When the Heavens Fall (6 page)

Vale eyed him skeptically. “Because of one raid?”

“The Kinevar would not leave the forest unless they had to. They must have known they would be hunted down.”

“Fancied a change from chewing on roots, I expect.”

“The forest is full of easier prey.”

Vale bent to tear up a handful of grass and used it to clean his sword. “You reckon this marks the start of something? We got another Jirali's Bane on our hands?”

“Perhaps.”

“Then why this raid to warn us it's coming?”

Three survivors from Seffes's squad were moving among the fallen Kinevar, cutting the throats of any that still breathed. The remaining soldiers were tending to the wounds of their injured companions. “Reynes tells me scouts have spotted the Kinevar as far north as Linnar,” Ebon said. “Not just hunting parties, either. Whole tribes. Maybe they are on the move.”

“You reckon they're fleeing something?”

Like birds taking flight.
“Why not?”

The Endorian considered this before shaking his head. “I don't buy it. Ain't no army this side of Shroud's Gate that could drive them out of the forest.”

“We will find out soon enough.”

Vale must have heard something in his voice, for he looked at him sharply. “There's something else, ain't there? Something you're not telling me.” He studied Ebon. “It's the voices. They're back.”

Ebon hesitated, then nodded. “They returned when we came within sight of the forest. The spirits are close.”

The Endorian drew a breath, then blew it out. “Do you think they're caught up in this somehow? With the Kinevar?”

The voices in Ebon's mind grew louder as if to confirm the Endorian's suspicions. There was something in their tone that troubled the prince, some new note that hadn't been there when they had last afflicted him.
They're afraid,
he realized with a start.
And what do spirits of the dead have to fear?

Footfalls sounded behind, and the prince turned to see one of Seffes's soldiers approaching. There were flecks of vomit on the woman's chin and down the front of her uniform. She gave a tired salute.

Ebon glanced at the stripes on her shoulder. “Corporal,” he said. “What are our losses?”

“Nine dead, your Highness. Two more about to join them.”

“Sergeant Seffes?”

The corporal shook her head.

A dark day, indeed.
“Is there a healer among your squad?”

The soldier looked back to where the bodies were being laid out. “Not anymore.”

“Then round up the horses. Strap the dead in their saddles…”

Just then the air ahead of Ebon crackled, and a ghostly figure materialized a few paces away, hovering a handspan above the ground. The corporal's sword was halfway out of its scabbard, but Ebon put a hand on her arm to restrain her. The newcomer was a gaunt old man, standing barefoot and wearing a grubby white robe. The top of his head barely reached Ebon's shoulder. He grinned, showing yellow teeth. “Ah, there you are, my boy!”

“Mottle,” the prince said. “As ever your timing leaves much to be desired. A quarter-bell sooner and you could have made yourself useful.”

The mage's nose was in the air, sniffing like a tracker dog. “Earth-magic. An elemental, yes? Its spirit lingers still…” His voice faded away, and a thoughtful look crossed his face. “And something else.” He spun toward the forest.

Ebon was suddenly conscious of the soldier at his shoulder. “That will be all, Corporal,” he said. The woman flinched as if she had been roused from some reverie, then saluted and backed away. When she was gone, the prince turned to Mottle. “What is it? What do you sense?”

For a while the mage gave no indication he had heard. Finally he said, “The burgeoning of fell powers, my boy. Chaos, and its partner in devilry, Ruin. A storm is coming. The Currents have long warned Mottle of its approach.”

“I have no time for your riddles. Why are you here?”

The old man turned back to him. “Did Mottle not say? Sincerest apologies. A genius such as Mottle's is invariably prone—”

“Mage,” Ebon warned.

“Ah, yes. To the point, indeed. Your humble servant brings a message from the king. Your father summons you to the palace with all speed.”

A chill ran through Ebon. He thought he had prepared himself for this news, but still it felt like he had taken a punch to the gut. “Is it time, then? Has his health deteriorated?”

“No, no. He keeps Shroud waiting still, though the hunt is nearing its end and death's Lord is ever patient.”

“Then what is so urgent that my father has dragged himself from his sickbed?”

