Victory of the Hawk

by Angela Highland

  “I know. That’s the worst part of it all.” Kestar met the other man’s eyes, grateful to have one person with him who could understand what plagued him—except perhaps the Hawks who Faanshi had healed, and he doubted any of them, even Jekke Yerredes, were about to confide in him. “All this business about my being Dalrannen’s heir doesn’t seem real, and I say that even after the Anreulag…” He stopped and had to force himself to continue, for all that the name that Gerren had uttered felt alien upon his tongue. “Even after Marwyth almost came through Faanshi to get to me. She was only serving the Church because they enslaved her. And now I can’t think of anything but how they did it, and whether they’ve been lying about everything to the people all this time.”

  “Whether the Four Gods themselves are even real,” Cel said. “I want to pray that we’ll all get through this, but damned if I know who to pray to now. I can’t help but feel like praying to the Father and Mother wouldn’t mean anything more than praying to this horse.”

  Kestar laughed despite their somber mood, while the horse in question looked back and forth between them, ears up. “At least the First Church of My New Horse would have far simpler rituals to follow. Brushing, apples, oats and the occasional sugar cube, and in return, I get to ride. I think I could appreciate that kind of simplicity now.”

  “Well, you let me know if the horse delivers, and if he does we can both be priests.” Celoren took the currycomb so he could take a turn at grooming, and he gave the stallion a deadpan stare. “What do you think, horse? Would you like a couple of priests?”

  In truth it seemed no more ridiculous an option than any other. Kestar couldn’t imagine that the elves would welcome their praying to the Mother of Stars, regardless of what blood flowed in his veins. And though he’d felt the depth of Faanshi’s faith in Djashtet firsthand, that didn’t mean he could embrace it himself. He smiled a little, watching his friend’s deft hand upon the comb, and finally he said, “I don’t know what gods I believe in anymore, Cel, though I suppose that if we get the time, I’ll ask Father Grenham about the old gods of Nirrivy. Until then, I do know that I believe in freedom, and that what we’re doing now is right.”

  Something of the unhappiness eased out of Celoren’s face. “I’m with you on that, at least. And who knows? Maybe the horse here will perform a miracle or two and give us a sign.”

  “If he carries me to Dareli and back again, that’ll be miracle enough.”

  “So you think we should go there too, then.”

  “I think if the army of Nirrivy is serious about reclaiming the provinces, we may have to. Much will depend on what the Bhandreid and the Church have been doing, now that… Marwyth is free. If she’s been doing elsewhere what she just did here, Dareli may already be in chaos. Which would make the Nirrivan cause easier.”

  “And this whole idea of recovering the sword?”

  Kestar blew out a breath. His thoughts had been chasing each other for hours, ever since the council, but ultimately coming back to the same conclusion each time. “Faanshi’s right. If it’s the only thing that can kill Marwyth, we need it.” Uttering the name a third time was finally a little easier. “If nothing else, I need it if she comes after me again. I’m in no hurry to let her incinerate me.”

  Celoren gave him a long, measuring look. “You do realize that if she does come after you, you’re going to have to fight her.”

  He’d realized exactly that, and the prospect made him physically ill. “Oh gods, you too? My head knows what Gerren said about who and what she is. But the rest of me still can’t quite believe it. Everyone seems to think I have to fight her, have to kill her. No matter who she really is, we thought she was our Anreulag. That she was talking to us with the gods’ own voice. I’m not sure I can do this, Cel.”

  “Then don’t. Who nominated you in charge of fixing all the elves’ problems for them, anyway? Who says you have to be the one to wave a magic sword in Marwyth’s face? We could find some cannons instead, maybe. How many do you figure could take her down?”

  The entire army of Tantiulo hadn’t been able to fell the Anreulag with cannons, but Kestar declined to point that out. Nor did he voice the nagging notion that his great-grandmother, in fact, had chosen him—and that his great-grandfather’s blood was backing her up. “No, we have to get the sword. It’s important to the elves. I’d like to get it and give it back to them.”

  Celoren’s eyebrows went up, though there was no real surprise in his face. “To make amends?”

  “Someone has to. Their people have suffered for centuries because of the Church’s lies. Someone needs to begin to set it right.” Kestar wasn’t yet ready to call them his people, regardless of Darlana’s opinions on the matter, but now at least he could see a path in that direction. “And I think that someone should be me.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Somewhere in Kilmerry Province, Jeuchar 10, AC 1876

  She began to remember the Amatharinor. The Moonwise had been great mages all, though none of them could match her in strength. Neither their names nor their faces came clear within her thoughts when she sought them out; they were nothing more than wraiths in the oldest, deepest reaches of her mind. Yet one thing was certain. None of them had looked like the dark-skinned girl.

  They hadn’t had power like hers either, gentle as spring yet inevitable as the dawn. It had almost reached her, almost taken her to its bosom as if she were a child in need of comfort. And all it had taken was a single question.

  Is there another name I should call you?

