The Green Kirtle, Shalridan, Jeuchar 6, AC 1876 Captain Amarsaed was going to have her head. And given how the past two days had gone in Shalridan, Jekke was almost ready to volunteer it to him.

The Hawks stationed at St. Telran's were stretched critically thin. Most of the members of the Order who'd been sent into the province were busy scouring the countryside for any trace of the traitor Kestar Vaa.r.s.en, the escaped slave girl Faanshi, and their accomplices-and half the countryside seemed bent on taking up arms against the rightful rule of the Bhandreid and the Church, making the task set to the Hawks all the more difficult. Much of the populace of Shalridan had fled the city, and of those who remained, far more of them were inclined to shoot at any Hawks they saw rather than follow their orders. Any one of these things was dire enough. Taken together, they made it impossible for Jekke to search the city in uniform. She kept her amulet with her-no Hawk would ever go without her amulet-but she hadn't dared pull it out from beneath the simple bodice she'd put on to blend in with the townsfolk, not when the sight of it could easily get her shot.

Not that her amulet had spoken a single time since Captain Amarsaed had ordered her out into the streets to look for any sign that the grim news out of Dareli had reached Shalridan. There were three other telegraph stations in the city alone, and many more stretching eastward through Kilmerry Province. As she and the captain had feared, word had already started to spread, as swift as the riots and fires. Many of the people she pa.s.sed on the streets were babbling the news to each other, and she spotted at least four different children in pages' caps waving freshly printed broadsheets, crying out for the attention and coin of pa.s.sersby.

Worse yet, multiple crowds were beginning to gather and chant imprecations against the Church-and against the Voice of the G.o.ds Herself. Jekke had never seen the like of it before, and it struck chords of disquiet into her heart.

She took her circuit down to the streets closest to the wharves, and her amulet spoke for the first time in days, immediately drawing her attention from everything else. She'd begun to worry that the amulets she and the other Hawks wore to track elves had ceased to function-perhaps even because of the Anreulag's a.s.sault on Dareli-but the burst of warmth and light at her throat gave her sudden rea.s.surance that the blessing the Order had put into the silver, a blessing drawing on the Anreulag's own power, was still active.

It was also bright enough to give her position away despite the cover of the growing darkness. And so she ducked into the shadows that filled the alley between two nearby buildings, her heart pounding, her breath hitching in her throat. By the time she verified that her path was clear, her amulet's warning had begun to sputter and fade. It died entirely when she reached the docks, leaving her with the sinking realization that the number of vessels in Shalridan's harbor had gone down dramatically with the outbreak of the riots. With foggy conditions aggravated by the pall of smoke, ships could slip with ease in and out of the harbor.

And her amulet had just warned her that someone of elven blood was out there on the water, very likely on a ship vanishing even now into the night, with no one at St. Telran's the wiser. Most likely someone with significant power, given the strength of her amulet's reaction-perhaps even multiple people.

Like Vaa.r.s.en, the healer slave for whom he'd betrayed the Order, and their accomplices.

G.o.ds help us. They're practically dancing away from us.

She couldn't prove it, not when her amulet remained dormant as she ran up and down the entire length of the docks. Without her amulet's light, she couldn't invoke Hawk authority to close the harbor or search outgoing vessels-a.s.suming she could find the personnel needed to enforce such edicts, which was not at all guaranteed with the streets thronged with rioters. Jekke had no choice but to report back to the captain for further orders, and she could only imagine how he'd react when she informed him that in their haste to secure the city, they'd lost their chance to recapture the very fugitives who'd brought them to Shalridan in the first place.

Jekke would rather shoot herself in the head than make such a report.

And so, desperate for any sc.r.a.p of information she could take back to her commander, she began a sweep through the taverns closest to the harbor. The story she'd invented-that she was a shopkeeper's daughter from Marriham, stranded in the city when the unrest broke out, and now looking for any word of her family-got her plenty of sympathy from tavern staff as long as she flashed enough coin to pay for drinks. She also got three offers of marriage, two from men who stank of smoke and whiskey and one from a woman probably old enough to be her mother. Those were far less interesting than the offers to ferry her out of the city if she had more coin than what she was spending on her ale, and to reunite her with her missing kin if she paid three times the price.

