Hunter and Fox (2 page)

The patrons shifted and looked about them as if she might appear at the back of the inn somewhere.

He took that belief and wove it tighter about his audience. “The time when the new peoples had arrived had been one of peace and prosperity, before the Harrowing of the Vaerli and the iron grip of the Caisah.”

As a talespinner he recognized their weaknesses. At the fringes of the civilized world, with their backs to the dangers of the Chaoslands, the people here were hardest pressed by their overlord's taxes. He hoped mentioning this time of plenty would make them think.

He almost had them, but Finn couldn't quite help himself. Foolishly he kept on and told the tale of the rise of the Caisah. It was an amateur mistake; one that he should never have made. The listeners did not want to hear of his powerful magic, his immortality, and his crushing of those who had stood against him. By trying to raise their sympathies for the Vaerli he had gone too far. They did not care what had happened to that blighted race nearly three hundred years ago—it made no difference to their everyday lives.

Finn might empathize with those scattered and torn people going into lonely exile—but they did not. He'd had his one chance when he mentioned taxes but now he had lost them.

Recognizing this, he bowed to the audience. “This is a tale of warning by Finnbarr the Fox, for what the Caisah has done to the Vaerli could happen to any of us at any time.”

He might as well have been conversing with himself, for they had already turned back to their beer and talk of the next harvest. It was not what they had wanted, a cruel medicine to people who had been expecting something diverting. They didn't want to hear stories of sorrow about a people they'd been taught to despise.

Finn slipped off the stage and made for the narrow room that was the meager price for such a grand telling. He caught the innkeeper's eye and got the distinct impression that he thought it was too much rather than too little. It had been his wife who hired Finn, and the storyteller could only hope that would not cause her any trouble.

Flopping down on the thin mattress, and hearing the distant sound of music striking up, he contemplated the dark ceiling. Once he would have been angry and lashed them with the rage of a talespinner, making them crawl back to their beds nursing fears and guilt. But anger was a short-lived fuel, and he'd long ago run out.

Instead, he unwound the tatty skein of wool from around his right wrist and threaded it through his fingers. It was an ancient child's game, but it had become more than that to him.

He wove the patterns, the ones his fingers alone seemed to know, and felt the narrowing of the world around him. All existence focused on that space between the threads and the things it showed him beyond.

The blackness resolved itself into grayness and then, as always, he looked into the eyes of the child. They were blue eyes, the color of the sky just before the sun left, and set in a boy's face that somehow hovered between sorrow and delight. It was this communion, Finn knew, that brought the only joy to the child's life. But then, it was the same for him.

When he had first found the design in the thread he'd been a boy himself, but while he had aged somehow the other had not. Time, it seemed, ran differently between their worlds.

“You've been gone weeks.” The child's brow furrowed, he looked closer, observing the changes in Finn's face. “Is it longer for you?” There was a hint of accusation in his voice.

“I'm sorry, Ysel,” Finn said, his hands trembling between the thread. “Sometimes I can't find the pattern or something intrudes.”

“I know you try,” Ysel whispered, “but when I can't speak to you I get worried.”

The boy could only be ten at the most, and Finn knew he lived in frightened solitude. Ysel had let slip once that his protectors were trying to hide him from something, but what exactly that might be he had not divulged.

Finn narrowed his eyes and tried to get the dim background of the boy's world to resolve into something he could put a name to. The storyteller couldn't be positive but it appeared to be the same room as always, even though it was a mere blur of color behind the boy's shoulder. If he could just identify a feature then he might be able to work out a location.

Ysel was always strangely reluctant to part with details. Finn could understand that, for while he'd known Ysel all his life the other had only known him barely a year.

The talespinner tried to comfort the boy, but it was hard when all the contact they had was the space between the threads. He could not touch his shoulder or wipe away his tears. “No need to worry about me, Ysel,” Finn replied. “I'm in a decent-enough place, and actually got paid for my telling this time.”

Ysel shot him a doubtful look. “I've dreamed, Finn. Men are coming for you, and I see darkness all around.”

A chill descended on Finn. The boy was never wrong. Once he had avoided lynching only because of Ysel's warning—he would be foolish to ignore this now.

Not getting a reaction obviously unnerved Ysel. “Men in armor, red like blood.” His eyes were wide as if he was seeing them at that very moment.

It could only be the Rutilian Guard; the Caisah's enforcers.

“You should go,” Ysel repeated.

How could Finn tell the boy he was tired of running, tired of being ignored? He was too young to understand what the end of a road felt like. So Finn smiled. “I will, of course.”

“I'll speak to you afterwards?”

