“Sir, if the Anreulag has turned against us…if She’s actually attacking the capital…shouldn’t we mobilize for Dareli at once?”
His every instinct, every last shred of his Hawk training, called for exactly that. An active threat to the Bhandreid and to the capital of the realm should by rights command the attention of every Hawk in Adalonia—especially if the threat was born of magic.
But then, his every instinct revolted at the notion that the Anreulag, the living, walking avatar of the Four Gods, might have turned Her back upon the people who revered Her. No one in living memory had ever known the Anreulag to be anything but the beneficent Voice of the Gods. Adalonia had flourished for centuries because of Her, back to the earliest days of the first Bhandreids and Ebhandreids, back to the time when the Church of the Four Gods first rose in the might of Her power. Amarsaed, though, had witnessed the Anreulag’s power firsthand in the war with Tantiulo, and every time he’d brought captured elf mages in for Cleansing since.
The thought of Her turning that power against the people of the realm made his blood run cold.
“We’re needed here,” he said. “Even if this communiqué is real, it’d take us days to get to the capital, and we might not make it in time to be of use. Meanwhile this city is in clear and present peril. We’ll serve the Bhandreid and the Church far better if we stabilize the situation here.”
Yerredes listened, and with visible reluctance, finally bobbed her head. “All right, sir. May the Mother in Her mercy let us do it swiftly.”
“Ani a bhota Anreulag, arach shae,” he agreed, and as he hoped they would, the ritual words seemed to steady his subordinate. She murmured the words back at him, and even before he had to remind her of his orders, she hurried off to carry them out.
Only when he was certain she was out of sight did he risk squeezing his eyes closed in a desperate prayer of his own. In the sight of the Anreulag, may it be. The words might have been comforting to Jekke Yerredes, and they certainly should have been to him, for they’d been the recurring faithful theme of his life with the Order of the Hawk. Yet now, in his heart of hearts, Pol Amarsaed was afraid.
And for the first time since he’d been ordained into the Order, he found himself bent on staying as far away as possible from the sight of the Voice of the Gods.
Chapter Three
Dolmerrath, Jeuchar 9, AC 1876
“Alarrah, I can’t tell if I’m looking at our salvation or our doom.”
The voice of the leader of Dolmerrath wasn’t loud—it never was, outside of those times when Gerren had to pull on the mantle of his authority. In those rare times, when Alarrah caught him alone and he was simply Gerren, he was the most soft-spoken male she’d ever known. He stood now on one of the landings that overlooked the central chamber of the stronghold, scowling down at the activity below. It didn’t surprise her that he’d sensed her coming without even looking over his shoulder. She was one of the best scouts in Dolmerrath, able to walk without sound over any surface or terrain she chose, and yet he always knew when she was drawing near. Sometimes she deemed it a leftover sensitivity from when she’d healed him with her raw young magic and saved his life, but whether it was sensitivity to the nearness of her mind or something as simple as her scent, she never could tell.
Nor did she try to tease him about it now, not when he wore such a scowl. Instead she stepped up beside him and followed his gaze down into the heart of the cavern. The chamber was never quiet in the mornings, and today was no exception, not when every denizen of Dolmerrath able to wield a weapon was on high alert. Most mornings, the great cavern was full of elves and humans engaged in domestic chores or the sharing of food and conversation and music. Today, most everyone in sight was preoccupied with the repair of swords and bows, and the fletching of new arrows—all except the knot of scouts converging on two young human men.
Alarrah Tanorel, daughter of Jord, had walked the earth for a hundred and twenty years. For nearly eighty of those she’d called the stronghold of Dolmerrath her home, and in that time, elves from every corner of Adalonia had taken shelter behind the fierce roaring magic of its Wards. Humans had come to live among them too, most often men, women and children descended from the conquered nation of Nirrivy, branded as heretics by the Church of the Four Gods. For not all those of Adalonian blood followed the Father, Mother, Son and Daughter, or swore by the Anreulag, said to be their eternal, blessed Voice. And in the past few weeks even the blood of the nation of Tantiulo had found a home within the Wards, in the persons of an old warrior loyal to the goddess Djashtet—and Faanshi, Alarrah’s half-elven sister, whose healing power made her own look like a candle flame against the brilliance of the sun.
