The Sacred Hunt Duology (58 page)

“You have won and you have lost, little half-sister. The road he has taken, I cannot take—as you well knew—without your leave. Nor would I. But he could not take that road had you not opened yourself to the Winter's power, and the Winter is the force that demands its price. Or have you forgotten?” Her expression said that the question was rhetorical—or that she was not particularly concerned with the answer. “By Winter's end, there will be nothing left of the sheltered soul.”

“I am not you, Ariane,” Evayne countered, her jaw clenched. “You could not shelter a mortal shard even if you desired it; nothing of mortality remains once it has stayed under your dominion, no matter how much you wish it otherwise.” She
spoke in anger; that much was clear from the tone of her voice and the livid flush in her cheeks.

“A challenge, sister?” Ariane raised a perfect white brow. “Very well. The Winter makes its demands.” She gestured in the stillness and her Court, weapons drawn, encircled the still seeress and her companions. Her expression did not change at all, but it was clear that something Evayne had said had found its mark. “You think you can shelter him in safety, and I say you cannot. If I am wrong, the Hunter goes hungry. If I am right, the Winter bears fruit. We will stay until Winter's end.”

Evayne's face bore a smile's ghost—something that lingered, flickering and lifeless, over cold lips.

“It is not Summer,” the Queen continued, the softness of her voice a mockery of gentleness. “There are no rights of passage. Unless you choose to challenge?”

Zareth Kahn whispered something under his breath, but Evayne smiled bitterly and shook her head. “Do not call the fire here, mage,” she said, in a tone so quiet that only Gilliam could overhear. “Nor water nor earth nor air. It is the Winter of the ancient world, and they are not your allies. If you must use magics, use only those that are your own. Make no attempt to manipulate nature.”

He started to ask her another question, and then bit the words back as she met his eyes. He had seen, twice, the assault of the demon lord Sor na Shannen—but the darkness that he saw in Evayne had no match, no equal. He retreated before it, wondering what price a Dark Adept paid, and whether there was any soul left with which to pay it.

• • •

Gilliam understood that to stay here was not his death—it was Stephen's. But he also understood that to attempt to leave was Stephen's death as well, because for reasons that were not at all clear, the Queen felt bound in some way not to attack Evayne—her half-sister?—unless she met conditions that were impossible for him to fathom.

Stephen, where are you?

He reached, felt the nothingness that waited at his core, and recoiled from the question. Espere whimpered at his side; he could not hide his fear from her.

• • •

She prayed and she hungered; she hungered and she prayed. She could not help but consume the thing that she kept hidden, for this was the nature of the darkness, and few indeed were the Adepts who could avoid paying the price it demanded. Especially not now, with coils of power already wrapped around another life. She could feel the struggles in the darkness, but it wasn't clear to her whether they were his struggles or her own; she fought. She had always fought.

And she fought in silence, in stillness, her face a white mask, banded by shadow and darkness. She fought in isolation, because it was the fight she knew. But she
prayed for a Winter's end less harsh and bleak than the only other High Winter that she had known.

Better to pray
, she told herself bitterly,
than fight. Come, Father, if you walk these roads. Grant me a miracle.

Her prayers were answered.

• • •

The air was alive with Darkness that whispered in an exultant gale. The trees, fine and hard and sharp, began to snap and tinkle as ice-covered branches collided. The dogs turned—as did Espere—their faces grown wild, the whites of their eyes a shimmery silver. Even the Hunter lifted his head and tossed his antlers in a wide circle.

“What is this trickery?” The Queen asked softly, loath to take her eyes from Evayne. “I did not think you had it in you, Evayne. This is grand.” She lifted a mailed arm, and her fingers clenched in a fist.

“It is not I,” Evayne replied mildly. “But it seems that more than one will walk the High Winter road this turning.”

“I think it not possible,” the Queen said cautiously, as she gestured her throne into nothingness and turned to face the road at her back. “Without your path, you would not walk mine; no mortal now exists who can walk this road in Winter.”

“No,” Evayne said, a fey smile touching her lips.

