Victory Of The Hawk Part 5

"Father, I cannot pretend to comprehend what forces bound the Anreulag to the Church's service. But I know something of subjugation, and of what it means to live under the domination of another power. Tantiu and Nirrivan, we all share that grim familiarity. And if the Anreulag shares that with us-if She will hear us when we call-then if all the G.o.ds are willing, perhaps we can convince Her that our aims are as one.

"And between all our gathered swords, the oppressors of Nirrivy will fall."

Chapter Seven.

Dolmerrath, Jeuchar 9, AC 1876 In the years he and Celoren had been riding patrol together, Kestar had seen much-much more than he'd ever imagined, once they'd discovered Faans.h.i.+. He'd turned his back on the dictates of his Order, and had faced a Cleansing and put his partner and his mother in peril. Now he was sheltering among the elves, and that mostly sat well with him, for every action he'd taken to get here had been guided by what he'd felt to be right.

Yet he'd fought with members of his own Order when escaping Shalridan with Faans.h.i.+ and the rest. He'd seen Hawks fall in battle with Kirinil and Alarrah. Not until Gerren summoned him and Celoren to one of the chambers near the stable cavern, however, had he ever laid eyes on a dead Hawk up close.

The room was one of the smaller ones in Dolmerrath, barely big enough to accommodate a few shelves on which to store gear and feed bins for horses. He and Celoren had to step past several people gathered outside its curtained doorway, for there was no room beyond the curtain for them. The presence of the scouts Jannyn and Tembriel was no surprise, and neither were their identical angry expressions, since those were the looks the two elves had worn each time Kestar had seen them. Julian and Rab were also both on hand, and Rab's glower rivaled those of the scouts for ferocity-no small wonder, if his horse had been shot. Kestar didn't want to think about how he'd react if he got the word that someone had killed Tenthim.

But Faans.h.i.+ was also there, scowling toward the curtain, and the sight of a scowl on her features was enough to stop Kestar in his tracks. Her head snapped around at his approach, and only then did her scowl waver. "They wouldn't let me heal him, Kestar," she said. Nothing more than that, but with the profound unhappiness in her eyes, that was enough.

"Gerren wants you to identify him if you can," Julian said. With a curt gesture he waved Kestar forward. Of all those present the a.s.sa.s.sin's face was the most unreadable, and only his cold blue stare gave Kestar an inkling of what he was about to see.

"May I enter?" he called quietly through the curtain, since there was no door on which to knock-one of the myriad small details of life in Dolmerrath that gave him a small mental jolt each time he encountered it, and which he made a point of ignoring now. The response that came back to him was in Elvish, curt and preoccupied-sounding. Kestar opted to take his chances, and pushed the curtain aside so that he could step through.

Within he found Alarrah kneeling on the storeroom floor and Gerren on his feet, facing her. Between them lay two bodies. One was the dead sailor who'd been riding Rab's horse. The other was a man in a Hawk's uniform, stained with sweat and the mud of riding, and with the blood from the bullet wound that had presumably killed him. His amulet was out, one of the simpler ones Kestar had ever seen, a circle of silver stamped with interlocking triangles. Despite the presence of two full-blooded elves-not to mention Kestar himself-the silver showed no sign of light. That, even aside from the blood, was enough to mark the Hawk as deceased.

He stopped, his hand still holding the curtain. For all his resolve to give what aid he could to Faans.h.i.+ and her newfound people, his heart sank at what he saw. Not just a dead Hawk-a Hawk he knew, a familiar face now slack in death, his body lifeless and cold.

Because of me. He was just doing his duty, and he died because of me.

The realization struck Kestar hard enough to leave him breathless, conscious of nothing but guilt and more than a little desolation. "d.a.m.n it," he rasped when he could find his voice at last. "What did you do, Bron?"

"So you do know this man," Gerren said, while Alarrah rose.

"His name was Bron Wulsten. He was one of the patrol that arrested my mother, Celoren and me." The two elves before him were his best allies in Dolmerrath, but now even they watched him with open wariness in their faces. Kestar couldn't bring himself to blame them, or to look away from the figure on the floor. "I...knew him from the Hawksvale Academy. Where they train us. He was a cadet there at the same time Celoren and I were. He was the only one of Captain Amarsaed's patrol who wasn't entirely terrible when they arrested us."

