Hunter and Fox

by Philippa Ballantine

  They came to a huge set of doors, and Retira stopped before them. Bound in gold and platinum and decorated in unfathomable symbols, they were an impressive obstacle with no handles or mechanism.

  Byre reached out and cautiously touched them. They burned under his fingertips briefly before swinging open. Like everything in Achelon, there was no sound.

  They shared a wary glance.

  “We could go back,” Byre offered, but his words faded. They both knew it was not a real option. “Perhaps there is another way in…”

  “There isn't,” Retira replied. “The Gates are at the very back of the room, and this is the only entrance.”

  “Then we go on. Our lives are through this door, or not at all.”

  His father nodded with a face grim and set. “Forward, then.”

  The room they stepped into was a rough-carved cavern, but Byre did not have much of a chance to observe it.

  Immediately his sister was there, not physically but inside his head. The Second Gift came whirling back, only more powerful than he had ever experienced it. Byre could feel her walking in his shadow even if she couldn't feel him in hers.

  He stopped following their father and paused to let the beauty of it wash over him. She had changed; one taste of her mind in the chamber of torture had revealed that, but now he had a chance to see just how much.

  Byre could have wept at the dark corners and narrowed corridors of his sister's mind. She was not the child she had been, nor the person she might have turned into. She was battered, bruised, and surrounded by failure.

  Through curiously doubled vision, Byre walked on. He would say nothing to their father; he'd made his feelings known about Talyn. Also, it would be cruel to mention the return of his Second Gift when such pathways were forever blocked to Retira.

  The sacred room was stark, beautiful, and carved from the dark-gray stone of the earth. It eerily counterbalanced the flickers of vision Byre got from Talyn. She was in the pale glory of the Bastion, and it too was deep in the earth.

  It couldn't be just fate that brought both of them to these places at the same time. But he could sense no awareness from his sister, and the Second Gift felt curiously stunted. It was a one-way connection. The Kindred certainly had a strange sense of humor, to give so much but keep the best bit in reserve.

  “Are you all right, son?” Retira held out his hand as if Byre was a child once more.

  Even though he wasn't, he smiled and nodded. The double vision and the intrusion of Talyn's thoughts made him feel that if he blinked at the wrong moment, everything would shatter like glass.

  Byre's eyes drifted to the elaborate hangings that were the only decoration in this chill chamber. His father was talking and gesturing to the huge granite slab at the very end of the room, but Byre's concentration kept shifting to the iridescent embroideries. He could hear the whispering of the Kindred beyond the granite, but he was sure they weren't the only beings in the room.

  “Byre?” His father turned again and stepped toward him. It seemed very slow, as if he were battling against unseen winds. The air was thick, and his head felt as if it were not set on his body properly. The hangings around them were different in his vision. In one version they were merely decoration. In the other he observed a corner being twitched aside. Byre saw the muzzle of the blunderbuss and the explosion of shrapnel that would follow. His body moved, even if his mind could not work out what was happening.

  Catching his father around the waist, he had him on the ground before the second reality could happen. A heartbeat after they both hit the floor, the gun roared and the air was alive with tiny, deadly missiles. His father's face was a curious mixture of horror and delight. “The Seventh Gift, it has returned to you!”

  It was the only explanation. It should be impossible, as Byre had never reached the right age to get the Gifts before the Harrowing, but even as he thought about using them again they seemed to slip away. It was a strange Gift indeed to leave him at the moment it was most needed.

  Neither of them had time for further conversation. The elegant hangings were ripped down and two dozen Rutilian Guard swarmed out. Retira and Byre scrambled to get out of their reach and climbed frantically up rows of carved seating. Suddenly, it was all about survival, when only moments before it had been something else.

  Then Byre glanced back over his shoulder—just for a second. Everything changed.

  It was the Caisah; Byre had never seen their tormentor, but it could be no other. He was tall, dressed in shining armor and actually smiling. While the guard swarmed after the two men, the Caisah jerked a woman with her hands bound out from behind the curtain—as pleased as a street magician with his trick.