  Those words, earnestly uttered, drove her off the field of battle to the depths of the nearby woods. Where in the forest didn’t signify. All that mattered was that she flee out of range of the field of battle where blood had been spilled, away from the girl who’d very nearly rebuilt the Wards she’d torn down. Among the trees, when night had fallen, she heard nothing but the passage of nocturnal creatures. She smelled nothing but air made fresh and rich with the breath of pine and oak, cedar and beech, green growing things who were honest in their existence and who had never turned against her—but even within the shelter of their boughs, the girl’s question haunted her.

  Why couldn’t she remember her name? Her true name, not the appellations with which her enslavers had chained her?

  Dalrannen she remembered, and she realized now that the echo of him had never left her, wielding a sword of fire behind her eyes even as her enslavers wielded her. She might almost have welcomed him if he’d come to her in the dungeon, but he was nothing more than a memory. His heirs had never been able to kill her even though they’d tried, carrying Amathilàen in hands increasingly less worthy to wield the blade, much less vanquish her with it. She’d struck down the last one before he’d scarcely begun to swing.

  But now there was another heir, and surely the Mother of Stars had to be mocking her now, for the heir was human. One of the accursed race of her enslavers, yet with just enough of Dalrannen’s blood in him that she could still feel his tie to the blade, thin and tenuous as a dream. Yet he couldn’t have had the sword, or else the girl would not have had to stand up to shield him.

  And if he didn’t have it…

  With none to hear her but the beasts and birds of the forest, she began to laugh, great wild peals of mirth that sent two startled owls exploding out of the branches above her. She let the first one go, only to change her mind and bring down the second with one swift burst of power. Her magic was almost limitless, but her body was not. It hungered, and it needed rest.

  She would consume the bird, the lesser hunter feeding the greater, as was only proper according to all the laws of nature. Then she would sleep.

  When she awoke, she would return to the city of her jailers and seek the sword to claim for her own, before Dalrannen’s heir could lay hands on his birthright. She could remember laying hands on Amathilàen now, surrenderin
g it to her enslavers. Somewhere in the city, they would have hidden the sword.

  And if they had Amathilàen, it was even possible that they had a greater prize for her taking. She’d been willing to ignore the weak and the old on her last attack.

  But to win back her name, she would eagerly slay them all.

  St. Merrodrie’s Cathedral, Dareli, Jeuchar 10-14, AC 1876

  True to her word, the Bhandreid escorted Margaine back to her chambers in the palace, and even allowed her a quiet night with her daughter. Those few hours weren’t enough. But she made the best of them, holding Padraiga, feeding her and singing softly to her, until Ealasaid’s servants returned in the morning. They took the baby away again, and informed her in respectful but unyielding tones that they were under orders to escort her to St. Merrodrie’s Cathedral.

  There she learned that the Ardtennal had been called, which drew many of the city’s frightened populace to keep vigil in the grand cathedral nave, praying, singing and waiting for the naming of the next High Priest or Priestess of the Church of the Four Gods—not that she was allowed to join them, or even to linger where she might be seen. Instead they hustled her away to one of the cells where the novitiates of the Mother were housed. A priestess took charge of her, providing her with a simple white robe to wear, and slippers for her feet. Bread, cheese and water were brought to sustain her twice daily. For the next three days the priestess led her through hours of prayer to each of the Four Gods, as well as relentless questioning that Margaine could only guess was meant to judge the soundness of her wits.

  All things considered, she almost preferred the darkness of the Anreulag’s hidden prison.

  On the third day of her seclusion the priestess bade her to fast until the following dawn, when her presence would finally be required in the nave. Instead of food, she was brought a written statement to sign to proclaim her readiness to sacrifice herself in the name of the Four Gods.

  With that in hand, her fate began to feel very real indeed. Margaine could think only of asking for pen and ink to write a final letter to her daughter, one last gesture to take to forestall what was to come. But not even that held off the preparations forever. The priestess let her write her letter, only to then turn her over into the care of six young acolytes. The young women bathed her and brought her yet another robe of purest white. Two of them were brushing and dressing her hair when Tamber Corrinides was admitted to the chamber—to judge, or so Margaine was warned, whether she was physically and mentally worthy to sacrifice herself in the sight of the gods.

  His words the moment he set foot in the room gave her some small hope about his intentions. “Your Highness, you can’t possibly mean to go through with this.”

  Margaine couldn’t turn to face him, not when the girls behind her were working on her hair so assiduously. But there was a mirror before her, and she looked up at his reflection within it, conscious that he could see her face within it as well as she could see his. “So swift a judgment? Surely you need to ask me a question or two first.”

  “As long as you mention it, yes.” Corrinides strode forward into the room and flung a peremptory wave to the pair of acolytes. “Out. I wish to speak with Her Highness alone.”

  “Sir, we’ve been instructed not to let the princess out of our care,” said the first acolyte, still holding the brush against Margaine’s red curls.

  “And I’m instructing you otherwise. I know the Bhandreid expects you to fulfill your appointed duties, but I’ve my own to carry out. Let me do them. She can hardly escape—there’s not a single window in this room, and I just came in through the only door.”

