The Sacred Hunt Duology (37 page)

He knew that he could not stay or accept what Cynthia offered; the time was poor for it, and dangerous.

But he bit his lip until he drew blood.

She knew. He did not have to speak. Her eyes filmed and then snapped shut; water glistened at her lids and along her lashes, but did not grace her cheeks. “I—I understand. I'm sorry to have troubled you.”

He caught her by the shoulders, then. “You don't understand, Cynthia. I'm—I'm under wyrd; I would stay with you if I could. But that girl—that wild creature that Gilliam brought with him four evenings past—she gave me this.” He lifted the horn at his hip.

“What of it?”

“It's the God's.”

She did not believe him, or else she thought him mad. She turned her face to the statue and once again gripped the edges of its pedestal. “Then give it back to God.” Her voice was shaky, angry.

“Cynthia,” he said, but she would not turn. “Let me see to the horn and the girl; let me solve the problem they present. I'll return then.”

“And what if you return too late?” Her voice was proud, almost haughty.

He swallowed. She was right; he was a fool to lose this one day, this one chance. He took a step toward her, and then another, but as he reached out, he felt
power.
The clearing glowed with it. Cynthia, unmoved, still kept her back to him.

The face of the God moved. His lips formed a single word or perhaps a snarl; it wasn't clear. Its meaning was
Go.
Cynthia had not seen it, and Stephen doubted that she would.

“If I return late?” he asked, determined to at least answer her. “Then I'll curse myself for a fool until I die.”

She turned in an awkward rush. “Stephen—”

He pressed his fingers against her lips. “I'll return, Cynthia. I'll come back to you. We'll meet here again.” But even as he said it, he felt the shadows growing. The wyrd was upon him, and in each of the three dreams, he had called his own death.

She had always been aware of him, or of part of him; she saw the shift in his face and the shift in his promise immediately. “Swear it,” she said, her voice suddenly hard. “Swear it, Stephen.”

“I so swear.”

“No—not like that.” She bent down and lifted her skirts in trembling hands. He watched as she removed the small knife that all Hunter Ladies carried. Before he could stop her, she dragged it across her hand, as Gilliam had once done, years ago.

“Cynthia . . .”

“You did it for him, when you were a child. Do it for me now.” She was crying, her eyes almost as red as her palm. He took the knife.

“Tell me that you'll return to me, Stephen.”

“I'll return to you. I swear it.” His hand shook as he placed the knife against his palm.

“No matter what happens.”

“No matter what.” His blood flowed then. Before he could offer her his hand, she had taken it. He pulled her close, and she let him, although it was awkward; she did not release his hand.

“Lord,” she whispered softly, her lips and eyes swollen. It was not until she continued to speak that Stephen realized she did not speak to him. “We've kept our oath and your lands. Bear witness to this vow; give it your blessing and your curse.”

They were no Priest's words, but in their choked rhythm, Stephen felt a stirring. He could not identify it, could not name it; it was almost as if a different God's approbation drifted past on the quiet breeze.

But Cynthia stopped crying almost at once, and he held her in his arms for as long as he dared, thinking that not once had they spoken of love.

T
HE FIRST PERSON THAT
Stephen met, when he returned to Elseth Manor, was Lady Elseth herself. She had had word of his coming, and perhaps contrived to meet him upon his return. Gilliam was nowhere in sight, and Boredan was also about his duties.

He was not tired from the journey; indeed, he had chosen a leisurely pace along the road. He had wanted time and privacy in which to think—and these would best be obtained in the company of complete strangers at the inns or along the roads.

“Stephen,” Elsabet said, coming down the long hall, her skirts rustling, as always, in her wake. Fashions had changed since he was eight, and with those fashions had gone the plain, long skirts. Now, there were thin hoops, and panniers that reminded him, oddly, of saddlebags, around Lady Elseth's legs and petticoats. He thought them ugly, and hoped that fashion would be kind and turn again.

“Elsa,” he said, grabbing her hands firmly in his own, and leaning down to kiss her cheek. “What news?”

“I was about to ask you that,” she said, smiling. She pulled back, although she did not let go of his hands, and her eyes were distinctly appraising. “You didn't stay long.”

“No.”

“I'd sent word that you wouldn't be needed.”

“You lied.”

She met his eyes and the lines around hers deepened. Then she smiled, almost shyly; a hint of the young girl she might once have been. “I didn't,” she said dryly, “realize that it was a lie at the time.” She leaned forward into his chest, and he let go of her hands to place arms around her shoulders. “But I'm worried.”

“About Gilliam?”

“Who else?” She laughed, but the laugh was too high, and a little too brittle. Then, as if remembering herself, she said, “You look well, Stephen.”

He felt her shiver, and he smiled broadly. “Vivienne could raise the dead. But, yes, I'm well. I apologize if I frightened you.”

She played at batting the side of his head. “Frightened me? The very thought of being left alone with Gilliam—say that you terrified me instead, and all will be forgiven.”

