Vengeance of the Hunter

by Angela Highland

  Before the altar were the only people in the nave, and once Kestar saw them, everything else faded in importance.

  There were two more priests besides the ones escorting him in, and along with them, three priestesses. Ten Hawks in all, Captain Amarsaed, a ragged-looking Bron Wulsten, Jekke Yerredes, the rest of the ones who’d ridden with them from Bremany, and two more he didn’t know, were ranged around the front of the nave. As soon as he drew close enough, every one of their amulets kindled with clear blue light.

  The Duchess of Shalridan, so coolly composed in her mourning garb that she looked as though she were not at all troubled by the hour, had claimed one of the foremost pews. Several armed men flanked her on either side, including three Tantiu in the livery of Lomhannor Hall—and two more men that he recognized from Lomhannor’s guard force. Neither of them was Captain Follingsen, nor the two others who’d abandoned Amarsaed’s patrol in Marriham. In a surge of disquiet Kestar wondered where they’d taken Father Enverly, and if the duchess had arranged to liberate the priest too.

  An older man he didn’t know by face but who wore the velvet robe and gold chain signifying him as the Lord Provost of Shalridan claimed another of the pews. More armed guards accompanied him, and all their faces were pale and tired. From some among them, Kestar noted, there wafted a faint trace of the smell of smoke.

  On the pew closest to the altar, flanked by two of the Hawks and faced by Captain Amarsaed and the priests and priestesses, were Celoren and his mother—who looked up sharply as he was brought forward to join them. Kestar took Ganniwer’s hand as he was made to sit down beside her, but neither of them dared speak.

  And at any rate, the provost was already demanding loudly, “Is this all of them, then? Can we get on with it? There’s riot and fire in the streets, and I think we all have more important things to be doing!”

  “Does the Lord Provost intend to suggest,” asked the eldest of the priests, a man in the white cassock of a priest of the Father, “that the business of the Church must step aside for more worldly concerns?”

  His tone was deference itself, and yet the provost hesitated, scowling, before finally waving an irritated hand. “Of course not, Father. But I don’t think any of us can deny that tonight’s worldly concerns are of urgent importance.”

  “We’ll be quick.” Captain Amarsaed strode over to stand directly before Kestar, glowering down at him, his face lit from below by his amulet. “And now that the prisoners are before us, in the name of the Bhandreid Ealasaid, in the year 1876 of the Blessed Anreulag, I convene this tribunal.”

  “Ani a bhota Anreulag, arach shae,” intoned the priests and priestesses as one.

  “Prisoners, you will identify yourselves.”

  Ganniwer had been crying, Kestar saw—her eyes were reddened, her lashes moist with still-drying tears. But there was no trace of anything but calm composure in her voice as she proclaimed, “I am Ganniwer Vaarsen, Baroness of Bremany, widow of Dorvid, mother of Kestar.”

  “Celoren Valleford of Kilmerry Province,” Celoren said, and with the slightest of hesitations, he added, “Hawk. Ordained in the name of the Anreulag in 1872.”

  Then it was Kestar’s turn, and he understood Cel’s pause, for he too was uncertain how much longer either of them could lay claim to membership of the Order—if they could at all, now, since their amulets had been taken. But until the Anreulag Herself tells me otherwise or smites me, well. “Kestar Vaarsen, son of Dorvid and Ganniwer,” he said. “Hawk. Ordained in the name of the Anreulag, 1872.”

  Captain Amarsaed sneered at him and Celoren alike, though to Kestar’s surprise, he didn’t yet challenge their claims. “Lady Ganniwer Vaarsen, Celoren Valleford, you stand accused of conspiracy to aid and abet possessors of elven blood and elven magic, in violation of the heresy laws of the Church of the Four Gods. Valleford, you in particular also stand accused of abandoning your sworn duty as a member of the Order of the Hawk, and refusing to apprehend an escaped slave and known possessor of magic. By testimony of the guards of Lomhannor Hall, your actions are reported to have led to the death of His Grace the Duke of Shalridan, Holvirr Kilmerredes, and you are therefore further accused of involuntary manslaughter.”

