Victory of the Hawk

by Angela Highland

“You kept Her here.” There was no way Margaine could remain lying down as long as the Bhandreid was in the room—she had to maintain a modicum of pride. And so she hauled herself stiffly to her feet, even as she draped the blanket around her shoulders to hold on to its meager warmth. “How did you do it? Why did you do it?” Then she had to catch herself, letting out a bitter crack of laughter at her own demands. “Though I suppose I can hardly expect you to explain yourself to me if I’m now your prisoner in the Anreulag’s stead.”

  “In any other situation, you would be correct. I owe you exactly nothing. My priority is and always has been the safety of this nation. Yet you are the mother of my heir, and my grandson did love you. For his sake, I will give you what I was unable to grant to him—a chance to choose to sacrifice yourself willingly for the good of your land and your people.”

  Blanket or no blanket, Margaine grew colder. In the unsteady light Ealasaid looked even older than she had the last time the princess had seen her; her features were haggard and colorless, her gaze as dark as the shadows around them both. “The High Priest said he killed my husband for you,” she said. The Bhandreid had addressed her with a disturbing lack of inflection, and so she let unfettered fury into her own voice in response. “Royal blood to bind the Voice of the Gods.”

  It finally occurred to her what purpose the slab of stone between them had to serve—and what the stains had to be.

  “Dear gods. You killed him in this very room, didn’t you?”

  “For all the good it did. The Anreulag has broken nearly nineteen hundred years’ worth of binding on her, because the old blood magics have failed. I have given Her my own son. I have given Her my grandson. And still She runs free to unleash Her fire on the people who should adore Her as a goddess. If She is left unchecked, She will kill us all, and I have no one left to give Her but my great-granddaughter.”

  “You will not kill my baby!” Margaine lunged, only to stumble and then wail aloud as the chains that bound her ankles stopped her short. She could only just reach the slab, and with a snarl she snatched up the candle, wondering wildly if she could strike Ealasaid down if she hurled it at her head.

  Even then the Bhandreid’s uncanny calm didn’t waver. She showed no sign of irritation, much less anger, merely raising her brows as if Margaine’s outrage were nothing more than the barking of a small dog. “If you throw that,” she pointed out, “all you will accomplish is to ensure that you will die here alone in the dark—and possibly on fire, depending on the accuracy of your aim. And for the record, I would prefer to avoid sacrificing Padraiga. She is my only remaining heir, and were she to give her life for Adalonia, House Araeldes would fall.”

  The noble-blooded were not supposed to gape, and yet Margaine gaped anyway, unable to believe her ears. At last she had no choice but to set the candle down again, while laughter made raw by the threat of hysteria clawed its way free of her. “Adalonia in the hands of rulers who might not make a habit of murdering their own blood kin? Well. We certainly can’t have that. Are you asking me to die in my daughter’s stead, then?”

  “Yes. I offer you the chance to die to save her life.” Ealasaid’s tone remained entirely conversational, though now, the faintest trace of curiosity finally colored her words. “You would, wouldn’t you?”

  Margaine stopped and simply stared at her, her horror and anger giving momentary way to an appalled comprehension. “Any mother worth the name would give her life for her child. You’ve done exactly the opposite. That’s the point of all this, isn’t it?”

  “You approach understanding,” the Bhandreid replied, beckoning expectantly. “Come now, work it through.”

  “Not just you, either. You said nineteen hundred years. That means…” Her throat went dry and her frame began to tremble, and so she clutched once more at the blanket draped around her shoulders, just to give herself an anchor for her hands. “This has been going on throughout the history of the realm. The Anreulag’s always been here, so all the Bhandreids and Ebhandreids before you have been killing too. To keep Her in control.” The idea wouldn’t sit firmly within the confines of her thoughts; it writhed, refusing to let her keep hold of it, and Margaine wished with all her might that she could let it go. “Has it just been the rulers and the High Priests, my lady? Or are there more with blood on their hands? How many of the royal family in each generation have had to die?”