At the Green Kirtle, though, she finally found a lead that made her want to shout prayers of thanks to the Father and Mother.

Some of the patrons were sharing broadsheets back and forth, chattering in urgent voices about the word from Dareli. But most of the place was given over to a ring of men and women singing songs that by themselves would have her on alert, Nirrivan war songs that hadn't been openly sung in the western provinces in well over a hundred years. And there were new ones as well-one that prompted the crowd to bellow the response of "Nirrivy rises" at the end of every chorus, and another that praised a saint with shining hands, who walked through fire to heal the sick and the fallen.

Part of Jekke noted that, even as she paid for a beer she had no intention of drinking. If the people were already making songs about the so-called Saint Faanshi, the Hawks left in Shalridan were fighting a lost cause. Captain Amarsaed needs to know about this.

But the rest of her locked on to an urgent whisper somewhere nearby. She didn't catch it all. What words she did catch, though, seized her attention with all the force of her amulet firing off.

"Didn't b.l.o.o.d.y well think about that, did they? How're we supposed to reach the Good Folk of the North when the whole d.a.m.n city's falling to pieces?"

Jekke had never been skilled at dissembling; such was not among the skills the G.o.ds and the Anreulag had granted her. It took everything in her power to pretend to drink and watch the singers, when in reality all her senses were latched onto the men at the table just a few feet away. She'd had to put as much fact into her cover story as possible, just for the sake of the ring of truth. She was, in fact, a shopkeeper's daughter from Marriham. She'd grown up in Kilmerry Province. By that happenstance alone, she recognized the phrase the men had used.

The Good Folk of the North.

There'd always been rumors that the last free elves in Adalonia had a stronghold somewhere in Adalonia's borders. But no one ever spoke of the elves openly, and when Jekke had joined the Order of the Hawk, she'd quickly found that the people of Marriham or Tolton or Camden were suddenly far more circ.u.mspect with their language around her. She was a Knight of the Hawk, and they gave her their respect. But she was no longer Jekke, with her sharp head for numbers, who'd always bought extra sugar cookies just to see the baker's beautiful daughter smile. Her own grandfather insisted that the cradle tales he'd told her were flights of fancy, nothing more, and that for all he knew, the Good Folk were delicate little fairies who would do good deeds for you if you left them a plate of milk on the porch. Not a single member of her family would ever tell her otherwise.

But she remembered the tales differently. And her family's closing ranks against her had always galled.

And so she eavesdropped on the men at the nearby table until she managed to glean a few precious sc.r.a.ps of information-and when they slipped out of the Kirtle at the end of a song, she bribed the serving girl to tell her the rest. They were sailors, these men, whose ship had left port without them. They had a job to do, or so they'd claimed, taking two horses northward for pa.s.sengers on their vessel.

Horses that, she remembered in a rush of hope, matched the description of the horses ridden by two of the fugitives with Vaa.r.s.en and his healer.

It wasn't much to go on. But it was enough to take back to St. Telran's so she could report to Captain Amarsaed. If the G.o.ds are merciful, this'll gain me at least a stay of execution.

Jekke couldn't bring herself to pray for such mercy, though. She could see no other reason for the report of the Anreulag's actions than the G.o.ds' own displeasure at the heresy running rampant in the west, and she had begun to believe that her captain thought the same.

When she roused him out of slumber in his quarters in the cathedral and saw the fervor kindling in his eyes at her report, she was sure.

"Take Wulsten with you and do everything in your power to intercept these men," he ordered her. "The rest of us will be a day behind you."

That surprised her. "Our entire company's moving out, sir?"

"We can't hold Shalridan much longer, Lieutenant, not with as few knights as we have on hand. And if the G.o.ds want to hand us the means to accomplish what the Bhandreid sent us here to do in the first place, then far be it from me to refuse them. Follow those men. Leave us signs. We'll find you."

In the woods south of Dolmerrath, Jeuchar 9, AC 1876 Tracking the two sailors wasn't difficult-they were trained to the sea, not to land, and showed little sign of knowing how to hide the traces of their journey. They might easily have lost themselves in the ongoing wave of people fleeing Shalridan in all directions, for neither man was distinctive of feature. But the horses-strong, well-trained stallions both-were far more striking of appearance than their riders.

