Victory of the Hawk

by Angela Highland

  “Your right leg is shattered, akresha,” she said, “into several pieces. I can only guess that you were thrown from your horse, and that you landed on the limb as you fell. Your right shoulder is also hurt, but more than that I can’t tell, not without touching you.”

  “And she’s not going to touch you until I give the word.” The elf male joined Vaarsen and the girl, though he remained on his feet, looking down at Jekke from the end of her bedroll. “Kestar Vaarsen may not wish to argue with you, human, but I will. You throw the death of your comrade in his face, and I’ll throw back at you the deaths dozens of times over of my people, decade after decade, without cease, without rest.”

  This should have been something Jekke could understand—the fury of an inhuman heathen. Captain Amarsaed would not be cowed, she thought, only to realize that the captain had fallen to the Anreulag. And with pain eating at the edges of her mind, all she could think as she peered up at the elf was how ordinary he looked. He was beautiful in the uncanny way of his kind, to be sure. But his hair and clothes were rumpled, and streaks of both dirt and blood marred the moonlight paleness of his skin. Shadows lurked at the corners of his eyes, and had he been human, she might almost have guessed he was exhausted.

  It made him almost sympathetic, and she couldn’t trust the feeling.

  “And this means what?” she demanded hoarsely. “That you intend to kill me?”

  “What would happen if I did that, do you think? Would you go to one of the heavens your Church of the Four Gods likes to preach about? Would the Anreulag sing your soul to its final repose?” The elf loomed over her with a preternatural stillness, without the slightest hint of shifting his weight from foot to foot as a human might have done. What signs of exhaustion showed in his features only served to amplify his focus upon her, or so it seemed, and Jekke felt a chill skitter over her at his words. “I’d gamble not, given that She was burning your people and mine alike only a few hours ago.”

  She was trembling now; she couldn’t help it. They knew. The elves knew that the Voice of the Gods had turned against Her Hawks, and surely now they would seize their chance and strike down the faithful. But if that were the chance, why was she not yet dead? “So what do you expect of me?”

  The other voices around her stilled, but Jekke caught a strangled little cry to her right, and a fervently whispered oath to her left. Turning her head with effort, she saw that she lay in a tent along with others of Captain Amarsaed’s company. They were wounded, like her, helpless prisoners of the elves.

  “Whatever sorcery you worked on the Voice won’t stand,” someone rasped, only to provoke bitter laughter from Jekke’s interrogator.

  “You think the Anreulag’s betrayal was my people’s doing? I could only dream of such a coup,” he said, turning round in a slow circle as he marked who else stirred in their bedrolls, before he indicated the other woman in Tantiu garb. “Credit for it must go to her people, not mine.”

  The woman strode into Jekke’s direct line of sight, though she, like the elf, was keeping alert watch on everyone in the tent. “The akreshi of the Hidden Ones speaks truth,” she proclaimed. “I am Khamsin elif-Darim Sarazen, and I lead those who would see the nation of Nirrivy born again from the ashes of subjugation. Through the sacrifice of one of my priests, the one you call the Anreulag has been liberated from servitude—and oh yes, She lashes out at those who have made of Her a weapon. Now I bring to you this choice. Will you risk Her fires finding you again? Or will you join us, and help restore a nation where all, men and women, humans and elves, may stand together as equals?”

  The man on the bedroll to Jekke’s right, bloodied and bandaged past her ability to recall his name, drew the Star of the Four Gods across his chest. His hand, like his voice, shook. “What kind of a choice is heresy? You might as well execute us all now.”

  “If the Anreulag doesn’t kill us, the Church will,” added the woman who lay to Jekke’s left.

