The Sacred Hunt Duology (22 page)

“Ah, your pardon, Lady. I was merely looking at the young Hunters. It is, after all, their occasion.” He leaned slightly over the edge of the gallery railings. “Who are those two?”

“Which ones? I'm afraid my sight is not as good as it used to be.”

He knew that her sight was as poor as an eagle's, but smiled and indulged her; it cost him nothing. “The young, fair-haired one; he's smartly attired—or rather, he wears his clothing like a huntbrother. I believe his Hunter is the dark-haired boy with his hands in the canapes, standing beside Astrid of the maker-born guild.”

“Ah, those two.” Her voice took on a lilt of interest. “I don't know, but I believe they're from Elseth. Come, why don't we go down and congratulate them on their passage? It is why we're here, after all.”

“Why not?” Krysanthos replied, offering Lady Alswaine a perfectly accoutered arm. She smiled as she slid her fingers around the black velvet of his sleeve. They took the stairs carefully and crossed the main floor with ease. The Hunter Lords didn't notice their passage, and the other guests usually made way for Krysanthos; he wore the emblem of the Order of Knowledge, after all, and all who saw it, save perhaps untutored children, knew him for one of the mage-born. Vivienne,
Priestess to the Mother, nodded coolly at his passing before turning again to listen to the words of a shy young man.

All of the nobles and all of the noteworthy people of the kingdom came to this feast and this festival of celebration. There—heard more than seen—the bard-born trilled some ageless, deathless melody of a Hunter's bitter rite of passage. At the doors, priests of other orders could be seen making their entrance, chief among them Vardos, justice-born, with his gold-irised eyes, and his grim, severe face.

Lady Alswaine and her escort did not appear to notice their arrival; they were seeking other prey. “Hello,” Lady Alswaine said, as she released Krysanthos' arm and walked up to one of the two young men.

Stephen looked up at her and smiled brightly. The hand that she offered, he took, holding it for exactly the right length of time. His hands were dry, and certainly not food encrusted. She would not have offered her hand to Gilliam.

“I'm Lady Alswaine. My husband is a Huntsman of the Chamber.”

“I met him earlier. I've heard that he's a Hunter without match, except perhaps for the King himself.”

Clearly pleased, Lady Alswaine bowed her head, tipping her fan in Stephen's direction. “You've been listening to him speak, then?”

A little “o” of shock came out before Stephen recovered himself. “He would never admit the truth of any of the tales, Lady.” Especially not while she was present.

Lady Alswaine was a tall woman. This was made clear to Stephen when she bent down to whisper in his ear. “Gilliam of Elseth has found himself a fine huntbrother. You will do Lady Elseth proud—you already have tonight.”

“Don't monopolize the young man, Lady.”

Stephen turned at the words and stiffened. Years of etiquette lessons took over, and he held out his hand with a smooth smile as he performed the half-bow of equals. The bow was awkward. Stephen's gaze was drawn and held by the platinum medallion that clung round the stranger's throat. A slender crescent, a half moon, and the moon in full circle were raised in a triad that spoke of mystery and the light in darkness. Quartered in the moon at zenith were the symbols of the elements.

“Yes,” the man said quietly. “I am of the Order of Knowledge. Let me welcome you to our city.”

“Thank you, sir.” The words were formal, as stiff as Stephen himself. His fingers and legs tingled with the urge to be gone. The matters of the mage-born were not the concern of common men, and Stephen knew well the folly of trying to bridge the gap. All children, no matter whether they lived as unparented thieves in the lower city streets, or as wealthy scions of the highest families in the land, had heard many of the tales that surrounded the mage-born.

“Let me introduce myself. I am Krysanthos of the second circle. You are?”

“Stephen of Elseth.” He looked up and met the mage's eyes. They were brown, palely tinted with flecks of gold and green, and they were clear and unblinking. In stories he had often read about how hair stood on end at the nape of one's neck—and now he was certain it was no fanciful bardic wording.

“You've heard of Elseth, surely?” Lady Alswaine said, as she once again reached for the mage's arm.

“Lord Elseth is a Master Hunter, I believe—and Elseth is a well governed preserve.” He did not raise his arm, or otherwise acknowledge Lady Alswaine's unspoken request. Instead he stared at Stephen.

Stephen couldn't look away. He froze as the eyes of the mage-born man came to life with a luminescent flare of blue. He could not even gasp as that light flashed forward toward his defenseless face.

“Stephen?”