The mage spread his hands. “Would that Mottle could tell you. A meeting of the King's Council, yes? But as to why? Shrouded in mystery.”

“Meaning you do not know.”

The old man's voice dropped to a whisper. “Mottle has his suspicions, of course…” Then, as Ebon leaned in closer to hear his words, he went on, “But your humble servant has never been one to deal in rumor, as you know. The answer to your questions must await your return. Make haste to Majack! Mottle will beseech the Furies to speed your passage.” He cast a final look at the forest. “We have much to discuss.”

Before Ebon could respond the old man's ghostly image began to fade, dispersing on the breeze like smoke.

The prince snorted in disgust. “I am going to wring his scrawny neck when I next see him,” he said to Vale. “Let's get out of here.”

“We're leaving now?” the Endorian asked.

Ebon nodded. “The corporal can finish tidying this mess. Find us some horses and saddle up. We ride for Majack.”

*   *   *

“They are coming for you, my Lady,” a voice said.

Parolla looked across. To her left a young man leaned against one of Xavel's slums, striking a pose as if he were having his portrait painted. He was no one she recognized—hardly surprising since she'd only arrived in the city yesterday—and so she shifted her gaze back to Shroud's temple on the opposite side of the Round.

Six weeks it had taken her to reach this place. Ordinarily she'd have traveled six weeks to avoid one of the Lord of the Dead's shrines, but this particular temple had a notoriety she couldn't afford to ignore. The dark, hulking structure was windowless but for two round, high-set openings, gaping like the sockets of a skull. Doubtless the building's maker had intended it to look foreboding. Parolla wasn't so easily intimidated, though. One day she would rip this shrine down, along with all the others. The power bleeding from the place had an alien undercurrent, faint as a dying man's breath. She'd encountered nothing like it at any of the scores of similar temples she had visited over the years, but different was good …

The youth stepped into her line of sight and cleared his throat.

Parolla shot him a look. She'd assumed when he'd spoken earlier that his words were meant for someone else, yet now when she glanced about she saw she was the only person within earshot. The youth's cheeks were colored with some crimson blush, and he wore a blue silk shirt and matching pantaloons tucked into calf-high leather boots. A dueling sword hung from a scabbard at his waist, its hilt too shiny to have ever seen use. He returned her gaze with unashamed interest.

“Do I know you,
sirrah
?” she said.

“If we had met before, you would not have forgotten me. I am Ceriso di Monata”—he performed an extravagant bow—“second son of the Compte di Monata.” The youth spoke the name as if he expected her to know it. He waited for Parolla to reply, then added, “And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

She ignored the question. “You must excuse me,
sirrah
. I need to be alone.”

“Perhaps you did not hear me when I first spoke. They are coming for you.”

“They?”

“The Hunt. You are marked by the Antlered God—even a mere novitiate such as I can detect his sign upon you.”

Parolla's skin prickled, but she kept her expression even.

Ceriso said, “You seem strangely indifferent to my tidings. Are you ignorant, perhaps, of the seriousness of your plight?”

“This is not the first time I have crossed paths with the Hunt.”

“Whatever dealings you may have had with the Antlered God's followers in the past will not prepare you for what you face now.” The youth spoke with a solemnity ill-suited to his piping voice. “The high priest of Xavel himself leads the Hunt, and with him are the Riders of Dorn. My Lady, now might be a good time to make peace with whatever gods you favor.”

Movement to Parolla's right caught her eye. A three-legged dog was nosing through the refuse at the edge of the Round. It entered the temple's shadow, then shrank away, growling.

Parolla looked back at Ceriso. The youth lingered like a courier wanting a tip for his news. She'd wasted enough time on him already, but perhaps she should take this opportunity to find out more about his masters—and how he had managed to track her down with such apparent ease. “Who sent you,
sirrah
?”

“The high priest of the Antlered God, of course.”

“Why? Why would he warn me he was coming?”

“Why would he not? He is, after all, a servant of the Lord of the Hunt. The thrill is in the chase.”

“And if I choose not to run?”

Ceriso winced. “That would be ill-advised. The high priest would be most aggrieved.”

And we wouldn't want that, would we.

