The Sacred Hunt Duology (42 page)

Those books held voices, all silent now, that nonetheless called to him. The silence, the hush in the halls through which people could be seen moving, made perfect sense. This was a library that not even the King could boast. He reached out, pressed his fingers against the glass, and forgot about the complaints of a long and arduous journey.

“It is not so grand,” Zareth Kahn said, his voice soft. “Our library in Essalieyan is by far superior.” But he smiled almost fondly. “There is a library of older and more delicate works farther down the hall; it is the grandest of all of our rooms.”

Stephen nodded, wordless. It made sense that the Order of Knowledge would have such a collection; it even made sense that mages would. Books, after all, were a hint of magic in Stephen's life.

“Wonderful,” Gilliam snorted. “Do you have kitchens as well?”

As one person, they both turned, and their faces bore very similar expressions. Zareth Kahn recovered first. “Yes,” he replied shortly. “We have kitchens. We also have rooms and wings for visiting . . . dignitaries. If you follow me, I'll see that your needs are attended to. Forgive me for forgetting the hospitality of the Order.”

He began to walk the halls briskly, leaving their wonder to Stephen. Stephen's frown deepened, aimed as it was at the spot between Gilliam's shoulder blades.

• • •

The rooms they were given were grand, even by noble standards. They were both larger and better equipped than the rooms in the King's castle and on his grounds, in which the Hunter Lords lived until the Sacred Hunt. The ceilings, tall, were not arched; they were flat, and crossed by magnificent beams. There were paintings hung above the fireplaces that bore artist's signatures that even Gilliam could recognize. Attached to each sleeping chamber was a small, simple room with a stylized, but serviceable altar for votive offerings, prayer, and meditation. The Order had taken pains to ensure that these altars could be used by worshipers of
many different faiths, although it was equally obvious that the altars themselves saw little use.

There was a sitting room, a small parlor, and a large study. The study was equipped with shelves, although these were empty, and two desks, either of which dwarfed any that the Elseth Manor claimed. It was clear that whoever visited these chambers came to both work and live.

“Do these rooms meet your approval?”

“Indeed,” Lady Elseth replied, before either Stephen or Gilliam could speak. “They do. If this is the hospitality of the Order, Zareth Kahn, than we of Elseth are deeply grateful.”

“Will you require anything? I shall send up servants and water for the baths, unless you would prefer to use the more public ones.”

She raised a brow. “No, the small ones will do.”

He nodded. “When would it please you to dine?”

“After our baths, I think.” She lifted a hand to forestall Gilliam, and caught him in mid-word. “Is there a hall for the Order, or will we dine in our rooms?”

He hesitated a moment, and then bowed. “If it would not trouble you, Lady, I would prefer that you remained in your rooms until I have had time to confer with my colleagues.”

Her shoulders relaxed. “It would be no trouble at all.” Then she smiled, and although she looked weary, her smile was completely genuine—the first such one with which she had graced the mage. “My thanks.”

• • •

“. . . and that,” Zareth Kahn said, sinking to rest in his chair, “is the whole of it, Zoraban.”

The light in the room was low; although it was full day, and Zoraban's chambers had windows aplenty, the curtains had been drawn. They were a subtle, soft weave that allowed a whisper of light, no more, to pass through, but they were also magical in nature—a gift of creation from the Order in the capital of Essalieyan. What was spoken in these rooms when the curtains were drawn would be caught by no magical eavesdroppers, should any try to listen.

Zoraban nodded softly, and even in the poor light, the pale twinkle of his golden eyes was clear. He wore his age like a mantle, letting it suggest both wisdom and the power of gathered knowledge. It had been so for fifteen years, and if any thought it suspicious that Zoraban had not noticeably aged in those fifteen, they were wise enough not to voice their doubts. His long white hair gleamed softly, a halo around his slender features. His beard, thick and heavy, fell like milk into his lap.

Zareth Kahn raised his head idly, after minutes had passed in silence. Zoraban was not the most powerful of the mages that the Breodanir Order boasted—but he was easily the most learned of their number, and for that reason, held the seat
of the Order. None had tried to gainsay him. After all, rare indeed was a god-born child of Teos, God of Knowledge—and when Zoraban had proved himself such a one, the Order had all but begged to receive him.