  Kestar Vaarsen stood then, side by side with the elf and the Tantiu woman. “As they should have killed me? Brothers and sisters—because, yes, I still think of you as such, even though the Order turned me out—do you know what changed my mind? Not magic, though gods know, Faanshi has the most magic I’ve ever seen.” He gestured to the girl still kneeling at Jekke’s side, who looked up at him with a plaintive half smile. “It wasn’t her saving my life with that power. It was her being willing to do it even though I was sworn to hunt her, and even though it put her in mortal peril twice over. And I had to ask myself, what kind of gods would sanction the enslaving and murder of someone with the power to save lives?”

  “To save your lives, to be precise,” Khamsin elif-Darim Sarazen added. “If you will agree not to hinder us, Faanshi will mend your hurts, and you will be escorted out of this camp to Camden, where you may do as you will.”

  “And if we don’t agree?” Jekke asked, her gaze lingering on the one called Faanshi. “If we choose to follow our oaths as Hawks, what will you do then?”

  Faanshi returned her attention, and said simply, “I’ll heal you anyway, if you permit it. I won’t touch you without your leave.” Then she drew in a ragged breath and pressed her eyes closed for a moment, the first sign she’d given that perhaps she too was exhausted. “But in Djashtet’s name I beg you, decide quickly. I can feel what’s wrong with every one of you, and if you can’t abide a half-blood’s touch, do me the courtesy of saying so to my face.”

  Neither of her comrades on either side offered an opinion, and in dismay, Jekke realized the healer expected her to answer—whether because Kestar had addressed her by name, or because she was simply the nearest of the wounded, she had no way of knowing.

  She could barely think for the pain, which was by itself a powerful argument in favor of accepting what was offered to her. Even if what was offered to her was the use of magic.

  Yet she’d already seen the Voice of the Gods turn against those who’d pledged themselves Her eyes to see, Her swords to strike. And if the very One for whom they’d been waging war on magic had already struck her down, if the very bedrock of the Order of the Hawk could crumble, what else might be wrong in the preaching of the Church of the Four Gods?

  Jekke didn’t want to think about it. She wanted to scream at the elf-girl to get out of her sight, or call Vaarsen out for the betrayal of the Order, or both. She wanted to find a priestess of the Mother and demand to know what would happen to them all—if indeed the priests and priestesses could be trusted, if the Anreulag could no longer be. She wanted to find her family, though she feared whether they’d welcome her back into their arms. She wanted to see the baker’s daughter again, and see her smile over fresh bread and cakes. And, with a desperation that made her very bones ache, she wanted to sleep.

  If she refused the healing, what would happen to her then? She lay among elves, heretics and rebels. The Voice of the Gods no longer listened to Her Hawks, and in her heart of hearts, Jekke feared that the realm was beginning to rip itself apart. Her captain was dead, and so were several of her fellow Hawks. Could she risk being anything less than hale and whole until she could find out whether they’d died in vain?

  I don’t want to die. I don’t want to be helpless. It felt selfish to admit it, and worse yet, it felt sinful. But it was also true, and with a grimace of resignation, Jekke beckoned to the healer. “Fine. Fix me. Pray, chant, whatever you have to do. Just do it.”

  Faanshi gave her the same plaintive smile she’d given Kestar, though now there was more relief in it, brightening the green of her eyes, as with a sheen of sunlit gold. “All I need to do is this,” she said, and laid her hand lightly on Jekke’s leg. The touch was casual, even tentative. If she hadn’t braced herself to expect the fleeting contact, Jekke might have missed it entirely.

  But there was no missing the magic, for without warning, it filled her pain-racked limbs with warmth and light. The shock of th
e relief was so great that for a moment she forgot to breathe, yet still the magic continued, and not once did it falter even as she began to sob.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The royal palace, Dareli, Jeuchar 9 and 10, AC 1876

  In the Church of the Four Gods none ranked higher than the High Priest or Priestess, the man or woman on whose shoulders rested the duty of providing spiritual guidance to the Bhandreid, to all other priests and priestesses, and to every man, woman and child in the realm. With the position, too, came the leadership of the Order of the Hawk—and thus, none took on the rank without serving as a Knight of the Hawk themselves, for only a Hawk’s hands could bless each amulet bestowed on a new Hawk. Only a Hawk’s voice could sing the Rite of the Calling, and wield the power that manifested as the Voice of the Gods. Once a High Priest or Priestess, the chosen man or woman served for life. Only death, and the return to the bosom of the Mother, brought surcease of sacred duty. So had it always been since the time of Saint Merrodrie.

