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Chapter 12:
Snare of the Hunter


I


Outside the battered feast hall door, Myrikus checked to ensure the skull-faced cloak tabs on his shoulder were upright, then pushed the garment back so its long black length was clear of his arms. A glance at his companions showed their own gear was in order, from ebon horsehair helmet crests to dark leggings. There was nothing to be done about their muddy boots, but Demian was scraping a few specks of mud from the musculature ingrained into the black lacquered chest armor of his uniform. He finished, then nodded his readiness.

Myrikus pushed the door open. As he entered, the scent of roast boar and wine overwhelmed the stench of the hot springs that had lingered over them since their arrival in the mountain town. The dull throb of voices they’d heard outside rose to a full-throated cacophony.

The feast of Acarcia was well into its second day, and it was likely many of the patrons crowded about the benches were on their third day of drink. They clapped and sang boisterously along with the trio of musicians on the cramped circular stage. Servers wove their way through the throng carrying platters of ham, bread, and cheese, and plentiful pitchers.

Myrikus left Demian at the door and advanced confidently toward the stage, Telian at his shoulder. He couldn’t contain a smile as those nearest froze in a palpable dread, which spread before them as more and more were alerted to their presence. Some who goggled at them were sober, others well into inebriation, but their expressions were similar. It was right and proper that their elite order be regarded with such respect.

The music ground to a halt and the trio of drummer, piper, and vocalist backed warily to the little platform’s back wall.

Myrikus glanced only briefly at them before climbing the stage’s single step to face the crowd. Telian executed a pivot at exactly the same moment, just short of the dais, hand on the hilt of his gladius.

Apart from one drunk shouting about cider, silence reigned through the feast hall. Myrikus said nothing while the drunk’s companions shushed her into silence. He savored the crowd’s rapt attention and palpable anxiety. The servers retreated to the kitchen doorway.

Myrikus smote his breastplate. “Hail the emperor!”

Everyone fumbled to repeat the gesture then echoed the phrase.

He showed teeth in something like a smile, as though their sloppy movements had pleased him. “It is good to see so many giving reverence.” Myrikus swept a hand toward the low bar, where two ashen-faced cooks watched. “I wish we had come solely to enjoy your festival. But we hunt a fugitive. Descriptions vary, but he’s an able-bodied older man of my height with graying hair and a military bearing.”

The patrons searched the benches to see if such a man were beside them. Those who loosely fit the description looked nervously among their fellows, to see if they were already under suspicion.

Myrikus doubted their quarry would be found so easily, but searched the throng, knowing keen-eyed Telian was doing the same. “He’s a murderer, and a necromancer, and has sometimes claimed to be Hanuvar Cabera.”

The name of the infamous Volani general set the room awash in whispered exclamations. There was perhaps no man more feared throughout the empire than the one who’d fought it to a standstill and once led an invading army within sight of Derva’s gates. Hanuvar’s city had been reduced to ashes and his people sold into slavery, but his name still evoked fear. Myrikus relished fear, but only when he commanded it, and he raised hands, speaking with a snap in his voice.

“Hanuvar himself is dead. This man is an impostor. We will capture him and punish him for his crimes.” Myrikus paused for a moment. “You’re going to help me. I’m going to sit right over there”—he pointed at an occupied table in a corner—“and my fellow soldiers and I are going to eat some of this fine food. Anyone with information can seek us out. Your lives can be easy. But, if I don’t hear any useful information, matters might get a little more uncomfortable.”

Myrikus didn’t have to threaten explicitly; all the listeners knew the broad power that could be exercised by the Order of the Revenants, who could arrest anyone they cared to and subject them to extraordinarily persuasive procedures.

The festivalgoers at the table he’d indicated were scrambling to depart with their platters and bowls as the three revenants neared.

Myrikus sat, brushed crumbs from the table, undid his helmet, and placed it on the bench. While his companions joined him, a flushed serving woman arrived with slabs of meat, bread, mugs, and wine pitchers. Beefy Telian slapped her on the bottom as she scooted away, while Demian laughed in fellowship at her discomfiture.

Demian was some five years Telian’s junior, and still in his midtwenties. The sandy-haired man was coolly proper as he used a knife to leverage a slab of meat onto his own plate. Telian simply used his hands.

Myrikus set to with his men, relishing the cool wine. It was good to have cooked food after the road rations they’d eaten most of the last week.