What are you thinking, Zoraban? What do you know that you've not seen fit to share with us?

As if he could hear the thoughts—and at times, Zoraban was uncannily, uncomfortably perceptive—the Master of the Order met Zareth Kahn's ringed eyes. Against all odds, the Teos-born man smiled; his face lit up with a deep, quiet joy.

“Have they eaten?”

“Pardon?” It was not the question he had expected.

“Have your companions eaten? Would they be willing to speak now, at my request?”

Almost, he said yes—but then he remembered two things. The first was the sour expression of Lord Elseth, and the second, that only Lord Elseth seemed to be able to communicate with the strange girl. Still, one did not easily say no to the Master of the Order. Zareth Kahn reflected on the wisdom of this, weighing the one against the other, before he sighed regretfully. “No, Zoraban. They will eat soon, and if you will it, I will bring them to your chambers the moment they have retired from their table.”

Zoraban raised a frosted brow almost airily. “I see,” he said, his words dry. “Then I will wait here in reposed patience.” He smiled again. “There are answers here, Zareth—I can almost taste them.”

“Answers?” Zareth Kahn asked mildly.

“To the questions the Gods ask,” Zoraban replied. “Not to the questions of impertinent mages, even be they as exalted as to reach the second circle.”

It was a matter of ease and custom to acknowledge a graceful defeat when the opponent was Zoraban; Zareth Kahn inclined his head elegantly. But his curiosity was piqued; it burned and flared to a life that hovered above his state of exhaustion, waiting. “If it won't trouble you, I will also sup quickly.” He rose, without waiting a reply. In such a fey mood, Zoraban was unlikely to find a reason to protest.

• • •

Stephen found the very spartan simplicity of Zoraban's rooms almost shocking. Unlike almost every other inch of the sprawling order, it was unadorned by either paintings, shelves, or carpets. The floor was constructed of simple, well-oiled wooden planks, and the desk against the wall was small. It had two drawers, one on either side of the empty chair, and an inkstand that appeared to be empty.

There was a fire grate, but no mantle, and the only piece of finery in evidence anywhere was the expanse of draperies against the west wall. The drapes were closed and hung in a rippling cascade of oddly colored material; Stephen didn't like them, but he couldn't say why. Still, if not for those, he might have thought they'd been tricked into entering a confinement cell.

Zoraban did not seem to notice the shock of his visitors. “I bid you welcome to the Order of Knowledge,” he said, rising. He wore simple robes, but dark ones; they were unbelted, and fell to his feet in a clean full-circle drape as he bowed, quite low. “I am Zoraban, Master here.”

Lady Elseth, attired in a dress both simple and of obvious quality, returned his bow in kind; she knew that he was not, originally, of Breodanir, and left behind the formal curtsy that she would have otherwise offered. She was bathed and fed, a much renewed person, and as she rose, it was hard to imagine that she had been forced to the capital at such a harrowing pace.

“I am Elsabet, Lady Elseth,” she said softly. “This is Gilliam, Lord Elseth, and his huntbrother, Stephen of Elseth. The girl is unfortunately afflicted and has been unable to give us her name.”

“So I've heard,” Zoraban replied. “But, please, those of you who will, be seated.” He gestured to the walls, where four chairs were unceremoniously placed. The chairs, unlike the rest of the chamber, were finely ornamented; the hardwood of the arms and legs were worked with carvings and symbols, and laced liberally with gold.

Even Lady Elseth raised an eyebrow in question as she accepted the mage's offer.

“Bring the chairs in closer if you prefer; I don't usually have this many guests in my rooms, so I had the chairs brought and left to the side. I should have placed them more hospitably.”

Lady Elseth was first to comply, although Zareth Kahn went to her aid; the chairs were heavy and not easily carried. Stephen followed his Lady's lead, and at length, so did Gilliam.

The girl sat at his feet, resting her chin on his knee. He stiffened, and she lifted her face, her expression almost a parody of hurt. Gilliam looked up then, at Stephen, as if for permission.

Stephen grimaced and then nodded quickly. He watched the girl's head settle back into Gilliam's knees, and after a moment, saw Gilliam slowly stroke her hair.

