Courage of falcons

by Holly Lisle

  When Crispin came looking for his daughter, a thousand people would be able to give a clear description of Ry.

  He would have to find a way to render that description worthless.

  Beyond the well and on the other side of the road, Ry saw the sign for the dyer's shop, and read the name Nathis Farhills scrawled out in Iberish and half a dozen other common scripts. On the balcony above the shop, a pretty girl stood, staring down at him. Small-boned, slender, and with hair that looked white in the twilight but that was likely pale gold, she leaned forward with her hands resting on the rail. Her eyes, light as his own, didn't seem to blink when he looked into them. He had intended only to glance in her direction, but her steady stare didn't waver, and he found that he couldn't look away. He would have thought her too old to be Crispin's daughter, but she had her father's features. She had to be Ulwe.

  He came to a stop and stared up at her, feeling like a fool. He couldn't hope that she would believe he was her father. In his early twenties, he was too young to have a daughter already approaching womanhood, and he knew nothing of the past that she shared with her true father. What could he hope to say to her that would not betray him as the imposter he was?

  He almost turned away. But Crispin was... Crispin. And the Falcons would have to deal with him. And this girl, this watchful, still creature, was the key to controlling Crispin.

  Ry's heart raced. He looked away from that steady gaze, hurried across the street, and climbed the steps at the side of the building. The girl was waiting for him with the door already open when he reached the top.

  Her father should have warned her about the danger of this place, Ry thought. Surely he must have let her know that she should never open the door for strangers.

  "I felt you would come tonight," she said before he could say anything to her. "All day the air has whispered trouble. The ground trembles with changes brewing." Her voice was high and sweet. A very young voice. Up close she was younger than she'd looked standing on the balcony. Her actions, her movements, her startling grace and amazing beauty, all gave her a maturity that belied her true age. He guessed she was no more than twelve, and perhaps as young as ten. She had an odd accent. After a moment he placed it she had the drawling speech of the settlers of the Sabirene Isthmus. She'd spent the better part of her life in Stosta, he guessed, being raised by her mother, or strangers hired by Crispin. Things he didn't know and dared not ask.

  "I'm..." He wanted to say, I'm not who you think I am, but he stopped himself. He said, "A daughter is her father's greatest blessing, his greatest weakness, and his greatest fear."

  She looked at him, and one eyebrow slowly rose, and the tiniest of smiles twitched at the corner of her mouth.

  "So the birds told me," she said.

  "We can't stay here."

  She nodded. "I know that. I feel danger following in your footsteps. Even now we have little time." Abruptly she threw her arms around him and hugged him. "Thank you for coming for me. I've been... afraid."

  He nodded, not daring to speak. She was a sweet child, and trusting. Damn the fact that she was so trusting. He would rather she had snarled at him and been hateful he wouldn't have felt so horrible about snatching her away from her father and taking her off to serve as hostage in the trouble that was to come. She had every right to be met by her father; she had every right to have the world meet a few of her expectations. The world wouldn't, and in many ways it wouldn't because of him, and he felt guilty just standing next to her.

  She smiled up at him, then turned away and stepped into the room and spoke to someone he hadn't realized until that instant that she wasn't alone. He should have heard the other person breathing, should have noted her scent in the air, but he had been too distracted by Ulwe and his own doubts. He needed to regain his focus, and quickly.

  He heard the clink of gold and Ulwe's soft voice saying, "You've been very good to me, Parata Tershe. I hope we'll meet again someday," and an old woman answering, "I hope you're happy, child. You deserve happiness."

  Then she was back, a bag in each hand. "Would you carry one of these for me?" she asked. "They aren't heavy; my nante told me be certain not to pack too much before I left Stosta. She said I'd have plenty of new dresses and toys when I got here and I needn't bring any but my dearest things."

  "That's fine," Ry said. "I'll carry both of them."

  "Then you won't be able to hold my hand."

  He looked down at her. The solemn face looked up at him. "You want to hold my hand?"

  "Yes. Please."

  "I'll carry one if you wish."

  "We should go now," she said.

  He nodded. "You're right." He took the bag she offered him. It was light. He wondered what she'd brought across half a world with her what "dearest things" might have comforted her during a sea passage alone, on her way to meet a man whom she had never seen before who had claimed her and pulled her away from the only people she had ever known.

  They hurried down the steps, and he was surprised that she set the pace, and set it so fast. She was walking so briskly that he had to lengthen his stride to keep up; he could as easily have jogged beside her. She waved to some of the promenaders, and they called to her, "Is that him?"

  "It is," she shouted gaily. "Isn't he as lovely as I said?"

  Now the faces that looked at him wore smiles. A few of the people waved. An older woman said, as the two of them hurried past, "You have a lovely daughter. I'm glad you returned safely from your voyage at last."