And there was only one remote section of Kilmerry Province where they might be bound.

Every member of the Order of the Hawk, from the captains down to the youngest cadets, knew that the last surviving free elves in the realm had been chased into Kilmerry's northern coastal woods. But only when she'd been ordained as a full Knight of the Hawk had Jekke learned why the Order hadn't yet breached those woods in the Anreulag's name. Elven magic was loose there, a magic strong enough to haunt the forest-and to fill the minds of even the most resolute of Hawks with blind, unreasoning fear. To admit that such power still existed unchecked by the Church would have shamed them all, and so every ordained Hawk had standing orders to enter that forest only in the direst of needs, and with the greatest of caution.

Burgeoning rebellion was a dire enough need-and so Jekke hoped that, if they were still answering prayers, the G.o.ds would see fit to let her and Bron accomplish their mission.

While they were still on well-traveled roads, it was easy enough to follow the sailors without being conspicuous. But once they veered into the woods, they had to strike a delicate balance between stealth and speed. Ride too slowly, and they'd lose their quarry. Too fast, and they'd alert them. Neither was an option, not when the captain had made it clear that Shalridan was slipping out of the Order's control, and not when the very realm might be doing the same.

She hadn't dared to ask Bron Wulsten if he knew of the report they'd received over the telegraph, though she could scarcely imagine how it would have escaped his attention if the word was already spreading through Shalridan. The specter of it haunted her every action, crackling through her hands each time she reached for her horse's reins, her weapons or her amulet. As she and Bron rode farther north, closer and closer to the sea, she caught herself starting at shadows. Was this how the elves felt, wondering whether the Anreulag might appear at any moment and smite them in Her holy wrath? How did they live each day with such an enervating fear?

That was an unexpected, unwelcome sympathy-and one she could ill afford. Grimly, doggedly, she forced her thoughts instead to prayers of penitence.

When she and Bron finally caught up with the sailors, they became prayers of exultation. "Ani a bhota Anreulag," she cried at the sight of the other two horses in the distance.

"Arach shae," Bron called back.

One of the sailors spotted them, and the chase was on.

The men they chased weren't expert hors.e.m.e.n-and so, for all that they rode horses that were the match of any raised by the Church, Jekke and Bron soon began to close in on them. There was no trail, but that didn't matter. All around them were tall, aged trees untouched by the axes of lumbermen, with enough s.p.a.ce between moss-covered trunks that the horses could leap and weave between them. Jekke scowled ahead as she rode, her attention locked on every move the other horses made. At her distance she couldn't be sure-but those other mounts ran as if they knew the terrain better than their riders, as if they'd traversed it before. Which made it all the more imperative, as far as she was concerned, that they overtake them before they could reach whatever destination they had in mind.

She didn't want to think about the consequences of failure. Jekke could see it even now, the Anreulag Herself, turning on them in Her righteous rage, obliterating them where they stood. The vision had haunted her sleep for the past four days. It haunted her again now, turning her skin cold and clammy even as her horse raced along, setting her pulse racing far out of proportion to the urgency of their pursuit. In sharp contrast her amulet abruptly fired, with such a searing heat that it made her wonder for one brief, terrified moment whether it had burst into physical flame.

Only then did she realize Bron was screaming.

At first she couldn't see why-then, as she twisted in her saddle, she spied new riders charging at them, from somewhere ahead of the men they were hunting. Her vision blurred. Beneath her, her horse faltered, sensing her indecision and instinctively shying out of the path of the onrushing intruders. The one in the lead-oh G.o.ds.

Jekke screamed at the sight of her, a redheaded she-demon with uplifted hands, hurling fire ahead of her, toward Bron. The other Hawk had his pistol out, but his one shot went wild. One of the horses they'd been chasing let out a scream of its own, rearing and throwing its rider, sending his body hurtling with sickening force into the nearest tree.

In rapid succession, the she-demon's followers snapped bows up in Bron's direction. Arrows sliced the air. Several struck Bron at once, and before Jekke could do more than howl her dismay, he tumbled limply out of his saddle.

Fear surged up in Jekke, blinding her, choking her.

