The Sacred Hunt Duology (5 page)

She shook her head softly and put aside her seer's ball, folding it into sleeves of midnight blue until its glow could no longer be seen or felt.

Gilliam of Elseth. I remember you.

She knew when she was.

But it was not the time for memory, whether fond or painful. She began to study the periphery of the wood itself, walking with great care, searching with the vision that was by now second nature: seer's sight.

She found what she sought. It was hidden from normal magic and normal sight, and it was subtle enough that she almost missed it at first. But interwoven with leaves, roots, and blades of wild grass was a net: a shadow-snare. Shadow-magic was the province of the demon-kin and the priests of Darkness; they were at work here, now.

Lifting her arms, she waited for the path, certain that she had seen what she had been sent to see; as she stepped onto it, the forests faded from her view. She dared not linger, for fear of being spotted.

“G
ILLIAM, STOP FIDGETING.”

“I'm not.”

Lady Elseth sighed before she stepped back to look at her oldest child. The robes that the Elseth Hunters were confirmed in looked odd and empty on the shoulders of their youngest heir. They hung low, and although pains had been taken to belt them, they looked awful.

But Gilliam, on the eve of his eighth birthday, did not, through no merit of his own. The blackened eye that had been the start of his friendship with Stephen had given way from yellow to pale pink. On the other hand, the large scrape on his cheek from their enterprise at the mill remained a thin mess of scabs and flaked skin. What, by the Mother's grace, had possessed them to try to climb the mill wheel, she didn't know—and at three days from his ceremony, not much could be done to aid him; the nearest of the healer-born was sixty miles away. Worse still, Stephen had quietly come forward, and in private no less, to take the blame for the escapade.

Elsabet was not a stupid woman; how could she be, and occupy the seat of judgment for her lands? She knew a lie when she heard it, but the heart beneath the lie was sound, and the reason for it unquestionable. Before he had even given his oath, Stephen had truly declared himself huntbrother. She wondered if he knew what those words and that false confession had meant, and did mean, to her. Of course, she had still had the duty of meting out just punishment for both the lie and the escapade, but the doing had not made her heart heavier.

She didn't understand completely how the friendship of her son—her two sons—had come about; the only time she had ever been caught at fist play herself still smarted as an episode of humiliation. She and Lady Eveston had never become friends, although age and experience had lent their rivalry a patina of civility.

Now was not the time to think of it. Her oldest child was about to enter the Hunter's rites and swear the Hunter's Oath. And he looked like an underfed urchin. Her own gangly son, with hints of his father's temperament already showing in all the little ways. Her son.

“Well?”

Boredan sniffed. “I think he will have to do. The Hunter Lords have already gathered, and they only wait on the final preparations of the Priest.”

“Are you nervous, Gil?”

“Of course not!”

Ah, age. Lady Elseth smoothed the lines of teasing smile from her face, already regretting the loss of the small child her son had so recently been. Maybe, years from now, she would tease him again and he would smile. Maybe not.

Still, just as her mother had warned her when Gilliam was first born, the time would come to let go a little. She stood, smoothing out the simple linens of her own white robe. Her hair was one long, burnished braid that slid down her back, giving her dress its only color. Tonight, the only finery one could carry was in the heart. Not even the band of the wedding was seen upon her fingers; they were smooth and unadorned.

We are all the Hunter's people
, she thought, and knew it for truth.

But only the huntbrothers and their Hunter Lords faced the Hunter's Death.

“Lady?”

“I'm all right, Boredan. It is . . . chilly this eve.”

Ah, Elsabet
, her mother had said,
it is hard when the first child is a son. When you let him go, you give him to the Hunter God, and the life and death of the Hunter's Oath. You gave him life, hut it is not your province, or even his father's, to protect that life. It is in the hands of God.

And the hands of the Hunter God were red indeed with the blood of his loyal servants.

She wanted to hold her son, one last time. Wanted to, but knew by the proud little thrust of his chest and chin that he would have been humiliated by it. Children could be so cruel in their race and struggle to grow. But they could be crueler still, by dying.

Elsa, you may love your sons for their youth, for their strength—but love them as the sacrifices they might become. Love your daughters more.

Yet she remembered her mother's wet, red eyes, and her trembling lips well.

