The Sacred Hunt Duology (23 page)

“Yes,” the figure said, in a voice that was soft and low. “It is a dream, but not only. The darkness waits without, but does not wait idly. Will you not sound the horn, oathtaker? Will you not fulfill your ancient pledge?”

Around the figure's feet, shadow pooled and began a slow crawl across the ground. Where it passed, stone began to smoke like kindling.

It's only a dream.
But he could not escape it, and the darkness was drawing closer still. Shaking, he lifted the horn to his lips and his now beardless face. The horn had not changed at all.

It transformed the air in his mouth to a sound that he had never heard before. No horn, no simple hunting device, had ever made a sound so lovely and so full. It echoed in the air, filling the chamber and stretching ever outward. His body shivered and resounded with the single, low note.

The room blurred; he lifted his sleeve—now Hunter green and whole—and brushed his eyes free of tears. The figure in blue bowed low and stepped slowly out of the doorway.

Behind waited the Beast. It snarled, its voice as terrifying as the horn's note had been beautiful. The great, shaggy throat uttered no words—how could it?—yet Stephen understood its meaning clearly.

It had been summoned, and finally it had arrived. Its fangs, its claws, its very size defied his ability to absorb details.

“Yes,” the figure in blue repeated, “it is just a dream, Stephen of Elseth. But it is the first dream.”

He had no time for horror or fear at the words; all of his attention was upon the Hunter's Death.

• • •

Stephen woke in the morning with the webs of the dream still around him. He struggled out of bed, leaving a trail of sheets and counterpane in his wake. The curtains were heavy and stiff as he dragged them away from the window. Light, muted and diffuse, relieved the room of its dark edges. He peered up, saw the gray clouds above that moved at the wind's whim.

It was cool. The fire no longer burned in the grate. Hands shaking, he began to dress. He did not want to call servants to start the flames burning. He wanted to be free of his room.

He met Gilliam in the breakfast hall—a hall that was mostly empty. The Hunter Lords had reveled and discoursed for most of the previous evening and were still abed. Here, in the King's City, scant days before the calling of the Sacred Hunt, candles and oil were in plentiful supply. If any thought the expense frivolous, very few could be heard to comment on it.

“What's wrong?” Gilliam said, from halfway across the hall. He pushed himself away from the table and strode across the solid, cold floor. For a moment, as he crossed the path of the fireplace, he looked like a slender shadow surrounded by tongues of flame. “Stephen?”

“Why are you awake?”

“Same reason you are.”

Stephen really wished that Gilliam would lower his voice. The few Lords and—much worse—their Ladies who had graced the hall so early were clearly listening. In a whisper, he said, “Did you have a nightmare?”

“No.” Gilliam frowned. “But you did. Woke me up and kept me awake.” His eyes narrowed. “You look awful. What's the matter?”

“Nothing.” He tried to brush past, and Gilliam caught his elbow.

“It isn't nothing. You feel as if you've seen the Hunter's Death.”

Stephen couldn't lie to Gilliam. It was always brought home this way. He would try, and Gilliam would refuse to let him be. The oath-bond between them was strong, even for huntbrothers.

“You aren't wearing your colors,” Stephen said lamely.

“And you're wearing yours. Now what is wrong?” Gilliam caught Stephen's shoulders. “No. Don't say ‘nothing.' Don't shrug your shoulders at me. We
promised
, and we're bound by it.”

He might have added that he couldn't eat, couldn't sit still, and couldn't concentrate; might have pointed out that Stephen's fear was so strong that it overwhelmed everything else. But he was Gilliam; he didn't. It seemed too obvious a truth.

Stephen sighed and nodded; his throat caught and tightened. He gestured toward the nearest corner of the room, and they both turned in silence.

When they were as far from the hearing of others as possible, Stephen turned to Gilliam.

“I had a dream.”

Gilliam nodded, waiting.

“I was in the temple. The temple that was here before the palace. I told you about it last night.” He stopped a moment, and looked at Gilliam. Gilliam's brown eyes were unblinking, and unmocking, as they met his. “Everyone else was dead. All the Priests, the servants—everyone. It was three days before the calling of the Hunt.