Oh G.o.ds oh G.o.ds the elves have come, they're going to kill us both- Magic, of course there's magic, but it's too strong oh G.o.ds it's too strong I can't Cleanse this- Holy Anreulag forgive me I only wanted to serve You! Don't let me die please don't let me die- Bron!

But all she could see now was the Anreulag, towering over her, Her image merging and blurring with the she-elf who led the attackers. Any moment now, the holy fire would sweep over her-would join with the fire of her amulet, burning at her breast. She should have invoked that power. A proper Hawk, a true Knight of the Order, would have called upon that sacred strength and run down the elven heretics who dared to spill the blood of those who served the Voice of the G.o.ds. But her patrol partner was dead, their quarry now out of her reach, and the Good Folk of the North were charging at her now through the trees, their horses' hooves a rhythm of implacable vengeance.

Somehow, even as she howled in terrified protest, Jekke found her horse's reins and wheeled the beast around. She jammed her heels into its sides, and as it galloped for its life and her own, she clung in desperation to its neck. Pain bit into her a single time-an arrow from her pursuers striking her somewhere, but not somewhere vital enough to make her fall.

How long it took her to escape, she had no notion. But she was still sobbing, begging the G.o.ds and their Voice for forgiveness, when the rest of the Hawks found her at last.

Chapter Five.

Dolmerrath, Jeuchar 9, AC 1876 If there was anything Faanshi had come to learn since she'd gained her freedom-aside, that is, from the truly disturbing breadth of her healing magic-it was that she had only the barest conception of how a life outside slavery might be led.

To be sure, Julian had warned her that the elves were fugitives, and she understood now what that meant. Even with the home they'd carved out for themselves in the caves by the northern ocean, they still lived each day in fear for their lives. The security of Dolmerrath depended entirely upon the strength of Kirinil's Wards, and to step outside that protection was to risk the eyes and the swords of the Hawks. Faanshi had seen that firsthand. But not until they'd all escaped from the city of Shalridan, rescuing Kestar Vaa.r.s.en from a Cleansing at his own Order's hands, had she had a chance to finally see how the people of Dolmerrath lived within the Wards.

There was always work to do, for the elves and the humans who chose to live with them needed food and clothing as well as a safe haven. Several of the caves, with the aid of mirrors Tembriel had charmed to mimic sunlight, were dedicated to growing fruits and vegetables. Dolmerrath's people also had boats, sent out under the cover of night to fish the surrounding waters-and to periodically trade with human smugglers. The caves sheltered weavers and artisans, winemakers and cobblers. Men and women worked together to teach the children, some elf, some human, and some with the blood of both. They made barrels. They mended wagons and nets. They fed, groomed and exercised the beasts of Dolmerrath, the dogs, cats, messenger birds and horses.

Faanshi would gladly have volunteered for any task that could have used her hands, but Kirinil claimed the lion's share of her time, proclaiming that mastery of her magic was the greatest service she could do them. She was grateful to follow his advice, for Kirinil was less intimidating than his brother Gerren. As Dolmerrath's leader, polite though he was to her, Gerren held rank that made him automatically unnerving in Faanshi's eyes. Those with rank, in her experience, had the power to constrain her.

The Duke of Shalridan had taught her that when he'd been her master.

Kirinil, though, had magic like her-and that made her think of him almost as kin, though he shared no blood with her as Alarrah did. It gave them something in common. The greatest blessing of Djashtet, though, was Kirinil's willingness to teach her. With his help, she hoped she would be able to earn a place alongside Dolmerrath's other mages, and help its people as skillfully as they did with their own gifts.

"You're a healer, valanne," he told her. "But what you did in Arlitham Abbey makes you a shielder, like me. We need that as much as healing. My Wards won't last forever."

He began to train her almost as soon as they returned from Shalridan, leaving her little time for anything else save meals, rest and prayer. And she was with Kirinil, diligently practicing shielding herself enough to keep him from touching her, when a young girl came running to find her.

"Healer, come quickly! We need you in the stable caverns, they've brought in the Rook's horse!"

Julian, the a.s.sa.s.sin and thief who'd rescued her from slavery, worked under the name the Rook. By either moniker, he was the most important person to Faanshi in all of Dolmerrath; because of him, she had her freedom. One stricken look was all Kirinil needed to let her go-and in fact, he came swiftly on her heels as she bolted down to the stable caverns, the girl tugging at her hand all the way.

