The Sacred Hunt Duology (107 page)

“Dantallon—”

“And the Kings have ordered you remanded into
my
custody until
I
deem you fit to return to duty. There will, unfortunately, be a debriefing; the Kings will
come shortly, and you will be removed, for a time, into the ready room. You will then be returned to the infirmary, where you
will
follow the instructions of my apprentices. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly.” The word came from between teeth closed so tightly Dantallon wondered if the jaws would survive the pressure. They'd better; he'd enough work to do as it was without adding spoonfeeding a man with a broken jaw.

“Good.”

“Healer?”

“Yes?”

“The Queens?”

Dantallon smiled softly, and let the edge wear away from the exhaustion and the irritation of the day's long labor. “The Queens are safe. Queen Marieyan ACormalyn was injured, but recovers well.” Her recovery, unfortunately, cost the healerie their most powerful healer; she had been very close to death. “Queen Siodonay AReymalyn was among the Swords that your men joined in battle. She accounted well for herself, as befit her former House.”

The Verrus sank back into the bed and let the fight go, at peace. Dantallon knew it wouldn't last, but he was willing to take advantage of it for as long as it did.

• • •

Kallandras regarded the Princess as she sat against the wall behind the narrow bed that was to be her home for the next two days. She was fair; the color had been leeched from her by the wounds she'd suffered. But her hair was still glorious, still bronze, although it had been sheared by a careless healer in order to add a few stitches. Her eyes were darker than usual.

“You look lovely as always,” he said, bowing.

“And you speak smoothly as always—but one hopes a little less accurately.” She smiled ruefully. “I hate it here. Give me word of the court.”

“The court?” Kallandras laughed and began to absently coax a peaceful collection of notes from Salla's strings. “The court is in a state of what could politely be called chaos. The Ten are in session, and the session is, from the sounds that can be heard
outside
of the Great Doors, quite grim. Accusations are flying of a less than delicate nature.”

“How . . . interesting.” She watched his fingers play against the strings as if the movements, and not the resulting sounds, were the art. “What other news, Kallandras? Does Sioban send word?”

“She is quite occupied,” he said. “The tales of the Allasakari are more legend than history to all but the trinity, and even among the Churches, it seems that knowledge of the known rituals are limited to a few. The Exalted, for example, learn them as part and parcel of the antiquities.”

“You speak that word lightly.”

“Antiquities?”

She frowned. “Exalted.”

“Ah, Mirialyn. Your looks and bearing are wasted upon you; you should have been born old.” The smile, light and playful, fell from his face; his eyes darkened.

“What word?” she said, leaning forward.

His reply, when it came, was in tone and timbre a private thing; the bustle of the healerie did not touch or weaken its whisper. “I chanced upon a member of the Order, summoned to the Kings' Council.” He paused. “We are . . . friends, of a sort.”

“And?”

“ACormaris,” he said, all playful flirtation gone, “Sioban and the Bardic Order now rifle through every bit of folklore and child's wisery looking for answers to an old and dangerous riddle.”

“Riddles,” she said softly. “You speak them. Be blunt.”

“
Vexusa
,” he replied, and the sound of the word was ugly.

She sank back. “I . . . had heard rumors. What of it?”

“It is upon that place that Averalaan is built.”

She said nothing, her face set in an impassive mask. “History,” she said at last, the word neutral, “hides much when the cataclysm is great.”

He shrugged. “In this world, a simple bard does not judge the likelihood of the information he receives; if the counsel of the wise says it is so, he believes it.”

“A simple bard.” Her eyes flickered impatiently. “Then we must be about our business.”

“Not we, ACormaris.
I
. Your business is healing.”

“Kallandras—the rest.”

He sat upon the side of the bed, leaning close to her as if the bardic voice did not guarantee him the privacy he desired. She made no protest. “They captured the leader of the assault upon the Hall of Wise Counsel.”

“The kin.”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“He is gone, but before he was banished, he told them this: That the ways to the Shining City have been unmade.”

Her face was whiter than the sheets upon which she lay. “The Shining City,” she said.

“You know your legend. It would appear that Vexusa was not built upon this spot without reason. There is a darkness that waits.”

“And there were roads . . . to this place?”

“Which were unmade.”

“Unmade?”

“A technical term. Erased from existence as if they had never been. It
is
,
according to the Council of the Magi, quite possible—if theoretically so—when enough raw power is available.”

