The Hunter's Rede

by F. T. McKinstry

  “I was still in Tarth when Roarin died,” Lorth said offhandedly.

  “You could have done any number of things to make it appear so,” Eaglin countered.

  Lorth breathed a laugh in disbelief. “Hasn’t it occurred to you fools that Forloc had Roarin killed and is looking for a scapegoat to clear himself of the deed?”

  Morfaen pursed his lips, and when his gaze came into focus on Lorth again, it deepened with predatory calm. “It has indeed. Perhaps you’re the one he hired. Forloc is not exactly known for his honor. He would turn you over for a smile, if it suited his purposes.”

  Lorth said, “Two nights after I left Os, I saw a company of Faerins in the woods above the road. There was a woman with them. She—”

  “She told us a demon took that entire company,” Barenus said.

  “Six of them, actually. The commander took her and left. She was guiding them through the forest in the middle of the night. I thought she was a wizard.” He didn’t mention her wolf face, knowing the Faerins hadn’t seen her thus. “You know her?”

  Eaglin said, “A better question is, do you know who that man is?”

  “No. I had him in my sights. Only that woman’s attention stopped me.”

  “His name is Asmat. He happens to be Forloc’s First Commander, who is here now.” He leaned forward as if to divulge something wicked. “Asmat commands the entire Faerin army.”

  “No wonder they’re up here with a hundred men looking for you!” Regin said.

  Asmat. Lorth gazed at the tapestry hanging above his questioners, a mighty tree with white blooms, surrounded by a forest. “In that case, I’m even sorrier I didn’t sink an arrow into him.” He looked at Barenus. “Who is the woman?”

  “Setriana, the Princess of Tarth. She is here with her brother, Prince Setarin, on a diplomatic mission.”

  “Is she, now,” Lorth said. “Does her mission include killing wizards?” He became aware of the tree, expecting trouble; but the beast didn’t stir.

  Barenus, however, rose slowly from his seat with a cold-sword stare of outrage that had the decided quality of male challenge. “You dare to accuse a royal diplomat of such a thing?” Beneath the wizard’s reason lay a clear desire to protect her. Interesting.

  Morfaen gestured to Barenus to sit. As the angry wizard lowered himself stiffly into his chair, the commander said, “The Prince of Tarth is in Os to learn the situation here, and if the Faerin invasion will stand. He doesn’t want them going after Sceil or raiding the coastal towns of Tarth.”

  “So what’s Setriana doing up here guiding Faerins through the woods?” Lorth asked.

  “She’s an expert tracker,” Barenus said. “The Prince bade her to help Asmat find you.”

  Lorth released his breath. An expert tracker wearing the face of the Destroyer, haunting his dreams and visions? Possibly, Tarth would seek to settle a score with him for leaving their service out of hand, and it was within their mettle to frame him for the wizards’ murders in order to get the Faerins’—and the Keepers’—help in tracking him down. But would Setriana go so far as to kill Ravens towards this end? That didn’t make sense. Given the Tarthian fear of the Eye, she wouldn’t risk something like that just to capture an assassin who had left without permission. There had to be something else, here. The Destroyer didn’t show her face without a reason. He just had to find out what it was.

  Barenus said, “In case you haven’t been paying attention, the Ravens’ deaths were cloaked in Void and you are one of a staggering few in this land with that ability. Death is the Old One’s alone. To use the force of death in such a way is an act of evil.”

  “Barenus,” Eaglin said tiredly. “Stand down.” To Lorth he said, “You’re out of line.”

  Lorth laughed. “How much more trouble could I be in?”

  The wizard was not amused. “You appear to be missing the gravity of this situation. Asmat is demanding your head and if I don’t give it to him, he’ll take that as a declaration of war.”

  “Do you really think Forloc would be satisfied with Os, knowing the army of Eusiron is sitting up here sharpening their blades at his back? He would have found a reason for war eventually. I’m just a convenient excuse.”

