadn't realized it consciously before, but the place of his dream was definitely underground. Could the lurking creature be a Kindred, or something even more menacing?

  “What I do know,” Retira went on, not noticing his son's abrupt discomfort, “is that you must get to the Great Cleft soon. The Choana say it is open only for a few days in the year.”

  Such knowledge was not a Vaerli thing. They might be masters of the earth, but they never ventured beneath. Byre caught himself from asking how his father knew such a thing, for the World Builders were known for their utter secretiveness. Even the Blood Witches had marginal contact with the other peoples of Conhaero, but the Choana had disappeared into the icy wastes. Only the broken bodies of those who sou
ght them out told that they even still existed. They were dumped on the edge of the frozen plain, with warnings against further incursions carved into their chests. Even the Caisah did not bother them as long as they showed no signs of challenging him for power.

  It mattered little how his father got his information. If it were true, then they might as well turn back now. Byre stated the obvious, though. “We cannot get there in time.”

  Retira tapped the side of his nose and grinned. “Not by normal means. Even your sister's nykur could not manage it, but the old still have a trick or two to teach.”

  Byre had learnt much of the Vaerli lore at his mother's knee. Even so, he couldn't imagine what his father was talking about. But there was no persuading an explanation past his father's smiling lips. He wanted to keep his secrets.

  The following morning they packed up camp without Retira saying anything more. Used to silences and secrets in equal measure, Byre followed him down to the newly sprung river two hours' walk from their sleeping place. The heady taste of the Gifts had been withdrawn from him, and so the land gave none of Retira's mysteries away.

  His father took out a small flute chased with silver but no word magics, and blew three sharp notes upon it. The earth rumbled and it was not the gentle easing of a Kindred from beneath. Instead it was a ripping sound, as if the very fabric of the soil was being torn. Byre winced in sympathy.

  What emerged was deep green, as large as one of the Caisah's carriages, and smelt musty like something kept too long in the dark. It took him a moment to recognize the protuberance as the stem of some massive plant.

  Cautiously he touched the pod. It was warm under his hand and soft like flesh, but when he pushed harder it felt like steel was buried beneath. “What is it?” he asked his grinning father.

  Retira blew another note on his flute, a descending one that sent shivers through the plant. It sprung apart, revealing a glossy cream interior like fine silk, and the smell changed to one of heady glory. It was as if a monster had shed its skin and become a butterfly. Byre did not know what to make of it.

  Even more alarmingly, Retira tucked away his flute and actually stepped into the pod. He reclined in the smooth interior and patted a spot near him. “The Choana did not disappear, Byre, not at all; they have been beneath us all along. I found a place with them, and thanks to that you will not have to suffer the rigors of further travel. Come in.”

  Byre paused at the entry of the pod. The curled lips were twitching, and he knew very well that they would close as soon as he was in. He had never suffered from a fear of being shut in, but he couldn't get the imagery of being swallowed out of his head.

  Retira held out his hand. “I said it was safe. Don't you trust me?”

  Now was not the time to point out how long they had been separated or to make some snappy comment about his father's mental health. It was a simple choice of go forward or fail. Not having anything to lose but his life, Byre stepped into the pod.

  It closed around him with a sound almost like a sigh. It should have been dark, but there was a strange green-white light coming from the walls. It cast his father's face in alien, odd angles.

  Byre gingerly took a spot next to him. As the pod lurched, he found himself grabbing reflexively for a handhold but there was none. Apparently it wasn't needed, though, for the surface he was sitting on was somehow attached to him.

  “Don't worry,” Retira said. “Once we set off, the pod will move remarkably smoothly.”

  “What is it…this thing, anyway?”

  “Just what it seems. The Choana have the way of making growing things do their bidding—plants, that is, not animals. That is forbidden.”

  For a second, Byre imagined what masters of matter could do if let loose on unsuspecting creatures. If they chose to, they could create nightmares. He said nothing, but swallowed his fears. He had put his trust in his father, and if he lost faith now he might as well have been left in the Caisah's cell.

  “Now I'm going to get some rest.” Retira yawned. “The pod will take some time to get back to its root. Nothing will endanger you here.” And with that he turned over and, nestling into the interior, dropped to sleep.

  Byre could do no such thing. The whole motion was unnatural and even though he was sure it was a plant, he still didn't trust it. And if he didn't trust the method of travel, could he really trust his father?

  It was a hard thing to think about because the memories of his life before the Harrowing were his most cherished. But the toughened part of him that had lived his life since then realized he knew nothing of his father, really. Byre had the chilling worry that he was being led into danger, cynically tethered by his emotions.

