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The bags were still too heavy, and for the third time Faunos went through them, weeding out what he could leave behind. They must be light enough for him to carry them and run a good distance, or they could be the death of him. Working by the light of three lamps, and keenly aware of the passage of time, he unpacked and repacked yet again.
In the end, he would be carrying little more than the books, his father’s jewelry, a few spare garments, and the purse Galen had hidden inside his old cassocks. The pigskin bag was much heavier than Faunos would have expected, and he sat down for a moment to open it. Gold and silver gleamed from within, and he swore softly.
The old man must have been hoarding. “Was this your legacy to me?” Faunos whispered to the shadows. “If I’m frugal, I can live for a year on this much.”
He stashed the purse with his own spare cloaks and wraps, checked that his father’s jewelry was safe, and tried the weight of the bags again. They were never going to be light, but he was sure he could carry them now, and he had stooped to buckle them down when a faint rattle of gravel outside the cottage made his hackles rise.
The rush of the ocean made it difficult to hear small sounds, and until that split second he had heard nothing. Grief had dulled his wits and he cursed himself as he fumbled for the dirk. It was halfway out of the sheath when he saw a man’s shape step into the doorway, outlined against the moonlight. The hilts of a pair of short butterfly swords filled both his hands.
He knew the voice, and groaned soundlessly. “Leave it in the sheath, boy,” Soran said quietly. “I said leave it, and be still!”
“Witchfinder,” Faunos whispered. “You found me.”
“It wasn’t hard.” Soran’s tone was low and silken, arousing a shiver in Faunos. “You know why I’m here.”
“To deliver me to your priests.” Faunos stepped back against the wall. His heart was racing. “To be tortured and killed, just as you’ve tortured and murdered so many of my kind, I might be the last.”
The witchfinder stepped into the yellow lamplight. It gleamed on the swords, dazzling Faunos. “You don’t deny what you are.”
“Would it do me any good?” Faunos heard the bitterness in his own voice. “You’ve already decided I’m guilty. It’s written in your face.”
“So make me disbelieve,” Soran said, inviting, challenging, though the tips of the swords did not drop by an inch. “Convince me you’re not the witchboy I’ve been told you are. Speak wisely, now: this is not a luxury I’ve extended to many others.”
Faunos held up a hand to block the lamplight and see the man’s face clearly -- and, oh yes, was beautiful, with the long-boned, elegant features of his people, the honey-copper skin and raven hair. “I’ll not let you mock me. If you’re going to kill me, get on with it … for I won’t be going back to Vayal with you either. That’s not the way I’m going to die.”
Without even realizing what he had done, he gestured toward the lamps and their flames burned brighter, higher, for better light so that he could see Soran’ s face clearly. He could not know how the lamps lit witchfires in the Keltoi green-gold eyes, made them shimmer, until Soran could not look at him. The witchfinder turned away slightly, and Faunos made a derisive sound.
“So you believe the old tales too, do you?” he demanded bitterly. “You think I can murder you at a glance, turn you to stone, or boil your insides with a thought?” He covered his face with both hands and fell to his knees beside the bags which still stood open in the corner beyond the cold hearth. “What have I come to? You might as well kill me, witchfinder, since there’s nothing else for me, and no place.”
The prince of Vayal did not move, but by now his eyes had adjusted to the light. He had become aware of the rude interior of the cottage, and the dead. “Your friend passed over,” he observed with a gesture at the still shape in the bed. “It wasn’t a ruse, then. You did go to the town for a physician.”
“You think I’m a liar?” Faunos demanded.
“I know you’re a witchboy,” Soran corrected in a murmur.
“I was born Zehefti, may the gods forgive me for it.” Faunos rubbed his face hard, forcing his thoughts to order. “My fathers were kings as surely as were yours, and all my life, you’ve punished me for that. I’ve done nothing to hurt you and your kind, but you’d torture me to death for the sport of it. If I let you.”