  “You are more than that. Aside from your having survived a rastric bite, hiding your identity at the Gates of Os, taking on a First Raptor of Eyrie, beating up a half dozen of our High Guards and nearly burning this place down—oh yes and almost dismantling the Waeltower—you single-handedly took down Asmat’s own personal guard, and that barely tops however many Faerins you snuffed before you got out of Os! You’ve all but declared a personal war on them and because you are essentially a wizard—”

  “I am not a wizard.” And you forgot the Sanctuary, he added to himself.

  “The hell you aren’t!” Eaglin returned. “You may not wear a Keeper’s cloak, but you are a wizard and I’m now personally responsible as a Master of the Eye to contain you.”

  “The Eye charged Forloc with finding and hanging whoever killed Roarin,” Lorth reminded him. “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I only did what any man of Os would do, under the circumstances.”

  Eaglin closed his eyes and pressed his fingers against his forehead as if to keep something from spilling out. His jaw flexed beneath the tangled strands of his night-black hair. “Yesterday,” he said with measured calm, “Asmat called a private meeting with me.” He looked up. “He told me one of the reasons he came was to deliver an offer from Forloc for an alliance. Forloc is offering to hand over control of the villages he’s taken, repair all damages and give anyone of my choosing a position in the High Keep of Os. He claims he does not want Eusiron as an enemy.”

  “Tripe, he doesn’t,” Lorth said. “Are they expecting you to abandon Os to them after they took it by force?”

  “Asmat claims they are aware I can’t simply stop them, or make war on them using magic because I’m bound to the Wizard’s Code. He went on to add that if it was the will of the Aenmos to oust them, we would have already.”

  Lorth rolled his eyes. “Big words for a Faerin. So the Keepers won’t go after Forloc for the murder of Roarin until they know for sure he was involved, is that it?” The wizards nodded. “Have you added up the days? Forloc was ready to invade. A full army, on the border. He knew.”

  “Roarin’s murder is cloaked in Void,” Eaglin said. “I can’t use the Eye against Forloc through a blank place like that. If I could, I would know who did it.”

  “Fair enough. But Forloc ousted the City Guard and is terrorizing the countryside. Why are you letting that stand? Can’t you stop him as Roarin did for so many years?”

  Eaglin looked down at his hands. “The power of the Eye cannot be used arbitrarily without repercussions. We can do many things, but we can’t unleash power just because we think we ought to, or because we don’t like something or other. There is a balance. To use power without awareness of the patterns in the situation is dangerous. For those of my Order, because our power is great, the price for unbalancing something like that is very high.”

  “What about Icaros?” Lorth said.

  Eaglin’s gaze moved up to the Om Tree and lingered there. Then he looked at his mother.

  “The deeper pattern around Icaros’s involvement is hidden,” she said. “I can’t see it.”

  “Because his death was cloaked in Void?” Lorth asked.

  “That only hid the killer. This is bigger. The events must unfold.”

  Lorth addressed Eaglin. “What did you tell Asmat?”

  “I told him you aren’t here, and that I would consider his offer. Then I sent him back to Os.”

  “You aren’t actually going to—”

  “Of course not. When the snows subside, I am sending Eusiron’s army into Os to take it back. I don’t need magic to do that. In the meantime, we’ll invite Asmat and his Tarthian friends to the solstice feast, and you are going to help us discover what part they’re playing in this affair.”

&nb
sp; Lorth pointed to his own chest with a lifted brow. “You’re releasing me?”

  Barenus and Morfaen rumbled with laughter. Eaglin said, “Your darker abilities may fall under the Old One’s dominion, but that doesn’t mean you didn’t misuse them. As I said: the price of power is high. You have until the vernal equinox to clear your name and make amends for your actions, or I shall have you executed under my authority as High Dark to the Priesthood of Maern.”

  The Om Tree shuddered with a triumphant gale that shook the chamber.

  Chapter 9

  Shade of Night: I sleep awake.

  Lorth lay awake in his bed in the Hall of Thorns. He couldn’t sleep.

  The cries of wolves caressed the stillness beneath a Frost Moon. Lorth cast his mind into the night, expanding into trees, crags, wind and stone. Creatures moved in the forest, hunting, waiting, knowing the darkness.

  He rolled over, taking care not to disturb the dressing between his chest and collarbone. He had spent the afternoon training with a dark-skinned warrior named Artoc, who had learned his skills in the desert realms of Asmoralin. They had fought with knives. As Lorth settled onto his back, he let his breath into the cut. Artoc was very good with knives.