Pain skittered across her awareness as she drew within range of the cavern's main entrance, centered first on the pair who were almost blocking the way into the chamber. One of them was Alarrah, whose glowing hands were pressed against the shoulder of the other, a bedraggled, pale-faced man Faanshi recognized on sight. He was one of the two crewmembers of the ship that'd brought her, Kestar, Julian and the rest of their traveling companions safely to Dolmerrath. The vessel hadn't been equipped to carry horses. Julian had paid two of the crew to bring the stallions that belonged to him and his partner Nine-fingered Rab overland.

But she could see only Julian's horse Morrigh in the cavern. He was sequestered off in one of the few stalls the elves had built along the cavern's walls, with Julian's tall figure at his head. Nine-fingered Rab was at his side, his young face stricken, and Faanshi's heart sank. The stable hands, elf and human alike, were busily keeping every other horse in the cavern out of Morrigh's way, and even to Faanshi's inexperienced ears, the level of noise in the place seemed unusually subdued.

She could see no sign of Rab's Tornach anywhere.

Still, though, there was a wounded man closer to her than the horses, and her magic roused at his proximity, even though her sister's was already awake. "Akreshi, what happened?" she cried as she hurried up. Once she was in range, though, she realized that the sailor was shaking with as much fear as pain. His eyes were wide. Sweat gleamed along his brow, and his attention was locked on her sister as though she were his only anchor in a storm. He came through the Wards. By now, she could recognize the signs. "Alarrah, how can I help?"

"I've got this man attended. There's a horse over there that needs you." Her sister didn't turn her attention from the bloodied cloth and flesh beneath her palms. Alarrah's voice was uncommonly short, and Faanshi paused uncertainly at the sound of it.

"All my fault," her charge groaned, writhing under Alarrah's touch. All that seemed to keep him from collapsing to the floor was the support of the rock wall behind him. "Hawks came on us out of G.o.dd.a.m.n nowhere...we tried to outrun 'em, I swear we tried. So many Hawks, so many...they were going to kill me, I had to run, I had to leave him behind, all my fault, all my fault!"

"Sir, I must ask you again to hold still."

Gunshot. The feel of it was disturbingly familiar to Faanshi; even though the echo of healing Julian of a bullet wound had subsided from her senses many days hence, her memory hadn't let it go. Her power roiled in reaction to an injury very like that now, and only when Kirinil grasped her shoulder did her awareness snap back to her teacher.

"Shield," he reminded her quietly. "And go. Alarrah knows how to tend Ward shock. You don't, not yet. Morrigh needs your help more. I'll need to question this man once he's settled down, and report to Gerren."

That was all the encouragement Faanshi needed to hasten across the cavern, as swiftly as her feet could carry her. As she drew near to the stall that held Morrigh, she got a much clearer look at him. A woolen blanket was draped over his back, and his head drooped low, almost right into Julian's chest. Nine-fingered Rab, meanwhile, was crouched at the horse's front left leg, which he was rubbing down with slow, careful movements. The smell of liniment hit Faanshi, pungent yet soothing-but not quite strong enough to mask the metallic tang of blood.

At her approach, the stallion started violently. Julian's head swiveled in her direction, though he didn't otherwise break his contact with Morrigh. "Carefully, girl," he warned her, his voice low and controlled. "He's hurt and he's frightened. If you're coming over here, make sure he can see you."

"Slowly," added Rab, even as he scrambled backward out of Morrigh's way.

His tone was far sharper than Julian's, for which Faanshi could hardly blame him if he'd just lost his own horse. She'd ridden Tornach with him sometimes, though not as often as Morrigh, and she was all too keenly aware that Rab had never particularly liked her. But she knew the two men well enough now to have a very strong idea of what lurked beneath their demeanors: grief. For the horse that was wounded, and the one that was lost.

"I've come to help." Faanshi drew in a silent, steadying breath and ventured cautiously forward. Morrigh snorted at her over Julian's shoulder, a loud and anxious noise that prompted her to add softly to him, "Eshallavan, Morrigh. You know me. Let me come and see you, won't you?"