A gray-robed acolyte, hooded and stooped, emerged from the temple's arched doorway, flinching as he passed from shadow into daylight. The three-legged dog took flight.

“My Lady,” the youth continued, “your accent betrays you as a stranger to this city, yet its provenance, I confess, eludes me. Never before have I seen eyes such as yours, like pools of deepest night, or skin so pale and lustrous.” He put on a smile Parolla assumed she was supposed to find alluring. “Where is your homeland?”

“I have none.”

Ceriso blinked. “Well, whatever place you hail from, you must surely recognize the temple before you. The patron god is Shroud, Lord of the Dead. If you are looking for a place of refuge, you will find no welcome here.”

You speak more truth than you know.
“Would the Hunt dare to storm the temple, then?”

“It would not have to. Should you enter, you will find the air inside somewhat”—he groped for the right word—“unpalatable. No one of sound mind can breathe it for long. Better to die outside with the wind on your face.”

“Your concern for me is misplaced. Warn your
mekra
. For his own sake, tell him to stay away from me.”

Ceriso waved a hand at the feathermoths floating round him on the scorched afternoon breeze. “I will, of course, report your words, but I fear they will be greeted with a degree of skepticism. The high priest will not believe that you speak out of concern for the Hunt's well-being.”

“I have never borne the Antlered God any ill will. This
bakatta
is of his making, not mine.” She hadn't asked, all those years ago, to be held against her will. She'd made it clear to the god's servants there would be consequences if they tried to stop her leaving the temple that had once been her home.

Ceriso must have misconstrued her meaning for he said, “Ah, I understand now. You wish to end your feud with the god. To plead for clemency, perhaps.” He shook his head. “Alas, I am but a humble messenger, and thus have no authority to adjudicate your cause. You may petition the high priest, of course, but I would counsel against it. Once unleashed, the Hunt cannot be recalled.”

“Tell your
mekra
anyway. If he ignores my warning, the blood spilled will be on his hands, not mine.” The gods knew, Parolla's hands were stained enough already.

Ceriso made to say one thing before appearing to change his mind. “Forgive my curiosity, my Lady, but who are you?”

“The high priest didn't tell you?”

“He said only that I should approach you with caution. You seem young to have earned the enmity of the Antlered God.”

“Appearances can be deceptive.” She'd got all she was going to get from the youth, she suspected. “Now,
sirrah,
leave me, please.”

“As you wish.” Ceriso sketched another bow, hesitated, then seemed to reach a decision. “I admit to being unacquainted with this part of Xavel, my Lady. A man of my standing rarely has cause to visit the more, shall we say, less privileged districts of the city. I am told the streets here are a veritable maze of passages. So easy to lose one's way. It may be some time before I can report back to my master.”

Parolla inclined her head. “A gracious gesture.”

“Sadly it will serve only to delay the inevitable. It pains me to inform you that no one has ever escaped the Hunt in Xavel. We are truly blessed by the Antlered God.”

“‘We,'
sirrah
? Will you be part of the Hunt, then?”

A look of distaste crossed the youth's features. “Certainly not. The Lord of the Hunt has many aspects. I am not responsible for the unsavory predispositions of others that share the faith. I myself prefer pursuits of an amorous nature.” He tried his smile again. “It is a shame we did not meet under more auspicious circumstances.”

Parolla raised an eyebrow. She had to admire his persistence at least. “I think you would find I am dangerous company to keep.”

“Ah, my Lady,” Ceriso said wistfully. “Your words have served only to stoke the fires of my intrigue. If you should somehow evade the Hunt, perhaps you would seek me out.” He bowed a final time before spinning on his heel and setting off across the Round.

As Parolla watched him retreat she gave a half smile. It quickly faded. The Hunt again. Everywhere she went, they dogged her heels. Since arriving in Xavel she'd made a point of giving the Antlered God's temple a wide berth, but still his followers had found her. And yet she'd been fortunate, she knew. If the Hunt had come a day sooner, her carefully laid plans would have been thrown into disarray. As it was, the presence of the Lord's followers was little more than an irritation. With luck she'd be far away before they had the chance to interfere.