He touched her hair and smiled. “You have no children, little flower, or you would not ask.”
“I thought you were dead.”
“Which I am, in a way. Ah, but it is good to see you again. You are so very like your mother to look at.” A deep frown etched itself on his brow. In the time before the Harrowing the Vaerli married for life or until love faded; there was nothing they did not share. How that moment when the bond was broken had felt to her father, Talyn could only imagine.
“But nothing else of me is like her…” Bitterness crept into her words.
He did not answer but, taking her hand, held it tightly. “No time for anger now, little flower. I cannot stay long. Your brother too is in great danger; he walked my dreams this month past. I have been told where I can find him, and I hope I may be able to do him some good.”
“I felt it,” Talyn whispered. “If only for a little while. I…I didn't know what to do. Tell me this danger he is in.”
“I cannot, and you know why. You are the Caisah's creature.”
She kicked a stone away and tried to control her temper. Her father had not always been like this. The one she remembered had been sunny and full of laughter.
Her disappointment must have been written large, for he squeezed her hand. “We are all changed. It has been centuries of pain and anguish for each of us. Try to remember that.”
It was hard, this talking about emotions, especially when empathy had once been there instead—so many ways to be misunderstood and to misunderstand.
“Then will you not help me as well?” She fought back the urge to cry again.
“I have been able to go places, see many things, since I set myself apart from our people. You must give up this bounty you seek for the Caisah.”
She flung his hand away. “Give it up! I am so close now. So few pieces remain. I cannot just abandon it when I have done so much…hurt so many people. It would all have been for nothing.”
“You were young when you started on this path, daughter. We were all lost in our pain. No one will blame you for this.”
Yet she did blame herself. Talyn bit the inside of her cheek to keep those words from flying out. At least if she won out in the end, she could know she had reached her goal. To give it up would mean she'd been wrong and others had suffered needlessly for it.
His hands clenched, so obviously he didn't need to be empathic to feel her anger. “He will demand you bring back this Finnbarr, and he will probably demand you help his Swoop quell yet another rebellion in the east. Will you add to the crimes you must repent for? How many will you trample beneath you?”
It was by far easier to be angry and push him away than to take his words in. Anything else was unthinkable. Perhaps one day he would see it had all been worth it.
“I will never repent,” she cried hotly. “I will pay for what I have done, but if I burn at least I will be happy knowing my people are safe. At least I will have done something!”
He flinched at that, knowing an accusation when one was thrown his way. Her father went on softly as if she were some skittish colt in need of guidance. “You know what will happen if you do this.”
She was well aware, but she would not tell him of the anguished days and nights she'd spent before accepting the Caisah's offer, or how she'd cried aloud for her mother who could never come again. He would take it as weakness. Instead, she replied evenly and looked into his eyes so he would know she was as determined as he was. “No price is too high to end the Harrowing. These are our people, living in desperation and pain for hundreds of years. Wouldn't you do anything to stop all that?” Her voice cracked with the depth of her emotion.
His expression changed, a shifting from determination to endless grief. She had just told him she was prepared to risk greater pain than death itself.
His hands dropped to his sides, palms out in supplication to a world that had long since abandoned them.
It was the hardest thing in the world not to embrace him one last time, but Talyn did not. “Go now, Mathiel. Leave the words you must for our people. I will not be swayed. Let them send their messenger of death if they will.”
He ran a tired hand through his hair. “You are like your mother in more than appearance. I hope we shall meet again, but I cannot tell if we will.”
Then the darkness claimed him, and there was only the hollow where his presence had been. Terrible times she had seen, but to Talyn this was the worst of them all. Before, she had at least been able to imagine she was doing this for her people, and spun a story in her mind of her father's pride. Now there was only harsh reality.
This was the path she had chosen, and she'd known there would be no going back once she was set on it.
So, she raised her head and felt her prey sense going out. It was still there, the faint tug to the east where Finnbarr the Fox had gone. Whatever the Kindred had called him in that moment of light, he remained her prey.
The world rushed around Finn. Earth and stone and pebble flew about his head. He was wreathed in flames, his horrified yell smothered before it left his mouth.
Whatever magic Talyn had unleashed on him would be his death.
Then just as abruptly as it had started, it stopped. The heat was replaced by sudden chill, and Finn found himself along with his companions on a dusty wind-blown hillside. The men all gaped at each other.
It was Varlesh who found his voice first. “Well, that boiled my eyeballs but got us out of a very sticky situation. Good work, boyo.”
“I don't think it was Finn…” Equo directed their gaze to the creature standing against a large boulder not two feet from them.
On first glance, it appeared part of the stone itself, an unremarkable pile of shingle and pebbles that almost looked like a small dog. Then the creature raised its head and eyes of flame looked back.
For one very long moment, even Varlesh did not say anything. The men all stared back at the strange creature.
“Well,” Equo said and cleared his throat, “that would explain our abrupt departure. Kindred can travel through the earth faster than thought.”
Finn was finally returning to himself, and he could not let that pass; he knew his stories. “But they have no physical form.”
“They used to,” Si murmured.
They eyed the silent and still creature once more.