"It's just Faanshi, lad, no cause for alarm," Julian immediately agreed. His left hand scratched the stallion's nose, while his right repeatedly stroked his mane. "Rab, have you got the wound clean?"

"As clean as it's going to get. Does she need to come around to this side?"

She reached the horse, coming up on Julian's left side, and out of the corner of her eye she saw him start-not as overtly as his mount, but a start nonetheless. Still not used to having a left eye again. Nor was she entirely used to the idea that she'd restored that eye to him. Yet he remained otherwise entirely composed as he murmured to her, "Do you? Have you ever healed a horse before?"

Faanshi had to shake her head, even as her power swirled into the forefront of her awareness. Usually the warning of the proximity of pain was a clarion trumpet through her senses, but this time it was muted, muddled somehow. "He's neither human nor elf, but I can tell he's hurting. That ought to be enough."

"Then give it a try. I've got faith in you."

Simple words, simply spoken-and yet, Faanshi had to remind herself not to gape in surprise. Heat rushed into her cheeks, and if she'd had any other task at hand, she might have looked away. But there was a wounded creature before her. Her magic's call was growing louder. And so she contented herself with casting a swift little smile up at Julian before she lifted her hands to join his on the stallion's black muzzle.

Morrigh was indeed neither elf nor human. But as with every other healing she'd ever done, contact was all she needed to do her work.

There was no deluge of memories such as she'd experienced before, or at least not one expressed in words and concepts her conscious brain could understand. Exhaustion and pain and thirst, though, were all too clear. With them came a dim recollection of running, already fading beneath the cooling comfort of a woolen blanket and the attentions of familiar hands. And she didn't need to step around to Morrigh's flank. She instantly sensed the wound Rab had been tending, a long, shallow graze along his left front shoulder.

"Julian, he needs water," she said.

Then Faanshi closed her eyes, reached within herself, and found the inner hearth that Kirinil had taught her to build as a place to house her power. In her mind's eye she reached in to stoke the fire in that hearth, without poker or kindling. When her fingers touched the flame, the magic flowed.

This healing, though, was harder than the others she'd done. Whether it was because Morrigh was an animal rather than a person, or whether a horse was so much larger than an elf or a human, Faanshi didn't know. But in the end, it didn't matter. Wounded flesh was still flesh. Her magic sought the bullet gouge, willing it closed-and when the horse shifted restlessly, alarmed by the sensations, she wrapped her arms around his neck and whispered rea.s.surances.

"You're all right now, brave one. Hush now. You're all right."

Her eyes still closed, she leaned her face against Morrigh's sleek coat. Djashtet gave horses such power when She made them. It made her feel small and fragile by comparison, though not alarmingly so. After all, she'd already experienced Morrigh's strength and speed. Now, though, he made sense to her. Not as Julian's horse, not as the means to get from one place to another, but as a living creature in his own right. Dawnmaiden, Noonmother, Crone of Night, thank you for this blessing.

"Faanshi. Come out of it, girl."

Something tickled, and she had to giggle, for the horse was trying to turn his head now to face her-but no, that was Julian's hands on her shoulders, turning her around. Faanshi blinked, shook her head to clear it, and found him frowning down at her.

Rab had come over, too, and he reached around her to put a bucket of water well within Morrigh's reach for drinking. "You did it," the younger a.s.sa.s.sin reported. "I think his coat may turn white there, but the wound's closed."

Morrigh snorted again, and as he ducked his head down to the bucket, Julian abruptly stepped back from Faanshi. Only then did her power finally subside, leaving tremors in her muscles in its wake; without the bulwark of Julian's contact, she thought she might stumble if she moved too quickly. Yet she could not spare time for such weakness, or for the sudden sharp wish that he would return his hands to her shoulders.

For a moment, she wanted to ask him to do so.

Yet surely that was unseemly, when they were not alone, and when Rab's face was taut with what she'd come to recognize as barely suppressed irritation. Now that she was alert again, Faanshi looked at him more closely, her brow furrowing. "They said Tornach was lost. I'm very sorry, Rab."

He glowered at her, but to her relief, didn't offer her the sardonic retort she'd expected. "Thank you. I'll have to hope that the elves have a horse they can spare me, or alternate means to take swift leave of this place when the need arises. I fear it will, and soon."

"It seems all too likely," Julian agreed.