Hunter and Fox (5 page)

She risked a quick glance out of the corner of her eye to where Alvick stood at her side. He wore a matching shift of white but also the torc of the
gewalt.

The only other person in the narrow chamber was the priestess, dressed in a sheer robe of deepest red. She held the long knife
nehmer
, the life giver, straight before her, and her face was as impassive as that slice of steel.

She gestured sharply toward the primus mouth, where the chaos was thickest, and Pelanor and Alvick stepped forward despite the chill in their bones. Pelanor held out her hand, and he took it before stepping in farther and folding her into his arms. She inhaled the strong clean scent of him, burying it into her memory, while holding tight to his friendship and goodness.

Quickly the priestess bound them together, intoning the words to twine their souls, while the thick cord of the Making cut into their skin. “Two lives end, one greater begins. Now all strength comes from love and power from blood.”

Pelanor looked into Alvick's eye, feeling his breath mingle with hers, his heart racing to the same beat. An overwhelming peace stole over her. It was not such a bad thing to share death and blood with someone you loved.

Together then, they chanted her last living words.
Almore sun lethe merya.
We go together.

No more time remained. The priestess' blade descended—faster than thought, surer than fate. Pelanor's body arched as the blade drove through her but only grazed the chest of Alvick. Her death and his blood—just as it had always been for the Phaerkorn. He kissed her then and took in her last mortal gasp. The priestess cried out, a wordless joyful sound, before she shoved them roughly into the last mouth of the goddess.

They tumbled together. Pelanor had lost her breath, never to take it again. Her skin was cool, but her faith was all around. Alvick never let her go; he bound her to the edge of the living world, holding her back from the beyond by the barest threads. It was the most magnificent kind of love. She arched against him in rapture while taking his first Given, the honor of his blood, into her mouth. His flesh opened under her teeth willingly and the last mouth of the goddess gave them her boon. Tumbling through a rainbow of darkness, they became the eternal couple. Pelanor's heritage as a Blood Witch was secured. She had passed the test and so had Alvick. His love for her was found strong enough to hold her back from the gate of death.

The goddess had accepted their gifts. She was the center of destruction and life and she now held them in her grasp forever.

How long they spent within her darkness could not be measured, but when finally Pelanor felt cool marble underneath her knees and heard Alvick gasping next to her she knew the material world had claimed them again.

The descent into faith had not been easy. Her transformed body was trembling and seemed hardly hers to command. She felt Alvick's hand slip from hers, but the link between them was still there. His blood was hers now.

The priestess's voice had changed, warm and loving, where before it had been cold and clinical. “Welcome back to the world, beloved of the goddess.” Gentle hands lifted Pelanor and Alvick up to stand bewildered in the light of their success.

The new Blood Witch found that her newly sharpened eyes could pick out a dark figure at the end of the temple. She did not know the name of this person, but she knew his purpose. He smelt of earth and fire. A Vaerli had come to the temple and surprisingly he would provide her first blood price.

The priestess beckoned him forward and he came, with the lightness of foot his people still possessed. Yet he looked tired, weighed down with the burden of the Harrowing, and Pelanor felt, even in her now-cold heart, sorry for him.

He did not give his name, as was custom, instead presenting a box inlaid with silver and Vaerli magic. Opening it, the priestess took out three scrolls and ran her eye over them. “And these are most precious to you?” she asked quickly.

A flicker of pain passed over the man's face. “Three songs of our ancient folk, lost and gone. We can no longer read the language. Even so, they are more precious to us than gold.”

The priestess paused but heard truth in his words. “It is acceptable,” she said. Then, stepping back, she gestured to Pelanor. “Give this one the name of the blood, and it shall be done.”

The Vaerli's head drooped, and his voice when it came was low and sad. “Talyn the Dark.” He glanced up, looking directly into the face of the newest Phaerkorn. “To save us all, and prevent another innocent life being lost, kill her. If you can…make it swift.”

A mighty blood price. Pelanor's heart raced—a truly heroic one. By doing it, she would assure her place in the rolls of the Blessed and earn Vaerli gratitude for her people. Alvick's hand slipped into hers and he was grinning at her.

Pelanor laughed aloud into the high reaches of the temple.

F
inn knew there were many evils in the world that the Caisah ruled, but looking around at the prosperous faces of the inhabitants of Perilous it was hard to see any. In a city whose streets bulged with traders, the only visible danger was that of being run over by a cart or wagon. They seemed to be everywhere, laden with spices, barrels, huge rolls of lush fabric, or baaing sheep. The scents alternately delighted and repulsed him. In this one city there was as much diversity as he'd seen in all his travels. The tribes of Manesto outnumbered the others ten to one. In his short trip from the Gates to the port itself he did see a group of cloaked and hooded Phaerkorn. Blood Witches abhorred the light, but he did catch a glimpse of a pale face under a hood. They were among the first wave of settlers from the White Void, but others had followed. He also saw a number of the tall and elegantly dark-skinned Mohl. They had high cheekbones and liquid eyes that marked them out as gazelle among sheep.