“Meaning,” she added, “that no member of the Order could do it.”

“Meaning that no member of the Order would confess to such an ability, no.”

Her brow arched as she studied his face. “The Shining City—if such it is—has been sealed off beneath us?”

His smile was sympathetic—and false; she knew him well enough to know that the news disturbed him greatly. Or rather, she knew him well enough to know that he had never seemed so ill at ease as he did by her bedside in the healerie. “Yes,” he said, gazing past her to a point beyond the wall's plain surface, “it's like being on a boat with a very thin bottom while the dragons of the deep circle at their leisure.” He shook himself. “The mage—the member of the Order—has been out with the most powerful of his brethren, digging—if you can call such destruction mere digging—through the ground upon which the city stands. They go so far, and no farther—a barrier is there that
cannot
be breached by the full extent of the power they can summon. In combination.” He paused. “The Exalted have been summoned, but they must hoard their power; the questioning of the demon was not lightly undertaken.”

She paled, and then paled further, clutching her side. “It's worse than that, isn't it?”

He nodded gravely; even injured, one did not condescend to Mirialyn ACormaris. “The undercity is protected by the very power of the God himself. Not his followers, not the kin, but the
God.
The Lord of the Hells—whose name we will not speak—has set one foot firmly upon the mortal land—and if we cannot find a way to breach the barrier that divides his Shining City from our own, he
will
walk the world again.”

12th Corvil, 410 A.A.

Council of The Ten

T
HE COUNCIL OF THE
Ten was never peaceful; called once a quarter at most—and often only once a year—it consisted of posturing, politicking, the veiled threats that are often exchanged as pleasantries among people of power. Trade affairs were sometimes ironed out—when a foreign power such as the Dominion of Annagar was involved, The Ten usually underwent the effort necessary to achieve a semblance of unity—but the minutiae of the affairs of the Kings' Councillors were usually conducted in secrecy among the Houses involved.

The Council of The Ten, of course, was called in privacy, but not in secrecy; it gathered in the Halls of The Ten upon the Holy Isle, and anything said in a wing of the royal buildings was said for the royal ears, or worse: the Astari. But it had been privately agreed—among The Ten—that such a gesture, in a state of such emergency, was of the utmost necessity.

The Terafin sat quietly in the chair reserved for her use. It was not at the head of the table, but in the Council it was considered to be the seat of power; it was held, after all, by Terafin. The Morriset, replete in the elegant pomposity of his office—it could be said that Morriset and Terafin were not friendly—stood speaking in a corner with The Berrilya; they were not bantering.

The Korisamis sat in silence, observing her as she observed him, and then moving on to watch the rest of the room.

This was the second meeting of the Council of The Ten. The first meeting had had a most unsatisfactory conclusion for The Terafin—for the Council—and in the end, a recess had been called. Now, nine of The Ten stood or sat, waiting upon the final member: The Darias.

He had much to answer to Terafin for; the graves of the dead were still fresh, and the scent of broken earth reminded her, as she kept the Three Day vigil, of all that Darias had cost her House.

He claimed his innocence; she was not, in the end, a poor enough judge of character to fully disbelieve him. But if innocent, he was ignorant, and in his ignorance, he had failed in his responsibility both to his House and to the Crowns.
To fail either duty in a minor way was the privilege of the powerful—but to fail either in a noticeable way was almost always the end of that power.

The Terafin had had only an enemy's respect for Darias; he was clever, if deadly, and had always played his game well, even if, in living memory, he had played it against Terafin. The rules that governed The Ten, unwritten and unspoken, had been the razor's edge over which he had balanced with such precise care. Until now.

What she wanted—if it could be gained without cost to the kingdom in such a perilous time—was blood for blood spilled.

Time passed; The Darias had still not arrived. The nine sat. It pleased The Terafin little to wait upon her enemy, but pleased her greatly that the other eight were subject to this insult as well; any leverage at all that she could gain in her case against Darias—especially when it was an outright gift—she would take.

But when the doors opened and the tenth man entered the room, it was not The Darias she had known for all of her tenure. This man was stooped and fair, and obviously of a more sedentary bent than the tall and dark Darias. He was younger, perhaps by fifteen years, and his face was round and bearded, where The Darias' had been lean and long.

But he wore the family crest, and although the coat fit him poorly, it was obviously his right to bear it; no one, especially not so nervous a man, would dare to enter this hall in that crest otherwise.

