The Sacred Hunt Duology (24 page)

But then he'd have to tell her that he'd wasted all of their winter supplies, and she'd be angry and leave him.

Or would she? He stopped, and the lines in his forehead melted away. “He didn't trust her,” he said quietly.

“No, he didn't. And if you see that, you might know what I demanded as restitution.” Clearly pleased, she turned her full attention upon him, her gold-fringed skirts rustling as she moved.

“You made him tell her.”

“Very good!” She almost clapped, but the goblet she held prevented it. “Yes, but more; I had her called to the manor. I'm afraid I was rather cruel to the young man, which certainly suited the nature of both of his crimes. I didn't tell him that I had summoned her, for I believed that I understood his motives. Instead, I had her wait behind a screen with the various servants who attend the judgments. When he told me, at length, of the reasons for the theft, she could hear every word.

“I must say that I had always thought her sweet and relatively even of temper.” Here she smiled, but the smile was one that Stephen couldn't understand at all. “She knocked the screen over and stood with her fists by her side. I thought she was going to hit him in front of all of us.” She was laughing; wine swirled over the rim of silver and slid in droplets down her fingers. It was some minutes before she could speak again. Stephen didn't understand what was funny about it at all.

“She didn't kill him—I mentioned that I thought it was rather too severe for his crime—but she made her displeasure quite clear.” And here, her eyes softened. “And when he understood that she was angry, not because of the theft or the shortages, but because he hadn't trusted her . . . well, they left together, and in the end I think she was glad that she hadn't killed him.” She set her glass aside when the servant next passed by. “So there you have it. Not everything is clear, especially to those of us who must judge. And before you think that you learn more with age, I've news for you both—you unlearn much. Things become more complicated and less clear.”

Stephen nodded attentively before he chose to speak again. When he did, his voice was quiet. “But, Lady,” and he bowed, “what would you have done if the thief's wife was exactly what he was afraid she was?”

“Your point, young Stephen.” Her smile was sad. “But you've ruined my little story for the evening. Even the unclear becomes more unclear with time. What would I have done? As I did, I think, but I wouldn't remember it fondly, nor as a triumph. And I would have grieved for the foolish young man in the privacy of my rooms. It is difficult for the young when their dreams die.

“Now. Enough. Where is your Hunter? You've left him long enough that he's bound to embarrass your House; go, quickly.”

Stephen showed her a hint of the man he might become. Although he did not understand her sudden change, and the loss of her little smile, he asked no further questions. Instead he bowed, low and formal in his respect.

“Wisdom,” she said, as he rose from his bow, “is not knowledge. It is experience. You will find, as you grow older, that you are capable of many wrongs which you consider evil now; you will also understand much about people that you dismiss. You may even understand the fear that comes with love, and the love that transcends fear.”

• • •

That night he returned to the temple. This time there was no silence and no isolation, and the air was full of smoke and ash—the rewards of fire. He was standing in the pews which were only half full when the wall uttered a roar and suddenly crumbled.

He saw four men in dark robes, and behind them saw soldiers with raised swords, and crossbows that were already loosing quarrels. Because he was spinning, he was spared. A wooden bolt grazed his forehead, leaving a red trail but no death in its wake.

He ran; he was closest to the doors that led to the inner temple. The sounds of slaughter had already started before he crossed the threshold, but he spared no backward glance. He knew that there was nothing he could do. This was a dream, after all.

But he couldn't shake it and couldn't defeat it. His feet carried him where his will could not prevent it; already the halls and the torches were familiar, as was the pursuit. He reached the inner sanctum, threw the doors wide, and ran for the altar. The passage of time did not slow; he could feel darkness and hear the approach of the mages. Gone was the moment where each item laid out for the Hunter could be studied and appreciated—only one artifact was of any import.

His hands curled around the horn. He lifted it, shaking. He sounded it and the call was clear.

