The Sacred Hunt Duology (131 page)

Corwinna did not touch her; instead, she stepped back so that Elsabet might see the path to the altar that rested upon the Hunter's Green, before the Queen's Dais. The Hunter's Priests, robed in green-edged grays and browns, began to line that path like a wall. The oldest of the Priests carried the banner of the King: the stag on green field over the crossed spear and sword, the crown above it. It was heavy; the breeze did not move it as it hung like a sentence above the forming procession. The younger men carried the tautly pulled skin of the drums. They were here to honor their dead. Here to give thanks for the sacrifice of the Breodani noble who, by his life's blood, ushered in the spring.

Iverssen stood at the altar, waiting quietly by the King's side. His face was lined with care and sorrow, like unto a Hunter's Lady, and not a Hunter Lord. So, too, was the King's. The King's title was the one title in the land that Elsa had never envied. For he was expected to be the strongest and the swiftest of the Hunter Lords, the most canny of their number—yet he was also expected to hold court with the Ladies as if he were the Queen's equal; to dispense wisdom in the
making of those laws that affected the Breodani; to lead, always, the Hunt in which some of his closest friends were taken, year by year.

She bowed her head in genuine respect, pity pushing fear aside for a welcome moment. And then, raising her chin, she met the King's eyes and flinched. They were dark, those eyes, and she thought them reddened, although it was hard to tell at this distance, with his face so composed.

“Lady Elseth,” he said gravely, his gentle voice carrying across the open clearing as if it were the wind. “Lady Maribelle. Come.”

She knew, then.

She knew before the procession of Hunter Lords—five—came down the human aisle, bearing their precious burden. Knew before she saw the body clearly enough to recognize whose it was, who it had once been. Knew before she heard Maribelle's little scream, choked at once into silence but uttered nonetheless for all of the nobility—the silent, somber nobility—of Breodanir to hear.

She raised her head, lifted her chin, let the water film her eyes without letting it fall. The men might weep—were weeping—but the mothers, with the witness of servants and commoners and strangers and rivals, should not. For this sacrifice, this loss—this was what the Breodani
were.
Yet when they came, bearing Stephen's body, when they placed it down, as gently as she had ever seen Hunter Lords do anything, the tears fell.

This was her shame: not to know whether they fell from the sorrow of his loss or the relief of it, for Stephen's presence—and his absence—were clear proof that Elseth had not failed in its duties.

“Gilliam?” she said, her voice quiet because she had not the strength to speak loudly. She could not tear her eyes away from the face of her son; the Hunter had left her that.

“Lord Elseth,” Iverssen replied, “is not in Breodanir.”

“But that's not—”

“Here, Lady.” He touched her shoulder, where no one else would have dared, and pulled her firmly around. “This is yours; it was found with Stephen of Elseth.” Into her hands he placed a soft, supple piece of hide—deer, or rabbit, she thought—before he edged her away from the altar. The body had yet to be tended; to be wrapped and cleaned as it could be before the last of the ceremony was performed. It was not often done in the presence of kin.

Elsa let him push her away, fighting the desire to cling, to stay and bear witness.

In shaking hands, she unfurled the soft hide. It was long, and across its length, in large, perfectly formed letters, there was a message:

Lord Elseth has fulfilled his duties to the Hunter Lord. He has called the Hunt, and joined it, upon soil that the Hunter deemed Sacred.

The price has been paid; the promise has been fulfilled. Honor his name.

At the bottom of the message was a complicated insignia that Elsa recognized at once: the seal of the Hunter's Priests. But there were differences in it, subtle and odd, that she thought no less than a month of study would reveal. She would not give it a month, or even another minute, for it was clear enough that to Iverssen this was the will of the Hunter made manifest.

And perhaps, she thought bitterly, as she gently rolled it up, it was; for there was no mention of Stephen of Elseth, and he, her son, was the one who had paid the Hunter's Price.

Word rippled around her as if she were a stone; she heard Stephen's name in hushed and fading whispers as it carried beyond her reach. And then she heard a single cry, wordless as if words alone were poor containers for the depth of loss. And that cry went on and on in memory, speaking for Elsa, for Maribelle, for Gilliam, where these three could not.