Neither Gerren nor Alarrah seemed moved by his words, and even to Kestar, they sounded like faint praise at best. Still, he kept his attention on Bron's silent face, and felt a twinge of relief that someone had at least seen fit to close his eyes. It seemed disrespectful to do anything less than fully acknowledge the pa.s.sing of a fellow member of the Order, even now, though he could hardly say that out loud. If the G.o.ds are still listening to me, I hope they give your spirit safe flying, Bron.

"I remember seeing him in the cathedral when we came for you," Alarrah said. "Captain Amarsaed was the one who brought you in for the Cleansing?"

As Kestar nodded, Gerren put forth a question of his own. "Tembriel reported there was another Hawk with this one, a woman, who escaped. Would you know her as well?"

"It was probably Jekke Yerredes, Amarsaed's other lieutenant." Frowning, Kestar finally looked up to meet the elves' eyes. "And if Amarsaed's sent them here, I doubt he himself is far behind."

Something dire in Gerren's expression told Kestar Dolmerrath's leader was well aware of that, perhaps even better than he was himself. Nonetheless, all Gerren said was a cool, "What's his likeliest course of action?"

"If Shalridan's secure, I wouldn't put it past him to gather every Hawk at his disposal on a raid to get here. He'll have had time to get members of the Order from all over the province if word's still going over the telegraph lines. Expect two dozen. Maybe more."

"Given the state Shalridan was in when we left it," Alarrah said, "I doubt we can consider it secure."

She was right. Kestar had, by virtue of the manner of his arrival in the city, seen very little of the upheaval that was going on. But he'd seen and learned enough. Rioters had overwhelmed the carriage carrying him, Celoren, and his mother, rioters who'd shot Bron Wulsten in an eerie echo of what had befallen him now. He'd learned that the forces sweeping across the city-and Kilmerry Province as a whole-weren't just rioters. They were insurgents, bent on bringing the dead nation of Nirrivy back to life. Enough of them that a few dozen Hawks, no matter how well trained they were, wouldn't be enough to keep them contained. The Bhandreid would have to send the army.

Which would free Captain Amarsaed and those under his command to resume their chase, for quelling unrest among humans had never been the function of the Order of the Hawk. And Kestar had seen enough of the man to know that Amarsaed wouldn't step back from his duty without direct orders from the Church, if not the Anreulag Herself.

We got away from him. He won't stop until he has us back, and Faans.h.i.+ and me Cleansed, hanged for treason, or both. No Hawk captain would.

"No, we can't. But we need to a.s.sume they're coming." Kestar paused then. It seemed inexpressibly awkward to ask, since the two elves before him were old enough to have been alive when Dolmerrath had been founded, and maybe even old enough to have witnessed the razing of elven settlements all over Nirrivy by cannon fire. With lives at stake, though, he could take no just shelter in silence. "The Wards on this place. Will they stand against an organized Hawk force?"

Gerren's eyes went dark and distant. "No. They won't. Alarrah, take Jannyn and Tembriel. Gather the scouts and put everyone who can bear arms on watch on the Wards. Spread the word that everyone with human blood who can fight should stand ready to defend Dolmerrath itself. Everyone else should prepare the boats. We may need to evacuate."

Memory. Kestar recognized the look of it. Part of him didn't want to consider what must have prompted the elf's expression; the rest of him dragged the possibilities into the forefront of his mind to be acknowledged, like Bron's death.

How many times had Gerren had to issue these same orders? How many of his people had he had to send to their deaths?

Had his own great-grandfather Riniel ever had to do the same?

He couldn't give Bron back his life, even a.s.suming that his fellow Hawk would have wanted him to after his elven blood had been revealed. Likewise, he couldn't bring back the elves who'd already fallen to the striking swords of the Hawks. There was no course before him but to aid the elves who remained-along with Faans.h.i.+, Celoren, his mother, and even the a.s.sa.s.sins who'd come from Shalridan with them.