“I was alive—I was a Priest.”

At this, Gilliam snorted. “You'd make a rotten Priest.”

Stephen nodded, as if he'd heard the words without understanding them. “I was the only one. There were mages. There was fire and darkness. I was afraid. But I—I
knew
it was a dream—I knew it. I just couldn't wake up.” He brought his hands to his face and examined them closely. “I was injured. Bleeding.”

“What happened?”

“I ran to safety. A room in the temple with an altar. There was a sword, a spear, couples, leads—but the most important thing was a horn. I picked it up. I sounded it.” He closed his eyes, remembering the only peaceful thing that had happened. “And someone came, someone in blue.”

“Who?”

“I don't know. The face was covered by a hood. But I couldn't ask—because the Hunter's Death came, too.” Shaking, he lowered his hands.

“It was only a dream,” Gilliam said quietly. But he waited; Stephen was not yet finished.

“I think I might have said that. And the person in blue—he said, ‘It is the first dream.'”

“The first?” Gilliam shook his head and slowly sat down. It didn't bother him that there was no chair to catch him; he was quite comfortable on the floor.

Stephen nodded. He knew he should at least tell Gil to get a chair, but he didn't have the energy. Saying the words aloud had made them more real than the silence of fear did.

The first dream.

The Unnamed God dealt in dreams and visions, and if he visited these upon you thrice in three nights, you were his subject, you bore his wyrd.

“‘One dream is a dream.'” It was a quote, and Gilliam offered it to Stephen knowing that it wouldn't be any help. Stephen didn't answer in words, but after a moment he, too, lowered himself to the floor. They sat facing each other as they might have done on a normal day in the kennels.

Gilliam reached out, caught his huntbrother's hand, and held it very tightly. “You believed him, didn't you?”

Stephen nodded.

“Wait. We'll know in two days.”

He nodded again.

“And it doesn't matter. If we've got the wyrd of the Unnamed on us, we'll face it together—and we'll beat it. I promise.”

The knot in Stephen's throat eased, but only a little.

• • •

Lunch went well, and dinner was another festive affair. The ladies and their eligible daughters were now out in force—a force to be reckoned with. Twice, Stephen had to rescue Gilliam before he said enough to earn his absent mother's wrath. Norn was even busier with Soredon, and it soon became clear to Stephen that all of the huntbrothers present watched over their Hunter Lords with an eye to social details.

The Elseth preserve was not a small one; indeed, compared to many it was quite sizable. But it was close to the eastern boundary of the kingdom, and farther from the capital, so in the early marriage-seeking forays, Gilliam was not besieged. He did speak with one or two of the young Ladies—and Stephen winced when Gilliam began his earnest, passionate discussions about how he was going to build his hunting pack to any who could hear.

The Ladies listened politely of course, as any huntbrother would. Unfortunately, Gilliam could offer no like polite response when they attempted to steer the conversation to less specific topics. True to his class, he found it intensely uncomfortable to talk about the “weather,” and it was impossible to draw more than a grunt or a nod from him about anything but the Hunt.

It was up to Stephen to fill the awkward silences, and again he did Lady Elseth proud. He talked, or rather listened intently, to matters of trade and governance; bowed with exactly the right amount of deference—forcing Gilliam to do the same by dint of a glare they both understood the meaning of—and complimented the women on their finery. That last was not hard to do. Any time a Lady, dressed in full evening wear, walked across the ballroom's threshold, he felt a hint of awe. The Hunter Lords had a grace that was born of agility and aggression, and honed on the Hunt; the Ladies had a grace born of the same, but honed on the dance floor, or in odd etiquette lessons—and Stephen found the mixture of delicacy and swift, sure steps the more entrancing of the two.

As well, although he didn't bother to say so to Gilliam, he found the colors that the Ladies wore much more pleasing to the eye; he'd had enough of Hunter green, brown, and gray to last a lifetime. Pale blues, azures, brilliant magentas, crimsons, golds—each dress as unique as the clothing of the Hunter Lords was uniform.

The only time he lost sight of Gilliam was when Lady Alswaine began her discourse on the problems with the seat of judgment in her preserve. For Stephen, to whom the law was still absolute and carved in stone, her ambivalence was both shocking and fascinating.