But never once had Dolmerrath given refuge to Knights of the Hawk.
Not that Kestar Vaarsen and Celoren Valleford had announced themselves as such. They’d abandoned their russet and black uniforms when their Order had arrested them, not to mention the silver amulets that glowed a betraying blue in the presence of elves. Although somehow Kestar still retained an amulet. Alarrah had seen him reach for it, reflexively, when he was agitated. Why it didn’t trigger, when in the heart of Dolmerrath it should have shone brightly enough to blind them all, she neither knew nor cared. That it remained dormant was best for the peace of mind of everyone who lived in the caverns.
And for the safety of Kestar Vaarsen, whose face and frame had shocked every elf in Dolmerrath the minute he’d come across the Wards.
“Only the Mother of Stars knows why he’s been dropped among us,” Alarrah said, turning to face the leader of her people at last. “And She isn’t telling. I don’t know whether to call him friend or foe. All I can see when I look at him is a ghost. Faanshi said he had our blood in him, but I didn’t believe it till I saw him. Surely you’ve noticed it too.”
Gerren didn’t answer her, not directly. “What have you learned about him?”
“That he went to the abbey to seek answers about his heritage, and an aged kinswoman of his died in that place not long after the Anreulag appeared.”
“Do you know this kinswoman’s name?”
“Darlana,” Alarrah supplied. No surprise kindled in Gerren’s face, but rather, a keen spark of acknowledgement. The sight of it comforted her, for it meant that he was already following her path of thought. They both knew the name of Darlana Araeldes, Riniel’s human lover, as well as they knew their own. “All these years, and we never did find her after Riniel was killed.”
“Her people reached her before we did. Fast enough that we never had a chance to find out she was pregnant.” Gerren grimaced, and for a moment, his eyes took on the sheen of grief. “I can’t doubt that now, looking at the Hawk. His face has human lines. But it would take only a few subtle changes, even aside from his ears, to make him Riniel reborn.”
For the look on his face alone, Alarrah reached to clasp his shoulder; eight decades could not begin to be long enough for either of them to forget seeing Riniel Radmynn die. “No one in Dolmerrath could question it. But there are two other questions before us, beloved, that should occupy our minds. Chief among them, what we’ll do about it.”
“I’ve been occupied with that since before you brought that Hawk here.” Gerren’s dark brows crooked up, but he kept his gaze on her, waiting for her to go on.
Before Alarrah could speak again, activity in the open chamber below seized her attention. She breathed an oath. Kestar Vaarsen and his fellow former Hawk, Celoren Valleford, now faced the last two elves in Dolmerrath liable to give them a civil welcome: Jannyn, leader of the scouts, and his sister Tembriel. Alarrah loved them both as if they were her own siblings—and thus she knew better than anyone what kind of tempers they possessed.
No one had drawn weapons, not yet. But Jannyn’s hand was on the bow slung across his back, and even from a distance, Alarrah could tell that Tembriel’s eyes had turned gol
den. That all by itself was enough to send her darting for the curving stairs that led down into the main chamber. Jannyn’s temper was volatile enough. Tembriel’s, though, came with the gift of fire magic. Yet no matter how justified their hatred of the race that had killed their parents might have been, Alarrah wasn’t about to let them set human guests on fire in Dolmerrath’s very heart.
Nor was Gerren, right on her heels as she reached the stairs. He didn’t bother to ask what her second question was; he didn’t need to. Not when every face in sight had turned to the brewing confrontation, and not when what Kestar Vaarsen would do in the next five minutes was of paramount importance to them all.
* * *
“Gerren might have given you leave to be here, but the rest of us don’t have to like it. Or you. You’re not welcome here, Hawk scum.”