Telian wiped a spot of wine from his broad chin, glanced over the room, and quietly addressed Myrikus. “Why do you keep saying the man we’re after is an imposter?”

“Because it can’t be him. You still believe it? What do you think, Demian?”

“I think that’s highly improbable.”

“You heard him,” Myrikus said. “High horse shit improbable, especially since Hanuvar’s bones are resting on the ocean floor.”

“But Vennian’s pet witch said she was certain he was here,” Telian objected.

Myrikus paused to finish chewing his first bite of ham, then swallowed and reached for his mug. “People say things all the time to get out of trouble. You know what we’re going to get here? A free meal, gossip about some local problems, and a whole lot of nonsense from grudge holders. If we’re lucky, we’ll find a lead on some impenitent witches, or bandits. But we’re not going to find Hanuvar, because he’s dead.”

Demian maneuvered another slab of meat onto his plate. “If Hanuvar came back from the dead, he’d be after vengeance. He’d go hunt the emperor, first thing.”

“You afraid to touch your food with your hands?” Telian asked with a mocking smile.

“I’d be afraid to touch it with your hands.”

“Well,” Myrikus said, “I don’t care what the tribune or his little ‘reformed’ witch said. Hanuvar’s not going to be hiding at this little horse shit mountain festival. What’s up here but meat and stink?”

“It has its attractions.”

The brown-haired serving woman returned and nervously sat another pitcher on their table, although less than half of the first had been poured out yet.

She bent to wipe the table with a damp rag, and let slip a piece of paper. “I was asked to bring this to you,” she said, and scooted away.

While Telian raptly watched her departure, Myrikus held the note open against the table without drawing attention to what he did. The message was short and blunt. Meet me outside, in the alley back of the inn. I’m afraid he’ll see me. Hanuvar is very dangerous, but I know where he is. Come alone so he won’t be suspicious. I’m wearing a red scarf.

Myrikus pushed the little paper across the table to his fellow soldiers.

“I didn’t think it would be this simple,” Demian said. “Do you think it’s a trap?”

Myrikus chuckled. Who would dare attack revenants in the middle of an empire town?

“Whoever wrote that note seems pretty certain it’s actually Hanuvar,” Telian pointed out.

Myrikus sighed. “That’s probably what the impostor’s telling his associates. Telian, head out. You’re searching for anyone watchful or sober who fits our description. Ask at the stables. Word’s probably out we’re here and our quarry may be making escape plans.”

“You want me to report to the tribune?”

“No.” That spoiled patrician would only get in the way. Besides, if there was glory to be gained here, it should go to this trio, not the tribune. “Demian, head to the far end of the alley. Find a good spot where you can watch and not be seen. I’ll give you a few minutes to find your place, then I’ll go to the meeting.”

Both men saluted informally, donned their helms, and left the table. Telian doubled back for a final swig of wine, then followed his younger companion from the hall.

Myrikus forced calm as he finished his meal. The hall’s numbers had more than halved while he was distracted, but he didn’t want the remaining onlookers to think him excited. It would be wonderful to show that smug tribune that he and his boys knew how to run an investigation. Telian had been hunting witches with him for four years now, and they didn’t need any patrician telling them how to root out a fugitive. Especially not a patrician with a pet witch of his own. Myrikus knew why the tribune really kept her around.

He downed a last swig of wine, pulled on his helmet, and stood, adjusting his cloak over his shoulder. Many pairs of eyes followed and murmurs blossomed in his wake.

The odor of the hot springs hit him as soon as he left the feast hall. His breath smoked in the evening air, and he was once more glad for the leggings and boots he’d donned before they started into the highlands. The skies were gray, for winter was much closer here than it was in the valleys below. Off to the left a scattering of dwellings sprawled over small hills. Open spaces between blazed with bonfires, around which crowds of celebrants drank and sang, no matter the chill. Directly ahead lay a screen of pine trees, and beyond them the road that led to the springs and temple to the old mountain god, along with a cluster of villas overlooking what was said to be a spectacular view of the Ardenine range.

He turned the corner of the hall and headed into the wide alley between the feast hall and a windowless wooden storage building. The deeper into the lane he walked, the more the side furthest from the feast hall sloped, until it was almost four feet lower than the half along which he strode. Barrels and crates had been wedged between the drop off and the storage building. Discarded tarps, broken wood, and detritus were piled against the higher structure’s edge as well.

