Victory of the Hawk

by Angela Highland

  Faanshi stood as far away from the pyres as she could get, anguish etching lines into her features, and Kestar supposed that the presence of so much death had to be a cloud upon her healer’s heart. Even she, however, began to murmur a rhyme in honor of the dead—and with surprise, he recognized what she uttered as her ridah prayers. The guardsman Semai and the Duchess Khamsin joined her, echoing in Tantiu what she proclaimed in Adalonic, as all three called upon the Crone of Night to guide the souls of the dead to their next lives to come.

  The vigils, prayers and songs lasted long into the night, and only when the sky was beginning to lighten with the approaching dawn did Tembriel make one last pass along the pyres. Each one flared blue-white at her passing, one last burst of radiance before the flames died away into ash.

  When she was done Gerren passed the word for all to gather for council, including the Duchess Khamsin’s party, for Dolmerrath stood open now. They won’t be staying, Kestar thought as they gathered in the central cavern. Much of the place had been damaged by the Anreulag’s attack. They’d had to clear fallen rubble out of several of the passageways, and had evacuated the remaining horses from the stable cavern. Some of those who hadn’t been busy attending the fallen had worked to recover supplies out of what parts of the stronghold could still be reached, though an entire section of Dolmerrath had collapsed, blocking off access to caverns where they’d been growing food.

  Then he shocked himself as he realized that they were in truth we, for he was as much of Dolmerrath now as anywhere else—though that wasn’t saying much, for he was still unsure of whether the surviving elves would want him to remain among them.

  “There aren’t many of us left now,” Gerren said, speaking up so that his voice could carry to all. “The Mother of Stars willing, those of our people who fled on the boats will find safety somewhere across the waters—perhaps in Vreyland if they make it that far, or in some other country as of yet untouched by the Bhandreid’s hand. Three dozen of us remain, and I must warn you all now that we cannot stay here. The Wards have fallen. Faanshi’s powers are great, and she did give the Wards one last burst of life to save our lives in turn. But she has not had the training to restore the protections to the state they were in before. Even if she did, many of the passages and caves are destroyed, and I cannot guarantee the stability of what remains.

  “But if we leave this place, we walk into the very heart of war. The army of Nirrivy seeks to retake its ancestral homeland, and by their actions, the Anreulag once more walks the land. But for the first time in decades, we also have hope. Nirrivy of old was the ally of our people, and if we choose to ally ourselves with the sons and daughters of the Nirrivans we once knew, we may well strike killing blows against those who made slaves of us.

  “Even the threat of the Anreulag may once and for all be lifted from our people. Most of us have known her only as the Voice of the Gods, the bringer of death and fire. But our healer Alarrah, along with Faanshi, Kestar Vaarsen and Celoren Valleford, heard her speak in our own language in Arlitham Abbey. And yesterday we heard her say things that have never been heard by living elven ears—that she has, like us, been enslaved. She spoke the name of the Amatharinor, the Moonwise, they who were the greatest mages to serve in Astàlleramè before the fall of our own land. And when she laid eyes on Kestar Vaarsen, she called him Dalrannen’s heir.” Half the elves in the cavern cried out as one, and to silence them, Gerren lifted his hand and called out more loudly still, “Please, my friends, let me finish. I’ve read what books survive Starhame’s destruction, along with the destruction of every other settlement our people ever established in this country. And I can draw only one conclusion, that the Anreulag is not only one of us, she was in fact the most infamous of the Moonwise. Marwyth. The Black Sun.”

  He paused, his face gravely set, while shouts once more broke out around him. The voices blurred together in Kestar’s ears, and all the faces around him ceased to make sense to his sight. The world itself suddenly made far less sense—and at the same time, it made a far more terrible sense than he could have imagined.

  The Anreulag is an elf.

