Free Vengeance of the Hunter by Angela Highland

his partner to do likewise. Eight days of sheltering at the abbey hadn’t diminished the risk that the Church would track them down, even if their hosts seemed disinclined to betray them. By Abbot Grenham’s order, so that he could no longer speak the Rite of the Calling, Shaymis Enverly’s tongue had been cut out. They should by rights have killed the man—but the thought had sat ill with Grenham, and Kestar had to admit he could bear it no more easily. Yet as long as the old priest was alive, able to speak or not, he was sure the man remained dangerous.
    He might have said more; there were certainly more words to be said, plans to be made. But before he could utter another syllable the door on the far side of the storeroom opened. Both men snapped up their heads, relaxing only a fraction at the sight of Brother Iain, one of the younger priests. “My lords, please come quickly. The abbot’s sent me to find you.”
    The Hawks exchanged glances. “What’s happened?” Kestar asked.
    “It’s Sister Darlana. The abbot says she won’t last the morning, and she’s asked to see Lord Vaarsen.”
    * * *
    “I know you’re there, boy. Don’t just stand there gawking.”
    Kestar hadn’t forgotten about Darlana Araeldes, gods knew. The great-grandmother he’d never known he had. Long-lost princess of the royal blood of Adalonia. Refugee kept hidden away within the walls of an abbey far from the heart of the realm, all for her dalliance with an elven lover. She was all of these things, and she was also a withered, ancient husk of a woman, with the barest glimmer of life left in her fragile flesh and bones. Kestar had come to see her when he’d first arrived, but she’d turned him away the instant she’d learned he was a member of the Order of the Hawk, and she’d refused to see him since.
    With all that had happened, he could hardly blame her. And he was unsure now whether to be relieved or alarmed that she’d changed her mind.
    “Father Grenham said you wanted to see me.” Kestar couldn’t quite bring himself to step or speak too loudly for fear that too much of his presence might somehow extinguish the glimmer of life she yet retained. He edged cautiously away from the doorway of her chamber and ventured toward the bed where she reclined. Celoren was waiting out in the hall along with the abbot, for Darlana had forbidden anyone else to enter the room. “What may I do for you?”
    “Come here,” his great-grandmother said, and though it was a breathy whisper, it was nonetheless also a command. She didn’t move as Kestar approached her bed; she scarcely seemed to breathe. But her eyes tracked his motions, focusing upon him with effort, glinting as he drew near. “You have my Riniel’s blood. Yet you’re a Hawk.”
    “Yes,” he said, not at all sure what more he could add, faced with the accusation in the old woman’s stare. What protests he might have offered that he was surely not going to be a Hawk for much longer seemed feeble at best, even to him.
    “It’ll destroy you, boy. Your Church. It’ll turn against you and swallow you whole, you and all you hold dear.”
    That very fear had been slicing at Kestar’s innards for days, low and deep within him, as though he’d inhaled his own sword. He couldn’t manage a denial, not when the strength of bitter experience bolstered Darlana’s voice and kindled a fierce spark in her wrinkled face, but neither could he fathom why she’d said it.
    “Gran...” The word caught in his throat. Had he even the right to call her such a thing? He could hardly call her akresha , though this ancient little woman in the bed before him would warrant it. His inner self was shielded against Faanshi now, yet the shimmer of her memories still fresh within his own offered up the Tantiu honorific before he could think of anything else. “My lady...Sister...why are you telling me this? Why have you called me to you?”
    She let out a short, sharp cackle. “Hah. Got