Vengeance of the Hunter (23 page)

She bobbed her head, turning back to climb into the carriage—but she couldn’t, she realized, without saying one last thing to the people around them all. “Thank you,” she called. “
Eshallavan.
Djashtet and all the rest of the gods keep you safe tonight.”

That won her a roar of approval, and that, more than anything, left her drained as she clambered back into the carriage’s shelter.
So many of them.
She’d already seen more people in the past two days than she’d ever seen in her life, and that they raised their voices for her now might have been a blessing of the Lady of Time. In that moment, though, it filled her with far more trepidation than joy.
I
don’t know how much more of this I can do.

Kirinil and Semai climbed in after her. Her teacher clasped her shoulder, and the old Tantiu guardsman inclined his head to her in deep respect, yet there was only so much comfort to be found from them. She’d seen the grim looks in the elves’ eyes, and she didn’t miss that Semai’s hand never strayed far from the curved sword he wore at his side.

Their night had already seen bloodshed, and it was only just beginning.

* * *

The crowd that had stopped them was as good as their word, and for the next several streets, the carriage and the horses that accompanied it were mostly unimpeded. People still streamed past them, following those that had come before; Faanshi glimpsed more than one person calling out to those behind them, gesturing at the carriage, urging them to make way. What they said to one another, she didn’t quite dare to heed too closely. It was all she could do to keep her awareness grounded in her hearth and her magic at rest, and whisper prayers of gratitude to Djashtet that no one else in pain came close enough to them to rouse her power again.

Soon, however, the air grew hotter and the reek of smoke grew stronger. Faanshi began to cough, only to have Semai lean over and pull her borrowed
korfi
up over her face, protecting her nose and mouth as his own were protected by his. “Keep this up,” he advised her.

And soon enough, they had to abandon the carriage entirely. Their borrowed horse began to panic, balking at pulling them any closer to the conflagration ahead. Morrigh and Tornach were made of sterner stuff, but even they rebelled at the directions of their riders. As Semai and Kirinil pulled her out of the carriage, Faanshi spied embers on the breeze, drifting all too close to them.

Here, there were fewer people on the street. But what people Faanshi spotted were running for their lives, all save two men who she abruptly recognized as ones she’d seen in the tunnels below the city. Kirinil stopped them both. “Get this horse back to safety,” he urged them. “We need to make it to St. Telran’s, are the streets clear? Can we go around?”

“The fire brigades are out with the watch,” the first man reported. “They’re pushing the flames back toward the docks. Fire ain’t got to the cathedral yet.”

“But you’re mad if you’re heading there,” said his companion. “Damn place’s crawling with Hawks tonight—and three—or fourscore angry people with swords and guns ready to tear its walls down.”

“Fighting?” Faanshi blurted, aghast. Only after that cry escaped her did she realize the others were exchanging dubious looks, and then turning them to her.

Kirinil asked her, “
Valannè
, are you sure you’re up to this?”

She wasn’t sure, not in the slightest, but that was no answer to give now. “I have to be if Kestar is there. I have to try, at least.”

“Then we’ll do this. Alarrah? Semai?”

Semai said simply, “I have already pledged my aid,
akreshi.
”

“I came this far,” Alarrah agreed, “and I’m certainly not backing down now.”

Tugging his restless Tornach forward by the reins, Rab joined them and grudgingly announced, “You may count me in too.” He slanted a glance toward Faanshi without quite directly looking at her, and added, “Because if nothing else, I believe I owe you both an apology and a thank-you. I trust this will suffice for both.”

That left Julian, and Faanshi, her heart in her throat, turned to him. He had no magic, yet his eyes blazed almost as bright as the elves’, sharp and blue in his smudged face. She couldn’t think of a word to utter, for he’d been right—he’d almost died helping her seek Kestar once. She couldn’t bear the notion of his risking himself again.

Then one corner of his mouth curled up in the small grin she’d come to know, and her heart soared.

“It’d take me longer to get to anywhere not currently on fire than it would to go with you,” he said, “and I’d just drive myself mad with restlessness if I did. Lead on, girl. Let’s go find your Hawk.”