Kestar Vaarsen had faced down elves before. After all, to be a Knight of the Hawk meant being sworn to hunt down elven mages in the name of the Anreulag. But the elves he and Celoren had apprehended in the past had been petty criminals or escaped slaves like Faanshi, most often with nascent magics they could barely control. They’d resisted capture, to be sure. But none had been trained warriors. None had been a serious threat to his life or his partner’s. And in all the years he’d served his Order, he’d never dreamed that he’d set foot in the last remaining stronghold of the people he’d been hunting, where almost every elf he met was armed to the teeth—and meeting him with open loathing.
Like the four elves surrounding him and Celoren now.
“We’re not Hawks anymore,” Celoren ventured. His hazel eyes were mild, his entire bearing relaxed. Kestar wasn’t fooled; he’d seen Cel poised to spring into a fight too many times not to recognize the deceptive ease of his stance now. “If you know your leader let us come here, you must surely know that too.”
“Do you think that’s supposed to make a difference?” The evident leader of the four scouts, a dark-haired, gray-eyed elf with supple leather armor over the utilitarian greens and browns he wore, shot Cel a disparaging glare. “We’re supposed to forgive you for all the abuses you and your brethren have committed against our people?”
“All that stands between me and setting you on fire is Gerren’s orders,” added the she-elf beside the leader. She looked enough like him to be a relation, though her dark auburn hair curled wildly where his did not, and her eyes blazed a lambent gold. Her mouth curling in a vindictive smirk, she looked Kestar up and down. “But he didn’t say we couldn’t strip you naked, tie you up and leave you on the Wards until you learn what kind of fear you’ve put us through.”
Her eyes. She’s a mage. Kestar no longer had the amulet the Order had bestowed on him. The silver pendant that hung around his neck, tucked discreetly beneath his shirt, was his father’s—and it had lost the virtue that let Hawk amulets detect the elvenkind with Dorvid Vaarsen’s death. Yet Kestar’s instincts prickled uneasily at the sight of her. He didn’t want to think too closely about why, whether it was his patrol experience talking, or his own newly discovered elven blood. Neither of which would get him any leniency from these hostile scouts.
“We have a lot to answer for.” Kestar kept his hands in plain sight and far from the one knife he’d been permitted to keep on his person, for he and Cel both had had to surrender most of their weapons on good faith when they’d come into Dolmerrath in the first place. “We’d be fools to deny it, and it’d take more than both our lifetimes to make it up to you. But if it means anything at all to you, I hope that our helping bring Faanshi to you safely is a start.”
The lead scout took a step closer to Kestar, and to Kestar’s disquiet, all four of the elves focused entirely on him. None of their hard, set faces overtly changed in expression, but something sharpened in their attention, something they didn’t hurl at Cel. He couldn’t put his finger on why. But the two scouts on the edge of the group stared at him with as much puzzlement as hatred, and for a fleeting instant, so did their leader.
“Is that your hope then, Hawk scum?” the elf demanded, his voice rising. “That the healer’s name and honeyed words will make us all willing to forget how many of our kind have died at your wretched Order’s hands? How many of our mages you’ve broken in mind and body? How many of our people you enslaved and slaughtered as you called down the Anreulag on our homeland? I don’t care who you look like—I won’t forget!”
Wait, what? Kestar had no time for more than that brief flash of surprise before the elf’s fist lashed out at him, cracking across his jaw with enough force to send him tumbling backward to the floor. Blurred spangles of light filled his vision. Voices shouted above him in all directions, and Celoren poised protectively over him, hands balled into furious fists. Someone else lunged across his field of sight, only to freeze along with Celoren and everyone else as the voice of Dolmerrath’s leader Gerren thundered across the cavern.
“Nenìath! Astàllemerron kurrekilan ti voll, ràe dir nenìath!”
The Elvish words were beyond Kestar’s ken, but their tone and timbre were not; he knew a command to stand down when he heard one. As hands helped him back to his feet—Celoren and the healer Alarrah—Gerren was blocking the path of the scout who’d thrown the punch.
And to his surprise, Gerren added in furious Adalonic, “Threatening guests? Striking them? Have you lost every last shred of courtesy and hospitality, Jannyn?” The scout began an agitated reply, still in the elves’ own tongue, but Gerren threw up a hand to cut him off, glaring between him and the she-elf beside him. “No excuses. You and Tembriel knew damned well what these two humans were before Alarrah and Kirinil went out to fetch them to us.”
