Victory Of The Hawk Part 15

She awoke screaming. None of the names that emerged in the backward roil of her dreaming thoughts were her own. How many hours had pa.s.sed in her slumber was irrelevant, as was the barn that exploded from her wrath when her will set the grain afire. She stalked out of its ruins, hale once more, and allowed the cats who fled in terror to live only because they were creatures too small to command her notice. She had other hunting to do.

Amathilaen was awake. She could feel it across leagues of distance, and the new scar its bullet had dealt her dully burned in response to its call. The pain was negligible now. What was left was almost welcome, for it was her beacon, her hunting hound.

The humans had Amathilaen, but not the proper hands to wield it. Therefore she would take it from them. She couldn't recall if she'd killed the queen of her enslavers-the aged human who'd dared to strike her with a weapon that should have by rights incinerated her unworthy hands-though that too was immaterial. If the Bhandreid lived, she would be the next to fall. If she ordered her followers to raise Amathilaen against her again, then she would, with pleasure, kill every human who dared to touch it.

And then she would make their city burn.

It took only a thought to follow the ancient weapon's call, and once more the world rearranged itself around her at her power's demand. This time she appeared in the midst of a wide square, one that showed signs she'd attacked it before. The fountain in its center was cracked asunder, with no water flowing from the vase held up in the stone hands of the now-headless statue of a maiden. A third of the buildings in her immediate sight were as ruined as the barn she'd abandoned, and of the rest, their shattered windows and brickwork were scored by fire. The air stank of scorched stone and wood. It was glorious.

Waiting for her by the fountain, though, were a score of humans in uniforms of russet and black and white, all of whom swung weapons in her direction as soon as she appeared. Rifles. They spat their own paltry fire, and she strode through the stinging of their bullets as she might have done a cloud of gnats.

With a casual flick of her hands, she threw power into the formation the humans had set up against her and sent bodies of rifle-wielders flying to either side. That cleared the way for one more human, the one she wanted-the one who wielded Amathilaen. Yet to her shock, it was not the aged queen. It was the young human woman, the one she'd spared, only because she'd wanted nothing of her but her freedom.

"I am Margaine Araeldes," she called, "mother to Padraiga, heir to the throne of this realm, and in the name of peace I bid you stand down."

There was only one response to make to that, for despite her brave words, the human's gaze was flat with fear. Her fear made her prey, and the weapon in her hands made her a lawful target.

"I will have peace when your entire city is ash!"

Once more she hurled her fire-but the woman Margaine fired Amathilaen in the same moment, a wild shot that struck her head and sent her stumbling back the way she'd come. Snarling, she obliterated what was left of the broken fountain in her retreat, and the last thing she heard before she vanished was the terrified cry from one of the woman's soldiers.

"It didn't work, Your Highness. d.a.m.n it all, it didn't work!"

The countryside near Dareli, Jeuchar 23, AC 1876 Eight people were not as small a company as Julian or Kestar would have liked, Faanshi suspected. But eight people-on seven horses, for she was still too new to riding any horse but Morrigh to swiftly move on a mount of her own-nonetheless moved far more swiftly than an army. Soon enough they left Kilmerry Province behind, and Faanshi learned anew that the world was far larger than she'd ever dreamed.

They crossed the Brannaligh Hills first, hills that ran from Kilmerry southward to Carrowdaw and Gallister, the other two provinces that had sent soldiers to join Khamsin's army. Brannaligh, she learned from the others, meant borderline in Old Hethloni; they'd once served as the easternmost boundary of Nirrivy. At Kestar's insistence they took the southern road through the hills, for the northern road led to the village of Hawksvale. The academy where he, Celoren and Jekke had trained as Hawks was there, and Faanshi could see nothing but wisdom in avoiding it, even if the amulets of the Hawks had ceased to raise their alarm against elf blood and elf magic.

