Valor of the Healer (29 page)

A hard glower settled across Darlana’s features. “Son of one who’s oppressed his own blood. Don’t think I didn’t hear, boy, because I’ve lived here all these years! Come to seek forgiveness for your papa? Ought to do it himself.”

“My father’s dead,” Kestar barked, more vehemently than he intended. It forced him to step back a moment, coughing. Grenham reached for him, his brow furrowed, but Kestar waved him back. “And that isn’t important, Sister. Please...I came to ask you how to find the elves.”

Darlana cackled, hoarse and harsh. “Not telling. Wouldn’t tell Randal or young Cortland here. Won’t tell you.” Her tears welled up again, streaking down her withered cheeks. “His people suffered enough already because of me.”

Her resistance shouldn’t have surprised or disturbed Kestar. But it did. He hesitated, torn between arguments to put forth, none of which held much strength against the old woman’s resolve. Faanshi’s presence in his awareness was one potent case he might make—except he couldn’t bring himself to tell Darlana that a young woman’s life was at stake when he was its greatest threat. “Will you at least tell me if my...my great-grandfather is still alive?”

That seemed to reach her, if only to redouble her tears. Kestar thought of his mother; this woman’s unrepentant weeping might have been Ganniwer’s, when she’d received the word of her husband’s death. He fumbled through his pockets till he found a handkerchief, rumpled but clean. Awkwardly he offered it, for it would have been forward to dab at her face himself. Darlana didn’t thank him, though she did take the kerchief, pressing it against each eye. Then she looked up once more.

“Riniel is gone,” she rasped. “Your Anreulag killed him. Slaughtered him before my eyes along with others of his people, for no crime save wanting to live and be free. You want to hunt him in Her name, you’re too late.” Her voice was stark, hollowed out by old pain and filled in again with bitter venom undiluted by the accumulation of her years.

Kestar kept from flinching under its lash, but only just. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“You should be. Now leave me, boy. Let me die in peace.”

With that Darlana closed her eyes and turned her face back toward the window and the sunlight on the hawthorn trees outside. The young knight glanced out through the panes of glass, and for a moment could think of nothing but a meadow’s glow within his dreams.

Father Grenham’s hand settled on his shoulder. “Come now,” the abbot murmured. “We should let her rest, and I think you could stand to rest a while yourself.”

Kestar’s head felt too full, his heart too heavy within his aching chest to argue. Dully, he let the older man lead him out of the room. Rest sounded all too tempting. The thought of climbing back onto a horse, even plodding little Granna, made him hurt from head to toe. Yet scarcely a few steps down the hall he stopped short, a protest mustering at last.

“This allows me no haven here, Father,” he said, holding up his amulet, his fingers wreathed with its damning light.

Unfazed, Grenham answered, “For over seventy years we’ve sheltered one who consorted with elves, my son, and I’m not about to turn you away just for the sake of the blood she gave you. You’ll be safe here tonight.”

It was far more than Kestar had expected or hoped for, and he wasn’t certain he’d heard the other man correctly. But Father Grenham’s features held no duplicity, nothing save steadfast concern. His weary thoughts frayed, and he had to fight to keep from swaying. “But...why? Why aren’t you Cleansing me this instant?”

The abbot gave him a sad and solemn smile. “You’ve trusted me with a dangerous secret about yourself, and so I’ll ask you this in return. What gods do you think we worship here?”

Blearily Kestar peered at him, and only then did his understanding dawn. Nothing obvious had struck him as out of the ordinary. Everyone’s robes looked as traditional as custom dictated, each holy symbol what the eye expected, at least if that eye belonged to the Church of the Four Gods. But he had yet to hear the abbot, or anyone else he’d seen so far in this place, swear by Father or Mother, Son or Daughter, or even the Anreulag.

“You’re Nirrivan,” he whispered, and Cortland Grenham inclined his head.

“We are among the last adherents to the Nirrivan gods left in this country, and we are very,
very
good at pretending otherwise. If we weren’t, we wouldn’t have been able to shelter Sister Darlana all this time.”

“Who is she? Is she truly one of your sisters?”

The abbot sighed, glancing back to the chamber they’d just left. “She never took vows. But we began to call her that after a time, to offer her a place among us if she wished it. She doesn’t like to be reminded of it anymore, but she was once Darlana Araeldes—the niece of Dunchadh Araeldes.”