They are all our children.

Yes.
Her mother had answered, although her eyes had never left her son's bier.

For the first time, Elsabet understood why mothers of the Hunter-born looked so pale and quiet at the first of the ceremonies. And for the first time, she understood the folly of the Doomed King, who had attempted to halt the Sacred Hunt—and the deaths it always caused.

But the land had paid for it; the people had learned anew the lessons that had almost become fable and story. And the Hunter still claimed his blood in return for the life of the land. She looked quietly at her son, seeing only an eight-year-old
child, like unto any of the Mother's children. How could he understand duty? How could he understand death?

The knock that came at the door was soft and insistent. It rescued her from the sadness of her musings. She knew who it would be.

“Elsabet?” Norn didn't enter. “Is he ready?”

“As much as we can make him,” she answered. “Stephen?

“I've been waiting hours. Gil's always late.”

“It wasn't my fault!”

“Was too.
I
said we shouldn't go to the kennels.”

“Would have been fine if you'd cleaned them.”

“Maybe we could finish this argument later?” Norn's large hand fell to rest on Stephen's thin shoulder. Green cloth, bordered in gray, slid down Stephen's short arms and trailed upon the ground at his feet. Like Gilliam, Stephen wore the robes of what must have been a much larger, or older, person. They were worn and simple, but the weight of a proud history was carried in each thread of woven cloth.

Elsabet smiled.
Do you know what you wear, Stephen?

Perhaps he did. He carried himself with pride and a quiet awe as he touched his hem. Or maybe it was just her imagination; he had to lift the robes to walk.

“Well, Gil?”

Gilliam nodded smartly and stepped out into the hall. His eyes were wide and his breath was fast; flags of excitement colored his cheeks. He took his place beside Stephen, and stopped to whisper something to the boy who would become his huntbrother.

Norn placed an arm around his Lady's shoulders. He didn't ask her how she felt. He had lived with her for years, and knew well her mother's fears. But he knew what this night meant for both Stephen and Gilliam, and he almost pitied her, for she would never fully understand it.

Her smile faltered as she looked into his familiar face.

“Strength,” he whispered.

“Pride.” But instead of taking the arm he offered, she grasped his hand and held it tightly as she had once held her dead brother's. They followed in the wake of the two young boys, stepping cautiously into the unknown future.

• • •

Outside, the ground was wet and soft; new shoots of green leafed out over damp earth that threatened to turn muddy. The stars were out, and the moon as well; clouds had fled the sky. Torchlight glowed on the faces of those who waited, chief among them the Lord of Elseth.

He, too, wore only a simple robe. It seemed almost black in the scant light, but Lady Elseth knew it for the dark green that the Master Hunters were entitled to wear. At his left stood Lord Samarin, at his right, Lord Stenfal. They were older
than he by at least ten years, but each had attained the rank of Master Hunter; Lord Samarin had even been named Huntsman of the Chamber two Hunts ago.

As witnesses, none could be found finer or stauncher than these two. Lady Elseth felt a warm glow of pride, and smiled at her husband from across the green. He saw her and smiled back, the expression no less warm than the torch he carried aloft.

The villagers, holding torches and wearing their normal clothing, also stood on the green in an uneven circle. These, too, were witnesses that the ceremonies decreed. They were of the land; they were the Hunter's responsibility and support.

It was late, but even so, Elsabet was heartened to see small children standing at their parents' sides. The youngest were held in arms, although one or two of the most precocious were being chased down by very embarrassed villagers.

Perhaps the children knew best. Their understanding of life gave no pause to the solemnity of ceremony and oath—they laughed or cried as if all of life were encompassed moment by moment.

She had long since lost the ability to do so, but tonight she would not begrudge it to others, only envy it a little.

The circle opened to allow her to pass; she walked to its center, where the twin pillars stood flanking the simple altar of rough-hewn stone. It was weathered with time, and had stood here long before the borders of Elseth existed. She paused to bow low. Her hands came to her lips, held together in a solitary private prayer. When she rose, she looked to the east and west, at each of the stone pillars. Words were written there in row upon row; none could now read them, they were so old.

Will you take my only son?