"Under the circ.u.mstances I'll understand if you tell me no, but I'd like to see Bron laid decently to rest," he said. "And the sailor too. He was just doing the job he was paid for. Tell me where I can put them that won't offend your people, and then my sword is yours."

Alarrah paused before stepping back out through the curtain, her pale brows lifted, eyes full of unvoiced query. Gerren nodded once to her, and she stole out without a sound, leaving Kestar alone with the steward of Dolmerrath and the dead men upon the floor.

"The sailor may rest among the dead of Dolmerrath," Gerren said. "At any other time, we'd leave a slain Hawk in the woods and let the creatures of the wild feed upon his bones. You won't make it across the Wards by yourself, and I can't spare scouts to take you. Nor will I let him rest among our dead, and I'll say no elegies for one who fell while attacking my people. But I'll take you to where you may give him up to the ocean. That's the best I can offer you."

"I accept. Let me prepare him, and then show me where I must go."

It didn't surprise Julian much that Faans.h.i.+ bolted not long after they brought the dead Hawk in, along with the sailor he'd killed. Powerful as her magic was, it was hard enough for her to control it in the presence of injury or sickness. Recent death, as far as he could tell, was worse for her even if the victim was someone she had no intention of healing. He'd seen it happen to her once before.

There was nothing astonis.h.i.+ng, either, in how she chose to leave them. One moment Julian was eying a tense exchange between Rab, Tembriel and Jannyn as his young partner grudgingly thanked the scouts for trying to defend his fallen horse, and the scouts looked entirely lost as to how they might reply. In the next, though, the girl was slipping away back toward Dolmerrath's inner caverns, a barely audible apology upon her lips.

"Please forgive me, I... I can't."

For the first time since he'd met her, though, he found himself surprised at how easily he went after her.

His sense of direction still wasn't back to what he was accustomed to after Faans.h.i.+ had given him back his missing eye and hand. After twelve years without it, depth perception was enough of a novelty that he kept misjudging what paths the winding corridors of Dolmerrath took. Nonetheless, following Faans.h.i.+ was effortless. It was nothing he could put a finger on, nothing as concrete as sight or smell. He could lay no claim to magic, for he was as human as they came. Yet after he'd awakened, remade by Faans.h.i.+'s power, he'd retained an awareness of her in his blood and bones.

That awareness pulled him after the girl now. Agitation made her swift enough to get ahead of him, and once or twice he lost sight of her. A blossoming suspicion that he knew where she was going, however, guided his own route through the caverns. Soon enough, when he reached the little chamber with a fountain in its center, he saw that he was right.

Many of the elves in Dolmerrath used the place for quiet contemplation, or so he'd been told. Since their arrival a few days past, Faans.h.i.+ and the Tantiu guardsman Semai had been using it for their daily prayers to their threefold G.o.ddess Djashtet. Julian found Faans.h.i.+ there now, sitting at the fountain's edge, with her head bowed and her arms wrapped around herself. She didn't look as if she were praying-she looked as if she were ill. That all by itself was enough to propel him toward her, only to stop short when she looked up at his approach.

"Julian," she blurted. Surprise of her own flashed in her eyes, but only for a moment, and it occurred to him that perhaps she'd been no more astonished than he that he'd followed her. "Julian, I'm not sure I can do this."

He didn't have to work to fathom what she meant. She was a healer after all, raised in slavery, with barely any exposure to the world beyond Lomhannor Hall, much less to death or war. Her sensibilities were gentle, entirely aside from the relentless dictates of her power. Yet hers were the hands that had turned aside the Anreulag. Defied a duke. Soothed the hurts and sickness of the denizens of Shalridan as well as panicked refugees fleeing fire and riot. Saved the life of a Hawk, and, for that matter, his own. Through it all, she'd never complained, though he'd seen her bent near to breaking more than once.

But she hadn't actually broken. He'd been the one to break, and she'd remade him with her touch into someone he still didn't entirely recognize as himself even as he sat down at the fountain's edge beside her. "Welcome to another lesson in the ways of the world. I haven't met anyone yet, man or woman, human or elf, who hasn't asked themselves that same question."

"That doesn't sound very rea.s.suring," Faans.h.i.+ said. "How does anyone ever find the courage to get anything done?"