“Doesn't look dangerous.” Varlesh, regaining his composure, bent over and had a closer look. “Are you dangerous?” he boomed.
“Whatever it may be, I hardly think it's deaf,” Finn commented.
The creature cocked its head, somehow managing to now look birdlike. A funny little burp, and it was suddenly on fire, burning but not consumed. Varlesh leapt back, but it remained where it sat, obviously content it had made its point. It could be dangerous if it wanted to be.
They argued for a good hour trying to decide if it was a Kindred, and if so, what had happened. Si occupied a rock close to the creature and said not a word to either side of the discussion.
In the end, the conclusion was that it had to be a Kindred, though exactly where it had come from, or how it had taken physical form, they could not decide. Outside of the ranks of the Vaerli, there were few experts. Since the Harrowing they had not taken form, and had fallen into myth. It was only known in the stories that such creatures were spirits of Chaos and the enemies of the Caisah. Even if it did look like a lady's overstuffed lapdog, that reality alone guaranteed it respect. And there was the fact that it had undoubtedly saved their lives. Though when Varlesh roared a “thank you,” it did not respond.
Having that sorted out, they tried to work out exactly where they were. Equo and Finn clambered to the top of the rocky outcrop and stared up at the stars.
“There is Arleth the Strong's Sword.” Equo pointed to the long line of stars rising from the horizon. “It can only been seen in the southern sky.”
Finn sat back on his haunches, stunned. They had traveled almost half the known continent and were near the ea
sterly edge. Perilous and Fair lay thousands of miles to the northwest.
He sat down on the ground with a thump. “How is that possible?”
“Mighty are the abilities of the Kindred,” Equo replied, “and we best not be lulled into stupidity by this one's appearance. It is undoubtedly far more powerful than it looks.”
Finn glanced over his shoulder. Si had appeared on the ridge, and his head turned toward where the sun would shortly rise. Pointing back the way they had come, Si whispered, “She follows.”
Finn bowed his head, even as Equo grasped his shoulder. They might have put thousands of miles between Finn and Talyn, but he was still marked as her prey. She was coming for him.
“Looks like you got what you wanted, Finn: the attention of Talyn the Dark.”
He should have been consumed by fear, maybe his life should have flashed before his eyes, but instead Finn was surrounded by calm. He had to think, though. This was certainly not the way he had planned to have Talyn back in his life, and he was certain there would be no passion in her for one she considered prey.
The sun began pulling itself above the rock-filled valley, revealing the desolation of their surroundings. Shadows still remained only around the pillars of rock. In a few weeks, this place would be something else entirely—maybe a mountain, maybe a lake. They maintained their power even in the face of the Caisah. His Road was the only constant thing, and it was paltry compared with their power. For it was now obvious where they were.
They were starkly beautiful, the Chaoslands, and though they were somewhere no sane person would hide, they could still be Finn's salvation.
Around a meager breakfast of tackbread and dried meat Varlesh had retrieved from their ill-prepared packs, they discussed what to do.
“We're not far from Oriconion. The rebellion will have started with the new moon,” Varlesh said while chomping down a mouthful of bread. “We should go there.”
“You mean like last time?” Finn asked archly.
None of them replied to that, but Equo let out his first smile of the day. “Nyree lives in Oriconion—unless she's become too troublesome to the Caisah.”
“That sounds like a good place for you,” Finn said, “but I won't put you or anyone else in danger. I will go into the Chaoslands. Maybe this creature,” he gestured to their still savior, “will be able to help.”
The three men exchanged glances as if deciding whether his idea was madness or brilliance.
Varlesh jerked his head, and the three of them walked away from Finn. What followed was obviously an argument. He could hear little of it, except Varlesh when he barked, “We can't just leave the lad!”
Si rested his hand on his shoulder and whispered something to his friend. Varlesh subsided into mutterings, but when they returned he spoke for them all. “All right then, but you promise me you'll keep moving and not wait ‘til that black witch catches up…”
Finn grasped his offered hand. “You have my word. I've seen enough of her for the moment.”
“He'll be fine,” Equo backed him up. “In a town he'd be easy prey, and with the Kindred…”
“Head south, boyo. Get into the Stillness of Bayresh. It's the border to the Choana realm, and maybe the World Builders might remove the deathmark. If not, then they could slow her down a little.”
No one mentioned the small fact that none had survived the Choana either. Finn let that one go without a smart remark, for he was conscious that every moment he waited here was less distance between him and Talyn.
“Take heart.” Equo clasped his hand in farewell. “The Vaerli are not the only ones with magics in this world.”
They said their brief goodbyes, short claps on the back and lowered eyes, and then they left. Hiking among the rocks, they quickly disappeared over the ridge. Finn was left alone, except for the stone-eyed nameless Kindred—and there seemed little joy in its company.
Flyyit was certainly a hard worker. Byre had not been asleep for more than a minute, wrapped in the warm thoughts of the Second Gift, when she returned. Her second dose of pain couldn't reach him because Byre could retreat along the empathic chain and hide amongst the safety of another's feelings. She wracked him hard until his bones shattered and flesh tore, but it was as satisfactory as dissecting dead meat.