  At his son's side, Retira gasped. The effect of seeing both the Caisah and Moyan like that must have been quite the shock. As they watched, the tyrant grasped her around the throat and casually lifted her off her feet. She hung limply, tears streaming down her face, while the sounds of her choking echoed around the room.

  Retira shot Byre a look of desperate anger. “Your sister's master! I wonder how far she can be behind?”

  He touched his father's shoulder. “She is not with him, so there is hope.”

  “Come down from there!” The Caisah beckoned and threw down Moyan as if she were no more than a child's toy. His troops rolled her body out from under his feet as he stepped closer.

  Byre judged the distance to the stone gates. It was too far to run. Even if he outdistanced the Rutilian Guard, he wouldn't be able to avoid the Caisah's magics. His only chance lay in the mercurial unpredictability of the leader himself.

  Talyn's memory was still leaking through him, and the snatches he gathered told him there might still be a way. The Caisah's arrogance could be used to gain them time, at least. Taking hold of his father's elbow, he helped him to his feet. Both of them walked back down as confidently as they could.

  The guards looked unconcerned as two Vaerli approached their lord. No one demanded Byre's stick, so assured were they of their master's power, but they did look very surprised when Pelanor materialized out of the air to stand at Byre's side.

  “Ah yes, I was wondering when you would show yourself, little Witch.” The Caisah waved one finger at her admonishingly. “Remember what happened last time we met, and behave yourself.”

  Retira blinked in minor confusion, but Pelanor made no reply.

  The tyrant turned his attention to Byre. “You…I know you from somewhere…”

  Straightening his shoulders, Byre replied. “I am Talyn the Dark's brother. We met briefly on the day you took her.”

  A slight smile at that, as if it were a treasured memory. “Are you perhaps angry I didn't take you instead? Still, I saved your life as well, so maybe you'll forgive me.”

  Retira was squeezing Byre's shoulder, reminding him of his duty, or perhaps warning of the dangers of conversation with the Caisah. Despite everything, he was capable of being charming and there was something intriguing about him—a being like Vaerli, but not.

  “And you,” the man-not-man continued, his stare shifting to Retira. “We have met as well.”

  “There were many of us at the Bastion that day.”

  The gaze dropped away, and the Caisah passed his hand over his face. When he spoke again it was in a far less confident voice. “I remember you all. A terrible thing. Terrible.”

  Suddenly Byre understood. The Caisah was like one of the madmen that gave up the memory disciplines. The weight of so much time and recollection was driving him as insane as any Vaerli with the same affliction. Despite himself, Byre darted a look at his father. He and the Caisah shared more than just Talyn.

  Byre pitied him then—despite everything he had done to the Vaerli. Living with memory was never an easy thing, and must be even more so with the weight of so many horrors.

  “So you should, too.” Retira angled his body toward the Caisah and shot his son a look of desperation that surely meant something. The older Vaerli pushed in closer. �
�You're a murderer and an oath breaker, coming to our Bastion and using the name of our Seer to gain entry like a thief.” His voice boomed in the chamber, and even though he was much shorter than the Caisah he managed to somehow to look down his nose at him.

  It wasn't the best tactic, for their captor only smiled. “You know why I came. It is you who broke the Pact!”

  At his back, Byre felt Pelanor draw closer, her presence a chill to his right. The words should have been important to him—his father and the Caisah were, after all, arguing about the most infamous day in Vaerli history, one that he had only seen the aftermath of. Yet, realizing what Retira was doing, Byre tried to edge closer to the Kindred's door. Pelanor drifted with him.

  They were as silent and as subtle as possible. Luckily, the Rutilian Guard were hovering around Retira as he blustered and roared at the fuming Caisah. They could see no danger in the silent Vaerli and the tall, dark woman at his side.

  “Then why did you have to take my daughter?” A silence fell and even Byre paused. He couldn't help but hear the break in Retira's voice.