That she could think to chide him gave Julian a small glimmer of satisfaction, for rousing her to that had in fact been his aim-and that she could chide him at all was a sign of how far she'd come from the shy mouse he'd stolen out of slavery. "Some pray, though I expect you know far more about the efficacy of that than I do. Others drink till it doesn't matter if you're scared." He had to catch himself at that, for the mental picture of Faans.h.i.+ imbibing any form of spirits was strangely intriguing, yet something he should under no circ.u.mstances consider.

"What do you do to find your courage?"

Julian coughed, sternly setting aside the image of this young woman with her inhibitions down, and gave the question the attention it deserved. "It's helped to have Rab," he began.

At that, she smiled. "The comfort of a friend at your side, who'll fight with you, and defend you if you're hurt."

"Or heal you, as the case may be." More than that, he wasn't quite sure how to utter. Her hands had reshaped him, but it was her brightened eyes and sweet smile that gave him his comfort.

The shape of her face, though, was another matter entirely. She'd taken to wearing the korfi that Semai had shown her how to fas.h.i.+on to disguise herself in Shalridan's streets, but unlike the guardsman, she wore it wrapped loosely about her head and neck, leaving her features in full view. Whether it was a compromise between her conflicting heritages, Julian didn't know. He knew only that the drape of the green cloth matched her eyes and emphasized the delicate structure of her cheeks...and that he hadn't been able to forget the feel of her skin beneath his fingertips, or of her lips against his own.

"But I'll let you in on a little secret, girl," he went on. "We're all of us scared of something. Some of us are just better at handling it than others. And you're braver and stronger than you give yourself credit for. I think you'll face anything coming at us just fine."

She considered this, tucking her lower lip beneath her teeth in a thoughtful expression, before she finally said, "There's something else I'm scared about, and I don't know how to speak of it since no one, not even my okinya, has ever taught me the ways of what happens between women and men. I don't know if it's proper for me to even say this."

Julian raised an eyebrow, while his suspicions rose about what words she was about to speak, and he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to hear them. Still, it'd been a labor of the G.o.ds to get her to look him in the eye on a regular basis, never mind speak to him freely; he wasn't about to sabotage that accomplishment now. "I'm hardly an authority on propriety. And you know you can say anything you like to me."

"I do." Faans.h.i.+ looked at him then, with a gaze more direct than he'd yet seen from her. "So I'll say this, because I'm afraid of what will happen if the Hawks are on their way for us, and I don't want them to get here before I have a chance to tell you this. Julian, I..." Her voice faltered, but her gaze did not, and her cheeks turned a deeper, redder shade of gold. "I'd very much like for you to kiss me again."

That's what I thought she'd say. That certainty flashed across Julian's mind in intermingled relief and dread, and for an instant, he had no idea how to answer her. The first time he'd kissed her, when he and Rab had fled to Shalridan, had been one thing. Impulse had fueled it, along with a worry that he'd never see her again, and a need to apologize for his abandonment of her. The second time, she'd kissed him, every bit as shyly as her looking at him now.

He hadn't considered that there might be a third time, and surely he should have done-should have seen that she'd turn such a nervous, hopeful gaze on him sooner or later. But there was no room in him for hindsight when his world narrowed down to contain only Faans.h.i.+. Nor would he do her the discourtesy of asking if she was certain. She'd put it into words. For Faans.h.i.+, that was tantamount to shouting from rooftops. And he could think of no better answer to her request than simply doing it, and giving the bravery she'd mustered the respect and reward it was due.

Gravely, silently, he inclined his head. He lifted a hand-the right hand, the one she'd given back to him-up to cradle her chin in his fingers. She put forth no magic he was capable of sensing. Yet his palm warmed even at that slight contact, as if he'd reached out to grasp a sunbeam. The echo of her power still resounded through him; deep in his nerves, his body still knew the one who'd brought it back from the brink of death. Deeper still, he knew the one who'd reshaped him in ways that had nothing to do with magic.

