Vengeance of the Hunter

by Angela Highland

  Too many words, and she’d think about it far more clearly than she wished.

  “We went to Arlitham Abbey, for that’s where Kestar had gone, and I needed to find him. But my former master found us there, and he’d brought his priest with him. The Anreulag came when Father Enverly called for Her. She threw Her fire at Julian, and almost destroyed the abbey, and I...stopped Her. Before She vanished, She called out something. That’s all I can recall before I had to heal Julian.”

  His eyes intent, Gerren leaned slightly toward her. “Can you describe the words you heard?”

  “I don’t know your language very well yet, but it sounded like Elvish.”

  Kirinil and Alarrah exchanged stricken glances, and out of the corner of her eye Faanshi saw Julian start and stare at her; only then did she remember she hadn’t told him about what had happened in the abbey after the Anreulag had struck him down. Gerren’s attention never left her, though, as he asked over his shoulder, “Kirinil, would you repeat what you heard Her say?”

  “Ràe elari enno sul ve carya. Enno Amathilàen korthiali ràe,” his brother said.

  Without the thunder of the Voice of the Gods, in Kirinil’s grave tones, the words sounded almost normal. It took much for Faanshi to keep from flinching as she heard them, and in her heart she clung to the memory of her okinya exhorting her to have courage. “Those are the words I heard. What do they mean?”

  “‘I live by blood and fire. By the shadow of the moon I will die,’” Alarrah said.

  “And what does that mean?” Julian demanded.

  Gerren, to Faanshi’s eyes, seemed no older than the assassin—and yet, a look came into his face that gave him a weight of years beyond her ability to easily count. “Not ‘shadow of the moon.’ Moonshadow. I’ve heard the name. It’s ancient, far older than any of us in Dolmerrath, and I know it only because I’ve read it in our surviving books. Books no human eye has seen, and certainly none from the Church.”

  “Then why would the Anreulag know it?” The question sounded foolish to Faanshi even as she uttered it, but curiosity and dread alike were blooming in her. This she could voice, if it would let her feed the one along with the other. A fear she could name was a fear she could conquer. She hoped.

  “I’ve read those books.” Kirinil’s gaze was as bleak as Gerren’s. “And I can think of only two reasons. One is that the Anreulag truly is the Voice of the Gods.”

  “And the other,” Gerren said, “is that She’s one of us.”

  Chapter Seven

  The royal palace, Dareli, Jomhas 19, AC 1876

  The courtiers of the Bhandreid granted the princess Margaine at least one small mercy: they waited until after she’d brought her daughter into the world before they came to tell her that her husband had left it.

  Not that that was much of a mercy, when the carefully blank faces that ringed her bed brought her the news in such sonorous, doleful tones that it was clear they thought she might crack from grief if they spoke too loudly. Every last one of those courtiers’ names had been drilled into her when she’d come to the palace as Padraig’s consort. But none of them were important now. She’d probably crack eventually, but not yet. Not before the empty, nameless faces—and not while her daughter needed her.

  They offered her a wet nurse three times. She refused each one, for she could barely stand to let the baby out of her arms, much less out of her sight. And while she wanted no food or drink for herself, she took what nourishment was brought her, for the baby’s sake.

  Still, the birth had been hard on her. Padraig’s illness—and the news of his passing—had been harder. Margaine refused all visitors save for her personal maid, and when she wasn’t caring for the child, she slept. Her daughter’s needs overrode any other measurements of time, and she quickly lost track of whether it was day or night. Thus she had no idea of the hour when she jolted out of sound slumber.

  Had there been someone in her chamber?

  Had she heard stealthy footsteps near her bed?

  Every nerve screaming, Margaine scrambled to light the lamp at her bedside and look in the bassinet that stood within easy reach. To her profound relief, the baby still lay within, and slept peacefully, sucking at the thumb that had found its way into her tiny mouth.

  Next to her, though, was a rolled scroll of paper Margaine had never seen before.

