Victory of the Hawk

by Angela Highland

  A broad smile flashed across Khamsin’s uncovered face, and that too was startling, for now Faanshi could begin to see traces of her great-aunt Ulima in the set of her features—and perhaps even her own mother. But then the smile faded, turning thoughtful. “Would you believe me, girl, if I told you that I simply wished to finally properly know you? There is much I would like to make amends for, before I can leave this land at last and take my children to Tantiulo to raise them in the land of my fathers.”

  “Mama’s going to take us to see the great temple of Djashtet,” Yselde proclaimed. Her brother was busily arranging blocks at her feet, but the girl stared at Faanshi now in open curiosity. “Are you going to come to Tantiulo with us? You’re brown and you dress like Mama and you say akresha but you look like an elf too. Are you an elf?”

  Her black brows lifting, Khamsin said, “Little bloom, it is impolite to badger our guest with questions.”

  Despite the admonition, there was a gleam of curiosity in the mother’s eyes avid enough to match that in the eyes of the daughter, and Faanshi found herself drawing on a suspicion of what Julian or Rab might say if they were with her in the tent. “Even if they’re questions for which you yourself seek answers?” she asked.

  She kept her tone mild, all too conscious of the power this woman had once held over her—even if she disclaimed it now—not to mention the power she held now in general, greater than what she’d held in her husband’s shadow. It would not do to anger a duchess with impertinence, especially not when she traveled now under the protection of Khamsin and her followers.

  Yet to her relief, the older woman laughed outright. “You’ve learned to think, girl, and you’ve learned to speak your mind. I’m pleased to see it. And so I’ll freely admit that aside from what advantage your presence among us gives my little army—an advantage I count as considerable—I’m curious indeed to know what kind of person my sister’s daughter has become. Do you count yourself one of the Hidden Ones now?”

  Faanshi lifted her chin and silently prayed that the nervousness shooting through her would not make the teacup shake within her hand. “My magic comes from my elf father, and the elves gave me a home when humans would not. Including you. Lomhannor Hall was never my home. It was my jail.”

  Yselde’s face darkened as she looked from one woman to the other, but her brother was still focused upon the colorful blocks. He stumbled as he tried the complex maneuver of standing up while picking up three blocks at once, and with a whimper, he fell sideways against his sister. Faanshi couldn’t tell whether the older child understood what they were discussing, and let herself be relieved that Yselde grew too distracted by the need to help little Artir sit down again, so that he could more easily play with his toys.

  “Just so,” said the duchess, inclining her head, and that too was a relief.

  Faanshi paused with the teacup cradled in her hands, grateful for the warmth against her palms. It felt a little like her magic, while the tea itself was bracing, clearing her head. “Akresha, please don’t mistake me, I am grateful for your consideration. But I’ve already agreed to heal for you and your followers. If that’s your goal, you don’t need to work any further to convince me. I will heal any who need it.”

  “And thus you uphold the ridah of compassion, which I expect befits a healer.” Her dusky fingers steepled at her breast, Khamsin leaned back in her chair and stared back at her with frank and blatant interest. “But I wish to know you as my kinswoman Faanshi as well as the healer of the Hidden Ones. Your father’s people have given you a home, but that home is now lost to you. What will you do once peace is won? Will you live with the elves? Will you perhaps marry one of them, or one of the human men who helped you win your freedom?”

  That question was the very last she’d expected from the duchess, and for a moment Faanshi was at a loss as to how to reply. The other woman had spoken of the ridah of truth, but there was also the ridah of wisdom to consider, and so she said quietly, “Akresha, I don’t think I know or trust you well enough to speak of what lies within my heart.” What lay there was for her alone, a brightness akin to her magic yet with a warmth all its own, flaring whenever Julian was near. She wasn’t ready to discuss it even with him, much less anyone else. “And you speak as if you desire a hand in my choices.”