  "So am I," he said. He was no longer a stranger in their midst by virtue of her presence and her words, he was Ulwe's father, and they knew Ulwe, liked Ulwe, accepted Ulwe. He could understand why. She squeezed the hand he held and looked up at him, and her smile was radiant. He wished at that instant that she was his daughter.

  Then they were outside the outlander's ghetto, and the character of Silk Street changed. The people who hurried through the gathering darkness avoided each other's eyes, and stared straight ahead. The om-bindili bands were gone, the merry promenaders replaced by hollow-eyed women and gaunt-faced men who offered their bodies for pleasure, or who shilled for custom for the caberra-houses, or who waited for some unwary target to pass by. Ulwe moved closer to him. She didn't complain when he walked faster. He thought perhaps he should swing her onto his back and let her hook her knees over his elbows. He could carry both her bags that way and still run. He turned to her, ready to suggest it.

  But she said, "We're going to have to get a carriage."

  He said, "Are you getting tired?"

  She shook her head. "Not me. I could run for days. But we're leaving a trail, and he's coming right now. And he's really angry."

  Ry frowned. "Who is?"

  "My father," she said simply.

  Chapter 10

  Grief cannot touch us here.

  Alarista spread out her arms and spun in weightless circles, feeling warmth that surrounded her and penetrated her, feeling light that flowed around her and through her. She danced, lost in beauty and happiness, and Hasmal danced with her. This was life beyond death, joy beyond pain; she and Hasmal were united in a place where Dragons could not touch them and where evil could not come.

  She could not name the forms that moved around her and shone in the shadowless brilliance, but the forms needed no names. They were a part of this eternal world, the keepers of this place, guardians against those beings that moved in coldness and darkness and hunted through the Veil beyond. They were part of the light, welcome and welcoming.

  Grief cannot touch us here.

  She knew that Hasmal's body had died knew that hers was dying. She recalled her sacrifice with crystal clarity; she could still feel the weight of unaccustomed age her dying flesh bore, the harsh pains and labored breathing. A thin strand still connected her to that constrictive, sense-dulled form, passing to her whispers of movement, hints of frantic activity aimed at saving her life. She knew only relief her flesh-pains would soon end, her dance with Hasmal wou
ld continue through eternity, and she and he, soulmates reunited, would move beyond this greeting place to the infinite mysteries beyond.

  This was her destiny.

  They rejoiced and embraced.

  One of the nameless guardians of the realm of light brushed against Alarista. Through her. She felt calm pressure building around her, an air of certainty, a sense of foreboding.

  The guardian said, Wait.

  She moved closer to Hasmal, blending with him along her edges, flowing into him. She tried to silence the guardian, tried to push it back to the gate through which she had been admitted.

  She said, We are together at last. We are meant to be together. Grief cannot touch us here.

  Grief cannot touch you here, the guardian agreed, but the world behind you awaits completion of the task you chose. You have not yet finished.

  Hasmal pulled away from her, and their dancing ceased.

  The time in which you can return grows short. Will you return, or will you move forward?

  She felt within that question the weight of knowledge she had hidden from herself in life. She had chosen her life, had given herself a path, and had planned her path to intersect with that of her soul-twin, her beloved Hasmal. But other intersections that she had also chosen had not yet taken place. She had slipped away too soon, and if she left, her work left undone would remain undone. No one else had chosen her path. No one else would complete the task she had chosen.

  The pull of the fragile strand that connected her to her body lessened.

  She looked behind her, back into the slow, heavy world of flesh, and saw the healer crouched over her, spinning a final desperate spell. Her body breathed in ragged, irregular gasps, its mouth hanging open, its eyes open, too, and dully staring up at nothing. How could she don that weight again? How could she return to slow thoughts, to ignorance, to pain and weariness?

  How could she leave Hasmal?

  But her task remained undone, and none but she would complete it.

  She reached out to Hasmal, palm upward and forward. He pressed his hand to hers, and she felt his yearning for her, his need that the two of them be together and complete. His hunger for her was as great as hers for him. After lifetimes of separation, they were finally together again. If she returned to her flesh-self, she knew she might face yet more lifetimes before the two of them could find each other again. They might never find each other again if he lost his way or she lost hers. Souls could fall into the maws of the dark hunters of the Veil; souls could die. This wondrous moment, which should have been hers for eternity, might instead end, never to be repeated.

  No one else could do what she had gone into her life as Alarista to do.

  The task she had chosen for herself mattered.

  Is there any way that Hasmal can come back with me? she asked the guardian.

  You know there is.

  She did. But she considered the ways that he might, and shivered. He could be lost so easily.

  She said, Dear one, I cannot stay here.

  I know. He caressed her with a thought, and she discovered that grief, indeed, could touch her even in that place of joy and light.

  Be careful. Wait for me.

  Forever if I must.