When he leaned forward to do as she'd asked, brus.h.i.+ng his lips across hers, he felt her breath stop with the tiniest of gasps. Her hands fumbled and then connected with him, one at his shoulder and one at his waist. They channeled none of her power but rather a restlessness that made his pulse speed up and made him deepen the attention he paid to her soft and pliant mouth. He'd known desire of his own before. He recognized it now in her, and an abrupt, fierce curiosity made him draw back to study her face anew, just to see if she recognized it in herself.

Her eyes had darkened, pupils widening in summer's green, and so sharp a blend of emotions had risen in her face that he could guess at each individual sentiment. Wonder. Chagrin. Shyness. And yes, yearning, enough to prompt a flare of masculine pride that he'd called it out in her. "Thank you, Julian," she whispered.

There was much he could have said in reply, many droll answers that Nine-fingered Rab would certainly have given her. But he wasn't Rab, and he wouldn't make light of the acute anxiety in her face. "You're welcome," he said instead, just as quietly.

"I know I'm not wise about the world. This, though... I don't know what else men and women do when they feel like this. I-I mean, I know that they lie with one another, it's how babies are made, but I don't know-"

"Faans.h.i.+." Her name still felt strange upon Julian's lips, but it seemed vital to say it now, to stem the rising tide of her anxiety. She cut off at the sound of it, and he let one corner of his mouth curl up as he took one of her hands in both of his own. "It's all right. Telling someone when you'd like him to kiss you is an excellent first step. But you should decide what you want to happen next."

She smiled at the rea.s.surance, as he'd hoped she might. But it was a wisp of an expression, fading as she took in the rest of what he had to say. "You said before, when you first took me out of Camden, that you didn't want to make me your concubine."

"It's still true. I wouldn't expect that of any woman-" Tykhe. How exactly was he to phrase this when she looked at him with such eyes, needful and innocent all at once? Julian blew out a breath, choosing his next words with the same caution he'd have taken with unfamiliar weapons. With profound reluctance, he drew back from Faans.h.i.+'s touch and set her hand down once more. "Of any woman who attracted me, or who was attracted to me. But I'd warn you against following my example. I have exactly one prior woman of importance in my history, and you know what happened to her."

She nodded, a single solemn nod. Nor did she reach for him again, taking her cue from his altered demeanor. G.o.ds help him, he could see recollection blossoming with painful clarity in her eyes, for it hadn't been very many nights past that he'd almost killed his brother. The last woman Julian had ever loved killed him instead, as his brother in turn struck her down.

He didn't know how much Faans.h.i.+ knew of it. More than she should, of that much he was sure; she had a way of discovering things about those she healed. "I know that you loved her," she said.

It took everything in Julian's power not to wince, and even then, he had to look away from Faans.h.i.+'s abruptly too-knowing eyes. Splendid. Kiss the girl and then remind her of the woman you loved before her. That thought stopped him cold.

Dear G.o.ds. He loved her. In truth, he knew that already, at least in the privacy of his own thoughts. Nor were Faans.h.i.+'s warmer sentiments toward him any real surprise. What gave him pause was neither of these things, but rather, the startling question before him of what to do about it. In her inexperience, Faans.h.i.+ looked to him for guidance, and in that moment Julian feared he had none to give.

Should he encourage her physical affection? Bed her? Court her? That last notion seemed ludicrous; he couldn't envision how he, an a.s.sa.s.sin accustomed to killing in shadows, could begin to woo a woman whose entire soul seemed crafted from sunlight, magic and prayer to her threefold G.o.ddess. That seemed a task better suited to someone more like her, someone less...stained. Vaa.r.s.en, perhaps. He was closer to her in age and had a religious background like her, even if his allegiance to the Church of the Four G.o.ds had been sundered.

Yet the thought of Faans.h.i.+ in Kestar Vaa.r.s.en's arms set his teeth on edge. Julian couldn't deny that, not if he was being honest with himself. Nor could he be anything less than honest with the girl.

"I did love her, yes," he said at last, turning his gaze back to her. "I also care for you. What I think we should do about that...well. Given that this place may be about to come down around our heads, I'd suggest we save that until things are somewhat safer. If we have to fight, or worse yet, if we have to leave, we'll have more urgent things to worry about."