  Khamsin’s lips curled again, this time in a wry grin. “Such discernment for one so young. Ulima taught you well. Yes, I’ll say it freely—I would like to suggest that you think of going to Tantiulo when Nirrivy is its own land again. Your father may be of the Hidden Ones, but your mother was of the blood of Clan Sarazen.” Once again the flash of her grin subsided, leaving behind earnest intent. “When I take my children back to the Clan, I will go to the great temple of Djashtet and ask the Crone of Night to carry my prayers of penitence to my sister’s spirit—and to Ulima’s. I think perhaps both their souls may listen to me more freely if you were beside me. And I know that you never saw Ulima again before she died.”

  Ulima. Her okinya, a word that still came far more easily to Faanshi’s mind than the Adalonic great-aunt. The only person in Lomhannor Hall who had treated her with kindness, and whose last acts had led to her own freedom. Faanshi’s sight blurred and her throat grew tight at the mention of her name, and she had to distract herself with drinking the rest of the tea in her cup before she could steady herself enough for a reply. “No,” she whispered. “I did not.”

  “Then think about it. You need not decide now. There are plenty of other considerations which must occupy your thoughts first.” Khamsin straightened in her chair, and as surely as if she’d pulled her korfi back into place, her expression shuttered. “We’ll be on the move again in the morning, to make a push to the east. Two surgeons from Camden will be traveling with us, and I recommend you report to their tent for guidance on when and where your talents will be best deployed. Please relay to the akresha Alarrah that I suggest the same to her, if she’s willing to work with human surgeons.”

  Faanshi couldn’t pretend to know or understand the duchess, not yet—but she understood the shift of her tone to one of dismissal, and that it was now time to take her leave. Setting her cup down, she nodded and rose. “I’ll tell her.” She paused, then added tentatively, “Thank you for the tea. And I’ll think about what you’ve asked, and pray to Almighty Djashtet for Her counsel.”

  “I can ask nothing more. Thank you for coming to speak with me, Faanshi.” The duchess rose lithely from her chair and then stooped to lift her son into her arms. “And if you’ll excuse us, I must now make sure my children settle down for sleep.”

  “Yes, akresha.” Faanshi bowed and slipped out of the tent the way she’d come, but as she went she cast one last glance over her shoulder, enough to see Khamsin smiling more gently now at the children, even as Artir squirmed sleepily in her grasp. They were her blood kin, even as Alarrah was, and Faanshi wasn’t sure how she felt about that. The child Yselde had had the right of it—she was elf, but she was also Tantiu.

  And Khamsin could not have chosen a better way to remind her of that than to invoke the name of Ulima.

  * * *

  Faanshi meant to return to the tent she’d been given to share with Alarrah, Lady Ganniwer and the fire-mage Tembriel. But on her way Kestar fell into step beside her, and of all those she’d come to know since Julian had set her free, the man who’d once been a Hawk was easiest by far for her to gauge. And it meant, too, that she could see his troubled heart reflected in his face, as clearly as if she looked into a mirror.

  “Good evening, Faanshi. How did your meeting with the duchess go?” he asked.

  She offered him a halfhearted smile, grateful that he matched his pace to hers. “The akresha Khamsin asked me to go to Tantiulo with her when Nirrivy is a nation again. She wants to pray for forgiveness in the temple of Djashtet, and she hopes that the spirits of my mother and my okinya may listen to her more freely with
me at her side.”

  “That seems rather presumptuous of her,” Kestar said with a grimace, before slanting her a chagrined look. “Will you go with her?”

  “I haven’t decided. I must pray for Djashtet’s counsel and my own patience, since it would be foolish to choose now, when there’s so much else that must be done first.” Faanshi paused to stand aside as three young men in Nirrivan uniforms hurried past them, and as Kestar stopped beside her, she studied him. “You have much to decide too, I think.”

  Not quite meeting her eyes, Kestar gave a sheepish little laugh. “I’d thought my life had gotten strange enough before I found out I was the last known descendant of an elf prince who also just happened to possess a magic sword that’s the only known thing that can kill the Anreulag. Assuming it still exists, which it might not—if the Bhandreid has any sense at all, she would have melted it down a long time ago. But we still have to go and check, don’t we?”