As he walked the last few streets to his destination, a small efficient figure lingering near a corner in a long silver cloak and dark gray shirt caught his eye. The deep eyes, when they glanced up, caught at his before moving on. Finn's thoughts immediately went to Talyn the Dark, but this was a man with grizzled hair and his face was no mask of indifference—his anger was there for any to see. The Vaerli turned away from him, retreating into a private world of pain.

Finn could only wonder why a Vaerli would be here. They could sense one another, and even this far from the Citadel he would know another was near—perhaps that it was even Talyn.

Walking on, Finn made a conscious effort not to look back. His destination was not far now and his pace quickened. The streets did not feel as friendly as they had only moments before, and the back of his neck was itching.

In many ways the Singing Fish was like any other inn on the edge of the port, yet it was special in ways few other places in Conhaero could claim to be. The Caisah's eye did not reach here. It was a freak of the Vaerli magic, a gap in the Chaos, and hence a gap in their enemy's power. The oddly shaped inn walls had been built to the exact shape and breadth of the discrepancy.

Finn went into it with a smile on his face, even though he knew inside would be full of the bitter smell of too much beer and too many people. Once beyond the door he saw that indeed nothing had changed.

He nudged his way to the bar and caught the publican's attention with the subtle lift of one finger. As was custom, in addition to his own pint of beer, he also ordered a shot of whiskey for the small altar to Brother of the Green that stood behind the counter. He was not the scion of Finn's tribe, but he was the traditional protector of public houses. It didn't do to offend him in a place like the Singing Fish.

The publican smiled and poured the small offering over the pottery representation. Finn raised his glass and turned to survey the crowd. He didn't know any of those around him, but it was full of the atmosphere he liked. It was a touch of freedom. People spoke easily here. Perhaps this was how it had felt before the Caisah's coming, when the Vaerli ruled.

“By the Crone's whiskers, Finnbarr the Fox!” His name struck him between the shoulder blades, and he jerked around half expecting to find a pack of guards blocking the door. Instead he saw three familiar and welcome figures.

Varlesh rushed over and embraced him, smothering him against his rough jerkin, and clapping him so hard on the back that he coughed and spluttered. When he finally released Finn, he yelled right in his face, “Boyo, you look like you were dragged through a blackberry bush backward.”

Finn smiled into the older man's broad, honest face. “Well, so would you if you'd been running from the Rutilian Guard for so many weeks.”

Equo, dressed in black as usual with his graying hair pulled back into a ponytail, grinned thinly. “We had heard rumors about that.”

Their third, Si, who usually said so little, chimed in, “But you still came.”

“Just lucky I guess. Here, sit down everyone, have a beer.”

“I gather you won't be paying, though.” Varlesh caught the barmaid's eye. “Let's take our drinks to a corner. Even here there are ears.”

They found a dimly lit corner in the folds of the inn, and sat. Finn, Varlesh, and Equo drank, but Si remained quiet while scanning the inn with his piercing blue eyes.

“Don't mind him.” Varlesh chortled, wiping foam from his beard. “He's always a bit paranoid.”

“I'm getting that way, myself,” Finn replied.

“Well, you shouldn't be surprised,” Equo whispered, “since you've been going through the whole kingdom telling the story of the Vaerli—what did you expect?”

“Truthfully…I thought I might meet Talyn the Dark.” Seeing their shocked faces, he gave a short laugh. “I don't know what I was hoping for. Maybe just that they would understand a little.”

Varlesh leaned back in his chair and waved his hand dismissively. “The teaming masses? Why bother, boyo? They don't care. The Vaerli are nothing to them. They're nothing to themselves either.”

“The truth still matters,” Finn said firmly his eyes drifting to where Si was looking. Their quiet companion made him nervous—always on edge, always looking for trouble.

Equo and Varlesh exchanged a glance, but they knew him better than to quibble.

“Well, you've come to the place where there is a definite scarcity of that curious commodity,” Equo commented quietly.

They talked on for an hour or more. They recalled times when they had traveled together, drinks drunk, and moments of horrendous crisis—which at the time had been terrifying but looked back on were for some reason deeply funny. Si was the only one who did not participate. Finn had long ago learnt not to try to reach him. When he spoke it was usually to impart words that seldom made any sense.

Varlesh, though, more than made up for his friend's shortcomings. It was impossible to keep him quiet, and he only ever paused to drop some beer down the back of his throat.

“So what's your plan?” Equo finally asked when the reminiscences were all done.

Finn swallowed hard. “I guess I just want to make a difference. I want to tell the story, and see what happens.”

“We all know what will happen,” Varlesh growled. “You'll end up with your head decorating the gate of Perilous, like a hundred fools before you.”

“But you try, too,” Finn pointed out, dropping his voice to a mere whisper. “That's why you meet here, and I know about your links with—”

“Nothing,” Equo hissed quickly. “You don't know anything about anything or anyone!”

Si was watching Finn now, his heavy forehead beetling over eyes that made the storyteller squirm in his seat.

Finn fairly jumped when Varlesh grabbed his arm and growled, “Maybe we do the odd thing, but we always meet carefully, only ever in small groups. We certainly don't go about telling dangerous tales in every bar.” Sitting back, he pulled a pipe out of his coat and filled it with great care.

