THE SILENCE OF HEARTS Karen L. Kobylarz
The steel mirrored her mood--cold, sharp. A flame flickered in its heart, white-hot; only metal’s chill kept it from fanning into a raging fire. Steel . . . If she could only make it her own. Kaileya’s eyes traveled the length of the knife, from the point pricking her throat to the night-black handle half-hidden by slender fingers. Night-black. Like the sky above her, the cave before her; like her opponent’s hooded cloak and her own.
She fell back, hands groping for her own lost weapon. Beads of sweat raced down her back, damp, distracting. Curse Argon and its eternal heat. And curse Firea and its winters that made her blood prefer the cold.
Her opponent hunched beside her, a pitch black shadow, nearly invisible against the cave’s gaping maw. “You’re the one the Informer sent?”
Contempt dripped from his voice like morning dew off a leaf. “Hunters may be a dying breed, but we’re not desperate!”
His words struck deep. A knife-slash across her throat would’ve been kinder. Two years of training, the last of her inheritance spent on a knife--now lost. She could hear Leyin now, his big-brother tone echoing the Hunter’s: “Yes, even those low-life Hunters sent her packing.” And he’d laugh. “Kaileya’s luck! You’ve seen its work. She married Imron, and look what happened to him. Her blessing, everybody else’s curse!”
Her blessing, yes. Her mother’s last gift--it must’ve been, for after her mother died, it had come to her. A weapon she could forge again and again, her emotions both metal and fire, her will the hammer to shape it.
And now, needing a weapon, she formed it, grasped it, thrust it at her opponent.
He flew backwards, a curse on his lips, his steel going with him.
Kaileya struggled to her feet, battling the wave of drowsiness that assailed her--the price of her gift. For a moment it nearly claimed her, washing her to the shores of dream. Two large, golden, black-slitted eyes stared before her, unblinking, accusing--hovering between the blurred edges of memory. With a shake of her head, she banished them. No time for them now. She hadn’t hit the Hunter too hard. He’d be on his feet soon enough; he had to be, and so did she--to succeed and be forever freed from that gaze.
She scoured the ground for her lost weapon, found it, and turned around just in time. Her opponent stood waiting, steel in hand.
“Sheathe your weapons!” The order came from the cave, whispered rather than shouted, cold as steel or death--the voice of Hawan, Lord of Caves himself. And from the cave, another shadow emerged, the hem of his cloak stirring as he walked. No Immortal, but another Hunter. He came and stood beside the first. “Peace, Snake.”
“But she used magic!” Kaileya’s opponent spat, turning to the newcomer.
“Didn’t you see? We don’t accept her kind!”
His words gave Kaileya more pause than the other’s command. Her kind? As if her gift made her something less than human. And to hear those words from a Hunter, an assassin’s assassin who preferred shadow to sun. She stared at him. What was he called? Snake? There were those--Leyin, for instance--who’d condemn this Snake just as quickly. She sheathed her blade and moved closer to the Hunters.
Their faces lost beneath shadowy hoods, they might have been twins hiding beneath those cloaks for all Kaileya could tell. Same build, same height--only their hands betrayed a difference between them: long, sun-browned fingers graced Snake’s, while fine lines marred the other’s, betraying his greater age.
“Peace, I said.” The older Hunter clamped a hand on Snake’s shoulder.
“She came by the right paths. The Informer spoke highly of her. If magic is her weapon--” He shrugged the difference away.
Snake gave a snort, sounding more like a Firean snow ox than a serpent. Though his face was hidden, Kaileya felt his eyes upon her, honed with hatred, slicing through the space between them.
The other man stepped between them and faced Kaileya. “You truly wish to be a Hunter?”
She nodded, tried to keep her voice steady. “I’m prepared to do whatever is necessary, sir.”
The man chuckled. “That you’ve already done in defeating our best.” He gestured to Snake. “My Name is Eagle. You”--he jabbed a withered finger at Kaileya--“are Nameless, but not for long. Come.” He turned back toward the cave and motioned for her to follow.
A dozen or so torches--remnants from an earlier age--lined the hallway, bathing it in a rich orange glow. “This way.” Eagle pointed, the motion baring his left wrist, unveiling his Hunter’s Mark--his Name-bird etched in black.
