As far as he knew they had been alone since they arrived, but now he wondered if he’d been mistaken all that time. What had he and Pelanor revealed to them while they were trapped in the circle of fire?
Catching his suddenly alert pose, the Blood Witch turned around to see what he was looking at, and then backed away. It pleased the Vaerli to see the witch cowed so quickly; she was not so young as to not be awed by the Kindred. Pushing her behind him, Byre tried to keep his own bravery intact, but it was hard.
The Kindred were the original spirits of the land, the masters of the chaos that had been its natural state before the arrival of the other races. His own people’s contract with them and the Gifts they had given in return dated back many thousands of years. Still, the Vaerli did not truly know the Kindred. Time and the elements were their home, and they had not been seen above ground since the curse had been laid on the Vaerli by the Caisah. Byre had come here to recover that ancient pact and the Seven Gifts, as his father and all his race wanted.
He was not foolish enough to imagine that it wouldn’t be bought with great sacrifice. As the Kindred’s towering form moved beyond the flames, within feet of the Vaerli and the Blood Witch, Byre recalled the tales of Ellyria. His long-ago ancestor’s suffering at the hands of the Kindred had been what secured the Pact in the first place. He imagined that the oncoming Kindred was about to deliver the same to him.
Up close, the Kindred was not completely solid. The rocky floor could be seen through it. But it did give off a tremendous heat, almost like staring into a blast furnace. The etheric form it wore was one Byre had seen before, but he knew it could just as easily construct another from the earth all around them.
You are ready. The voice came from no body, but was rather inserted into the skulls of those it wished to communicate with. The sensation was not unpleasant, but Byre caught Pelanor out of the corner of one eye, shaking her head as if it pained her.
“Is it time for the testing?” he asked, wondering at how strong his voice managed to sound when inside he was quaking.
Your test is not to be the same as Ellyria’s. The Kindred flickered and wavered, bending to winds Byre could not detect. There can be no fresh pact-making for the Gifts.
“But that is why I came.” Byre took a step forward, thinking of all he had been through and his own father’s sacrifice.
The flames around them grew suddenly furious and hot, so that his skin began to sizzle.
“Careful.” Pelanor grabbed hold of his arm, her long nails dragging sharply into his skin. “You may not burn, but I think I could.”
Despite being angry with her for the interruption, Byre did not want to see her go up like a candle. The Kindred’s eyes now flickered with blue fire. You came here because the after-time and the before-time brought you here.
Pelanor’s eyebrows rose in surprise. The way the Kindred lived was almost as much a mystery to Byre as any Blood Witch was. His own people, if they had known any more, had never had the chance to impart it to him. He was only aware that the Kindred did not exist in time in the same way as any other creature in Conhaero. Even the Vaerli had to abide by the hours and minutes, but the Kindred were far more than that.
When he looked up the blazing creature, almost indiscernible against the flames, Byre knew he was in grave danger. His throat was dry, but he managed to croak out, “What would you have me do?”
Cast yourself upon the tides of time. The fire arched and spun, and then flowed aside leaving a gap just big enough for two to pass through; the end was in darkness. Live as one of the Kindred and see what you may learn.
“And the Blood Witch?” Byre croaked.
The Kindred’s eyes of flame raked over Pelanor’s small form. She is part of you, so she may travel at your side, but make sure she does not stray too far from your side. We cannot protect her.
So there was only the darkness now for both of them—that and the uncertainty of time.
“Deeper and deeper,” Pelanor murmured. “How much farther can there be to go down?” Her voice was full of both fear and desire. She certainly had the spirit of an explorer. Together they moved forward, though this time he would not hold her hand.
As they went past the barrier of flame, the sensation of heat abruptly left them for another less familiar, less identifiable feeling. Byre felt his skin shudder to a cool touch that stabbed through to the bone like thousands of long needles. The sensation passed through his whole body in waves, and by the way Pelanor shook her head he realized that she was laboring under the same peculiarity.