“We think before we act,” Equo added.

The rational part of Finn's brain knew they were right, but there was another stronger part of him, perhaps the bit that helped him find the boy in the pattern, which drove him on. “All I know is that I must speak up—in the very lap of the Caisah if necessary.”

Varlesh shook his head, Equo sighed, but only Si said anything. “The truth does still matter.”

Whatever his two companions may have thought, once Si spoke, their attitude changed. They always listened to what few words he threw out and, since Finn himself had only heard the other speak without being spoken to one other time, he was inclined to listen as well.

Varlesh pulled his pipe momentarily out and downed a hefty gulp of ale. When he lowered it, he stared over the rim at Finn. “There are ways into the Citadel—ways that don't mean barging through the front door.”

“I am sure that wasn't your plan,” Equo muttered.

Finn ignored him.

“It would be churlish of us to not help—especially if you're so set on it,” Varlesh went on. “There are those still in the city who know ways to get around your particular problem. If you will only wait a few days, we can sort something out for you.”

Finn's mind drifted to other plans that could well occupy his time.

“You're not thinking of something even more foolish, are you?” Si asked warily.

The talespinner spread his hands and grinned. “There are always the celebrations to take in.”

“I get suspicious when you give up that easily.” Varlesh slammed his mug down on the table. “Too crafty by half, you are.”

Though Finn could feel Si's eyes fixed on him from under his hood, he shrugged. “Comes with the training I'm afraid.”

Varlesh rolled his eyes skyward before sliding a small bag of coin across the table to him. “That should at least get you a decent room. If you get caught, you better not mention our names.”

“I won't get into any trouble,” Finn promised. “I have a knack for these things.”

“Mind you don't,” Varlesh's eyes narrowed. “There are more important things happening in the world than your foolishness.”

Equo slid the last of his ale over to Varlesh, who downed it easily. “We'll be in touch in a couple of days, then.” And with that they departed hastily.

Finn tucked the purse into his pocket and glanced around the bar. The place was full to capacity, as many wanted to see the games and events the Caisah would be staging in the next week. Finn sidled up to a few conversations and managed to get the information he needed. Tomorrow night would be the grand event; a masque ball where all of Conhaero's elite would wine and dine and laugh far too loudly. The gossip was that the Caisah's Hunter would be there—perhaps with the heads of her enemies hanging around her waist. Talyn the Dark had a fierce reputation and obviously liked to keep it that way. She brought men to her bed only in the provinces. She kept whatever desires she had mostly in check.

Finn couldn't help thinking about her. Like the fairy captives in his own tales, some part of him longed for her despite everything.

With a little bow to the locals he went to organize his accommodation upstairs. Finn felt an urgent need to wash the dirt of the road off and rest a little before any more adventures.

The pretty maid led him to a room that was small but better than he had enjoyed for months. Dropping his meager pack down on the bed, he did what he had been desperate to try since setting foot in the city. He took out the simple bit of string and, sitting himself cross-legged next to the bag, began to weave the patterns.

His mind dipped and ranged far ahead with the sway of the thread, seeking out the boy, trying to find his fate. Something different was in the way. Finn felt a resistance, a tugging at the threads. It felt distinctly like someone was thrusting their fingers into the pattern and trying to pull it away from him. Finn hissed and struggled back, seeking the pattern desperately.

A moment of fierce resistance, and then he felt it snap back. Finn was once more able to weave. Ysel's face appeared, pale in the dark with the shadow of a bruise down one side. Suddenly Finn felt his inability to reach the boy, to protect him.

“What's happened?”

Ysel looked at him sullenly, but didn't reply. “Where were you?”

“I couldn't find you in the pattern. I'm sorry, I tried. What's happened?”

The boy's lower lip trembled. “Soldiers came to the house.”

“What did they want?”

Ysel touched his cheek lightly. “They were looking for something…I don't know what. Anji argued with them, and I thought they wouldn't listen to her, but they went away after a while.”

The boy had never mentioned a name before. Even though Finn had surmised he must have had a guardian of some sort, this was the first time he'd revealed she was a woman. The talespinner knew better than to press—when he'd tried before, the boy had somehow made the pattern tear apart.

Instead, Finn told him about breaking into the Caisah's ball. He tried to make it sound like an adventure, but with little risk.

Ysel's expression said he didn't really believe that. It was easy to forget he was just a young boy, because he was so very serious. He never gave the impression of running and playing or doing anything remotely childlike.

“You'll be careful,” Ysel insisted, the same admonishment he always gave. “Dances can be dangerous.”

Finn gave a short laugh but realized the boy wasn't joking.

“And don't let the Caisah see you. For if you do—” Ysel stopped and glanced over his shoulder.

He tried to soothe the boy. “I will try, Ysel, but it will be his party—”

The threads in Finn's fingers began to shake and the pattern hummed. They started to pull apart. Finn tried desperately to hold them, but they had become elusive as puffs of smoke and unraveled before him.

The boy's wide eyes disappeared into the void between threads, and Finn was left swearing impotently to himself.