The Sacred Hunt Duology (36 page)

“The outside face,” Cynthia said, as if she could hear his thoughts. She led him slowly around the circle of greenery. They came, at length, to a gap between the circumference. It was too narrow for them to walk through abreast, and Cynthia relinquished her hold on Stephen's arm to precede him.

“Where is the damage?”

“Damage? Ah. Around the other side.” The momentary darkening of her features told him, clearly, what the hedge meant to her. “It was . . . not so bad as we first feared. Later, if you'd like, we can inspect it, but I want you to see what the labyrinth looks like when it's whole.”

Stephen barely heard her answer. For as he stepped clear of the labyrinth's one entrance, he saw what the outside face hid. The walls of the maze were alive. Captured in green, as if the shrubs were stone, all manner of creatures stood. There, to his left, an elderly woman sitting upon a rock; to his right, an elderly man bent over some task that the leaves swallowed.

“These are the pride of the master gardener. He tends them every day he can. Every year the maze changes, very slowly and very subtly. I used to come out with him and try to guess what was different, when I was younger. I asked him once why he didn't sculpt—real stone, I mean. He laughed and walked off. It was two days before he decided to answer the question.”

There, in the wall just ahead, one figure caught Stephen's attention. He almost missed it, it was so slight, but perhaps the light caught the figure at just the right moment, or perhaps Cynthia guided him toward it. He saw the face and hands of a young child, peering out of the greenery. Green eyes, branched limbs, wavering in the wind the way a child shivers in surprise or fear.

“These walls—that child . . .” He felt acutely aware of his lack of words, although words had never been his weakness.

“I know.” She walked toward the leafy child. “He was so much younger the first time I thought I saw him. So much more hesitant. Just his nose, and his chin, and a couple of fingers. He only came up to here—” She motioned toward her waist. “He's coming out a bit, sort of escaping whatever life he has on the other side of that wall.”

“I wonder what he's looking at.”

“So do I.”

“Cynthia?”

She nodded, reaching out at the same time to touch the small hand of the boy.

“You said the master gardener answered your question.”

“Eventually.” Her lips were curved in the same delicate smile as those of the green child.

“What did he say?”

“He said ‘Look in my garden, child. Come back and tell me what you see.'” Her smile didn't change, but her eyes did, although Stephen could never afterward describe the difference. “I went out and spent the day wandering in the maze. I spent some time sleeping under the arms of the God, and some time talking to the rabbits—they were like the boy, but they're gone now—and when I came back, I'd almost forgotten the question. But he hadn't. He asked me what I'd seen there, and I told him.”

“And?”

“He told me that it would change. He said stone is lifeless, cold, hard—you have to fight it and once you've finished, it's still stone. But life—he said life was the best material because it changed, and grew, and surprised one.”

They were silent a moment, thinking on it. “I'd like to meet this gardener of yours someday,” Stephen said finally.

“Perhaps we will see him today.” By the forced lightness of her tone, he knew that she didn't mean it; he did not know why. “Come; let's go to the heart of the labyrinth.” She released her tentative hold upon the green child. As she did, Stephen felt a sudden, sharp loss. He let it pass silently as she moved away; in a few seconds, he joined her.

As he did, Stephen's full attention returned to the hedges; he barely stopped to offer Cynthia his arm. If she begrudged him this rare breach of etiquette, none of her disapproval showed on her face; indeed, she was slow to place her hand upon his arm.

These bushes, they were like any other. There was no way they should have been so much of a presence. But try as he did to tell himself that, he still felt that they were more than alive—they were life, in expression, in intent, and in the odd quirkiness of their design. Every so often he would point out something that caught his eyes—the carved representation of birds nesting, of a sly fox darting for cover, of a group of men gathered around it with a clumsy sort of grace. There were people sitting under carved boughs; they were green but he could feel flesh, breath, and a slow, stately movement about them that more than wind through their tiny, delicate leaves could explain.