Gilliam was there; suddenly Gilliam was at his side, instead of at the tables. His voice was quiet, concerned. He reached out quickly to place a hand on Stephen's paralyzed shoulder.

The white mage-light sprang forward and fell short, dripping into nothing like an awkward spray of shining water. Stephen felt warmth for a moment, a familiar heat that radiated outward from a center no mage-light could reach. He caught Gilliam's hand in his own and met the mage's gaze squarely.

The mage shrugged; there was no hostility at all in his expression. “It's been a pleasure to meet you, young man. May you fare well in the Sacred Hunt.” He turned, moving neither too quickly nor too slowly, and left Stephen to wonder if his fear had grown fangs from his imagination.

“Who was he?” Gilliam asked, as he watched the velvet robes retreat.

“Krysanthos. Of the Order of Knowledge.”

“Mage-born.” Gilliam sounded as if he'd just swallowed something bitter. “I don't like him.”

“Neither do I.” Stephen shivered. “I—I don't know why.”

“He's a mage.”

Which was as good an answer as any. Stephen shook off the shadows, but he stayed as close to Gilliam as possible for the rest of the evening. Which meant, of course, that Gilliam was remarkably well behaved for a young Hunter Lord.

• • •

Krysanthos was concerned. Although he had tried several times throughout the course of the evening, he had not been able to come close to the young Elseth huntbrother. He had made a cursory scan of all the rest and found them to be common, uninteresting young men; certainly not eager to go to the Hunter's Death, but also caught up in their Lords' pride.

But this Stephen worried him slightly. No other boy had reacted so strongly to
what was a completely invisible use of magic—it was almost as if the youth had seen the flare of power, which was impossible.

The mage-born recognized the mage-born; it had always been so. And Krysanthos had seen no kinship, no like spark, in Stephen of Elseth. But he was certain the boy knew that a spell had been cast on him.

Angry, he paced the length of his chambers, pausing when he reached the carpet's edge and turning on the ball of his heel. He hated Breodanir and longed to be quit of the place. Give him Essalieyan, and the most dangerous of missions there, and he would be content.

But no. He was here, with a mission that bordered on ludicrous for all its import, and a mystery that was not to his liking. For not only had the boy apparently been aware of his spell, he had also, somehow, negated it.

He pulled a tasseled bell. He would call the maid back and have her search, as thoroughly as she dared, the young man's chambers. Some sort of protection spell, perhaps a maker-born amulet, was obviously behind this.

Yes. Of course. And when he found it, he would conveniently replace it with one less . . . potent. That done, he could catch the boy and mask out the memory of white-light and mage-spell. If that failed, he would have to resort to a common assassination—which might anger the Lord if any grew suspicious.

He walked over to the curtains and drew them aside. He had done it so often the finery of gold, brown, and green was beneath his notice. The sun was gone, the moon a crescent against the sky. Clouds ate away at the stars in blackness. It was time.

He let the curtains fall and left off tracing his impatient path into the carpet. The mirror in his bedchamber, perfectly dusted and gleaming in the light of his lamp, watched him like a sightless eye. That would change. He stood before it, saw the lines of concern around his lips and the corners of his eyes, and forced himself to smooth them into a cold, noncommittal expression. Pride made him pull his medallion from the folds of his shirt so it stood out as a proclamation of what and who he was.

The crackle of white mage-light came readily. It shot out and surrounded the mirror's surface, dancing against it as if the silvered glass were liquid. He felt the pull of power as it left him; the cost of communication from Breodanir to the heart of the city of Averalaan was high. He was glad that he performed this spell so seldom. Unfortunately, recent casting times had come relatively close together and it took him some weeks to recover.

The mirror grew murky as it lost his reflection. The light without dwindled, and the light within grew, taking shape and substance until once again the mirror's surface looked polished and reflective. It did not show his image.

“Sor na Shannen.” His bow was indolent, at best half-respectful—but he bowed.

“Krysanthos.”

He saw her back, and felt a flash of annoyance. She knew the time and the hour, and had had enough warning to comport herself with dignity. But no; the pale luminescence of her skin was completely uncovered. Her perfect shoulders rippled as she turned, slowly, to face him.

“You must be early.” She was seated on a low divan. Her hair was a spill of finespun night that trailed around exposed breasts and perfect torso. Her lips were red and full, her teeth a pale glimmer.

Against his will he felt himself responding. Annoyed, he cast a distancing spell with his personal power; it robbed some of the glamour of its strength—but not all. Sor na Shannen was a powerful demon, and she held her demesne in the Hells with an absolute strength that many of the demon lords admired. No others of her kind had made the climb to such a height.