  But never since the time of Merrodrie had the Anreulag Herself struck down a High Priest, and then turned Her fury on the people.

  And so convened a council that Dareli had not seen in over forty years. In Old Hethloni it was called the Ardtennal, and while the youngest priests and priestesses thought of it instead as the Choosing, none would have said so aloud. Aside from the crowning of a new Bhandreid or Ebhandreid, there was no more holy a task within their power to perform. To give it anything but its ancient and honorable name would have been an insult to their Church and to the gods.

  In the face of the wrath of the Anreulag, further insult to the gods was not a risk they could afford to take.

  They came together in St. Merrodrie’s Cathedral, priests and priestesses of the Father, Mother, Son and Daughter, in a chamber none but the highest-ranking clergy were permitted to enter. There should have been eight, a priest and priestess for each of the Four Gods. Only five came to the Ardtennal chamber, for the First Priest of the Son had fallen to the Anreulag’s fire, and both the First Priest and First Priestess of the Father lay wounded in the care of Church physicians, and none knew if they would survive another night.

  The chamber was high in the tallest tower of the cathedral, with eight windows facing in all directions. Each window held a lantern, and each priest and priestess lit the lantern accorded to his or her rank, behind a screen of translucent red glass. When their choice was made, they would change the screens to yellow, so that from afar it would seem that the tower was filled with golden light. The system was simple and elegant, and had even inspired the creation of the telegraph stations set up all over the realm.

  Thus did the Church lead the people in advancing culture and science; thus had it always been, and if the gods were willing, so it would continue to be. But first the Ardtennal had to live long enough to make their selection.

  Once their lanterns were lit, they turned their minds to the task at hand. Each had brought with them the names of candidates to consider, men and women with the age, wisdom and experience to make them worthy in the eyes of the gods. No one’s list was long, for some of those who had been under consideration at the last Ardtennal had died, even before the Night of Fire. At least two more had died since that night. Of those who had experience and wisdom enough to be considered for the station, two now stood in the Ardtennal chamber—though none would succumb to the sin of pride and put his or her own name forth. The members of the council were ready to debate the worthiness of each candidate, even as they fought back the specters of doubt and exhaustion and fear.

  “This might be a little easier if the Bhandreid joined us,” the First Priest of the Daughter said to the others, the only one among them who gave any voice at all to his uneasiness. “It’s allowed by holy law, and she surely must have opinions on who she would see fill the last High Priest’s shoes.”

  The First Priestess of the Mother, eldest among them, turned from the lighting of her lantern and gave him a weary half smile. “We all know how Her Majesty favored the previous Ardtennal’s choice,” she said, “but we must do without her royal wisdom now. In this time of crisis she has her own duties to fulfill, and I for one am not going to be the one to call her from them.”

  * * *

  In the end, Margaine was stunned that they didn’t throw her into the Barrows.

  Persons of breeding weren’t supposed to know that the Barrows existed. To be sure, the place wasn’t a fit topic of conversation for young noblewomen, particularly the consort of the prince and the mother of his heir. But she read the broadsheets, and she knew where the criminals of Dareli went—the ones too dangerous to condemn to servitude, the violent and the mad. The Church sent heretics there when they didn’t execute them outright, and the Church had never been slow to deliver a sentence of heresy, whether the condemned was of high birth or low. Margaine had never known anyone personally who’d been imprisoned there, but rumors had circulated through the high society of the capital for as long as she could remember whenever nobles of notorious reputation went missing.