  Her hands remained steady as she searched her daughter’s sleeping place for anything else that shouldn’t have been there, and neither did they quiver as she finally took up the paper and drew it closer to the lamp. But when she read the words written upon it, she went cold.

  A knife wound killed your husband, not the illness they would have you believe. I cannot tell you more. Burn this note as soon as you read it if you value your life and that of your child.

  Margaine stiffened as she read the words—but only for an instant. She shook herself, blinked away the tears threatening to cloud her sight, then strode with deliberation to her bedchamber’s hearth. Her fire had dwindled down to ashes, only enough to cast a memory of warmth barely an arm’s length into the room. But there was the tiniest of embers left among the ash. With care, she tore the note into fragments and fed each one to that ember until she coaxed forth a miniscule tongue of flame. She offered fresh kindling to the infant fire, and when that caught and flared, she placed a new log on the grate. For good measure, she took up the fireplace poker and thoroughly stirred the ashes beneath the grate, just to be certain that no legible trace of the note remained.

  Only then, at least for a few moments, did she allow herself to weep.

  Padraig, beloved, I’ll miss you so much. You were a songbird in a family of vipers.

  And now their daughter was all she had left of him.

  Margaine rose, wiped her hand across her eyes and hastened back to the bassinet. The baby slept on, and with even greater care, the princess lifted her up into her arms. Sleepily, sensing her mother’s warmth, the little one nuzzled against her. And even as she cried, Margaine felt her heart seem to crack in half...only to flow together again, stronger, as if tempered by the fire in the hearth.

  “Your name is Padraiga,” she whispered, kissing the baby’s brow. “You are named for your father. And by the Father and Mother, Son and Daughter, I swear to you, my precious child, that I’ll find out why they’ve killed him.”

  * * *

  Arlitham Abbey, Kilmerry Province, Jomhas 25,

  AC 1876

  When Faanshi and her companions left, Kestar had declined to go with them—and now, to his chagrin, he had to admit that their best chance for disappearance had left with them. Where he and Celoren could go instead plagued him deeply in the hours after Darlana’s death and into the following morning. It was beyond dispute that they had to leave. Every day they spent in Arlitham Abbey was another day they put Abbot Grenham’s people at risk, and truth be told, he couldn’t stand the thought of lingering in the place where his great-grandmother had died. Yet he couldn’t leave without making some attempt to pay his respects to her, and so he volunteered his aid in digging the old woman’s grave and seeing her properly laid to rest within it. Part of him grudgingly admitted she was right, that he had to take some action above and beyond letting Faanshi go. The rest of him—the deeper, truer part of him—simply shied away from facing Darlana’s last words and where they could possibly lead. Nor were the questions that plagued him instead any comfort.

  Where could he and Celoren go? What course could they take that wouldn’t lead to more people’s deaths?

  Half an hour after the abbot said Darlana’s last rites, while he and Celoren gathered their gear and their horses and paused in the abbey courtyard to make their goodbyes to Grenham, the question was taken out of his hands entirely.

  “Father Grenham! Father Grenham!”

  The piping voices of two of the abbey’s youngest novices, running in from the fields, snapped up their heads. Both girls were red-faced and panting from their run, and each wore looks of abject p
anic. But that didn’t stop the taller girl from calling out as soon as she caught the abbot’s eye, “Riders coming in, Father. Six of them. Three of them are wearing uniforms like them.”

  Her hand jabbed up to point at Kestar and Celoren, standing stricken by their horses, and the two Hawks looked at each other in alarm. “Kes, we can’t outrun them,” Celoren croaked. “They’ll sense you. Gods help us, they’ll know you’re here.”

  Abbot Grenham glanced their way, and at the look in the older man’s eyes, Kestar’s heart sank. This man and his people had given them a safe haven for well over a week. They’d sheltered Darlana Araeldes for decades. Those things alone would doom them in the eyes of the Church, but if it were discovered that Grenham and his people were secret worshippers of the outlawed Nirrivan gods, they would be lucky if the Order of the Hawk stopped at simply burning their abbey down around them.