On the other side of the Brannalighs lay the province of Hedmark. It was flatter than the land that Faanshi knew, and the road they followed took them through vast fields of corn and wheat. The broad, rolling terrain let them move quickly, though Tembriel had to ride with the hood of her cloak up, and Faanshi hid her face behind her korfi. They weren't the only travelers on the road through Hedmark-and the farther east they rode, the more people they found hurrying frantically westward. Halfway through the province, each time they stopped to buy or barter for food or water for themselves and the horses, they began to see why.

Field after field lay blackened and burned. Buildings were leveled, with neither rhyme nor reason; some villages they pa.s.sed had but a single ruined building, while others had been flattened as though from ma.s.sive explosive force. None of their company really needed confirmation, for they'd seen what the Anreulag-the mage Gerren had named Marwyth, the Black Sun-could do. Yet as they hastened across Hedmark as fast as they could ride, the word from the people remained the same.

"The Voice of the G.o.ds burned our fields and the Church won't tell us how we've sinned!"

"How did we anger Her? We're farmers, for G.o.ds' sakes!"

"They say it's even worse in Dareli, and you're all d.a.m.ned fools if you're heading there. Turn around and go back where you came from if you know what's good for you!"

Close to the eastern edge of the province, where they had to veer north again to head for Dareli, the devastation that met their eyes grew direr indeed. Fields held nothing but ash and scorched earth, and the smaller towns became broken ruins, skeletons of buildings where prosperous squares and markets had once stood. The road grew more crowded, forcing them by necessity to slow their place, and giving them plenty of time to see the few bands of harried-looking Hawks who galloped eastward past them, as if charging to their own doom. None stopped to question them, a blessing indeed. But Faanshi grew worried that that fortune wouldn't last, for the more people they pa.s.sed on the road, the more her power began to stir into life.

Broken limbs. Seared flesh. Lungs that still labored from the choking miasma of smoke. She sensed them all in the people who fled past them toward the west, and at first she forced herself to ignore the glimmers of pain that skittered along the edges of her senses. But the magic's insistence grew stronger, filling her sleep with specters of the wounded and the dying, all beyond her reach. It refused to be contained by the hearth she'd crafted in her mind, and it ate away at the shields Kirinil had taught her to raise around her awareness, until at last she could sense even the smallest aches and bruises by her companions in hours on end of long, hard riding.

When she began to hear echoes of Kestar's thoughts, Faanshi begged the others to let her help the stricken ones they found. "Every ridah bids me heal them. Djashtet bids me heal them. Why else do we make this journey if not to save lives?"

Kestar hardly needed to voice his a.s.sent, or much of anything else. Close enough to him to speak, she could feel his agitation and worry-the same things they all felt, yet coalesced and magnified in him-and she knew without having to ask that he was beginning to sense her thoughts in return. "The next time we find someone who needs it," he promised, "we'll stop so you can help them."

Twenty miles into the province of Karthald, on the road called the Queensway, Faanshi got her chance.

The Queensway was in truth two roads running side by side, one to the northeast toward Dareli, the other back the way they'd come. Each was paved with cobblestones, mile after mile of them, clattering under wagon wheels and horses' hooves. But many of the cobblestones were missing, and many more blackened by the same signs of fire that had swept through much of the land. To either side of the twin roads, the countryside lay blasted. Hillsides gentler than those of Kilmerry bore only the leafless trunks of trees rather than flourishing woodland, making it all too easy to see the ragtag a.s.semblage of carts halted several yards to the side of the stone-paved road. A spike of agony from somewhere in the midst of the campsite made Faanshi shriek for Julian to halt Morrigh, and the sound of anguished sobbing made her break into a run.

Before she could charge in amid the carts, though, a pair of hands reached out to seize her. "Oi! Who the h.e.l.ls are you and where do you think you're going, then?" a hoa.r.s.e voice cried.

Faanshi whirled to find a young man gripping her, yet she couldn't tell even at arm's reach what he looked like or what he wore. All she could see of him was the ache in his bones, barely suppressed, yet standing out with blinding clarity to her inner sight. Three of his ribs were broken, and the tight binding someone had wrapped around his chest served only to compress his muscles into a column of dull red pain.

