The Sacred Hunt Duology (20 page)

“I'm glad to see,” Lord Elseth said, looking anything but, “that you've both decided to make yourselves at home here. But in case you weren't aware, this is the
King's
castle, and you are expected to behave like polite, happy young men while you're in it. I don't care if you want to squabble outside of his gates; it's expected from huntbrothers. But do not do it here. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir.”

They cast very dark looks at each other, and Stephen, barefoot, stomped back to his room. Why, indeed, did anyone choose to take the Hunter's Oath?

• • •

“That was careless.”

The woman knelt in the center of the golden mandala that had been worked into the large, dark carpet. Her hair, brown and straight, cascaded down her back and cheeks, obscuring her pale face. Her hands, palms out, lay before her; her knees were shaking slightly. The King's colors, caught in the common dress of a chambermaid, looked drab and unseemly in the room's light. She had removed the cap, but had not had time for any other changes.

“Yes, Lord.”

The man so addressed nodded quietly. His eyes were hooded by frosted brows; his face lined by the long thin winter of a beard. His nose was his most pronounced feature, and he made the most of his height by looking down it. Silently, he let her fear take root before deigning to speak.

“Still,” his fingers curled around a platinum medallion. Four symbols stood in shining relief along quartered lines beneath his hand; one each for earth, air, fire, and water. “The circumstances could have been worse. Are you certain it was only one of the children?”

She nodded without looking up. He had not given her leave to rise. “T-two.”

“Two children? Ah, yes. I suppose one was the huntbrother.” He let the medallion drop, and it nestled quietly against a black field with a white fur border; the robes of moneyed nobility. “Rise, then.”

She lifted her head. Her pretty face, her widened eyes, met his.

“Did you find anything?”

“No, Lord.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes.” She swallowed. “You said that I was to look for a very simple horn, with odd markings along the mouthpiece.”

“Well, then. I think we can rest in peace for the moment.” He smiled. “Our duty to God is done, and we may now consider our duty to less lofty principles.”

She froze; her outstretched hands grew pale. Licking her lips, she turned only her eyes away. “I must—must return to my duties, Lord.”

“Duties?” His voice deepened. “Ah, yes. But little Linden, that
is
what I spoke of.”

“W-what do you mean?”

“Don't you know?” He gestured suddenly, and her whole body stiffened as the air crackled. The door that led to his sleeping chambers flew open and rocked on its hinges. “Your duty to the King of Breodanir means nothing. But your duty to Krysanthos, Priest of Allasakar, may well save your life in the end. Or do you recant?” Even the mention of the Dark God's name was enough to ensure her loyalty. Still, it was a risk to speak it aloud.

Silence again, heavy on her tongue, and the ashen gray of her face. This was always the moment he loved best in these little charades: the sinking anchor of realization, the loss of hope.

He gestured again, with the slightest twist of his fingers, the merest syllable. Her hair fell away from her face, and the golden strings that kept tight the forestgreen bodice were suddenly undone.

With magic he held her still, although he knew she would not be foolish enough to run. Her breath, short and sharp, was nearly silent in its panic.

“Come, Linden. Surely others Priests have called upon your services before me.”

He did not allow her to answer, but instead raised her to her feet. She walked past him stiffly and almost blankly into the waiting room, to the bed with sheets already turned back.

He would have to kill her sometime, but that was weeks away. Now, he indulged in the luxury of the moment. He would have to finish in hours and send her back to the castle. The Hunter Lords would be arriving within the week, and he still had need of her special access to their rooms.

But he was certain that he would not find the thing that the Dark God feared. After all, his coven had been watchful, and they had seen no reappearance of the cursed Horn that had somehow been stolen from their keeping. Neither had they seen the Spear, although it was less of a concern. It was harder—much—to hide, and had little use without the sounding of that Horn.

Anger lined his face and he turned away from it to view instead the ivory lines of a young maid's body. Soon, very soon now, the wait would be over—and the Hunter's Kingdom would be just another vassal for the Dark Lord's coming empire.

