Vengeance of the Hunter

by Angela Highland

  “I don’t believe that. I think you know more things about yourself than you think. Tell me some of them.”

  Faanshi blinked, paused and considered. “I believe in Djashtet,” she began, confident at least in that unshakeable truth of her life, before lifting her gaze skyward once more. “I think the moon and stars are beautiful, and I think the ocean sounds like it has a voice.”

  “Everyone I know who sails, human or elf, says much the same thing. What else?” Alarrah’s expression grew more peaceful now, and that let Faanshi be bolder.

  “I never want to have to sew lace again because they made me do it all the time in the cellar of Lomhannor Hall. And I like the puzzle box the rag-and-bone man gave me. I think it’s wonderful that the gods gave us all different words to speak of the world, and I want to learn to speak them all, and write them.” The ambition startled Faanshi even as she uttered it, but it felt right, and so she sat up straighter as she spoke. “I want to help people with my magic. And I believe with all my heart that Kestar and Julian are both good men, and I praise the Lady of Time that we’ve found them.”

  At her last few words, her sister outright smiled. “You see? You see beauty in the world and in the hearts of others, and you have goals, each in their own way quite large. That’s more than many can say about themselves or their lives.” Then she cast a look back over her shoulder, adding, “I just hope, enorrè, that your two good men, and those they’re bringing with them, agree that we’ve done the right thing.”

  Following the path of her gaze to the open hatch that led down into the hold, Faanshi thought of the others. Of Kestar and his partner, as well as the stately lady she’d learned was his mother—and of Nine-fingered Rab, since she could hardly be surprised that the younger assassin would no longer be parted from the Rook’s side. Nine-fingered Rab’s presence in their company made her nervous, but with their shared allegiance, at least, she could find no fault.

  “I hope so too,” she said. “And that we’ll all stay together, no matter what comes next.”

  * * *

  It had been a miracle beyond measure that even in the upheaval that had swamped the city, three of the tunnel folk had found Morrigh and Tornach running loose—and had kept them safe so that Julian and Rab could retrieve them. For that, at least in the privacy of his own thoughts, Julian had sent Tykhe the most grateful prayer he’d ever given Her.

  So of course it would stand to reason that, while giving him the blessing of Her right hand, Tykhe would see fit to temper it with Her left. It was never easy transporting horses by water, and the Whippoorwill, the ship the elves had engaged to get them in and out of Shalridan as fast as possible, had no horse stalls on board. Even if it had, they had no time to go through the laborious process of loading two large, vigorous stallions down through the cargo hatch into the hold. Thus Julian had no choice but to turn over the rest of his and Rab’s immediate cache of funds to the Whippoorwill’s captain, convincing her not only to take on several extra passengers, but to assign two of her most trusted men to take Morrigh and Tornach up the coast by land until he could arrange to get them back again, and the sailors could rejoin their crew.

  He didn’t like it in the slightest. But in the end there was no other practical solution, not when their speed, stealth and safety were paramount.

  Especially—though he admitted this to no one, not even Rab—Faanshi’s.

  Not that Rab was going to let it alone. Once they settled themselves into one of the Whippoorwill’s miniscule passenger cabins, little more than a closet with bunks, the younger man asked him point-blank, “So. Do you buy it?”

  Julian had stretched out on one of those bunks, ready to let the rocking of the vessel on the waves lull him as best it could for the next few hours. He was ready to sleep, sore and tired as he was. But this was a simpler weariness, one that spoke only of exertion and flight, and not of his body’s strength failing. The relief of that alone eased his mind. And Rab’s presence eased his heart, enough that he had to keep from laughing at the tart question leveled to him in the dark.

  “Buy what?”

  “Our little dove’s claims of her conveniently clairvoyant, not to mention conveniently dead, kinswoman’s prophecy. I’ve heard some outlandish excuses to coax someone back into one’s company before—”

  “You’ve launched several of your own, as I recall,” Julian drawled.

  Rab let out a sharp little bark of laughter. “Well, yes. I am an authority on the topic of excuses. So how much credence do you give this one?”

  It was an excellent question, and for several moments Julian had to think hard on how to answer it. He knew little of the woman Faanshi had called her okinya, only that Ulima had apparently been the only soul in Lomhannor Hall to show her a modicum of kindness before he and Rab had stolen her away, and that Faanshi had loved her enough that speaking in her defense had shown him the first sparks of the spirit hidden behind her gentle face. Whether her okinya had had the gift of visions, and whether they’d been true and real, he had no way of knowing. But he’d personally seen—hells, he’d personally experienced—too much magic not to accept that clairvoyance was possible.

  And beyond that...Tykhe.

  “Faanshi believes,” he said. “She’s earned some credence, I’d say.”

  To his surprise, Rab reluctantly agreed, “I can find no argument to that. All those people, chanting her name in the streets. I could begin to believe myself that she might actually inspire a war. Which, all things considered, is rather bad business for us. People don’t tend to want to hire the likes of us to kill for them if they’re already busy killing each other. So do we have a plan beyond getting our little dove back to the elves?”