Cynthia of Maubreche crossed the green, shaking herself free of her mother's hand to do so.

Cynthia
, Elsa thought,
you injure your future.
But she said nothing; it was not her place to say it; Cynthia, at eighteen, almost nineteen, was woman enough to decide her own fate and abide by it. Instead, Elsa moved to one side, and when Cynthia approached the bier, let her pass as if she were Stephen's kin.

Cynthia pushed Iverssen to one side; the older Priest stumbled and took three steps back before righting himself. But he had seen grief of all nature at this altar, on this day; he was prepared for it, and did not judge it as harshly as Lord and Lady Maubreche would later in the privacy of their manor. Instead, in silence, he allowed the young Lady to reach out to the slack, still face; to touch dead cheeks with living palms, to stroke eyes closed that would never again be opened.

She cried, the cry was an open one, and in her tears, Maribelle found the company that she sought, and began to cry as well although she would not touch the body. The drums began their roll; the fires were lit.

Oh, Stephen, Stephen
, Elsa thought, as she clenched her hands into fists in the folds of her skirt, that no one might see them.
Did we save you from starvation in the streets of the King
's
City to feed you to the hunger of the Hunter?

Yes. And that was the worst of it. Knowing his end, she would never, given the choice, change his life. Only his death, and his death had never been in her hands. But was any death, really?

Gilliam
, she thought,
where are you?
For she knew, of a sudden, that her living son needed the strength of the Breodani; he was without his huntbrother, and quite alone. She thought of William of Valentin, of Lorras of the Vale, of Lord Browin, of Hunters without number who had lost their huntbrothers to this Hunt, in this fashion.

Would he live? Would he want to?

Maribelle came to stand at her side. She said nothing, but Elsa saw, in the
redness of her daughter's eyes, the wakening of knowledge and the beginning of wisdom; for in just such a way, upon the death of her brother so many years ago, had Elsa begun to understand the price that the Breodani women paid for their choice—for their lack of choices—in the men they raised.

Corwinna came also; they stood, these three, as the Priests tended to Stephen, until the shadow of a fourth woman joined them: the Queen. And then, quietly, they allowed themselves to be led away to the dais upon which the thrones were.

But Lady Cynthia of Maubreche would not leave.

4th of Veral, 411 A.A.
Averalaan

Her hair was dark and sleek, bound back by comb and pin in such a complicated way it might just as well have been magic for all she understood. Gone were tangles, brambles, and the odd bit of food—and they would likely never return. The Hunter had ascended, and with him, much of the wildness. What remained was a young woman named Espere who had no family, no home, and no Lord.

No Lord.

A loose-fitting robe, one warm and soft as the fur closest to a rabbit's skin, had been gifted to her by Mirialyn ACormaris. She wore it now, pausing a moment to stare at the light reflecting off a sheen of dark, dark blue. Gold edged the hem of the skirt and the sleeves; she disliked the feel of the embroidery against her skin.

At her back, a fountain trickled a steady stream of water into a smooth, wide basin; she knelt a moment to drink, forgetting once again the pitcher and goblets set out in the cool air.

Men and women had come—and gone—for the last few days. Three? She thought the word, lifting her fingers to count it. One. Two. Three. The rest, she did not know, or did not remember. There was very little that she did remember.

Ashfel's scent drifted downwind; she straightened and turned to see him gambol across the open courtyard with a very superior, but very friendly air. Galling quietly, she waited for him to come, wondering if his master would stop him. But no; Ashfel wet her cheek with his nose and then laid his jaw across her shoulder, wuffling into her tightly bound hair.

Ashfel whined softly, prodding her grave face.

“He won't speak to me,” she told him, catching the underside of his great jaw in her hands and scratching it. “Why?”

“He won't speak to anyone, Espere.”

Looking up, she saw Mirialyn, her bronze hair caught neatly in a long, braided tail that draped over her right shoulder. “I know.” She paused, and her voice grew softer; she could not explain to Mirialyn—to anyone—how she felt about his distance. His absence. Since the end of the Hunt he had been so distant; he had given
her freedom to fight, but not freedom to return. She had tried and tried and tried, but it hurt, and so she stopped. “It's Stephen.”

