Hunters, from the look of their footfalls in the snow, but it could as easily be a war party like their own. Wide prints made by the shoes all hunters wore to traverse the ice, with shallow holes signaling they carried muskets or longbows, using them as staves to steady their footfalls on the snow. His warriors fanned out as they approached, making sure to keep the winds in a favorable direction. Men were not beasts, but the best among the hunters cultivated a keen sense that rivaled even the most wary prey.
His blood stirred as they drew near a copse of trees. He raised a hand, stifling a cry that boiled in his throat. When he passed by the first branches and caught sight of his enemy, he could contain it no longer, and he let slip a howl of rage as he charged.
The Nanerat hunters had taken a caribou and set to skinning their prize, unaware they too were being hunted. They started when Vas’Khan’Uro and his men poured from the trees, and the Yanarat warriors leveled their muskets, firing before the Nanerat could do more than cry out an alarm.
He rushed ahead of his men, calling on gun’dal as he crashed through the brush, crushing a man in the spectral grip of the Ghost Bear’s claws, feeling blood and skin stretch and break as he tore his prey apart. Let the hunters use the weapons of the fair-skins. His was an old magic, and he would use it to show the Nanerat traitors the fury of their enemies. As Arak he might have obeyed the prohibitions on the use of magic to make war; as Vas’Khan he did what he must to lead his men to victory.
A gout of flame broke him out of his battle trance.
He felt it before he saw it, heat searing the air around him. By instinct he fell prone. Venari’Jatek had not been so quick. Beside him on the ground his former apprentice looked to him for help. The right side of Venari’Jatek’s body was untouched, one eye opened wide in shock and fear. But the left side was black, charred and flaking, skin running down his body like slow trails of honey mixed with blood. He forced himself to swallow bile and rolled aside, springing to his feet.
“Arak’Uro!” a voice called, forceful but touched with surprise. He froze, then turned to meet it.
Asseena, spirit-touched of the Nanerat, flanked by Arak’Erai and a dozen of their hunters. She raised her voice again, her eyes gleaming bright red.
“I had not thought to find you among these betrayers. Among these murderers!”
“You dare?” he roared back. “You dare name the Yanarat betrayers?”
“What would you call it, brother?” Arak’Erai shouted at him, putting disdain into the last word.
He spat toward them, setting his feet to charge. He would die an honored warrior of the Yanarat.
“For Kar’Duvek, Kar’Urrin,” he growled through gritted teeth.
“Don’t,” cautioned Asseena, her hands raised in a sign of warning. “Arak’Uro—”
Howling, he charged, drawing on the spirits of the munat’ap, and the astahg. He felt their blessings wash over him, their approval. He glowed with their sacred power, his by right when he’d slain them and earned the right to wear their skins. He smiled. He remembered.
Flame.
INTERLUDE
ALOUEN
Village of Oreste
Lorrine Province, Southern Sarresant Colonies
You be the monster this time, okay?” Jeanette asked him.
He didn’t feel like being the monster but he didn’t feel like arguing, either. Easier to give her a turn so he could go back to playing the hero.
“All right,” he said. “But I get to be a monster that flies.”
She made a face. “Everyone knows monsters can’t fly.”
“This one can. I’m a big spider but with horns and bird wings.”
He could imagine it in his head: a big gray spider, so big it could eat a cow in one bite. What sort of sound would a spider that big make? Maybe a buzzing noise. He tried it.
“Bzzzzzzzzzz.” He stretched his arms out like wings. “I’m coming for all the cows in the village. Better run and hide!”
“Alouen.” Jeanette planted her hands on her waist like her mother did at suppertime. “This is serious; you can’t fly.”
He frowned. “Why not?”
She pointed westward. “Because, if any of them could fly the priests would have made it taller.”