“You've been long away from the Hells,” he said quietly. “Do you trust your lieutenant?”

Her smile fell away from sharp, white teeth. “I will return in good time.” But she was cold now, and in coldness, quite safe. “You have a report to make; make it. I have waited until now to feed, and I am impatient to be out.”

“It is as it has been for the last four years.”

He knew what she would say, and she did not disappoint him. “Are you certain?”

“I am certain.”

“The last four years and the last three months differ greatly in circumstance.” Her voice grew sharper. “You saw no sign of the Horn?”

“I have seen no sign of it.”

“The Spear?”

“The Spear is useless without the Horn,” he said, through teeth that were already clenching. “But no. I have seen no sign of the Spear either.”

She relaxed, and her eyes once again grew liquid and lazy. “I don't need to remind you of their import.”

“No.” He smiled, as cold as she had been. “Had they been in my keeping, I would not have been required to waste precious energy to speak about them.”

She hissed, and his smile grew warmer. “Enough. The priests that were responsible have perished, and I, too, grow tired of this game.”

“Then let me return.”

“No. We know that the agent who stole the Horn and the Spear came from the King's Forest in Breodanir; Ellekar perished there. We know that the girl was not a Hunter, and we know that the Horn's power resides with the ‘Hunter-born.' It
must
be there. We are less than ten years from the completion of our plans—the gate-spell goes well, and our Lord should soon have free access to the mortal lands. Find the Horn. Do
not
let it be winded.”

Krysanthos cut the connection before his annoyance built beyond tolerable levels. As soon as he knew the succubus' personal name and sigil, he would send her back to the Hells—and into the demesne of her worst enemy. But for now he needed her, as she did him.

Another decade. Of this.

“S
TEPHEN?” THE WORD WAS
muffled by carpets and curtains, but it was still conspicuous in the wide-open spaces and hollows of the King's library. The King's colors—the colors of Breodanir itself—had been deemed too loud for this particular wing of the palace, and were in evidence only in the banners that hung from the ceiling at the library's entrance. Wide, long tables and sturdy chairs were grouped in the center, surrounded by the library's many shelves; those shelves, lined with row upon row of books, rose up to the heights of the roof. Ladders and single-person walkways provided access for the many librarians who worked here. Norn could see one or two deftly pulling single volumes from their places.

“Stephen?” The single word was louder, an obvious affront to the quiet dignity the setting demanded.

“May I help you?” An elderly man appeared at Norn's elbow. The lines of his round face were heightened by a disapproving frown, the tone of his voice one that only respectable age could wield.

Norn gazed down his nose at the brown-robed man who stood with his arms folded. His clothing was rumpled, if clean, and he looked as if he lived within the bowels of the stacks.

“I'm looking for someone.”

“I'd guessed. Who are you shouting for?”

It was hardly a shout, but the librarian's expression made it clear that any correction of facts would only be seen as an argument. Norn sighed. “Stephen of Elseth. Young man, about this tall. Fair hair, bluish eyes.”

“You're with him?” Faint disbelief colored the words before the librarian's face relaxed. “Well, at least one of you understands the concept of quiet study.”

“Is he here?”

“Yes. You'll find him reviewing the Mythos of the Essalieyanese culture, or perhaps more properly, of the Weston culture the empire eventually supplanted. If you wish to converse, the sitting room beyond the east doors is appropriate.” The librarian turned and started to walk away.

“Uh, excuse me?”

“What?”

“Where is that?”

“Beyond the east doors.” The frown was back in place.

“I mean where would he be researching these myths?”

“Oh.” The man shook his head. “Of course. I forget that it isn't obvious to everyone. If you'd care to follow me?” He was short, but for all that he seemed to shuffle, his pace was both brisk and silent.

Stephen sat with his legs curled beneath him, in the center of a chair with arms. It didn't fit under the desk, but it was clearly quite comfortable. A book was open in his lap, and he studied its pages intently. On the desk, a dozen books in various piles made an impromptu fortress.

“Stephen?”

Stephen looked up. “Norn? Is it dinner already?”

“Not yet.”

The librarian cleared his throat. “The east room,” he said, in a long-suffering tone. But he spared Stephen the ghost of a smile before he walked off.

Stephen nodded at the librarian's back and gently closed his book. He placed it on one of the piles with such care it became obvious to Norn that the stacks had their logical order. Standing, he stretched his legs, and then led Norn to the discussion chamber that lay to the east of the collection.

