Victory of the Hawk

by Angela Highland

  Gerren, steward of Dolmerrath, was therefore the last person Kestar would have expected to find in such a place. Yet the elf was there, staring broodingly at the statues, and he turned without surprise at the sounds of Kestar’s footfalls. “Good afternoon, valann,” he said. “I thought perhaps I’d find you here.”

  “I can’t say the same,” Kestar blurted. “How are you here? When did you arrive?”

  “An hour and a half ago. The Duchess Khamsin leads our party, and along with her we’ve brought her seconds as well as my own. The army remains behind in Kilmerry, but we’ve brought enough of Khamsin’s people and my own to look after our safety. And we’ve brought the Lady Ganniwer, who sent me in search of you.” Gerren paused, studying him. “Though in truth, I wanted to find you myself. Word came to us of what you did, and I should thank you for that—my people can walk free in this country for the first time in two hundred years. But thanks are not what you need to hear, I think.”

  The observation, calmly spoken though it was, stopped Kestar in his tracks. “No,” he whispered. “You know the Hawk prayer, don’t you? Ani a bhota Anreulag, arach shae. I can’t say those words anymore, but they won’t leave my mind. I was Her eyes to see, Her sword to strike, but I struck Her down instead.”

  “And now you grieve, and you don’t know if your former Order will allow you to grieve with them for what they’ve lost, or whether you will continue to be a pariah among them. Do not be surprised if they make the latter choice.”

  Gerren didn’t sound precisely cynical, but Kestar could hardly argue with him, particularly when he was right. Jekke Yerredes had gone straight into St. Merrodrie’s to seek the counsel of the priestesses of the Mother, and had been welcomed with open arms. Kestar hadn’t been able to bring himself to try to join her. “I… I grieve,” he admitted. “And I don’t know anymore who to pray to for forgiveness.”

  “If it helps, I think perhaps the Mother of Stars might be willing to listen if you called on Her. We will be, Tembriel and Alarrah and I, now that we’re together again. Merawen was the greatest of us, and she suffered more greatly than any of the rest of our people can begin to comprehend. We’ll grieve for her. I came to ask you and Faanshi to join us.”

  What spread through Kestar at those words wasn’t quite pain, though it sent a pang through his chest where he’d been stabbed, the beginnings of a piercing relief that felt akin to the heart of Faanshi’s healing. “I’d be honored.” Then he paused and added, pulling aside the flap of the coat he was wearing despite the warmth of summer, “I have Amathilàen. I should give it back to you. I… I may be Dalrannen’s heir, but I’m barely an elf. Amathilàen is an elven weapon. It belongs to you and your people.”

  The gun was holstered at his hip, quiescent now, all its enchanted bullets spent. Margaine had given him no royal commands to return it to the palace armory, and not a single guard or Hawk had seen fit to challenge his right to carry it. Part of him hadn’t quite borne the idea of setting it aside, either, though he was acutely conscious of its weight. Part of him couldn’t quite bear the idea of giving it up now. He still sensed glimpses of visions when he touched the handle, lovely ancient faces. Sometimes he could hear his great-grandfather singing.

  “Amathilàen has a will of its own, and I am not about to contest it. And I’m not here to take anything from you. In fact, I want to give you this.” The steward smiled, more openly than Kestar could remember seeing any elf do in his presence before, and turned away briefly to retrieve something leaning against the low stone wall of the fountain’s rim. “I saved it when we had to evacuate Dolmerrath. We can debate your right to keep the gun later if you wish, but surely you’ll agree with me that you’ve earned this.”

  It was an instrument case. Not immediately familiar of design to Kestar’s eyes, too long and slender to contain something as small as his mandolin—but from the size of it, he knew instantly what it had to contain. His heart in his throat, he accepted and opened the case, and fought to keep his hands from shaking as he took out the ten-stringed instrument within.

  “In Adalonic, I believe you’d call it a cittern,” Gerren said. “In Elisiyannè, we’d say sedderen.”