Allasakar would walk, whole, upon the face of the world, as no God had truly done in all of mortal memory. And Krysanthos, the mage-born Priest, would be there at His side, to reap the benefits of years of service.

G
ILLIAM AND STEPHEN WAITED
nervously at the side entrance to the King's Hall. Although they were impeccable in their dark-brown velvet jackets, shadow-black pants, and gold-trimmed sashes, they were not nearly so ornate, so full of history, as even the door that lay closed before them. At a distance, that door seemed plain compared with the inlaid and wreathed great hall entrance that the nobles were using now to crowd the halls. But this close, one could see the fine quality of the darkwood beneath the cast-iron band; one could touch the cold stone frame, with its plain, gray surface free of any detailing or sculptor's fancy. This door stood as it had always done since the first day of its making—the passageway for those who would step between youth and adulthood.

“Stop it.” Stephen's whisper came from the depths of a carefully placed smile which faltered only as he watched Gilliam fidget.

“When are we going in?”

“When they call us.” Sighing, Stephen caught Gilliam's collars and straightened them, as much to soothe his own nerves as to clear away any wrinkles. “Do you know what we've got to do?”

“Walk down the side path to the—”

The door swung open, and a green-robed Priest of the Hunter nodded to them both. Like the door itself, there was a deceptive elegance and age to the man. His robes, although simple, were the purest green of the Hunter; they needed no ornamentation. “Who are you who seek to enter?”

“Gilliam of Elseth and his huntbrother Stephen.” Gilliam bowed low, and remembered to keep his arms stiffly at his side.

“And what is your business?”

“We have come to offer our service to the Master of the Game.” It was the King's Hunter title, and as such, the only one of many titles that Gilliam found easy to remember. “We have hunted together and we've completed the Triple Hunt.”

“And your proof?”

“Here.” Stephen stepped forward and held out a small, plain chest. He flipped
it open; the rounded and well-oiled lid rested briefly and coolly against his chest as the Priest examined the stag hoof, bear claw, and boar horn carefully displayed therein.

The Priest passed his steady, large hand over the open box. The air tingled around the three for a moment before the Priest nodded to Gilliam. Gilliam left the rigid stance of his bow behind.

“You have done as you have claimed. Come, then. You are judged worthy to seek His audience.” The door swung fully open, and the dais which led to the King's throne, and to the Master of the Game, came into full view. The throne itself was inset too far back to be seen without actually entering the room. It bothered neither Stephen nor Gilliam, for they had no intention of turning away.

Gilliam went first, as was his right and duty. He walked calmly, if a little quickly, and he looked neither to the left, with its long, floor-to-ceiling tapestry depicting all of the greatness and glory of the Hunt, nor to the right, at the row of men clad in greens and browns, with their horns at their belts, and their weapons at their sides. They were not young men, not any of them—and they wore the scars caused by both prey and the passing years across their silent features. Stephen could not resist glancing at both the wall and the men, and it was Stephen who would remember it in detail. Quieted by the sight of so much finery and so much experience, he followed in Gilliam's wake, his hands still clutching the box that the Priest had viewed. The effort kept him steady.

He had thought that Gilliam would be the nervous one, because Gilliam hated both public occasions and the crowds that came with them. But Gilliam, in bearing and stride, was already one with the Hunters that he had come this far to join; he didn't falter or misstep.

Stephen did, but only once, when the dais opened up and the throne came into view, and he saw the King upon it. He had never seen the King before, although he had seen his likeness several times on most of the coinage of the realm, both in the lower city as a child and in Elseth as a youth. What he had expected, he did not know, or perhaps it just fled his mind, leaving only the reality behind.

The King was not a young man, but not as old as Soredon either. His hair was black shot through with a glimmering of gray that would one day overtake it all. His eyes, even from this distance, were a deep brown and seemed preternaturally large. He was not overly tall, but even seated he gave the impression of height, although the back of the throne dwarfed him, its simple wood edge bearing the horns of the very Stag itself above him. He wore a circlet of plain gold, yet without it he would still have been known as Master of the Game.