  A fortnight had passed since his interrogation beneath the Om Tree. For lack of anything better to do, and knowing full well the Lords of Eusiron wouldn’t let him leave, he began to train. The Hall of Thorns contained an indoor yard sheltered from the cold, which as a typical winter in Eusiron progressed, became more and more popular as the outdoor training yards grew bitter and deep with snow. He began with his sword, to remind his body of what it could do. He found every ache, pain and tight muscle, every joint and movement that didn’t flow as it had. And he worked them.

  He had no difficulty finding warriors on whom to try his skills and test his weak spots. Eusiron housed many warriors and experts on the blade, and since the skirmishes with Faerin had begun a season before, more had flowed into the palace to offer their services and learn how to defend their homes. Each day, Lorth entered the yard to find someone looking to engage him. Some of them were masters and some not, but with each, he learned something. Those of lesser nerve stood back and wouldn’t enter the ring with him. They may have initially done this because of the rumors, but after watching him—swift, elusive and unpredictable, with eldritch powers of recovery—they had more tangible reasons. When he stepped onto the landing to wait for a challenge, all but the most aggressive blades moved back, like sparrows at the arrival of an owl.

  Every third or fourth day, Lorth went to the Archers’ Wood, a glade of tangled oak trees with stone walls on either side carved into reliefs showing archers on horses. Targets stood at the end of the hall, at different distances, and hundreds of trees of all heights and thicknesses stood between, as well as tangled brush and other living obstacles, making some of the targets very hard to hit. Morfaen had given Lorth a recurved war bow with a beautiful arc and formidable power; soon Lorth had moved to the far end of the Wood, taking the longer targets. He also used the targets to practice throwing knives.

  For the most part, he had kept to himself, sitting in the yards alone, taking his meals in his room or in some far corner of the refectory by one of the hearths. After a week of this, however, from pity—or to keep an eye on him—Regin had asked him to sit at the tables of the High Guard. They talked of wars in other lands in which they had fought, journeys on the seas, or in the mountains to the north. Though Lorth had injured some of them—or perhaps because of it—they surrounded him with respect. He had also accompanied them on an occasional hunt or a watch, a concession that both he and Freya appreciated.

  Regin introduced him to two warriors named Alil and Bricun, stooped, gray and weathered as mountain crags, who had known his father. They accepted Lorth immediately and marveled with their gravelly voices and shining blue and gray eyes how much like Fin he looked. Lorth sat by the fire in the warriors’ hall most evenings and talked to them about the Archer Falls, the old days of the Os City Guard and the mystery surrounding his father.

  If not for the fact that he was facing execution, Lorth might have thought he had a home here among the warriors of Eusiron, as they trained in the yards, went on hunting parties, forged weapons and prepared for war. But as the Shade of Belonging reminded him, it was best he had an execution nigh as a trusty reminder of his place, here. A hunter didn’t allow himself to grow accustomed to a home.

  I have no place.

  Lorth rolled his head and gazed at the fire, then rose and added wood to it. Morfaen had sent a page to attend to Lorth’s needs, though he hadn’t understood this would be an ongoing arrangement. Every morning, he awoke to find the fire banked, seasoned wood in the bin, a pitcher of wine and some food on the table. When his clothes or bedding needed cleaning, it got done without asking. Scrat even got food in her bowl, and fresh water.

  Fair treatment, for a condemned man. But his discomfort with having a page was not the strangest thing about it—for he had yet to see his page. The boy did his work in secret and even Lorth, a seasoned assassin, couldn’t fathom how he got in here every day without Lorth knowing it. After a few days of this nonsense, Lorth used magic only to discover that his page had more skill than he did. Tricky as an ermine, the boy could vanish into mists, turn himself into a wall, a young tree or a passing bird.

  Two days ago, Lorth crouched like a cat over the opening of Freya’s stall. There, he caught a glimpse of his page as he slipped into the stall and began to brush the mare down. Amazingly, she let him do it.

  More amazingly, Lorth’s page was none other than the young blond-haired messenger who had summoned him from Tarth.