  “What did Riniel call it?” There was a long strap of finely interwoven leathern strips secured to either end of the instrument, and as he slung it over his shoulder, Kestar didn’t doubt for an instant that his great-grandfather had given it a name. When he struck a soft chord on the strings, the note hummed straight through its body and into his own.

  “Introduce yourself to it. It may tell you.” The elf inclined his head then. “I’ll leave you with it for now. Alarrah and I will find you when it’s time to sing the laments.”

  “Thank you,” Kestar rasped, the very words Gerren had avoided giving him, and the steward smiled once more. When he stepped away into the hedge maze Kestar never knew, for the call of strings beneath his hands was too potent to resist. It wasn’t magical, but music had a healing power all its own. The cittern didn’t tug at his awareness the way Amathilàen did, but it didn’t need to. It was a musical instrument, and in its own way, it was alive.

  His heart lightening for the first time in days, Kestar tested each string, looking for the tones they made and what chords he might assemble from them. The gods themselves only knew—or perhaps Gerren himself did—how old the strings were. Yet each one chimed sweetly at his touch, stirring as if rousing from far too long a slumber, eager to sing.

  When he thought he knew what the cittern had to offer, he began to play.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  St. Merrodrie’s Cathedral, Dareli, Annesdal 7, AC 1876

  It hadn’t been so very long ago that Jekke would have given a limb to set foot in St. Merrodrie’s, the heart of the Church of the Four Gods in Adalonia. Now she had the freedom to visit it as she willed. Yet for days after the fall of the Anreulag, she had no idea what she might do there.

  The grand nave, hundreds of years old and decorated with more opulence than most people from Marriham ever saw in their lifetimes, would have dazzled her eyes before. Now it hurt her heart to see the damage the place had sustained, or at least, what glimpses she could glean by peeking in through the doors as royally appointed workers applied themselves to rebuilding it. It took a full week before the Church proclaimed it fit for the public’s entrance again, and in that time, Jekke found that many of the folk of Dareli gathered outside to wait for the nave to be open again, keeping a solemn vigil. Everywhere she looked she saw women, men and children whose expressions matched the numb shock still lingering in her heart. Some priests and priestesses moved among them, offering aid and comfort, though in truth she could see the same doubt in their eyes. The priests and priestesses, like their charges, were haunted by the same question that had nagged at Jekke for a full week.

  If the Anreulag’s entire existence had been a lie, what did that mean about the Four Gods? Could they still rely on the Father’s protection, the Mother’s mercy, or the easing of the spirit that was the province of the Son and the Daughter?

  None of the priests and priestesses seemed to know for sure. They fumbled through replies when the people of Dareli challenged them. More than once, they cast their holy robes aside, tearing them into bandages for the sake of the wounded, cutting them into scraps to patch ragged blankets, or simply burning them. A dozen different Hawks tore off their amulets and thrust them into the hands of hungry elders, so that they might sell the silver to buy bread. But even as she saw all these things outside the cathedral, she couldn’t quite bring herself to abandon her own amulet. Its light had died in the battle at Dolmerrath, but it was still the symbol of the Hawk she’d been.

  She couldn’t part with it until she could discover what kind of Hawk she’d be, moving forward—or if she’d still be a Knight of the Hawk at all.

  The day the delegation from the army of Nirrivy finally arrived in
the city, word of their coming had already spread like wildfire through the streets. Most of the broadsheets Jekke could find offered only rumor rather than news, warning hysterically that Nirrivan-blooded westerners would not stop at the secession of their own provinces. They’d sweep into the east to take the entire country. They’d take their vengeance for the punishment of heretics. They’d overthrow the palace—that the princess would die as the Bhandreid had died before her, and as the Anreulag herself had fallen. Jekke believed none of it, not after Vaarsen, Valleford and their compatriots had treated her with unexpected kindness.