“If you let me?” Soran echoed, and looked him over thoughtfully, feature by feature, from head to foot. “You want me to believe you have no magic? Look at you! See yourself through my eyes. If you’re even half mortal, you can be no nearer to common man than that.”
Faunos blinked up at him. “What rubbish is this? You know my pedigree well enough. My father was a scion of the House of Diomedas. My mother was a Keltoi princess. Me? I’m the last of them … and you’ll make sure I die in the vaults under Vayal.”
“No.” Soran’s voice was rough with some emotion, but Faunos could not tell what it was “I came here to kill you, quick and clean, not to take you to the torture.”
“So.” Faunos looked away. “You came here for murder.”
“Execution.” Soran said quietly.
The lamps flared, bright and high, as anger blossomed in Faunos’s belly. “Only criminals are executed. Damn you -- of what crime do you accuse me?”
“You’re a Zehefti witchboy, self-confessed, ” Soran said in the same quiet voice, rough with feeling. “What would you have me do with you?”
The anger crystallized; the lamps brightened again. “I’ve told you, I was born so,” Faunos said icily. “I neither chose this life nor desire it. I’ve lived it because -- because …” Because Galen insisted, because he would never let Faunos forget who he was, and what. Because of duty. Weariness replaced the swift anger in his gut, and Faunos slumped back, head on his folded forarms. “Ah, get it over with. My guardian is dead, I’m the last of my line. You’ll hunt no more after me, and Vayal will be unchallenged. Isn’t that what you want?”
He closed his eyes, and part of him was waiting for the blow to fall. The part of him that had swum deep in the harbor in the early hours of the morning would have welcomed it. But Soran made no move on him, and as Faunos waited he became aware of the open bags at his side. The larger of the bags, which contained his father’s jewelry and the Eye of Helios, was well within reach.
He had never finished packing it properly, and if Soran had only known, the great diamond was sitting just under the goatskin in the top of the bag. He was certain he could get a hand to it, if only the witchfinder were distracted.
Turn page to Chapter Seventeen part two
Return to Chapter Sixteen...
[page back]
The bags were still too heavy, and for the third time Faunos went through them, weeding out what he could leave behind. They must be light enough for him to carry them and run a good distance, or they could be the death of him. Working by the light of three lamps, and keenly aware of the passage of time, he unpacked and repacked yet again.
In the end, he would be carrying little more than the books, his father’s jewelry, a few spare garments, and the purse Galen had hidden inside his old cassocks. The pigskin bag was much heavier than Faunos would have expected, and he sat down for a moment to open it. Gold and silver gleamed from within, and he swore softly.
The old man must have been hoarding. “Was this your legacy to me?” Faunos whispered to the shadows. “If I’m frugal, I can live for a year on this much.”
He stashed the purse with his own spare cloaks and wraps, checked that his father’s jewelry was safe, and tried the weight of the bags again. They were never going to be light, but he was sure he could carry them now, and he had stooped to buckle them down when a faint rattle of gravel outside the cottage made his hackles rise.
The rush of the ocean made it difficult to hear small sounds, and until that split second he had heard nothing. Grief had dulled his wits and he cursed himself as he fumbled for the dirk. It was halfway out of the sheath when he saw a man’s shape step into the doorway, outlined against the moonlight. The hilts of a pair of short butterfly swords filled both his hands.
He knew the voice, and groaned soundlessly. “Leave it in the sheath, boy,” Soran said quietly. “I said leave it, and be still!”
“Witchfinder,” Faunos whispered. “You found me.”
“It wasn’t hard.” Soran’s tone was low and silken, arousing a shiver in Faunos. “You know why I’m here.”
“To deliver me to your priests.” Faunos stepped back against the wall. His heart was racing. “To be tortured and killed, just as you’ve tortured and murdered so many of my kind, I might be the last.”
The witchfinder stepped into the yellow lamplight. It gleamed on the swords, dazzling Faunos. “You don’t deny what you are.”
“Would it do me any good?” Faunos heard the bitterness in his own voice. “You’ve already decided I’m guilty. It’s written in your face.”