“Certainly, I will see you soon.” The thread unraveled in his fingers, and Ysel's anxious face went with it.

Finn sighed, for he had already heard the heavy footfalls down the hall. Apparently he wasn't going to get the chance to find out if he would have waited for them or if some shred of self-preservation still lingered.

The rickety door smashed to the floor with the first kick, and the hallway beyond was full of guards. They were indeed the familiar Rutilian.

“Stop, traitor!” The guard captain's sword was already half out of its scabbard, as his men pressed eagerly behind him. The Caisah was getting a little thin on enemies, and there was competition amongst his soldiers to find them.

Suddenly filled with desperation, Finn ran at the wall, sure that it could only be made of daub. He'd made such escapes before.

Luck was not with him this time. The inn was made of stouter stuff; all he did was bruise his shoulder. Dropping to the floor, he cursed the blind scions who had made him so ill-starred. Capricious creatures, but they would not let him die there at the end of an enthusiastic guard's sword. Whatever his powers were, they diminished him in the eyes of his attackers.

He is too small, too insignificant to bother with
, those powers whispered.
The Caisah has no interest in such little creatures.

They gave him a sound beating instead. Lashing out with fist and foot, they reminded him not to speak that tale. He rolled into a ball, taking the blows, but feeling them more on his spirit than his flesh.

They spat on him and then departed, joking amongst themselves—already eager for beer and women. Finn was left where he lay, shaking with anger and frustration. His fingernails bit deeply into his palms and his teeth ground against each other. He demanded his little powers to be more. They did not obey, only capable of making him inconsequential. He raged, but the melancholy lengthened into his familiar foe, depression. He lay tucked up near the wall for a long time.

Until a kind hand on his back told him that he wasn't alone. Finn looked up into the worried face of the innkeeper's wife. “Let me help you, lad.”

She guided him until he was seated unsteadily on the edge of the bed. He wiped a hand through his hair and tried to find his composure.

Sitting next to him, she shook her head. “You should never have spoken that story. What a crazy thing to do…unless you have some sort of death wish?”

He didn't even know her name, and here she was offering advice. She was right. It was a certain kind of madness to go about telling old tales that only got him beaten.

She was staring at Finn, trying to see beyond the blood on his face and the faraway stare. Perhaps she thought he was crazy. It wasn't that he was; he was just determined to change things, to make people listen. And to make them listen, he had to cause a stir.

And where was the best place to cause one of those?
Finn asked himself—not disallowing any kind of answer.

He began to grin. “Thank you for your concern, but those guards might have done me a favor. They've cleared my head rather nicely.”

She frowned and hastily got off the bed with a snort. “More like done it in, I suspect.”

“Oh no, they've made me realize that I have been aiming too small—too small by half. What I really need to do is go to Perilous and Fair, and tell my story there.”

Now she was using a look surely reserved for the most drunken of her patrons. “You really want to get yourself killed, don't you?”

Finn considered that for a moment while sucking the inside of his cheek. Was that what he was doing? He rejected the idea quickly. The urge to tell his tales was deeper than that. “You know he had all the Vaerli talespinners disposed of, so if we don't tell their stories, who will?”

She was shaking her head and making for the door. “They're a cursed people, young man; no one wants to hear their story—not even them.”

“When people hear it, they'll know the Caisah is wrong. They might do something about it,” Finn replied eagerly.

His benefactor was already gone, shutting the door and clomping down the hallway. Surely she considered him dead already. Finn smiled to himself. He wasn't yet. Not by half.

I
t was a journey that everyone said you had to make at least once. Perilous and Fair was a city like no other, a many-walled, many-towered glory on the Umber River, with the distant blue mountains acting as a magnificent backdrop.

Its crowning glory was the Caisah's Citadel, which stood at the center of the city. He knew it to be a labyrinth of white stone with a thousand rooms surrounded by the music of water. The waterfalls had been pleasing to the original owners—the Vaerli; ironically it appeared their destroyer enjoyed the very same thing.

The city was the jewel in the Caisah's empire, so it was not idly named. The attachment of Perilous to Fair, however, only served to draw more people to it. Danger always added spice to beauty—the storyteller knew that very well.

Finn paused for a moment among the throngs of other people right before the Phoenix Gate. Craning his head back, he saw the two magical birds, both carved into the gates of lapis lazuli and taller than five men on each other's shoulders. The crowds streamed around him, the citizens no longer moved by the beauty but used to visitors needing to stop and gape.