  “Keeping her, and us, from getting shot will do for a start.”

  “One of your simplest and most economical plans yet. I approve.” A trace of amused bravado lightened his partner’s voice, yet not quite enough to hide what Julian heard beneath it, a dismay that fueled what for Rab was uncharacteristic talkativeness. Rab was too young to remember the war with Tantiulo, but no one over the age of five, anywhere in the realm, was ignorant of its effects. “Julian...if the realm goes to war again, what else can we do? You were noble once, but me, I’ve never been anything but a damned good thief and assassin.”

  “Though not a modest one.”

  “Well, no, but my point remains. I doubt most of the elves will welcome us with open arms, no matter how much our dove might like you. Would they want us to fight beside them? Do we want to?”

  “That’s surprisingly generous, coming from a man whose last known opinion on the elvenkind was disgust at their failure to pay us.”

  “Even I can see my way clear to forgiving a debt if a healer wants to go and save my life. Faanshi did, you know. Your brother shot me in the gut. You know what that does to a man. I sure as hells haven’t forgotten.”

  It was true. Julian hadn’t forgotten the bullet to the gut that had killed Rab’s father either. “So what are you saying?”

  “That your House didn’t come from Nirrivan blood, and damned if I know whether Da did—he never said—but I know what a home is. And Shalridan’s ours. If humans are going to fight for it, I can hardly hold it against them if the elves want to fight for their home too. Until we can make it back to Shalridan, maybe we can give them a hand.”

  Julian listened until Rab was done, stunned by the most somber words he’d ever heard out of his partner, and then acknowledged, “Maybe we could at that.”

  “And because I am such a generous soul, I’ll even let slide how you’ve been looking at our dove in a manner that would, were I not so generous, lead me to draw unfortunate conclusions about your mental faculties around her.”

  He might have smirked at that, or tossed back another riposte; the repartee, more than almost anything else had done in days, made Julian feel whole within as well as without. Still, precisely because the younger man couldn’t see him from his vantage point on the bunk overhead
, he smiled. “Not a dove. If anything...Faanshi is an eagle.”

  “A what? Tykhe’s teeth! I knew you liked her.”

  “Go to sleep, Rab.”

  * * *

  Dolmerrath, Jeuchar 7, AC 1876

  With most of their number having full or partial human blood, and with Hawk patrols already known to roam the coastal woods, the Whippoorwill had to take the greatest of care in sending her passengers ashore. A craggy stretch of beach was their landing spot, narrow enough at high tide that they could land only one rowboat at once, and protected by the northernmost boundary of Dolmerrath’s Wards. Even from out on the water, Kestar couldn’t help but notice the dread creeping into the faces of the schooner’s crew—and of most of the group that had come out of Shalridan with them. Without lights and in utter silence, Kirinil and Alarrah had to escort the rest of them ashore, and guide them up a long rope ladder into the network of caves that made up the elven stronghold.

  They went two by two with the elves. Kestar never knew how well the landing treated the others, for even from aboard the vessel, even after Faanshi had warned him of what to expect, the magic of the Wards swamped his awareness without mercy. It was worse out on the water, but by the time his feet touched land, he was shaking in every limb from visions of his mother drowning, of Celoren shot by hidden archers, and of Faanshi and himself burned alive by the Anreulag come to destroy them all.

  Other elves met them as they came ashore, but he barely noticed faces, much less names, as they joined Kirinil and Alarrah to guide them into their home. He registered little of anything at all until they reached a chamber with a bed, and his last memory before deep and dreamless slumber was Alarrah’s shining hand at his brow.

  When he awoke again, with a clear, soft light falling down from nowhere upon his face, he was relieved beyond measure to find Celoren waiting for him. His partner was dozing in a chair against the wall, next to the curtain that served as the chamber’s door, and he looked as ragged and disheveled as Kestar himself felt.

  “Well, I’m glad we’re both in one piece, anyway. We are, aren’t we?”

  His voice was husky and thick with sleep. Yet Cel started at the sound of it and rubbed his bleary face. “I think so. Hello, cloud-head. Are you all right?”

  Kestar considered that, sitting up cautiously in the bed where he’d collapsed. Nothing hurt. His thoughts felt sluggish, but they were clearing. And that meant he was as safe as he could expect to be in the last place he’d ever thought to visit—the last refuge of elvenkind anywhere in Adalonia. “I think so. You? Everyone else?”

  “Likewise. I checked on them before I came in to wait for you. Your mother was still sleeping when I found her. Faanshi too.”

  That too was a relief, and Kestar relaxed before he’d even realized he’d woken up tense. “Good. Good.” He looked up to meet Celoren’s eyes, adding sheepishly, “So. The elves haven’t killed us yet. That’s got to be worth something.”