“So make me disbelieve,” Soran said, inviting, challenging, though the tips of the swords did not drop by an inch. “Convince me you’re not the witchboy I’ve been told you are. Speak wisely, now: this is not a luxury I’ve extended to many others.”
Faunos held up a hand to block the lamplight and see the man’s face clearly -- and, oh yes, was beautiful, with the long-boned, elegant features of his people, the honey-copper skin and raven hair. “I’ll not let you mock me. If you’re going to kill me, get on with it … for I won’t be going back to Vayal with you either. That’s not the way I’m going to die.”
Without even realizing what he had done, he gestured toward the lamps and their flames burned brighter, higher, for better light so that he could see Soran’ s face clearly. He could not know how the lamps lit witchfires in the Keltoi green-gold eyes, made them shimmer, until Soran could not look at him. The witchfinder turned away slightly, and Faunos made a derisive sound.
“So you believe the old tales too, do you?” he demanded bitterly. “You think I can murder you at a glance, turn you to stone, or boil your insides with a thought?” He covered his face with both hands and fell to his knees beside the bags which still stood open in the corner beyond the cold hearth. “What have I come to? You might as well kill me, witchfinder, since there’s nothing else for me, and no place.”
The prince of Vayal did not move, but by now his eyes had adjusted to the light. He had become aware of the rude interior of the cottage, and the dead. “Your friend passed over,” he observed with a gesture at the still shape in the bed. “It wasn’t a ruse, then. You did go to the town for a physician.”
“You think I’m a liar?” Faunos demanded.
“I know you’re a witchboy,” Soran corrected in a murmur.
“I was born Zehefti, may the gods forgive me for it.” Faunos rubbed his face hard, forcing his thoughts to order. “My fathers were kings as surely as were yours, and all my life, you’ve punished me for that. I’ve done nothing to hurt you and your kind, but you’d torture me to death for the sport of it. If I let you.”
“If you let me?” Soran echoed, and looked him over thoughtfully, feature by feature, from head to foot. “You want me to believe you have no magic? Look at you! See yourself through my eyes. If you’re even half mortal, you can be no nearer to common man than that.”
Faunos blinked up at him. “What rubbish is this? You know my pedigree well enough. My father was a scion of the House of Diomedas. My mother was a Keltoi princess. Me? I’m the last of them … and you’ll make sure I die in the vaults under Vayal.”
“No.” Soran’s voice was rough with some emotion, but Faunos could not tell what it was “I came here to kill you, quick and clean, not to take you to the torture.”
“So.” Faunos looked away. “You came here for murder.”
“Execution.” Soran said quietly.
The lamps flared, bright and high, as anger blossomed in Faunos’s belly. “Only criminals are executed. Damn you -- of what crime do you accuse me?”
“You’re a Zehefti witchboy, self-confessed, ” Soran said in the same quiet voice, rough with feeling. “What would you have me do with you?”
The anger crystallized; the lamps brightened again. “I’ve told you, I was born so,” Faunos said icily. “I neither chose this life nor desire it. I’ve lived it because -- because …” Because Galen insisted, because he would never let Faunos forget who he was, and what. Because of duty. Weariness replaced the swift anger in his gut, and Faunos slumped back, head on his folded forarms. “Ah, get it over with. My guardian is dead, I’m the last of my line. You’ll hunt no more after me, and Vayal will be unchallenged. Isn’t that what you want?”
He closed his eyes, and part of him was waiting for the blow to fall. The part of him that had swum deep in the harbor in the early hours of the morning would have welcomed it. But Soran made no move on him, and as Faunos waited he became aware of the open bags at his side. The larger of the bags, which contained his father’s jewelry and the Eye of Helios, was well within reach.
He had never finished packing it properly, and if Soran had only known, the great diamond was sitting just under the goatskin in the top of the bag. He was certain he could get a hand to it, if only the witchfinder were distracted.
Turn page to Chapter Seventeen part two
Return to Chapter Sixteen...