  “Then we won’t run,” Kestar said, as much for Grenham’s benefit as Cel’s. “If they’re here for us, we have to let them take us. For the abbey’s sake.” And though he didn’t dare say it out loud, nonetheless Kestar let it murmur through his thoughts: And for Faanshi’s.

  If this Hawk patrol was busy with them, perhaps he could at least make sure that the healer, her elves and her assassin made it to safety.

  Grenham stared at him and then nodded, a single time, heavily. “As you will, then. I can only pray that the gods will protect you both.” Then he turned back to the two novices and ordered, “My daughters, go now, tell everyone to be on their highest guard. Lord Vaarsen, Sir Valleford and I will attend to the visitors.”

  “Yes, Father!”

  As they scampered off, the riders of which they’d brought warning arrived.

  There were six of them indeed, five men and one woman, and Kestar started as he recognized one of the men as the captain of the guards from Lomhannor Hall. Two of the Hawks were vaguely familiar as well, the younger of the men and the one woman who rode among them. But the Hawk that concerned Kes the most was the obvious leader of the group, a man who wore red rather than russet, marking him as a Hawk captain. He was large and swarthy-skinned, almost dark enough that he might have been mistaken for Tantiu, but his uniform left no doubt as to his religious affiliations.

  Nor did the amulet at his neck, or those of the other two Hawks, as their party trotted into the courtyard. The captain dismounted first, and his dark eyes latched instantly on Kestar as he strode up to meet them. “I am Captain Pol Amarsaed of the Order of the Hawk,” he announced, “and in this year 1876 of the Blessed Anreulag and of the reign of the Bhandreid Ealasaid, by the authority invested in me by the Church of the Four Gods, I am here to take several fugitives into custody. Two of whom, I expect, are you.” His gaze lashed between Kestar and Celoren.

  “I’m Celoren Valleford of the Order of the Hawk,” Celoren affirmed.

  Kestar had to pause a moment, torn. How was he to identify himself? “Kestar Vaarsen of Bremany,” he finally said. “Celoren and I will come along quietly.”

  Captain Amarsaed studied him, long and hard and without any evident mercy, and then snorted. “If you’re hoping to make it easier on yourself, you should know better.” Then his attention swung to Grenham. “You, sir, are the abbot of this place?”

  “Abbot Cortland Grenham at your service, Captain. How may my flock and I serve the needs of the Voice of the Gods?”

  “To begin, there are five more fugitives we’ve been ordered to apprehend.” Over his shoulder, Amarsaed gestured at the waiting group behind him. “Captain Follingsen of Lomhannor, as a direct witness to events that happened here, has given the Church a report of three elves and a human assassin wanted for the attempted murder of the Duke of Shalridan. The fifth one we seek is Father Shaymis Enverly, wanted for heresy, blasphemy and profaning the Rite of the Calling. Are any of these persons still present upon these grounds?”

  “I fear that the elves and the assassin have escaped,” Grenham said in pious tones. “They overpowered these two young men here, and we were unable to track them down. However, we retain custody of Father Enverly. I should advise you that we took the precaution of cutting out his tongue, lest he profane the Rite again and put every life in my flock at risk.”

  The captain’s eyes narrowed, fingering his amulet all the while as he listened, until he broke into a narrow smile. “Did you? Well. My amulet says that there is only one elf-blood in immediate range, and as he stands before me now, I’m sure you will be comforted to know that I don’t have to call you a liar. If you turn the priest over to us, we will see him delivered to the Church for questioning. But that still leaves the matter of the assassin.”

  “You are of course welcome to search the grounds.”

  “We will in fact be doing that.” Amarsaed turned then to call to his compatriots, “Wulsten! Yerredes! Amulets out. Search this place and make certain none of the rest of our fugitives remain here. Captain Follingsen, if you please, will you accompany me in securing custody of the priest? I’ll need you for visual identification.”

  Follingsen dismounted and came over, eyeing the two younger Hawks with the same suspicion Amarsaed was showing. Kestar’s pulse skittered—this man had seen Grenham refuse to arrest him and Celoren before, and one word from him would condemn the abbot and all his people. But to the Hawk’s surprise, Follingsen simply met his eyes in passing and then said to the captain, “I’m at your disposal.”