“This master gardener,” Stephen said softly—for no loud words, he was sure, could be uttered in this maze, “he's maker-born, isn't he?”

She did not answer. “Here,” she murmured softly. “You must look at this one. It will be gone very soon, unlike the others.”

Stephen followed her obediently, and as he turned a corner, he came face-to-face with a stag leaping out of the hedge. Only half its body could be seen, and that half well above the ground, its front legs straining for height and speed. Its head was held high and crowned with strong, branching antlers. Its face was determined, noble, and touched by a sadness that almost overpowered his silent watchers.

Not until he was forced to exhale did Stephen realize that he'd been holding his breath. He pulled back, without a word, and they continued on, allowing the proud animal to continue undisturbed and untouched.

But to Stephen the stag crystallized what he felt in the hedges, and why. They were like forest, like hunting grounds in an inexplicable way; teeming with hidden and silent life, undisturbed by common human interaction. They were more than that, though. He knew, with a profound sense of loss, that were the animals in the hedges real, were he to encounter them at the side of his Hunter, he could no more allow them to be hunted than he could hunt in a ballroom. For the first time in his life, hunting felt almost profane. It disquieted him deeply.

Cynthia, not born and bred to the actual, physical hunt, could not know all of what he felt, but she sensed his silent mortification. “Here, Stephen,” she said, as if to distract him. “Now we come upon the only thing that interests most of our visitors. The tapestries.”

He shook his head; the stag slowly receded. The walls to either side were teeming with scenes from life, in different reliefs; they had none of the quirky reality that the other hedges had—they indeed seemed to be, as Cynthia had named them, tapestries. In green.

Acts of war were carved there, war and the heroism it often evoked; acts of sacrifice, love, pain. Figures melded in and out of one another, giving the whole a feel of continuity. Of Maubreche's lineage.

“These are the exploits of the Maubreche line,” she said, although it wasn't
necessary. “That”—she pointed almost reverently—“is Harald of Maubreche.” She shivered, and Stephen came to stand at her side, wondering what in the young man's countenance could cause her reaction. The figure could not have been older than Cynthia. He stood on the edge of a cliff, looking outward insensibly upon his audience. His face was an open expression of grief, shock, and loss, but beneath that was a determination seldom seen in any his age. Stephen did not know the history of the family, but he knew that somehow, somewhere, this young boy had given up more than his life to protect something he loved. It radiated outward from him.

Cynthia bowed low and pressed her fingers against her lips. Then she stood and moved on. The scenes changed. Some of them featured women, some men, and some children. In one or two, the pride of the Maubreche hunting packs long past came to bristling life. But none of those had the resonance, and the sense of bitter, inevitable loss, that Harald did. Stephen was afraid to ask the story.

They walked together in silence until at last the tapestries ended. To Stephen's surprise, the hedge that preceded them into the heart of the maze seemed wild and untended. He turned to glance at Cynthia, and she smiled, as if she expected his reaction.

“These wait for the future deeds of the Maubreche family. We know that one of our line will be greater than any who have come before—and this whole wall will be his. Or hers. I hope I live to see that day.” She swallowed, and, for a moment, her eyes were stripped of pride and assurance. She hoped for that day, but Stephen saw fear there, also.

And he wondered, as she did, whether that greatness would exact more of a price than Harald had paid—whatever that price had been.

“Come,” Cynthia said, shaking herself. The moment—and the vulnerability—passed. She was again the adult heir to the Maubreche demesne. “We're almost upon the center. I want you to see the God in daylight.”

Stephen stopped walking, and Cynthia noted this because her hand was upon his arm. “Stephen?”

He did not want to see the God in daylight. He realized, suddenly, that he did not want to see the God at all, even if it was a statue, a representation, no more. He opened his mouth, but he found that he could not tell her why; the horn at his side, hidden in the folds of his jacket, weighed heavily upon him.

But heavy or no, he walked with it, at Cynthia's side. The last of the wild hedge fell away, and in the center, as Cynthia had promised, the God stood in daylight.