“Not yet,” someone whispered with amusement, and Stephen spun around to meet the crinkled corners of gray Hunter's eyes. “You'll be kneeling soon enough—make sure that you do it at your brother's side.”

Embarrassment drove awe back to its proper place. Stephen walked briskly up
the aisle, closing the distance between Gilliam and himself. His hands stopped their shaking; his pace grew measured and seemingly more confident. But he did not look at the King again. Instead he fastened his gaze neatly at the point on Gilliam's back where shoulder blades bracketed spine.

He's only a man
, he thought, but the words were a tickle at his ear. He could not believe them, not when the very air seemed to glow in the perfect, silent hush. During the long trip to the King's City, Stephen had been filled with many fears, most nameless—but among those had not been the fear of failure. He felt it keenly now. Although he knew his hunting craft as well as any huntbrother of his age, he felt raw and inexperienced. His hands began to tremble as doubt dwarfed the significance of the contents of the small Elseth chest.

Gilliam stopped walking and knelt three feet away from the King's throne. Stephen made haste to join him, dropping to one knee as he opened the box and placed it before them both in supplication. He bowed his head.

“Who are you and why have you come?” The Master of the Game spoke at last, his voice as deep and purposeful as any fancy could have made it.

“I am Gilliam of Elseth. In my father's name, I have hunted the Elseth preserves to feed her people and prove my worth.” Gilliam's head, bowed, shadowed his legs in the flicker of torchlight and the sky seen through stained glass.

“And what have you hunted there?”

“The three.”

“When have you hunted them?”

“In their proper time.”

“And who will speak for you?”

“I will.” Stephen started slightly at the words; they were distant enough that they offered scant comfort, although he recognized Lord Elseth's booming voice. “While Gilliam of Elseth has hunted in my name, I have hunted in yours.”

“So be it. Look at me now, Gilliam of Elseth.” The tone of the King's voice changed slightly, a hint of amusement warming its depth. “You have the look of your father about you—and his father before him, if the portrait gallery indeed holds truth.” The voice cooled again. “But it is not in seeming that the Hunter judges. Who stands beside you?”

There was an eerie moment of silence before Stephen realized that his voice was meant to fill it. He remembered to keep his head bowed, and found fascinating creases in the dark folds of his tunic to hold his eyes. “Stephen,” he said, and his voice grew steady. “Stephen of Elseth.”

“And have you hunted at Lord Gilliam's side?”

“I have.”

“What have you hunted?”

“The three.”

“And when have you hunted them?”

“In their proper time and at the need of the people of Elseth.” He almost looked up then, but he stopped himself; no permission and no order had been given. Still, the speaking of the words brought the comfort of an old truth, well understood by both speaker and listener.

“Who speaks for you, Stephen?”

Norn answered from a distance exactly as far as Lord Elseth's. “I do. Stephen of Elseth has hunted at his brother's side at the call of Elseth and her people.”

“So be it. Rise, Stephen of Elseth. Rise, Gilliam of Elseth. Come stand before me.”

Gilliam stood without effort and paused to offer Stephen a hand up. Stephen took it, leaving the chest behind. It had served its purpose and he did not think he could carry it.

“You have come to offer me your services, and I have seen that you are worthy to hunt with the Master of the Game. But I am also a worthy master. I will tell you of the risk and the Death that you face if you choose this path. There will be no other choice, and you cannot turn from it once you have begun—for all of Breodanir rests upon the choice once made.” The King rose then, discarding the finery of his throne. Behind his head, the antlers drew level with the circlet of gold, and he looked like the heart of the living forest.

“You will hunt in my name from this day forward, and I—I hunt in the name of the Hunter. This is my pledge to Him: that once a year I will call the Sacred Hunt, that
he
might Hunt, in return, those who serve him. You will hunt in my name, and perhaps in that Hunt you will earn Breodanir's life by giving your own. But you might choose, in the King's Forest, your own prey, your own hunt; you might bring, on that one day, your own dogs into domains that are otherwise solely mine.

“I accept your service, Gilliam and Stephen of Elseth. Do you choose now to honor your offer?”