His shoulders slumped. She was right. The Great Barrier. It was tall, tall enough to see it even leagues away above the trees, but it wasn’t as tall as birds flew. And it kept the monsters out. Everywhere, not just here in the village. If there were flying spider-birds they would have come over the wall and eaten their cows for real, not just make-believe.
“I don’t want to be the monster anymore,” he said.
“Oh come now, don’t sulk.”
“I’m not sulking. I just don’t want to play monster.”
She gave him a sigh, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. “Fine. You want to be the hero again then?”
“No. Let’s play soldiers.”
“Oh, Alouen, I’m not a good soldier. There aren’t any soldiers in dresses.”
No fair for her to remind him of that. He hadn’t asked for his dresses to be taken away. His father had said it was time, though, on his fifth birthday. No more dresses, only breeches and shirts like a grown-up. It had made him feel big, before he remembered Jeanette wouldn’t get new clothes when she turned five.
“Mother says there are girl soldiers. She says some of the best soldiers are girls.”
She stuck out her tongue at him. “Fine, but I get to be from Sarresant.”
He nodded along eagerly. It was rare for Jeanette to agree to play soldiers. He’d be from Gand and be the loser if it meant she would play.
“Halt!” he barked in his best impression of the thick accents of Gand. Not that he could remember having ever heard one of them talk, but the grown-ups often talked like they did when they told jokes or stories about the war. “We’ll ’ave your lands, filthy Sarresant rats!”
Jeanette giggled, raising her arms up into the air. “Don’t hurt me. I surrender.”
“Hey, that’s not how it—”
“Bang!” she called out. “Tricked you.”
He grinned. “Aauuugh.” He clutched at his belly. “But more of us are coming, filthy rat. You can’t get us all with your tricks!”
“Yeah, but we’re quicker than you,” she said, turning to run.
This was always the fun part. No matter what game they played, the best parts were when he got to chase. Jeanette was fast even in her pretty dresses, and he loved to try and catch her, even if she almost always won in the end. But this time she got only a few paces away before he stopped with a frown.
She stuttered to a halt, turning back with a questioning look. “What is it, Alouen? What’s wrong?”
“My mother is calling,” he said.
She scrunched up her face, tilting her ear up to the wind. “Are you sure?”
He nodded. “Yeah, she says I’m to come in this instant, and you too if you’re out here with me.”
She made the pouting face she used when her parents wouldn’t give her what she wanted, then brightened just as quick. “Well, she didn’t say you couldn’t race me there.”
No warning, she just turned and ran. He followed, tracking through the first sprouts of the grain harvest coming up from the fields. The dirt was still wet from where it had rained a few days ago, enough that he was sure he’d track mud all over the house. He didn’t care. It felt good to run, to chase after Jeanette even if she didn’t try any of her zigging or zagging. That was probably why his mother liked her so much: Jeanette listened to the grown-ups and did what she thought they wanted, even if that meant coming straight home instead of playing for a few more minutes.
They crossed through the fields and ran up the wagon track that led onto the main road toward the rest of the village. She made a show of it, keeping just in front of him, but they both knew she would win. And she did, racing around the corner of the farmhouse and almost running into a tinker’s wagon parked outside. Now that was
a surprise. Jeanette turned back to him, wide-eyed and grinning with anticipation. A tinker visit before the harvest. No wonder his mother had called them in so early.
Together they scrambled up the front steps, expecting an early midwinter festival. Instead they tumbled through the door into a dour scene, as cold as the funeral for the Foubrens’ baby that had died last winter. There was even a priest in his brown robe standing in the entryway. Mother’s eyes were red as she hovered near the doorway to the kitchen, and father wore a worried look beside the hearth.
Right away he knew he didn’t like the brown-robed man. But still the priest looked at him with a too-welcoming smile.
“So this is your boy,” the priest said. “And the girl, Bernard and Therese’s daughter?”
“That’s right,” mother said with frost in her voice. “His name is Alouen.”
