Vengeance of the Hunter (24 page)

Let Idrekke Sother inflame the populace with her sermons. Words served well up to a point, but after that, they would always yield to action. And nothing in Enverly’s experience served action better than weapons in hand.

None of their planning, however, accounted for the outbreak of rioting within scant hours of their entering the city. Or for more Hawks than Enverly had seen in one place since the war patrolling the streets, quelling what violence they found, yet stirring up even more by their all-too-visible presence. Enverly, Follingsen and their small force from Lomhannor lost no time in passing weapons into the hands of would-be rioters, not even worrying much about whether those who accepted their arms had actually devoted themselves to the cause of Nirrivy’s rebirth. Any chaos in the streets, Enverly reasoned, could only aid their purpose.

But then the rioters set the city aflame. Suddenly a plan to provoke the people of Shalridan into revolt upon their arrival became a swift rush to guarantee their own ability to leave, and that of the duchess as well. Had it been any other noble, Enverly might have abandoned her to whatever fate the gods saw fit to provide. What support he’d pledged her, in the end, would still yield to what Khamsin herself had named their greatest mutual motive—enlightened self-interest.

Yet she was still the widow of Holvirr Kilmerredes, and the duke
had
been his friend. Enverly never liked to acknowledge that he had a conscience. For the duchess’s safety and that of her children, though, it began to stir.

So he rallied Follingsen and the rest of their people. Together they made a concerted effort to press through the smoke-filled, turbulent streets and reach the cathedral, where they could rendezvous with the duchess and the others she’d brought with her into the city.

On the way, as they struck a path through side alleys to find the clearest possible route, he spotted a flare of radiance far different than the lurid glow of the flames. It was visible only from a distance, and it subsided quickly. But it lasted long enough for Enverly’s pulse to race with a surge of frantic hope.

The girl
had
come into the city.

Enverly didn’t recognize Faanshi herself, not at first. Three of the figures running with her through the smoke, though, were unmistakable to his sight—the assassin and the elves who’d stood with her at the abbey. Two more men with them were startlingly familiar as well, the assassin’s partner who’d attacked him in his own church, and a brawny Tantiu Enverly was certain he knew from the guardsmen’s ranks at Lomhannor Hall. That left the sixth and final person in the running group, a slim form in a
korfi
, a long jacket and formfitting trousers, all garb much like that of the big guardsman.

That figure had been the one whose hands had glowed.

Change of plan
, Enverly decided. Follingsen could lead their people to the duchess and arrange her removal to safer environs.

He’d pursue the girl. If luck was with him, he’d be able to make her give him back what he’d lost.

If not, well. He’d planned for that too, and had made his peace with the probable outcome.

If all else failed, if he died in his attempt to capture Faanshi, he could still use her to give the nascent uprising the greatest gift they could hope to receive.

Whether he lived or died, Adalonia would tear itself apart in the very seat of its power.

Chapter Twenty-Two

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

“Well, then,” demanded Ganniwer, “is that it? Are you going to bother with testimony? Or will you simply proceed with putting us all to death?”

Her tone was purest frost, and Captain Amarsaed whirled on her so quickly that Kestar readied himself, surrounded though he was, to spring upon the man if he dared lay a hand upon his mother. It was almost a disappointment that he didn’t have to try.

Apparently still willing to pay token respect to Ganniwer’s station, the Hawk captain restrained himself to simply glaring at her with a fraction more civility than he was showing Kestar himself. “You are in no position to critique the upholding of holy law, my lady. I advise you to have a care. But as long as you’re asking, we will conduct these proceedings with utmost propriety.”

“As long as they’re done with speed,” bellowed the provost. “How much longer must we take while the city burns?”

“We will conduct these proceedings with utmost propriety,” the captain repeated, spinning to beckon to Bron Wulsten. “Hawk Wulsten, I call upon you as the first witness. State your connection to the prisoners.”

Bron stood with one arm in a sling, and at his captain’s attention, grew paler than he already was. His voice, though thin, held firm. “I was Ordained at Hawksvale in the same class as Hawks Vaarsen and Valleford, sir.”

“Summarize, in your own words, your assessment of their characters.”

“Valleford was always a bit of a rogue, and Vaarsen—well, sir, a lot of us always found him odd. Quite suspicious, truth be told.”

“That’s a gods-damned lie!” Outraged, Celoren shot to his feet. “You were the first to play whist and chess with us every rest night we had.”

Amarsaed, his features stony and implacable, didn’t even bother to intercept Celoren himself. Instead he gestured to two of the other Hawks, deploying them to wrest Kestar’s partner back down into his place on the pew. “The prisoner will be silent unless called upon to speak, or the prisoner will be gagged. Lady Khamsin Kilmerredes, Duchess of Shalridan, please do us the honor of addressing the tribunal. What connection do you have to the prisoners?”

Kestar couldn’t help but turn to face the duchess as she rose, stark and severe in her mourning garb, and a cold chill trickled down his spine as she began to speak. “These two young men first made themselves known to my House when they came to my lord husband’s estate, claiming to be in search of an unidentified mage. The timing of their arrival was highly irregular, occurring as it did on the very same night that assassins invaded Lomhannor Hall to take my husband’s life.”