  But she couldn’t rid herself of nagging doubt, any more than she could her amulet. They might have let her listen to the negotiations in the palace, but somehow that didn’t seem proper. And so she waited at St. Merrodrie’s instead, until the following day when the princess and the remaining First Priests and Priestesses of the Four Gods reopened the cathedral to the public. Nor were they alone. The Nirrivan delegation was with them. It was odd indeed to see the Tantiu-born duchess flanked by the priest and priestess of the Allmother—and odder still to see a dozen fully armed elves beside them, with Gerren, the steward of Dolmerrath, at their fore.

  “People of Dareli,” the princess called, standing on the highest of the steps leading up to the cathedral’s front doors, “I come before you today to declare St. Merrodrie’s, the bastion of our hearts and our faiths, once more open to you all. Workers have been toiling inside around the clock to make it safe for you all to enter once again, and now that this has been done, I am proud to welcome you all back within its walls.

  “Many of you are doubtless wondering what sort of welcome you will find within it. You have probably all heard the stories, and so I will state plainly: yes, the Anreulag is dead. I can tell you all now that the Voice of the Gods rose up in righteous anger against great wrong that was done to her, and that that wrong has been set right. She has returned to the arms of the gods, leaving us lessened by her passing—and asking ourselves how and even if we can continue to serve the Four Gods.”

  Jekke edged closer to the steps, all her attention riveted on the princess’s words, for the woman was giving voice to the turmoil in her own heart. Margaine didn’t pause in her speaking, but her golden-brown gaze momentarily flickered in Jekke’s direction, and brightened with acknowledgement. Though her attention regularly swept across the faces of the entire crowd, Jekke blushed to see it come back repeatedly to her. It made her wonder what the others had told the princess about her, though she could hardly dare to hope that the woman could have anything specific to say to her now.

  “I cannot tell you what you should and should not believe, ladies and gentlemen. But I’d like to tell you what I believe now, after the days of fire and destruction that have rained down on us all. I believe the time of dictating the faith of others has come to an end. I believe that the measure of an honorable heart lies not with what gods it follows, but by the actions of the man or woman who possesses it. I believe that my first and foremost responsibility is to see to your safety, to your livelihoods, and to the rebuilding of the country in the aftermath of a crisis that could have destroyed us all. To accomplish these goals, however, I will need every able body and willing heart to aid me and to aid the realm.

  “With this in mind, I proclaim to you now three things. One, effective immediately, the Crown hereby acknowledges the declaration of independence by the provinces of Kilmerry, Carrowdaw and Gallister, who wish to reclaim their heritage as the nation of Nirrivy. Two, effective immediately, all persons of full or partial elven blood within the remaining provinces of the realm are granted unconditional liberation from the bonds of servitude. Steward Gerren, in the name of the elves of Dolmerrath, issues his personal invitation to all of elven descent to join him in the reclamation of lost Elisiya to the east. And three, effective immediately, the Crown hereby repeals all standing heresy laws. Never again will citizens of Adalonia be thrown into the Barrows or driven into exile or slavery because of what they believe—or because of what blood flows in their veins. St. Merrodrie’s Cathedral will be open to all, no matter their creed, for it must stand again as the protector of all our hearts.

  “People of Dareli, will you join me in making this so, and in building a new era of freedom and peace?”

  At first, for one brief moment, stunned silence was Princess Margaine’s reply. But then a wave of cheers began to surge around the cathedral square—and Jekke, her heart abruptly lighter, pushed even farther forward through the crowd. She didn’t know whether she still believed in the Four Gods. But she did believe in service to her people, and all at once it gladdened her to see a royal who thought the same now taking the throne.

  In Princess Margaine, perhaps, she could place her faith.

  “Your Highness,” she called out, “I volunteer. Tell me how I can serve you.”

  Margaine’s attention came back to her again, and to her abrupt elation, the other woman graciously inclined her head. “As long as you’re asking, Lieutenant Yerredes, I could use a new High Priestess.”