But in daylight, the God was different; without darkness, some of its frightening mystery had been stripped away, concealed by the sun. There was a fountain that bubbled at his back, and although this maze was a testament to life, the fountain and the statue were both of stone.

There are some things
, Stephen thought,
that do not change with time.
He stared up,
following the lines of the statue's stone robes, until he could clearly make out the details of the God's face. There, his eyes stopped. For what he saw in this unchanging representation, he had also seen in the Maubreche living tapestries. In Harald's face. Sorrow, deep and profound, as well as determination and a measure of peace, were evident in the solemn line of jaw and forehead.

Without thinking, he dropped to one knee and bowed his head—just as he would have done in the presence of the Master of the Game.

“He doesn't look so horrible, does he?” Cynthia asked softly. “It's hard to imagine that he hurts us so badly each and every year.” She walked past Stephen's bowed form, and came to rest both hands upon the pale stone, as if seeking warmth.

“Why did you ask for sanctuary here?”

She looked back, met Stephen's raised eyes. “Because here, there is no Hunt.” She looked away. “And because here, in this hollow, we have promised to keep the Hunter's word in return for his peace.”

“His peace?”

“It's an old custom, Stephen. A family custom. I don't understand it well, myself; I won't until my father dies.”

It didn't make any sense. “But if your father's dead, how can he tell you anything?”

She did not choose to answer, and although he was curious, he lost the desire to push her. Instead, he stared at the pale profile of her face. Her eyes were closed.

“Cynthia?”

“Yes?” She did not open her eyes.

He hesitated, and then rose, treading carefully across the grass to stand before her. “Why are we here?”

“Ever?” she returned softly. “Or now?”

“Now.”

She swallowed, and to Stephen's surprise, her cheeks reddened. She opened her eyes, searching his; they stood very close. Words started, half-audible; words stopped. They were both afraid, and the fear was an old one, a common one.

“You know I'm going to have to marry soon,” she said at last, uncomfortable and uncertain.

It was Stephen's turn to look away. “Yes. Do you—do you know who?”

She shrugged, an elegant rustle of cloth against skin. “One of three. It doesn't matter.”

He wanted to tell her that it mattered to him, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. Awkward in silence, he matched her shrug.

“I would—I would have married you, if we had held different positions.”

He had always thought it was what he wanted to hear, until he heard it in
truth. But hearing the pain behind the words, hearing the farewell, he took no pleasure in them. “Cynthia—”

“Stephen,” she cut off his question, her voice low. “Must I say everything?”

“What do you want from me?”

“Everything.” Her face was pale and stark. “But I cannot have it; you cannot give it. Ask me a different question.”

“What can I give you?” He reached out; traced the line of her cheek with his fingers.

“It's a better question,” she said, not withdrawing. “Only you can answer it. I've asked it of myself, and I know my own answer. I brought you here.”

He kissed her then, gently and hesitantly. She stiffened, and he pulled back, bumping her nose and the line of her forehead. She laughed shakily and reached up to encircle his neck with her arms.

They kissed again, less awkwardly, their nervousness blending with something else. And then, when Stephen pulled back, he caught her face in his hands and met her eyes. She did not look away, did not avoid him, nor make any move to leave.

He buried his face in the nape of her neck and pulled her close, hugging her as tightly as he dared. In awe, almost, at what she had asked, what she had decided. He knew that nothing that happened today, in this labyrinth, was permanent; knew, no matter how much he thought and planned and plotted, that Cynthia of Maubreche would go on to marry—and bear children to—a lesser Hunter Lord. None of it mattered. He held her close, closer; he lifted his head and found her mouth, still clutching her tightly.

Something sharp pressed into his hip.

He pulled back, as did she, and then looked down to see the plain, carved horn. And he remembered, clearly and suddenly, the last time he had been in the maze with Cynthia. He saw the eyes of the wild girl, as she had shoved the horn into his hands, and felt once again the presence of God.