“That was before we saw him.” The other two scouts exchanged distressed glances, but the she-elf at Jannyn’s side thrust a slender finger at Kestar. Her eyes still blazed gold. “A Hawk with that face is a mockery of every death we’ve suffered in the last eighty years—especially Prince Riniel’s! Are you trying to drive a stake through all our hearts?”
“What?” Kestar blurted, the word escaping him as little more than a cough. His vision cleared even as Alarrah’s fingers brushed the back of his head, with a subtle prickle of healing magic he noticed only once it vanished, taking the dull throb in his skull with it. “What in gods’ names are you all talking about?”
Every eye in the cavern turned back to him—not only those of Gerren and Alarrah and the four scouts, but of everyone else scattered around the chamber as well. A conspicuous silence descended, and not even Celoren could enlighten him. All that his partner could offer, when their eyes met, was a rueful shrug.
Stepping back from Kestar, Alarrah said with a sigh, “Gerren, they don’t know.”
“Clearly,” Kestar said. Politeness was wisest, but he couldn’t quite keep an edge of cold sarcasm out of his voice, no matter how ill the impulse spoke of his chances of avoiding taking blows twice in one morning. “When do we get to find out?”
Gerren turned to face him. To Kestar’s eye, Dolmerrath’s leader was as ageless of face as every other elf he’d ever seen; he could have been Kestar’s own age, or ten times that. In that moment, though, the erstwhile Hawk could see nothing in the jewel-blue stare upon him but a heavy weight of years. In resignation, he beckoned to the nearest passage out of the cavern.
“You find out now. Will you walk with me, Kestar Vaarsen? I’d like to speak to you alone.”
* * *
None of those who’d fled to Dolmerrath from Shalridan were prisoners. But given the harsh reception he and Celoren had received, Kestar didn’t expect that Gerren would lead him anywhere truly private in the elves’ network of caves. Thus their eventual destination, a largish chamber that seemed half library and half study, didn’t surprise him in and of itself.
What it held did. The green curtain in the doorway caught his eye first, with its pattern of gold and silver threads forming a tree with a crescent moon a
nd stars in its branches. A fragment of tapestry hung on the wall within; its fraying edges and fading hues proclaimed its evident age. The added seam down one side in newer, rougher stitches spoke of care put forth to preserve the weaving. Yet despite its wear, brilliance still shimmered in the original threads, and Kestar found himself staring at what they depicted: a grand hall full of elves. The individual figures were too tiny for him to discern from a distance, but when he drew nearer, he began to see faces, hints of expressions, and even vigorously gesturing hands. Patterns on ancient clothing revealed themselves, along with the delicate filigree on the slender columns lifting up to the vaulted ceiling at the top of the scene. Through it all, scattered individual threads of gold cast a shimmer of light across the entire work, as if sunlight poured down from unseen windows.
“It’s the Council of Winds, our parliament in Astàlleramè,” Gerren said, “from long enough ago that you humans hadn’t found us yet. When we still had a homeland to call our own.”
Kestar started, realized he’d been staring up at the tapestry as if entranced, and turned around to face his host. Gerren had paused by one of the many shelves that lined the room, his hand poised to pick up a book. His earlier anger had vanished behind a mask of deliberate reserve, and there was no obvious censure in his voice. Nonetheless, to his chagrin, Kestar found himself blushing. “Astàlleramè was Starhame? Your high city?”
The elf’s dark brows winged up. “In your language, yes. I’m not sure whether to be impressed or disturbed that you know the name. Most Hawks don’t bother to learn the names of the things they destroy.”
He could have explained that Starhame was recorded by its Adalonic name in history texts sanctioned by the Church of the Four Gods to be used for teaching children—or for young cadets of the Order of the Hawk. But given the sarcasm lurking on the edge of Gerren’s tone, it didn’t seem wise. “Most Hawks don’t have elven blood, either,” Kestar said instead.
Victory of the Hawk Page 4