  “It has been only us—the one who sits on the throne, and the one who leads the Church. For the good of the realm, we spill the blood that feeds the magic. Once a generation, once another heir has been born to carry on the line.” Ealasaid lifted her chin slightly as she spoke, a gesture Margaine had come to know as a mark of the older woman’s pride, and a spark of that pride flickered across her countenance now. “For the good of the souls of the realm, we accept the burden of the sin as our own and no one else’s.”

  To this, too, Margaine had to choke out bitter laughter. “Such self-sacrifice. Am I supposed to commend you?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, girl. I neither require nor want your approval, and I certainly do not seek your forgiveness.”

  “Good, because I do not offer it, you old harpy.” Her anger was rising again, and Margaine welcomed it. If nothing else, it gave her a ghost of warmth. “You killed my husband, and now you’re going to kill me, and you have the gall to come to me and claim it’s for the good of the country? If I could reach you, I’d strangle you with my bare hands!”

  Since the Bhandreid remained infuriatingly out of arm’s reach, Margaine had to content herself with spitting at her—and even that fell short, barely grazing the edge of the stone altar between them. Nonetheless, one corner of Ealasaid’s mouth curved upward for the first time, though that faint hint of pleasure didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s the truth, whether you like it or not.”

  “I’m in the royal line by marriage, not by blood. How is killing me going to help?”

  “By now the Church has convened to choose the next High Priest or High Priestess. When their choice is made, their candidate will come to me. We will go back to the beginning, when the Rite of the Calling was first cast, and redo the original sacrifice that wove the magic. But we will need a willing volunteer, or else the sacrifice will be meaningless.”

  Margaine poised herself to spit again, or scream curses, but even as she opened her mouth the Bhandreid kept speaking, an implacable litany of the fate closing in around her with the weight of ancient granite walls. Against the assault of those words Margaine faltered, for the horror and disgust were becoming too much. “And Padraiga’s only an infant,” she whispered. “A baby can’t agree to die of her own free will.”

  “Just so.”

  “How do I know you haven’t killed her already?”

  Ealasaid’s expression didn’t soften; it remained coldly resolute. Nor could Margaine deceive herself with the hope of compassion in her queen’s eyes. She couldn’t begin to imagine that a woman who spent her entire life murdering her own kin could show her compassion now. But there was understanding in the Bhandreid’s eyes, and her tone grew milder as she said, “If you agree of your own free will to participate in the Rite, I will let you hold your daughter one last time.”

  Fear clutched at Margaine’s heart, and in that moment she could think of nothing but little Padraiga, growing up with neither father nor mother, and never knowing what happened to either. Ealasaid would never entrust the raising of her heir to Margaine’s own kin, and so the child would have no one in the palace to call family but the Bhandreid herself. Revulsion filled her at the entire idea.

  But Ealasaid had the upper hand. She had the power to hide her away in darkness, and if she’d wanted it so, Margaine would have been dead already. What could she do against the weight of centuries of bloodied, secret tradition?

  I need more time.

  Margaine could think of no way to get it except to stal
l. And so she straightened, looked her ruler in the eye and lied.

  “I’ll do it, but not here, not in darkness, away from the eyes of the gods and of the people. If you want me to lay down my life for the realm, the realm must know. My daughter must know. Not only what happened to me, but to her father as well.”

  The older woman blinked, with enough visible surprise that her gray brows rose, and a note of intrigued interest livened her voice. “What gives you the conception that you have the power to negotiate?”

  Good. I’ve surprised her. She would have to seize the opportunity and run with it. “Think of it, my lady. From what you’ve told me, these are the options I see before you. If you do nothing, history will remember you as the Bhandreid whose reign saw the Voice of the Gods turn against the people. If you sacrifice me in secret and the magic fails, the same is true. The people have already seen the Anreulag’s wrath—they know that the gods themselves must be angry. Even as we advance into an age of industry and reason, at our core we are still a people who fear the rage of the gods.”

  “If the sacrifice succeeds,” Ealasaid retorted, “the problem will be rendered moot.”

