The Sacred Hunt Duology (100 page)

“Good. You come up with a better place. Now.”

At that, he fell silent, scanning the area just as she had. Then he shrugged, which was his version of a graceful surrender.

They crouched below the rail, out of habit and not because the spindles provided any cover, and then began to quietly crawl down the stairs. On impulse—an impulse that she didn't bother to question—Jewel took the southern rails and began her vigil; The Terafin stood at the foot of the stairs below. She had to be careful; the steps of her home had been short and high, and the rails close enough together a mouse would barely fit through. These, a mixture of stone and brass, were spaced as the steps were; there were gaps between them wide enough to fall through if she turned sideways.

Wide enough to push someone else through, if it came to that.

Don't look up
, she thought, although at whom she didn't know.

• • •

“Your pardon, Terafin,” Meralonne said gravely, as the bells ceased their clanging. “But I believe that you will find there has been some interference in the duties of your guards.”

“Shall I?”

“Yes. I thought it best, after speaking with Torvan, to stop at the gates a
moment.” His eyes were steel in motion, flashing as if at reflected light. “The fire that your servants are ringing is not exactly as it seems.”

“What?”

But he laughed, fey and wild; a younger man. “I believe that my duty is at the gate; your young Sentrus seemed to feel that there was a ‘mage or two' present—and it is strictly forbidden, by edict of the Magi, to practice magic of this nature in Averalaan Aramarelas without a writ of approval, signed in full.

“Which reminds me. Terafin, I give this to your keeping, as it may become necessary if I am not in a position to defend myself after this eve.” He handed her a rolled scroll; it was not sealed.

“And this?”

“A writ. Signed in full by the council, of course.”

She laughed; it was the first laugh of an evening that had given her, as yet, no cause for mirth. “Alayra,” she said, sobering quickly. “Accompany the mage.”

“Is he to be in command?” Alayra said stiffly.

“He is to be an adviser. A
valued
adviser.”

The older woman gave a gruff snort, but her shoulders were slightly less stooped than they had been. “Come along, then.”

He drew his sword, cut a lattice of colored light in the air, and then bowed as they stared. “At your service, ATerafin,” he said gravely.

• • •

Jewel noticed it at once, because her only role on the stairs was that of observer. The sword was silent. The scabbard from which it had been drawn vanished into cloth and air. The blade was long and fine and slender—like a razor more than a sword—but she knew it was not for show and not for dress.

And she knew that the mage knew how to wield it; how to use it to best advantage. She did not question how she knew it; she never questioned that feeling.

But she did wonder why a member of the Order—a member of the mythic Council of the Magi—would resort to such a weapon when he had so many more at his disposal. The blade danced in the air, glittering like ice. She shivered and tried very hard not to wonder anymore.

• • •

The Terafin took the luxury of a few seconds to watch Meralonne, light and lithe in his movements, leave the hall. Alayra seemed stocky and heavy beside him, but at least she was a known and trusted quantity. Then, without turning, she called, “Arrendas.”

His dark-bearded chin bobbed as he bowed his head and made the salute.

The sound of mailed fist against plate brought her back to herself and her duties. She turned quietly. “The second rank of archers?”

“Hidden, as you requested. Ready.”

“Good. I believe that the moment is now.” Her gaze was intent.

He saluted again, bowing stiffly as he turned to relay the orders to a waiting messenger in the mouth of the southern hall. He stumbled as the building shook again. This time, they heard the sound of falling stone and knew it for what it was.

Wordlessly, the Chosen began to form up, the majority of their numbers placing themselves between their Lord and the southern halls.

• • •

Stephen wiped the sweat from his brow, surprised that sweat could exist in such a cold place. His single backward glance took in shadows that the lights did not cast and could not dispel; the shadows were closer now, the pursuit faster.

The wall collapsed behind them, sending shards of stone into his calves and his back. He heard Gilliam curse, and felt his Hunter's rush of fury as the dogs yelped.

