The Sacred Hunt Duology (129 page)

“Well met, Lord Elseth,” she said, and her voice was the low music of the horn, deep and earthy.

He wanted to speak, but his lips barely moved; she pressed her slender fingers against them, calling for silence. “You are wounded,” she told him, although that much was obvious to both. “Ashfel,” she added, “you need not clean his wounds; trust me. I will tend him.”

Gilliam wasn't even sure that he wanted to be tended; what reason was there for it? His lands, he tried to tell her. His lands—the life that he had been born and bred to—they were already gone. He had missed the King's call to the Sacred Hunt, only the second of the Breodani Lords to so fail in their pledge. Worse still, he had lost the purpose behind which he had hidden his loss; the God that had killed his huntbrother was dead and gone. But it hadn't brought Stephen back; instead, it had taken the very last of Stephen's voice away. Without it, the Hunt and the huntbrother, he had no life that he wanted.

But meeting her eyes, he knew that it would do no good; he could tell her to let death take him, and she would become stern-lipped, matronly, the voice of the Mother's determination.

“Have you been with a healer before?”

He nodded, remembering Vivienne of the Mother's Order, although it seemed decades, and not months, past.

“Then you understand, Lord Elseth. You are . . . badly injured.” She placed her hands very gently against his chest. “But you have done the Mother a service that you cannot know; live to benefit from it.”

Incense began to burn; he could smell it keenly, although he could not see its source. She began to heal him, and as she did, she came perilously close to touching the open wound of Stephen's loss, for she became a part of him. Had he been stronger—had he been Stephen—he would have warned her; he was not, and he could not.

But she was the Mother's daughter, and the Mother's voice in the Empire, wise beyond her years, and strong in the quiet and enduring way of the women of the Breodani. She felt his loss as personally as he felt it, and more, but she did not pull away from the open pain.

She called him back, and who could ignore her voice in the darkness?

1st Veral, 411 A.A.

Averalaan

D
AY.
Light across the roads and bridges, the waterfront and the thawing grass. What shadows remained were shadows cast by sunrise over the streets of a silent city. Silence, blessed and anointed by the ghost of Veralaan, held; there were no screams, no hint of demonic torture. Henden had passed, and with it, the darkness.

From out of their small homes and large manors, from balconies on the Isle and window casements on the mainlands, the citizens of Averalaan rose to greet the sun. Some slept, and were wakened by the tugging and pulling of young children; others, who understood better what the ride to Moorelas' Sanctum had meant, greeted the New Year with no sleep to break that longest of sleepless nights.

And as the city rose, as the merchants made ready to brave the First Day—and the First Day festival, for which so little preparation, this one year, had been made—they heard the lowing of the horns, loud and clear: victory on the field.

Finch, Jester, and Teller, of no family but Jewel's den, heard the lowing as it carried across the channel. They sat at the foot of the bridge, behind the statue of the founding fathers, part of the shadows that slowly fled the lands. Their hands were locked in fists, clenched to shaking; they waited, and heard again the call of horn in the blessed silence. Finch rose first, uncurling her stiff legs and knees. Then, carefully, she walked to the statue of Cormalyn the First. At his feet, laid out to bear witness to the sacrifice of Veralaan, was a lovely garland of white roses and orchids; it was clearly the gift of a well-moneyed patron, but during the Dark Days, even the rich and lofty nobility worshiped in secret for fear of their lives. She smiled, touching the orchid's fragrant petals; Ellerson had paid for them.

Lifting the wreath carefully, she nodded to Jester; he rose at once, while Teller watched their back. Cupping his hands, he knelt; she placed her foot against his palms, and he lifted her up while she balanced with her other foot against the statue's carved greaves. Then, struggling to balance, she laid the flowers around Cormalyn's neck.

1st Veral, 411 A.A, evening
Averalaan

Jewel Markess sat on the ledge of a window twice her height. Teller sat quietly at her feet although there was space—more than enough—for both of them. He was quiet, which, in Teller's case, meant nothing. If you didn't know him. If you weren't the one who had picked him off the streets because he was too small—and too plain—to be of use to anyone else.

It was over, one way or another; they all knew it. The servants, having heard the blessed—yes,
blessed
—sound of the royal horns, had dropped to their knees to offer thanks, and to begin fully and completely their celebration of the end of the Six Dark Days. There should have been song and ale and noise; there should have been dancing and wild revelry. But there was silence; for if this was the first day of the New Year, it was also the First Day that the dead could be properly mourned. And, Jewel thought, the first day in many, many days that sleep would not be interrupted by the sounds of the dying, except in nightmare.

And who would have thought nightmare a blessing?