They hooked arms together, but instead of entering into the house, Lady Elseth led Stephen out the front doors. She ambled along the kept area of their grounds, and to any watching servants, there was little out of the ordinary. Except that Stephen had not yet bathed, or even seen to the accoutrements of his travels.

“Stephen, what is happening?” Elsa said, when they were far enough away from the manor so she could be certain no servant's ears would hear her. All playful banter was gone from her voice, and the very set of her eyes and lips were exactly those she wore when she sat in judgment.

“Happening?”

“You did not see fit to explain your injuries; neither did Gilliam or Cynthia. I can understand, perhaps, your reluctance.” It was, of course, a lie. “But the girl that Gilliam brought home with him—she's not normal.”

“No,” Stephen replied gravely. “But . . . how has she been?”

“I don't know.” The words were clipped and cold. “She hasn't spoken a single word. Not just to me, Stephen. To anyone. Gilliam is constantly with her—or rather, she is constantly with Gilliam. She does not eat at our table, and . . . she cannot be made to dress in an appropriate fashion.”

“Do you fear madness?” he asked, hoping that she did.

“No,” Lady Elseth replied. The women of Breodanir were far too perceptive. “Not madness. She's possessed of a certain cunning, and a certain intelligence. I have seen it before, often.

“In the dogs.”

“But surely only a madwoman—”

“Stephen, enough! I am the Lady of Elseth, and all who dwell on Elseth lands answer to me. This is a matter of safety for our people and our responsibilities, and I will have the truth. Now, if you please.”

“Elsa—”

“Now.”

• • •

He told her, of course. And she knew that he would. Gilliam could turn her aside with a word or a dismissive gesture, but his huntbrother understood too well her cares and concerns.

He hesitated before he told her of the wyrd, but with her gentle prompting, he found it impossible to be afraid of her derision. He told her of the dreams first, and when she nodded gravely, he found himself speaking next of Krysanthos, the mage-born, and Kallandras, the bard-born. When he told her about the man who had tried to kill him in his first Sacred Hunt, she stopped him briefly.

“Why didn't you tell us?”

“I—it didn't seem important after Soredon's death.” It was half-truth, but Soredon's death, even at years' distance, could still stop her in her steps, and she didn't question further.

Last, he told her of the creatures who had hunted them in the lower circle of the King's City. “She called them demon-kin,” he said softly.

“She?”

“Evayne. The mage who saved our lives.”

“The woman of your wyrd.”

He nodded.

“And this girl?”

“I don't know. But—” But very gently, he reached for, and opened, his belt pouch. Hands shaking, he pulled the simple horn out, into the light of day. When she reached to touch it, his hands curled up reflexively. She drew back. “She gave it to me.”

Sun touched the horn, casting little shadows in the palms of Stephen's hand. For a moment, it looked too simple, and too real, to be the cause of such concern. He expected Lady Elseth to laugh—if only a little—or to demur. She offered him neither comfort.

But her face was very pale, almost gray. “Stephen?”

He had to lean down to catch the word; the wind, weak and playful, pulled it from her lips.

“Walk me to the Hunter's altar.”

He offered an arm, and without hesitation, she took it. Together, in silence, they made their way to the Hunter's green. There, at its edge, she let go of his arm. “Leave me,” she said softly. “I need time to think.”

“Elsa—”

“Leave me.” There was no anger or rancor in her words; there was hardly any emotion at all. But her chin was set a little too high, and her lips were a little too thin.

“Elsa—” he tried again.

But she would not hear him. Instead, she drifted over the invisible circle, a quiet vision of deep blues and bright reds across the open green. She did not look back; she walked like a ruler who needed, and wanted, no aid. Stephen did not know what to offer, although Norn might once have, had he lived. Instead, he watched until she approached the altar itself. Then, abruptly, he turned, knowing what he would see, and unwilling to watch it.

• • •

Elsabet, Lady Elseth, knelt in the grass, unmindful of dirt or insects; she had brought no rolled carpet with her to protect her skirts. She pressed her forehead to the cool stone of the altar's edge, forced it, just to feel and to know that it would not give at all.

What must I do?
she thought, afraid to even whisper the words, afraid to give them solidity, grant them reality.

She did not lie to herself, did not try—especially not here, in the sight of God. What she had heard, she felt as truth.
It is never over, is it?
She lifted her face, then, to look up at the henges, with their ancient, impassive runes.

The women of the Breodanir were never trained in the Hunt; they were trained, rather, to face its wake. They were not trained, or rarely so, to fight with the weapons that the Hunters bore—although they each had some knowledge of dagger play—yet they granted death, on rare occasions, from the seat of judgment in their demesnes. They did not face the Hunter's Death—but not a single one of them, upon becoming mothers, would have hesitated to face it if their children might be spared.

And if they were not fighters in the Hunter's scheme, they were warriors in their own. Elsabet, Lady Elseth, was tired—but she still held her title, and all of the responsibilities that went with it. She longed to find Gilliam a wife; she longed to leave, just for a moment, the duties that had shaped and scarred her.