He ran, knowing as he did that the lamps at his back were being guttered, one by one. His hands were bleeding; he furled them into fists and felt a dull ache, followed by a rush of a warmth, of too much warmth. Opening them, he glanced down.

Saw his feet; saw the rough-hewn stone beneath them. The dead were at his back—all the dead. And before him . . .

“Left!” It was his voice. He knew, or thought he knew, where he was running. Knew, or thought he knew, what he would find. And then he bit his lip, and the fog of memory cleared slightly. This was no dream; the waking world knew itself, and he knew it. The sanctum of his wyrding was a sanctum to a Hunter God, not to a mortal lord, and besides, the Horn of the Hunter was already his.

And he would not wind it.

He swore, in the silence of heartbeat and raw breath, that he
would not wind it.

Blue light lanced past—through—his shoulder. He screamed, grabbing at it, the world rushing up to meet his face. By his side, another scream, a foreign one, and inside, in the darkness that only one other person could touch, fear and anger. He clutched the anger as he clutched the blue mage-light, fighting it as if it were a serpent.

“I am Oathbound!” he cried, throwing it, writhing, into the darkness. “You have no hold over me!”

And the darkness answered with a voice he had heard once before. “Have I not? A pity, little mortal, for you are young and not unpleasant to look upon.”

With the darkness as wreath and robe, Sor na Shannen stepped out of the shadows, leading her followers into battle.

• • •

The Allasakari were part of legend and part of history; priests of a God that no civilization, save one, had ever openly allowed the worship of. They were mad, or so she thought them; for in time, their minds were devoured by the activities that
the darkness spurred them to; they became pale imitations of, and dwindling servants for, the kin that they were ordered by their Lord to summon.

And that, The Terafin thought, was one of the reasons that she—in any situation—would never be Allasakari. To serve, for Amarais Handernesse, had never been enough. It never would be. And to sit at the feet of something that claimed with ease what she could imitate but could never truly attain—to spend her life being nothing more than a
mockery
of a demon, or any of the horde beyond, for that matter, was death. Worse than death.

What did they gain for it? Power, of a sort.

But at a price far too great to pay: all pride, all dignity. And, she thought, with a wry grimace, all humanity. It would not do to forget what the Allasakari actually did in their attempt to better be like the kin. If they realized that that was what they achieved in their sorry tenure.

The hilt beneath her hand was warming; she waited, knowing that these thoughts were idle, but thinking them just the same. The attack on the gate was an attack, but she was certain that it was not more; it was diversionary. The real enemy was within the manse already, hunting beneath the arches of her halls—killing her kin in the smug surety that the bulk of her force was occupied.

Terafin fought you
, she thought, and then smiled, realizing where the thought was going, and how best to use its truth and its defiance.

Lifting her sword, she gazed at her Chosen. “Terafin fought the Allasakari and their mage-born followers,” she said, her voice the steady, strong force that it had almost always been. “And became one of The Ten, revered above all others save the god-born.” The pitch of her tone changed as she faced the southern hall and the shadowy tendrils, tentative and barely visible, that slowly crept along the base of the walls. “
Come.
Your enmity began our road to greatness; let it continue that road, unhindered. We are ready!”

• • •

Behind, there was darkness; ahead, there was light. But for how long? How long? The halls of the manse were terrifying in their length and breadth. At any moment, Stephen thought their enemies might step from the sides or cut off their escape at the front. He prayed, as he had not prayed in years, the words a silent mantra, said so often they lost the edge of their sense, but not their intensity.

His chest hurt; he realized, with a start, that he had almost left Evayne behind and began to reach for her wrist, wondering when he had dropped it. But the color of her robes, the way they twisted at her feet as if they had a mind and will of their own—they reminded him of dreams. Wyrd.

No. There had been no escape in his dreams; no true light. And ahead of him, past Espere's steady shoulders and bowed head, light streamed in, cast in shards by the chandelier above and the beveled lamps that lined the walls. He smiled, but the relief was short and quickly gone; these lamps were finer than those
behind him, but no more magical, and no more proof against the shadows that sought to engulf everything.