Her magic howled within her, and she had barely enough time to murmur apologies and place a hand on his chest before the golden light leaped free. When it faded again, the young man was still holding her-but now his eyes were wide, his ribs were whole, and she knew his name was Tobrey. "You...what did you do?" he blurted, before abruptly hauling her in the direction she wanted to go in the first place. "Never mind! Come on, you've got to do that for my little brother!"

Other voices shouted in all directions, unfamiliar ones in front of her, Kestar and Julian leading the voices behind. But none of that mattered when a tearful woman laid a small, limp body into her arms. Faanshi registered many bones shattered within the little body, growing bones splintered almost into dust. Something must have struck the boy with t.i.tanic force. Fragments of bone had shredded his lungs, leaving him a few breaths away from death.

Already roused by the healing of Tobrey, her power flooded into the boy and didn't let him go until every bone within him was whole.

Then, seemingly only a few moments later, the child Markis was wriggling in her arms and calling out a name. His dog, Faanshi realized, even as barks sounded beside her and a furry muzzle poked her on its way to licking the boy's astonished, laughing face.

"We only wish it could be more, miss," Tobrey and Markis's mother said, once the others had caught up and they'd all been welcomed to join the family of travelers around a meager campfire. "But I'm afraid we escaped with little more than the clothes on our backs when the Voice of the G.o.ds attacked the city."

The stew was thin indeed, little more than a broth with a few scant fragments of chopped onion and carrot, and the slightest memory of meat and salt to enrich the flavor. Celoren and Jekke dipped into the company's own stores to add bread and cheese, enough to make a spa.r.s.e dinner for all. In the aftermath of the healing, it was still enough sustenance for Faanshi's system to seize upon, and she smiled gratefully over the mug she'd been given. "You honor me, akresha, and I'm just glad I was able to help."

"You all came from Dareli?" Kestar asked. "What happened to you?"

"Same as what's happened to half the province," she said. Her boy was playing happily at her feet with his dog, and every time the lad seemed inclined to move away from her, she cast him fervent glances even as she spoke. "The Anreulag, of course. She's turned against us all, and the b.l.o.o.d.y-" She caught herself, looking ruefully once more at her child, and went on, "The Church won't tell us why. They don't even seem to know."

"They tried to sacrifice Princess Margaine," said her husband. His dour expression was a stark contrast to little Markis's bright laughter, and he clearly knew it, mustering only a wisp of a smile as the boy toddled in circles around his legs, chasing or perhaps being chased by the dog. "Not even that helped. Anreulag didn't want her. Only thing the Voice seems to want, not a man, woman or child can give Her, and She's been tearing up everything within ten miles of Dareli trying to find it. You lot look like you can handle yourselves, but what in the G.o.ds' name is taking you there?"

"Her name." Faanshi drank down the last of her broth, but now what warmth it could provide seemed far too little to ward off the chill that slid through her as she stood up again. "She wants it back. The Church took it from her."

Duty against dread. She could see the tension still lingering in the others, the need in them all to be moving again warring with a nagging fear. They all felt it, Faanshi knew. But thank you, Almighty Djashtet, for letting me ease these lives before we must be on our way. As she held that prayer in the back of her mind, she had to nod, too, at the startled looks on the faces of Tobrey and his parents.

"We know her name," she said then, "and we're going to give it back to her."

Chapter Twenty.

On the streets of Dareli, Jeuchar 24, AC 1876 It had been many years indeed since Julian had last set foot in the city of Dareli, and many more since he'd done it as Julian Nemeides instead of as the Rook. When their company reached the capital city at last, the sight of it struck him uncharacteristically speechless-and all he could think was that Dareli had not been served well during his absence.

The road out of the city grew more and more crowded the closer they rode, and the people they saw were without exception fleeing as quickly as carriage, wagon, horse or feet would carry them. They stank of smoke; indeed, the reek of scorched earth, burned wood, and roasted flesh hung in the air in an almost palpable cloud, and he didn't want to think how much worse the stench had to be for Tembriel or even Faanshi. The girl had enough challenges as it was, for she insisted on healing every maimed or ailing refugee they pa.s.sed, and only judicious application of his, Rab's and Semai's most intimidating stares kept her charges from detaining her any longer than absolutely necessary.