Out of the clear night air, a tall, slim figure came at a run. He wore a slender woven chain that jingled like silver coins in a shaking sack, and his hair, pale and fine, flew at his back. He threw himself at the feet of his Queen, elegant in his obeisance. Before she could speak, he pulled his sword and tried to bury it, beneath her regard, into the road itself.

The blade struck ground and shivered, but would not be driven home.

“What is this, Findalas? How come you to have drawn this blade?”

He made no answer, but his chest heaved as he gestured to the road behind. The Queen's back was perfectly straight as she gazed in the direction of his arm. Without turning—as if turning would deprive her of the vision—she spoke.

“I believe I understand why you chose to walk this road again, little half-sister.”

“What is it?” Gilliam hissed as Zareth Kahn stared intently, in turn, past the Queen's back.

“We . . . were followed,” the mage replied reluctantly.

Gilliam spoke in a fashion that would have been the humiliation of Lady Elseth. No one seemed to notice.

“It has been a very, very long time,” Ariane continued, as she took a step forward and loosed her riding beast. “Winter has been a shadow of itself since the Covenant.” She pulled a tiny horn, unseen until now, from her belt; this she lifted to her pale lips and winded.

The trees fell away in an instant, as if they were indeed mere shadows of a living forest. The road, gray and slick and hard, stretched out like a field of ice and snow over terrain that had never seen life. From the left and the right—east and west, north and south, seemed to mean little—the host of the Ariani came riding.

Their mounts were dark, with glistening coats, but they were no fragile creatures; they were like the soul of a perfect warhorse. Had they had fangs and claws instead of teeth and hooves, no one would have been surprised.

At the head of the host was a single rider, and he came toward the Queen, stopping at a respectful distance and forcing his mount to kneel. “You have called, and we have come. What would you have of us, Lady?”

“Who rules the road in Summer?”

“You, Lady.”

“Who rules the road in Winter?”

“You, Lady.”

“Has it always been so?”

“It will always be so,” he replied, striking his long, kite shield with the black blade of his pole-arm. “What matter what passed before you? It is of no consequence. We are the Ariani. We will fight in the Winter.”

She caught the white spill of hair in her left hand, pulled her long blade up in her right, and before the assembled host, cut a swathe through the one with the other as if it were fine cloth. The end-knot, still silver and obsidian, she bent and retrieved. Then she turned, her hair no longer confined by weight or ornament in the wild of the night.

“Come, lord,” she said, and the Hunter came. “Come.” The hounds as well. “Would you join me, little half-sister? Would you know the glory that your birth has robbed you of? You will never have the chance again!” She held out one hand, as if in welcome, all enmity forgotten, all anger buried beneath a tense excitement that—almost—made her seem youthful.

“If I could be assured of it, Ariane, I would join you forever,” Evayne replied, and a quivering longing laced the words as the shadows filled her eyes. “But I believe that I will have this chance, or one like it, again before I die.”

“I will not question you, or keep you further. Here,” she said, her hand holding bound strands of her platinum hair. “You have granted me a boon, will it or no, and if the time comes that you require a like boon, bring this to my Court. You know the way.”

“And your quarry?”

“I release it to you,” Ariane replied, “and I release it now, by the Winter rites, that I might find another quarry before the Winter passes.” She smiled then, but it was an odd smile—it spoke of youth, of youthful longing, of an innocence long dust. She waited, and it seemed that she trembled with the strength of her joy.

The demons came in a ring of fire.

At their head, Sor na Shannen, demon lord and servitor of Allasakar, entered the field. Her eyes were wide as her gaze touched the Ariani. She gestured, and the demons stopped in mid-stride.

Ariane stepped forward. “You are intruders in the land of the Ariani,” she said, her voice clarion clear and matchless. “And all who travel the roads pay obeisance to their Queen.”

Sor na Shannen stepped forward as well. “To Ariane?” She laughed, and the laughter was wild. Elemental. The darkness in her voice carried across the barren plane. “Ariane was a whelp when our lord ruled the elements! Begone, or you will know his wrath when he returns to claim them!” She gestured and the very heart of fire leaped to the sky. Wild Fire. The oldest of the forms.