  * * *

  When everyone else went out see the princess speak on the steps of St. Merrodrie’s, Kestar opted to stay behind at the palace—but to his chagrin, his plan of hiding once again in the solitude of the gardens, with Riniel’s cittern in his hands, was thwarted by nothing less than royal decree. A solemn young palace page brought him a note on fine cream-white paper, written in Margaine’s own hand and stamped with the Araeldes family seal.

  Lord Vaarsen, it read, please attend to me in the auxiliary audience chamber at the hour of three o’clock upon my return from St. Merrodrie’s. We have business to discuss.

  He had no choice then but to show up as bidden, feeling strangely underdressed for all that he’d put on clothes in far better condition than the Hawk uniform he’d abandoned. Nothing he owned seemed entirely proper for an audience with a princess, and it seemed more improper still to appear before Margaine in clothes the palace staff had tailored for him at her decree. Kestar put one of those tailored suits on nevertheless, eschewing only the jacket that matched the trousers, for he didn’t want its brass buttons to scratch the body of his great-grandfather’s cittern as he brought it with him to the audience chamber.

  If he had to wait for the princess’s coming, he would at least be able to play.

  No one stopped him, to his relief. His hand and mind both had something to do as long as he held the instrument, and indeed, it kept him distracted and out of the way of the stoic-faced guards who watched over the audience chamber’s entrance. He settled himself on a bench along one wall, ignoring the throne, which was a less ornate cousin of the one in the palace’s main throne room, and never heard the door open when Margaine finally arrived. The cittern consoled him with minor chords and the measures of a slow waltz trying to take shape beneath his fingers, while the echoes of its harmonies resonated around the room.

  “You play beautifully, Lord Vaarsen. That instrument you’re holding almost makes me think I should reconsider what I’m about to ask you.”

  Kestar’s head shot up, and the rest of him hastily followed, though he took care to set the cittern aside as he stood to make his bow. “Thank you, Your Highness. How may I be of service?”

  She’d come across the room to meet him, and she stopped now a few paces away, looking up at him thoughtfully. “To begin, you might tell me why you avoided the ceremony at St. Merrodrie’s today, as well as everything else that has taken place in the palace since your arrival. I have my suspicions. But I would prefer to hear directly from you.”

  Oh gods was all Kestar could think for a moment, until he forced himself to rally his wits. He barely knew this woman, and he was not entirely sure he was still her subject, though she now claimed the throne of Adalonia—yet he could offer her nothing less than honesty. Faanshi would have called it upholding the ridah of truth, but to him, it was duty still ingrain
ed in him as deeply as his love of music or his elven blood.

  “I’ve been hiding because I don’t know what to do with myself, my lady. What I’ve had to do has changed my entire world, and I’m honestly not sure what place I have in it now. My home is suddenly in another country. My Order kicked me out, and I couldn’t begrudge them if they’ve been avoiding inviting me back in. And I killed Merawen. I know what she was in the end, but part of me still can’t stand the knowledge that the Voice of the Gods is dead because of me. I don’t know how I’m supposed to hear the gods now, or even if they want me to.”

  The princess listened to him without interruption, her gaze on his face, and Kestar found himself flushing under her direct regard. He couldn’t tell what she thought; Margaine was both less and more reserved of expression than he’d expected, and he’d grown accustomed to judging the expressions of Faanshi, Alarrah and Tembriel. A human woman was almost a shock by comparison.

  Then all at once she smiled, and that too was a shock—for it came to him that severe as she seemed in her black mourning gown, Margaine Araeldes was beautiful.

  “I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to hear someone willing to speak to me so plainly,” she said. “Which brings me to my purpose in asking you to speak with me today. I know how adrift you must feel, Lord Vaarsen. It’s been evident these last few days—and if I may be so bold, a man who makes a cittern speak as you do is a man with a weight upon his mind. I’d like to alleviate some of that weight. I have a position for you in my court if you choose to accept it. I am in dire need of your counsel.”

  Yet another shock, one at which he could not conceal his amazement. “Highness, I can’t begin to imagine how I might advise you. My connection to the elves notwithstanding, I’m nothing but a disgraced Hawk.”