Vengeance of the Hunter

by Angela Highland

  Then she touched the mother as she handed her back her baby, and her magic surged again, warning that the same sickness that had plagued the child was building in the woman as well. It hadn’t laid her low, not yet, but she could feel it gathering strength.

  “Forgive me,” she heard herself blurting as she pressed a hand into the startled mother’s chest, “but your baby won’t stay well if I don’t heal you too.”

  Her power leaped free of Alarrah’s constraint, but by then Faanshi could only trust that it would seek and obliterate the mother’s sickness as it had done the child’s. Sweat streamed into her eyes, casting a watery haze over surroundings already cast into sharp relief by her magic’s light, and her limbs were quivering almost beyond her control. Her hands shook most of all. One wavered, seemingly of its own accord, in a direction that made no sense to her until she realized the magic was telling her she had one last thing to do.

  “There,” she gasped to Alarrah.

  She had no idea which direction they turned, only that her hands finally reached the prone shape of an old woman. The same sicknesses Faanshi had just healed fought within the elder’s unconscious form, but as far as the magic was concerned, they were irrelevant. Lodged within her bones was the true malaise, a thing for which Faanshi had no name—but that, too, was unimportant now. Whatever it was, eating away at the marrow of the old woman’s bones and poisoning her blood, it was very close to killing her.

  Faanshi’s inner hearth had almost vanished in the inferno of her magic now, but oddly, somehow it didn’t matter. When she pressed her palms to the woman’s breast, she saw glimpses of her existence: hugging a small child, grudgingly letting a grimy-faced but smiling young man help her into a chair, breaking bread with a man her own age while she smiled warmly into his eyes. This woman wasn’t Tantiu, and her prayers were not to Djashtet. Yet something in those glimpses in the light reminded Faanshi of her okinya Ulima, and at that, a star of resolve kindled in her heart.

  Death won’t take her tonight if I can help it.

  It wasn’t quite the same as healing Kestar or Julian; this time, Alarrah was with her. This time, as she freed the full strength of what Djashtet had bestowed upon her, her sister helped her perceive what she was doing as something outside herself, not within.

  And when her power finally roared back down again, when the old woman stirred and opened tired but lucid eyes, Faanshi smiled down at her. “Hello, akresha, Djashtet be with you.”

  Then all her muscles went slack with exhaustion that would no longer be denied, and with prayerful relief, she let herself collapse. The last thing she remembered was Alarrah’s face, weary as she herself felt, yet lit by the broadest and proudest of smiles.

  “Oh, enorrè, well done!”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Shalridan, Kilmerry Province, Jeuchar 3, AC 1876

  If Kestar succeeded in reaching Faanshi’s mind through the rest of their ride into Shalridan, he couldn’t for the life of him tell. No trace of her shimmered in his inner meadow, and he heard not the slightest echo of her voice. He succeeded only in giving himself a raging headache, and by the time their carriage finally rattled into the city, his skull reverberated to the rhythm of wheels and hooves.

  Nor did it help that Captain Amarsaed had ordered them to increase their pace. On their last stop before the city Bron Wulsten reluctantly relayed to them that they’d passed more signs of unrest, and that the disruption in Marriham had proved to be a group of armed men and women bent on taking over a church. More such riots were, apparently, breaking out all over the province.

  “What, your captain didn’t wish to stop and arrest the lot of them?” Ganniwer asked. “I’m sure we could have made room for them in the carriage.”

  “There were twenty-five of them, my lady,” Bron said. “We were outnumbered and outgunned, and we already had three important prisoners in custody at the time. Captain Amarsaed felt we’d better serve the realm by coming straight here and reporting the situation. Be glad. Captain Follingsen wanted to take you all to Lomhannor Hall.”

  “You say that like delaying a tribunal that’s likely to sentence us to death is a bad thing,” Celoren drawled.

  Weary, his head pounding, Kestar wanted to ignore the lot of them. Leaning against the carriage’s inner wall, he rubbed his knuckles into his brow. “And you say that like a man who hasn’t thought about arguing with the Duchess Khamsin as to why her husband is dead. I’m sure she’d be perfectly cordial about ordering us all hung. And Follingsen’s clearly her man.”