This discomfort was merely the appetizer. Whatever was beyond the flames was stronger than Vaerli or Phaerkorn, and they had stepped right into it. Minds were knocked sideways, and all that Pelanor and Byre were became totally irrelevant. In the tides of before-time, all that they were washed away, long forgotten.
The Rutilians were moving down the bleak valley, looking carefully around them, ready for an ambush. Equo, crouched behind the outcrop of rock in the ridge above, felt the sweat begin to bead on his forehead. The summer sun was so strong up here that he almost wanted to be down in the canyon, out of the shade—almost.
Glancing to his right, he caught Varlesh’s eye. The man jerked his head up in acknowledgement and raised the square of glass upward to the sky. Sending the flash of brilliance into the clouds was his task, while Equo did the same but across the canyon.
That was all it took. Baraca’s troops, concealed under canvases with a light covering of the red soil of the area on top, emerged among the crevices in the cliffs and poured down in the valley, as well. While his soldiers were well concealed, the commander was not. Spurning any camouflage, Baraca himself leapt across to a teetering outcrop with the agility of a teenager. It was impressive and a little disturbing. He was a great burly man—or had been before the power of the Void had entered him. Now he was a scion. Seeing him standing there, gesturing to his followers, Equo could understand a little of why they were all so fanatical in their devotion.
The eye kept drifting to him, but not because he was particularly handsome. Instead it was as if the air bent around him; it hung around his shoulders like a cloak. Equo was only glad that the eye patch remained in place; no one who had seen beyond it wanted to see it again. The raw magic of the Void between Worlds had taken up residence in there and changed him forever.
Baraca had once been a friend to Equo, Si and Varlesh; an old companion that was now leading the rebels against the Caisah. It was the first major uprising in mortal memory. The trio of men, however, remembered the previous one.
Perhaps that was what caused the knot of dread in Equo’s stomach. The tyrant had put down more rebellions in his immortal reign over Conhaero than any of them could count. His methods had not become any more diplomatic with time. This one appeared to be beginning well for the rebels, but so too had many of the others. Equo did not have much optimism left to spare on this endeavor.
When the howls came from above them in the clouds, Equo felt his spirits lift. The Swoop dropped from the sky like vengeance personified. Hawks, eagles, buzzards and falcons, birds of beak and talon, moved together in a formation that no natural predator would have contemplated. They shot over the heads of the descending rebels and split neatly into two sections; one peeled off north while the other descended to the rear, where as yet the Rutilian guard had not noticed anything different.
Across the canyon, One-eyed Baraca was nearly down among the guard, leaping energetically from outcrop to cliff face with more athleticism than any mortal could manage. The sword in his hand gleamed, and Equo could almost feel sorry for the Caisah’s troops.
The Swoop sealed the trap at both ends. The white light bloomed where the birds swooped to the earth; when it cleared, there were the scions of the Lady of Wings in all their glory, young women in shining silver armor.
Originally they had been the defenders of the Manesto, following the scion that had led their tribe through the Void to Conhaero. Then the Caisah
had come, done away with the scions somehow, and taken the Swoop for his own. Now, under the leadership of Azrul, the Swoop had managed to break free of that and dedicated themselves to this new Avatar, One-eyed Baraca. Whether that had been a good decision had not yet played out, just as it remained to be seen for Equo, Varlesh and Si.
The time for thinking was not now. Equo took a place at Varlesh’s side as they joined the hurried scamper down to crush the guard in their pincer movement. Si, their fey, gentler part had remained behind at the camp with the Vaerli seer Nyree.
The narrowness of the canyon certainly leveled the playing field. With the Swoop acting as a plug at each end, the number advantage the guard always had was nullified; in fact, it began to work against them. As troops at front and rear went hand to hand with the fury of the Swoop, others behind were rendered unable to move or get into action, so that when troops above them in the canyon began to fire arrows into the mass, panic began.