  The two exchanged uneasy looks, but to Margaine’s relief, reluctantly nodded and took their leave. “We’ll be waiting outside. Please do not take too long, sir,” the other acolyte said.

  “Yes, yes, just go.” Only when the door closed behind the pair did the doctor come closer to her chair. “Have you decided to take your life, then? What happened to the woman determined to protect her baby at all costs?”

  Margaine deliberately delayed facing him, for she couldn’t risk shouting, no matter how her fury at the man roiled within her. “You seem strangely perturbed, doctor. The way I recall it—and I assure you that my memory of our last encounter is quite clear—the Bhandreid had already convinced you I was unbalanced. Which was why you sedated me. Why then are you troubled about my actions now?”

  With a swiftness that surprised her, Corrinides said, “I was wrong. I knew it from the moment Her Majesty ordered me to drug you. She’s always been a hard woman. I’ve known that all my life. But ever since the Night of Fire, she’s changed.” His voice dropped, becoming a whisper, meant to carry to Margaine’s ears and no farther. “She’s had anyone who dares speak against her beaten, and at least three people have been taken out into the western courtyard and shot. I look at her now and see nothing but death in her eyes. Was it true, what you told me? That she had Prince Padraig killed?”

  Could she believe him? Would it make any difference if she did? Margaine scowled, but gods help her, the doctor was either a supremely skilled liar—or else the remorse and horror in his expression were genuine. It was beyond foolish to trust him after what he’d done to her. But her appointed hour was drawing near. She could see no choice but to nod and murmur, “Yes.”

  “In the name of all that’s holy, why?”

  “I told you.” Margaine heard her voice begin to go strident, and with an effort she pulled it back, lest she alert the acolytes waiting beyond the door. “The Church has lied to us. They’ve kept a binding on the Anreulag—a binding spell fueled by blood. The Bhandreid killed her own son to power it. She killed my husband. And now she expects me to sacrifice myself to rebuild the spell and bring the Anreulag back into her control, so that she doesn’t also have to kill my daughter.”

  All color drained from the doctor’s face. “Dear gods. And you’re going to let her?”

  “It is far from my first choice, I assure you. I only agreed to it to see Padraiga one last time and, gods willing, find a way out. But unless you’ve come to provide me that way, sir, I’m afraid no other choice presents itself.”

  “I see,” Corrinides said, in a tone that must have sounded as feeble to him as it did to Margaine, for he winced at his own words. He pushed one hand through his dark auburn hair, and turned first left and then right, as if about to pace. But before he could take a single step he abruptly stopped and considered her thoughtfully. “There may be something I can do at that. I presume that they’ve told you what will happen?”

  Turning to face him at last, the princess replied, “Oh yes, the good Sister Eslenn has been most informative. I’m to be taken before the people, and lie on an altar while a considerable number of people pray over me. Then the High Priest—or perhaps Priestess, depending on how the Ardtennal has gone—is apparently supposed to do the deed. I have my choice of drugs if I wish to be unconscious before they kill me. It’ll all be very civilized and modern.” Despite her efforts to keep her composure, her words grew strained and thin, and she plastered a smile as false as her cheer across her face. “Though if I want to honor the ancient traditions, I can stay awake while they plunge the knife into my breast. Sister Eslenn seems to feel I should choose that option, as it would show my true devotion to the gods.”

  “You must opt for the drugs if you want to live, my lady.”

  Such certainty came into his eyes that Margaine let her brittle smile fade, even as hope sparked within her. “You say that as if you think there’s a way that’ll actually happen.”

  “As the royal physician, they’ll call on me to administer anything to you—and to certify that you are in fact deceased. There are particular mixtures I can give you that will make the gods themselves believe exactly that. And then your body will be turned over to me once the Bhandreid has the blood she seeks. I can make sure you survive the night
.”

  “So you would lie to the gods themselves to help me?”

  She was in no mood to be anything but blunt, but Tamber Corrinides met and held her gaze. “I’d lie to the Bhandreid and to the Church, who, from what you’ve just told me, have been lying to us. The gods themselves can judge me later, assuming they’re even listening to our prayers.”

  The spark of hope in Margaine grew, and this time, her smile held far more truth. “I think perhaps they may be. Doctor, I accept your help.”

  * * *

  Recruiting the doctor had been a mistake—Ealasaid had realized that the moment she’d seen the horror in his eyes when she’d ordered him to carry Margaine down to the Anreulag’s empty cell. She could hardly have dragged the girl down there by herself, and in the wake of the High Priest’s death, she’d had to choose someone. But Doctor Corrinides was on the verge of snapping. So were many others in the palace, despite her efforts to exert control.

  I had to have them killed. Almost a prayer, the thought stole across her mind as she paced back and forth before the windows of her chambers. Ealasaid had to fight to keep herself from speaking it aloud, so strong was her expectation that the High Priest should have been there with her, ready to give her counsel, or even just to listen to her as very few others had ever been able to do throughout her life. They were beginning to spread panic through the survivors, and I can’t afford rioting in the palace. Not now.