  “You know why,” the Caisah replied, his voice cool. “You know what you did when you…” His gaze flicked up and observed Byre. Whatever revelation he had been about to utter he swallowed it. His gaze hardened, and Talyn's memory told that this was a very bad thing. “Come here,” the Caisah commanded, used no doubt to obedience from his Vaerli Hunter.

  That was the exact moment when chaos erupted.

  “Run,” Retira yelled, throwing himself upon the Caisah. The guards' first reaction was to protect their liege, and the way to the door was suddenly free. Pelanor disappeared into the air, wrapping her chill presence about Byre. He turned to obey his father.

  He didn't see what terrible power the Caisah called on, yet the world seemed to twist and bang against his ears. Then he saw his father sailing past him, thrown through the air like a broken leaf. Retira hit the door hard, and the room reverberated to the sound of his breaking bones.

  Byre ran—but this time to his father. He didn't care about the door anymore, or his foolish quest. All he cared about was holding Retira, trying to stop the blood and trying to keep the life in him. It was awful and ugly, and he'd seen it hundreds of times before, though it had never been his own father.

  He could hear the Caisah's footsteps and feel the menace of his presence hanging over them. Father and son shared a look through blood and tears that would be their very last.

  “Put him down,” the Caisah spoke. “Come with me and join your sister. You don't need to die as well.”

  “No,” Byre spoke softly for Retira. He wanted his father to know that he wasn't giving up.

  Retira's life was burbling away, washing out his mouth, but he struggled to say something. “I disobeyed.” He clutched hold of Byre's sleeve. “The decision was made to forget it…but I did not…”

  “Forget what?” Byre leaned closer.

  “The fires…you must make sure they do not die…we're failing…we're…” Retira gurgled and then jerked in his son's arms. He breathed his final breath and was still.

  The power of the Caisah was gathering. Byre could feel it tightening around him, stealing the breath from his lungs and squeezing every bone in his body. Pelanor dropped back into her body with a half-scream, forced by the tyrant's strength to give up her magic. She crumpled to the floor, elegant even while in agony. Her mahogany eyes locked with Byre's in understanding.

  His father was gone. All was emptiness and pointlessness. Soon enough he would follow. Was this why the Sofai had sent him—to die for the Caisah as his sister lived for him? The breath was being taken from his body, and his throat constricted on nothing.

  Chill broke through the darkness, soft breath entered his mouth. Byre sucked in a great joyous gasp as life returned to his starved body. He was not seeing things, there was indeed another woman standing above them, between Pelanor and he on the floor. Byre scrambled across to his Blood Witch and helped her up.

  She made to embrace this new arrival. “Matron Iola!” Then she stopped, her hands inches from the other Witch.

  The newcomer was as beautiful as Pelanor, though there was the faintest hint of silver in her hair. She had her palms raised flat between herself and the Caisah, but Byre could see that she was shaking.

  Glancing across at the Caisah, he saw that the tyrant was frozen in place. The only sign of his concentration was a slight frown on his brow. The Witch, though, was muttering under her breath.

  Pelanor bit the corner of her lip and bowed her head. “She Who Stands at the Gate, aid my matron. Give her strength.”

  It was a battle of wills then, and a smarter person would have taken that opportunity to run; however, curiosity and a strange instant loyalty held him in place. Besides, barely had the thought crossed Byre's mind than whatever power she had gained from her scion ran out. The world darkened for an instant, becoming somehow shapeless and terrifying. The implosion of power threw all four of them apart.

  Pelanor and Byre found themselves sliding across the uneven floor with Iola. Across the room, the Caisah lay in a crumpled heap. The Rutilian Guards looked for a moment stock-still in horror.

  Pelanor moved faster, helping her matron up. Byre felt the symmetry of her actions in an instant, and part of him already knew the outcome.

  The Blood Witch was a shriveled remainder of previous form: pale gray and withered. Pelanor ripped open her palm with her own teeth and pressed the oozing wound to her matron's mouth. Iola waved it away. “Too late, little daughter…”

  “Why?” Pelanor's voice was torn with emotion as trails of blood oozed from the corners of her eyes.

