Victory Of The Hawk Part 4

Both men looked as grim as Faanshi had ever seen them, and she looked back and forth between them, a frisson of uneasiness skittering all over her skin. "It was just a Hawk patrol, wasn't it? The Wards will protect us."

"Oh, you charming, nave little mouse." Rab rolled his eyes in that world-weary way he had, as if he were Julian's age or beyond, though Faanshi was fairly certain he wasn't much older than she. "You wouldn't know yet, of course. They're starting to figure it out. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d that shot Tornach-or so I gathered from the babbling fellow who rode Morrigh in-did it inside the Wards."

The horse thirstily drank from the bucket as if he'd entirely forgotten he'd ever been hurt-or that he'd crossed a powerful barrier of magic, several times now. But Faanshi understood what Morrigh did not, and fear churned in her belly, stirred up by a cold rush of realization. "Great Lady of Time. But...if a Hawk chased him in, the Wards would have hurt him too."

"You should know better than most what people will do in the name of religion," Julian said, and she felt sick at heart, for he was right.

She couldn't bring herself to ask what had happened to the Hawk. If the sailor had made it into Dolmerrath, the scouts must have intercepted him, and Faanshi had seen the scouts facing Hawks before. She couldn't imagine he'd survived the fight, especially if Tembriel and her fire-magic had found him. "The Wards make humans afraid, but this Hawk crossed them anyway, despite the fear?"

Rab nodded, his mouth set in a bitter curl. "The call of duty, perhaps. I'm sure our own Hawks would have done the same, had it been them."

They couldn't call Kestar and Celoren Hawks anymore, though Faanshi didn't point that out. Her gaze lingered on the horse as a memory crossed her mind of her former master and the stallion he'd ridden. He'd been black like Morrigh but far more temperamental. The last time she'd seen that horse had been the first time her power had awakened, when she'd healed the head groom-and the Duke of Shalridan had let his panicked beast trample the old man, and let everyone at Lomhannor Hall believe she'd killed him instead. She hadn't dared to defy him. Not then. She'd feared her wild new power, but she'd feared the duke more.

"It could have been fear instead of duty, if something else frightened him more than the Wards," she ventured.

Rab blinked and looked at her more sharply, while Julian showed no surprise at all. If anything, his face grew more grim and set, the closest he'd seemed in days to the dour a.s.sa.s.sin who'd first rescued her. "If I were in the Order of the Hawk, I'd have figured out a long time ago that there was a part of the woods in this province where my people went out of their minds with fear for no apparent reason. Especially with an amulet that lit up at the slightest trace of magic."

"They have to know the elves are here," Rab agreed. "They'd be fools not to. So have any Hawks tried to breach the Wards before? Why haven't they tried to burn the woods down, for G.o.ds' sakes? Their precious holy duty should have driven them to it by now, surely."

"It wasn't worth the risk before. Now it is. The situation's changed. We're here."

Morrigh finished drinking his fill and lifted his head again, nickering languidly and nudging at Faanshi's nearest shoulder. She was glad for the distraction; scratching his nose gave her hands something to do, so that she wouldn't have to think about how they shook. "I'm here." It felt foolish to say it. It felt prideful. Part of her was convinced that the Lady of Time would chastise her for breaking Her ridahs with such a thought-and the rest braced for Rab's inevitable sarcasm. "The duke is dead because of me. I turned the Anreulag away, and I brought everyone to get Kestar out of Shalridan. They were calling my name in the streets. I must have made them angry for all these things."

Julian gave her a single, short nod. "We'd best hope it's just a matter of their intending to capture you before the entire realm erupts in war. Don't mistake me, girl-that's dire enough. But the alternative is even worse."

She didn't have to ask him what he meant, since they'd both witnessed the Anreulag unleashing Her power at Arlitham Abbey-when She'd nearly killed Julian. Faanshi couldn't think of anything more likely to provoke a Knight of the Hawk into facing the Dolmerrath Wards. Formidable as they were, the Wards merely flooded a human mind with unreasoning fear. The Voice of the G.o.ds could burn living flesh and bone.