Alert for ambush, Myrikus put a hand to the hilt of his sword and stepped past a huge open barrel into which water dripped from the hall’s two-story roof. And there, at the alley’s end, a dark-skinned man waited, a red scarf at his throat. A curly-haired Herrene. According to some reports, the impostor had been seen with just such a man.

Myrikus didn’t care much for anyone from the Herrenic coast, for they treasured mainly the past glories of their ancient culture, soft and feminine though it was. A lot of patrician decadence resulted from their adoption of Herrenic customs, like comic theatre and complicated singing.

As he drew close he looked past the informant to the cluster of small buildings beyond the alley’s end. These were nothing but small homes and sheds, probably residences of the feast hall employees and slaves. He didn’t see Demian, but then that meant the Herrene didn’t see him either.

The dark man looked to be in his mid to late twenties. He shifted nervously as Myrikus strode up.

“You know where the man who calls himself Hanuvar is?” Myrikus demanded.

“I do.” The answer was certain, and the Herrene’s dark eyes were intent.

“Who are you?” Myrikus tried to look over the man’s shoulder, to see what lay directly behind him, but the Herrene shifted, as though he sought to hide something.

“It doesn’t matter, does it? Look, he’s dangerous, and you’ve got to be quieter. If he finds out I’m talking to you—”

“He’s not going to sneak up on us. I have people watching.”

As the brown man shifted again, Myrikus’ suspicions flared. “Step aside.” He pushed him with his off hand and the Herrene slid away as if touched with a hot poker.

There was nothing behind him but an open barrel filled with rainwater, its bottom resting on the lower slope so that its top rose only a few finger spans above this half of the alley. But if the man had been trying to hide it, there might be something within. Or someone. With a final snarl at the Herrene to stay, Myrikus peered into the dark water.

The pole that slammed into his shins swept him sprawling in pain, belly down in the dirt, his helmeted head over the barrel. He was pushing himself up when something heavy slammed into his upper back and a hand drove his face into the water.

A second pressure landed on his legs and he knew then that two people sat on him. The Herrene, probably, and someone else. He pushed up with his arms, then found a dagger driven through one bicep. He instinctively opened his mouth to cry out, and sucked in the water.

As he struggled to break free and his lungs strove and failed to find air, he wondered where Demian had gone, but suddenly dying was much easier than he’d ever guessed.



II


Hanuvar levered the body the rest of the way into the rain barrel and pushed the revenant’s booted feet down until the dead man was fully submerged. He looked up and down the alley, his gaze lingering only briefly at the dirty tarp under which he’d lain.

Antires, panting as though he’d run a long distance, eyed him accusingly.

“They’re revenants, Antires. Their job is tracking down the emperor’s enemies, midwives, the oddly gifted, and anyone else they don’t like then hanging them, crucifying them, or burning them alive.”

The Herrene nodded but his gaze was dark. “I still don’t like killing a man.”

“He’d have slain either of us, given the chance. And he’d have been much slower about it.”

“He said he had someone watching.”

“I left the other man’s body in that storage shed.” Hanuvar nodded toward the cluster of small buildings beyond the alley.

Antires’ dark eyes widened. “How did you—”

Hanuvar shook his head. There wasn’t time for detailed discussion. He had simply weaved drunkenly toward the other revenant. Often a direct approach worked best. A staggering drunkard, warned away, suddenly spinning to attack, had caught the revenant off guard. Success all came down to knowing the habits of your enemies and the ground you were to fight upon.

“What do we do now?” Antires asked.

“I need to know how they found us.”

“You couldn’t have talked to these?”

“No.” There’d been no time to question the first, not when he’d been placed to watch for the leader’s arrival. And Hanuvar had needed to dispatch the second quickly, in case the third came around.

“You can explain later. Shall I ready the horses?”

“I want you to look around. There may be more. They tend to travel in groups of three. Often multiples.”

“So six.”

“Or nine. Or twelve.”

“Or three hundred,” Antires said. “I get it. You sure we just shouldn’t count ourselves lucky and leave?”

“No.”

“Very well,” his friend said reluctantly. “Where shall we meet?”

“Our room. If I’m not there by nine bells, start on your way.”

Hanuvar heard the usual muttered protestations as he drew up the hood of his cloak. He stepped into the street and approached a bonfire where an impromptu dance was underway. Wisps of frosty air rose from the mouths of the crowd as they sang together. Somewhere outside he expected to find the third revenant.