  “But the people will still remember. And until the day you die, any little thing that goes awry in the realm will haunt you. If they go hungry, if plague strikes or if war threatens our borders, they’ll wonder if it’s because we angered the gods again. They’ll live in fear that the Anreulag’s fire will strike them and their loved ones down. And they’ll ask each other why you never did anything about it.”

  Tilting her head, the Bhandreid considered her. “You make a compelling argument. What do you propose?”

  At any other time, at any other place, Margaine might have taken joy in securing her sovereign’s praise; the Margaine of five years past or even three would have been elated. The Margaine of now, however, didn’t dare think of anything past the need to live for another hour, and the chance to hold her daughter once more. “Let the first act of the new High Priest or Priestess be to oversee my sacrifice in St. Merrodrie’s Cathedral. Let there be song and prayer and candles in the hands of the faithful, so that even if the Voice of the Gods no longer chooses to speak to us, the gods will hear our own voices lifted to them. And let the people honor not only me, but all those who’ve fallen since the Night of Fire.”

  “And if I were to tell you that you clearly wish to die a public martyr?” Ealasaid’s gaze turned sharper, more challenging. “What would you tell me then?”

  “I’d tell you I simply want my daughter to remember me well,” Margaine replied, offering a sardonic little smile. “Wouldn’t you want your children to do the same—if you had any left?”

  If her barb struck home, Ealasaid offered no sign of it. Instead she simply stared back for a long moment, before finally inclining her head and reaching into the basket. From it she withdrew a pistol, a heavy thing of brass and silver, one of the new sort of which Margaine had read broadsheet reports—the sort that could fire multiple shots. It was oddly beautiful in the candlelight, more graceful of design than she had thought a gun could be, and the Bhandreid bore it as if long familiar with its shape and weight. With her other hand she pulled forth an iron key, which she tossed to Margaine. “I accept your terms. Free yourself with that, and then I’ll escort you back to your chambers. If we are to put on a public spectacle for the people, you must be made ready.”

  Somehow Margaine couldn’t be surprised that the basket had contained a weapon, though it frankly astonished her that the Bhandreid had brought a key. You could hardly have expected a loaf of fresh bread or a bottle of wine, she chided herself, even as she snatched up the key and crouched down to find where it fit the shackles about her ankles. “Was the gun necessary? One might be led to believe that you don’t trust me to come with you quietly.”

  “One would be correct. Yet you will do exactly that, or I’ll shoot you where you stand. You’ll still die, and your name will be stricken from the rolls of the House. Your daughter will know you only as a traitor to the realm and to the gods. If you wish to press your luck, though, by all means, do so.” Now at last, as she lifted the gun, Ealasaid did smile. “But I assure you, girl, that I am an excellent shot. And this gun has been specifically crafted to never miss.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Outside Dolmerrath, Kilmerry Province, Jeuchar 10, AC 1876

  Kestar didn’t linger in the tent as Faanshi healed the Hawk prisoners. For one thing, it reminded him uncomfortably of how much it had hurt to feel that magic working deep within his own flesh, at least until the pain finally vanished. For another, he saw no virtue in staying to aggravate the already inflamed tempers of his former comrades. He had faith that Faanshi would be able to soothe them—the girl who’d chased off the Anreulag twice now would have no problem with that, especially once their wounds no longer troubled them.

  But what sent him out into the open air most of all was seeing a scowling Gerren precede him. There was no mystery as to why—the steward of Dolmerrath had even more reason than he did to avoid the tempers of nine traumatized Hawks.

  There was a mystery, though, that needed answering.

  He found Gerren not far from the tent’s entrance, staring fixedly at the activity of the camp around them. Men and women moved briskly in all directions, though some of those were youths and maidens not yet old enough to wed. Some were Tantiu, which was no surprise with a Tantiu-born duchess as their leader. But all of them were human, and it didn’t surprise Kestar much to see Gerren regarding them all as if they’d turn on him at any moment.

  “What do you want, Kestar Vaarsen?”