Finally, she threw him down and observed from the corner of the cell as his body healed. Byre came back to himself slowly, but did not give a sign, instead watching her out of half-lidded eyes. She was not giving up, merely waiting for his spirit to return. It was a cruel tactic that he couldn't avoid.
Flyyit strolled to the table where the instruments of her trade were laid out. Carefully she cleaned the blood off those she had already used today and considered which other ones might be of use. She had a long curved knife in her hand, just by chance, as the door to the cell was kicked open. For a long strange moment, the Vaerli standing in the doorway and Byre's torturer stared at each other. Then Flyyit moved. Flinging the knife at the intruder's head, she turned back to the tray for another weapon. The throw was mistimed and inaccurate, and the Vaerli didn't really need to dodge it at all. By the time the torturer had turned around, it was someone else's steel that was in action.
With a surprised half-sound Flyyit grabbed at her throat, but the blood pouring from it wouldn't be stopped. She died quickly on the floor in front of her prisoner. Byre shook his head, certain that he was hallucinating.
The Vaerli kicked the twitching body of the torturer. “If I only had more time to show you the true meaning of pain,” he said softly, but with venom.
Then Byre knew he must be dead, for he recognized the voice. It was one he had never thought to hear again, and even though he didn't believe the delusion it was still sweet. “Father,” he whispered, a tear leaking out from the corner of his eye.
It was Retira's hand that brushed his hair. “Lie quiet.”
He could feel this imagining uncouple his restraints, so he lay back and enjoyed the happiness. It was only when his father hauled him upright that the room spun. His bare feet slipped in Flyyit's blood, and he realized that he was not dead. Nor were the fires of the Harrowing touching either of them.
The true horror was that he felt nothing, no touch of empathy, no singing of recognition in his brain. It was his father, with the voice that had read him stories in the night, but the gold hair wasn't as he remembered; there were strands of gray in it.
Dreadful certainty clutched at his throat. “You went to the Hill of Sorrow.”
His lips pressed together. “Not now, Byre.” Retira propped him up by the door and dared a glance around the corner. “The guards change at midday.” He dragged Flyyit's body farther into the cell, out of direct line of sight. “Hopefully they will not notice her immediately, and they might think the blood is yours. How are you?”
Byre could feel his body healing. It burned and itched, but it was slower than before; days of torture had robbed it of much of its reserves. Despite all the questions that crowded into his mind, Byre had little desire to stay in this prison and test the skills of Flyyit's successor.
“Not the best, but I'll manage,” he replied. On closer examination, he noticed lines on his father's face.
Retira must have felt his regard. He touched his son's cheek for an instant. “You've grown, I can see that, but long discussions must wait until we are out of this place. I didn't have much time for a plan.”
Byre could only remember his father as kind and gentle. The first few moments of their reunion told him a great deal about what Retira had been through and how he had changed, but he was still his father and this was a reunion he'd never expected.
“How about we just get out of here by the quickest route?”
“Sounds grand to me.” His father pressed a pistol into Byre's hand. It was obviously not his, for Vaerli were forbidden them, so it meant he had not gone entirely unnoticed entering the garrison. Into the other, now healed, he handed over the stout stick that the Sofai had given Byre. His son
could only guess he had retrieved it from the guards.
Staggering and leaning heavily on the stick, Byre managed to follow his father out into the corridor. They paused there for a moment and Byre's eyes locked with a bedraggled prisoner in the opposite cell. The old man held out his hands in mute supplication. Perhaps he had learnt the futility of cries. The crooked and broken hands were minus three fingers.
Byre moved toward the ring of keys on the table, but his father stayed his course. “Quick and quiet is the only way we are going to get out alive.”
“I can't leave them in here.”
They shared a long look and though Byre felt nothing from his father, he could read his annoyance. Perhaps in his long life he too had seen the inside of the Caisah's torture chambers. “We can only let them out,” he relented. “They will have to look to themselves to get out of here.”
Hard as that was, Byre understood; they stood not a chance of escape with so many. In a distant time he would have argued, but life had knocked most of the heroics out of him.
As silently as he could, Byre unlocked the cells. When that was done, fifteen men stood in the corridor assessing their situation. Three had run off mad with delight before Byre could stop them, so it might be that his compassion would yet get them killed.
Faced with their reality, his resolve melted. “Perhaps we can help these ones…if we stick together…”
He was interrupted by one of the prisoners, a lanky and grizzled man who had managed to hold onto the shreds of fine clothes. “Sorry to say, friend,” he said, his voice quiet yet firm, “but we'd rather go on by ourselves.”
Byre looked around, but none of the erstwhile prisoners would meet his gaze.
“We're grateful,” another added, holding his hand to the spot where his eye had once been, “but you being Vaerli and all…well…we'll have more of a chance going in the opposite direction.”
Obviously, embarrassment hadn't been totally culled from them in the cells. With murmurs of thanks, they scampered away.
Retira watched them with a wry smile on his lips. “They're right, you know; Vaerli escaping will be far more important to the Rutilian Guard than the local miscreants.”
Hunter and Fox Page 14