He stepped in, held the door for Norn, gestured at a chair, and closed the door—with great care to be quiet—behind him.

“What are you doing here?” Norn's voice was still hushed. “This is what, the third or fourth day in a row? You've missed most of the festivities—and the food, mind—just to read religious texts?”

“I haven't missed them all,” Stephen replied, with quiet dignity. “I dined yesterday eve with the Ladies Alswaine and Maubreche, and the day before, with Lady Devenson and the King's clerk for the Hunt. I had lunch with Lady Morganson and her two daughters, Lianor and Lylandra, and two days ago—”

“All right, all right—you've made your point. You've certainly kept up your end of the Elseth duties. But you've missed anything that might be fun in between.”

“I've been doing research.”

“I'd guessed. And I thought you didn't have time to study Breodanir history. I didn't realize that it was merely lack of inclination.”

Stephen winced, and because it was the festival and the first Hunt, Norn relented. “What's so fascinating that you study it here?”

“God.”

“The Hunter God?”

Stephen frowned as he nodded. “But there's so little here about Him. They have volumes about every other god, and more than just volumes about how the
gods interact. But about the Hunter God . . . almost nothing. When the pantheon is discussed at all, there's never any mention of Him. Can He be that minor?”

“Not to us, no. But He
is
Breodanir's God; the only people outside of Breodanir who worship Him are envoys from our country. Why are you so curious?”

“The King,” Stephen answered quietly. “And the ceremony afterward. I felt God. I know it.” He shook his head, although Norn said nothing mocking. “But I don't understand why. The Hunters call themselves Hunter-born, but they aren't. Not really. Here—oh. It's outside. Well, I can tell you what it said. The god-born—they're obvious. First,” he raised a finger, “they have golden eyes. Every one of them. Doesn't matter which god. Second, they have powers associated with their god. Third, if they study it, they can talk to their god. And fourth—most important—they're the
children
of a god.”

“Yes?”

“So the Hunters
aren't
Hunter-born, not in the way that someone's Mother-born, justice-born, or wisdom-born.”

“And?” Clearly Norn was not enlightened by Stephen's discoveries.

Stephen was a little crestfallen, but he continued anyway, showing the determination of his age. “All right. No god is involved here, not that way. Which leaves the talent-born. Normal people without gods for parents, who somehow have power. The bard-born, the healer-born, the seer-born, the mage-born, the maker-born.” His forehead wrinkled as he tried to remember the others. “Never mind.”

“And you think the Hunter-born should fall in with the talent-born.”

“No!” But he smiled, and his cheeks flushed. He was sharing the fruits of days of labor with someone who was willing to listen. “Because talent doesn't breed true.”

“And the Hunter-born always have children who are Hunter-born.”

“Yes.”

“So?”

“Don't you see? The Hunter-born aren't god-born, but they aren't talent-born either.”

“And what does that mean?”

Stephen's face fell, and his shoulders drooped forward a little. “I don't know. I've been trying to find out, and I'm not the only one. The Order of Knowledge first opened its Collegium in Breodanir when the mage-born came to study the Hunter-born. They call it a talent, but . . . well, they don't know why it works the way it does either. Andarion was first circle in the Order, and he spent a long time trying to figure it out. He didn't.”

“Maybe,” Norn said, rising, “it's just the power of God—it doesn't have an explanation to those who won't take the oath and be affected by it, the arrogance of the mage-born notwithstanding.”

Stephen frowned. “We'd have all the answers, you know.”

Norn nodded and reached out to grip Stephen's shoulder. “If not for the fire that destroyed the Hunter's temple over three hundred years ago.”

Stephen's widening eyes made Norn smile. The arrogance of the mage-born was as nothing when compared to the arrogance of the young. “Yes,” he said, trying to keep the amusement from his voice, “you aren't the only one to ask questions, Stephen, nor the only one to notice the Hunter's touch in the King's face at the ascension.” He helped Stephen to his feet. “Let's put the books away for today.”

“You knew about the fires?”

“In my day,” Norn said, with the mock severity of a much older Lord, “we had to take
real
lessons; study history as well as weapon use and hunting. Of
course
I knew about the fires.”

“That's Tallespan you're imitating!”

“Indeed. A man who knew much about everything—except perhaps enjoyment and relaxation. Now come; the library doesn't hold the answers that you're searching for. If you're really determined, you might petition the Collegium of the Order, and they might allow you to peruse the treatises that have been written on the Hunter-born.”