Her lashes pressed against her cheeks, and she bowed again, unable to ask for mercy in the face of so much history. She was Elsabet of Elseth; she would be as the pillars—solid, strong, a testament to this moment.

She took her place in the foreground in front of her husband, and waited for Norn. Norn walked to the altars and drew a silver knife from his belt. This he laid before him, bowing as Lady Elseth had done.

He joined his Hunter, nodding quietly.

The priest came next. He knelt on the wet ground, unmindful of the robes that would bear the dirt's soft traces; in the darkness they would not be seen. He lifted the knife that had been left for him and pressed its cold length to his lined lips. He was old, the Priest, and by his colors, a Hunter also.

Greymarten
, Elsabet thought. She was reminded again of how well-respected her husband's family was. It was no small matter to journey from the King's side to the Elseth village, but even aged as he was, he had chosen to make the trek.

The Priest rose, knife still in hand.

Only Gilliam and Stephen still stood outside of the circle.

“Breodani, we are gathered here to witness and to receive. We are the people of the Hunter. Who stands for the Hunters?”

Lord Samarin stepped forward and bowed, his robes flapping in the chill breeze. “I do.”

The Priest nodded and gestured; Lord Samarin came to stand at his side.

“Who stands for the people?”

An older woman, the village head, walked forward. She bowed, and her bow was held long. Elsabet recognized Corinna with a quiet tilt of the head; more would disturb the ceremony.

“I do.” And she came to stand to the left of the Priest.

Greymarten nodded, satisfied. “Let them come through.”

A pathway appeared on the green; the circle broke into a passage that Stephen and Gilliam could walk along. It did not close behind them.

Gilliam came first, and knelt at the feet of the Priest. Stephen started to follow, and one of the villagers gently placed his hand upon Stephen's shoulder. It was not yet time.

“You have chosen to walk the Hunter's path,” Greymarten said to the young supplicant.

“I have.”

“Do you understand what that path is, and where it might lead?”

“I do.”

“You are young yet to know it.” The words were ritual, but Gilliam bristled anyway. “Tell me.”

The young boy looked up into the old man's face; torches held aloft revealed only shadows and lines.

“In the time of hunger,” Gilliam began, “we followed our God. But few children were born, and many died too young. There was no game, and we did not know the ways of the growers.” He took a breath, and then his brow wrinkled.

Greymarten looked down benignly, waiting. After a few minutes, he whispered something.

Gilliam blushed and continued, knowing he should have studied his lines harder. “Near death, we called out for aid to any who would hear us. God in the Heavens answered our plea. He came to us and showed us all of the ways of the Hunter, and promised that we would know the full—uh, um—use of it. Them.”

It came as no surprise to the Priest that the boy knew the lines so poorly. Very few Hunters had the patience for scholarly work, so it was not a bad sign.

“He showed us this gift and more, for the dogs at his side came to stand before us in silence. He fed us from the fruits of his labor.” This line, Gilliam didn't understand at all. It sounded stupid. “Grateful, we accepted what he offered.

“For these gifts, we swore to become his people and follow all of his ways.” And if he could just remember the rest, Gilliam would happily do that. “Ummm . . .”

“The Price?”

“But the Hunter demanded of us the one Price that those who accepted his gifts must face: the Hunter's Death. For to give us his skills, he must use them, hone them. Once a year, before the harvest, he asked that we call the Sacred Hunt in his name.”

“Very good, Gilliam of Elseth.” Greymarten placed a hand on either arm, and raised the boy to his feet. He had said enough, and besides, it was painful to hear all of the awkward pauses of ritual poorly understood, but it was warming as well. Year after year, such mangled words were offered as the young entered into the beginning of their full promise. “The people of Breodanir agreed, and the Hunters swore their oaths. And once a year, the Hunter Lords must gather, to be Hunted in turn by the God who has given us our lands. One of these Lords must face the Hunter's Death, or the lands will die around us, and the game will flee.”

There was silence; all eyes were upon Greymarten. But only the oldest remembered the famines of the King's folly. Only the oldest knew that when the Sacred Hunt was finally called three years after its promised time, the Hunter God had been angry indeed. Fully two-thirds of the Hunters had died that grisly death. But the lands and the game had returned, paid for by noble blood.