  Bron didn’t argue, much less rise to Ganniwer’s bait, as he closed and barred the carriage once more. “You might wish to consider praying, if it’ll ease your minds. We’ll be in Shalridan by nightfall.”

  They clattered into the city just as the sun was going down, as Bron promised, but less swiftly than Kestar suspected Captain Amarsaed would have liked. The road they followed was clogged with traffic both coming and going, and Amarsaed’s booming shouts for citizens to make way for the Anreulag’s Hawks were met with something Kestar had never before seen in his life: resistance. Shouts rose up on all sides around the carriage and the mounted riders who escorted it, making the prisoners within glance at each other in astonishment.

  “We don’t want you here. Go back where you came from!”

  “Take back your gods, invaders!”

  “Get out of our land!”

  “The Voice of the Gods is silenced!”

  “Nirrivy! Nirrivy! Nirrivy!”

  That last shout ignited the crowd gathering around them as voice after voice began to repeat it. Through the carriage window Kestar saw a throng of people, all pumping their fists skyward—save for the ones who began to hurl rotten vegetables at the Hawks. Through the noise of the agitation of humans and horses alike, Kestar breathed, “Dear gods. Where did this all come from?”

  “Someone’s going to get shot.” Celoren looked nervously out his own window and winced when a tomato struck the glass near his face.

  “Let’s just hope it won’t be us.” Ganniwer’s voice was calm, but her eyes were dark with worry, and she made no pretense of reaching for her son’s hand.

  Two muskets fired in quick succession, and Captain Amarsaed bellowed, “Gods damn you all, move out of the way, or you will be moved! Ani a bhota Anreulag, arach shae!”

  All six of the rest of the patrol echoed his final words, turning them into a full-throated roar. Their amulets had lightly glowed all the way from Bremany, due to Kestar’s proximity alone. But now their light redoubled, casting brilliant blue-white radiance forth in all directions. Several voices screamed, and one more musket fired before the carriage finally lurched forward once again.

  That last shot, however, had come out of the crowd. Kestar heard Bron cry out—and then they could do nothing but hang on to whatever sturdy portions of their prison they could reach as the carriage was overrun.

  More shots. Shouting voices. Running feet. Fists hammering against the carriage, while Kestar and Celoren moved to put Ganniwer between them. Then a rock crashed through one of the carriage windows, showering glass on them all before it bounced off Kestar’s arm, and he pushed his mother farther down to the floor to better shield her.

  A second missile, a fragment of a brick—from the gods only knew what building or wall—destroyed a second window before it struck Celoren’s head. He howled in surprise and pain, clapping a hand to his ear, and his eyes went dazed even as he leaned protectively over Ganniwer himself.

  None of the faces Kestar glimpsed in the crowd were elves, but that didn’t stop him from looking—or from wondering, in a cold burst of dread, if Faanshi and her companions were out there somewhere. He tried one last time to reach inward to find her, and though he couldn’t be certain in the tumult, he thought he saw the sunlight grow abruptly brighter in his inner meadow.

  She’s here.

  But it was no consolation, for as their party finally broke through to an open stretch of street and launched int
o full-force gallops, that fleeting glimpse of sunlight faded until he wasn’t sure he’d sensed it at all.

  * * *

  In the end they reached St. Telran’s Cathedral only with the aid of the Shalridan watch, or so Kestar, Ganniwer and Celoren learned when they arrived at last. The prisoners emerged from their carriage in the great church’s central courtyard, disheveled, battered and exhausted, to find their escorts looking only marginally less shaken than they. Bron Wulsten was limping away in the company of an anxious young priest, his right arm hanging stiffly, his uniform sleeve wet with blood.

  Which left them without the closest thing they had to an ally among their escorts—and under the direct glare of Captain Amarsaed. He ordered the rest of his patrol to seek guest quarters, thanked and dismissed the town watchmen who’d helped them, and then turned to his captives.