  “We never laid a hand on the man!” Celoren protested.

  “Silence, prisoner. Kestar Vaarsen, you also stand accused of abandoning your sworn duty as a member of the Order, of refusing to apprehend the aforementioned escaped slave and mage, and of negligence leading to the death of the Duke of Shalridan. Thus you are also charged with involuntary manslaughter. Additionally, you are accused of possession of elven blood and elven magic, against all teachings of the Church and in affront of the sight of the Voice of the Gods. Prisoners, how do you plead?”

  “Is that going to make the slightest bit of difference?” Kestar asked. It wasn’t wise, but with Cleansing and death looking him in the face, he found he was beyond caring.

  “You need to ask that with the amulets all speaking?” one of the younger priests said incredulously. “Are you as mad as they say, Vaarsen?”

  Amarsaed’s sneer became a scowl, and one of his hands balled into a fist that Kestar thought might launch at him at any moment. But to his surprise, the man controlled himself. “Prisoners,” he repeated in a growl, “how do you plead?”

  “Well, as long as it’s not going to make any difference anyway, not guilty,” Celoren said. “I wouldn’t want to inconvenience the Lord Provost.”

  “Not guilty,” Ganniwer said, her voice unwavering even as Kestar turned to her in sorrow.

  “Mother, you don’t need to die along with me.”

  “I see no other option about to present itself, Kescha.”

  All without his intending, Kestar’s gaze shot back over his shoulder to the duchess, two pews behind him. She was watching him, black eyes bright in the combined radiance of the candles and the amulets. But she made no acknowledgement of him, much less any move to speak—or repeat the offer she’d brought to him earlier in the night.

  Now Amarsaed did finally surge forward, plowing his fist into Kestar’s gut and dragging his attention back sharply forward once more. “Prisoner, how do you plead?”

  Panting, in pain, he looked up at him. “Not guilty.”

  * * *

  Abandoning the carriage, for all the increase in speed and maneuverability it gave them, proved to be a mistake. Many of the buildings closest to St. Telran’s were ablaze, and the open streets between them were overrun with fighting. Rioters chanted “Nirrivy!” in all directions, while those they battled bellowed the names of the Anreulag and the Four Gods. So chaotic had the streets become, and so potent the heat and the stench of smoke, that Morrigh and Tornach soon balked as their other horse had done and refused to carry Julian, Rab and Faanshi any farther. With the greatest reluctance, the assassins turned their mounts loose rather than risk either stallion getting killed. Kirinil and Alarrah led the way while Rab brought up the rear, and Julian and Semai applied themselves to guarding Faanshi.

  But once she was on foot and in the open, no matter how quickly she ran at Julian’s side, she was vulnerable to those on either side of the conflict—and others.

  They had to duck through several twisting alleys to find a clear path to the cathedral, and as they did so, hands lashed out seemingly from nowhere to grab Faanshi and haul her sideways, hard, into shadow.

  “I know who you are,” a rough voice rasped in her ear. “The one the Church is looking for. City going up in smoke around us, everything’s going to hell, but you? You’re going to let me start over. They’ll pay for you.”

  Before Faanshi could draw a breath for a reply, Julian whirled and sprang into the narrower alley in her attacker’s wake, with Semai looming ominously behind him. “Do you know who I am?” Julian asked, his voice soft and deadly. Though she hadn’t seen him draw, both his hands now held knives. “Because if you do, you’ll know what I’m about to do to you if you don’t let her go.”

  “And what he doesn�
�t do, dog,” Semai added, “I will. Unhand her at once.”

  So close had Faanshi’s assailant pulled her up against him that she could feel him beginning to tremble, pinned as he was between her and the brick wall behind them both. “Back off, Rook!” he cried, though his voice went higher now, strident with fear. A much closer knife flashed into Faanshi’s line of sight, pressing up tight against her neck. “Come another step closer and this pretty little Tantiu girl is going to bleed. Church didn’t say whether they wanted her dead or alive.”