He came to the seat of Darias, and stopped behind it, closing his eyes a moment as if to gather himself. And then, shaking his head and squaring his shoulders, he stood to his full height—which was not, after all, so insignificant.

“Forgive me,” he said, speaking out of turn and with a shaking voice. “I am Parsus ADarias.” He bowed.

It was The Morriset, eyes gleaming, who raised his chin and brow at the same time. “ADarias?”

“The Council of Darias has sent me to take the seat of Darias at this time. Were circumstances different, the seat would be left vacant.”

“What game are you playing?”

He turned to face The Terafin, and his cheeks were slightly pinker, although he would not meet her eyes. “Terafin,” he said, bowing very low indeed. “We play no game. The nature of your accusation was made clear to us after the Council of The Ten met yesterday.” He raised a hand, forestalling her speech—which was dangerous in and of itself. “We do not doubt your word. What you state must have happened the way you stated it did; you are The Terafin—you know the cost better than any of The Ten and you would not have brought news of this House altercation into royal play were the threat not so great.

“There is no defense that Archon ADarias can make for his actions.”

There was a shocked hush in the room.

“Yes,” the man said, although he did not look around to see the faces of The Ten. “Archon ADarias resigned in disgrace from the title of Darias, and the seat.” He lifted his face then, and it was clear to all who saw it that the speaker felt the loss keenly. “His wishes for the disposition of his lands and his title have been set aside; there is no longer an heir to the seat, and until such a time as one can be chosen, I will rule as regent.”

“And the—and Archon ADarias?”

“The First Day rites have been observed by the Priests of the House chapel.” Parsus ADarias seemed to curl in on himself, losing the height that he'd momentarily gained. “Terafin, the assessment of your claim against Archon ADarias is under review. The House will reach its decision shortly.”

14th Corvil, 410 A.A.
Cordufar Estates

“ATerafin?”

Devon looked up from his earthen perch, and set his handglass aside. Jewel Markess stood quietly before him, waiting for his attention. How long she'd stood, he didn't know; she was not usually given to being so quiet.

He well understood why, however.

Cordufar was a gutted ruin. What had once been among the finest of the city estates was gone to blackened wood, stone, and ash; twisted strips of lead and shards of crystal from the towering windows of the great hall had been flung as far as the ring of trees that marked the midpoint between the front gates and the manor itself.

Jewel stood outside of that ring, her hands behind her back. Crossing the gated threshold onto Cordufar lands had quieted her in a way that he did not like, but knew better than to ask about.

Still, quiet or no, she was company of a sort that he rarely had; companionship was not a part of the nature of his calling. At the gates, the Kings' Swords were gathered in a thin line; gawking spectators were politely ushered about their daily duties as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, the citizens of Averalaan had much to stop and gawk at; such a ruin, in so short a time, without the fires and their attendant warning plumes of smoke, was a thing of wonder, no matter how ugly.

“What have you found?” he asked calmly, rising from his crouch at the base of an old ash tree.

“You'd better look yourself,” she said, her eyes wide and unblinking. Then, as if to prepare him for what he might find, she added a single word. “Bodies.”

“Show me,” he told her, hastily wrapping the shards of glass that he'd cut free of the bark and sliding them into his shoulder sling. Silent, she nodded and led the way, treading carefully and quietly across the short grass. He watched her
back, as he watched the ground, the walls, and the shadows at play, thinking her too quiet.

I shouldn't have brought you here.
He was surprised at the thought, and then wry: it made him realize the difference between their ages. Jewel had proved herself more than a worthy ally; she was necessary. While he was deliberate, analytical, and deductive, she was more often the successful one when it came to unraveling mystery. She could stumble across things of great import while daydreaming.

No, that was unkind.

She could—

He stopped as she slid into the wreckage of what appeared to be a large closet at the base of the stairs. A servants' supply of some sort, wooden, shattered by the fall of the ceiling above. “What are you doing?”

“There are stairs,” she said softly.

Stairs. He wanted to ask her how she had chosen this, of all the piles of debris to search, but forbore. He knew her well enough to know she had no answer. But if there were stairs here, they were not a part of the plans that the Lord Cordufar had registered with the city officials.

Without another word, he began to lift wooden planks and slats; she was smaller than he and better able to slide into nooks and crannies. At last, the darkness opened up before him, alleviated only by the flicker of a small torch.

