The Sacred Hunt Duology (25 page)

“This is the third dream.”

O
N THE MORNING AFTER
the third dream, Stephen woke before the dawn. He turned the counterpane neatly down and rose. It was chilly. The fire had burned down during the evening and the room smelled faintly of wood made ash. The curtains were pulled shut to keep the night out. He opened them quickly to give the sunlight that would soon come free passage.

He was afraid, but the fear had turned into something strange over the length of the dream, and he still felt a hint of the warmth that the woman, Evayne, had made manifest. Fear, he thought, remembering everything that Norn and Lord Elseth had struggled to teach him, was a type of wisdom. Terror was different; fear run rampant, with no control. He was no longer terrified.

He could not tell Norn of the third dream, of course. Norn's laughter still echoed in the bedchamber, reddening his cheeks. He began to dress. Breakfast today was important. It might be his last meal. When he was finished, he packed his small chest and left it beside the door for the porter.

Then he walked out of his room and down the hall to Gilliam's. He knocked quietly at first, listened for an answer, and then knocked more loudly. The sound that came through the door was Gilliam's attempt to make words. Stephen snorted and knocked, very loudly, before throwing the door open and marching in.

Gilliam's face was a bulge under the pillows. From the stretch of the bedsheets, Stephen could see that his back was to the door. He walked up, grabbed the pillow, and placed it gently on the chair beside the bed. As he expected, Gilliam's hands were over his ears.

“It's not even light yet—go away.”

“Gil,” Stephen said, as he reached for the rather rumpled clothing that Gilliam had stuffed, with nary a thought to proper folding, into the drawers of his dresser. “We were told that we had to be up before dawn proper. We've got to eat breakfast, and we have to join Norn and Lord Elseth in the courtyard. Or have you forgotten that we've got to find the right trail before we can hunt at the Master of the Game's call?”

Gilliam mumbled something that was inaudible. Stephen sighed, stepped over
to the bedside, and grabbed the counterpane and the blankets beneath. With a quick, efficient tug—years of practice at work—he yanked them off. The cold would eventually force his lazy Hunter to find real clothing.

It worked; Gilliam yowled and scrambled up, taking the clothing that Stephen held out when he discovered the blankets were permanently out of reach.

“Are you packed?”

“Hmmmm.”

“Good.” Just to be sure, Stephen checked the contents of Gilliam's chest. He cringed at the rolled up jacket and the inelegantly folded pants. It was a good thing that couples and leads didn't require any forethought or care to stow away.

“Stephen?”

Stephen let the lid bang shut and looked up without rising.

“You didn't wake me.”

He knew that Gilliam was speaking of the dreams. “No.”

“Did you have it?”

“What?”

“Don't ‘what' like that. You know damn well I mean the third dream.”

“If I'd had it, you'd probably know, don't you think?”

The set of Gilliam's lips told Stephen very well what he thought. Prevarication was not Gilliam's strong point, but Stephen had learned the art from observation—and Gil knew that as well. Stephen hesitated anyway, although he could feel Gilliam getting more annoyed as the seconds passed.

He had wanted to wait until after the Sacred Hunt before seeking his Hunter's advice. He still did. It was something that he could keep to himself now. The terror was gone—and the Sacred Hunt, as Norn had pointed out, was indeed more important. But he knew, looking at Gilliam's face, that it wouldn't be right. He suddenly thought of the pathetic, stupid young thief of Lady Alswaine's odd story—and the lesson that had peered, half-formed, from the corner of his understanding, came fully to light.

I have to trust you.
“Yes. I dreamed the third.”

Gilliam exhaled, and his face lost the black expression that always brought an argument and often meant the fist play so despised by Lady Elseth. “But you aren't afraid of it now.”

“Just a little. I—it was different, this time. The figure in blue removed the hood—and it was a she. She said her name was Evayne. She looked, I don't know, sad.” He felt his stomach start to rumble and glanced at the door. “She said she'd help me if she could.”

“Help you what?”

“I don't know.” He shrugged. “And if we don't get downstairs for breakfast, we won't be around to find out. Norn's—”

“I
know
what Norn's been saying.” Gilliam shoved his feet into his boots, and Stephen made sure that his breeches were neatly tucked in.