  This was it, exactly why Julian had given her lessons in self-defense. Faanshi frantically searched her mind for them now, as ardently as she’d sought the words to any prayer, only to realize that her attacker had too strong and sure a hold upon her to allow her to break out of his grasp. If she tried, surely his knife would pierce her throat.

  But she had other ways of fighting.

  “Akreshi, by Djashtet or whatever gods you hold sacred, please let me go,” she said quietly. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

  The man who’d seized her giggled, a noise born not of merriment, but of desperation. “I can’t, chit, don’t you see? My house is a pile of ashes. My wife and child burned tonight. And if I bring you in, maybe they’ll help me, maybe the Church’ll let me go to them—”

  Faanshi didn’t let him finish. But because of the pleading in his voice, she held back at the last moment as she unleashed her power, and dropped him into unconsciousness without pain. As his hold on her fell away she threw herself forward on shuddering legs, trusting that Julian would sheathe both his weapons and catch her before she could fall.

  He did, and for a long moment, she clung to him.

  Rab and the elves came skittering into the alley after them, and at the sight of the fallen form, Alarrah warned, “This man may burn if we leave him here.”

  Faanshi pulled out of the Rook’s hold and shook her head. “He won’t sleep long. He’ll wake up if the fire comes too close. Please, let’s keep moving. We have to get to Kestar.”

  No one argued, for which she sent Djashtet a thankful prayer. She’d remembered the ridah of compassion just in time, but she was badly shaken now, and not at all sure if she’d be able to do it twice if anyone else blocked their progress.

  Crone of Night willing, she wouldn’t have to.

  * * *

  The plan worked splendidly, at least at first. Shaymis Enverly was far too practical a man to believe that he could accompany the duchess all the way to St. Telran’s Cathedral unchallenged and unrecognized. He wouldn’t trigger amulets, but his name and face had to have spread to every Hawk in Kilmerry once Captain Follingsen had rescued him from Amarsaed’s patrol. Follingsen too was at risk now for that very action, and therefore unable to provide direct support to Her Grace. Enverly commandeered him instead to aid him into getting into Shalridan, along with a small number of specially chosen men and women, and crates of swords, pistols, powder and shot.

  Let Idrekke Sother inflame the populace with her sermons. Words served well up to a point, but after that, they would always yield to action. And nothing in Enverly’s experience served action better than weapons in hand.

  None of their planning, however, accounted for the outbreak of rioting within scant hours of their entering the city. Or for more Hawks than Enverly had seen in one place since the war patrolling the streets, quelling what violence they found, yet stirring up even more by their all-too-visible presence. Enverly, Follingsen and their small force from Lomhannor lost no time in passing weapons into the hands of would-be rioters, not even worrying much about whether those who accepted their arms had actually devoted themselves to the cause of Nirrivy’s rebirth. Any chaos in the streets, Enverly reasoned, could only aid their purpose.

  But then the rioters set the city aflame. Suddenly a plan to provoke the people of Shalridan into revolt upon their arrival became a swift rush to guarantee their own ability to leave, and that of the duchess as well. Had it been any other noble, Enverly might have abandoned her to whatever fate the gods saw fit to provide. What support he’d pledged her, in the end, would still yield to what Khamsin herself had named their greatest mutual motive—enlightened self-interest.

  Yet she was still the widow of Holvirr Kilmerredes, and the duke had been his friend. Enverly never liked to acknowledge that he had a conscience. For the duchess’s safety and that of her children, though, it began to stir.

  So he rallied Follingsen and the rest of their people. Together they made a concerted effort to press through the smoke-filled, turbulent streets and reach the cathedral, where they could rendezvous with the duchess and the others she’d brought with her into the city.

  On the way, as they struck a path through side alleys to find the clearest possible route, he spotted a flare of radiance far different than the lurid glow of the flames. It was visible only from a distance, and it subsided quickly. But it lasted long enough for Enverly’s pulse to race with a surge of frantic hope.

  The girl had come into the city.