“The Bhandreid’s father?” Kestar’s thoughts frayed further; once again, things made a terrible kind of sense. Not even royal blood was supposed to be immune to the laws of the Church and the realm. Yet here in a Nirrivan abbey, hiding in plain sight, there was a gulf between what was supposed to be and what was in fact true.

His expression sorrowful, Grenham nodded and took his arm once more. “If you won’t sleep yet, Kestar Vaarsen, then come with me. I have a long tale to tell you.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

“We must do it again, Julian. I don’t have it right yet.”

By all rights, Faanshi should have buckled under days ago. Julian had taken her on one hard journey out of Camden already. Now they were on the move again, at a pace that even a soldier might find grueling, and at the girl’s own insistence. She had only the barest beginnings of woodcraft and horsemanship, never mind knowledge of the world at large. On this ride, though, he saw she’d gained something on the way out of Dolmerrath—purpose. It hadn’t honed her, not yet. But he could tell now where her blade’s edge would eventually be.

What Kirinil was doing to teach her mastery of her power was beyond Julian’s knowing. All he could tell was that it didn’t require them to stop for food or rest, and that under the mage’s guidance, Faanshi rode with her gaze so sharply focused that she might have been seeking out the oldest secrets of existence, or listening to the voice of her threefold goddess. If her efforts were successful, that too was beyond his ability to tell, past what he could glean from the conversations of the others.

She accepted what stops they had to make without complaint, much as she’d done everything else he’d seen her called upon to bear. Yet with that new sharp stare of hers, Faanshi had come to him the first night they’d camped and asked him to teach her to defend herself. He could find no reason to refuse the request, and neither had Kirinil or Alarrah. In fact, the elves had joined their efforts to his, and begun instructing the girl in the basics of bow and dagger. More than once, they did it while simultaneously drilling her on concentration exercises to strengthen her magical control.

Tonight, though, Kirinil and Alarrah had left their charge entirely to him.

After two days of strenuous riding they’d camped once more. The elves cooked the night’s meal over the tiny firepit they’d dug, sending the scents of roasting apples and mushrooms wafting across the clearing. Faanshi stood before him, feet planted wide in the stance he’d shown her, knees bent slightly to take her weight. Sweat gleamed across her brow and her features were worn, but she looked up at him with determination.

Julian had to admit that he was impressed.

“Not yet,” he agreed, circling her. “Do you know why?”

“I’m not getting out of your way quickly enough,” she panted. “I’m not using your weight against you as I should be.”

She didn’t turn to track his motions, but her head cocked just enough for her to listen for the sound of his footfalls. Good. If her elven blood had given her keener senses, she’d do well to use them.

“Then give it another try.” Julian came at her again, fast and silent, straight on from behind to evade her line of sight. Faanshi tried to pivot but couldn’t avoid him as his arms snaked out around her. “You want to keep from wounding an opponent,” he growled into her ear, “you have to get away from him. Break out of my hold. Now!”

She gasped and struggled against him, fear she hadn’t yet conquered shuddering through her frame. That he expected—but the reaction that swept through him, an unthinking, immediate need to soothe that fear, took him off guard. He grimaced and hung on to her. Faanshi had asked him to teach her, and he would, by gods—

Recollection flared.

Seizing
Dulcinea
and
pushing
her
against
the
study
wall
—

Julian flinched, his grip loosening, freeing Faanshi to writhe away from him. He barely noticed. Stumbling back a step, rubbing his hand against his eye, he hauled in a breath and fought to control his runaway pulse.

In that same moment, without warning, Kirinil’s voice rapped out Faanshi’s name. With a wild look, she snapped her attention round to the mage. He’d risen to his feet by the fire and held both hands outstretched, one with his drawn dagger, the other now sliced and bleeding at the palm. “Shield, child,” he commanded.

His timing and tone alike were ruthless, and Julian almost admired that—after all, the girl would have to learn how to control her power when she least expected it. The thought crossed his mind that he should seize Faanshi again to help the elf press the point of his lesson. Yet he held back, and instead grimaced off into the trees rather than risk touching her again.

That was all he needed to do to let the moment pass, for slender fingers then grasped his shoulder. “Julian? Are you all right?”