"We have to find out if the Anreulag is coming," she whispered.

That Rab offered her none of his usual mockery was no comfort at all.

Chapter Six.

Somewhere outside Dareli, Jeuchar 5 and 6, AC 1876 She had forgotten the warmth of sunlight on her face, of drawing fresh air in with her every breath, rather than the stale must of ages in a prison of subterranean stone. Vanished, too, had been the memory of walking openly upon the earth, with no will to command her but her own-and where she might once have walked when her own will had ruled her. Only the dimmest shadows of places she'd been sent flashed across her dreams, for only in sleep had she ever won the slightest respite from the inexorable press of the blood spell on her consciousness.

Obey the High Priest. Obey the Bhandreid. Speak the word of the G.o.ds. Destroy the enemies of the Church.

The magic had blotted out all else from her memory. Where her jailors summoned her to appear. Hunger. Thirst. Whether there had ever been a time when she had not been the leashed fire and thunder of the Four G.o.ds, and if so, how long ago that might have been. Her name.

Anreulag. Voice of the G.o.ds. The echoes of the t.i.tles she'd been given rattled through her thoughts, thin and brittle, the rhythm of fleshless bones. But there'd been another echo, one that had come to her from unknowable distance, words that were like and yet unlike those with which the priest and the queen had bound her.

Re elari enno sul ve carya! Enno Amathilaen korthiali re!

It wasn't her name. Yet she knew the words as the language of her birth, and the name Amathilaen burned through her as fiercely as her magic, each syllable a brand of fire she realized she knew better than she knew herself.

It resounded through her as she emerged out of hiding once more, ignoring the shift from day to night and back again as she gave herself over to the shattering of the human city. More buildings, more fences, and even wagons on the streets and ships in the harbor caught fire when she hurled lightning down upon them. Figures ran screaming from her coming. Others, bearing weapons, threw themselves into her path only to fall beneath her onslaught; none of them mattered. Some of them cried out to her in what a tiny part of her realized was prayer. She screamed back at them, never once caring whether the round-eared servants of her jailors could understand her first and truest tongue.

"Cer elva aran roe kella!"

That is not my name!

That much she could remember, along with the unbridled joy of giving full rein to her magic-so great a joy that, for a time, she even forgot that her strength was not inexhaustible. That she still had a physical form-and that the shape that channeled her inner fire was not invulnerable. In the glory of her anger she shielded herself from the arrow, the sword and the iron pellets fired from desperate guns. But at last her shields began to falter, and, when the city around her burned and a throng of humans in the colors of her jailors charged at her with uplifted muskets, she felt her protections begin to fall.

Bullets sliced the air all around her, bullets she refused to let touch her again.

Her magic leveled every building in sight with the thunder of its reply.

Even so, she smiled as she willed herself elsewhere. Where she went was of no consequence; the freedom to transport herself with her magic was itself a victory. When the city vanished around her, she exulted. When she reappeared upon a windswept beach with nothing surrounding her but open air and the susurration of the waves, she howled her triumph. Her bare feet met sand chilled by the fall of night and by salt water, and through that contact with the earth, she felt her power replenishing itself. Restoring her. But even as her strength returned, a memory surged of her own voice crying out, and it drew her eyes skyward to the crescent moon casting a pale shadow across tattered wisps of clouds.

Those same syllables, haunting her anew-syllables she'd shouted not very long ago.

Re elari enno sul ve carya! Enno Amathilaen korthiali re!

Blood and fire had bound her. By blood and fire she'd been freed. And only by the shadow of the moon would she die.

In her inner sight, in jagged glimpses of recollection, she saw the sword again-and the deft, strong hand that had wielded it. She saw green eyes in a face whose name she could no longer recall, but which was linked through ages, by sunlight and silver, to a baby her jailors would have had her destroy. She'd let him live because of the memory of green eyes and a sword.

"Amathilaen," she hissed over the rush of the waves, exulting anew. She had her freedom, and now she had a purpose above and beyond the obliteration of the human city. Moonshadow. The name rang through her, one of the few sparks of clarity in the clamor of her thoughts, and she welcomed its white-hot brilliance. She would find Moonshadow, before it was lifted anew by the proper hand, and bathe it in flame until no trace of it remained.