Faans.h.i.+ considered this, and to his relief, bobbed her head in acceptance. "That seems wise. If the Lady of Time wills it, She will show us what to do. But, Julian..." She paused, and then added hopefully, "Is it all right if I kiss you again?"

Just barely, he managed not to laugh. "I think we've got time for that."

But he didn't hold back his grin, or the urge to touch his lips to hers once more.

Chapter Eight.

Lomhannor Hall, Kilmerry Province, Jeuchar 9, AC 1876 "Mother? Are we going to war now?"

There were those among the Adalonian gentry, Khamsin knew, who would go into apoplexies at the sight of her putting on the battle garb of Tantiulo. To serve in the Order of the Hawk or in the Bhandreid's army was a duty for the young, not for mature n.o.blewomen with families. Nor was it proper for a wife mourning her husband to show unseemly inclination to pick up a sword. Worse still that she was casting aside the black widow's gown northern custom bid her wear, in favor of the short tunic and silwar she'd once worn on the battlefields of her homeland. Her veil she cast aside for a bright crimson korfi, wound in masculine style around her head to protect the tightly braided crown of her black hair.

In the privacy of her own chambers she hadn't pulled the korfi into place over her face, and so she could see her own features in the mirror. She could see herself scowling thoughtfully at the alterations to her body that twenty years of inaction and motherhood had wrought. And she could see Yselde behind her looking up at her in a mixture of worry and fascination.

What Adalonians she didn't shock senseless with her own altered clothing would doubtless succ.u.mb at the sight of her daughter at her side when she was about to go to war. Let them be shocked. Her scowl s.h.i.+fted to a fierce, proud smile at the thought, and then gentled as she turned and knelt before the child.

"I am, little bloom. It's only proper, for the people who wish to live as Nirrivans will expect me to help them fight."

"But you said you would keep me and Artir safe. You said you weren't going away."

Yselde's tone was so anxious that Khamsin couldn't help but place a kiss upon her brow. "You will never be far from my side. You will travel where I do, but sometimes I will need to have some of the men and women who work for me look after you when I must go and make war. I am their commander, and I must lead them. The Tantiu word is sirdara."

"Sirdara," the child repeated, brightening a little, for she liked learning new words.

"Good," Khamsin said, and she said it again in Tantiu to emphasize that word too. "Yaksi. And I have an important task for you to do while I'm gone. Can you do this thing for me?"

Disappointment warred with hope on her daughter's face as Yselde straightened where she stood, striving to look as tall and as fearsome as she could-which was not much, for a girl of four. She nodded vigorously nevertheless. "Yes, Mama! Sirdara!"

"Good. Your task is this-protect your brother Artir, for he's too small to protect himself. Obey your nurse. And if you are very, very good, I will come to you every night and teach you more words and tell you stories in Tantiu. Perhaps I will even show you how to hold a knife."

Yselde's eyes went round with awe, and as she bobbed her head, she threw her arms around her mother's neck. "I'll be good, I promise! And I'll take care of Artir."

Khamsin smiled and hugged the child close. For a moment she let herself enjoy the simple peace of the contact and her daughter's joy. But a knock sounded at the door of her chamber, and with it, the anxious voice of one of the upstairs maids. "Your Grace? Akresha? A messenger's come for you from the town. He says Sister Sother sent him and he needs to see you immediately."

Her daughter went still, and with care, Khamsin set her down again, conscious of Yselde's curious eyes upon her as she stood and wound her crimson korfi into place. "Let the messenger enter," she called back.

The door opened to a young man from the militia who'd gathered under Sother's direction in Camden, as young a boy as the one she'd seen on sentry duty at the gates. But this one, at least, had a st.u.r.dy enough frame that she thought he might perhaps last more than five minutes in combat. He also had enough manners to bow deeply to her as soon as he entered the room, in a rough approximation of how a Tantiu boy might have done it, with his hands pressed palm to palm at his chest. "Please forgive my intrusion, akresha, but Sister Sother sent me to tell you we're sending out a regiment. Word's come of all the Hawks heading north. The Sister thinks we need to put a stop to whatever they're up to and asks if you want to ride with us."

It begins. Lady of Time, guide me. Let me remember the surety of my sword.