  “No pressure,” Faanshi murmured.

  “Ha! I’d say you’ve been taking notes from Cel, except you and I both know you have your own wit hiding behind that shy face of yours.” Kestar finally looked at her then, a grin tugging at his mouth without quite making it to his eyes. “But the pressure’s on you too. Everyone expects you to be the heroine of the revolution. Saint Faanshi. And I just wanted to say…if you need to speak of it, or even shout or throw things, though I can hardly imagine you shouting…you can talk to me.”

  Faanshi couldn’t help but smile at that, more swiftly than she could remember smiling at anything in days. “I know, and it’s a great comfort to know that if I must throw something, I’ll have a friend to catch it.”

  “That is what we are? Friends?”

  He looked vaguely startled to be putting the notion into words, and that didn’t surprise her—after all, he’d spent most of his life serving an Order whose very function was to hunt users of magic like her. But then, most Hawks didn’t see into the minds and souls of those they hunted, either.

  There was brightness within her for Kestar, too, though it felt different from Julian’s. Kestar’s was the warmth of sunlight, pure and comforting, a blessing of Djashtet. The other man’s was a sharper, keener fire, crackling in that same inner hearth that housed her power. She wanted to brandish it like a torch, and use it to peer into dark and unknown places—and for all that she was an untried maiden in many ways counted by the world, she knew enough of the counsel of her heart to tell the difference between the two.

  “Were we children of the same father, I’d be honored to call you brother,” she said. “But as it stands, I’m proud to call you friend. And if Marwyth tries to come and hurt you, I won’t let her.”

  Kestar smiled a bit and ventured to hug her, as she’d hoped he might. Such contact was still a new and precious gift to Faanshi, and he was one of the few with whom she was brave enough to attempt it. Still, his eyes remained solemn. “I don’t want to kill her, and I think maybe you’re the only other person in this entire camp I can say that to, since you don’t want to either.”

  Gravely Faanshi bobbed her head. “She’s a goddess to the Hawks, and now they say that you must kill your goddess, that you’re the only one who can. I know how I’d feel if they told me I had to kill the Lady of Time. Perhaps Djashtet…” She caught herself and then went on, “Or perhaps any other gods who smile upon us…perhaps they’ll show us another way.”

  “Maybe,” Kestar said. In his tone and in his face Faanshi saw the detriment as well as the virtue of having a friend whose thoughts and moods could so easily mirror her own—for she saw in him what she felt within herself. And she could give it no name but doubt.

  * * *

  “Julian, what is it?”

  Nine-fingered Rab’s presence at his side was, as always, a familiar bulwark. By habit, the younger man was walking on his left. But Julian hadn’t yet gotten used to actually being able to see Rab there, particularly in lamplit semi-darkness, where he was little more than a nimble shadow in his peripheral vision—a shadow that, as it happened, stopped as soon as he did, and whose attention easily followed the path of his own.

  “Ah, I see,” Rab said, his brows arched, his drawl exquisitely bland.

  “Whatever idea you’ve gotten into your head, keep it there,” Julian said, sourly grateful for the excuse to snap his gaze away from the sight of Faanshi and Kestar in quiet conversation, farther up the row of tents.

  “Are you suggesting I think you’re jealous? I resent such impugning of my character. I couldn’t possibly be harboring any such thoughts.”

  “Good, because I’m not.”

  “Far be it from me to conclude from that acidic scowl that you want to drive a knife through Vaarsen’s innards.” Rab gave him a stern and meaningful look, held it for effect, and then went on, “For gods’ sakes, what’s the problem? She doesn’t look at him the same way she looks at you. Bed her and have done with it.”

  Rab was right; he was scowling, and it perturbed him deeply that the simple sight of Faanshi and the former Hawk in conversation was enough to provoke that. Julian spun on his heel, grabbing Rab by the elbow and pulling them back the way they’d come. Faanshi’s hearing wasn’t quite as sharp as that of her elven brethren, but he didn’t want to risk the girl hearing them approach. “It’s not that easy,” he muttered as they went.