Or were they?

Light defined itself into a sharper glitter than he was used to seeing, and as Espere continued to shift and move in front of him, he saw why: The grand foyer, large even in the distance, was full of armed and armored men and women. Steel caught the light and sent it scattering; they stood their ground, firm and fearless, a living fortress. A testimony to Terafin.

• • •

Jewel watched in silence from her perch on the stairs. Carver was above her, and Finch below; Jester and Angel were higher up. Teller, flat against the ground with daggers in either hand, was on the landing; he didn't trust the stairs to provide cover, and besides, it was always useful to have an attack from a totally different vantage point.

They had all heard The Terafin speak her high and fancy words—and they all, with one exception, felt a yearning to
be
one of the men or women that she spoke to. Just for a second, of course; after that, the practical demanded attention.

“What the hell?” Carver whispered. His leader elbowed him sharply in the thigh, and his jaw snapped shut.

Jewel watched.

The dogs came first, running to a halt and skidding slightly across the shiny, smooth floors. They were bigger than most dogs she'd seen—of course, that wasn't hard, given that most of the dogs she'd known were alley scroungers, same as she'd been—with broad, flat heads, ears turned down to skull, and short, glistening fur. Brown; black and white; black and gray; gray and brown. The minute they stopped, they turned and stood, growling, four perfect sentries. It was almost frightening, to see dogs behave so unnaturally.

An almost entirely naked woman came next, but she could have stopped on a banker's heart, she was so quick and light on her feet. She glanced up the steps, narrowing her eyes as she met Jewel's. They were brown, her eyes, and odd, although Jewel couldn't have said why she thought so; they flickered slightly and then looked away.

Back to more important things. Jewel grimaced, tightening her hold on dagger hilt and rope.

She recognized the man who came through the arch next; she'd met him once before in The Terafin's public office. Stefan, Stephen—something like that. The foreigner. He was red with exertion; she could see his sweat beneath the harsh glare of too many lights. He stumbled, righted himself, and stopped in the front of the line of the Chosen, all the while holding fast the wrist of a slightly built woman in dark blue robes.

She, too, looked up the length of the grand stairs to meet Jewel's gaze—and
this time, Jewel looked away. There was something in the violet stare, distant as it was, that was uncomfortably perceptive.

Last to come was the foreign Lord; the obvious master of those who waited. He brought two more dogs, each flanking him—a gray one, bigger than the rest, and a white and black that seemed to be preoccupied with the halls it had just stepped clear of.

“Terafin,” the fair-haired Stephen said. “We're—we're being pursued.”

• • •

“Let them through.” The Terafin's voice was steady and calm. “Let them through and close ranks around them.”

Her Chosen moved at once to follow her commands, maintaining as much of a defensible formation as they could while opening their ranks to allow the Breodani free passage.

Stephen stumbled in, as did his young companion—but the Hunter Lord, Gilliam of Elseth, chose to stay outside of the protection her Chosen offered. He did not look exhausted; nor did he appear frightened. He was on edge, but even the edge was a strange one—it was as if he were aware of every element of his surroundings, without being affected by any of them.

“Lord Elseth,” The Terafin said, slightly irritated. “Please.”

But Lord Elseth did not respond. Instead, he motioned, and the wild girl—the unkempt and unknown danger—came running to his side, flanked by the rest of the Hunter's pack.

“Terafin,” the flushed huntbrother said, striking his chest with the flat of his hand and kneeling in the deferential posture.

“Speak,” she replied, watching him carefully, impressed in spite of herself at his ability to maintain this much composure in the face of his obvious fear.

“We—there is a demon-mage in pursuit.”

“Demon-mage?” she said. “What do you mean?”

“She—it—calls herself Sor na Shannen. She is a very powerful mage, but also one of the kin. The darkness follows her; she is its lord here.”