And once again, the midnight-blue robes that concealed and presented at the same time appeared. He was bent now, as if from some great work, or great injury; he seemed older and more diminutive. Behind him, the darkness was held at bay—and beyond that, a glint of unnatural light on divine fur and fangs began to grow.

“But it's only a dream!” Stephen shouted.

“Yes,” the figure said, and it sounded just as it appeared—older or weaker. “But this is the second dream.”

• • •

Stephen had breakfast brought to his room the next day. Although he woke early, he could not bear to enter the dining hall. He tried to think on other things; caught the strand of Lady Alswaine's lesson, and held it firmly. He even prayed to the Mother. It was foolish, but in the privacy of his room, there was no one to laugh or call him a child.

It was the last day of festivities; tomorrow, the hunters would leave the King's City—and the King's palace—to enter the royal preserve. There, when the Master of the Game called the Hunt, he and Gilliam would face the creature of nightmare: the Hunter's Death.

Before they could do that, there was the packing to attend to. In silence, Stephen rose and began to empty his drawers and closets of the things he would
need: sword, spear, horn. Norn had, for the moment, the couples and leads; he would hand them over with the part of the pack that Gilliam would lead in the Hunt.

The dress jacket and cloak, the breeches and shirt—all of these would be carefully set aside, to be worn during the great feast that followed the Sacred Hunt. He started to hang them properly, when the door creaked open.

It was Norn.

“I heard you had words with Lady Alswaine last eve,” he said jauntily. Then he stopped, hand still on the door. “Stephen—what's wrong? Too much drink?”

“No,” was Stephen's reply, but it held little indignation, little fire.

“You've not been swept off your feet by a young lady, have you?”

“No!”

“Well, good, then. The Hunter Lords are oblivious when it comes to the ladies, almost the entire lot of them—but the huntbrothers are sometimes a little foolish at their first Hunt. About the ladies, that is.” He walked into the room and shut the door. “Gilliam didn't do anything really bad, did he?”

Stephen shook his head. “Spilled ale on Lady Marget's dress; I apologized.”

“You're sure that's all?”

“Yes.”

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Then if it's nothing, you'd better snap out of it.” Norn's voice grew harder. He sat down on the bed, resting his elbows against his knees. “You're having your effect on your Hunter, Stephen—and he can't afford it now. Any other time of the year, yes—but not before the Sacred Hunt. He'll need his wits about him; he'll need to be sharp and focused, not distracted and exhausted.”

Stephen said nothing.

“You're having an effect now,” Norn said, pressing on. “Gilliam was up early this morning, looking for you in the hall. I caught him on his way back up here. He's out with the dogs—as his duty demands—but he's not paying attention. He wanted to find you, and only a direct command from Lord Elseth prevented him.” He paused as the last of this sank in. Stephen's eyes widened; when Norn called Soredon “Lord,” it was a fair indication of what Soredon's mood had been at the time: bad.

Norn's voice became quieter, but no less sharp. “Whatever it is that's bothering you, it's too strong. It interferes with Gilliam's concentration, his ability to call a good trance. Later—three, four years—he'll be able to do it without pause. But
not now.
You're here in the name of Elseth as well as in the name of the King. You've got to do well at this Hunt. It's your first—every eye in the kingdom will be upon you.

“Both Lord Elseth and I are willing to help you in any way possible, if you need
help. But you have to admit to that need, Stephen, or we'll assume the worst. What is bothering you?”

“I—” Stephen swallowed and looked away. His feet were particularly interesting, clad as they were in slippers that clashed with the carpet. Maribelle's gift, as he recalled. “I had the second dream.”

“Pardon?”

“The second dream.” He looked up, almost met Norn's eyes, and looked away again.

For a moment the older huntbrother wore a mask of confusion. When it fell away, it was replaced by a mixture of shock and amusement. “Hunter's Oath, Stephen—do you mean to tell me that you're bothered by a dream?”

“It's the second dream,” Stephen said, but his voice was less steady, less sure.

“I don't care if it's the tenth! Of all the things I expected to hear—” He stood quickly and shook his head. Relief was evident in his smile. “Do you think that nightmares are uncommon for the Hunter folk? We have them all the time—especially before the Sacred Hunt.”