III


Vennian enjoyed the warmth of the crackling hearth at his back, and fine wine in his goblet. The duck had been well seasoned with skin crisped to perfection. The reek of the mineral springs, though, marred everything, and he was astonished by the magistrate’s claims that one grew inured to it. Even as he sipped the fragrant vintage, Vennian was aware of the omnipresent stench of spoiled eggs. It was enough to put a man off omelets for weeks.

Beyond the little cluster of couches where he lay with the village magistrate and his family, his two men had set aside helms and cloaks and mingled with the patricians gathered around the banquet tables. He hadn’t known them long, for he had taken command of them after their predecessor had died under mysterious circumstances. But he had known their character from the first. They weren’t the rough and tumble louts like Myrikus and his band, but proper revenants, raised in ancient homes and destined for high office.

The dozen-odd guests in the villa had initially been cautious of all three of them, until they’d realized that beyond their polished armor these revenants shared a similar background and reverence for the finer qualities of life.

Beyond them lay wide windows looking onto the springs, from which steam billowed. The villa had been built beside the best of them. The magistrate had told him that more dangerous springs lay to the east. The darkening sky touched distant snowcapped peaks with a dull blue, though enough light yet remained to conjure frosty sparkles.

Evara lay on the couch to Vennian’s left, garbed in a finely tailored stola decorated with the black and gold of the Revenant Order. She looked deceptively at ease, a thin, well-groomed woman gracefully sliding toward middle age. The former witch had come a long way since he’d plucked her from that obscure backwater and set her on a righteous path. She picked at the duck leg on her plate with seeming concentration, but he knew the black eyes under her dark brow might be focused far beyond mortal affairs, giving him an advantage over other groups hunting enemies of the state. Or she might just be nursing resentments.

The magistrate finished his discussion with an older, dignified slave, who bowed politely before turning away. Some, Vennian had heard, believed all slaves were to be pitied, but those accorded status in a rich man’s home lived better lives than many freeborn men.

The magistrate favored Vennian with an unctuous, gap-toothed smile. “My apologies. There was some confusion about the timing of tonight’s sacrifice. Do you know that it was only a few generations ago they actually sacrificed a virgin during the festival? Ghastly waste of a good virgin!” He then laughed, and Vennian sensed this was a joke employed by the magistrate before. “Do you know, I’d think the gods would tire of virgins. More seasoned bed partners are far more interesting!”

“What do you sacrifice now?” Evara asked without looking up.

“A bullock on the first day, but every evening we prepare the finest of meals and send it into the abyss, the same way we used to hurl youngsters. Acarcia must like it, because all of the winters have been short since we took up that particular custom.”

Vennian had little interest in the worship of the minor mountain god or his festival, and the magistrate must have sensed it, for he cleared his throat and changed topics. “You were telling me about this Hanuvar impostor of yours. What do you think he plans to do?”

Vennian’s voice was thin, and sharp. In the field he used it to advantage, but its quality always troubled him in closer quarters. He spoke quietly, a habit he’d adopted to lessen his strident tone. “He will work mischief, wherever he goes. But he will not get far. We are very close on his heels.”

“Destruction and death have followed him,” Evara said without looking up. “From the fire at the amphitheater in Hidrestus to the death of Senator Marcius.”

Vennian shot her a dark look she could pretend to have missed, staring as she was at her plate.

The magistrate’s watery eyes widened. “He’s an arsonist? You think he might burn down the villa?”

“With your guards and my men, inside and outside, I don’t think there’s any real danger,” Vennian said. “In any case, we don’t think this was his destination. We believe he’s headed over the mountains and on toward Derva itself.”

“Retracing his steps,” the magistrate mused.

“Except that he’s an impostor,” Vennian swiftly reminded him.

“Maybe he thinks he really is Hanuvar. It’s a wonder he hasn’t tried to find some elephants.”

Beside them, Evara’s head whipped up as though she meant to violently rise. And then she might as well have been carved from stone, so still did she sit. Her eyes were closed, her expression remote and far away, just as it had been those nights Vennian had forced her. She was experiencing another episode.

He turned from the magistrate’s confused questions and addressed her in a cutting whisper. “What’s happening? What are you seeing?”

Her voice was low, though every vowel she spoke was stretched to twice its standard length.

“Hanuvar . . . He knows. He knows we’re here.”

