Victory of the Hawk

by Angela Highland

  More and more heads turned in their direction. Khamsin could muster no surprise at the sight of the guardsman Semai, for all the man had sworn he was taking the ashes of her kinswoman Ulima back to Tantiulo. There were the Hawks who’d come to Lomhannor Hall, though neither Vaarsen nor Valleford wore Hawk uniforms anymore. There was the lady Ganniwer, Kestar Vaarsen’s mother, rumpled but as determined as she’d appeared when the duchess had last seen her in Shalridan, when she’d faced a Cleansing with her son. And there—the black-haired assassin she’d fought in her own bedroom, the man who’d tried to kill her husband. With him was a younger man who could only be the accomplice who’d worked with him. All were human faces, without the uncanny beauty of the Hidden Ones, but in human and elven visages alike Khamsin saw united purpose—and more than a little suspicion.

  Even Faanshi paused at her coming, lifting her hands away from the wounded elf sitting slumped on the ground beside her. The radiance around her hands died away, and Khamsin had to steel herself against the shock of a face distressingly like her dead sister’s staring at her. Faanshi wore no veil, and the korfi she’d acquired in its stead merely swathed her head and neck rather than hiding her features as a man’s korfi would do.

  Had she ever truly seen the girl? She had to sourly admit that she could not recall, and so, she supposed, there was nothing else to do but attempt an overture. It felt surpassingly strange to step forward and bow to the girl, a violation of every caste among the Clans. But then, if the claims of her abilities were true, the ridah of wisdom dictated that matters of caste no longer applied.

  “Eshallavan, Faanshi,” she said. “Will you introduce me to your people?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Dolmerrath, Kilmerry Province, Jeuchar 10, AC 1876

  Faanshi had known that her mother’s sister, the akresha Duchess Khamsin, had taken command of the rebellion that had embroiled Shalridan and much of Kilmerry Province besides. But she hadn’t really understood the truth of it until the woman stood before her in the flesh. In the wake of the Anreulag’s disappearance it was strangely ridiculous to feel a renewed surge of fear, but fear rose up in Faanshi nonetheless.

  Khamsin was clad in garb she’d never seen her wear before, a tunic and silwar and even a korfi, worn as Semai wore his, wrapped to shield her face from view, instead of the veil that most Tantiu women would wear. Likewise, the duchess was armed, with both a sword and a dagger sheathed at her waist. Had she not spoken, Faanshi might have mistaken her for another woman entirely. But she knew Khamsin’s voice, and she knew the dark eyes that regarded her now, with a cool and considering gaze. The lack of disdain, though, was new. Faanshi couldn’t recall exchanging more than twenty words with her since she’d been a child, and what things Khamsin had deigned to say to her had never been more than the words of a mistress to her slave.

  Yet she was no longer a slave. And if Khamsin was willing to speak to her with civility, the ridahs of strength and wisdom counseled that she should respond in kind.

  “Eshallavan, akresha.” Faanshi returned her bow, and then, with a quick surreptitious glance to either side, gestured to the others in range. Everyone important to her was near, and they’d paused in what tasks they’d been attending in the battle’s aftermath, their attention now on the newcomers. “Allow me first to present my sister, Alarrah Tanorel, another daughter of my father.”

  “Akresha,” Alarrah said. Now that she was done healing the scout she’d been attending, her sister stepped to her side, her tired features settling into a mask of wary politeness.

  The crimson korfi she wore conveniently shrouded any obvious surprise on Khamsin’s face at the notion that Faanshi now had family. Nonetheless, the healer thought she saw a spark of reaction in the duchess’s dark eyes. Yet Khamsin made no interruption, and so Faanshi continued, “Of course you already know the akreshi Semai from Lomhannor Hall, and I believe you already know or at least know of the rest of my friends. Kestar Vaarsen, his mother the akresha baroness Ganniwer, and Celoren Valleford. And…” She had to pause for a moment, for it was awkward enough to perform introductions for the wife of her former master—an easier way to think of her than as her mother’s sister—without the problem of identifying the assassins.

  “Julian,” said the Rook, as bland of voice as Faanshi had ever heard him. “We’ve met.”