The host of the Ariani murmured, a sound like a distant wave. “Oh, very good,” Ariane replied. And she, too, gestured, and the fire met water in a crash and hiss. It was the signal.

The hosts moved forward.

• • •

“Come!” Evayne cried. She grabbed Zareth Kahn and Gilliam by the shoulders and dragged them back across the endless plain. “We are mortal in part or in whole, and we will not survive observation of this battle—let alone the battle itself. Come!”

Gilliam felt her fingers graze his skin as if they were sharpened; they stung as they drew his attention. He reached out and caught Espere as the wild girl stood, still as the ice beneath their feet, held by the opening clangor of battle. He felt it in her, then; the desire to stay, to fight—the desire for a freedom that not even he could imagine.

She did not test him. He did not test her. She came, as she had done and would continue to do, because he desired it, demanded it, lived it—for he was her Hunter.

22nd Scaral, 410 A.A.

Averalaan, Terafin

Y
EARS, HE HAD WATCHED
this woman. Months. Days.

She sat still now, as she always did, but there were subtleties to the stillness. Her hands lay palm down against the gleaming surface of her desk, and between them, sheets curled by sweat and rough handling, lay the letter that Ararath Handernesse had penned. She had finished reading it fifteen minutes ago; he knew it because although her eyes were fast upon the vellum, they had not moved at all.

Very few people understood the domicis, even among those who employed them, either short- or long-term. To the common people, they were glorified servants; stiff-lipped men—and the occasional woman—who, like the Astari to the Kings, served, protected, and did not question. They did not launder, they did not cook, they did not clean—but they arranged the day-to-day affairs of the powerful. They were even known to have given up their lives to save those that they served.

Service. He watched her unbowed head, seeing in the absolute absence of emotion, the emotion that must hide beneath the fine control she exerted.

The domicis were paid, of course. And they were paid well. Although almost no House did completely without their use from time to time, very few of the patriciate employed them permanently; it was costly. But the coin of the realm was not all that the domicis sought. They served. They made an art of service, of defining service. And they chose those masters who best fit their needs, and their abilities. For they studied in many, many fields, and mastered not a few. This was truth.

Years.

Morretz knew better than to offer her refreshment; knew better than to offer her companionship or comfort. She sat in an isolation of her own choosing, and she would not leave it until she was ready.

But he could wait; no one of the domicis could wait with better grace than Morretz. It was not, of course, one of the reasons he had been chosen—but it had served him in good stead.

When she looked up, she met his eyes in silence. They were master and servant here; more than title separated them. Because she wished it. She waited for him to speak; he waited for her. It was as close to a game as he dared play.

He was very surprised when she conceded. “Among the domicis, Terafin retains the service of three.”

He nodded, intrigued; it was not at all what he had expected to hear her say.

“If you were to place an untried and ill-mannered young woman with one of these three, whom would you choose?”

“Is the young woman to remain here under your permanent protection?”

“Perhaps.”

He thought it over carefully, knowing she expected no less. Caralas was too stiff, he thought; too intimidating. Morden was too soft-spoken, and definitely too attractive. But Parenal was a man who would not accept a master of little power—or little consequence; it was he to whom dignitaries of rank and stature were assigned while they sojourned at Terafin estates. He lifted his gaze, and read his answer in her eyes before he spoke it.

“It is as I thought as well,” she replied. Her hands still lay against the table, and beneath her pale chin, the vellum. She looked across at him, and he thought her face a shade of winter, cold and clear.

“To whom do you wish a domicis assigned?”

“The street child and her kin.”

Morretz raised a brow. “I do not think there is one among the whole of the guild who would willingly take such a lord.” He should have been surprised, but he was not; The Terafin was a woman who had risen to her rank by making the unusual choice, the unpredictable gambit. Although these had lessened as she had gathered experience and power, she could never be glassed in.

“If I guess correctly,” The Terafin said, “she will be a lord whose origins belie her import to this house.”

“And your guess would be worth much. But I still cannot think of one—”

She waited.