“I thought you said it wasn’t Hanuvar!” The magistrate’s voice rose in alarm.

“Where is he?” Vennian demanded. He swung off his couch and stood over her.

“He’s . . .” She shuddered. “He’s killed them.”

“Killed?” the magistrate asked. One of the nearby clusters of nobles looked up from their knot of conversation and stared in alarm. “Who has he killed? What’s going on? Is she some kind of seeress? Is it really Hanuvar?”

“No, no,” Vennian said quickly over his shoulder, inwardly cursing Evara. Word had recently been passed along that they were never to reveal it was Hanuvar himself they pursued. Vennian gripped Evara’s right arm. “Pull yourself together and report.”

She remained entranced, even when he shook her. Her head lolled. “Dead, dead, all three are dead and he will not flee until he kills us all.” She then opened her mouth and let out a strange, tittering laugh, her eyes rolling. Vennian slapped her.

She gasped, blinked, felt her reddened cheek, and color returned to her face.

Vennian’s lip curled. “I’ve told you before that you must master your outbursts.”

Fire blazed in her eyes for a moment before her inscrutable demeanor reasserted itself.

Vennian’s rage boiled close to the surface. “What did you see?”

“A moment. Let me sort my thoughts.”

“She is a seeress, isn’t she?” The magistrate’s voice climbed toward hysteria. “Have you brought a witch into my villa?”

Vennian had no patience for this nonsense. Teeth gritted, he looked over his shoulder at the aging magistrate, his sluggish wife, and their slack-jawed son. “She recanted and puts her powers to use for the emperor. Do you question the judgment of one of the emperor’s officers?”

“No, I—”

The old slave ran in and bent at the magistrate’s side, his calm shattered. It was no great trouble to hear what the man said.

“Master, there’s a body near the sacrificial platform. A man in a uniform.” He struggled not to look toward Vennian, but his eyes briefly flicked his direction. “A revenant.”

While the magistrate asked for more details, Vennian snarled at Evara. “Do you have anything that’s useful? At all?”

“If I can touch something Hanuvar’s touched,” Evara said tightly, “I might be able to find him.”

Vennian brusquely bid farewell to the magistrate and gathered his two officers. Once more garbed with helms and swords, wrapped in heavy cloaks, he left with them and the witch and the alarmed old slave. Some of the magistrate’s small guard force turned up, so unnerved by the presence of the revenants they looked uncertain whether they wanted to help or run. Vennian ordered them to keep the crowd back and look for suspicious people.

Little snowflakes swirled down through the dusky sky as the old slave led them. His dignified manner vanished, and he babbled now about how he’d been carrying the first platter when he spied the corpse.

Between the villa and the cliffside lay a grassy sward and dozens of smoking pools of water. Five hundred feet away, the cliff edge had been fenced with stone so drunken visitors wouldn’t stumble off the mountain.

Pertian, the more seasoned of Vennian’s two officers, spoke gruffly. “I still don’t understand how he could sneak around without being seen. Until the guards ordered guests away, this place was crawling with people.”

“Not so many,” Vennian objected. “And most were well drunk and keeping to the mineral baths or the fire pits.”

“There it is, officers.” The old slave pointed to the cliff’s edge.

Some enterprising soul had erected a trio of wooden decks that projected out from the cliff itself; Vennian supposed that they would afford an even better view of the drop or some distant mountain waterfall. He himself had never cared for heights and could scarce imagine walking to the fence near the cliff, let alone out onto one of the wooden observation points.

Yet that was where the headless body of one of his men was pointing, for it was stretched out on the ground with a hand aimed that direction. Sitting on that deck was a chair supporting what Vennian first took to be an empty helmet.

It wasn’t empty, though, and the old slave knew it, for he bent over and began to retch.

Pertian considered the body with casual interest. “This is Telian. Look at those hairy knuckles.”

Vennian squeezed Evara’s shoulder. “You said you could gain information if you touched something the impostor had handled. He’s clearly handled this body.”

She shook her head. “I want that.” She pointed to a placard now visible against the chair legs on the platform. “Touching the body might overwhelm me with the pain of Telian’s last moments, and then I’d be useless for some time.”

Vennian bit back a retort suggesting she was already useless. He barked for Garnan to retrieve the placard. The younger of the two officers grunted his assent, flexed hands in his fingerless gloves to improve circulation, and started forward, hand to hilt.