Still, when the horns blew on, and became more solid in their presence than the memory of darkness, joy took root and held, and it was the joy of a victory earned in the most just of battles.

The Terafin had dismissed her family with the same certainty and ease with which she'd addressed them, but even in her very proper and confident demeanor relief and joy had shown in equal measure. Carver and Angel were out on the grounds somewhere—she had a sinking feeling it had something to do with the young women who served in the kitchen, so she hadn't asked; Arann was with the guards. Finch and Jester were out by the bridge that led to the Isle, waiting for sight of the Kings. The Return of the Kings. Ellerson was in her wing, cleaning meticulously. Cleaning, in fact, as if he were a welcome guest who wouldn't be returning for a while. She wondered if that had anything to do with the fact that, when this was over, she wasn't going to be needed here anymore.

That left her Teller, and the window, and the sun sinking into the horizon of tall buildings and clear sky.

Word had come, carried by a boy little older than she, and certainly no more finely dressed. He would bear his message to The Terafin, and The Terafin alone, and judging by the set of his face, he meant it. The Chosen let him through when he showed them something that he carried in a clenched fist, but they watched him somberly, as if he were more of a threat than all of her den combined had ever been.

That was an hour ago, and the boy, ushered to The Terafin's personal chambers, had yet to emerge.

“Jay?”

“Hmmm?” She lifted her chin from the knee it was propped against.

“Isn't that Torvan?”

“Where?”

Teller pointed and Jewel cursed the colored pane closest to her face. Getting down, she stuck her chin onto the window seat and squinted, tugging strands of dark, unruly hair out of her eyes. “Yes. And Alayra.” She'd recognize that hawkish woman's face at any distance. Alayra's anger at Torvan had only barely subsided, and it was clear that she did not trust him yet. If she ever would again. But at least Alayra was forthright about it.

“Is that the messenger?”

Jewel snorted. “Sure. But he's aged ten years, grown eight inches, and dyed his hair.” Pressing her face further into the window, she watched them cross the courtyard. “He's going up,” she said at last.

“Yes,” a voice said from behind. “And so, if you've finished, are you.”

Blushing, she turned around to see Arrendas. He stood with three of the Chosen whom she did not immediately recognize, two women and another man. They were clearly on duty, and even Arrendas, who was usually one of the few friendly members of the elite guard, looked unnaturally grave. “You are requested,” he added softly, as Teller made to rise, “to come alone.”

• • •

The domed, stained glass of the library ceiling let in the lengthening shadows, the reddening sky; lamps, oil, and wick, were lit along each of three walls. The Terafin sat behind the austere surface of a large desk, her hair drawn tight, the shadows beneath her eyes deepening and lingering as the day stretched into night. Neither woman, The Terafin or Jewel, had slept the evening, and it showed.

To the right of The Terafin, as dependable as a shadow, was Morretz; if worry had deprived him of sleep, there was no sign of it across his neutral expression. Torvan and Alayra stood a little distance off; Jewel's escort joined them in a silence that made them—almost—invisible. To Morretz' right, seated, was the man Jewel knew as Gabriel ATerafin. Ten years her senior, he was The Terafin's closest counselor, and in House affairs, her staunchest ally. His lined face was a study in concern.

To the left of The Terafin, standing almost insolently, arms folded across his chest, was the stranger. His hair was coal black, and his eyes dark enough that it was hard to tell where he was looking; he wore red and black, and although the lines of his robes were simple, the material was very fine. Bloused sleeves caught his wrists in perfect bands, and beneath the edge of a black hem she could see well-kept leather boots.

She disliked him immediately.

As if aware of her appraisal, he raised a brow.

“Jewel,” The Terafin said. “Please. Be seated.”

While he stood? But The Terafin's words weren't a request, and there was no way to pretend they had been. Swallowing, Jewel chose a chair closest to the shelves of books that formed The Terafin's private collection.

The door opened and, unescorted, Ellerson, domicis of Jewel Markess, walked quietly into the room. He looked at Jewel, and then away, his face very grave.

Her heart sank, if that were possible.

“Ellerson,” The Terafin said. “Please, be seated.”

He nodded his acquiescence and chose a seat a suitable distance from The Terafin—but also from Jewel. She was surprised at how much it hurt, because she knew before he said it that he was going to leave her.

She
knew
.

The Terafin's smile was serene. “Yes,” she said, granting Jewel the foreknowledge.

But Ellerson turned quietly; he looked aged. “Jewel,” he said.