He’d never seen mother so distant. Her anger was hot when he’d seen it at all. More often she just told him and father what to do and got her way. He could tell she was mad now but for some reason she only stood there near the kitchen. Why couldn’t she just make the man go away? Why couldn’t she just give him and Jeanette whatever the tinker had brought?
“Alouen.” The priest took the time to say his name slow. “Lovely name for a lovely boy.” He turned back to mother and father. “You understand why I’m here?”
“We understand,” father said.
He didn’t understand. He wanted to ask but it seemed like the wrong thing. Jeanette looked at him, afraid, but he didn’t know what to say.
“We thought …” mother said. “We thought no one would come. When his birthday came and went, when the new year passed. The law says—”
“The law says all children must be tested,” the priest cut in.
“Before they are five years of age,” said father.
“There is a magistrate in Lorrine if you have a grievance,” the priest said, shedding some of the warmth he had pretended before. “But I assure you he will understand there has been a war going on. Villages along the Gand border are remote even in the best of times.”
“Oh preposterous, we haven’t seen a raid of any kind since the war began,” mother said.
“Philippe and Marie d’Oreste, I am here to execute the laws of the crown. Will you stand in the way of that charge?”
Mother’s face iced over, while father’s shoulders slumped. Neither of them spoke.
The priest turned to Jeanette. She looked up at the brown-robed man with fear on her face, but she didn’t move.
“Now. Since we have the boy and the girl here, we may as well handle them both.”
Father frowned. “I should at least fetch Bernard and Therese.”
“No need. This will be quick.” He knelt down, looking Jeanette in the eye. “What was your name again, girl?”
Alouen stepped forward, full of distrust toward the brown-robed man. “Her name is Jeanette and you can’t touch her.”
“Alouen,” father cautioned.
He didn’t care. Jeanette was shaking, more afraid than he’d ever seen her. Jeanette wasn’t afraid of anything.
“Jeanette,” the priest repeated, looking between her and him. “And Alouen, you are a brave one. You could be a soldier if our test goes well. Would you like that, to be a soldier?”
Mother drew in a sharp breath. He would like to be a soldier, but he decided he didn’t want to tell this man anything. “I would like for you to go away and leave us alone.”
“He can’t,” Jeanette whispered. “He has to test us.”
He frowned, looking back at Jeanette. What did she know? What hadn’t she told him?
“That’s right,” the priest said. “Jeanette, did your parents tell you I would come?”
She nodded.
“Did they tell you how the test works?”
She nodded again, this time offering her hands outward, palms facing up as if she were going to play a game of slap-quick.
“Perfect. Now, this will be simple, just hold still a moment.”
The priest rested his hands atop Jeanette’s, wrapping around hers so he couldn’t even see her fingers. The backs of the priest’s hands were pink and scarred as if someone had driven a spike through the palms. It made Alouen shudder, except he’d barely had time to look before the priest closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and withdrew his hands.
“Well done, Jeanette,” the priest said.
“That’s it?” mother asked.
“That’s it,” the priest replied. “As I said, simple.”
“Am I …?” Jeanette whispered. “Can I …?”
“You are healthy and whole, my dear. And you can tell your parents you passed the tests.”
She let out the breath she’d been holding. He felt happy for her, seeing her relieved, the fear finally gone from her face.
“Your turn, my boy,” the priest said.
He still didn’t like the priest, but if it was this simple to be rid of him he could do it. He and Jeanette would be telling stories about this for the rest of summer. He strode forward, offering his hands palms-up the same as she had.
Mother held her breath. Father looked away. Jeanette looked at him with relief in her eyes, and he smiled at her. He could be as brave as she had been.
The priest knelt in front of him, taking his hands in a firm grip. He couldn’t even feel the man’s scars. He couldn’t feel—
Terrible pain lanced through him. A ripping feeling like cords of white-hot wire burrowing into his skin. His vision shifted into black, and he saw a net of those cords beneath him, all crisscrossed lines beneath the house. Clouds of gray hung around each cord, with green dots hovering in the air around them. He liked the green dots. Even with the pain, even though he had never seen these lines before, a corner of his mind recognized them. They were why he could hear so good. Why he could see what others missed.