Green eyes would be no safeguards a second time, for she was not yet ready to die.

And to defend her newfound freedom, she was ready to kill.

The royal palace, Dareli, Jeuchar 8, AC 1876 For more years than Margaine could count, it had been whispered in the eastern provinces of the realm that the Bhandreid was indestructible. Men and women too old to have fought in the war with Tantiulo still drank each year to the memory of an indomitable young queen's rise to the throne. Over their beers and ales, they claimed that the G.o.ds themselves had shaped Ealasaid from molten iron, and that she hadn't changed in the slightest since her coronation. She'd outlived her husband, her only child, and now, her only grandson as well. Margaine had heard such tall tales for as long as she could remember; once or twice, she'd told them herself.

But they'd never frightened her as much as the rumors that spread through the palace after the Night of Fire. That she might outlive them all. Not even a failure of her heart could stop the Bhandreid for long, or so went the whispers. Her heart was made of something more than flesh, said some-fire stolen from the Anreulag, and that was why the Voice of the G.o.ds was bathing the city in fire. Others averred that the Four G.o.ds had hollowed out the Bhandreid's heart and replaced it with sacred flame, so that Ealasaid might become their new Voice. None doubted, though, the terror of the Anreulag in Her rage.

Margaine didn't dare give a moment's credence to most of the whispers. That was the path of hysteria-and with what she now knew of the Bhandreid and the High Priest, she was perilously close to that regardless. Ealasaid had ordered her out of her sight, and soon enough, Margaine found she had no other choice.

None of the palace guards were so bold as to openly constrict her movements. But hours after the Bhandreid's arrival in the great hall, the princess found herself strongly encouraged to stay out of the public areas. "For your own safety, Highness, and that of the heir," the guards told her. "Her Majesty wishes you to look after your daughter in case the Anreulag comes back."

I'll just bet she does.

Which was, after all, the very reason she and Padraiga had to flee.

She forced herself to present a serene mask to every guard or servant she met, male or female, young or old. Most of the guards maintained their decorum and alertness, but some of the younger ones did so with strained faces and fear lurking behind their eyes. The servants scurried about their duties with uncommon furtive quiet, flinching at the slightest unexpected sound, as though afraid the ceiling might collapse on them all. They'd look to her for an example. She was the wife of the late prince, the mother of the heir, and that would still count for something even against the force of the Bhandreid's disfavor. She didn't dare give a single guard cause to lock her in her chambers, or worse yet, take her baby away from her.

But in the end, she knew she wouldn't make it out of the palace without help.

And so she applied herself to appearing to do as the Bhandreid wished, taking shelter in her chambers and looking after her daughter. No one looked askance, then, when she sent out an anxious request for Doctor Corrinides to attend her and the baby at his earliest convenience.

He found her waiting in her chambers, pacing back and forth as any worried young mother might do. That was mostly artifice, for the sake of the seemingly unending stream of palace servitors who seemed to have no better purpose than to check on her at irregular intervals. Some of it, however, was fear she could barely repress.

Tamber Corrinides looked little better rested than the last time she'd laid eyes on him, though that was no surprise. No one older than little Padraiga seemed to be getting much rest, anywhere in the palace. Nonetheless, the doctor came into her sitting room with his usual brisk stride, his gaze alert and solicitous...at least until he saw the baby playing peacefully in her ba.s.sinet, and the determination with which Margaine turned to face him.

"Your Highness, what may I do for you?" the doctor inquired, his eyebrows up. "Do you need help for yourself, or for your child?"

"Both." Margaine pulled in a breath and straightened to her fullest height, aware of the fragile appearance she was surely presenting in turn. Yet there was nothing to be done for that. She would have to trust that her resolve would let her present the proper strength. "Doctor, what would you say if I told you I have every reason to believe that my daughter's life is in danger?"