  “Good. Father Grenham, your cooperation is appreciated and will be noted in our reports, as it will make this entire process easier for all concerned.”

  Captain Amarsaed’s tone was almost civil now, but he cast one last sidelong look at Kestar, full of unmitigated contempt.

  * * *

  Shaymis Enverly was frankly stunned that Abbot Grenham hadn’t ordered him hung or shot, or packed off immediately to Shalridan to undergo a Church tribunal—all of which were actions any right-thinking priest of the Four Gods should have taken after the havoc he’d caused. Instead, Grenham had consigned him to days of silent meditation and the pain of a ruined mouth.

  Those days of meditation gave him ample time to nourish his suspicions, and by the time the Hawk patrol did finally come for him, he was almost grateful. Especially when he discovered that selfsame patrol had also apprehended Kestar Vaarsen and Celoren Valleford. For that consolation alone, he was almost willing to sing prayers of thanks to the gods he didn’t actually believe in. Or he would have been, at any rate, were he still able to sing.

  To his further surprise, the patrol gave him clean clothes, what water and soft bread and cheese he could manage—and a chalk and a slate he could write upon, and a pouch he could wear to carry both. They were meager gifts, all things considered. He would have preferred a sword, or for these new Hawks to raze Arlitham Abbey until nothing remained of it but splinters. Or better yet, for them to capture the runaway healer girl so she could give him back his voice—for after what he’d seen Faanshi do, he had no doubt she’d be able to restore him.

  Then he himself would call upon the Anreulag again. And at his command, She would slay his enemies and obliterate the nest of traitors who’d sheltered them and brought about the death of his patron. His friend.

  Physical pain and deprivation he could bear. He’d endured such as a young Hawk, and on the battlefields of Tantiulo. But the news brought by the newcomers of the duke’s loss bit deeply, with a strength that astonished him. Even through the haze of pain and hunger and thirst, he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe that Holvirr Kilmerredes was dead.

  Yet when the party led by Hawk Captain Pol Amarsaed came to retrieve him, he began to hope that something of the duke’s ambitions might survive his death.

  Enverly didn’t recognize any of the Hawks. But he knew Captain Follingsen very well indeed, as well as the two men with him who served on the guard force of Lomhannor Hall. All three of them had served on the town watch of Camden, and all three had been Holvirr Kilmerredes’s men, Nirrivan to the core.

&nbs
p; Four hours out from the abbey, they stopped at an inn to refresh themselves and the horses. Enverly knew the place; he’d stopped there with the duke and their men on the way to Arlitham. This time, loath to let anyone see him in such a sadly reduced state, he took some marginal comfort in Amarsaed’s efficient management of his prisoners. He kept them together, under watch and under orders to assist with the tending of the horses, while the members of the patrol took turns heading into the inn to claim their victuals, water and wine.

  Enverly might have protested being assigned such a lowly duty as caring for the horses of the Hawks who’d arrested him, but it kept him more or less out of sight, and for that he was genuinely thankful.

  More so, when he discovered that Captain Follingsen had taken his turn to watch him and Vaarsen and Valleford. The man gave him a canny, considering glance as he found him quietly brushing down the flanks of one of the horses. Follingsen lingered long enough, in fact, that Enverly turned away from the creature he’d been ordered to attend, and gave the man a long stare of his own.

  You didn’t come to get me by Church orders, he scratched out on the slate. Chalk and an expectant stare on his part were a poor substitute for what he should have been able to convey through tone alone. But they were all the voice he had at the moment, and he didn’t hesitate to use them. Or the goodness of your heart.

  “No, I didn’t. The Lady Khamsin sent us to retrieve you.” His mouth curling up on one end, Follingsen stepped in to join him by the horse, speaking softly now, so softly that the priest had to strain to hear him. “Her Grace charges me to tell you that she knows of certain plans that the duke had laid in motion, and that she intends to carry them through.”