Kaileya tore her gaze from the Mark and followed his finger. There, at the other end of the hall, a door stood slightly ajar. She walked up to it and stepped inside, into a room that equaled the Firean Grand Council Chamber in size. A pale flame wavering in a pit in the center was its only light, six banners suspended from the ceiling in a half-circle, its only adornment. The door closed behind her; a bolt clicked--Eagle’s doing or Snake’s. She didn’t dwell on it long, for the flame drew her gaze and held it. As slender as Snake’s fingers and moon-pale, it quivered as Kaileya came near. So old, so frail--the slightest breeze would quench it. But nothing stirred in that place where Hunters received their Names. From the blessed Immortals themselves, if ancient tales spoke true.
Kaileya looked up at the banners. In the dim light, they were cloaked as well as any Hunter, and she had to squint to make them out. Familiar signs all: at the far left, the five-pointed star of Mara, Mistress of Magic; the pale crescent of Dioa, Moon-Lady; the disk of Iton, Sun-Lord; the black banner of Hawan, Lord of Caves; the scales of Edela, Lady of Justice; and last, the fire-sword of Vincenta, Mistress of War.
And Leyin thought it a waste to read ancient texts. Old greater-than-thou Leyin who saw Hunters as cut-throats rather than guards. Thank the Immortals the kings and queens of ancient Argon had been more enlightened. They knew the need for protection, the danger of an assassin’s knife. So the Hunters came to be, a society so secret, its own members didn’t know each other’s true names or faces. But even after the monarchy had faded and people’s rule with its lord-governors and councils gripped the land, the Hunters lingered. Assassins, yes, but not for hire. Not murderers, but deliverers of retributive justice. “Death to the guilty, not the innocent.” So read their code, legend claimed them, and history embraced their Names--Names torn from the depths of a child’s worst dreams: Fang, Darkness, Nightmare, Deadly Nightshade . ..
If only hers could conjure nightmares, too. Especially for Leyin. But if she succeeded, he would never know. Pity, for that knowledge would pierce his heart harder and sharper than her Hunter knife ever could. And what would he say? Some clever phrase stolen from somebody else, like the one he’d tossed her way at Imron’s funeral:
“In the silence of hearts, if evil lies,An ancient prophet’s warning in Leyin’s staccato tone. Poetry turned to platitude.
“B’fore th’ eye of The One ’t wears no disguise.”“Platitudes. Advice, wisdom, morality--they’re all nothing but platitudes.” Not Leyin’s voice this time, but Imron’s.
Kaileya closed her eyes, shook her head to dislodge her memory of him. But he persisted.
“A word to the wise, rely not on lies,“What rot! You’ll never get far clinging to that." His words, cruel whispers; his breath grazing against her ear. "You just do what you have to do.”
“On words that are false and untrue,
“For believe me, friend, that in the end,
“It will all come back to you."Impossible. He’d died, slowly--she’d watched as the cancer claimed him.
So it couldn’t be. Kaileya opened her eyes, but she could still feel his breath and hear it, too, deep and ragged as if he’d been running. The darkness and white flame had vanished, and in its place, blue mottled with the white, not of clouds, but of snow-capped mountains. And rising above those peaks, a speck of green. Like Imron, it refused to fade.
Instead it came closer, immense, sinuous, magnificent, glittering in the sunlight. With wings unfolded, it soared, a single emerald against a sapphire sky, what she and Imron had traveled to the Far North to find: the last of the Children of Scylathe, the Immortal Dragon.
Kaileya watched, motionless as if stricken by a serpent’s bite, the numbing poison coursing through her veins. Not that day of all her life’s days. . .
“The spell Kaileya!” Imron again, pulling her free of the dragon’s hypnotic grace. Chilled fingers--solid, real--clenched her arm. Even in life, Imron had been cold.
She glanced once more at the beast. It circled above them, brushing clouds with its wingtips and nipping at its own tail. The wisest of creatures, playful as a child.
“Cast the spell!” Imron commanded.
No. Kaileya clenched her fists. She would defy him this time, make everything right. Like a prisoner in a guard’s grip, she struggled against the past, tried to break loose. But its hold never slackened. Nothing would change. She began forging her invisible weapon, then grasped it and set it free.
The creature fell, a precious jewel plummeting to the rocks at the foot of its mountain home. Imron ran toward it, and Kaileya followed. It stretched across the jagged landscape at least three estates long, motionless as Kaileya had been while watching its flight. But nothing, not even Imron or Kaileya with all the magic-workers of Firea and Argon combined could wake it now. “By all the Immortals,” Kaileya said. “What happened? The spell was supposed to stun it not kill it! You said--”
“‘The spell was supposed to stun it not kill it,’” Imron echoed mockingly. “It’s not my fault you don’t know your own strength. Good thing it’s dead, though. Makes getting its treasure easier.”