  “I beg to differ. She fancies you. You fancy her. Have you tried simply saying, ‘Thank you for saving all our lives, not to mention rebuilding my anatomy, and by the way, would you care to spend the night with me?’ Assuming she says yes, you both have a highly entertaining evening, and everyone wins. Especially me, once you’re in a far more pleasant mood. I fail to see the problem.”

  Julian held off answering until he was reasonably sure he was out of Faanshi’s earshot, and after a quick glance in all directions to make sure no one else was nearby, he finally admitted, “That she’d say yes is the problem. I’m not blind. I know how she feels about me. But damn it, we all saw what she did at Dolmerrath. The Anreulag—Marwyth—whatever her name is, Faanshi sent her packing. She’s…” He was still scowling, but he let it stand. It suited his state of mind far too well. “I don’t want to just bed her. But what could I possibly offer a woman that half the province—with inarguable justification—has started calling Saint Faanshi?”

  Rab blinked up at him, his usual dapper insouciance giving way to something Julian rarely saw on his partner’s face: surprise. “Is that what this is about? Because leaving aside the entire question of whether this means you want to marry her or some such nonsense—and believe me, I’ll get to that—are you telling me you think you’re not good enough for her?”

  “We’re assassins, Rab. I’m not exactly in a position to give her a safe and stable life.”

  “And Vaarsen is? Bugger that. In the eyes of our ever-so-proper society he’s just as much a fugitive as we are—and, might I add, our ever-so-proper society is on its way to a tour of the hells in a handcart. Or hadn’t you noticed the army in whose company we’re currently abiding?”

  Julian slid a dour look around him once again. “And that’s another thing. Regardless of the state of my love life, a matter I’m not exactly convinced you’re in a position to lecture me on, we’re rather lacking for opportunities to use our particular skills here.”

  “By which you mean, you’re bored,” Rab said blithely. “On that I can certainly help you, O Rook of the blackest feathers. I’ve heard milady Khamsin’s troops talking about where we’re going next. There are elf slaves in Riannach who Khamsin means to free—and I don’t know about you, but that sings to me of locks to be picked and the taking of things we’re not supposed to have. And with the possible exception of our friends from Dolmerrath, I defy any man or woman in this camp to surpass us in matters of stealth. And when it comes to good old-fashioned thievery, well. In my modest opinion we’re the camp’
s reigning experts.”

  The younger man kept his voice deliberately low and casual, as they’d both been doing surrounded by so many unfamiliar ears. But Julian didn’t miss the gleam of excitement in Rab’s eyes, an excitement that tempted him sorely. “Riannach’s been fortified for years,” he said. “Well enough to give Khamsin’s force a run for its money. But if we could get in before they had to fire a shot…”

  “We could sneak arms in to the elves. And just think of the chaos we could raise when the army comes in from outside while the elves provide a glorious distraction within.”

  Julian could see it playing out in his mind’s eye. Dangerous, most assuredly, but also plausible if they could get enough information on the outpost and where they kept their slaves to make it work—information that, if not already in the possession of Khamsin and her officers, would require scouting and secrecy to acquire. And Rab had a point. The two of them were uniquely suited to that very brand of acquisition.

  “My friend,” he said, “I feel an urge to volunteer coming on.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  West of the outpost of Riannach, Kilmerry Province, Jeuchar 14, AC 1876

  Julian could almost believe the past weeks had never happened once he was on the move with Rab under the cover of darkness. Never mind that he was a remade man, and Rab rode now on a new horse, a stallion they and the suspicious Morrigh were still learning to trust. He could ignore, too, that they weren’t riding under contract—and that he could conceive of a time when neither of them would ever have to take a contract again. For now, it was enough to feel a familiar buzz of anticipation stirring in his blood. The goal was information instead of death, but the challenge was the important thing, and the challenge was still the same.

  Get in. Do the job. Get out. Don’t get caught.