“Why have you come?” the Master of the Order asked suddenly. He rose, as if he had no need of a chair, but stayed his ground, surveying them all from the advantage of his height. And he was in truth tall, if not in seeming; the lamps at his back cast a long shadow, and the windows were allowed no chance to provide light. For a moment, light at his back and perfect, ivory hair against the black background of his robes, Zoraban seemed the maker-born image of a God.

Stephen drew breath sharply. Golden eyes seemed to flare, like the sun, in the pale face of the Master of the Order. At once, the Elseth huntbrother bowed his head.

The man laughed suddenly, and the shadows resumed their normal, everyday dimensions. “Yes, I'm of the god-born,” he said. “Who else could hope to keep
order within this Order of mages and knowledge-seekers?” Still, it was obvious that the chuckle was a pleased one, and although the fleeting aura of otherness vanished with the laugh, Zoraban did not choose to take his seat again.

“We want answers,” Gilliam said abruptly. “We wouldn't have come had your mage not insisted.”

Zoraban raised an eyebrow. “I would have known you as Hunter Lord with no introduction.” His voice was grave. “But perhaps you will be glad of your journey, Lord Elseth. For I see that Zareth Kahn was correct in his appraisal. At your feet sits one god-born.”

The girl looked up then, shaking her hair free of Gilliam's fingers. She met the mage's golden eyes with her dark ones, and then smiled and bobbed her head up and down, as if in greeting. Or agreement.

“Gil?” Stephen's eye were wide.

So were his Hunter's. “Yes,” he said, half-whisper, half-word. “She says, yes.” And he, too, looked up to meet the eyes of the god-born mage. He put a hand on the girl's shoulder, as if to draw her back—then realized what he was doing, and even had the grace to blush.

“The god-born can speak to the god-born,” Zoraban said, his eyes gentle. “No matter what their language, no matter who their parents. But I have never seen such eyes on one so blessed—or cursed—among our number. Come, girl.”

The girl rose and walked the length of the floor to stand before Zoraban. But she did turn—once—to glance back at Gilliam.

There were so many questions that Stephen wanted to ask—but as the mage lifted both of his hands and gently cupped the girl's upturned face, he forgot them. He could not speak; there was something about the scene that felt almost too private to watch. Yet it was compelling, magical. For a moment, the bright edge of mystery pervaded the room, and all of time seemed to whirl around the two who stood with the blood of the Gods in their veins, without ever eclipsing them.

The mage's eyes glowed; gold turned to sunlight, bright and crackling. The girl's face was turned away from them; they could not see her reaction, but she did not move or pull away.

“Yes,” Zoraban said, in a voice too deep and too low for a human throat, “you are of the god-born. But I do not know your parent.” He let his hands drop, slowly, and raised his head to face the spectators until now forgotten. “I will walk in the half-world for you—and for my own curiosity. I will call my father. Will you wait?”

Zareth Kahn's eyes widened in obvious surprise; Stephen, Gilliam, and Elsabet did no more than nod. What else could they do but wait? They had come this far seeking answers.

“He has only done this one other time,” Zareth Kahn whispered, for Stephen's
ears alone. “You are honored.” Then he, too, fell silent, as Zoraban lowered his hands completely, until the long black sleeves melded with the drape of robes and his fingers curved loosely. His face, he lifted to some point beyond the ceiling, searching upward, and up again, as if the heavens themselves were visible to the golden aurora of his gaze. His lips parted, his beard rustled as if at wind.

The air before him began to sparkle; clouds rolled in, heavy and thick, like low-lying mist on the moors.

“Stand your ground; stay your place.”

Stephen heard Zareth Kahn's command as if from a distance. He gripped the arms of his chair and looked rigidly down as the ground gave way to clouds and a lattice of darkness and light such as he had never dreamed.

“Gil!” He shouted, as he felt his brother begin to rise. “Stay seated. The half-world is not for us.” He pressed his bond with his brother with more force than he had ever done; he could hear the distant screech of wood against wood as Gilliam sat back, hard.

“Trust him. He . . . has forgotten himself in his call. Let me explain. The half-world will open easily for the god-born—they speak with their parents in ways that normal mortals cannot. But humans were not meant to meet with Gods, and without a sure and certain guide, they cannot enter the realm. If they enter it, they can be lost until a God sees fit to return them—but no God can compel them there,” Zareth Kahn said again, his tone calmer, his words slower. “The half-world will not consume us if we stay in our place. Lady?”