Chapter Twenty-One

St.
Telran’s Cathedral
,
Shalridan
,
Jeuchar 4
,
AC 1876

Kestar never made it back to sleep after the Duchess Khamsin left him. To his profound disquiet he heard a distant clamor somewhere out beyond the cathedral grounds, a tumult that made him wonder if the riot they’d ridden through on the way into St. Telran’s had escalated. Worse, the night breeze that blew in through his cell’s narrow windows carried a distinct bite of smoke. He couldn’t see much in the direction those windows faced, but the far-off noise and the slowly building smell of fire kept him pacing the length and breadth of his prison. He could do little else, besides checking the windows repeatedly for any sign of activity out in the night or striving again to reach for Faanshi’s mind, for all that his aching head made such efforts feel as fruitless as shouting for Celoren or his mother.

Possibilities chased themselves through his thoughts as he paced, and he couldn’t decide which was more likely—that whatever unrest had swept through Shalridan tonight would delay action against them, or that Captain Amarsaed would stand by the Order’s first duty and convene a tribunal as soon as he could.

It was no consolation that the latter, as the Duchess Khamsin had warned, proved true.

Two priests with the disheveled look of men who’d been rousted from their beds came for him, not long after the duchess took her leave. Neither were Hawks; they had no amulets, and moreover, they didn’t have the frames or bearings of men who’d gone through the Academy’s training. But they were priests, and that was enough to put him on his guard.

Priests, after all, were the ones who carried out the Cleansings.

“Come along quietly,” the first one told him as they unlocked his cell. “It’s time.”

No one else was in sight in the corridor, and so Kestar had no way of knowing whether others had already come for Celoren and his mother. “What’s going on out in the streets?” he asked, in as polite a tone as he could manage. “I smelled smoke.”

“I don’t think that’s any concern of yours,” the second priest said, pushing him to move him along. “Unless you’re involved, and we’ll be discussing that soon enough.”

Too soon for my liking
, Kestar thought, but he knew better than to say that aloud. Neither of his escorts offered further commentary. None was needed, for their stern faces and the stout clubs they both carried were all the statements they needed.

They led him down out of the tower to St. Telran’s great central nave, a vast and ornate chamber said to seat over two thousand souls in its pews. At this hour of the night the place was almost empty. Lamps spaced at wide intervals all along the walls lighted it nonetheless, along with an array of candles placed all around the altar, like orbiting stars. To the left of the altar stood statues of the Father and the Son, and to the right, the Mother and the Daughter. Behind it was a towering organ, which Kestar had heard played only once in his lifetime. It was silent now.

Before the altar were the only people in the nave, and once Kestar saw them, everything else faded in importance.

There were two more priests besides the ones escorting him in, and along with them, three priestesses. Ten Hawks in all, Captain Amarsaed, a ragged-looking Bron Wulsten, Jekke Yerredes, the rest of the ones who’d ridden with them from Bremany, and two more he didn’t know, were ranged around the front of the nave. As soon as he drew close enough, every one of their amulets kindled with clear blue light.

The Duchess of Shalridan, so coolly composed in her mourning garb that she looked as though she were not at all troubled by the hour, had claimed one of the foremost pews. Several armed men flanked her on either side, including three Tantiu in the livery of Lomhannor Hall—and two more men that he recognized from Lomhannor’s guard force. Neither of them was Captain Follingsen, nor the two others who’d abandoned Amarsaed’s patrol in Marriham. In a surge of disquiet Kestar wondered where they’d taken Father Enverly, and if the duchess had arranged to liberate the priest too.

An older man he didn’t know by face but who wore the velvet robe and gold chain signifying him as the Lord Provost of Shalridan claimed another of the pews. More armed guards accompanied him, and all their faces were pale and tired. From some among them, Kestar noted, there wafted a faint trace of the smell of smoke.

On the pew closest to the altar, flanked by two of the Hawks and faced by Captain Amarsaed and the priests and priestesses, were Celoren and his mother—who looked up sharply as he was brought forward to join them. Kestar took Ganniwer’s hand as he was made to sit down beside her, but neither of them dared speak.

And at any rate, the provost was already demanding loudly, “Is this all of them, then? Can we get on with it? There’s riot and fire in the streets, and I think we all have more important things to be doing!”