  “The Hysthshai, she told me I could save you. Two must die for two to live, she said…” These last words were a rattle and then Iola turned her face away and disappeared into nothingness for the last time.

  Byre took Pelanor's hands, as she seemed ready to rend her own flesh in grief. Across the room the Caisah was rising, not in the slow, awkward manner of one badly wounded, but in the quick movements of someone very annoyed.

  “It has to be now, Pelanor,” Byre whispered.

  Her eyes, when they met his, were wells of despair and abruptly found determination. This was now more than a Pact.

  Together they ran to the rough-hewn door, and together their hands pressed against it. Wonders of wonders, there were two hand-sized gaps within inches of each other; each perfectly sized for the Blood Witch and the Vaerli.

  The feeling of before-thoughts lingered in Byre's mind, as if he were only taking the steps already laid out for him. The cavern shook. Looking back over one shoulder, Byre saw the Rutilians get knocked off their feet, while their master remained erect, staring with undisguised longing at the wall which was ripping itself open like curtains on a stage.

  The Cleft was opening, and beyond was flame in which shadows moved. The heat blasted Byre, until he thought his flesh would melt from him. It was mesmerizing, with the shapes of Kindred dancing in the fires, alien forms which promised so much, both knowledge and pain.

  Pelanor, the gift from his cursed sister, took his hand, and a wave of cool passed over him. “The first Witch to see the Kindred,” she murmured to herself. “They will have to make me Mouth now…”

  Within, the flames resolved into the rocky outline of the guardians; this Kindred had eyes of black obsidian and a body of running lava. For a moment it looked on Pelanor and Byre, but then it fixed on the Caisah, who had moved forward a few paces as if entranced.

  “No closer, Eagle King, broken bird.” The Kindred's voice was surprisingly light for a creature of the earth, but the sound of it was almost painful to hear in its purity. “The time has not yet come; our agreement has not yet run its course.”

  The tyrant straightened. “Not yet, you say. Have I not waited long enough? Have I not done as agreed?”

  “You will know when it is enough and complete.” The Kindred grew from man-sized to twice that height in an instant, as if to emp
hasize this point. “The boy is now within our realm, you could not prevent it, as it was bought with blood. Go back until your time.”

  Never before had Byre imagined that the Caisah could be humbled, yet there it was. The mightiest man in all of Conhaero stared into the flames once, before nodding and turning away.

  Byre would have watched him go, but the Kindred filled his vision until he could think of nothing else. Like an owl eyeing a mouse, the creature peered at Byre and Pelanor.

  “You have many questions, Kin.” Its voice seemed gentler somehow. “They will be answered in time, if you may first answer this for me: do you wish to go on?”

  “I thought…that is, I thought it was my duty.”

  “Duty is indeed a powerful motivator amongst those ground-walkers, but you may not follow Ellyria's path for that reason alone. If you purely enter to undergo the trials, it is not enough.”

  Byre felt Pelanor's hand squeeze his. “I think it is asking what you want for yourself?” she whispered.

  Closing his eyes, he considered. His urge to go on, to find the dream that had set him on this task, had that been purely for a people he hadn't felt his own for three hundred years? Was even his dead father enough of a reason to step in the flames and take up Ellyria's burden?

  With a sigh, he opened his eyes and looked up at the burning Kindred. “Not for those things alone. I want to know who I am. I want to know who my people are, and our past.”

  It was hard to tell if this was an acceptable answer. The head cocked and looked at Pelanor. “And you, little Witch-child, there is no blood in our realm for you.”

  Her chin tilted upwards. “Perhaps not, but I still have plenty of curiosity myself. Besides,” she said, shooting a glance sideways at Byre, “a Pact is a Pact.”

  “Very well then, the flames await. Enter.” The Kindred drew back.

  Heat was now all around them, but Pelanor's chill presence softened the entrance. Byre smiled. He could hear music in the earth, like he remembered from childhood. Hand in hand, Witch and Vaerli went forward, stepping into the world of the Kindred to find what secrets it held.