But she would never hurt her line and her people by stepping aside to let them pass untended. She did not cry; she had long since learned that tears were a language that the Gods did not understand. Instead, she raised her face, looking almost serene in the dying light.

“What will you have of my sons?”

Grass rippled in the breeze; nothing else stirred.

“Very well, Lord. But I will not let them go lightly. What I can offer them, even in your game, I will.”

She rose, and her pride settled upon her shoulders like an honorable, ancient mantle.

• • •

Stephen saw to his horse; he wanted the time to think about all that he had revealed to the woman who was his mother and his ruler. The stable hands, used by now to the moods of quiet and business that Stephen sometimes displayed, stayed out of his way; they did not even offer him brush or blankets.

When he had finished in the stables, he turned to the house. He greeted the keykeeper with studious politeness—he was still, at his age and station, measured and too often found wanting in Boredan's eyes—and then retreated to his rooms to wash and change.

But he did not sleep, and he did not eat. When he had finished, he left to search for Gilliam. It was not hard to guess where he would be found.

The sun was low, and the sky had given way to pinks and tufted clouds; the air was cooling rapidly. Stephen did not bother with a heavier jacket; the kennels, he knew, would have a fire burning in two places. He paused only to light the lamp he carried before he opened the small door at the kennel's side.

There, haloed by the light that he carried too tightly to his chest, he stopped in silence.

He understood, in an instant, the concern that Lady Elseth had failed to make completely clear. The dogs lay in their beds, resting before their final evening meal. Although he could not make them out clearly, he could read the names graven in plaques at the foot of each bed; he knew which ones woke to sniff the air before they settled their heads back down against paws and straw. Although Gilliam was Lord now, and master of the Elseth kennels, there were no younger brothers or cousins to tend the dogs, and the responsibility remained Gilliam's.

Ashfel, at three years of age the leader and pride of Gilliam's alaunts, growled softly and gently; a warning to Stephen, but not a threat. Stephen met the dog's eyes, reddened in the lamp's glow, and nodded, as if to quiet the dog. He did not have the kitchen scraps that he most often brought as a bribe—and had he carried them, he would have forgotten them in an instant.

For in a bed that should have been disused, the wild girl lay upon her stomach, her cheek to a pillow that looked incongruous upon the bed of straw. She wore a pale shift—one that was dirty and torn—of indeterminate color, and her hair was a tangle of darkness and shadow.

And beside her, in the tunic and vest that Gilliam wore when he tended the dogs in their kennels, Gilliam himself lay sleeping.

Stephen blinked rapidly, as if to clear away the fog from his vision. He even closed his eyes and bit his lip, something he had done only rarely since his Ascension, but when he opened his eyes again, Gilliam still lay in repose at the girl's side.

Mother's breath
, he thought, as he leaned back against the wall.
I'm not seeing this. This isn't real.

The girl suddenly raised her head, squinting against the light. She opened her mouth, and something midway between a bark and croon left her lips.

Stephen felt Gilliam stir, and wake, as he watched. He didn't know what he would say, didn't know what he wanted to say. Gilliam saved him the trouble.

“What in the hells are you doing here?”

• • •

Elsabet heard the kennels as they erupted into cacophony. A tight smile fixed itself to her lips; she did not so much as pause as she made her way to the house. The dogs were howling, and no doubt the litter that Gilliam's best bitch had recently whelped had joined their elders. She shook her head, glad that Stephen had at last arrived home, if not to set things right, than at least to argue sense with Gilliam in the way that Hunters knew best.

• • •

She was not surprised to see them come into the house. Bits of straw and dirt clung to their jackets, and it was clear that Gilliam's shirt had lost buttons. She
could see, even down the stretch of the hall that held her sitting room, that they were both still very red-faced and angry—and that one, if not both of them would have bruises around their eyes. She held her peace, but an echo of the children they had once been touched her heart, and she almost smiled.

Until she saw that Stephen's arm was bleeding, and he held it close to his chest. With an ease that spoke both of custom and unquestioned authority, she pulled the rope that would summon the keykeeper, and then set off down the hall at a quick stride.

They both looked up, as if seeing her for the first time. “It's all right,” Stephen said quickly. Gilliam said nothing, but he would not meet his mother's eyes.

“What on earth—Gilliam, did the dogs do this?”

“No!” They both said it in unison.

“Did you?” Lady Elseth said, her voice high.

“No.”

She knew, then, what she thought might have happened, and she paled. But on this one point, she was too weary to press Gilliam. Stephen was his huntbrother, and on Stephen's shoulders, she would let it all rest.

“Elsa—we haven't finished talking yet,” Stephen said, smiling rather dryly. “We'll be in the side room if you need us.”

She nodded, but very, very stiffly. “Your arm?”

“It's not as bad as it looks,” he said, but he winced.

“When you've finished this, you will see Boredan.” It wasn't a question. Stephen grimaced and nodded. Then his face tightened as he looked at his brother.

“Come on,” he said.