  He should ask. He should wake Retira and simply demand to know how they came to be traveling in this strange conveyance of Choana making. He should be brave enough to reveal his concerns.

  Byre wasn't. The memories got in the way and he didn't know how to get past them. He had already lost three parents. So he closed his eyes and tried not to think about those questions.

  The Sofai slipped into that space. It was far easier to think of her dark eyes and soft voice than closer problems. But there were questions there, too—what had she got him into?

  Pelanor hung close to Finn. She definitely did not like the smell of these men that they had fallen in with—even less than that of her first traveling companion. They reeked of wildness and masculinity that put her further on edge.

  Her nerves were wrecked—for she was hungry, deeply ferociously hungry. It made her stomach cramp and her eyes feel disconnected from her body. Every muscle was aching, her mouth dry, and suddenly she was beginning to remember what pain was.

  Pelanor longed for Alvick, her mate, and her Blood. His gift would fill the need within her, ease the great hunger, and hold her back from the Dark Gate.

  However, if she could not have Alvick then others could stand in his place.

  Even now, walking behind Finn, she fantasized about lunging forward and burying her mouth around his flesh. His skin would part beneath her teeth and there would be relief from the dragging agony of the Hunger.

  She could not—it was part of the test. So she managed to stay her hand…for now, at least.

  Day was just beginning to shake itself out of the desert ahead, over the heads of their traveling companions. Pelanor swallowed. The sun was a burning blood red.

  She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to get that delicious imagery out of her head.

  “Are you all right, Pelanor?” Finn had dropped back and put his hand on her shoulder, concerned for a weak mortal woman in the desert.

  “Not really,” she replied softly. “I mean, can we trust these people?” If only she could get him alone, maybe there was a chance she could satisfy the Hunger a little.

  “After saving us last night?” He glanced at her with some humor. “Would you prefer we trust the Hashani'mort? You tell me, you're from the tribes.”

  Her lie had been discovered, and it was obvious that he was a lost cause. Although she assumed Finn was a jovial-enough fellow to mortals, to her he was simply irritating. She feared if she opened her mouth she would say something biting that would reveal herself. Still her lips twitched, aching to let out something.

  “I'm glad you think it's funny.” Finn gave her a gentle shove, but she didn't tell him that it was no giggle she'd suppressed.

  They walked for three hours, until the waves of heat rippled over the baking rocks. Finn was sweating, but neither Pelanor nor their guides complained.

  Looking back over one shoulder she observed the one thing that did make her uncomfortable: the Kindred was watching her.

  Blood Witches didn't exactly fear the Kindred—once passed through the mouth of the goddess, fear was supposed to be a mere memory. It was more that they were uncertain of them. Their magic was too different, too alien, and far removed from that of Blood to really be comprehended. Also, they saw things. Undoubtedly this Kindred could see through her li
es and knew what she was.

  So Pelanor struggled to understand it as well. In the back of her mind was the possibility that if she had to eliminate Finn it might well attack her. She narrowed her eyes. The tail was new, as Finn had pointed out. Though she knew nothing about their magics she wondered on its implications. The Kindred were awesome allies, able to call on their powers of fire and Chaos at any time, and if cornered even the earth itself could be their ally. Would her Blood magics be enough to counter such a threat?

  Soon, though, there was no time to think about things as they crested the last hump of sand and rock. Before them was Caracel.

  In the great ochre valley below was spread a sprawling mass of tents, bawling livestock, and more humanity than Pelanor had ever cared to see. The noise and the smells were offensive to her highly tuned senses.

  “Amazing, isn't it?” Finn was by her side once more, a bright note in his voice. “All the Chaos tribes meet here once a year to trade, arrange marriages, dance, and compete. See there.” He raised one finger and pointed down into the center of the throng. “There's a large oasis here. It moves every year, but the tribes always find it.”

  Much like a leech will find a vein, she thought to herself, but she was not fooled by his innocent remarks. “I know all that,” she snapped, “I've lived among them all my life.” Pelanor would not fall so easily into such an obvious trap.

  Then she decided to ignore him for a while. Let him think what he would, he was not her prey and counted little in the scheme of things.

  They were led down into the Caracel, and Pelanor had to steel herself before entering the stinking caldron of humanity. All around there was sound: the screeches of gap-toothed women, the squalls of angry infants, and the barking of unattended dogs.

  She felt buffeted by it, lost without Alvick to hold her into reality, and washed away in a sea of humanity. Forgetting her previous decision, she grabbed Finn's arm, looking for something to hold her steady. It felt like every eye was on her, each one hostile. Were they aware of her hidden teeth? Some said sheep could sense the wolf.