Kindred and Wings (24 page)

The Phage had many cruel ways, and not all of them were physical attacks. In many ways, they were worse than the Caisah had been. When he had held her leash, her greatest pain had been the embarrassment of her predicament. The shattered remnants of her people had deliberately used her memories and her love for Finn against her.

“Talyn?” Azrul’s smile faded from her lips.

It was too much to share. Talyn wanted there to be just one person in the whole of Conhaero that thought well of her. If her friend knew that she had merely traded her slavery to the Caisah for another—perhaps worse—master, then at best she might think Talyn a fool, at worst she would be a monster.

So the Vaerli did something she was ill used to doing; she lied.

“Sorry, I was just thinking of my brother; he always did love a good tale.” Her eyes drifted to her saddlebags and the tall scroll of paper that was visible from it. She had stolen it from the Caisah, that was true, but probably One-eyed Baraca would also have been interested in it. Smoothly, Talyn slid herself between Syris and Azrul. “What is your business at Elraban Island? Not many people visit the talespinners.”

Azrul shrugged. “Baraca has been having dreams. Dreams of the . . .” She stopped, struggling with something. “He’s been having dreams of the White Void. Some of the dreams are not even when he is asleep.”

“A scion having wakening dreams of the Void?” Talyn nodded calmly, as if every nerve in her body was not thrumming with fear. “And you go to consult the talespinners? All of you?”

“The Caisah has not attacked Elraban,” Azrul said, “but he could. They hold much knowledge in their memory that has been lost to the ages . . . even from the Vaerli.” She crooked an eye at Talyn. “Since our paths appear to be in the same direction, Talyn, would you care to have an escort there?”

Her friend could not imagine what awaited them there, but Talyn would not deny it would be good to share some time with Azrul. “I can think of no finer escort than the Swoop.”

Syris, perhaps to show his usefulness to this collection of women, bent his knee so that Talyn could mount up easily. When he surged to his feet the tables were turned; the Vaerli towered over Azrul. A smile cracked on her face, and it was no lie. “Remember how we used to race?”

The leader of the Swoop was already gathering herself to spring into the air. “We are the masters of the sky, old friend. I think you are over estimating how fast that creature can carry you.”

Talyn thought of the dragon that Finn had conjured, and barked out a laugh. “You think you are the masters of the sky. Let us see if that is true.”

She did not need to urge Syris at all. He leapt through the air, bounding away like a hound released after a rabbit. Talyn decided she was going to enjoy this brief moment. The cliff was high and terrifying, but it was nothing compared with what was to come.

As the three unlikely companions walked down the salt-carved steps and into the Bastion, Byre nursed the need for vengeance for a moment, rolling about in his head the memory of his father crumpling to the floor and the tales of what his sister had done at the Caisah’s command. The knife at his belt felt like it was calling to him.

At his side Pelanor drew in her breath, and he understood her shock. He himself felt numbed by this turn of events. Yet, her reaction reminded him of another thing: he was not the only person who had scores with the Caisah. Was it right of him to take the chance, when there were even more citizens of Conhaero who could not?

Swallowing back his initial reaction, Byre crouched down next to the new arrival. A strange smell lingered around the man, like a breath of winter in the baking heat of the Salt. Even as he examined the man, it was burning off and disappearing. Byre wondered what it could mean.

As it dissipated, they were at last left with the man himself. Byre carefully examined the clothing he wore; this was an opportunity to understand the Caisah in a new way.

He wore armor and a long red cloak. The series of iron plates over his front, back and down each arm were articulated and would have slowed even the stoutest blow. They were, like the helmet, totally alien. Byre, in his time of wandering, had seen many, many things—but none like this. Carefully he ran his fingertips over the armor. The warmth of the Salt was beating down on the metal, but he could still discern the freezing cold that it had been exposed to.

The White Void was supposed to be more frigid than anywhere in Conhaero, and it was the only way to travel between places. It made a kind of sense. The Caisah was not Vaerli—he could not have made it through the Salt’s defences otherwise. However, that meant that the Kindred had helped him, opening the way to the heart of Vaerli society. It could hardly be believed, but the Kindred, who were in a sacred pact with the Vaerli in this moment of time, had delivered their greatest enemy into the heart of their kingdom from the White Void itself.

Byre glanced over his shoulder, but he didn’t need to ask Pelanor if she recognized any of the Caisah’s dress, because her expression was just as baffled as the one he felt he was wearing.

His many dire thoughts were interrupted when at Byre’s feet, the Caisah moaned, his eyelids fluttering madly.

“Why don’t we just kill him now?” Pelanor whispered, her fangs now visible and lying against her full bottom lip. Perhaps she was thinking of drinking from the most powerful being in Conhaero. What would happen if she did? It was an interesting question.

For a moment, Byre’s hand rested on the handle of the long knife at his hip. The greatest enemy of his people was lying completely vulnerable before him. Only one thing stopped his hand from striking: Ellyria Dragonsoul had told him he had to watch. He could only observe. He was merely here to learn the nature of the Caisah, to see the Harrowing with the eyes of a grown man and not a frightened child. The temptation to do more was pressing down on him like a physical weight. He found he was having difficulty breathing.

Finally, Byre let out a long, tortured breath. He could barely believe what he was about to say. “No, Pelanor, we can not do that. This is the past, it has already happened. If we disrupt its progress then unintentional consequences could—”

“You are living this,” she said, snatching his hand up and pressing it against her chest. He could feel his blood within her, racing hard and fast. “You have a chance to slay the originator of the Harrowing, and you will not do it?” She was looking at him with something verging on disgust.

He could see in her eyes that she couldn’t understand what he was thinking.

Maybe he couldn’t either, but he was trying his best to see the larger picture.