“Watch to the left,” Vennian ordered Pertian. “I’ll watch to the right. Let’s follow on his heels in case the impostor’s lying in wait. Old man, cease your vomiting and head in.”

As he and Pertian and Evara followed Garnan toward the cliff side, Vennian was suddenly conscious of distant music and laughter rising from the main street.

Garnan stopped just beyond the projecting wooden deck and its chair, contemplating the bloodless, staring face framed by the helmet.

“What does the sign say?”

“I can’t quite make it out.” Garnan stepped onto the planks and bent to retrieve the placard.

Vennian heard an ominous creak, then the sound of splintering wood. Garnan started to turn, but the entire projection dropped out of sight, taking him with it. They heard Garnan’s scream of terror receding for a long while as he plummeted down the cliff side.

Vennian spun on Evara, hand raised to slap her. “Why couldn’t you see that coming?”

She cowered, lifted a hand to block, then lowered it, probably recalling resistance made him more angry. “My insights can’t be controlled! You know that!”

“There’s someone moving over there,” Pertian cried. “You! Stop!”

Vennian looked away from Evara to spy a figure dashing into the mists to their left.

Pertian sprinted after, unsheathed gladius in hand. Vennian lagged only a few paces behind, threading through drifting snowflakes and wafting smoke from the mineral pools. Pertian was still shouting for the figure to halt. Vennian had lost sight of their quarry, and simply followed his soldier.

Suddenly Pertian dropped with a cry. Vennian slowed, fearing for a moment there was a pit hidden amongst the grounds. But Pertian was still alive, and calling pitifully to him. The officer was being jerked backward on his stomach by some unseen force, clawing for purchase in well-trimmed grass as he was hauled toward a smoking mineral pit.

Dashing after, Vennian perceived a rope wrapped about his companion’s ankle. A snare. He also saw the wooden barricade emblazoned with skulls and a red warning sign lying face up as Pertian was dragged past it toward the steaming pool. The magistrate had told them a handful of the mineral pools were scalding hot, or worse, and used only for special sacrifices, being well marked and barricaded at all other times.

Vennian picked up his pace too late. He saw Pertian’s eyes bulging in fear as the rope dragged him over the crusted ledge and into the wide circular pool. The soldier screamed as his legs hit, and then the whole of his body dropped in with a splash and a surprisingly small sizzle, and no sounds were left him.

Vennian couldn’t even see the body cooking in the scalding water. Bile rising, he stepped back from the searing steam, searching the grounds. He started at a sound behind him, only to discover the witch coming from behind. She was panting from the run.

“Can you manage anything useful now?” Vennian demanded. “If you can’t, you’ll regret it for the rest of your limited days!”

“He’s over there.” Evara pointed toward a little shack on the edge of the mineral baths, near a smoldering fire pit. “On that roof.”

“Go get the guards,” Vennian snapped. He rushed forward, stopping at the fire pit to grab a torch. An arrow sped at him from the roof and narrowly missed his throat. He hurried forward, keeping on, teeth gritted. Two more arrows slashed down from the dark cloaked figure atop the shed, each drawing perilously close, but Vennian’s luck held, and he reached the side of the building and dropped the torch at its base. He dove away as another arrow stood quivering in the ground at his feet.

The wood was old and dry and flared up on the instant. Red flame soared heavenward and a rush of heat spread out. Here, too, there was a single scream.

Vennian backed away, searching the darkness. If that had been the impostor, his fate had finally caught up to him. He’d seen no one leap clear, and nothing could have survived that blaze.

The witch drew up beside him once more. “I thought I told you to get the guards,” he said, though he wasn’t as angry as he might have been. He watched the flames.

He was a little startled when she put a hand to his shoulder. Her voice was kind. “I was worried about you,” she said, which was a little surprising. So was the sword she drove into the back of his neck.

His arms flailed without his command, and his legs collapsed. He fell sideways and glared as he scrabbled for one of her booted feet. But she stepped out of range, her eyes shifting back and forth between him and the villa, obviously concerned about witnesses. As he died he saw the snarl of hatred on her lips, though he couldn’t hear her words. He was dead by the time she drove one of the arrows into the wound where she’d stabbed him.



IV


The cave was very different from the soft beds Hanuvar and Antires had known last night, and from the cots they’d slept on during their weeks with the circus. For all that, the fire near the cave mouth was warm, and the supplies they’d brought from the feast were wonderfully fresh. They would enjoy them while they could, for they’d have to subsist on dry rations as they advanced into the mountain pass.