Baraca’s pikemen began to use the extra length of their weapons to punch down into the confused mass of guards. It was terrible work that should have made Equo ill, but his brain was no longer engaged; the mob and the rush of blood had taken over.
The smell of sweat, blood and spilled guts was primal and compelling. He found himself yelling along with the rest, thrusting and stabbing whatever he could find. Standing in a rank of fellow soldiers, he and Varlesh abandoned themselves to the unit. It was a taste of the power they had experienced when they had been not three but one.
Flesh had been the domain of the Form Bards, and yet here they were cutting and destroying it. The Song they had shared had been about beauty and control, but now they were destroying with madness just like everyone else.
It was not what they had ever meant to be about—reduced to mere mortals. All of this Equo was aware of, but only dimly. He let go of self and let himself become part of something much bigger and far more dangerous.
When he surfaced again, the battle, if it could be called that, was over. Around him Baraca’s troops were grinning wearily, splattered with gore, slapping each other on the back. The mixture of this with the red soil made for a truly horrific sight. Varlesh grasped Equo by the shoulder, turning him around. His eyes, too, were dark and sad.
That touch steadied Equo a little. Lifting his pike wearily, he looked down onto the field of carnage, and noted with horror that there were few survivors. Those that lay about groaning were being dispatched by troops moving among them with thin blades. The Swoop had gone—retreated once more to the sky. Only their leader Azrul remained behind.
It would be pleasant to strike vengeance and then fly away before the real horror settled in. The rest of the army did not have that luxury.
After looting the corpses for anything useful, the troops regrouped for the march back to their camp. Equo would have taken a place happily at the rear, but Varlesh maneuvered them through the tired and jubilant crowd to the front where Baraca and Azrul were.
The tall woman with her silver armor was talking animatedly with the rebel leader. Even though he couldn’t at once make out the discussion, Equo observed that her tone was deferential, even while she didn’t appear to be agreeing to whatever he was saying. To the Swoop any scion was the highest authority, but he recalled Nyree’s horror when they had first discovered One-eyed Baraca. It was this that made him cautious about their once-friend.
Azrul finally gave up whatever argument she was having, bowed once, and retreated from the scion.
Varlesh, though, had no such compunction; he elbowed his way forward to talk to Baraca. Equo smiled grimly. He, Varlesh and Si might have been one person once, but time had changed them. For himself, he had no desire to talk to the scion.
So, while Varlesh began discussing tactics with the rebel leader, Equo’s mind wandered, and he gradually let himself drop back a little into the camouflage of the crowd.
Their camp was not far off, and it didn’t take them long to get back to it. It was not much to come home to—in reality a pitiful affair. The scattering of campfires was desperately small compared to the might that the Caisah could muster, but nevertheless Equo found himself jogging toward it.
The few people left behind—the wounded, the healers and the children—began trotting toward the returning soldiers with cries of delight. Only Nyree did not.
The seer stood next to the healer’s tent, as beautiful as ever. She was small like all other Vaerli, with dark hair and caramel skin; hers was different, though, covered in the word magic that proclaimed she was the made seer—the oidnafan. The silvery script twisted over her flesh made it powerful art, and though it meant a great deal to her, every time Equo saw it his heart sank a little. It was one more thing that separated them.
The Vaerli eyes were also completely dark and full of pinpricks of light. Most called them stars. The Harrowing, the Caisah’s curse on the Vaerli, had denied them most of their Gifts. The one he loved had not reclaimed the Gifts of the Kindred, but she had found her seer’s powers. He was afraid of what she saw—and even more worried that it meant she could not love him as he loved her.
Seeing her, though, Equo couldn’t help himself—when she smiled, he rushed in and embraced her. Her small form tucked neatly in against him. Her dark head rested against his shoulder in just the right way. Nyree hugged him back, but not for as long as he wanted.
Pushing back, she glanced around him to where Baraca was receiving the adulation of his remaining troops. Her spine stiffened and her lips twisted. Her inability to convince anyone that the arrival of a scion was the beginning of a new Conflagration was frustrating her.