“There are mitigating circumstances for many crimes,” she said, speaking more to the young women present than to Stephen. “For instance, Veralyn, what would you do if one of your villagers was caught stealing from the manor house?”

Lady Veralyn's cheeks clashed with her dress as she flushed. She opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it slowly, wondering at the game that Lady Alswaine, older and wiser, was playing, for Lady Alswaine asked no idle questions. Lady Veralyn was a year older than Stephen, and not yet pledged to any Lord or Lord's son. “I would—I would have to know more.”

Lady Alswaine's smile held a glimmer of approval. “Indeed, and when you occupy your seat, you will have that opportunity. In this case, it was winter, and a harsh one.” She tilted her head to the side and glanced at Stephen. “What of you, Stephen of Elseth?”

Stephen flushed, wondering whether or not Lady Alswaine knew of his origins. He was certain she must, and his response, defensive, was also a completely correct recitation of the laws of Breodani. “Fine, work edict, or finger. It would depend on what he'd stolen.”

“Pigeons.”

“Fine.”

“He had no money.” Lady Alswaine's lips turned up in a smile that was both friendly and annoying.

“Then work edict.”

“Would you trust him in your manor?”

“Finger.” It was the most severe of the sentences that could be meted out, and Stephen said it reluctantly, remembering his own fears, his own days in the lower city, surrounded by his hungry den mates.

“And what would his family do come spring and the common season? Death, I think, would be kinder—and death is not an option. Come, Stephen. I am the person who metes out justice, with the aid of the village head. In this case, the man committed a very real crime—but for foolish reasons, nay, stupid ones.”

“But he committed a crime.”

“Of course.” She folded her arms very delicately. It made her look as fragile as a rock. “But the why of it was interesting. He was young, and had just taken a wife the previous summer. His wife was the pride of her parents, and the desire of many of the younger men—and he was still not comfortable in her choice of him. He considered the gift of her acceptance the whim of luck, and was afraid that if he failed her, she would revoke it. The house that they dwell in is simple, and was, of course, built with the aid of the village as a whole—but in order to impress her,
he foolishly bartered and used supplies that were to have seen them through the winter.”

Stephen shrugged uncomfortably, but did not look away from Lady Alswaine. She waited a moment before continuing, to judge both his expression and his temper. Satisfied, she nodded and went on.

“What would you have done, were you in his position?”

“Gone to the village head,” Stephen replied promptly. “If the village head wasn't prepared to deal with the shortage and arrange for repayment, they could go to the manor proper and ask for the reserves.”

“Yes. That is what's supposed to happen. But if he went to the village head, his young bride would be sure to know. So instead, he came to the manor at night.” Lady Alswaine held out her cup as a signal to a passing servant. The young man bowed and carefully refilled it before moving on. “He was caught, of course, and his case was brought to me immediately. Now, Stephen, Veralyn—place yourself in my position, and more important, place yourself in his. He committed a crime against Alswaine, yes, but that was only a symptom.

“The real wrong was done to his wife.”

For a moment, Stephen's brow furrowed; his face grew intent, and his eyes less focused. The lessonmaster would have known the expression immediately and approved of it. As the Lady Alswaine commanded, Stephen tried to place himself in the young man's position. He found, to his surprise, that it was easy. He was in the King's City, after all; the place of his birth and the first eight years of his life.

He remembered, although the memory was blurred and fuzzy now, how he had spent those eight years. Luck had smiled often on him, and he had escaped the notice of the King's guard—and therefore, of the Queen's judgment—but he remembered how the fear felt.

“Did he steal wood?” he asked quietly.

She chuckled. “The city isn't out of you entirely, is it? No, wood is not a problem in Alswaine. He took only food, and it was near the end of the season.”

He nodded, and continued to furrow his brow. Lady Alswaine spoke of the thief's crime against his wife, but clearly there wasn't one. First, she had nothing to steal, and second, he probably only wanted to feed her. Of course, if he had wanted to feed her, and he'd had half a brain, he'd have just gone to the village head, admitted his need, and been done with it.