  “They might yet. We’re Hawks. Or we were, anyway. But I’m not convinced yet they’ll be willing to acknowledge that distinction, even with Faanshi vouching for us.”

  Faanshi. She no longer flooded every corner of his brain, but Kestar dimly sensed her nonetheless, not far away, and at peace. “No, she brought her friends all the way to Shalridan to find me, and they risked their lives to do it.”

  “Do you believe what she said, then? About her great-aunt’s vision?” Then Celoren caught himself, and smirked a little. “No, that’s a stupid question. From everything Faanshi’s said, her okinya’s visions sound a lot like your premonitions.”

  “I did notice that.”

  “Here’s a better question, then. Have you thought about what we’ll do now that we’re here? Are we really going to throw in our lot with the very people we’ve been hunting?”

  Kestar stretched, ran a hand through his hair and then finally reached without thinking for the amulet that hung around his neck—only to catch himself as he remembered. He had his father’s amulet now, not the one the Order had given him. “We can’t go back to the Church.” Carefully, respectfully, his fingers closed around Dorvid Vaarsen’s amulet.

  “Or anywhere else in polite society, for that matter. Of course, polite society, if Shalridan’s any sign, is about to get a lot less polite.” All traces of levity left Celoren’s face. “What do you think? Are we about to be at war again?”

  They’d left a city in flames, where rioters had freed them from a Church that would have seen Kestar Cleansed, and his friend and mother hanged with him. There’d been fighting, far more than Kestar had ever expected to see in his life.

  And there’d been death.

  Shaymis Enverly’s in particular still haunted him.

  “I think we have to expect it,” he said. “And we’ll have to be ready, in case the Anreulag does find us. I’m no longer Her sword to strike, Cel. But the people I care about most in the world have come to these caves with me. I don’t know if the elves will want us fighting for them. For Mother and for you, though, I’ll be a sword still.”

  Cel rose from his chair and strode over to him, a solemn determination kindling in his hazel eyes. “And for Faanshi?”

  “She’s saved my life twice now.” The wonder of that still hadn’t left Kestar, and he still couldn’t quite fathom what exactly that shy-eyed maiden with power in her hands was, or why the gods had seen fit to drop her like a thunderbolt into his existence. But he’d heard the people of Shalridan calling her name in the streets, and in his heart of hearts, in that inner meadow where his mind had met hers, he knew beyond question that the people of Shalridan had a point. “I’ll be a sword for her too, if she asks it.”

  “Well then. One sword isn’t much. You’re going to need at least one other.” Celoren abruptly grinned. “After all, the girl saved my life along with yours. She’s clearly an excellent judge of character, despite an apparent preference for cloud-heads.”

  Kestar couldn’t help but grin back as he let his father’s amulet go, and reached instead for the promise of his partner’s hand.

  “Far be it from me to argue with her. We’ll fight for her, and for the elves if they’ll have us, together.”

  * * * * *

  The Rebels of Adalonia series began with an assassin, a knight and a half-elven healer...

  Get up to speed with the first installment, available now!

  Valor of the Healer

  The Rook

  An assassin hired by vengeful elven rebels to kill the calculating Duke of Shalridan, Julian walks into a trap and barely escapes with his life. Healed by a beautiful captive in the dungeons, he’s enthralled and vows to free her from the duke’s clutches.

  The Hawk

  A Knight of the Hawk duty-bound to cleanse elven magic from Adalonia, Kestar has a secret—and heretical—ability to sense the use of magic from afar. He knows something suspicious is happening in the duke’s keep, but he has no idea how deep the conspiracy goes.

  The Dove

  A half-elven healer with no control over her magic, Faanshi is the goddess’s to command. She’s always been a pawn of the powerful, but after healing two mysterious and very different men, she faces a choice that may decide the fate of the whole kingdom...

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  About the Author

  The very first thing Angela Highland ever wrote, at age eight, was a short story about a girl who ruled over the leprechauns for a day. She progressed rapidly to pretending to take notes in class when she was actually writing novels, and writing fanfic before she had any idea what fanfic was! Music has been a part of her life almost as long, thanks to six years playing flute and piccolo in school band and an adulthood dabbling in flute, guitar, bouzouki and man
dolin. Music is likely to appear in anything she writes.

  Angela (Anna the Piper to her friends) lives in Kenmore, Washington, along with her partner and housemate, two cats, and a whole heck of a lot of computers and musical instruments. Despite the fact that she is a mild-mannered former employee of a major metropolitan newspaper, rumors that she is a superhero are exaggerated. (Even if she did pull the door off a refrigerator.)

  She also writes the urban fantasy series The Free Court of Seattle under her real-life name of Angela Korra’ti. Come find out more about her works under both her names at angelahighland.com.

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  ISBN-13: 9781426898266

  VENGEANCE OF THE HUNTER

  Copyright © 2014 by Angela Korra’ti

  Edited by Deborah Nemeth

  All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.