She didn't want to embarrass herself in front of all of these people—the Chosen, The Terafin, the arrogant stranger. But she had to speak, so she kept her voice as quiet as possible. “You told me—only if you died, or if I died—”

“Or if the contract expired. Or,” he added quietly, “if there was a great change in circumstance.”

“But there hasn't—”

He raised a hand with a certain imperiousness; she was used to it and fell silent. “I am not your lord,” he told her. “It is not my place to tell you things that you obviously have not considered carefully enough for yourself.” But he cleared his throat. “Think, Jewel born Markess; think carefully.”

Before he could continue, The Terafin raised an unadorned hand. “Ellerson of the Domici, you have served well; the House of Terafin is pleased with your effort.” She turned to Jewel, and her expression was unreadable. “Understand that it is not at my request that Ellerson has removed himself from your service.”

“But why?”

“Because,” Ellerson said, breaking his own edicts by interrupting The Terafin. “I am not the right domicis for a young woman who will—someday—be a person of great power. Remember what I told you,” he added, softening his voice. “To serve a person of power, one must
be
a person of power. I am not that. I have never been that. And to serve in that capacity would be, ultimately, a failure of service so profound that I could not contemplate it seriously.” He paused. “You are not what I thought you would be, young Jewel, and I have served many in my time. Had circumstances remained what they were, it would have been my honor to serve.”

He rose, then, and Jewel realized that he was just going to leave. And that there wasn't anything she could do to stop him.

Numb, she watched him, wondering exactly when it was that she had decided
not only to trust him, but to rely on him. A mistake that, and as she watched the doors close on his back, she promised herself she wouldn't make the same one again in a hurry.

It was the stranger who broke the silence that was left in Ellerson's wake. He turned his head slightly to The Terafin and said, “This is the one?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Jewel was out of her seat before the light that flared up in the stranger's hand had a chance to leave his fingers; sparks erupted in her wake as the mage-light broke against—and splintered—the chair in which she had been sitting.

Morretz cried out; light again flared in the study as The Terafin's domicis unveiled his power. But The Terafin, seated, did not react at all. Her Chosen, weapons drawn, froze as she raised a hand and waved them back to their posts; Gabriel picked himself up off the soft pile of her carpets. Jewel rose as well, using the weight of the bookshelves as a support.

“That,” The Terafin said coldly, “was unnecessary.”

“For you, yes,” the stranger replied, his voice quite neutral. “But it is not you who will devote your life to the service of this one.” He raised his head and met Jewel's stare. “My apologies,” he said, as if he'd done nothing more than accidentally spilled a cup of water.

Morretz was still bristling. “Avandar,” he said softly, “you go too far.”

“Oh?” Their eyes met, and they stared, grim-faced and angry, more behind their words than just this meeting, this day.

Jewel watched them carefully for a moment, and then she smiled; it was not a pleasant expression. As they stared, as they watched each other, she very carefully pulled a slender tome from the shelf beneath her hand. She moved slowly, so as not to attract unwanted attention. So far so good.

Noiselessly, she pulled her arm back and let the book fly. It struck the mage low—hitting him, corner first, in the shoulder rather than across the side of the face as she'd intended.

The stranger turned, jaw clenching, eyes widening.

Jewel stood forward, arms crossed tightly, lips pressed tighter.

“It seems,” The Terafin said wryly, “that you are not the only one to test, Avandar.”

“No,” Avandar replied, as his face lost anger's edge and became once more quite emotionless. “Just the only one to fail.” And at this, he bowed quite low, sweeping the tips of his fingers across the carpet. “Your pardon, little one.”

She bristled.

“Terafin, I accept your contract. I will serve this one.”

Serve? Jewel looked blankly at her Lord. The Terafin's smile was slightly pained. “This,” she said to the young den leader, “is Avandar Gallais. He is of the Domici, and he has come to fulfill the obligation that Ellerson felt he could not.”

“W–what?” Jewel's arms fell to her sides.

“I am,” Avandar said gravely, “your domicis.”

“I won't have him!”

At that, Morretz smiled, and the expression was a shock to Jewel; she realized with a start that she had never seen him smile before. Given the edge to the smile, she wasn't certain she wanted to see him smile often.

But The Terafin rose quietly. “You will,” she said coolly. “This interview is at an end.” Gathering her skirts, she left the long, fine table and made her way to the door. The Chosen, four of them, followed her.

Bitterly, Jewel swallowed. It was clear that she either accept Avandar or leave Terafin—and she balanced on a fine edge for a moment as she considered both options carefully. “
You
serve
me
, is that clear?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Avandar replied, with a trace of sincerity. Just. Then his expression darkened. “And
you
will listen to
me
in emergencies; you will do as I say, and you will allow me to protect you as I see fit.”