  “You three are coming with me. And Father and Mother help me, if any one of you says a word or even breathes in a manner I don’t happen to like, I will shoot you where you stand.”

  With that, the captain promptly escorted them to St. Telran’s holding cells.

  This time, they were not allowed to stay together. Kestar had no choice but to glance worriedly after Ganniwer and Celoren as they were separated. Cel was still walking under his own power, but he was paler than he should have been, and there was blood in his hair. Ganniwer kept a judicious hand at his partner’s elbow until they too were finally separated.

  The holding cells weren’t underground; that much, at least, was a mercy. They occupied one of St. Telran’s towers, and narrow windows afforded a modicum of light and air. Somewhat merciful, too, was the state of the furnishings. Each cell had the same sparse, simple bed Kestar had seen before, in many a church. Here, though, there were also tables, writing desks and chairs.

  He would not be entirely ill used while he awaited his Cleansing. At least he’d be able to get some sleep after Captain Amarsaed let him be.

  The Hawk captain lingered as he deposited Kestar in his cell, scowling at him. At any other time, in any other situation, Kestar might have allowed that the man looked impressive in his uniform, red instead of russet, as befit his rank. But just then, all he could see in Amarsaed was the stance of an angry bear about to charge. No member of his Order had ever looked at him with such open loathing before. It shocked him. It humbled him. And all at once he understood how every elf he and Cel had ever arrested must have felt.

  “What do you know about what happened back there?” Amarsaed demanded.

  “Nothing, sir,” Kestar replied in perfect truth. He wanted to hold back the honorific, but his training was too ingrained to break the force of habit—and at any rate, he saw no need to needlessly antagonize the bear. “Celoren and I haven’t been in Shalridan in several weeks. Our last patrol didn’t bring us through here.”

  The captain paced around him in a slow circle, looking him up and down. “We both know that means exactly nothing. All it takes is one letter, delivered in secret, or one word whispered in an ear. Whose ears have heard your whispers, Vaarsen?”

  “I’m no insurrectionist, sir. I’m loyal to the Bhandreid and to the Anreulag.” Anger flared in Kestar’s voice, and this time he didn’t scruple to let it fly.

  “Indeed.” Cold sarcasm edged that single word, and by way of underscoring it, Amarsaed held up the amulet that hung, glowing, around his neck. “You are an affront to the Anreulag by your very existence.”

  “She touched me with Her own hand, and saw fit to let me enter Her service. I’ve seen Her with my own eyes, and She let me live. With all due respect, sir, I don’t think you’re in a position to speak for the Voice of the Gods.”

  He saw the punch coming, but too late—even as he dodged Amarsaed’s right hand, the captain’s left swung in from below to plow straight into his gut. Gasping, Kestar doubled over, only to take a second blow to the jaw that knocked him backward to the floor.

  “If it were my decision,” Amarsaed growled down at him, “I’d see you shot or hung tonight, and save the Church the time and trouble of trying you.”

  It took Kestar several heaving breaths before he could rasp, “Am I supposed to thank the gods that I get to die later rather than now?”

  “Mind your tongue, elf-blood, or the next words you utter will be your final prayer.” The captain’s foot lashed out, and the full weight of a Hawk-issue riding boot crashed into his ribs. Then the man’s heavy stride carried him away. Keys rattled. The cell door shut with so violent a slam that the noise set off a fresh wave of pain in Kestar’s head. He had to lie there on the floor, panting, until the ache subsided.

  So much for not antagonizing the bear.

  When he could move again, he hauled himself painfully up off the floor, first to his knees and then to his feet, and then only to stumble over to take advantage of what meager rest the bed could provide. He thought at first to merely sleep—but that last epithet Amarsaed had hurled still blazed in his mind, a stinging ember bright enough to burn. Elf-blood.

  It should have made him furious, or at least more so than he already was. It should have been the deadly insult Captain Amarsaed had clearly meant it to be, the kind of affront that unsheathed swords and provoked duels and brawls. But he’d shared the thoughts of a girl with elven blood in her veins. What fury he felt now was not for himself, but rather, for the girl who’d saved his life.