  Kestar’s mind almost refused to accept it. The sheer idea was beyond folly. Any priest or priestess of the Four Gods would have called it the worst kind of heresy, and sentenced anyone who uttered it to execution if they didn’t recant. Even now, it slammed into his psyche like cannon fire—until without warning, everything and everyone around him vanished. Behind his eyes, he saw instead the Anreulag, surrounded by a corona of power. But he could barely recognize her, for she was not the bone-pale wraith who’d appeared in Arlitham Abbey. Her hair was purest white gold, undimmed by any hint of silver. Her face was the same, and yet fundamentally different—and only with a sharp jolt did he realize it was because her features were unlined, unmarked by care and deprivation, and at the root of it all, younger. Unfamiliar, too, was the feral smile that slashed across that younger visage, and the untrammeled joy with which she hurled fireballs at Kestar—

  No. Not at him. His inner sight shifted again, and Kestar had a brief fleeting glimpse of a dark-haired, green-eyed elf. Not as like him as Riniel Radmynn, though something in the shape of his jaw and the way he carried himself marked him as nonetheless familiar. As the fireball streaked toward him he snapped a sword up into a defensive position—a sword that blazed in the presence of the magic, and cast the fire aside—

  Then, with one final jolt, Kestar saw the central cave of Dolmerrath once more. “Dalrannen fought her, didn’t he?” he said. His premonitions had always shown him the future before, never the past—why was it changing now? Continued proximity to the elves, or some other cause? His voice felt rough in his throat, and yet every face turned to him, many of the elves in outright dismay, and even Celoren and the two assassins looked at him as though seeing a stranger. Only his mother and Faanshi seemed somehow unsurprised, though that was no particular comfort. “Riniel Radmynn is descended from him. I’m descended from him.”

  “But who then was the An—Marwyth?” Faanshi spoke in the anxious and slightly embarrassed tones that always colored her questions. Kestar had seen enough of her thoughts to know how her lack of knowledge of the world troubled her, and he resolved to take her aside at some point and answer any question she might choose to ask—but for now he was grateful she’d spoken, for that question was haunting him too.

  “She’s a name most of our people know only in tales to tell naughty children,” said Tembriel. “Especially mage children, if they show their powers early enough.”

  “The most powerful of the Moonwise, the youngest, and the most arrogant,” added Alarrah, who gave Gerren what would have been a wry nod if not for the weary sadness in her face. “You may be the custodian of our people’s history, beloved, but I’ve read those books too.”

  Gerren didn’t quite smile even as he inclined his head in acknowledgement. He considered Faanshi and Kestar as well as the rest of the humans in the room. “Your ancestors had scarcely begun to form tribes when Marwyth was in the height of her power, and you hadn’t found us yet when her love of the strength magic gave her led her to decide that she and she alone should rule Astàlleramè. That she would cast down the rest of the Moonwise, disband the Council of Winds, and claim the Starlight Throne for herself. She was more powerful than the rest of the Moonwise combined, and so they carried out one final, desperate act against her. They poured all their power into the forging of the sword Amathilàen, which they entrusted to the prince Janlec Dalrannen.”

  “Who clearly didn’t actually kill her,” Julian said, dark eyebrows raised. “So how did what I presume is the inevitable battle between them go?”

  “Badly. They did nearly kill each other, and almost destroyed the city in the process, while the army of Queen Nivarrè guided the people in fleeing out of their path. When the fighting died down at last, there was no sign of Marwyth. There was only the prince, burned and bl
eeding in the center of the wreckage. He had just enough life left in him to cling to the hilt of Moonshadow, and his hand would not release it. And so they took prince and sword alike to his bed, to let him bear the blade until he recovered. They searched the width and breadth of Elisiya for any sign of his foe, but she had utterly vanished. Thus, when Janlec opened his eyes again and could stand before the people, they made him king. And that was the last our people saw of Marwyth—or at least, the elf we knew by that name. None of us recognized her when the human tribes began to report the coming of the Anreulag among them, a generation later. We don’t know who or what caught her—but it was in those first days that the Four Gods began to gain their power. I can only conclude that somehow, humans figured out how to control her when we could not. With magic born of blood.”

  Ganniwer called out, “I thank you for the history lesson, steward, on behalf of those of us who were not in a position to know and understand. But what precisely does this mean in the here and now for my son?”