“But,” Stephen's word could barely be heard, “it's the second dream, on the second night. It was the same.”

“Stephen, you sound like an impressionable child. A dream's a dream. The wyrd of fate, the Unnamed, was invented by old men who had nothing better to do with their time than terrify the gullible. Is that clear?”

Stephen nodded.

“I didn't hear you, lad.”

“Yes, Norn.”

“Good.” Norn walked over to the door. “I see you've started packing—be done by lunch if you can. I'll come up then.”

Stephen nodded again; his cheeks were bright red circles. For want of anything else to do, he started for his dresser.

“Dreams, indeed.” Norn snorted. He was a very practical man, as all huntbrothers inevitably strove to be.

• • •

It was only a dream, a phantom of childhood and fear and gullibility. And like a phantom, it returned in the evening, when Norn's jaunty condescension wasn't there to keep it at bay.

The temple was on fire now; the flames crackled loudly as they split wooden beams, doors, and joists. Whole sections of the twisted maze in the inner temple were no longer passable. A carpet of dead bodies, fallen stone, and blackened wood barred the way.

Stephen ran, but each step he took was painful. His robes were not dark enough to hide the spread of blood. He was certain his ribs were cracked or broken; each
breath, hurriedly and deeply taken, was agony. But one hall, familiar now, was still standing. Nearly empty, it awaited his passage.

He turned and glanced over his shoulder. He knew it cost him speed and time, but fear forced him to it. The darkness moved like a sluggish wave, destroying the light and leaving fire in its wake. Yet as the darkness spread, he saw one of his many enemies. She stood quite tall, robed in shadows and very little else; her hair, a sheen of pale, white gossamer, flared round her shoulders like a ceremonial collar; her eyes—he could not see them well enough to know their color, and he was glad of it. At her throat, before all light was lost, he saw a large, gold medallion, with a tower against the midnight black of moonless sky. She smiled; he felt the tug of her lips over teeth as a command, and turned in desperation. He was almost upon the sanctum. He would not be stopped now.

The doors opened inward with no difficulty; the sanctum was not locked or barred. Who among the Breodani would seek to steal or destroy the sign of their God's favor?

And who would be foolish enough to use it? Hands damp with a mixture of blood and sweat, he reached out, running all the while. He caught the horn, felt it tingle in his hands, and drew it to his lips. It hurt to take the breath that was necessary; he coughed, tasted salt, and lost vision for a brief second.

Then, somehow, the pain was gone; his hands were clean, his arm steady. He sounded the horn. Its note was long and lasting.

And the blue-robed figure stepped over the threshold, while darkness surged beneath its feet. Stephen lowered the horn slowly as he looked at the hood, trying to see a face, a person, within its confines. Hands rose and reached for the edge of the fabric, rolling it gently back.

“Stephen of Elseth, forgive us.”

He looked into the face of a woman; she was older than he, but younger than the Lady Elseth. Or so it seemed at first. Her skin was pale, her hair darker than her robe—darker than any black that he had seen, save for the shadows without. Her eyes seemed gray, then blue, then violet, and last an icy, pale gold—they flickered and changed so quickly he couldn't say which was the true one. But he knew that none of the colors were warm.

“Some of what you have seen these past nights is real. History has folded it into a secrecy that even the Hunter's Priests cannot break. But some of what you have seen is yet to pass.”

“Which?”

She shook her head, and seemed for a moment almost sad. “I do not know, fully—and if I did, my given oath would prevent me from explaining it.” She lowered her hands and stood before him. “I am Evayne.” She gestured suddenly, throwing her arms wide.

Warmth filled the room, different from the heat of the fires. A drowsy peace descended upon Stephen as Evayne brought her hands down, palms up, as if holding something precious.

“The world changes more than you know, Stephen. If I can be of aid to you, I shall—and you will need aid and more if the promise of all oaths is to be realized at last.