They had started their trip into the Ardenines with a few weeks to spare before winter would make the crossing impossible, and he hoped this storm was not a sign the season had begun early.

Hanuvar rarely second-guessed himself, but he often considered past events to better learn from them. It might be that the goddess Diara had been wrong, and that revenants and other foes could not have found him if he and Antires had pushed on—they would be well beyond this storm if they had. But Hanuvar had made the best decision possible based on the information before him. If he had sped on across the Ardenines, he would not have been able to aid Ciprion, or to stop the skin-shifting monster, or help poor Rufus.

Even as he worried that his crossing was imperiled, he missed the friends and allies he and Antires had made among the circus people. He had come to treasure not just their company, but their routines, from the dismantling of camp to their pre-performance energies to the songs they sang on the march. No more would he shovel hay before the friendly gray bulk of Kordeka, or watch Shenassa at target practice, or smile as the leopards bounded like kittens to Mellika’s command. The road with them had not been without its toils, but it had been bright and full of laughter.

At least he was not fully alone.

Antires sat near the fire, busily jotting notes on a parchment in the code he’d devised. Hanuvar had discouraged him from committing anything to paper, worried their identities would be revealed if they were ever searched. But Antires insisted he had to record the most important details as they took place, to aid his memory. The cipher was their compromise.

Beyond him, their horses munched on hay flakes cast to the cave floor. They too were enjoying a last rich feast before the crossing, though they did not know it.

He heard the crush of snow under feet outside the cave. As Hanuvar put hand to a spear, a woman’s voice called above the moan of the wind. “I know you’re in there. I’ve come alone. To talk.”

He stepped from the firelight. He’d never heard Evara’s voice, but he guessed her identity on the instant. The revenant he’d questioned had said the witch was like a magical bloodhound.

“Come forward.” He held the spear ready in both hands.

She stepped into the cave mouth, cloak-shrouded shoulders hunched to the cold. She was a small woman of early middle years, and the firelight harshened the lines of her face. She pulled a dark scarf from her chin and mouth. Her eyes held the weary, hunted look of someone worn down by combat or great stress. Hanuvar nodded Antires to the exit, and the writer threw on his cloak and stepped past her to peer outside.

The woman walked forward, and Hanuvar lowered the short spear. Her eyes met his, and their deep honey brown reflected the flickering scarlet flame. She started, and then she blinked in surprise. “I didn’t . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Antires returned to report. “No one’s out there. Not that I can see, at least.”

Hanuvar considered the woman. “Are there others with you?”

“No. They think you were killed. Who really died in the blaze?”

“I left one of the revenant’s bodies.” He’d wanted one or two witnesses to think he had died, and had been much obliged when the revenant tribune had supplied the flame. “Why are you here?”

“I thought . . .” She shook her head.

She had expected something he couldn’t identify, and its absence surprised her. Curious. He stepped back, gesturing to their little fire. “Come. You look cold.”

She hesitated, then walked in and put her hands above the blaze, continuing to stare at him.

“I saw you kill the revenant,” he said.

“Yes. I told the magistrate and his guards you’d been killed.”

“Well, that’s good,” Antires said. He gave the woman a wide berth and joined Hanuvar’s side of the fire.

Her gaze was solely upon Hanuvar. “I steered them toward you, you know. To make sure you got them. I don’t know that Garnan would have advanced onto that outlook if I hadn’t pretended I needed something you had touched. How did you manage to pull it down?”

“He climbed down the face,” Antires explained, his pleasure in his friend’s cleverness manifest. “He found some weak support beams. He tied a rope to the last one and looped it around a winch, then concealed himself and waited for their arrival.” He then quoted Hanuvar: “Choose the ground where you mean to fight and lead your enemy to it.”

“And you had a snare readied,” she said to Hanuvar.

“You’re staring at him,” Antires said. “Is that because you just now decided he really is who they feared?”

“No.” She spoke without hesitation. “I knew. Vennian knew.”

“Then why do you keep staring?” Antires asked.

“Because . . .” Finally she looked to the Herrene and addressed him directly. “His aura’s all wrong. The revenants—there was so much red, and swirling gray smoke. It’s what I see now when I look in the mirror. But him.” She pointed to Hanuvar. “Thousands, tens of thousands, died in your wars. And you murdered more men just today . . . I don’t understand.”