  Enverly didn’t recognize Faanshi herself, not at first. Three of the figures running with her through the smoke, though, were unmistakable to his sight—the assassin and the elves who’d stood with her at the abbey. Two more men with them were startlingly familiar as well, the assassin’s partner who’d attacked him in his own church, and a brawny Tantiu Enverly was certain he knew from the guardsmen’s ranks at Lomhannor Hall. That left the sixth and final person in the running group, a slim form in a korfi, a long jacket and formfitting trousers, all garb much like that of the big guardsman.

  That figure had been the one whose hands had glowed.

  Change of plan, Enverly decided. Follingsen could lead their people to the duchess and arrange her removal to safer environs.

  He’d pursue the girl. If luck was with him, he’d be able to make her give him back what he’d lost.

  If not, well. He’d planned for that too, and had made his peace with the probable outcome.

  If all else failed, if he died in his attempt to capture Faanshi, he could still use her to give the nascent uprising the greatest gift they could hope to receive.

  Whether he lived or died, Adalonia would tear itself apart in the very seat of its power.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  St. Telran’s Cathedral, Shalridan, Jeuchar 4, AC 1876

  “Well, then,” demanded Ganniwer, “is that it? Are you going to bother with testimony? Or will you simply proceed with putting us all to death?”

  Her tone was purest frost, and Captain Amarsaed whirled on her so quickly that Kestar readied himself, surrounded though he was, to spring upon the man if he dared lay a hand upon his mother. It was almost a disappointment that he didn’t have to try.

  Apparently still willing to pay token respect to Ganniwer’s station, the Hawk captain restrained himself to simply glaring at her with a fraction more civility than he was showing Kestar himself. “You are in no position to critique the upholding of holy law, my lady. I advise you to have a care. But as long as you’re asking, we will conduct these proceedings with utmost propriety.”

  “As long as they’re done with speed,” bellowed the provost. “How much longer must we take while the city burns?”

  “We will conduct these proceedings with utmost propriety,” the captain repeated, spinning to beckon to Bron Wulsten. “Hawk Wulsten, I call upon you as the first witness. State your connection to the prisoners.”

  Bron stood with one arm in a sling, and at his captain’s attention, grew paler than he already was. His voice, though thin, held firm. “I was Ordained at Hawksvale in the same class as Hawks Vaarsen and Valleford, sir.”

  “Summarize, in your own words, your assessment of their characters.”

  “Valleford was always a bit of a rogue, and Vaarsen—well, sir, a lot of us always found him odd. Quite suspicious, truth be told.”

  “That’s a gods-damned lie!” Outraged, Celoren shot to his feet. “You were the first to play whist and chess with us ev
ery rest night we had.”

  Amarsaed, his features stony and implacable, didn’t even bother to intercept Celoren himself. Instead he gestured to two of the other Hawks, deploying them to wrest Kestar’s partner back down into his place on the pew. “The prisoner will be silent unless called upon to speak, or the prisoner will be gagged. Lady Khamsin Kilmerredes, Duchess of Shalridan, please do us the honor of addressing the tribunal. What connection do you have to the prisoners?”

  Kestar couldn’t help but turn to face the duchess as she rose, stark and severe in her mourning garb, and a cold chill trickled down his spine as she began to speak. “These two young men first made themselves known to my House when they came to my lord husband’s estate, claiming to be in search of an unidentified mage. The timing of their arrival was highly irregular, occurring as it did on the very same night that assassins invaded Lomhannor Hall to take my husband’s life.”

  “In your opinion, Your Grace, was the visit to your residence justified?”

  “In my opinion, sir, it led directly to the loss of my husband’s rightful property, and set him on a path to his death.” The duchess did not smile, but her black gaze flashed in Kestar’s direction, and her eyes gleamed with triumph. “In short—no, it was not.”

  The provost strode to Amarsaed then, his every motion brusque with his impatience, though he stopped short of actually laying a hand on the captain. “Are we satisfied yet? For gods’ sakes, man, every amulet in this place says Vaarsen has elven blood. Cleanse the man and have done with it, so we can get on with making sure we all survive till dawn.”

  “It’s clear enough where our holy duty lies,” the eldest of the priests said.