“If I spill his life here and now,” Byre said, locking his fingers around hers, “then the ripple of such a mighty change could tear the future apart. We are here as observers only.”

She glared at him, her fangs evident, and along the grip he had on her he could feel her trembling with desire to use them. Yet for all her excitement, this was not Pelanor’s Harrowing. It belonged to the Vaerli.

“Do you understand me?” Byre said, keeping his voice hard and grim. He twisted her arm a little, knowing that her strength was far greater than his. She could have broken his grip at any moment.

Pelanor looked very young to him, standing there ready to defend a people she didn’t know from a threat she didn’t understand. It reminded him of his own distant youth. Quick action was the privilege of the young; the time to repent it that of the old. Byre kept his gaze steely before her. He could not afford her to run free on her instincts.

“Yes,” Pelanor finally returned, yanking her hand free of his with a flick of her wrist. “I want you to remember this moment, and remember I counseled death for the tyrant. I think you shall regret it later.”

It was only when the Caisah shifted on the ground before them that they realized he had been listening to them. Some time in the middle of their argument he had awakened, and had lain very still while they discussed his life and death. It seemed very unlike the Caisah Byre had encountered previously, or the one that was whispered about in hushed tones throughout Conhaero.

When Byre turned his attention once more back to their soon-to-be ruler, he realized that something else was different; looking at him was no longer a simple thing.

Byre blinked twice, and took a step to each side, just to make sure that it was not some weird trick of the blinding light of the Salt. It was not.

The air was bent somehow around the Caisah, as if every beam of light needed to touch him. Among all the whiteness of the Salt Plain, he was its brightest feature.

Byre wanted to ask him about this curious phenomena, but when their gazes locked all questions were suddenly answered. Behind the Caisah’s eyes the memory of the White Void lingered. It had touched him, and made him its own in a deep way that reached beyond what he was. A sound tore at Byre’s ears, though he was not sure if it was audible. Its screams demanded bone, flesh, and mind bend to its will. Now the white of the Salt paled to nothing as the real white seemed to wash over them both. Dimly, the Vaerli realized that he and Pelanor had crashed to their knees before this call. They were dazzled and undone by it.

Then the Caisah blinked; just once, long and hard. Then he shook his head, and the White Void was no longer with them. His eyes were now merely a clear, unremarkable blue—perhaps clouded with uncertainty, but nothing that far from mortal.

While he looked across at Vaerli and Blood Witch on their knees before him, Byre struggled with yet another fact. Only the scions that had seen and beaten the White Void kept it beneath their eyes. The distance between worlds was not travelled idly, and without the guidance of a scion none of the tribes that now inhabited Conhaero would have made it to safety.

He had never heard of the Caisah being a scion. His people revered scions, and when they had retreated from the world there had been much despair. The Caisah had only ever caused despair with his presence.

“Where . . . where am I?” the new arrival asked, and he sounded nothing like the man that Byre had faced over the body of his dead father. Uncertainly was written in every inch of his body, while his face resembled nothing more than a child who had lost their favorite toy.

It felt strange indeed to know that he was giving information to destroyer of the Vaerli, but Byre knew he would have to tread delicately.

“This is Conhaero,” he said as calmly as he could manage. At his back he could feel Pelanor’s lust still beating—perhaps now more than ever. The blood of a scion had to be a tempting target.

“Conhaero?” the Caisah repeated, raising a hand to his head as if he expected to find blood there. “Yes, Conhaero, of course. Conhaero.”

So many questions raced through Byre’s mind that he simply couldn’t choose one. So many scholars had debated where the Caisah had come from, and how he had appeared on the sacred Salt of the Vaerli. Now that the Vaerli had managed to remind himself that he was an observer only, he realized that he should at least try to learn more about the tyrant of Conhaero.

“Did . . .” he paused to clear his throat. These next few moments could mean everything to his quest to return the Gifts of the Vaerli. “Did you come far?”

The man, who looked so young despite what he was, looked at him strangely, but did not answer his question.

Instead, he shifted slightly. “I have a message to deliver,” was all he said, then he levered himself upright, and brushed the salt from his strange costume. When he finally got to his feet he was a little unsteady, but Byre did not move to help him. He was afraid if he touched the tyrant, he might be tempted to throttle or stab him.

Also, he didn’t know what to say to that. If he assisted the Caisah, he was helping the man who had murdered and enslaved his own sister, but he couldn’t just walk away, either. While he thought quickly about what answer to give, Pelanor raised her hand slightly to get his attention. While the Caisah turned slowly around, taking in the expanse of the Salt, she pointed out what she had found to Byre.

It was a staff, as tall as a man, made of some strange deep colored wood, and surmounted with a great golden eagle with spread wings. Byre had no time to tell her to leave it, because like all Blood Witches, she moved fast. Pelanor pried it upright and turned it this way and that, examining it in the bright noon sun.

The Caisah—who had apparently regained his strength quickly—moved as swiftly as a pouncing cat, grabbing hold of the staff and thrusting the Blood Witch aside as if she were a mere mortal. A normal woman would have fallen off her feet, but Pelanor darted backward, and glared at the man with rage that might turn to blood if the Caisah wasn’t careful.

“No woman can touch the eagle,” the newcomer said, his shoulders straightening, as if suddenly realizing he did possess pride.

Byre thought of the Swoop, the worshipers of the Lady of Wings. Their symbol was a bird, too, and in his time the Swoop was used by the Caisah to enforce his will. This could well be the answer to how that particular outrage had happened.

He ran his eye over the man once more, taking in the sword sheath at his side. A warrior then, wherever he had come from—but he looked so young. A scion, a friend of the Kindred. None of these things had he been aware of.