How was it, he wondered, that she was most likely to look at him unafraid when she was worried for him? “It’s...nothing,” he grunted, glancing away. The elves too were studying him, looking up at him from their places at the fire even as Alarrah took Kirinil’s wounded hand and bathed it in her magic. Their unreadable expressions were easier to bear than Faanshi’s unvarnished concern. “That’ll do for tonight. We’re both tired.”

She began to speak, then caught herself and lowered her hand. “All right.”

Julian risked a look back at her and wished he hadn’t. Far too much understanding for his comfort shimmered in her eyes, and rather than face them an instant longer he whirled and stalked to the saddlebag he’d taken from Morrigh’s back. Rummaging through its contents quickly yielded a currycomb. He needed something to occupy himself, anything except getting back within arm’s reach of the girl. Grooming his weary horse would have to do.

Their campsite was small enough that even out of the corner of his eye, he couldn’t miss the thoughtful look Alarrah gave him. “We’re all tired,” she said, “and you should come have one of the apples.”

“It’ll wait.”

No one said anything more to forestall him, and with relief he put his back to the others as he reached his stallion’s side. Recognizing the pull of the currycomb along his coat, Morrigh let out a drowsy snuffle of approval and swiveled his neck toward his rider, bringing his mane within Julian’s reach. It was a vain little move, and it almost made him grin. But it didn’t quite help.

After a few moments he heard Faanshi settle down at the fire. Her words were no louder than either of the elves’, but when Alarrah offered to teach her Elvish, a glad cry pealed out of her. Then Alarrah’s voice lilted into the opening measures of what sounded to Julian like a simple, sweet children’s song. A few moments after, Faanshi joined her. So did Kirinil, with a warm chuckle in his voice as he slid into a line of harmony.

Grateful to have his back turned, Julian drew the comb along Morrigh’s neck. Yet he couldn’t block out the singing, or the memory of holding Faanshi as she’d wept on his shoulder. His fingers shook, and he scowled at them, refraining from throwing the comb away only because he refused to betray his agitation to the others. Instead he slipped the comb into his belt, propped his false hand against the horse’s flank, and then twined his fingers into the long strands of Morrigh’s mane.

The quivering in his hand subsided after a few moments. Less swift to ebb were the echoes of old guilt, like wounds not yet healed in his flesh—and the sting of the absence of Rab.

* * *

Faanshi had already warned them that she lacked the geography to tell them where they were going, other than that they were to head eastward through the hills that lined the northern coast. “Kestar will be toward the dawn,” was all that she offered when pressed. How they’d get there, what route to follow and how they’d conceal themselves along the way were left to Julian and the elves to discern. Scouting and backtracking, when they weren’t stopped to rest or to teach the girl, stretched the trek out to three days.

For the life of him Julian couldn’t tell when, or if, Faanshi slept. She went to her bedroll when it was time but was awake before him each morning, and he slept little himself. Shadows began to ring her eyes, though she showed no other sign of physical exhaustion. If anything, she moved with increasing fluid grace both in and out of the saddle. Which wouldn’t have worried him—if he hadn’t seen how her Hawk had overwhelmed her when they’d crossed the Wards, or heard how the cadences of his voice kept stealing into hers.

But he had no time for worry. All their waking moments were occupied until they reached their destination at last.

The valley was pretty enough, though he had little taste for such things as hawthorn trees in summer bloom. Far more vital to his interest were the abbey’s humble buildings of whitewashed wood and rough-hewn stone, ornamented only by the Star of the Four Gods atop the highest roof. A low wall encircled the place, though more to demarcate where the abbey’s grounds ended and the fields around it began than to provide any kind of defense against intrusion. That suited him. Such a wall would be no obstacle to them.

Faanshi slipped off Alarrah’s horse and stared down at the compound, her face set in thoughtful lines. “The symbol of the Church is on that place. It’s holy ground?”

“Yes,” Julian told her. “It’s an abbey. Priests and priestesses live there in seclusion to worship the gods.”

“Your Hawk’s there, then?” Kirinil’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, as if he expected armed men to erupt from among the hawthorn trees.

“I feel him. His wound still speaks to me.” Faanshi nodded in satisfaction. “It’s fitting he sought refuge there.”

She began to bolt forward, but Julian seized her, drawing her startled gaze. “Don’t be hasty,” he warned. “We’ll take this slow and stealthily. Remember what I told you by the river.”