Even the walls were a marvel. The thick, brightly colored mosaics depicted animals and plants, even creatures of Chaos. They appeared to scamper up the curved walls, making them more alive than something of brick and mortar had a right to be. Bright gems picked them out with consummate skill. They were no creation of the Caisah—his buildings were stern and utilitarian. The images belonged to the lost world of the Vaerli and the time when they had lived in Conhaero.

Finn adjusted his slight pack over one shoulder and walked up the slope and into the gates. As he went, he tried to imagine how it would have looked back then. Surely there would have been Kindred flocking through the very gate he now passed under. The land beyond could have been any shape at all, rather than the mountains that the Caisah held constant.

For a while Finn let himself be carried around the streets by the eddies of humanity, not looking for anyone, or anything, in particular. He just enjoyed soaking up the sounds and smells of the place. This was where the road ended, at the Caisah's front door.

Every trader in the world came here, by water or foot, so there were stranger and more exotic sights within the walls than anywhere else. Sailors, reeking after months on ship, climbed the short distance from the riverside port to the city itself, excited by what it had to offer. Desert traders mounted on grumbling camels passed Finn by. The smell of musty beasts mingled with exotic spices, while on every available street corner came the calls of pamphleteers.

One shoved a thin sheet of paper into Finn's unsuspecting hand. By the time he had turned to reject the offering, the crowd had pushed him farther in. Turning it over, he half-expected it to be a diatribe against the Caisah—a call to arms perhaps. Disappointingly it wasn't, just a cheap offer of accommodation. The citizens of Perilous were wealthy indeed if they could afford to give away paper. He would be sure to keep his eye out for genuine rabble-rousing publishers.

Still, it would be hard work in such a pulsing throng. The colors and textures whirled around him, while his talespinner's mind tried to catalogue each one. Surely there were a hundred stories to be found in this street alone.

The only thing that could spoil this moment were his own black moods, which descended from anywhere—even from the square of bright blue sky framed by the castle's walls. Finn's chest tightened and a wave of unrealized panic washed over him, until suddenly even this vista wasn't enough. His eyes dimmed, and a thousand demeaning voices emerged from his own subconscious. He jerked his head, drawing a shuddering breath, and briskly walked away as if he could somehow outrun his fears.

While Finn was thinking and worrying, his feet had found their own way to the great Waterfall Gates of Iilthor, the heart of Perilous and Fair. The inner sanctum of the Citadel was nestled into a red outcrop of rock and the gates themselves were surrounded on each side by the graceful curves of two waterfalls. It should have been a beautiful spot, but he who lived behind the gates made it one of the most feared. Beyond was solely the Caisah's domain and death came to those uninvited. The crowds of people unconsciously veered away from the gates. They even skirted the Citadel's shadow nervously.

Finn found a quiet spot and tucked himself into a corner where he was unlikely to be noticed. At this entrance there were guards—taller and sterner-looking than in the provinces—but there was no other sign of defenses. A master of Chaos perhaps felt no need for such displays, and three hundred years of domination had taught his subjects fear.

Finn fished out a piece of dried bread from his pack and chewed on it, all the while watching the comings and goings from the gate.

After three hours, though, he'd confirmed his suspicions: there were none. No carts came laden with food, and no footsore messengers approached the guards. The center of castle was as isolated as its lord was; more importantly, there was no way he could squirrel himself in amongst deliveries as heroes did in the tales he spun.

The bread was long gone and his throat was ready for a drink of some kind. Before he could lever himself out of his corner, everything abruptly changed. A few muted cries of alarm reached him but were quickly cut off, until all that remained was silence. Into that, she arrived. Finnbarr the Fox got his second look at Talyn the Dark. She would not recall the first, nor, he hoped, this one.

The crowd shifted around her, none meeting her eye. All were anxious to get out of the way—nykur were not renowned for their forbearance. So that was what people saw, rather than Talyn herself—the great terrifying bulk of the green beast. They didn't look farther, or try to meet the hollow eyes of its rider. They did not want to draw her attention in any way.

Finn noticed things because he was making an effort to take her measure. Taller than the rest of the crowd, he got an excellent view of the Hunter perched high on the back of the nykur with its slashing teeth and curved claws. She looked like a child on such a huge beast, but the glint of blade and pistol broke that illusion. Also, there was the body of some poor man strapped before her saddle—her hunt had obviously been a successful one.

Sliding down from the creature's back, she paused a moment to whisper something into its curled green ear. A shudder ran down its back and its teeth clashed like bright swords. Talyn the Dark strode to the guards, talking so softly that again Finn could not hear what was said.

She didn't seem like a danger—but he knew she was. He had experience to remind him. She had always needed just herself, and while that was sad, he envied her for it somehow.