At the Queensway Gate into the city, however, he almost wished they'd dawdled.

Half the gate was gone, leaving the rest standing up in a jagged, uneven half-arch of brick and mortar. A wooden platform had been erected where the gate's missing half had once stood, tall enough to let anyone standing on it oversee the steady flow of humanity trickling out of the city, and wide enough to restrict access to only a few pa.s.sing people at a time. On this platform stood seven armed Hawks, each one with slightly wild eyes and faces ravaged by far too little sleep. They, Julian thought darkly, were the faces of people willing to shoot at the slightest provocation.

And they were riding into the city with at least half a dozen provocations between them.

They dismounted to make it easier to pa.s.s the platform, with Kestar and Celoren in the lead, himself and Faanshi next, with the others following in their wake. Without a word, as they approached the Hawks, Faanshi's hand shot out to clutch at his elbow. The girl didn't say a word, but no speech was necessary when her gaze spoke volumes. She was staring at the Hawks, and it didn't matter that not a single amulet among them had kindled into light to betray her presence, Kestar's, or Tembriel's. For putting that fear into her eyes alone, he'd have willingly joined the Anreulag in setting them aflame.

"Julian," she whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear.

He couldn't draw her into his arms, there in the middle of a crowded gate that led into a city with a hundred ways to kill them all. He could only slide his hand up to meet hers and squeeze her fingers in silent rea.s.surance, and hope that she'd understand the message.

The Hawks on the platform gave him no chance for anything more.

"You lot there, stand fast," one of them called out, gesturing peremptorily to Kestar. Her gaze swept along the line they made, and suspicion flared in her eyes. "By order of the Bhandreid access into the city is restricted except by direct royal dispensation-and we have no orders pertaining to a large armed party. State your names and your business."

Faanshi's grip turned frantic against Julian's palm, while most of her color drained from her features. Glances shot between them all-his to Rab's, Faanshi's to Semai's, Jekke and Tembriel both looking with far sharper attention now to Kestar. The she-elf's hood was up, hiding her ears from immediate view. Beneath it, her eyes glinted gold, and her hand curled in a way Julian was coming to recognize as a warning that her fire was about to make an appearance. He thought fast, but before he had to distract her, Kestar pointedly shook his head in her direction. Then he looked back up at the Hawk who'd stopped them, his features settled into lines of solid determination.

b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.ls. He's going to tell them who he is.

Which was the plan. Vaa.r.s.en did have the papers the d.u.c.h.ess had given him, after all, and despite debating for hours all the way across two provinces, they'd come up with no better course of action than honesty, even if it risked getting them all captured. Several of their names and descriptions had already roused every Hawk in Kilmerry to track Faanshi as well as Vaa.r.s.en and Valleford-Jekke Yerredes was reluctant proof of that. They'd had to a.s.sume the Hawks of Dareli had received the same orders that had mobilized Kilmerry. Yet Kestar had been willing to gamble that the greater crisis at hand would override any orders Dareli's Hawks still had pertaining to them, and Valleford and Yerredes had backed him up.

Julian and Rab had been less sanguine, and a lifetime of dissimulation made Julian's every instinct balk now as Kestar said, "My name is Kestar Vaa.r.s.en, and my friends and I have come with urgent news for Her Majesty the Bhandreid. We have messages from the leaders of the army of Nirrivy." His voice hitched with the slightest trace of hesitation, yet he continued nonetheless. "And we have a way to stop the Anreulag."

His words weren't loud, but their effect was electric. Several pa.s.sersby in earshot snapped their heads in his direction, and the cries only redoubled when Faanshi abruptly left Julian's side and stepped forward. "My name is Faanshi," she said, "and if there are any who are hurt or sick or dying because of what the Anreulag has done, I can help them. I'm a healer."

