Kindred and Wings (15 page)

Slowly getting to her feet, she looked up at the clouds with a more searching glance. They began to flicker with white light, as if someone was lighting and dimming a lantern in the heights of the sky, but there was no sound of thunder to accompany it.

Syris pawed the ground, ripping up great chunks of the earth. The shadow of his arched neck blocked out a portion of the sky. Conhaero was home. Even without the gifts, Talyn knew it as she knew her own body. She did not know this particular weather that did not obey any of the rules of the land.

Walking forward, she laid her hand on the nykur and waited to see what would come. The sharp smell in her nostrils overwhelmed even the mossy odor of Syris. Above, the lightning became more than flashes. Now it was blinding claws of white darting from cloud to cloud. The movement was unnerving, and her right hand drifted unconsciously to the handle of her sword—though what that could do to a storm she did not know. This was no chaos storm, she’d seen plenty of those in her time. They rolled in—or perhaps more accurately, out of—the earth itself. They blinded the senses and could easily unhinge a Vaerli mind. This was as if the sky itself was lowering.

The lightning increased its tempo, making Talyn feel uncomfortable deep down in the pit of her stomach. Syris was on the edge of something, circling around her as if he could sense danger somewhere, but could not make out where it was. When the rumble came, it was deeper than thunder somehow, as if it were roaring from somewhere further away. The flash of lightning illuminated the ground, and Talyn narrowed her eyes.

The shapes scattered on the plain before her had not been there a moment before. Her jaw tightened. The Kindred, maybe a hundred of them, stood motionlessly staring up at the sky, too. Their dark shapes looked like they had been pulled from the earth. They might have been primal statues, but she knew they could move when they wanted to.

“What is happening?” she whispered to herself, though even Syris could not have heard her over the menacing rumble of the thunder. The Kindred had never shown themselves after the Harrowing. The one that had saved Finn had been the only one she’d ever seen. Yet now here they were in great numbers . . . for some reason.

The clouds were rolling, twisting as if in pain, and then they finally disgorged something. Or many somethings. She had heard enough stories at her parents’ knees. The White Void through which all peoples of this land—even her own, back in the darkness of history—had come. It was legendary for its terrors. Any that ventured into it, if they were lucky enough to emerge, were forever changed. It was what had destroyed gods and created the Scions.

Talyn could scarcely believe that she had not fallen into one of Finn’s ancient stories. She clutched onto Syris. He too was awed by what was happening above them. The clouds were shredding, coming apart like the funnel of a tornado reaching down to the earth below. This was no mere wind. The shapes bearing down on them were tearing, burning with light that made her eyes hurt even to look on it.

Blood was trickling down her arm from where her fingers had been cut on the nykur’s sharp hair, but it was a nothing compared to what she was seeing. All of her fears and concerns paled in comparison to this. The Song of the Pact rushed back to her—the words taught to every Vaerli child at her mother’s knee.

“Beware the Void they called with frightening sound,
Cursed you will be if it comes and you sing.
Hold fast your word, and flame may be held at bay.”

Suddenly her throat was dry, and she thought of what she had been meant to be; a maker of song magic. Now her mind was a barren place, and no music formed in it. Once, their magic had even used the White Void to travel, but they had only dared it for tiny moments. If it opened fully then they had no chance at all.

The White Void was opening, as the Kindred had warned. The end of Conhaero. The roaring sound above was now so close it felt as if it might break her bones. Talyn looked up and saw her own personal doom coming. The crushing light of the White Void, as one of those tornados pushed down on her from above. She didn’t move. Whatever it was, she would take it. Maybe it would be better than the Phage, the Caisah, and even Finn had done with her.

The nykur stood with her; sharing whatever fate was coming. The cold of the Void was nearly upon her when something scarlet moved between her and the oncoming end. A circle of bright red splashed up and away from her, as if someone were casting water from a bucket before them.

An ear-popping rush of sound enveloped Talyn, and she felt every hair standing on end. The Void was gone—so were the Kindred. The plain was empty, except for herself, Syris, and another woman standing only a few feet away from them. She was small, dark skinned, and holding the soft flesh of her forearm up to her mouth.

What she was most definitely
not
was Vaerli, but she had moved as fast as they could. She could only be one thing.

“Thank you Blood Witch,” Talyn said, and with shock realized her voice was trembling. The White Void had taken a toll on her that was not confined to merely physical strain. She cleared her throat and removed her hand from Syris. Now the pain and blood were making themselves felt.

The Blood Witch’s eyes darted to the stream of scarlet, but she lowered her own arm from her mouth. “You could have given it some of your own, then.”

Talyn looked up at the sky, but even the clouds had gone. She glanced down at her savior. “I am—”

“I know who you are, Talyn, once the Hunter for the Caisah . . . now something far worse.” The Blood Witch looked at her with a slight frown on her forehead, but Talyn was not entirely happy about being judged.

“As compared to how you allowed one of your own to take me as their prey.” She had not forgotten Pelanor.

“Sharp words from one who just saved you.” The other woman tilted her head and smiled. “My name in Anduin.”

The other tribes of Conhaero gave away their names so easily, but maybe they meant less to them. Talyn glanced at Syris, who usually did not care for the smell of Blood Witches, but the nykur was strangely quiet, only watching Anduin out of the corner of one gleaming eye.

“So tell me, Anduin,” Talyn said softly and with great calmness, “how did you manage to see the White Void all by yourself?”

The woman’s tiny frame did not seem mighty enough to contain enough power for all that. “Blood,” she replied simply. “Everything may be bought with sacrifice.” She turned and gestured back across the plain. “As you can see.”