  His arms crossed, his mouth curled, Nine-fingered Rab looked from the baroness to Kestar and back again. “Target practice, I expect,” he drawled, and then blinked when Julian shot him a quelling look. “What? We’re all thinking it. We all saw it. The Anreulag, or Marwyth or whatever her name is, was hell-bent on blowing a hole through Kestar. The rest of us would simply have been icing on a particularly well-burned cake. Perhaps she wants another round.”

  Like Julian, Faanshi glowered at Rab. But she offered the younger assassin no rebuke, and instead turned a worried regard back to Kestar. “She did say I was standing between her and you.”

  “I was there, Faanshi, I did hear her.” With so many eyes upon him, Kestar had the discomfiting feeling he was blushing; his face felt hot. But there was nothing to be done except keep as steady a gaze as possible on Gerren, and remind himself to not strangle Rab later. To Gerren, then, he added, “So I’m descended from Janlec Dalrannen—so what? Why does the Anreulag care? It’s not as if I have the sword—”

  Then he remembered what his great-grandmother Darlana had said upon her deathbed. Finish what Riniel started. Save his people. They’re your people too. All at once her words became part of a larger, terrible pattern, one that had begun to take shape from the moment his premonitions had sent him in search of Faanshi. “But she doesn’t know that. And just before she died, my great-grandmother told me the sword was the only thing that can kill her. Is that true?”

  Gerren nodded. “So the histories say the Moonwise had decided, and as Amathilàen was forged for Prince Janlec alone, its strength cannot be wielded by any but one of his blood. If Marwyth is aware of you now, she has most likely decided to eliminate you before you become a threat.”

  “So to keep Kestar alive, we need the sword,” Celoren said. “Which Dolmerrath doesn’t have either, or else we wouldn’t be having this discussion now. Where is it?”

  Kestar’s heart sank as he realized that his aged kinswoman had answered that too. “Darlana thought it was in the palace. Probably hidden where no one could ever find it.”

  “It would be logical,” Gerren agreed. “When Darlana was taken from us, that was the last time any of us saw Moonshadow. Riniel was wielding it when he died, and the Anreulag destroyed him. The Hawks must surely have captured it and surrendered it to the Church for safekeeping.”

  “And Marwyth doesn’t know what they’ve done with it, or else she would have it, or would have destroyed it.” Faanshi’s voice remained quiet, far graver than usual, with a dire kind of understanding in her eyes. “They wouldn’t have let her have it. The master doesn’t give weapons to the slave.”

  “If I may, akreshi Gerren…?” Khamsin spoke up at last, and when the steward nodded her way the duchess looked round at them all. “From what I have heard here today, it is clear that we have before us a war on two fronts. The army of Nirrivy intends to take back our provinces. The armies of the Bhandreid, along with the Hawks, stand in the path of that goal. We had thought to sway the Anreulag to our cause now that she is free, but I understand now that we cannot rely upon any such thing. It would be as futile as attempting to harness a sandstorm in the desert. She therefore is our second obstacle, and we must prepare for her possible return. I submit that the warriors of Dolmerrath, if you choose to fight with us, will be our best defense against her.”

  Julian crooked a brow at her. “By ‘warriors of Dolmerrath,’ do you actually mean Faanshi?”

  His sharp gaze belied his mild tone, but Khamsin replied without hesitation. “I invite all here to join us, but I will not lie in the sight of Djashtet. The gifts Faanshi bears are beyond price.”

  “Then I suppose I must make a decision.” Faanshi closed her eyes a moment, drew in a deep breath to murmur what most certainly had to be a prayer, and then looked up once more. “My okinya Ulima foresaw that we must all stand together, or else we would surely fall. I don’t know how many she meant, if she spoke of only those who are my friends, or all of us here today. But I do know two things. One, I wish to do what I can in defense of those who wish only to be free, and two, if Nirrivy is to be free, we must fight. And if Kestar is to remain alive, we must find the sword so that he may defend himself if Marwyth comes back. I don’t want her to die.” Her gaze settled on Kestar. “But I do not want my friend Kestar Vaarsen to be killed by Marwyth or anyone else.”

  “I am in favor of any course of action that keeps my son alive,” Ganniwer said, “but Faanshi, know what you’re asking. Driving Adalon forces out of the western provinces is one thing. But if the sword is in the palace, we will have to go all the way to Dareli to get it.”