  It didn’t surprise him either that the elf heard him coming—or perhaps smelled him. The Order had always taught its cadets of the acuity of elven senses, though he’d had no opportunities before coming to Dolmerrath to see those senses employed to any purpose but avoiding capture. The elf didn’t bother to turn to face him, and there was a flat dullness to his voice now, a resignation that Kestar hadn’t heard in his speech before.

  “First of all,” he ventured, “I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry about your brother.”

  Gerren offered no reply, at least not at first, and for a moment all Kestar could do was watch his slim frame stiffen in reaction. Then, in a short, sharp twist, his head came partly around toward him. Many Hawk legends spoke of elves’ ears twitching; Kestar saw no such thing now. But he was willing to gamble that the steward could hear him breathing, and perhaps everyone else in the tent behind them. “Thank you,” Gerren said finally, two hoarse syllables, nothing more.

  “I didn’t know him well. But he came to Arlitham Abbey because Faanshi asked him to, and he showed us how to keep out of each other’s heads. We might have driven ourselves insane if not for his help.” The words tumbled a little faster out of Kestar than he intended, but he let them flow nonetheless. There was no sense in hiding his nervousness. “And he fought beside us when the duke and his men came in and called the Anreulag down on us. He came to Shalridan to help set me free. I understand what I owe him. So as I said… I’m sorry.”

  The elf said nothing as he spoke, and only when he finished did Gerren finally nod, a milder gesture this time. “Do you have a brother?”

  “No, though Celoren’s close enough, and I know how I’d grieve if I lost him.”

  That, at last, convinced Gerren to look at him directly. “I suppose I should take some consolation in how in this, at least, your kind and mine have something in common—mourning those we love. But I have the feeling this wasn’t all you wished to say to me.”

  “You’d be right. I couldn’t help noticing how our visitor back there, the one who took exception to being called a deific mouthpiece, kept looking my way.” Reaction flared in Gerren’s face, though he didn’t yet speak, and Kestar pressed on, “She said something. ‘Dalrannen’s heir.’ What did that mean to you?”


  Gerren stared at him for a long moment, and then at last blew out a long, soft breath. “It means that if the Anreulag is who I think She is, there’s another thing about your tie to my people that you need to know. But I’m not going to talk about it here, not where any human ears could hear. We will hold council in Dolmerrath—after we attend to those we’ve lost.”

  Dolmerrath, Kilmerry Province, Jeuchar 10 and 11, AC 1876

  Most of Dolmerrath’s people had escaped in the boats, and of those who’d remained behind, many were now dead. As night fell, those who’d survived the attacks finished gathering the bodies from the battlefield. Some washed the fallen and wrapped them in clean linen; others built pyres on the open ground between the caves and the northern edge of the woods. Gerren himself laid his brother Kirinil on the final pyre, and once he’d done that, a pale-faced Tembriel cast a molten stare at the wood that bore Kirinil’s lifeless form. The wood began to burn, and at the first sparks other scouts followed Tembriel’s example, doing with torches what she’d done with her magic. There was nothing left of her brother Jannyn to burn—but Tembriel built him a pyre anyway, writing his name as well as her memories of her sibling on scraps of paper to burn instead. No one gainsaid her, and indeed, the surviving scouts brought her scraps of their own to cast into the flames in Jannyn’s name.

  Voices rose with the lighting of the flames, first one and then another, layer after layer of somber harmony, in words Kestar didn’t need to understand to identify as a lament for the deceased. With Celoren, he did his part to help with the building of the pyres, but once that was done, it seemed proper to hang back and let those who’d lived in Dolmerrath longer sing out their sadness. Humans and elves alike sang, sometimes weaving fragments of Adalonic into the Elvish, for not all of the warriors Dolmerrath had sent to fight had been of the blood of the elves. Even the Duchess Khamsin and her cohorts, Sister Sother and Father Grenham, came to bear respectful witness. The priest and the priestess, once they were known to worship the Allmother rather than the Four Gods, were welcomed among Dolmerrath’s human populace so that they might offer Nirrivan final rites for the dead and give solace to those who still lived.