  “Nine-fingered Rab at your service, my lady,” his partner added, bowing grandly.

  Faanshi flashed them both a smile of gratitude, and then went on, “And finally, the akreshi Gerren. He leads the elves of Dolmerrath. Everyone, I present the akresha Duchess Khamsin Kilmerredes, she who was the wife of my former master.” Once more she had to pause, and only with a soft grudging breath in acknowledgement of the ridah of truth was she able to finish, “And the sister of my mother.”

  Black brows rose beneath the upper folds of her korfi, but Khamsin gave no other sign of astonishment as she gestured to the two who’d accompanied her out of the woods. “I am Khamsin Kilmerredes, but I am also Khamsin elif-Darim Sarazen, a name I reclaim with the passing of my husband. I present Sister Idrekke Sother and Father Cortland Grenham, who have joined with me in support of the Nirrivan rising,” she said, before she focused her attention on Gerren. “Akreshi, I shall come straight to the point. I have a regiment south of here, posted past where your people engaged the Hawks, as I’m sure your messengers have already informed you. We offer our aid, and to inform you as well that we have taken nine Hawk survivors into our camp.”

  Gerren came forward, as somber of expression as Alarrah, though he allowed a modicum of welcome into his voice as he said, “I thank you for the offered assistance, akresha, as any help you can lend until Faanshi and Alarrah can finish healing our wounded is most welcome. But I confess to some confusion as to why we should concern ourselves with any survivors of the force who attacked us.”

  “Most of them are also badly wounded,” the duchess replied, slanting a measuring look from Gerren back to Faanshi. “And I daresay that keeping them alive is well within my young kinswoman’s capabilities, if she would care to come and attend to them.”

  “Not to mention that if they die, it’ll be rather difficult to interrogate them,” Rab put in.

  Alarrah said, her voice taut, “These Hawks have caused the deaths of my heart-brothers. Let them die as far as I’m concerned. I’ve already spent most of my strength helping our own people.” Her eyes gleamed damply for a moment, though she did not cry, and she added without meeting Faanshi’s gaze, “My sister may do as she wills.”

  Furrowing her brow, Faanshi turned to face Gerren. Guilt nagged at her that she’d doubted Djashtet, even briefly, and her conscience demanded that she answer the ridah of compassion now. On the other hand, she had accepted a place among the people of Dolmerrath, and Gerren was their leader—and now, her own. “If you do not want these Hawks to die, then I should go to them without delay.”

  “You’re not going anywhere without a few of us to guard your back,” Julian said. “Because with all due respect to the duchess, I’m not convinced her motives are entirely pure.”

  The man at Khamsin’s side said, “I’m willing to vouch for Her Grace’s intentions. We all want the same thing—the restoration of Nirrivy. And I think at least a few of you have reason to trust my word.”

  His attention lingered on Kestar, and Faanshi realized she’d seen the man before, at Arlitham Abbey, trying to hold back the invasion of the duke of Shalridan and his men. Kestar and Celoren exchanged uneasy glances, and with a reluctant sigh, Kestar finally inclined his head. “It’s true. He kept my great-grandmother Darlana safe at Arlitham Abbey, and didn’t give us up to the Hawks until he had no other choice. He and all his people could have easily been condemned as heretics.”

  Khamsin’s other companion was as prideful of bearing as the duchess, and she spoke now with a clear, carrying resonance. “Heretics, h
eathens and inhuman, or so the Church of the Four Gods sees us all. Yet two of you here now were counted among the Hawks, and you changed your allegiance when the gods moved you to do so. Could it not be that if we give these prisoners the same chance, they might do the same?”

  “Being healed from the brink of death was a powerful inducement to consider my life’s choices,” Kestar said. He offered a brief lopsided grin to Faanshi, though that faded back into sobriety as Gerren slashed a hand through the air to silence them all.

  “I have just seen the last haven of my people in this entire benighted country shattered, and many of those of us who stayed to defend our home are now dead,” the steward snapped. “I am disinclined to show mercy to those who would have seen us all fall beneath the bullet and the sword. But the Anreulag attacked her own Hawks as well as us. We need to know why. She’s never done that before.”