Shouts broke out in all directions, until at last the Hawk who'd addressed Kestar bellowed, "I will have order at this gate! If you're heading out of the city, move along!" Then she leaned down to Kestar and Faanshi from her position on the platform and added, scowling, "Are you two trying to start a riot, or just get yourselves arrested? Do you have any idea what the people of this city have been going through for the past three weeks?"

"We know very well, akresha," Faanshi said.

"Captain," one of the other Hawks on the platform put in uneasily, "we've got orders pertaining to people matching these names and descriptions."

"I know, I know!" The Hawk captain jumped down off the platform, sending people scrambling to get out of her way. As her compatriots applied themselves to briskly hustling the nearest shocked members of the crowd out of range, she rounded on Faanshi and Kestar once more. Tense brown eyes studied them both for a long moment, and at last she said, "You're serious. b.l.o.o.d.y nine h.e.l.ls, you're both serious."

"The rest of us are too," Julian said. He moved forward between Kestar and Faanshi, and for all that his instincts howled against the very prospect, he grudgingly went on, "And as long as we're flinging names around, you might as well have mine. Julian Nemeides. House Nemea. We all back up Vaa.r.s.en and Faanshi, and none of us have time to argue. If you want to keep what's left of this city standing, get us to the palace so we can see the Bhandreid."

Kestar and Faanshi both started, which was no surprise-but then, with the sudden gleam of pleasure in Faanshi's eyes, Julian couldn't exactly regret the impulse to properly identify himself for the first time in more years than he could remember. His full name felt strange on his tongue. It felt good.

More important, it was effective. He hadn't dared hope for it-he wasn't inclined to prayer like Faanshi or Semai or any of the Hawks in their company. But to his relief and satisfaction, the Hawk captain reacted to the mention of his House with a sharpness that not even Faanshi's blatant admission of magic had prompted. The fortune of Tykhe's right hand, apparently, was upon them.

"Her Majesty's indisposed, my lord, so you're going to have to ask for an audience with Princess Margaine." The Hawk captain spun back to the platform, beckoning for two of the other Hawks, and snapped orders up to them. "G.o.ddingsen, you're in charge, and for the love of the G.o.ds keep this gate clear. Brannach, you're coming with me. We're escorting these people to the palace."

The royal palace, Dareli, Jeuchar 24, AC 1876 With Celoren at his side, Kestar had traveled the width and breadth of Adalonia, for the Order of the Hawk regularly rea.s.signed its knights to different provinces. To be the Anreulag's eyes to see-or so the Order had always preached-a Hawk had to keep his vision fresh. But he'd never before set foot in Dareli, much less the royal palace. He'd never before envisioned a need, with or without the premonitions that sometimes sprang up within his mind.

That was to change now, along with everything else in his life.

The city wasn't entirely deserted, despite the steady stream of people hastening out through the Queensway Gate. Some hardy souls were out and about doing business on the streets, though what signs of life Kestar spotted were mostly anxious faces peering out from behind shutters and curtains, faces that vanished again as their company pa.s.sed. No one seemed to want to be out from under protective cover for longer than absolutely necessary, and he couldn't blame the people for hiding. Not when the damage to streets and buildings grew more and more p.r.o.nounced the closer they got to the palace.

High on a hill overlooking the rest of the city, the largest and oldest structure in all of Dareli had never had a name, so far as he'd ever been taught. It had always simply been "the palace," from which the line of Bhandreids and Ebhandreids had ruled over Adalonia and all its territories for centuries. On the road leading up onto the palace's vast grounds, Kestar finally saw where many more of the people of Dareli had gone. Many were camped in tents and improvised shelters in the shadow of the great sprawling edifice, watched over by both Hawks and soldiers of the royal army. But it was a wary camp indeed, for even from a distance it was clear that the home of the Bhandreid and her family had not gone unscathed. One of its wings stood shattered nearly in two, and the carefully sculpted harmony of the grounds had likewise been blasted by lightning and fire. Trees all along the hill were reduced to blackened husks, and in more than one place along the main road through the grounds they had fallen over entirely. Kestar and the others pa.s.sed a group of groundskeepers hauling the trunk of one such tree out of the road.