“In your opinion, Your Grace, was the visit to your residence justified?”

“In my opinion, sir, it led directly to the loss of my husband’s rightful property, and set him on a path to his death.” The duchess did not smile, but her black gaze flashed in Kestar’s direction, and her eyes gleamed with triumph. “In short—no, it was not.”

The provost strode to Amarsaed then, his every motion brusque with his impatience, though he stopped short of actually laying a hand on the captain. “Are we satisfied yet? For gods’ sakes, man, every amulet in this place says Vaarsen has elven blood. Cleanse the man and have done with it, so we can get on with making sure we all survive till dawn.”

“It’s clear enough where our holy duty lies,” the eldest of the priests said.

“The Anreulag in Her wisdom would not expect us to forsake the safety of our people by prolonging this rite without need,” said the eldest priestess, her immaculate robe of the Mother as white as her unbound hair. “Let us carry out Her sacred will. We are ready.”

“
Ani a bhota Anreulag
,
arach shae
,” the rest of the priests and priestesses said, in one voice.

Captain Amarsaed scowled, his gaze shooting along the circle of priests and priestesses in place now before the altar. For an instant he looked as if he might argue. But then, to Kestar’s dread, he inclined his head in acquiescence—for even a captain of the Hawks had to submit to the will of the priests and priestesses of the gods. “
Arach shae.
Kestar Vaarsen, stand before this tribunal.”

“Kescha,” Ganniwer breathed. Only now did her regal composure crack, her voice breaking with a barely repressed sob.

Oh gods
. Kestar could form no other thought as he rose, casting one last glance to his mother, one to Cel. Then he looked up at the priests and priestesses as they began to chant.

Every amulet in the nave redoubled its light, brightly enough that Kestar had to throw up his hands to shield his eyes, an instant before lightning shot from one amulet to the next and at last into him. Pain set his every nerve ablaze, and in that first instant of contact with holy power, he had no room in his mind for anything save a sudden wild sympathy with Faanshi’s assassin, when the Anreulag had struck him down.

In the next instant, his inner meadow began to split asunder—until, like the peal of a bell made of sunlight, Faanshi’s voice echoed across it.
Kestar!

And as the doors in the back of the nave flew open, every amulet in range grew abruptly brighter still, until each one was a tiny star of white-hot incandescence. Two dozen armed figures spilled in from outside, and while three in immediate sight were Hawks trying to fight back the tide, most of the rest were men and women in all manner of garb, raising all manner of weapons.

Two were elves, the same two who’d accompanied Faanshi to Arlitham Abbey in search of him. The blonde-haired healer immediately fired two arrows at the Hawks who charged her from the front of the nave. Her silver-haired companion swung a sword around him in deadly arcs almost too swift for Kestar’s eye to follow. With them in the thick of the fray were the assassins, both of them this time, not only the one called Julian but his young partner as well. Each of them fought two-handed with knives while a burly Tantiu in a blue
korfi
, with a big curved sword in his hands, helped them drive away anyone who came too near one last, smaller figure.

“Faanshi!” Kestar roared.

Five of the guards hustled the Lord Provost, the priests and priestesses, and the duchess toward the door just beside the altar. Kestar caught one last glimpse of Khamsin as her escorts hurried her out through that door, past the statues of the Mother and Daughter—and he was gripped with the sudden surety that behind her veil, she was smiling.

The remaining guards, along with the three Hawks still on their feet, charged forward to join the fight.

And the nave gave itself over to chaos.

* * *

When the rioters broke down the gates of St. Telran’s, Follingsen led their own charge in to join the fray, with two others of their band helping clear their path. Enverly was more than willing to let them handle the lion’s share of the fighting—he could still defend himself, but he was long removed from the soldier he’d been on the battlefields of Tantiulo. And now that he’d spotted the girl and her companions, he had a higher purpose to fulfill.

Once he’d found Faanshi, it didn’t take much effort at all to track her. She ducked and wove out of the way of weapons and blows, her green eyes flat and frightened over the
korfi
she wore. Her face was covered, but her entire frame was glowing, and he had no doubt in his heart that this was the girl he sought.

With one quick gesture he urged his companions to engage the assassins and the big Tantiu who fought at their side. As the combat spilled through St. Telran’s grounds and into the cathedral itself, through the narthex and straight into the nave, Enverly kept to the fringe of it all. Yet not once did he let Faanshi out of his sight.

Inside the nave he got one quick glimpse of the people by the altar, and he laughed as much as he could, in the confines of his own thoughts—did Kestar Vaarsen appreciate that he’d just interrupted the young Hawk’s fate?

Not that it mattered, for he made it to within four feet of the girl even as the men fighting around her were all engaged. The duchess didn’t know what he was planning, for he hadn’t bothered to tell her—on the off chance that it wouldn’t work. Either way, regardless, she would certainly find out soon enough.

Three feet.

Two.

He seized the girl from behind. She screamed and writhed in his grasp, but he pulled the knife he’d hidden beneath his robes and drove it first into her ribs, and then into his own.