  “Akreshi, I can enlighten you in that regard, as I suppose you lack access to telegraph lines and thus would not have received the news.” The duchess kept her coolly affable tone, though her eyes nonetheless glinted with interest and anticipation. “The Voice of the Gods no longer answers to the authority of the Church.”

  Comprehension flooded through Faanshi, so swift and raw that it felt almost as though her magic had broken through its shields—but this was not the need her gift kindled in her to seek out and mend illness and pain. This was something else, something she could scarcely recognize in herself.

  Rage.

  “That was what my master’s priest was doing in Shalridan,” she said, and in the grip of her anger she lunged at her kinswoman, her open hand flying out to clout Khamsin elif-Darim Sarazen across her cheek. The blow pulled her korfi down, revealing shocked, dusky features even as the other woman seized her hand. Faanshi stopped, staring, unsure if she’d ever seen the woman’s uncovered face and yet unable to care if she’d just displeased Djashtet. “He was setting Her free. Crone of Night curse you, he could have found a better way. He almost killed me when he stabbed us both. I know you always thought me tainted and unclean, I know you always hated me, but I never knew you wanted me dead!”

  The anger felt odd, yet strangely liberating, and in the rush of it Khamsin stared back at her, as if seeing her truly for the first time in both their lives. “I did, once,” she said, as blunt now as Faanshi’s blow had been. “You were the living reminder of my sister’s death, and of my husband’s obsession. But he wouldn’t kill you, no matter how great a threat keeping you in our household was. And then you healed him when a fever would have taken his life. I couldn’t wish you dead once you’d done that.”

  “Though you were apparently perfectly willing to let her remain a slave in your household,” Julian drawled. He’d come up behind her, and while he hadn’t actually drawn a blade, a quick glance over her shoulder showed her that he had one hand behind his back. That would have seemed casual enough, had she not known he had a knife sheathed there.

  Nor was he alone in moving closer to her. Alarrah, stone-faced, was to her left; Kestar stood to her right. “You made quite the point of asking me about Faanshi’s whereabouts in St. Telran’s,” he said. “I’m with Julian. I must wonder at your eagerness to get her into your camp. Do these Hawk prisoners of yours actually exist?”

  Khamsin’s gaze flickered from face to face, and with the faintest breath of resignation she released Faanshi’s hand, taking a careful step backward. “Your doubts are just,” she admitted. “I will not break the ridah of truth by denying my past actions, or that your aid would be a great boon to those who seek Nirrivy’s rebirth. You must know what the people of the province have been saying of you.”

  “We’ve done our part to encourage this, for it serves our cause,” Sister Sother said. “But not all of it comes from us. Word of your deeds has hardly needed assistance to spread from one corner of Kilmerry to the other, and beyond.”

  Saint Faanshi. It’d been impossible to ignore the cries of the people in Shalridan’s streets when she and the others had pushed through fire and riots to save Kestar from the Cleansing in St. Telran’s Cathedral. There’d been too many of them, overcome by smoke or wounded escaping from houses falling into flame, and she’d had to heal them—they’d been between her and her goal. But the people she’d helped had already known her name, and now she finally knew why. “You can’t call me a saint to the people and then come to me speaking of the ridah of truth,” she said, more sternly than she meant, and more sternly than was probably proper to women of their rank. But it distracted her from how she was blushing, and enough of her anger remained that she let the assertion stand.

  To her surprise, Khamsin didn’t bother to return her korfi to its proper place. Even more astonishingly, she offered no rebuke. “Why not?” she asked instead. “Everyone here knows you possess great power. How many of your companions have personally experienced it? How many witnessed your turning aside the Voice of the Gods, not once, but twice now? How can you do such a thing if you are not the instrument of Almighty Djashtet?”

  “I have had my differences with the akresha,” Semai said, “but she has a point. Thus was also the counsel of the Nobi Ulima.”