“Ellerson,” he said at length. “Not a name you would know, Terafin. Not a man who has served in many years. But I believe that he might be persuaded to take this service, at least on a contract basis.”

“When can you have an answer?”

“When the offer is tendered,” was Morretz's grave reply. “I will speak with the guildmaster immediately.” He paused. “You realize that word of this is bound to travel?”

“I have considered it, yes.”

“You realize that not all of the House Council retain the services of a domicis at the House's expense?”

“I know what it will mean, Morretz,” she replied evenly, in the manner of one
holding back angry words. “But in this case, the risk is justified. Do not question me.”

“Terafin.”

• • •

We serve
, Morretz thought.
We do not question.

Which was, of course, a lie. But it helped, in the early years, when one was learning the arts. Only as one gained experience and wisdom did one realize that mindless service was of little use to the master that one chose.

The halls of the domicis were stately and elegant, as always. Morretz raised his hand, palm out, as Akalia walked briskly by. She was one of the few who had chosen to serve the domicis as a whole, rather than choosing a single master, and it was under her keeping that the guild of the servitors flourished.

He had come here when she was old—or so he had thought her then; she was older still when he had been chosen as domicis by a young woman—Amarais ATerafin—and he had formally accepted service to her. In between, behind doors so closed that not even his master could cross their threshold, he had learned how to use his talents, hone his skills.

Power. He had chosen to serve it and to harbor and protect it; he knew it when he first laid eyes on Amarais ATerafin, although he had not acknowledged it until that day. Still, Akalia had selected Morretz for training in the delicate arts; she knew, before he did, how he would choose, if not who.

But not all men made such a choice.

Morretz crossed the wide foyer, seeking not the training rooms, but rather the libraries. There was only one man seated on the broad, low benches there.

“Ellerson.”

“Morretz.” Ellerson's voice was deeper, and his hair a little whiter—perhaps a little sparser—but time had otherwise been gentle with him, a thing which could not often be said of the domicis. “Akalia says you have an unusual request?”

“Very.”

“You know I've retired from all of this nonsense.”

“Of course.”

“Which is why you had Akalia call me in, no time for more than a quick change of clothing and a hasty gathering of personal items?”

Morretz smiled. “Not precisely.”

Ellerson raised a frosted brow. “Then tell me. Precisely.”

“The Terafin wishes to hire you, for a contracted period, not for life.” He paused, reading nothing at all in the lines of Ellerson's face. They were many. “You will have a wing of the house proper, and it will be your domain; you may choose your own servants, if those provided do not meet your approval, and you will, of course, be given a generous budget out of which to operate.”

“Go on.”

“You will be offered the sum of not less than two thousand crowns for a period which may be as short as two days and as long as two years.”

At this, a brow did rise. “Two thousand crowns? That
is
rather a lot. Am I to serve a nefarious criminal of some sort?”

At that, Morretz smiled again. “Ellerson, The Terafin may not be aware of your particular choices in masters, but I am—I assure you that we would not house a nefarious criminal under your care. Or at all, for that matter.”

“The patriciate is composed of them,” Ellerson replied.

“However,” Morretz continued, “we would certainly not shy away from asking you to serve a petty criminal.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“A girl, possibly of age, but most likely fourteen or fifteen by her size and look.” He took a deep breath. “She came in off the streets, quite literally—and they weren't the streets of
Averalaan Aramarelas
.” He took another, deeper breath. “And she brought her den with her.”

“This is some sort of a joke.” It was not a question.

Morretz raised fingers to massage his brow. Obviously, this wasn't going to be easy.

• • •

Hours passed in the confines of the antechamber; guards changed shift not once, but twice.

They'd had no food this day, and little the day before, but Jewel and her den waited, fidgeting quietly as the sands ran. Arann was alive. No one wanted to ask why; if it was a dream or a spell, who wanted to be the one to break it? Duster was dead, and that was loss enough for one day.

Jewel nudged Teller with her foot, and he pried his lids open. Glancing up at the bright, high ceiling, he started before he realized where they were—where they still were. Angel was sitting, back to the wall, chin nearly buried into his lanky chest. She'd seen the posture a hundred times before, but only under this roof did it look . . . ridiculous.