“If I understand the Breodani.”

“Does he blame me?” She did not keep the fear out of her voice; she was not in the presence of an enemy—why was there need?

“I don't know.” Mirialyn did not lie. She had no scent of fear about her, nor did she have the nervous, quick movements, the sudden jabbing of finger or raising of voice, that seemed so common; it was why, of all the people gathered in these crowded, busy buildings, Mirialyn was the one she most trusted. “Lady Faergif and Lady Morganson have been with him for the last three days. He eats little, and he does not speak, but both Lady Faergif and Lady Morganson seem satisfied with his progress.” She looked down into Ashfel's brown eyes. “Hello,” she said gravely. “And you, Lord Elseth, if you're watching.”

“He's not,” Espere told her.

“Not?”

“Not watching.”

Ashfel whined softly as Mirialyn shifted her gaze. “What will you do, wild one?”

“I don't know.”

“There is a home for you here, should you desire it; there will always be a home for you while the Twin Kings reign.” She watched Espere's face; watched the trembling lines of her lips, the turning of her newly intelligent eyes. Gently, for she found she could speak to this woman-child in no other way, she said, “What do you want to do?”

“I want to go home.” Espere paused a moment, lifting her head as if testing the wind.

“Home?”

“With him. Where he goes.” She looked up at Mirialyn, at the glimmer of sun that peered over the courtyard walls, at that shadows of her face. Then she shook her head. “He won't speak. He won't speak to me.” Drawing her arms across her chest she stared at the flat stones across which Mirialyn's shadow fell.

• • •

It was hard to wake up in the morning. Hard to eat, get dressed, make plans. Ashfel, Connel, and Salas whined and whimpered at him like hens worrying the corpses of their chicks no matter how strict his orders were. He hated it. And he hated these halls, this overly warm weather, the prying eyes of the foreigners and the visits of the Ladies Faergif and Morganson.

Clenching his teeth on a growl, he twisted in a sudden spasm.

Stephen was gone.

There was no body, no ceremony, no farewell; there was no honoring of the dead, as if that could make a difference. Stephen was gone, and he knew now that not even the death of the Hunter could assuage that pain.

The gong clanged in the outer hall; he rose swiftly, casting off thin sleeping silks.

• • •

A slender, dark-haired man stood in the entry hall, waiting quietly. When he saw Gilliam, he bowed quite low. “It has been a long time since we walked the Winter road,” he said gravely. “Although it was my desire, I was not chosen to join you in your battle.” His expression darkened as he spoke, a momentary ripple of muscles across an otherwise calm face.

Gilliam said nothing although he recognized Zareth Kahn quite well; the Winter road had been part of a different world, a different life. The mage did not seem surprised by this. “I will not offer you condolences, Hunter Lord,” he said gravely, as he pulled a rolled and sealed scroll from out of thin air. “But where I can, I will make it known that without the intervention of Stephen of Elseth, there would be
no
Empire.” He bowed again, and handed Gilliam the scroll he carried. “It arrived,” he said quietly, “an hour ago. From Breodanir's Order.”

Gilliam took it without any display of curiosity, but his glance strayed to the seal and stayed there. It was the seal of Elseth. “This—when did you get it?”

“An hour ago,” Zareth Kahn said again, his voice calm and quiet. “A message of this nature can be sent magically, but it is not usually done except in case of grave emergency; the cost to the sender is quite high because it—” He lapsed into silence as he realized that Gilliam of Elseth was not, probably could not, listen. “Lord Elseth,” he said, and then, after a few minutes had passed in silence, “Lord Elseth?”

Gilliam's gaze rose from the seal reluctantly. “What?”

No huntbrother, this Lord, but Zareth Kahn had lived in Breodanir for many a year; the lack of finesse, of manners, of civility's little guises did not bother him. “Should you require it of us, we will return a message in the fashion in which this was received.”

“I—I don't know.”

“Send a runner to the Order of Knowledge if you have need of my service. Ask for me personally, and I will come for your letter.” Gilliam of Elseth could not know that this message was the first such one carried for an outsider—including the Crowns themselves—in the last decade.