The world lurched back to normal.
“No,” mother was sobbing. “No, no, no, no.”
Father had risen to his feet. “No,” he said.
Jeanette gaped down at his hands, horror on her face. He looked down in time to see a bloody ruin where his skin had been. His fingers were fine, but he had a gash the size of a walnut on the back of each hand. The priest wiped them both clean with a cloth before he could look for more than an instant. Strange. He didn’t feel any pain now, only wonder over how his hands had been hurt.
“Alouen.” The priest met his eyes. “You are a special boy. The King has need of you.”
“No,” father said again. “You can’t have him. He was ours. You came too late.”
“You know the law, Philippe d’Oreste. He is yours no longer. And you will be paid for your sacrifice.”
What did the priest mean he wasn’t father’s?
“The Nameless can spit on your blood money,” mother said, her anger finally boiling over.
The priest turned back to him. “Alouen, you are going to have to come with me. You have a gift that must be controlled. We will teach you to use it.”
“I can’t come with you,” he said. “I have to stay here.”
“You have to come with me. It will be hard, but this is the law. You know what the law is?”
He looked to mother, and to father. To Jeanette. What about Jeanette?
“What about Jeanette?” he asked.
“You must say your good-byes now.”
Jeanette looked at him with tears in her eyes.
“Better if we make this quick.” The priest rose to his feet.
Mother was sobbing, and father went to her.
Jeanette took his hands. She didn’t even flinch away from the wounds.
“You get to be a hero now, Alouen,” Jeanette said. “I’ll tell stories about you.”
He felt numb. He didn’t want to be a hero anymore.
INTERLUDE
THE ORACLE
Meditation Chambers
Gods’ Seat
From the corner of her eye Ad-Shi saw a
lizard baking on a rock, storing its energy before the sun hid itself behind the storm bank. A speck in the shadow of her falcon eyes, but she knew it was there; every sense at her disposal screamed it to her. Tucking talons back against her compact body, she dove. This was nature, the power of tooth and claw and wing. She quivered, anticipating the feel of her beak slicing into its scaly flesh.
Paendurion had his war games. Axerian read his books and contemplated whatever riddles the mortals had produced in the time between their awakenings. Ad-Shi had the hunt.
She needed it. She needed a kill. Just as often, she chose to wear the skin of the lizard, or the elk. The wild surge of fear at being hunted could be a potent reminder of what it was to be alive. Today she needed to feel violence, the purity of murder without morality. There was no judgment in what the falcon did to its prey, any more than there could be judgment from mortals for the actions of one such as Ad-Shi. They did not understand. They could not understand.
This was the way. The Three bided their time, waiting for the anointed moment. Each cycle they awakened to find the world changed, but also unchanging. Always there were the lines of power: Order, tied to the leylines; Balance, tied to the serpents; and her magic, the Wild, derived from the spirits of land and beasts and things-to-come, separate but united in her grasp. Three lines, demanding three champions to face the ancient enemy. Three ascendants of every age, who left unchecked would rise to damn the world with their ignorance, if she and her fellows failed to stop them.
In a rush of wind and feathers she closed her talons around the fragile body of her prey. A moment ago the lizard had thought only of its next meal. Now it dangled helplessly as she rushed higher and higher into the sky. An electric shudder crackled up and down her spine as she opened her beak, announcing to the teeming mass of creatures below that a falcon hunted here, had made its kill.
DOES HE PLEASE YOU, SISTER?
He does, brother. I thank you for the allowance of his form.
HE IS A MIGHTY FALCON.
He is. He does you much honor. May I have him again, one day?
A brief pause. The spirits always took their time when asked for favors, no matter how slight.
Soul of the World Page 13