Not one, not two, not three, but six times in all they were challenged on their way into the palace, other Hawks demanding and receiving signs and countersigns out of the captain and subordinate who escorted them. They were challenged when they were separated from their horses, when they were instructed to give up their weapons before setting foot under the palace's roof, when their escort called for a messenger to be sent to the Princess Margaine requesting an audience-and particularly vigorously when, under orders to halt in the antechamber they'd finally reached, Faanshi removed her korfi and Tembriel lowered her hood.

Only then, when a grudging captain of the palace guard at last proclaimed them as safe, did the princess come to meet them.

She was shorter than Kestar had expected, not much taller than either Faanshi or Tembriel, though of stockier build than both. Her figure had the fullness of a new mother's, but her grief-hollowed face and the black gown she wore suggested death, not life. Red hair was pulled back from her face into a severe chignon, and as most of them made their obeisance, eyes of golden brown coolly surveyed them all.

"Well," she said after a moment to Tembriel, "I suppose I can hardly expect an elf to want to curtsey to me. Will you at least deign to grant me your name?"

"Tembriel of Dolmerrath," the fire-mage replied with equal coolness. "I come in the name of my steward, Gerren, and the rest of the free elves of the west."

"And the rest of us, Your Highness, come in the name of the army of Nirrivy," Kestar said, reaching into the satchel slung from his shoulder for the papers with which the d.u.c.h.ess Khamsin had entrusted him. "I bring signed statements from the d.u.c.h.ess Khamsin elif-Darim Sarazen, and from Gerren, steward of Dolmerrath. I ask your intercession so that we may present them to the Bhandreid."

Margaine swung her attention to Kestar, and for just a moment, some strong reaction he didn't have time to name rushed across her face before her mask of royal impa.s.siveness returned. "Of course you would not be in a position to know. I regret to inform you, Lord Vaa.r.s.en, that the Bhandreid Ealasaid of the House Araeldes returned to the care of the G.o.ds this very morning, joining her grandson Prince Padraig-my husband-who died just before the Anreulag's escape and her attack upon the people."

Shock blanked all thought from Kestar's mind. What now? But as always, Celoren was there to lend him support. "Your Highness, please accept our condolences for your losses, particularly in light of the ongoing threat to the realm," his partner said, while snapping him a meaningful look. "But because of that threat we ask your forgiveness for our urgency. We not only bring the statements Lord Vaa.r.s.en speaks of, but also can offer a potential way to put a halt to the Anreulag's activities."

The papers. Kestar shook off his uncertainty and began to offer the princess the doc.u.ments, only for her to cut him off with a swiftly raised hand. "The Anreulag is higher priority. If you know of a way to stop her from destroying anything else or killing any more Adalonian citizens, for the love of all that's holy, enlighten me."

"There is a sword, akresha," Faanshi offered. "A sword that used to be in the hands of the elves. It's the only thing that can stop her."

"And ever so conveniently, your people stole it from us eighty years ago. I don't suppose you happen to have it lying around anywhere in this great mausoleum, do you?" Tembriel's blunt tone earned her disapproving glares from the guards in the room as well as a visibly fuming Jekke-but Kestar didn't miss that both Julian and Rab were carefully expressionless, save for a malicious sparkle in Rab's eyes.

Margaine for her part seemed entirely indifferent to the fire-mage's hostility. If anything, the sharpness of her gaze only intensified at the mention of what Kestar now knew to be the same battle where his great-grandfather had been killed. "Might I inquire as to the extent of your familiarity with that incident? Were you present at that conflict?"

Tembriel blinked, her eyes narrowing in wary speculation. "I was there, yes. I was one of the witnesses to Prince Riniel's death. Do you have the sword or don't you?"