  “Then we must go to Dareli.”

  That provoked yet another outburst, and once again, Gerren shot up his hand to call for silence. When the agitated voices finally subsided, he called, “Warriors of Dolmerrath, what say you? Do we fight with the army of Nirrivy?”

  “I stay by my sister’s side,” Alarrah immediately replied.

  “Setting humans on fire?” Tembriel said. “I’m for it. I say yes.”

  One by one, then, Gerren’s remaining people cast their votes. Several of the elves argued, in Elvish far too swift for Kestar to follow, though their urgent expressions conveyed what their words could not. These were people as thunderstruck as he. Their faces held weariness and grief, yet also a certain primal shock, as if they’d all just seen the ghosts of their kin rising from their graves.

  They, at least, knew what kin were coming back to haunt them.

  In the end, though, they reached an accord.

  “Stand with the healer.”

  “I’m tired of hiding from the Adalons. I say we fight.”

  “Drive them out of Nirrivy.”

  “We fight.”

  With that, then, Gerren turned at last to the duchess and said, “Akresha, the swords and guns of Dolmerrath are yours.”

  * * *

  It took a few more hours to strip Dolmerrath bare of anything they could carry. Those who had fled on the boats hadn’t had room in the vessels to take possessions with them, and those who had stayed behind now finished searching what was left of the caves for weapons, food and supplies for both riders and horses. Kestar lent what aid he could, fetching and carrying, and tried not to think too much about the tight, tense faces of the elves who had to leave most of what they’d owned behind, whether damaged by the battle or whole. Much would have to be left behind in the name of speed. It didn’t matter that the Duchess Khamsin promised to send a detachment later for a slower, more careful search; it still amounted to the abandoning of a home.

  Khamsin’s regiment made room for them among their tents, while the duchess spread the word that they would set out again for Camden the following morning. There were meals to be made, rest to be taken, and council to be held on how Dolmerrath’s fighters would be deployed among those under her command—though Kestar pr
ivately supposed that most if not all of the elves would stay together.

  For his own part, he was content to linger outside with the horse that had been found for him, taking his time to get to know the creature. The stallion didn’t have Tenthim’s height or powerful build, but he did study Kestar with an alert and curious gaze, and that was reassuring. If he had to go searching for the most powerful mage who had ever existed, and who wanted to burn him into cinders, at least he would do it on an intelligent horse.

  Celoren strode up beside him while he was grooming the stallion, his stance and expression both so deliberately bland that Kestar couldn’t help but grin a bit at what he was certain was coming.

  “Prince of the elves, huh? That’s quite the step up in the world for a cloud-head.”

  “Descendant,” Kestar corrected. “The elves aren’t about to crown me. I may be their last prince’s great-grandson, but I’m still quite a bit too human for the job—which I wouldn’t want if they offered. What would I know about being a prince?”

  “It’s true, your manners are rather atrocious, and you can barely lead yourself, much less anybody else. Pity. I’d have enjoyed being the power behind the throne.” Cel’s hazel eyes twinkled, and he offered a lopsided grin before his mood shifted, humor falling away to earnest concern. “Seriously, though, are you all right?”

  Kestar paused, long enough that the horse swiveled his head around to nudge him expectantly. “Would you be if you were me?” he asked, as he sheepishly resumed his brushing.

  “Let me take a moment to review. Not only were you nearly killed, only to be kept alive by the very mage we should have taken in for Cleansing, you found out you yourself have elven blood. You and your mother were arrested right off your family lands, not to mention your loyal partner. You were almost Cleansed, and when you got away, an entire Hawk regiment came after you to finish the job. And if that weren’t enough, we’ve just found out that the Voice of the Gods herself is not only the greatest mage in the history of magic, but she’s now broken out of slavery imposed on her by our very own Church, and she wants to kill you, because she thinks you’re the only person in the country capable of picking up a magic sword that can take her head off. If I were you, I would not be all right with this in any way, shape or form.” Celoren tried to smile, but couldn’t quite achieve it, and he finished plaintively, “I’m not all right with it regardless. Kes, our entire faith is a lie.”