  When the sedative Doctor Corrinides had given her wore off, she thought for certain that the Bhandreid had had her transported into the prison. Margaine woke to find herself in a cell without windows, and indeed no other features besides an unadorned slab of stone and the chains that ran from the wall to iron bands about her ankles.

  Someone had left a single fat candle on the slab, and it was burning when she regained consciousness. By its feeble light she made out faint lines in the age-blackened walls around her, paler traces that showed the edges of the massive blocks of granite that had built this cell. Likewise, she could discern stains on the stone near the candles, stains whose rust-brown hue she could not bring herself to closely consider. Nor did she want to think too directly about the stench of the place. The air stank of ancient must and the slow rusting of iron, giving her every breath a tang she didn’t normally taste except in the deepest grip of winter.

  She’d been left in the gown she last remembered wearing, and whose weight against her skin did little to ward off the chill of the place. But someone, perhaps the same someone who’d provided the candles, had placed her on a thin mattress on the floor and covered her in a woolen blanket. There was a pillow as well, a soft one, which might well have been appropriated from her very own bed.

  Apparently I’m not expected to go cold and naked in this place.

  But that was meager comfort at best, for Margaine heard no sounds around her in the darkness, not even the scrabbling of rats. There were no other voices that might have been prisoners raving in fright or delirium, or praying in terror to the gods whose worship had consigned them to their fate. There were no footsteps, no jangling of keys, and no orders from implacable guards. More than anything else, the silence warned her she couldn’t be in the Barrows—and the cell’s door gave her a stark picture indeed of where she might be instead.

  The door was made of good strong oak. Even in the candle’s dim light she could see that much. More disturbingly, she could see a wide swath of damage up and down the length of the door, scores and burns and what might even have been cracks. She couldn’t tell for sure from across the chamber, and her chains wouldn’t let her reach the door. Yet she could think of only one thing that could have launched an assault that would leave burns on such sturdy wood, and even on the stone to either side.

  And it made sense—logical and terrifying sense—that the Bhandreid would now see fit to sequester her in the very cell where she and the High Priest had imprisoned the Anreulag. Margaine had no way of knowing for certain, of course. But no other conclusion presented itself in the silence and gloom of her confinement.

  Nor did she have any way of marking time. She could do nothing but pace, doze on the mattress, or watch the candle grow slowly shorter as it shed globules of wax onto the stone. Eventually she had to sing or pray out loud, just for the sake of hav
ing something to listen to, and to distract herself from the greater worry that gnawed incessantly at her mind: what had they done with her baby?

  When someone finally came for her, she’d grown faint with hunger and thirst. But she couldn’t lose herself in sleep, for her nerves had been stretched thin, and the deep groan of the door being pushed open snapped her out of an uneasy doze.

  Somewhat brighter light poured into her cell as the door came open, just enough to show her the silhouette of a woman bearing a lamp in one hand and a basket hanging from her arm. Margaine’s eyes stung at the sudden influx of illumination, but she didn’t need to see the figure to recognize her. Ealasaid’s voice, as chill as the air around her, made her identity clear.

  “I see you’re still alive, then.”

  That she had to blink furiously until she could see was vexing, but Margaine didn’t let that stop her from replying. “As you surely must have planned, or I’d be dead already. Where am I, exactly?”

  The Bhandreid came into the room, and with a frisson of dismay, Margaine noted that her sovereign didn’t bother to pull the oaken door closed behind her. Not that there was much to see beyond—just a fragment of corridor, layered in gloom scarcely leavened by either the sputtering candle or the lamp. There was no one else behind Ealasaid, and the woman moved with a certain unhurried deliberation that suggested all too plainly that she expected to remain undisturbed. Deliberate, too, was the lift of her head as she stopped on the other side of the stone slab, setting the lamp and the basket on it.

  “This is a cell beneath the palace catacombs, accessible via a passageway known only to me,” she coolly replied. “I trust you’ve had time to consider its purpose?”