Talyn was the Caisah's creature, even more completely than the dreaded Rutilian Guard, or the relentless Swoop. It was a foul bargain she'd made for her life, when all of her people were outcasts.

She turned, and he saw her properly as he hadn't since their last parting. Being Vaerli, nothing had changed about her; she was still dark-eyed and golden-skinned, and there was no wrinkle or scar on her face to show that any time had passed at all.

Finn could not see her features properly from this distance, but he didn't need to. His recollection of her storm-cloud eyes was clear and he knew that even now they would be flicking over the press of people on the street. In such a way she judged who was a danger and who were merely sheep beneath her notice.

She was not just a person to Finn. She was a life-changing event. He saw her as lovely when all others only saw her as frightening.

Dark of eye, dark of will, dark of power
Pass me by until another hour

That was the incantation meant to keep the Hunter at bay. It was paltry and ridiculous when faced with her. And even knowing what she was, Finn had no desire for her to pass him by.

As if summoned, she was looking directly at him through the press of people. All sound suddenly ceased. Pity clutched at Finn's heart; there was such infinite sadness inside Talyn the Dark. The Vaerli lived through days beyond measure, and in her look was every moment of that tortured existence.

He did not think she would recall him with one glance, but a small part of him longed for her to cross to him. Though what she would do after that was uncertain—their last parting had not been amicable.

Talyn did not move; her face was a calm study, no expression or emotion bent it. She turned away suddenly and Finn was left feeling oddly upset. He watched her unload her terrible burden before leading the nykur into the Citadel, and found he was able to move only after she was gone from sight.

She was not the reason he was here, Finn reminded himself forcibly. Shaking himself, he hitched his pack once more over his back and left the corner. His odd gift ensured that no guard noticed him depart.

It had also allowed him to observe much, where others would have been prompted to move along by the guards. He might well have to trust his undefined skills to get him in under their notice. Still, a well-traveled storyteller was not without friends, and he knew of places where he could find those who would help him. Finn could only hope their greeting was more than a chilling glance.

Perilous and Fair they called it, and for most who saw it, it brought hope and delight to their hearts. To Talyn, though, it was the greatest symbol of defeat; her people's only city, the single constant in a world that changed so quickly. They had called it V'nae Rae, and it had been truly special. Only four places were of any significance to the wandering Vaerli: two lost, one haunted, and this last trampled beneath enemy feet. If her heart wasn't already dead, it would have broken every time she came back here.

The yester-time made it worse. Her eyes deceived her. At every corner she could see the ghosts of times past. Childhood friends lurked in the shadows, long-dead relatives waved from beside fountains, and memory burned her in every street.

It hurt because it was
his
home now. As she reported her arrival and handed off her bounty to the captain of the guards, her eyes drifted to the crowd. She was used to the downcast eyes and the acceleration of footsteps—what she wasn't used to was a man staring. Looking closer, Talyn realized that something of familiarity lingered about him. His red-gold hair and tallness marked him as one of the tribes of Manesto. His stance was empty of deference and full of something else she could not name…

A wave of unreality swept through her as if she might faint. Balancing on her toes, she managed to avoid falling, but the sensation did not pass. The Void pressed close; it was the brightness of the between-worlds itself. Memory of it lingered in her peoples' blood from the time of the Great Conflagration, and it was forever their greatest fear.

Straightening, Talyn turned away from the man, not acknowledging his existence. Fear—like every other emotion—was lost to the Vaerli now. If the White Void was opened once more it would, as foretold, signal another great destruction. She could only pray such a time would come and swallow the Caisah with it.

Still, the moment echoed inside her as she walked within the gates and found a quiet stall for Syris; one where he would not attack horses or be approached by foolish stable boys. Occasionally one would attempt to prove his manhood, and it always ended badly.

She untangled a matted portion of his mane, accepting the cut fingertips, and sighed into his ear. “Thank you.”

The nykur's hide ran with a shiver. He too felt the gaze of the Caisah, and Syris liked neither V'nae Rae, nor her master.

“It's all right, boy.” She patted the thick green fur of his flank as the lie settled inside her.

However, a nykur could taste untruths, and the great shaggy head turned, regarding her with a dark intelligent eye. Many years and many times they had both ridden here. It was always the same. Both wished only to be away.

Talyn left the stable, making for her room with the pistol tucked under one arm and her blade in her left hand. The small bare room on the second floor had been hers for her entire service to the Caisah. Talyn had chosen it because it was one of the few rooms in the Citadel that was not shadowed by yester-time shades.