“We can talk after the Sacred Hunt—if we're both still alive.” He smiled then, and it was genuine. “I mean, wouldn't it be funny if I died? The wyrd—and all the worrying I've done—would mean nothing.”

Gilliam didn't think it was funny at all.

• • •

Krysanthos rose early as well. He often liked to rise and be fully awake by the coming of the dawn, but on this occasion it was more a matter of necessity than one of preference. The court would be ready to begin its long procession through the city streets, and he had to be among them.

He had had little opportunity, for the entirety of the two-week festival, to speak with the young Elseth huntbrother alone, and that worried him. It seemed too much of a coincidence that someone—or something—had consistently contrived to prevent his access. This single fact would have annoyed him, but it did not stand alone. The little maid had searched the boy's rooms at all hours, and found nothing that would give either magical vision or magical protection. The huntbrother had obviously managed to protect himself—which meant that he was dangerous.

Very well; he was a danger. Krysanthos smiled. Today, during the Sacred Hunt, the boy was, by law, placing his life at risk. There was always at least one death—but on occasion, there were more.

He managed to finish the onerous task of dressing well before the knock at the door sounded. It was precise, soft, and timely. Unlike many of the visiting dignitaries, Krysanthos traveled without a valet. He was forced to answer the door himself.

A slender young man in the blue and gray of messenger's garb bowed low. “Your pardon, sir, for this early interruption, but I bear a message that is most urgent.”

“Please, come in,” Krysanthos replied, holding out a hand.

The man rose and entered the room as Krysanthos stepped out of the way. The rolled sheet of vellum he placed in the mage-born's hand had no seal or distinguishing marks, although it was tied with black ribbon. Krysanthos gestured and the door swung shut.

The messenger nodded and stood, hands behind his back, waiting for a reply.

“You're almost early,” Krysanthos' voice was casual as he looked at the message that slowly unfurled in his hands. One peppered brow rose, and he looked up. “This is more than your usual fee.”

The messenger shrugged, neither affronted nor nervous. The long, thin lines of his face were like a mask; even the gray eyes were cold and still. “You've given little notice, and less chance to prepare.”

Little notice, indeed. And he was exhausted with the effort of that sending, too soon after his discussion with Sor na Shannen. “Ah, well. It was worth comment.” Krysanthos rolled the sheet into a tight curl. The Kovaschaii were the best at their craft; whole lives had been spent in the training and perfection of their art. “You won't mind if I ask to see your mark?”

Without a change of expression, the man complied, pulling white-blond hair away from the left side of his face. There, shadowed by the arch of his ear, was the small chalice that had once been burned into flesh.

Krysanthos gestured briefly, although by now it was a formality. At once, his sight shifted into the odd haze of magical vision. The room went gray and misty. In the background, the mirror he used for communication shone out, a stark, bright beacon. Beneath the bed, he could also see the halo of a walking stick. These were not his concern. Instead, he examined the mark of the Kovaschaii.

It, too, glowed softly and elegantly with magic's fire. Light silvered it and rounded it, giving it the appearance of a tiny, perfect chalice, which contained the Kovaschaii strength.

“Very well,” he said, and the lights went out. He stood in silence for a few moments, considering the fee. There was no argument to be offered. He could accept it or reject it. The Kovaschaii did not negotiate.

“Very well,” he said again. “I accept the conditions. Ten thousand Essalieyanese solarii. Success only.”

“Who?”

This part of the operation was the one which Krysanthos hated most. Were it not for this, he was certain he would utilize the services of the Kovaschaii more frequently. As it was, only situations of urgency could force him to it. Gritting his teeth, he let one of his unseen magical shields drop.

The nameless man stepped forward and reached out for Krysanthos' forehead. He placed the flat of his palm against it and closed his eyes.

Krysanthos knew the routine well. He needed—and would suffer—no instructions. Luckily, the Kovaschaii were excellent at observation about human nature, and the young man did not make this mistake. The mage-born concentrated until he forced a perfect mental picture of Stephen of Elseth to the fore of his thoughts. With it came all of the rest of the details; the first meeting, the several attempts, the growing frustration.