What do they want? What do they want from us?

When the guards came, it was almost a relief. But what they said made as much sense as anything else that had happened in the last two days.

“The Terafin has granted you use of the guest hall,” a guard said, without so much as a disapproving side glance. “If you will follow us, we'll escort you there. She asks that you await her word; there are matters of import with which she must deal before she can return to your case. She begs your pardon for any difficulty the delay may cause, and has taken the liberty of having a meal called for you. And,” he added, “baths. You will find the large bath in the center of the hall is now full of warm water, and will accommodate you.” Where Torvan was fair-haired and solidly built, this guard appeared almost feline; he was dark and slender and
moved as if motion were a hard-won skill that only the favored few could truly learn.

Teller looked dubious at best, as did Finch; Angel said nothing, and Jester snapped his teeth across the words that he was about to foolishly say before he caught sight of Jewel's warning glare. “That'll be fine,” she told the guard curtly.

Carver and Arann were still in the healerie, and Jewel didn't like to leave without them, but she knew a dismissal and an order when she heard it, and she was smart enough not to argue.

Where are they really taking us?
she thought. She counted the six guards that joined them as they left The Terafin's antechamber.
Guest hall, I bet.

Luckily, she didn't voice her sarcasm—because it meant that she didn't have to lose face when they passed between the tall, smoky columns that led to the wide sitting hall of the wing meant for visiting dignitaries.

Stories were made of halls less fine, dreams of rooms less vast and beautiful. No one spoke as they made their way beneath the arch and ran into the back of the guard when he stopped unexpectedly. Jewel thought she caught the faint trace of a smile around his lips, but it was gone as he faced them and performed a very formal salute: Shield arm across chest, weapon arm extended.

“In the name of The Terafin,” he said gravely.

Jewel nodded. No one else spoke. They stared at each other for a few minutes. Then the guard did smile, but the smile was friendly and without the edge that often accompanied a smile in the twenty-fifth holding.
Soft living.

“I am Arrendas ATerafin. We leave you now,” he said gravely. “But if you feel the need for guards while you are under The Terafin's protection, don't hesitate to request them.”

“Uh, right.” She stared at him for a minute, and then stepped out of his way. She was already tired of his smile before he and the five who followed him bowed again and filed out of the room, two abreast. “Wait!”

Arrendas ATerafin snapped to a stop, as did those that followed him in formation. He turned on his heel, pivoting with the smooth easy grace that comes from birth and not experience. “Yes?”

“If I—if we—need guards, who do we ask for?”

“Arrendas,” he replied. “Arrendas or Torvan.” He waited until he was satisfied that she would ask no further questions, and then turned and led his guards out.

Finch waited until he was out of sight, and then threw up her birdlike arms and let out a squeal of glee. “Look at us!” she shouted, bouncing up and down. “Look at this!” She ran over to the west wall of what appeared to be a sitting room of some sort “If we took this with us, we'd have it made. This is worth a
fortune
!”

“Indeed it is,” someone said.

Finch jumped ten feet and everyone else started.

In the inner door of the sitting room stood a severely dressed older man,
watching the den with a mild frown. It was as close to disapproval as anything they'd yet seen—and that made it familiar and almost welcome. He stared at them for a few minutes, until he realized that they weren't going to speak. Then he cleared his throat.

“I,” he said, “am Ellerson. I am the keeper of these rooms; if you will permit me to ask you a few questions, I shall see that your needs are fulfilled while you reside within them. I am called,” he added, “the domicis.”

“Does everyone have to talk like that?” Jester muttered under his breath.

As she'd been wondering the same thing, Jewel didn't snap at him. “Well, we want food,” she told the old man.

“It has already been laid out, and is waiting for you in the dining room.”

“Great!” Angel started forward. “Just lead us there and let us at it.”

Ellerson raised a peppered brow and looked down his nose as Angel approached. “Follow me, sir.” He led them—slowly—through the sitting room, past another room, and down a long, wide hall. Had they wanted to run down the halls, it would have been hard; there was something about his presence that was so imposing he couldn't be ignored.