And exactly as he’d planned, her power ignited in incandescent brilliance.

* * *

Gunshots from the Hawks armed with pistols or the rioters armed with muskets only slowed the fight in the nave rather than stopping it. Arrows, swords and knives did nothing to convince those who fought on either side to lay down their arms.

But when Faanshi screamed and her power filled the nave with the brightest light yet, every combatant had to freeze. Male or female, elf or human, the ragged explosion of magic from the healer girl momentarily blinded them all.

Kestar felt rather than saw her fall, and all else, even his mother and his partner, vanished from his mind as he bolted for the back of the nave. In his dazzled haste he tripped twice over bodies sprawled between the pews, but neither one stopped his headlong rush to reach Faanshi. The light ebbed down just enough for him to see before he plowed straight into the silver-haired Kirinil, who nearly mowed him down where he stood as he rasped, “Back, human! Back, all of you!”

Silence fell, almost deafening in the wake of the fighting that had just been going on, as the elves, the assassins and the Tantiu with the curved sword formed a circle around the fallen girl. The blonde she-elf, the other healer, tried to fling herself down to Faanshi’s side—but the man who’d seized her, the man who’d stabbed her, let out an animal howl at her approach.

The hood of his cloak fell back, revealing the face of the old priest Shaymis Enverly.

He’d fallen to his knees along with Faanshi, and they were both bleeding now, but the priest was bizarrely smiling. He kept on doing so, clutching the healer girl, while her hands blindly fumbled at his body—first at his ribs, and then at his throat.

Enverly kept howling, while light kindled around his head like a halo, until his howl changed into a burst of hoarse, harsh laughter. And then, words.

Words Kestar recognized the instant the man began to chant them. Words that had pulled down the roof of the chapel at Arlitham Abbey, killed several men and manifested the Voice of the Gods.

He didn’t even have to scream a warning, for the elves all reacted more swiftly than he. Arrow and sword alike felled Shaymis Enverly, along with a knife from one of the assassins—and Kestar didn’t have to guess that it was Julian who’d hurled the blade, for the Rook was the first to reach Faanshi and pull her out of the old priest’s embrace.

It was the blonde healer, though, who first saw and recognized Kestar himself.

“We came for you,
valann
,” she said, and her voice was grim with purpose. “And if you value my sister as much as the rest of us, you’d better come now and come fast. We’re leaving.”

A deed more easily announced than done, for weapons in the hands of angry Hawks stood between them and escape from the cathedral. Kestar didn’t have to work to find weapons of his own, for there were swords to be stolen from the first Hawks who tried to attack him and his partner—only to fall under Alarrah’s arrows for their pains. Thus armed, they fought their way back to the front of the nave to retrieve Ganniwer before Jekke Yerredes could drag her away. Yet Lady Vaarsen rose to her own defense, wresting a knife from the Hawk’s own belt, and stabbing her with it. It wasn’t enough to drop the woman in her tracks, but it was enough to make her let go.

Kestar had never been more proud of his mother in his life.

Yet what Hawks remained in the nave weren’t about to let them go. Only through a deafening clatter of sword against sword and the periodic reports of pistols were they able to return to those who’d come with Faanshi, and more than once, the weapons of the Hawks struck home. Bleeding and battered, they had to fight their way outside in a lopsided circle around the Rook, who bore the unconscious Faanshi in his arms. Kestar thrust Ganniwer into the middle of their circle to join him, while Alarrah darted back and forth among them, touching each of them in passing, with as much of her healing power as she could spare to sustain them all.

Outside the riot and fighting hadn’t much abated, but those who shouted “Nirrivy!” were beginning to prevail. They were still streaming into St. Telran’s, far more interested in the grand building than in the ragtag group now fleeing it. Some who saw them pass dodged to let them by, and only much later did Kestar realize the import of that—why half a dozen different armed men looked with dismay on the sight of one unconscious half-elven girl glowing in the arms of the assassin who bore her, and why they called out “Saint Faanshi” as the Rook hurried past them. Many more, though, were preoccupied with combat, and moved out of their way only as the ebb and flow of the fighting demanded.

In the full headlong rush of their flight, though, all Kestar ultimately knew was the urgency of their escape.

They ran pell-mell through streets and alleys, following enough turns and twists that he quickly lost track of where they were headed, save that it was away from the fire that still hurled flame and smoke into the sky. In one last alley, they ducked one by one down a spiral staircase of old wood and rusted iron. From there, a cellar full of barrels of salted pork and bottles of brandy—and in that, there was a trapdoor that led down into cool, dark tunnels that were a welcome respite from the heat and smoke above.

Not even then did they stop running, not for a while. When they finally reached what Kestar guessed to be their destination, a wide underground chamber he’d never dreamed existed below the city, strangers greeted them and guided them quickly to places where they could collapse and rest. He made sure that Celoren and Ganniwer were safe, then followed Julian as he bore Faanshi into one of the nooks that made hollows in the ancient stone walls. There, the assassin sank down with his back against one of those walls, still cradling the girl’s unmoving form.