And the Kovaschaii drank it in, searching through the undercurrents of associated thought until he was satisfied with the answer he'd received.

The moment the pressure of his hand was gone, Krysanthos slammed his shields into place.

“The other?”

“Other?” It was said too quickly; Krysanthos forced his hands to stroke the length of his beard to still their shaking. Nowhere in his long studies had he
found any sensation so distressing as this: another man, rummaging through the privacy of his thoughts. Ten thousand solarii? He would have paid double to have been able to avoid the intrusion. It was never an option.

“The Hunter.”

“Ah—him.” With care born of experience, Krysanthos did not mention the name that leaped to mind.

“They will be together.”

“Yes,” the mage replied. “But the mission you've accepted is to make the death of the huntbrother seem an entirely natural occurrence. Surely the Hunter is your problem.”

Kovaschaii shoulders moved up and down in a graceful motion that was almost feline. He asked no further questions; he had no need to. He now knew everything that Krysanthos knew about the intended victim. Krysanthos handed him the scroll that he had arrived bearing and saw him out the door.

Only the matter of the maid was left to be dealt with, and that was relatively simple—certainly less costly.

• • •

If Stephen had thought that two weeks of festivity showed the Breodani Lords and Ladies at their finest, he was quickly proved wrong. From the moment he set foot in the dining hall, until the moment he left it, he observed everything in the near-silence of awe.

The Hunter Lords were properly dressed in clothing that was well crafted but serviceable; this was expected. What was not was the added finery of capes and greatcloaks and strangely plumed hats that somehow managed to be multicolored without ever looking ridiculous against the background of green, brown, and hints of gold that comprised the Hunter's uniform.

Of course, after a few minutes of standing in their midst, the glitter of their wear vanished beneath the tense excitement of the soon-to-be-called Hunt. Conversation revolved around dogs, goals, battle plans. There was camaraderie, yes, but also competition, which had remained, until this moment, unspoken. One or two, younger Hunters to be sure, even mentioned the Hunter's Death as a type of prey. The older Hunter Lords said nothing, but a shadow passed over their faces, stilling them a moment before anticipation returned—the remembered costs of each passing year.

It was the Ladies and the attendants who lost none of their aura. When they entered the hall, whether on the arm of their Hunter, or attended by other companions, it was clear where the power in Breodanir lay. The older women, especially, walked with a grace and confidence that spoke of experience and easily accessible knowledge. They were comfortable talking of the Sacred Hunt, but equally comfortable arranging the last few bits of trade and barter, giving the final words of judgment advice or supping frugally on what was placed before them.

Gilliam had to elbow Stephen twice, hard, in the ribs when his attention strayed to the less relevant members of the huge hunting party.

Norn had looked sharply at Stephen when they finally appeared in the hall, but Stephen's curt and controlled nod seemed to satisfy him. The edge of the anger the older huntbrother had shown the day before—had it only been one day?—was blunted and put aside.

Stephen was keenly aware of the fact that Elseth put on no fine display. Both Norn and Soredon—heads of the Elseth responsibility—wore good, solid, serviceable spring cloaks. They were also incredibly dull.

Well, he'd talk with Lady Elseth about it when they got back to the manor, and if it could be afforded, they'd look better next year. He consoled himself with the fact that all of the finery would vanish the minute the King's horn was sounded. Then the Hunters would be measured by their true worth, not by their clothing. Still . . .

The drums sounded in the distance, and the hall quieted as all eyes turned to the doors. No horn sounded to announce the coming of the King—no horn would be winded this day until the start of the Hunt.

But the drums did their work, beating in time like an unnatural heart. The doors rolled open, and the King entered the room, the Queen by his side. He was clothed in the colors of Breodanir, all dark greens and browns, but his cloak and jacket were emblazoned across chest and back with gold thread. He wore no cap, and his hair hung in a single braid, beneath a simple circlet. Behind him, pages carried two spears, one long and slender, one thick with protrusions near its iron point.