Stephen nodded sheepishly, and remained in the library just long enough to make a neat stack of the books he'd been studying. Norn waited, and then made sure that Stephen was ushered to yet another dinner with the various Hunter Lords. The Hunt was gathering.

• • •

The temple walls were stone: solid; square; and obviously the work of competent masons—but no more. There were windows, long and open to catch as much of day's frugal light as possible, but the window seats were rough and lacked the greater dignity of most of the King's palace. A fireplace the width of the great hall lay blackened and silent; as silent as the temple itself. No one was there.

Stephen knew he was dreaming. He looked down upon leathered feet and saw the edge of real robes brushing the ground around them. The robes were simple and practical brown. He liked them, and after a moment realized that they reminded him of those worn by the Mother's Priesthood. There was no green here, no gold, no fanciful embroidery. He liked that, too.

But he was dreaming. He knew it. The world around him seemed imprecise, as if seen through morning eyes. He wiped at his to see if it helped. Felt his face and froze; it was strange, bristly, harder. He pulled his hands away and saw that they, too, had changed. They were lined, thicker, older—and covered in blood. Some of it was new; it was warm and liquid. Some was older, though; red flakes caked the crossed spears of his Order's ring.

He remembered then why the halls were silent, remembered what had filled them minutes—hours?—before. All of those voices were stilled now. There were
no throats left for screaming or shouting or crying. A sudden pain flared up in his side and at his forehead. He was running, or he should have been running. He had stopped to listen for the little noises that spoke of pursuit. There were none.

He began to run.

It's a dream.

It hurt. He felt a trickle leave his lips and knew it for blood by the warmth along his tongue. He tried a window, for the third or fourth time, and found it sealed as the others had been; an invisible barrier protected the glass and soft lead that might have been his one escape. It was magic. The mage-born were here in force.

Yet it was not the mage-born that frightened him.

It's only a dream.

He began to run; he did not know where, but the feet did as they beat a steady, quick rhythm against the stone. The hall passed as did the great fireplace and the fading pinks of the coming evening. Torchlight caught his shadow, trapping it and making it seem more substantial in his wake. Worse, the winking torches began to go out.

They knew where he was, but if he moved quickly they would not be able to stop him before he reached his destination. He prayed, the silent vowels cracking his dry lips, although he knew it would do no good. They were at the year-end and the Sacred Hunt was mere days away.

Ah, the darkness; the darkness terrified him. The mages who bore it, who sheltered it and used it and fed it—they were the sword in the expert's hands. He heard the crackle of blue-light behind his back and leaped around the corner. The wall, inches away from where he had been, flared to life in a cloud of energy that shattered the torch holders.

The two ribs that were cracked pressed against his lungs as he drew breath and winced with the effort. It was a dream. A dream. A dream.

His hands were bleeding; the old blood had been completely superseded by the flow that trailed his arms from the height of his shoulders. His hands shook as he reached the doors and struggled to swing them open.

And then, for a moment, he was clear again. Into stone and silence; the steady quiet of temple life and its security. There, at the center of the room against the tiled inlay of gold and wood and marble, a small altar rose from the ground.

Against green cushions, the perfect edge of a well-oiled sword glinted silver in the light of the eternal flame that sat, like a miniature sun, in the flat, beamed ceiling above. The spearhead, silver also, topped a hardwood pole that had to be replaced every few generations, as it rested against the floor. The couples and leads were perfect, undisturbed, the very icons of the temple's inner life.

These were symbols of comfort and continuity; the regalia that went with the
oath. But they were not what he sought. He ran to the altar. The wound had opened enough so his hand's quick passage above the cushions left a telltale mark.

Shaking, he brought away the last of the Hunter's hold in his hands; a simple, carved horn that defied time, temperature, and moisture to remain as perfect now as it was on the day of its making.

His fingers covered the only marking upon it as he brought it to his lips and called upon lungs that might not draw breath strong enough to wind it. Cold caught him in his midsection; cold and the heat of fire. He cried out in agony, and his hands closed rigidly.

He could not let go of the horn.

Wheeling, staggering, he turned to face the open doors that held his enemy. He reached out and gripped the altar's edge with one hand, needing to steady himself. He caught a glimpse of scorched brown cloth and the blistered flesh beneath it before he turned once again to the horn.

But the door held none of the mage-born, and none of the darkness. Instead, in the center of the frame, a slender figure robed in midnight blue stood. A hood was drawn over its face, and in silence it regarded him.

It's only a dream
, he thought, and felt his shoulders sag in relief. The dream was turning. He saw his hands shift as age and blood reversed themselves and vanished into nothing.