Stephen thought that Gilliam would answer immediately and be done with it. Instead, Gilliam turned to him, one eyebrow lifted in question. There was no doubt at all in Gilliam's mind, and no fear; this was the pinnacle of his years of training and hunting. He waited nonetheless on Stephen's word and Stephen's gesture—for no hunter came to the King without a huntbrother, and none left in his service without one by his side.

“We will serve the Master of the Game,” Stephen said, his voice very small.

The King raised his hands, and from the recess behind his throne two Priests emerged, each carrying a heavy green cloak. In silence they came to stand, one in front of Gilliam, the other in front of Stephen.

“This is the color of your office. Wear it proudly, Lord Gilliam of Elseth, in my name.”

Gilliam smiled and nodded as the gold leaf was fastened across his shoulders; the folds of deep, heavy green fell about his back like a perfect wave.

“And you, Stephen of Elseth, you share in your brother's office. Wear these colors, as befits your station, in the name of the people of Breodanir.”

“And in your name, son of the Hunter.”

Pleased, the King smiled, and his smile deepened his face, revealing the warmth that lay beneath severity. He nodded again to the attending Priests. Simple horns, with mouths of silver, appeared in their hands. These were offered in turn to Gilliam and Stephen.

Stephen's hands shook as he placed the horn in his sash. He could feel Gilliam's pride and excitement, but when he snuck a glance, no sign of it showed. Gilliam stood a little taller, and perhaps his chest was farther forward than normal posture allowed, but that was all.

“Turn,” the King said quietly. “You wear the green of the Hunter now, and you have the blessing and approval of the Master of the Game. From this day forth, at this time, you will journey to the King's City at my behest, and you will hunt in my forest. If you fail to do so, you will be stripped of your title and the honors that you have accepted this day; you will be shunned by the Hunter Lords and cast out by the Priests. No Hunter will speak your name, and your deeds will be forgotten. Your children, should you have issue at that time, will inherit in your stead if you hold the preserves of your family. If you do not, your lands will return to the crown, to be given to others who have proved themselves worthy.” The words were harsh, but the King's tone made it clear that they were strictly a formality; he did not doubt those who had become Hunters in his name. “You are among equals now. Go into Breodanir in pride and with determination.”

Stephen did not gasp as he turned, but only because he lost his breath for a moment. The ranks of the Hunters that had formed a human wall from the side entrance of this chamber to the foot of the King's dais had somehow changed shape and form. Leading directly to the double doors the Hunter Lords had entered by was a dark, green carpet with a border of gold filigree nestled around brown. On either side of it stood Hunter Lords and their huntbrothers in three evenly spaced ranks. They carried spears by their sides, and they were now unhooded as they all looked, as one man, to the two who had passed the final test.

“Go now. I will call you again within the ten-day for the Sacred Hunt.”

Neither looked back; they had no choice, and no inclination, to do other than obey. Slowly, they began their silent procession, and as they did, banners unfurled above their heads. The first, a leaping stag on a white field, held by Hunter Lords, and older ones at that, on either side of the carpet. The second was a golden bear on a green field, held likewise. The third was a boar, black as pitch, again on a green field. And beyond it there was darkness; a field of ebony with a single, broken spear, a solitary broken horn.

Stephen paused before it; he had but to pass beneath it and he would gain the door. But he understood well what it was: the Hunter's Death. Gilliam didn't
even seem to notice the way it hung like a pall above the day's ceremony. He walked until its shadow covered his head before he realized that Stephen was no longer in step.

“Yes, Stephen of Elseth,” someone said, but although Stephen strained his eyes searching through the ranks closest to him, he could not see the speaker, “you see truly. But you will have no freedom now. You have accepted the path and must pass beneath this shadow, or it will hold you back forever.”

“Stephen,” Gilliam hissed, before his huntbrother could come up with an answer to that strange voice, “it's just a bloody banner.”

A breeze blew in through the open doors, and the spear and horn disappeared in the sheen of moving black cloth. Stephen shook his head and grimaced in sudden embarrassment. “Sorry,” he whispered, as he walked quickly to join his brother.