  Kestar thought of his mother, and how she must have taken it when his father came home from Riannach. And he thought of his great-grandmother on her deathbed, and the challenge that her last words to him had been.

  He hadn’t lied to Darlana then; he’d been doing all he could. But she’d been right, just as Ganniwer and Celoren were. He could do more.

  Stretching out on the bed, steadying his breath, Kestar closed his eyes and went in search of his meadow.

  Nothing came to him at first, but then, sunlight as warm as a clasp of the hand brushed his mind. It was distant, and it was strained, but it was Faanshi.

  To shout to her without shouting in truth seemed ridiculous in the extreme, but he could think of nothing better than to think with all his strength at that ephemeral glimmer of light.

  Where are you? Are you here? Are you safe?

  The sunlight flared, and what he received back was far more emotion and sensation than words—deep frustration, a rush of adrenaline and the furtive alertness of avoiding searching eyes. There was roiling fear, most of it for others besides her. He caught dim impressions of her elven friends, along with other faces, human faces, he didn’t know.

  Strongest of all came the face of the assassin, the other man she’d saved from the Anreulag. He, or something he was doing, was the core of her fear.

  The last and brightest burst of all brought a discernible call. We can’t come to you yet! Stay alive!

  Then it faded, taking the echoes of Faanshi’s voice and light beyond his reach no matter how fiercely he fought to bring them back. The pain in his head increased, with answering throbs from his arm and the places where Captain Amarsaed had delivered his blows. At last Kestar’s concentration failed, and he could do nothing but worry.

  * * *

  Some hours later, when it was still dark outside, someone else came to Kestar’s cell. The sound of keys at the door snapped him out of the light doze into which he’d fallen, and he was grateful for the warning. It gave him just enough time to get to his feet as his visitor came in, though he had to squint against the light of her lamp before his vision adjusted.

  Behind the newcomer a Hawk he didn’t know closed the door again, but Kestar paid her no mind. That he had a visitor at all was startling enough, but the identity of this one made him gape. Not that he’d yet met the Duchess of Shalridan face-to-face—but he could think of no one else that a Tantiu woman clad head to foot in mourning black could be.

  “Well,” she said without preamble, in Adalonic only faintly flavored by the accent of her homeland, “you’re not very prepossessing for a rogue and a rebe
l, are you? I presume you’re Kestar Vaarsen, akreshi?”

  “At your service, Your Grace,” he said, wariness warring with manners, and the latter winning out. “At least, I assume that I address the Duchess of Shalridan?” Her given name was Khamsin, he knew, but it would have been impertinent to use it. Nor did he have any idea of whether she followed the naming customs of her husband’s people, or her own. The duchess, therefore, she would have to be to him.

  “You do, and I’m delighted to hear it. If I’m going to be making visits at ungodly hours, it’s at least a small consolation to know you’ll be accommodating.”

  She strode to him, setting the lamp she’d brought on the writing desk and studying him all the while. Yet she added nothing else at first, and so Kestar had to prod, politeness wearing thin, “So how may I help you, akresha? Is there something to which I owe the honor of this visit?”

  The duchess chuckled, a low, lush sound not without beauty, and he thought he saw her smirking behind her smoky veil. “To answer the first question, that remains to be seen. To answer the second, yes. I wanted to lay eyes upon the man who helped put my husband on the path to his death.”

  “If you’re here to make accusations, I’d like to point out that I didn’t kill him,” Kestar said. “At least, if it would do any good.”

  “Ha! Don’t concern yourself, young man, not over that at any rate. I’m not here to accuse you. Your own Order has that well in hand.”

  “Then if I may, why are you here?”

  She didn’t circle him as the Hawk captain had done; she offered him no blows, no hand or foot raised against him. Nor did her hands seem poised to draw a weapon, for Kestar had no illusions that the elegant mourning gown couldn’t hide weapons somewhere within its sable folds. She simply stood just outside arm’s reach, her chin lifted, her dark eyes taking his measure. “I’m told they will convene your tribunal as soon as enough priests and priestesses report to the cathedral.”