He blinked at that, as she knew he must-but Corrinides was made of sterner stuff than his own unprepossessing appearance might suggest. In the slightly startled and entirely bland voice Margaine had antic.i.p.ated, he replied, "I'd point out that the same could be said of everyone in this city, my lady. May I trouble you to be more specific?"

She'd barely needed to rehea.r.s.e the argument in her conscious thoughts, for a nightmare of her husband and daughter falling beneath a knife in the hand of the Bhandreid hadn't lessened its grip on her for the past three days, waking or dreaming. Time and again she'd seen the High Priest lunging to seize her and drive a knife into her own flesh. Her blood, dropping in crimson streaks on ancient stone, turned to droplets of flame as it fell. And the flames, in turn, surged and grew into the shape of a ghostly figure with dead eyes and a voice of thunder and doom. The Anreulag, turning on her in vengeance, was the last thing she saw behind her eyes every time she clawed her way out of sleep.

That is not my name!

"I saw the Voice of the G.o.ds just before She began Her attack upon the city," Margaine said. One tiny part of her faltered at speaking that name, but she could not afford to distract herself with the memory of the Anreulag's snarled rejection of Her t.i.tle, not now. "Were you aware of this, sir?"

The doctor frowned and shook his head. "You saw Her in such a state, and She allowed you to live? One could ascribe many motives to the acts of the Anreulag these last few days, but I can't count mercy among them."

Did he believe her? Margaine couldn't tell from the set of his face or frame, and that uncertainty gnawed at her, but she thrust it ruthlessly aside. There was nothing for it but to say what needed saying, for she would win nothing with silence. "The Voice spoke to me of having been bound by blood and magic, doctor. Bonds She has now broken, and for which She now seeks Her holy retribution. I have reason to believe that there are those within this palace who would restore those bonds, and that they would sacrifice my child to do it. I need your help to take Padraiga away from here. I need to ensure her safety."

Now Corrinides started more visibly, and many moments pa.s.sed as he stared at her in outright shock; then, slowly, he finally blew out an unsteady breath. "Have you any proof of these suspicions?"

"No." Margaine forced that single syllable out, past the lingering wisps of nightmare behind her eyes, and the specter of Ealasaid tainting each breath she took within the palace walls. "And without proof, it would serve no good purpose to tell you who I suspect. I would prefer to direct my course to the protection of my daughter."

"Entirely understandably," the doctor agreed, to her relief. "But surely you must know, my lady, that the Bhandreid has restricted travel through the city because of the current crisis. Even if I wanted to help you, I can't. Her Majesty has forbidden anyone to leave the palace without explicit sanction from her."

His voice wasn't loud; if anything, it was warm with earnest concern, roughened along its edges by the strain upon them all. Yet his words struck her square in the breast, like a round from a well-aimed pistol. For an instant Margaine's mind went blank, and all she could hear was the rush of her own blood in her ears. All she could think was of course she did, and that felt too calm by half when she was on the verge of screaming. But she could not, would not do any such thing. Nor would she succ.u.mb to the tremors abruptly threatening her knees.

Instead she whirled to face her daughter's ba.s.sinet. Padraiga cooed and gurgled quietly to herself within her coc.o.o.n of white pine and lace, waving a tiny hand toward the ornaments hung just above her, brightly painted to please her infant eye. "Then I..." Margaine scowled as her voice cracked, and with an effort, she forced herself to keep her speech even and clear. "Then I must urge you, doctor, as one whose very livelihood is based upon the health of the royal family and all within it, to a.s.sist me in looking after my daughter. There are few men in royal service I can trust enough to ask for such a.s.sistance."

"I'm honored by your confidence, Your Highness," Corrinides said. He was closer now; he'd come up behind her. Something in his tone sounded wrong to Margaine, though, a strange tinge of regret. She spun back to face him-but not quickly enough to evade the bite of the syringe he pressed into her shoulder. He caught her as she began to struggle, and added unhappily, "And I am truly sorry that I must do this, but Her Majesty feared you might have become unbalanced in your grief for your husband. I've been ordered to make certain you will not be a danger to the heir. Please forgive me."