  Freil, they called him, a Keeper in the Order of Swan. Perhaps Eaglin or Morfaen sought to teach the boy respect, or caution, or worse, punish him for having used his wizardly skills to contact an assassin without anyone’s knowledge. The Mistress had told Lorth that it required an exceptional gift to attain an order of wizardry three levels up at such an age—but with that came an unruly penchant for experimentation. However it was, Lorth would see a stop to it, once he figured out how to lay the right trap.

  At least Freil never touched his weapons, wherever they lay or in whatever state. The little scamp had that much sense.

  Lorth returned to his bed with a yawn, crept beneath the covers and rolled over. The room warmed, the night wheeled overhead and sleep eluded him. Lust stirred in his limbs with hungry insistence.

  In the years he had spent in Tarth, Lorth bedded his share of women, though he learned to do that sparingly. Mysterious and virtually indecipherable, Tarthian women were, to his mind, closer to things that breathed water than to humans. They wore rich, hypnotic perfumes that confused the senses and had beautiful voices that sounded like wooden flutes and exotic birds. Their bodies were fleshy and soft with oils; they had ample thighs and tattooed charms around their arms and legs. And Tarthian women knew how to move their bodies in everything thing they did: cleaning house, picking up fruits at a market, dancing to drums, or making love.

  Lorth had tasted them; he had stared up at the hazy stars and floated in warm water as his pearly essence drained away like the blood of a goat slaughtered on a mossy root. Such a mystery, the light in their faces as they touched his flesh, pale and hard as the mountains in the north; like a shadow he couldn’t quite see, a smell or the side of a face he couldn’t quite recognize, the movement of a slimy creature on the edge of a pool that slipped soundlessly into the depths when he reached out.

  Leda. The spell moved in her, too, and something more, besides. How perilous she was! He thought of her almost constantly. He lay here each night, gazed at the ceiling and imagined her voice, the way she had touched him when helping him to drink tea or changing his bandages, the sunrise in her eyes, the shape of her lips when she laughed and the scents she wore, which still lingered in his mind. But next to that, like a black cloud in the sky on a sunny day, blew the draining chill of her bearing in the council under t
he Om Tree, a shift in her mood, a candle blowing out, a gentle yet inexorable closing door that left him with enough lust to temper his body and mind with a continuously repeating hammer blow.

  It often happened, with healers or wise mothers, that once they had flowed into a man and strengthened him, given him life, they departed so that he would be strong enough to stand on his own. Like the ebb and flow of a tide, a woman’s love was nourishing but impermanent, leaving a man to the dawn of his own strength—and to the shortcomings of his heart.

  The hunter had come to realize, with no small alarm, that he had let himself fall under the spell of the Mistress of Eusiron. Rumor had it she had an effect on men, on the gods themselves. Lorth had known that, and he still let himself fall. To be alone was one thing, but to be aware of it with such brilliant lucidity by having thought, even for a moment, that he could depend on warmth and love, was another. He couldn’t afford to need a woman. He needed to gather his power for the task at hand. If he were to survive, he must stand alone and stay that way.

  He envisioned the great branch of the Om Tree sweeping down to touch her back. Hai love, she had said, like a little girl. With a groan, he rolled over again.

  Unless he found out who had murdered the Ravens—an unlikely feat, trapped in this place all winter—he would be executed for the deed. And like the Destroyer herself, the Mistress of Eusiron would stand by. One day, the touch of a flower; the next, the cry of a blade. So it was, with women. Accursed creatures.

  Death is life. Maybe the specter in Eusiron’s Haunt had meant to warn him. Or comfort him. He breathed a laugh. Gods, wizards—women—this place would drive him mad if it didn’t kill him first.

  He turned onto his back, wincing as the wound in his shoulder bit into him.

  Death is the Old One’s alone, Barenus had said. Lorth had once thought, after years plying his trade, that he knew something of the Old One. Of all men, he should have known her. A Destroyer himself, he moved beneath the veil, and yet innocence had made a fool of him. What had he known of the Old One? The Destroyer loved nothing. A hunter couldn’t know her through love, attachment or need. The Rede forbade that.