“Get a lamp,” he told her as he looked at the steep angle of the very narrow flight of stairs.

“You won't need it,” she replied.

“Jay.”

But she shook her head, and even in the poor light she looked pale. “I'll get the mage to meet you.”

“I don't want the mage yet. Get me a lamp and follow.” She hung back, and after a moment, he realized that she had no intention of obeying his order.

Not even in the subbasement of the market authority had she hesitated, and she had had a clearer idea of what they faced there than he. “All right,” he said quietly. “Get Member APhaniel.” He took the torch and made the descent into darkness, the rough texture of hewn stone against the palm of his left hand. Halfway down that narrow flight, he stopped.

Bodies, she had said, in a peculiar, subdued voice. The stench of the unburied came up from the hidden ground with a force that stopped movement and even breathing for a moment. These were not newly dead, these bodies. He turned to look up the stairs, but she was already gone.

14th Corvil, 410 A.A.

Lady Leof of Faergif was in her element, thanks to the quiet intervention of the Princess Mirialyn ACormaris, and in her heart of hearts, she cursed the younger woman for bringing the duty to her—and for being three full days late in her report.

She knew why, of course; Mirialyn carried word privately and personally, and trusted it with no messenger; she had been abed after the mysterious battle near the Hall of Wise Counsel; she spoke against the wishes of the Astari, which was never wise; and she demanded secrecy and silence until the Crowns themselves agreed that the information—any of it—was safe to convey. But three days were three days. And in that time, no proper respect had been paid, by the Breodani to the Breodani, for the death of Stephen of Elseth.

Stephen of Elseth.

Her hands were clenched and whitened; she opened them slowly and watched as they shook. It was not the first of Veral; the year—and the Hunt—had not been called. But the sketchy report that the Princess had, in her concern, delivered was every mother's nightmare. Every Breodani mother. The Hunter's Death had been in the Terafin manse.

Finding a dress of the appropriate color had been very, very difficult—for the Essalieyanese did not wear mourning in the fashion of the Breodanir, and black was considered too dour for anything but the most sophisticated of events. And today, although it was after the fact, she was Breodani; nothing—no physical distance, no passage of time with its gentling of memory—separated her from the home of her youthful dreams. Her broken dreams.

There were some wounds that never healed; they became scabrous, but they bled. How, she thought, as she girded her shoulders with the black, plain wrap that she had ordered made—and quickly—had it come to this, here?

There was a knock at her doors. She looked up, and then rose; she had sent her servants away for the day because she could not bear to have them at her side, with their stiffness and their perfect manners and their complete lack of understanding, no matter how well-intentioned they were.

Lady Helene of Morganson stood in the open door. She, too, wore black, but her eyes were red in the pale stillness of a slightly puffy face, where Leof's eyes were dry.

You've had enough of my tears
, she thought, the anger waking slowly.

“Here,” Helene said softly, holding out a long length of black lace. A veil.

Leof shook her head.

Helene smiled for the first time that day; it was a joyless expression of strength. She herself had chosen to openly give God her tears as the accusation that they were.

“How could this happen?” Helene said softly, in the quiet of a room they hallowed with their grief.

But Leof shook her head. “The carriage is waiting,” she told her compatriot. “Or it had better be.”

• • •

They were expected, of course; Lady Faergif understood the social necessity of appointment. She also understood that, as a foreign dignitary, she was granted leeway in her demands, be they reasonable or no. The right-kin of Terafin had been reluctant to have visitors so soon; the Lady Leof of Faergif had been most insistent.

In the end, The Terafin herself had intervened—although why, and why in favor of the Breodani over her right-kin, Leof did not know.

But she understood why Gabriel ATerafin had been, in his quiet and determined way, so complete in his desire to avoid the company of diplomats. The front gates were in disarray, and although there were men and women who toiled upon the grounds removing timber and stone and glass, one wing of the manse looked as if it had been crushed by a God's mace.

And the God, their God, did not wield a mace.

She frowned. “Helene?”

“I don't know what damage He might do to such a place,” Lady Morganson replied softly. “When has the Hunter ever left his forest?” But she stared at the gates and the broken walls a long moment before shaking her head. “Fire,” she said, pointing.

“I saw it,” Leof replied. “I think it unlikely that it is His work.” In spite of herself, she felt curiosity come, keen and unlooked for. The rumors at court were fierce.