"Your Highness," the captain of the palace guard put in, "several of these people are known fugitives, and the Bhandreid had issued public orders to the Hawks to bring them in. I strongly recommend against-"

"And I strongly recommend against your offering me counsel I have not solicited." The princess spared the captain one short glance, long enough for displeasure to turn her tone to ice. Her attention returned to Tembriel and Kestar, first and foremost of the company a.s.sembled before her. "Before the Bhandreid died, she revealed to me that the weapon of which you speak was melted down and remade by the order of her father. It is now a gun, one I have already attempted, without success, to deploy against the Voice of the G.o.ds. So I must adjure you now, tell me something more that I can actually put to use, or cease to waste my time."

Visible fury flared in Tembriel's eyes, sharp enough that their Hawk escorts and the princess's guards reached for their weapons, and both Rab and Julian put warning hands upon her shoulders.

"Setting the acting Bhandreid of the country on fire would be less than diplomatic," Julian warned when the she-elf spun to face him. "And exceedingly counterproductive."

"They melted down Amathilaen," Tembriel snarled. Her eyes were lambent yellow now, and the air around her momentarily shimmered with heat. "That sword was older than this entire accursed country!"

"Which will not be helped in the slightest by you getting us all shot where we stand." The Rook didn't budge, and though he had no magic at his command, steel unsheathed itself in the tenor of his voice.

"Stand down," demanded the Hawk captain who'd ridden in with them, her pistol out now, pointed straight at Tembriel's head. "You're only here because Lord Vaa.r.s.en said you could help us, elf. Or you will indeed be shot."

"No! Wait! Please!" Kestar threw up both his hands, palms out, one toward the guards and the other toward Tembriel, while he threw a pleading glance to Margaine. The princess had blanched, her eyes gone wide and her mouth pulled taut at the signs of active magic before her. As her attention came back to him, he went on, "Your Highness, no matter what's been done to the weapon, whatever form it's in now, you won't have been able to make it work against the Anreulag on your own. Not from what the elves have told me. Amathilaen-Moonshadow-is a magical artifact, and its power can only be invoked when it's wielded by its intended hands."

Kestar hadn't really thought of the probable reactions their news would provoke once they delivered it-in truth, he hadn't expected to make it all the way into the palace, much less into the presence of a member of the royal family. At best he'd antic.i.p.ated dismissal, and at worst, arrest by Hawks undeterred by the loss of working amulets.

Not the slightest inkling of insight, from his premonitions or from simple experience with the Order, had prepared him for the princess Margaine pinioning him with a gaze gone flat and fraying. She didn't mock him, ridiculous though the words sounded in his own ears. She gave no order to the Hawks and the guards to shoot or arrest them. Beneath her stare he abruptly felt as exposed as he'd been to the immutable sunlight of Faanshi's healing power-yet with this woman, there was no magic. "Which of you possesses the intended hands, Lord Vaa.r.s.en?" she asked, and though her composure never wavered, her tone roughened ever so slightly, betraying a sudden, desperate hope.

"I do, Your Highness." It felt supremely foolish to say it, and yet, Kestar felt an abrupt relief as well-a relief that struck him as equally foolish. I haven't even laid hands on the d.a.m.ned thing yet, much less stopped anybody with it. "Or so the elves have told me."

Margaine's chin lifted, and she gave Tembriel a long considering look that the she-elf returned in equal displeasure; then she considered Kestar once more. "The elves have no reason to want to act on behalf of this realm. Your hot-tempered companion is testament to that. Why must I take them at their word now? And why are you the one to take the gun-what did you call it? Moonshadow?"

"The Anreulag is an elf, akresha," Faanshi said quietly. "She's very old and very powerful, and Kestar is descended from the elf king for whom the sword Amathilaen was made. The sword that was made to stop her."

"She almost destroyed us," Tembriel said, and though the dangerous heat ebbed out of her eyes, she didn't blunt the bitter disgust in her voice. "Long before humanity rallied itself to finish the job-by bending her to your wills. And now Vaa.r.s.en's the last heir of King Janlec Dalrannen's blood, and yet, he's mostly human. The irony does not elude me."

"We need solutions," barked the palace guard captain, "not elven history lessons."

But that too earned him a glare of freezing disapproval from the princess, who then immediately demanded of Tembriel, "If the Anreulag is herself an elf, what is her proper name? What do your people call her?"