“Does the Lord Provost intend to suggest,” asked the eldest of the priests, a man in the white cassock of a priest of the Father, “that the business of the Church must step aside for more worldly concerns?”

His tone was deference itself, and yet the provost hesitated, scowling, before finally waving an irritated hand. “Of course not, Father. But I don’t think any of us can deny that tonight’s worldly concerns are of urgent importance.”

“We’ll be quick.” Captain Amarsaed strode over to stand directly before Kestar, glowering down at him, his face lit from below by his amulet. “And now that the prisoners are before us, in the name of the Bhandreid Ealasaid, in the year 1876 of the Blessed Anreulag, I convene this tribunal.”

“
Ani a bhota Anreulag
,
arach shae
,” intoned the priests and priestesses as one.

“Prisoners, you will identify yourselves.”

Ganniwer had been crying, Kestar saw—her eyes were reddened, her lashes moist with still-drying tears. But there was no trace of anything but calm composure in her voice as she proclaimed, “I am Ganniwer Vaarsen, Baroness of Bremany, widow of Dorvid, mother of Kestar.”

“Celoren Valleford of Kilmerry Province,” Celoren said, and with the slightest of hesitations, he added, “Hawk. Ordained in the name of the Anreulag in 1872.”

Then it was Kestar’s turn, and he understood Cel’s pause, for he too was uncertain how much longer either of them could lay claim to membership of the Order—if they could at all, now, since their amulets had been taken.
But until the Anreulag Herself tells me otherwise or smites me
,
well
. “Kestar Vaarsen, son of Dorvid and Ganniwer,” he said. “Hawk. Ordained in the name of the Anreulag, 1872.”

Captain Amarsaed sneered at him and Celoren alike, though to Kestar’s surprise, he didn’t yet challenge their claims. “Lady Ganniwer Vaarsen, Celoren Valleford, you stand accused of conspiracy to aid and abet possessors of elven blood and elven magic, in violation of the heresy laws of the Church of the Four Gods. Valleford, you in particular also stand accused of abandoning your sworn duty as a member of the Order of the Hawk, and refusing to apprehend an escaped slave and known possessor of magic. By testimony of the guards of Lomhannor Hall, your actions are reported to have led to the death of His Grace the Duke of Shalridan, Holvirr Kilmerredes, and you are therefore further accused of involuntary manslaughter.”

“We never laid a hand on the man!” Celoren protested.

“Silence, prisoner. Kestar Vaarsen, you also stand accused of abandoning your sworn duty as a member of the Order, of refusing to apprehend the aforementioned escaped slave and mage, and of negligence leading to the death of the Duke of Shalridan. Thus you are also charged with involuntary manslaughter. Additionally, you are accused of possession of elven blood and elven magic, against all teachings of the Church and in affront of the sight of the Voice of the Gods. Prisoners, how do you plead?”

“Is that going to make the slightest bit of difference?” Kestar asked. It wasn’t wise, but with Cleansing and death looking him in the face, he found he was beyond caring.

“You need to ask that with the amulets all speaking?” one of the younger priests said incredulously. “Are you as mad as they say, Vaarsen?”

Amarsaed’s sneer became a scowl, and one of his hands balled into a fist that Kestar thought might launch at him at any moment. But to his surprise, the man controlled himself. “Prisoners,” he repeated in a growl, “how do you plead?”

“Well, as long as it’s not going to make any difference anyway, not guilty,” Celoren said. “I wouldn’t want to inconvenience the Lord Provost.”

“Not guilty,” Ganniwer said, her voice unwavering even as Kestar turned to her in sorrow.

“Mother, you don’t need to die along with me.”

“I see no other option about to present itself, Kescha.”

All without his intending, Kestar’s gaze shot back over his shoulder to the duchess, two pews behind him. She was watching him, black eyes bright in the combined radiance of the candles and the amulets. But she made no acknowledgement of him, much less any move to speak—or repeat the offer she’d brought to him earlier in the night.

Now Amarsaed did finally surge forward, plowing his fist into Kestar’s gut and dragging his attention back sharply forward once more. “Prisoner,
how do you plead?
”

Panting, in pain, he looked up at him. “Not guilty.”