Talyn took a step forward, looking where the witch pointed. The Kindred were gone. For every one of the rips in the White Void, there had been one waiting. They were now gone. A chill ran through her body as she realized what that meant.

The Witch was at her shoulder. “They have bought your people time, Talyn. Time to decide.”

The once-Hunter turned on Anduin, her brows drawn together and her hands clenched. How dare this creature speak to her of the Vaerli and the Kindred. What could she possibly know?

“The Pact is broken, my people scattered or burned to ashes—so what exactly do you suggest they do?” The Pact was part of the Vaerli. It was who they were and where their pride came from. It made them special in a way that no other race in Conhaero could claim.

The Witch must have been nearly as young as she looked, because she backed away in the face of Talyn’s growing rage. “That I do not know. They will not speak of it.”

The Kindred were speaking to other races, but not to the Vaerli? A fire lit in Talyn at the concept. After all that her people had suffered, this was one more humiliation that could barely be stood.

She grabbed Syris’ mane, wrapping her fingers deep in the sharp hair, and pulled herself upwards and onto his back. The plain ahead of them was quiet and empty again.

Looking down, she met the eyes of the Blood Witch. They were ancient where they should not have been. “My race has already been dead for a thousand years,” she said simply. “I tried to save them, and I failed. Now, if the end of the world is coming, then so be it. We have nothing to live for!”

She glared out at the empty landscape. She knew they had to be there watching, and listening; that, after all, was all they were good for. “As for our former allies, they did nothing to stop the Harrowing because they are cowards and liars. Perhaps now they begin to understand a little about fear and despair.”

As she kicked Syris and urged him into a gallop, there were tears in her eyes. Why was she bothering to breathe? Perhaps dragon fire was a worthy way to end it all. At least she would get to see the ocean one last time.

The Kindred wrapped around them, pulling Pelanor and Byre down into the earth once more. Pelanor was reminded of her own journey into the maw of the twelve-mouthed goddess.

Her stomach rumbled at the thought; it was the memory of her
gewalt
that did it. They had shared blood and become locked together, and yet she didn’t even know his fate. Her fellow Blood Witches had him, and would not let him go until she returned with the blood of the Vaerli Hunter Talyn to satisfy them.

A quick glance out of her dark eye toward the Vaerli who stood at her side reminded her how she had failed at that task. Her
gewalt
could be suffering for it.

She had not killed his sister, but rather had taken up the pact with her instead. She had allowed ambition to cloud her judgment. The Blood Witch had never imagined that it would lead her here—into the strange timeless world of the Kindred.

Another stab of hunger pierced her through, and was followed by a wave of light-headiness that made her sway on her feet. Byre was beside her, his strong arms wrapped around her waist, and she did not fall.

“Pelanor, you’re not well.” He might be the closest thing to a full-blooded Vaerli, but he was still a man—with all the foibles of that sex; like stating the bloody obvious. They shared a look.

He was beautiful, Pelanor realized as trembles began in the tips of her fingers. It was not the blood hunger that made her notice that, but it certainly helped. Byreniko of the Vaerli smelled delicious, like warm bread left out on the windowsill to cool. She’d experienced the delight of such fragrance before she had pledged herself to the goddess. It made her mouth water and a shudder of desire wash over her. Craven and debauched images flashed through her head; naked, writhing flesh, where he was inside her, and she was drinking.

The hunger was making her crazy; she was pledged to her
gewalt
and he alone. Yet when this Vaerli held her she could barely remember her
gewalt’s
name.

The flame and earth around them were moving them, but Pelanor was sure of one thing, she was not going to be able to last without blood—not for much longer. She would need to drink from Byreniko again soon.

A flicker of understanding passed over Byre’s face, his eyes taking in the signs of the hunger that were writ on her. “You must drink,” he said, and by the goddess those words sounded so erotic, she nearly moaned. If she kept drinking from him he might as well become her
gewalt.

Just as she was going to have to make up her mind how to respond, the Kindred let them loose. The white of the blinding midday sun caught both of them by surprise. From the cool of Perilous and Fair to this made Pelanor stagger a little.

She pulled herself reluctantly away from Byre; she would not have her weakness be so apparent in all this openness. As they looked around them, it was obvious that again the Kindred had transported them to this place and time and then left them.

The Blood Witch did not think much of their hospitality. It was not the most welcoming of places. A flat, wind-blasted plain, with nothing but salt lying ahead of them. The odd stubborn stunted bush punctuated it, but that was all. The smell of this arid place burned her nostrils, while the sun gleaming off all the whiteness was almost blinding.

Luckily, she was not without her own resources: her extra eyelid slid over her delicate eyes, reducing the sunlight to a more acceptable level. It was a handy ability for her kind, which might not burn to death in the sun, but did not enjoy its touch.

Beside her, Byre was not moving. His breath was fast and shallow. He was as rigid as a board, with his gaze fixed on the horizon. He must know where they were.

If she touched him, Pelanor knew she might not be able to control herself, so instead she said his name, a whisper to hopefully bring him back from whatever strange place his mind had plummeted to. After she had spoken it three times, Byre jerked his eyes away.

“The Salt Plain.” He turned to her, and his eyes were so wide. “The gathering place of the Vaerli. The Bastion.”

She looked out on the expanse and could not control her words. “Not exactly the setting I would have chosen, but I suppose it suits your kind well enough.”

His smile was faint as if he were trying to be amused, but then he frowned. “Pelanor, there is one thing—this place is meant only for Vaerli. You will not survive setting foot on it.”

When she looked down at the salt it appeared innocent enough, but she was not going to dismiss his concerns. The option of staying behind was not one she would contemplate—after all, the Kindred had a nasty habit of whipping him away at a moment’s notice. She most certainly did not want to become marooned in the ugly past.