"I'll do nothing of the kind," Margaine rasped. She wanted to snarl it, scream it, and curse him until the day he died. Whatever he'd put into the bra.s.s syringe left her no option but to slump in his arms, yet before she collapsed completely, she managed to meet his eye. "Watch over my daughter. If she comes to harm it will be on your head."

It was meager comfort indeed to see him wince before the sedative pulled her under.

Camden, Kilmerry Province, Jeuchar 7, AC 1876 Khamsin Kilmerredes had known the town of Camden for nearly twenty years, and less than a week had pa.s.sed since she'd seen it last. But when she and her party came through the town on their way back from Shalridan, she scarcely recognized the place. Barricades had been erected across the roads leading into the town, structures of raw-cut wood that seemed at first glance as makeshift as the uniforms of the men and women who stood watch at them. No two sentries were dressed alike; some had nothing more to mark themselves than armbands, while others sported actual military coats of faded cloth, in cuts the d.u.c.h.ess had seen before only in centuries-old paintings in Lomhannor Hall. In the days before Nirrivy had fallen, her husband's forebears had proudly worn the uniforms of officers of the Nirrivan army. Now, the grandchildren and great-grandchildren of Nirrivan soldiers were pulling uniform coats and sashes out of hiding, and wearing them with defiant pride.

The guards who cleared her carriage to enter the town looked too young to know what combat was, much less to have earned the insignia on the jackets they were wearing. Khamsin elected to ignore both of these things, and instead smiled graciously as the female of the pair waved her carriage through. "Sister Sother left us orders to expect you, Your Grace," the girl said. "She's waiting for you at the church."

"Thank you, I shall find her there. May all the G.o.ds smile upon you both for your service."

The two guards visibly straightened at her benediction. But as the carriage made its way through the gate, Yselde piped up, "Mama, why did those people smell like mothb.a.l.l.s?"

"Because the G.o.ds call them to be warriors, little bloom, and they wear the garb of warriors who came before them. Respect them. Djashtet upholds all those who fight with honor, even if they do not fight in Her name."

Doubt crinkled Yselde's features, but her dark eyes grew thoughtful, and that was all to the best as far as the d.u.c.h.ess was concerned. Her daughter needed to watch, listen and learn.

At the church of Camden, she would have a new chance to do so.

Camden's streets were bustling, with people on foot and horse-drawn wagons heading in all directions. Khamsin noted the faces of everyone her carriage pa.s.sed, and saw focused purpose everywhere she looked. At the call of her driver, those on the streets made way for their pa.s.sing, and they arrived at the church in short order. There, too, change had been wrought. The four-pointed star of the Church of the Four G.o.ds no longer graced the roof. Instead, someone had mounted a pair of flags. One bore the wheat and apple sigils of the G.o.ddess called the Allmother, in shades of red and green and gold that stood out brightly against the summer sky. The other was simpler, two broad stripes of blue and green, the long-unseen colors of the nation of Nirrivy.

The flags alone, Khamsin thought as she emerged from the carriage, her daughter at her side, were enough to bring the wrath of the Bhandreid and the armies of the realm down upon them. For the first time in two hundred years, though, the lands that had once been Nirrivy were ready to withstand them.

Even before she and Yselde could set foot inside the church, the building's front doors opened to reveal the priestess Idrekke Sother coming out to meet her. The other woman beckoned to her urgently and called, "Please come in at once, Your Grace. Father Grenham has brought urgent news we need to discuss immediately."

With Sother was a man that Khamsin didn't know, wearing what looked at first glance like the robes of an abbot of the Four G.o.ds. But like Sother, he was openly wearing a golden amulet-one that matched the Allmother's flag now flying over the church.

"My name is Cortland Grenham, my lady," he told her. "And I've come to tell you the Voice of the G.o.ds is loose in Dareli."

They hastened inside after that, for the d.u.c.h.ess had no desire to discuss the Anreulag in public, even in a town she now controlled. Sister Sother led them swiftly into the church, bypa.s.sing the nave and heading straight to the office. Only therein, with the office door safely closed and Yselde ensconced on a high-backed leather chair, did Khamsin face her second-in-command and the newcomer.