“Did you see Baraca use any magic?” she asked, glancing up at Equo with those haunting eyes.
“No, I don’t think so.” He frowned and considered what he had seen. “He took the front line, but I didn’t see anything obvious.”
Her shoulders relaxed a little. “Well, that is something, I suppose . . . but we have plenty of other worries.”
Equo caught Varlesh’s eye, and his brother followed after as Nyree turned once more back to the center of the camp.
The heat of midday was some hours off, yet already the temperature was working against them all. The two men paused to unwrap and soak their headscarves in a tub of water kept for this purpose in the middle of the camp. The chill was a great relief—even if just for a moment—but Nyree only let the men rest for a heartbeat. She hurried them into her tent, where the shade provided only minimal comfort from the oppressive weather.
Si, the third fragment of the whole they’d once been, was seated near the trestle table, and spread out before him was a strange collection of items: the wing of a seabird, a handful of mottled blue stones, a twisted and bleached branch of wood, and a skein of tangled red wool. The ways of seers were indeed mysterious.
The splintered Si was just as bad. He toyed with the objects as if they made perfect sense to him, his brow furrowed and concentrating on arranging them just so. Nyree stood at the entrance to the tent watching him out of the corner of her eye, hands on her hips, and spoke in a low voice. “The courier from the west did not arrive.”
Varlesh slumped back into the deepest shade in the tent he could find. “You mean we have no way of knowing if they are rising in rebellion, as well?”
“It is hard for me to see.” Nyree tapped her fingers on the table and looked out the flap. Baraca’s honor guard could be heard giving him a rousing round of cheers. “Something, or perhaps someone, is blocking my vision. I am more worried by what that could mean, than about the chance of any further people joining us.”
Varlesh cleared his throat. “I am sure Baraca is worried about supplies, troops, and all those things reinforcements bring with them. This is important.”
“Is it?” Now Nyree was describing a small circle in the tent, her hand pressed over her eyes, as if by narrowing her vision she could see the way ahead better.
Si leaned back in his chair, watching her but contributing nothing.
&nbs
p; “You don’t know what you are saying,” Varlesh muttered while digging his clay pipe out of his pocket. “A scion has returned. If that is not a signal to rebel against the Caisah, then I do not know what could be!”
He was just saying what Equo was thinking, but Nyree rounded on him. “Have you ever considered,” she said through bared teeth, “that there is more going on in this world than the Caisah?” Her eyes flickered between the three men who all seemed equally in danger from her sudden wrath.
Seeing that they were not going to answer, she pulled out the remaining roughly-made stool and sat opposite them, for a moment saying nothing. Equo was sure that some of the fine writing on her skin was actually moving, flexing, almost as if it were alive or responding to something else.
Pushing a hand through her hair, she looked down at the scattering of odd objects. When she spoke her voice was slightly unsteady. “I’ve been trying to understand what I see—there is so much. I can see it . . . but . . . I can’t understand . . .” Nyree trailed off.
“It is not your place to do this,” Si said, reaching across the table and taking her hand. “Things will make themselves clear at the right time. You are the made seer, you need the born seer to make a complete vision.”
The two of them looked hard at each other, until Equo felt a little twinge of jealousy. The Vaerli shook herself as if she were a suddenly soaked cat, and leaned back. “That is as may be, but she has not been revealed in a thousand years, so we have to go on with what we have.”
“And what we have is bugger all,” Varlesh muttered. “You seers are always rabbiting on with never a bloody point.”
The moment turned abruptly quiet again, and Equo wondered if the other man had pushed a little too far. Finally, the seer laughed, breaking the tension. “Then let me make this plain, old friend: there is one thing that Si and I agree on. One thing we have seen. If Conhaero is to survive the coming destruction, your people, the Ahouri, must rise and be as they were.”
Kindred and Wings Page 4