  No one contradicted him, and under the weight of everyone’s stares Faanshi felt herself flush harder, enough that the heat surely had to stand out distinctly against the sun-golden hue of her cheeks. But Julian, who among all those around her had the most reason to understand what she could do, announced, “If Djashtet has an opinion, She can say so. As for me, I say Faanshi’s opinion is the one that matters. You’ve already been working for hours, girl. Can you keep going? Do you want to heal these Hawk prisoners?”

  Grateful to meet his eyes, Faanshi said, “If there are people who need my help, I can help them. I should go and see if they’ll let me.”

  “I’m coming with you.” Kestar’s voice was quieter than Julian’s and more somber, but no less resolute. “I’ve got to know who’s survived. But you should know, many of them won’t want your help. Most of the Order would consider it an abomination.”

  “Then they can die or not at the will of their gods,” Gerren said. “Either way, I will hear from their own lips why they attacked Dolmerrath now, and whether any more of the Order are on the way.” He turned to Alarrah, embraced her fervently, and told her, “Look after our people until I return, hìorollè. Vaarsen, the Rook and I will accompany Faanshi.”

  Lastly he looked once more at the duchess, his gaze hard, without light.

  “Akresha, take us to your prisoners.”

  * * *

  Eventually, despite her scattered fragments of prayers to the Mother for deliverance, Jekke began to creep back toward consciousness and pain. Voices were moaning somewhere close by, but there were other voices as well, unfamiliar ones speaking in accents she didn’t know. Nor was she lying on the ground where she’d fallen. Someone had placed her in a bedroll, and though the pillow beneath her head was thin and the woolen blanket scratchy, both were more comfortable than the unyielding earth.

  Whoever had found her did not want her dead, then. But they weren’t Captain Amarsaed’s regiment, either. Warily she cracked open one eye, then choked and coughed at who stood within her field of vision.

  Kestar Vaarsen, traitor to the Order. Beside him stood a male whose pointed ears and fine-boned features were so obviously elven that she fumbled without thinking for the amulet that should have been at her neck. When she didn’t find it, her only recourse at the sight of a young woman in ragtag Tantiu garb, who laid a shining hand on someone on a nearby bedroll, was to scream.

  As one, all three faces turned to her, and two more besides. There was a second woman in Tantiu dress, her face concealed by a korfi, and a second man whose pale skin marked him readily enough as Adalon. This man, with a suspicious glint in his dark blue eyes, said dryly, “That one appears to be awake.”

  Jekke tried her best to scram
ble into a sitting position, for it was bad enough that she’d been captured by heretics and elf-lovers, but worse still that she was lying helpless before them. The moment she moved, however, pain stabbed in jagged shards through her flesh. She had no choice but to slump back against the thin pillow she’d been given, while Kestar came to crouch down on one knee beside her. “Hello, Jekke.”

  His tone was earnest, perhaps even sad, and even in the midst of her agony that offended her. “I have nothing to say to you,” she snarled. Or at least, tried to. Her words came out in a breathless gasp rather than the hiss of icy disdain she intended. “Bron’s dead because of you, elf-blood.”

  Up close Vaarsen looked…well, no different than he ever had, albeit every bit as disheveled and dirty as she had to be, following the battle. What elven blood he’d been revealed to possess left no mark she could discern on his features, even in close proximity to a full-blooded elf. Much to her frustration, despite the regret in his eyes, his expression failed to register the penitence it should have done.

  “All right then, you can listen to me instead of talking,” he said. “Or rather, you can listen to Faanshi. Faanshi, this is Jekke Yerredes. She was ordained at Hawksvale the year after Celoren and me. Would you please tell her what’s wrong with her?”

  The younger of the two women in Tantiu garb came to kneel beside Kestar, and Jekke peered up at her in consternation. So this was the escaped slave, the mage for whom Vaarsen and Valleford both had betrayed their Order…and the girl who was reputed to have the power to turn aside the Anreulag Herself. She didn’t look like much. She was darker-skinned than most elf slaves Jekke had ever seen, but something in the shape of her face, the shape of her cheeks or perhaps the size of her eyes, betrayed the inhuman taint in her blood. Her loosely wrapped korfi covered her head, and in particular her ears, but Jekke would not have been surprised in the slightest to find them pointed.