“What does his aura look like?” Antires asked.

“It’s almost completely pure,” she said as if doubting her own words. “How can a murderer have a golden aura?”

“You’re asking the wrong man,” Hanuvar replied. “I’m a killer because I’m a soldier. And I became a soldier to protect my people. Why did you seek me out?”

“Are you going to kill more of them? More revenants?” Her eyes were searching, her speech pressured.

“Is that what you want me to do?”

Her answer was guttural and fierce. “Yes. They’re holding dozens of your people, you know. One of your councilwomen. Your cousin. One of your dragon priestesses. The revenants dragged them all away to their secret tower. They won’t come back. No one ever comes back.”

He digested this news without response. He tried to tell himself this was no worse than he expected, but the specifics made that a lie. By dragon priestess Evara must mean one of those assigned as a special intermediary between the asalda and the people of Volanus. The Dervans, ever eager to impose their will upon others, still searched in vain for a way to master the will of asalda and use them as weapons of war. “Which of my cousins?” he asked. “Which of the councilwomen?”

“I do not know the name of your cousin. The councilwoman is Tanilia.”

His nostrils flared. Tanilia, the mildest of all the vaunted seven, in the hands of the revenants? When last he’d interacted with her she had been dogmatically focused upon the creation and enforcement of regulations for balustrade heights, to protect small children living in apartments from falling. “Why her?”

“I don’t know that.” Evara’s eyes shone with a kind of twisted hope. “They like to hurt people. They like to control them. They should be stopped.”

“Yes.” He understood her anger, but would not let his own change his chosen path. He explained with gentle clarity. “But I can’t be an instrument of your vengeance.”

“But are you the instrument of your own? We want similar things. And now that I see your aura, I think that maybe the gods want them too. Why else would they bless your actions?”

“I don’t pretend to know the minds of gods, but whatever you see in my aura isn’t thanks to my killing of Dervans.”

She appeared to have trouble processing the statement. Her eyes shifted, revealing a soul unmoored and adrift.

He worked to bring her to shore. “There are better things to do than hunt revenants.”

“Are there? You don’t know the things they’ve done. The things I had to do.” She flexed her fingers. “No, I didn’t have to. I could have let them kill me, but it would have been a terrible death, and I was afraid.” She continued bitterly. “I let them use me. I’ve revealed the hiding places of women who knew nothing of any kind of magic, just the aiding of childbirth, and a little herb lore. Of scholars studying the skies. Of truthtellers who embarrassed the better connected. They died horribly. All so I could keep on living.” She looked up. “I killed Vennian, but his blood doesn’t wash my hands clean.”

“You’re free now,” Hanuvar said. “We mean to cross the Ardenines. You could come with us and begin anew in some little town. Practice your gifts as you will.”

Her eyes were wary. “I’m not getting anywhere close to Derva. The revenants would find me.”

“Something will find us all, in the end. We can make plans, but have to face each day’s obstacle as it presents itself. And obstacles are more easily overcome in the presence of friends.”

Her laugh was ill-humored and heavy with despair. “I am doomed. Don’t you see that? Because of what I’ve done?”

“Then do better,” Antires suggested.

She laughed again, at Antires, as though he had said something funny. It ended in a dry wheeze, and then her eyes burned as she set them upon Hanuvar. “Whatever you mean to do, the revenants will continue to hunt you.”

“If they do, I will kill them.”

“Then I will take solace from that. Right now you’ve confounded them. They’re chasing a dozen different leads in a dozen different lands. Without me they’ll lose your trail.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“But there’s something else following you. I’ve glimpsed it in my visions. It used to be a man, and now it’s something more. It hungers for you.”

“Where is it?” Antires asked. “What is it?”

“I’m not sure of the what. But it lies beyond the mountains, and it is gathering its power. You must remain alert.”

“I will,” Hanuvar assured her. Almost he extended his hand to her, but he guessed it would only make her shy away. “You do not need to go, Evara. At the least, share our fire tonight.”

She shook her head as a dog shakes drops from its fur, then met his eyes a final time. “Farewell, Hanuvar.” She turned and hurried from the cave.

Her tone suggested more than an ordinary goodbye, and he rushed after, only to meet a gust of icy snow. He stopped as a white swirl blinded him, for the trail’s edge lay only a few feet out. When his vision cleared the woman was gone. All that remained was her scarf, blowing free down the mountain side.


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Framed