  She broke away quickly, racing backward along the fragile tendril that connected her to flesh and life: She had no more time. The tendril was already beginning to disintegrate as she poured herself back into her flesh, and the darkness and the cold and the dullness of her senses and the acuteness of her pain enveloped her. She felt fire in her lungs, and pulled in a hard, harsh breath, and let it out and pulled in another. She fought her way back into her flesh, a butterfly fighting its way back into the prison of its cocoon. The beauty of the place she left behind faded, and the memories she'd brought back with her shimmered into nothingness as if they were no more substantial than beams of light cast upon smoke.

  She knew that she had something terribly important to do. She knew that Hasmal was dead. And she knew that she could have been with him, but had returned instead.

  She woke, weeping.

  * * *

  Kait swallowed nervously and licked her lips. The gemstone glyphs lay beneath her fingers, their inscriptions now meaningful to her, their combinations something she knew with the assurance of a thousand years of certainty. Caffell was first. Initiation. She pressed the carved ruby, and it depressed with a soft click. A light sparkled through the gemstone she'd pressed from inside. The Mirror made a soft, whispering sound, and a swirl of mist formed at the base of the column and began to spiral upward slowly through the soulwell.

  You're doing fine, Kait, Dùghall assured her. I'm with you.

  I know, Uncle. But this is... She faltered.

  Terrifying.

  Terrifying, she agreed.

  She located benate marked in bloodstone and tirrs of inlaid jade. She depressed the first, then the second. Again the soft clicks, again the tiny lights that shone through the pressed gemstones. A faint scent of honeysuckle appeared and soft golden light rippled through the column of mist and flowed upward.

  Her mouth was dry, her palms itched. She shifted from left foot to right, then back. Dùghall's comforting presence filled her, but could not take away the terror she felt at the stirring of the ancient Dragon magics beneath her fingertips. She felt as if she were waking a monster, one that could, when fully awake, turn and devour her without even pausing to consider what it did.

  She did not understand how she could have ever believed the Mirror of Souls was anything but evil. The slimy touch of its magic licked across her skin, and she shuddered. She had wanted a miracle had wanted her family restored to her from the dead and she'd been so desperate to believe anything that might make that miracle happen that she'd made herself blind. She wondered if evil so often succeeded for just that reason that it made itself seem necessary, that it held out hope to desperate people like a sweet-ice on a stick.

  She breathed shallowly and closed her eyes. The memories of strangers played behind her closed eyelids, and she watched them carefully. From Crispin's mind, she saw tens of thousands of innocent people gathered in the parnissery squares across the city when he activated the Mirror. She saw it connecting through magic to the towers of the Ancients scattered across the city, and saw the blinding blue light of immense power pouring out of the Mirror and tearing across the skies. Through Dafril's memories she made sense of that picture she discovered that the Mirror drew its power from the life-forces of those who had crowded into the squares, and used that enormous power to force the souls of the Dragons' chosen victims out of their bodies and to insert the Dragons' souls and hold them in place. The Mirror had been working since then to hold those huge energies steady, as if it were a dam holding back floodwaters.

  She was about to open the floodgates, and though she had Dafril's knowledge of what ought to happen then, she also had his awareness that the Mirror had only been used once neither he nor anyone else knew for certain that their theories were right.

  She opened her eyes. "I think you need to step out of the room," she told Ian.

  He stirred from the place he had taken against the wall directly behind her. "I'm not going to leave you in here alone with that thing," he said.

  She could smell his fear as clearly as she could smell her own. She cared about him he was her friend, even if she couldn't love him the way he wanted. She said, "I don't want you to die unnecessarily if this doesn't work."

  "That goes without saying."

  "Please... I'll be able to focus on this better if I'm not worried that something might happen to you."

  "Kait...." He stepped into her line of sight. He was frowning. "I understand what you're saying, but I can't leave you alone. I can't. You don't know what will happen, so you can't know whether or not you might need me. So I have to stay."

  She couldn't tell him that he was wrong. He was correct when he said she didn't know. So she nodded and said, "Thank you, Ian."

  He pressed his l
ips together and retreated to his place behind her against the wall; he'd said nothing, but she could guess at his thoughts.

  She rested her palms on the rim of the Mirror. The next three buttons she pushed would reopen the connection between the Mirror of Souls and the souls of the Dragons.

  They lay in a neat cluster to her right, marked with the glyphs pethyose and neril and inshus. Modulate, gather, and set-hold. She pressed golden cat's-eye, glittering jacinth, and pale aquamarine and then she held her breath.

  Again the soft clicks, again the light shining through the depressed hieroglyphs. The soft whispering sound that emanated from the Mirror rose in volume and pitch, and a faint breeze stirred the air in the room. The light from the soulwell intensified, and began to take on a greenish cast. She began to think she could almost catch individual words in that soft, steady whispering. Gooseflesh rose on her arms and a bead of icy sweat rolled down her neck, slid along her spine, and left her shivering in its wake. The room felt both hot as a furnace and cold as death.