“Keep quiet. Move when you tell me. Run when you tell me.”

Her words came out suspiciously close to a prayer. Julian never felt prayerful under the most peaceful of circumstances; this close to breaking into a holy sanctuary, it seemed ridiculous. Yet he couldn’t begrudge the girl a sign of his approval, and so he offered her a small crooked smile.

To his relief, despite her otherworldly stare, Faanshi smiled back.

Thus they set to the plan they’d agreed upon at their last camp. Kirinil and Alarrah ranged ahead, for the sun was going down and he had to allow that they’d both move with far greater speed and silence than he through the gathering dusk. For his own part, he set Faanshi to keep watch while he secured the horses in the safest place they could find in the hills around the abbey—though he paid sharp heed to every sound he heard, to seek out what the girl might not catch herself. From some distance off shouts and hurried footsteps sounded, but none of the calls were of warning. Instead, the ringing of a solemn bell told him why stragglers out in the fields might be hurrying into the compound.

“Vespers,” he murmured when Faanshi drew close enough to catch his whisper, and she nodded once.

They waited. Julian hadn’t set foot in a church for any reasons save mercenary ones since his boyhood, but he hadn’t forgotten the length of the evening service. Neither had the elves. Only when that span of time had passed did they return, bringing word that none of the abbey’s inhabitants were stirring on the wall or out on the grounds. Nor had they spotted anyone who might be Faanshi’s Hawk. Which meant nothing. If the man had become a fugitive, he wasn’t likely to leave a safe haven, assuming that the abbey had given him sanctuary instead of taking him prisoner on the spot. Assuming he was even within. But Faanshi had said he was, and he wouldn’t doubt her now.

“There’s a postern gate,” Kirinil reported. “It’s locked. Alarrah and I could scale the wall, but you two—” His tone remained polite, but the look he cast them relayed the doubt his words did not.

“I don’t think I could climb a wall,” Faanshi admitted.

“If there’s a lock, there won’t be a problem,” Julian said, his mouth curling. “Get us there.”

They made their way then, down out of the tree-blanketed hills, toward the abbey’s western wall. Alarrah took the lead while Kirinil brought up the rear, protecting Faanshi and Julian before and behind, until they reached the niche in the wall that hid the postern gate from the view of most of the valley. No voices called alarms and no warning shots rang out to deter them from their goal, though Julian had no faith that the quiet would last.

At the gate the elves took up posts on either side of him while he dropped to one knee before the heavy iron grillwork. As he ran his fingertips over the thick casing of the lock, flakes of rust fell away, betraying its age and condition. He ignored them, along with Kirinil asking, “Human, how exactly do you intend to do this?”

Julian shot him a look but spared no time for an answer. Instead he held out his hand to Faanshi. His senses always sharpened into a peculiar alertness so close to an infiltration. Tonight, for the sake of the girl, they sought danger in the slightest smell or sound. A task to focus on was exactly what he needed, and at this task, he’d excel. “Take my glove off. I need my fingers unencumbered.”

She crouched beside him, taking his hand in both of hers with only fleeting trepidation as she tugged the snug-fitting black glove free. Unwilling to let her hesitate, he shook the bared hand vigorously and then dipped it into a pocket to fetch his pouch of lock picks. “Hold this,” he said, thrusting the pouch at her, and as soon as she accepted it, he flipped it open to pull the pick he wanted forth.

“Julian, what are you doing? Isn’t the gate locked?”

She sounded like a curious child, and Julian grinned. Of course she’d never seen someone pick a lock before. It’d behoove her to learn, if she was throwing in her lot with the elves of Dolmerrath; it’d be a survival skill. “Watch this,” he said, sliding the pick into the lock.

Tykhe was fickle with Her fortune, for the lock was simple of design, but old and rusted. Julian had no trouble finding the tumblers, yet they shifted only with too-audible reluctance against his pick. He didn’t flinch at the mechanism’s creaking, or Faanshi’s start of dismay at the noise. But as the last tumbler moved, he paused, listening hard.

No sounds came through the gate, neither running footsteps nor cries of alarm at their disturbance. They might just make it into the abbey undetected—if, just as she’d sensed him, the Hawk didn’t already sense that Faanshi was near and was about to call armed attackers down upon their heads—

For that, though, there was nothing they could do but remain alert.