Kaileya scanned the ground, but caught no glint of gold save for two large, serpentine eyes staring wide and unblinking across a jagged landscape they could no longer see. “Treasure? What treasure?” She glanced up towards the peaks, the dragon’s natural home. “If you think I’m going to climb up there to search for gold--”
“Not gold, you fool!” Imron glared at her and drew a knife from his pocket. “Its heart. The heart and blood of the dragon--they contain its essence, its power, its knowledge. To gain these things, we only need to eat and drink.”
Once more, Kaileya stared into those sightless eyes. The last of the Children . . . Stun it, not kill it . . . She turned away while Imron continued his bloody work. A tap on her shoulder told her he had finished. He stood behind her, a clear bottle filled with a purplish liquid under one arm and a large brown-wrapped package beneath the other.
“Let’s go.” And his command came none too soon, for a town nestled beneath the dragon’s range.
“Look! Over there!” A group of climbers had stumbled upon them.
“The dragon!”--a cry, mournful as a wolf’s howl--“They’ve killed our dragon!”
Imron grabbed her hand and they fled.
Everything fled. Nothing left of Imron, the mountain, the village. Just darkness and a colorless flame, and in its center, those dead, serpentine eyes staring at her. Kaileya gave a start, backed away. What was this? Imron? The dragon? They belonged to the past--all past--and Imron was as dead as the dragon. It had been his fault, anyway--his idea, not hers.
An accident--only an accident. But becoming a Hunter--Hunters were honorable--and honor would wipe it away.
The flame flickered, splintered into a hundred fine white lines that streaked up to the ceiling, swallowing the eyes, the banners, the darkness. Kaileya shut her eyes, turned away from the glare.
“Kaileya.”
She gave a start and raised her head, eyes still aching from the brightness. White had faded to gray, and she was no longer alone. Beneath each Immortal’s banner, before her and on either side, stood an ebony throne and on each throne, a figure in Hunter’s robes.
“Kaileya.” A strange voice--a woman’s--sharp and commanding. The figure beneath the banner of Vincenta leaned forward. “Your judgment begins.” She turned and gestured to the Immortal sitting beside her. Edela, Lady of Justice. “Nothing is hidden.”
And each Immortal spoke in turn--Hawan, Iton, Dioa:
“The choice has been made.”
“We have seen.”
“And you shall have what best befits you.”
“What best . . .” Kaileya shivered. So many voices, so many things hidden in shadow. What did they mean? Retribution? No, couldn’t be. It had been Imron’s fault. Imron’s! Kaileya turned to the last throne, to Mara, Mistress of Magic. She hadn’t spoken, and magic . . . Kaileya’s gift. Surely Mara would understand. “But--”
“‘In the silence of hearts. . .’” Mara murmured, her voice soft, like a dove’s coo. “Did you forget the One”--she pointed heavenward--“who made all things, mortal and immortal, even dragons?” She stood and spread her arms, gesturing to her fellow Immortals. “We are but emissaries.”
The flame writhed as if struggling against a wind and leaned toward Kaileya, flicking out like a serpent’s tongue. She bit back a cry and backed away. Warm--too warm. Scorching as Argon’s summer sun. The Immortals spoke as one voice: “Death to the guilty . . .”
But the spell wasn’t supposed to . . . wasn’t supposed to . . .
But it did. To a creature that had done nothing but fly . . .
“Death to the guilty, not the innocent.”
The flame flared up again, lashing against her skin, and her fate--the Immortals’ decree--echoed through the chamber.
The damp chill of stone against skin did nothing to ease the burning, nor soothe the gnawing ache inside. Her crime--one mistake--had destroyed every dream--everything.. Kaileya pushed against the door, and it opened slowly, revealing the torchlit hall. Eagle stood there waiting, and leaning against the far wall, his arms folded, head cocked to one side, was Snake, though now he seemed more curious than hostile. And there were others, five in all. Kaileya felt their stares despite the shadows of their hoods, all fixed upon her, waiting, wondering: Is she one of us? What is her Name?
A shiver ran through her, settling in her stomach like a ball of ice. If only she could explain. It wasn’t supposed to-- She hadn’t meant to-- Dear Immortals, what would they think?
Kaileya looked at Eagle. He gave a curt nod; it was time. She pulled back her left sleeve and showed them the black serpentine letters--DS--seared on her wrist. The Mark of a Hunter, forever branded.
“I am Dragonslayer.”
Background by Tosha