* * *

Abandoning the carriage, for all the increase in speed and maneuverability it gave them, proved to be a mistake. Many of the buildings closest to St. Telran’s were ablaze, and the open streets between them were overrun with fighting. Rioters chanted “Nirrivy!” in all directions, while those they battled bellowed the names of the Anreulag and the Four Gods. So chaotic had the streets become, and so potent the heat and the stench of smoke, that Morrigh and Tornach soon balked as their other horse had done and refused to carry Julian, Rab and Faanshi any farther. With the greatest reluctance, the assassins turned their mounts loose rather than risk either stallion getting killed. Kirinil and Alarrah led the way while Rab brought up the rear, and Julian and Semai applied themselves to guarding Faanshi.

But once she was on foot and in the open, no matter how quickly she ran at Julian’s side, she was vulnerable to those on either side of the conflict—and others.

They had to duck through several twisting alleys to find a clear path to the cathedral, and as they did so, hands lashed out seemingly from nowhere to grab Faanshi and haul her sideways, hard, into shadow.

“I know who you are,” a rough voice rasped in her ear. “The one the Church is looking for. City going up in smoke around us, everything’s going to hell, but you? You’re going to let me start over. They’ll pay for you.”

Before Faanshi could draw a breath for a reply, Julian whirled and sprang into the narrower alley in her attacker’s wake, with Semai looming ominously behind him. “Do you know who
I
am?” Julian asked, his voice soft and deadly. Though she hadn’t seen him draw, both his hands now held knives. “Because if you do, you’ll know what I’m about to do to you if you don’t let her go.”

“And what he doesn’t do, dog,” Semai added, “I will. Unhand her at once.”

So close had Faanshi’s assailant pulled her up against him that she could feel him beginning to tremble, pinned as he was between her and the brick wall behind them both. “Back off, Rook!” he cried, though his voice went higher now, strident with fear. A much closer knife flashed into Faanshi’s line of sight, pressing up tight against her neck. “Come another step closer and this pretty little Tantiu girl is going to bleed. Church didn’t say whether they wanted her dead or alive.”

This was it, exactly why Julian had given her lessons in self-defense. Faanshi frantically searched her mind for them now, as ardently as she’d sought the words to any prayer, only to realize that her attacker had too strong and sure a hold upon her to allow her to break out of his grasp. If she tried, surely his knife would pierce her throat.

But she had other ways of fighting.

“
Akreshi
, by Djashtet or whatever gods you hold sacred, please let me go,” she said quietly. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

The man who’d seized her giggled, a noise born not of merriment, but of desperation. “I can’t, chit, don’t you see? My house is a pile of ashes. My wife and child burned tonight. And if I bring you in, maybe they’ll help me, maybe the Church’ll let me go to them—”

Faanshi didn’t let him finish. But because of the pleading in his voice, she held back at the last moment as she unleashed her power, and dropped him into unconsciousness without pain. As his hold on her fell away she threw herself forward on shuddering legs, trusting that Julian would sheathe both his weapons and catch her before she could fall.

He did, and for a long moment, she clung to him.

Rab and the elves came skittering into the alley after them, and at the sight of the fallen form, Alarrah warned, “This man may burn if we leave him here.”

Faanshi pulled out of the Rook’s hold and shook her head. “He won’t sleep long. He’ll wake up if the fire comes too close. Please, let’s keep moving. We have to get to Kestar.”

No one argued, for which she sent Djashtet a thankful prayer. She’d remembered the
ridah
of compassion just in time, but she was badly shaken now, and not at all sure if she’d be able to do it twice if anyone else blocked their progress.

Crone of Night willing, she wouldn’t have to.

* * *

The plan worked splendidly, at least at first. Shaymis Enverly was far too practical a man to believe that he could accompany the duchess all the way to St. Telran’s Cathedral unchallenged and unrecognized. He wouldn’t trigger amulets, but his name and face had to have spread to every Hawk in Kilmerry once Captain Follingsen had rescued him from Amarsaed’s patrol. Follingsen too was at risk now for that very action, and therefore unable to provide direct support to Her Grace. Enverly commandeered him instead to aid him into getting into Shalridan, along with a small number of specially chosen men and women, and crates of swords, pistols, powder and shot.