"You will forgive me, I'm sure, if I forego social niceties and proceed straight to the point," she said. "What is this word of the Anreulag?"

To his credit, Grenham showed no inclination to debate Yselde's presence among them. He gave her only one startled look, which Yselde returned with shy interest, before he focused entirely upon the d.u.c.h.ess. "I was the abbot of Arlitham Abbey. I expect that name is familiar to you, my lady?"

Arlitham. The place where her husband had gone in pursuit of his runaway slave, where Faanshi and her fugitive companions had stood against him-and where his priest had called down the Anreulag. Khamsin's jaw tightened at the reminder, yet she allowed no trace of distress to escape into her voice. Her features, obscured by the dark mourning veil she wore, were safely unreadable. "I was given the name."

To that Grenham inclined his head, before lifting the golden amulet he wore for her inspection. "Unless you have far better spies than I've antic.i.p.ated, you won't have been told about this. My people were a Nirrivan sect in hiding, much as I expect Sister Sother has been in hiding all this time."

"Were?" Sother inquired, her eyebrows going up.

"We had to flee our abbey not long after the Hawks found us and arrested Kestar Vaa.r.s.en and Celoren Valleford. We dispersed across the province, only to find the seeds of rebellion flowering all around us-and something else coming over the telegraph lines. The Hawks have tried to lock it down, but they haven't silenced all the broadsheets. Word has come out of Dareli that the Anreulag went on a rampage three nights ago and nearly destroyed the royal palace and much of the city. The High Priest is dead."

Sother drew in a long breath of amazement, a smile beginning to play at her mouth. Yselde said nothing, watching the adults curiously, her gaze flitting from face to face. Khamsin chose to worry later about how and what the child would learn from this news; for now, she had to see what she could learn from it herself. Antic.i.p.ation shot through her.

"Then my husband's efforts bore fruit. He had the Voice of the G.o.ds freed from bondage, and She will rain fire down on the heads of our enemies."

Grenham looked from the d.u.c.h.ess to Sother and back again, before venturing, "Your Grace, have you ever seen the Anreulag yourself?"

His doubtful tone didn't faze her. "Indeed I did-on the battlefields of Tantiulo, when the enemies of your people and mine sought to put my homeland to the sword."

"Then you surely must understand that if the Voice is no longer bound, we cannot trust that She won't incinerate us right along with every Hawk and every soldier who would seek to stop Nirrivy's rebirth."

Khamsin canted her head, studying the man, abruptly pleased by what she saw of him. A priest, and whether he burned with the same fervor as Sother, she had no way of knowing. But there was a certain steadfast determination in the set of his face, and if he had led a Nirrivan church, she could use him. "You say us in the way of a man who considers himself part of our cause, akreshi."

"That would be because I do, my lady. If you'll have me, and what members of my flock are still with me, we want to join you. You're trying to bring our homeland back. And we're tired of hiding."

"Well said." The d.u.c.h.ess strode forward to offer the abbot her hand. "And I am most interested in your a.s.sistance, if you witnessed the Anreulag's appearance firsthand. My husband's guardsmen are of no use to me-they lack the understanding of what took place before their very eyes. But you, a priest...you could confirm for me what words were used to enact the Rite of the Calling."

Grenham clasped her hand with appropriate deference, though his eyes widened at her words. "I will tell you all I saw, but surely you can't mean to call the Voice of the G.o.ds yourself. She nearly destroyed my chapel. And if the telegraph reports can be believed, She's well on her way to destroying Dareli."

"Then She does our work for us," Sother said proudly, lifting her chin.

Casting a serene nod to the other woman, Khamsin said, "I will not presume to use the Rite as the Church of the Four G.o.ds has done-to command the Anreulag's power. But to date, the Rite is the only known means of drawing Her attention."

"If you'll take the counsel of one newly joined to your ranks, Your Grace," Grenham asked in open shock, "why in the Allmother's name would you want this?"

She hesitated not a moment as she made her reply.