The Sacred Hunt Duology (6 page)

“Then, Gilliam, do you swear by the Hunter's Oath?”

“I do.”

“Will you promise to hunt in the people's stead, and to feed them your kills?”

“I will.”

“Will you protect them from outsiders, defending them by force of hounds and weapons if necessary?”

“I will.”

The Priest turned to Corinna. “Do you accept his word?”

Corinna remembered witnessing Lord Elseth's first majority—although she had been no headwoman then. Tonight was a window into her youth, so like to the father was the son. “I do.”

“Will you succor him and his heirs in times of need?”

“I will.”

“Gilliam?” The Priest held out one hand, and Gilliam placed his own into it. The knife very gently came down; it was cold and sharp, and left a well of red in its wake.

Greymarten nodded, satisfied, and then looked up, his eyes seeing both this darkness, and every other darkness that made this ritual endless. “Who comes from the people?”

Stephen was given a little shove forward now, and he walked quickly across the cool green. He knelt at the feet of the Priest, beside Gilliam.

“I do.”

“And why do you come?”

“To pledge my oath, under the Hunters' eyes. The Hunter God knew well the foibles of his people, for he knew all. He saw that those who labored under his gift might be driven too far from the people they had sworn to feed and protect. I have come, from the people, to take my place as huntbrother. To hunt, as my Lord will hunt, without use of his gift. To guard him and protect him and see all dangers by his side; to face the Hunter's law so that we may remain strong. To remind the Hunter, always, of the people he must defend.”

“Rise, Stephen,” Greymarten said, well pleased. The words, wrapped as they were by youth, had lost none of their power to move him.

Stephen did, holding out one hand just a little too soon. The Priest took it anyway, and gave it the kiss of the knife.

Stephen turned to face Gil, and the two clasped hands, right to left. Their grip was tight, and they ignored the blood that fell at the Priest's feet.

“I'll be your Hunter,” Gil said. His grip grew tighter. “You'll be my brother and my friend.” He looked at Stephen's shadowed face, and remembered the mill. “Everything I've got, I'll share with you. I'll defend you and listen to you—” He grimaced. “—in all things.”

“I'll be your huntbrother,” Stephen said quietly. He saw the half-healed cut across Gil's cheek and smiled suddenly, lowering his voice to a whisper, “even if you're an idiot.”

Greymarten coughed, and Stephen blushed.

“I'll be your huntbrother,” he began again. “I'll stay at your side for all hunts, even the Final One.” On impulse, he added, “I'd face the Hunter's Death for you.” His grip grew tighter also. His hands felt warm and sticky, but they didn't hurt at all, and he wondered if it was his own blood he felt, or Gilliam's. Something began to change slowly.

He forgot about hunger, and forgot about the cold. He forgot all of the people who stood in a circle around him, watching and listening intently. There was only Stephen and Gilliam, and that was right.

“I call the Hunter God to witness.” Greymarten's words echoed oddly in the stillness. They were full, low, loud—as if said by a throat that was no longer merely human. He reached out, placing a hand on either supplicant's shoulder.

“This is the last rite,” he said formally. Neither boy looked at him. “From here, there is no turning back. Understand this.”

As one, they nodded solemnly.

“Breodan, Hunter, accept this pledge.” His hands grew suddenly warm as they rested against the robes of the two boys.

Stephen saw Gilliam's eyes widen in the same instant that his own did. He opened his lips to speak, and they froze as he felt a warmth, a heat that he had never felt before.

It burned like fire relieved of malice; it was hot, but it brought no pain. It was
darkness, ringed with a light that grew brighter and stronger as he watched. His lids grew heavy, but he would not close his eyes.

From within, something rose to greet the warmth. Wings, invisible, unfeathered, spread out in awkward first flight. The warmth took him, and he soared to its heart, giddily at first, and then more surely.

Darkness was there; he heard the low rumble of a growl that even a dog could not produce. It was loud. It touched more than his ears. The horns he heard also—but they were dim and distant in their musical plea. This was the spirit of the Hunt, and he knew it fully.

Without fear.
This
was his home, his place.

Stephen?

Gil?

Gilliam laughed; the feel of it resonated with Stephen's sudden triumph.

This, he knew, would be his for life. Not even Marcus could change that, or take it away. The boy who had lived in the King's City, eking out a meager existence as a petty thief, had known little of friendship or trust, except in his stories or dreams.

But he'd remembered enough that he'd yearned for it. This was his answer. For just a moment, he could
see
as Gil saw, feel what Gil felt. The heart of the darkness was the unknown, and its shadows fled Stephen's approach. He could see Gilliam's fears and hopes; could touch the web of his dreams. He knew that Gilliam was even now seeing the same of him, and he didn't care; the past meant nothing. The two of them would stand together, no matter what the future held.

Greymarten let his hands slide from the shoulders of the two who were no longer mere children. He lifted his arms, bringing his palms to touch either of the henges at his side.

The circle on the green closed at his gesture.

“It is done,” he said softly. He reached forward and grasped the two young hands that remained locked.

Both boys turned to stare at him, a shadow of doubt in their eyes. He knew well why. Although his own huntbrother had long since perished, he had never forgotten his oaths and their special meaning: the bond that had been forged.

“It is real,” he said quietly.

As always, he wanted to tell them of the risks; of the emptiness that waited in the hands of death. “Stephen,” he said gently, as he touched the boy's hard fingers, “Gilliam, nothing but death will take from you what you have been granted. Do not fear to let go.” The words were the truth, but the simple message, so slight and so soft, was almost a lie compared to the pain of the loss that Greymarten—and many a Hunter—had experienced in his life. More, he would not offer.

Gilliam relaxed his grip immediately; he had lived with the Hunter's Priests all his life, and knew the value of their word.

Stephen hesitated.

“Stephen, trust me. The oath has been accepted by God. No simple unfasting of hands can expunge it.”

Clenching his jaw, he followed Gilliam's lead. Best to start now what would have to be continued. His hand slackened and he let it fall to his side, waiting for the loss to come, fearing it.

Minutes passed in his silence, and then tears came instead.

What his oath—his choice—had given, did not fall away. It remained securely inside him, a warmth and a wholeness upon which a new life would be built.

He wanted to stop the tears, but they wouldn't be caught, not even by his will. Gilliam reached out and grabbed his shoulders gently. He understood Stephen now, and he knew what fears Stephen had faced in those minutes.

“Let him be, Gilliam of Elseth. It has been hard for him to trust his choice; it is not pain that moves him now.”

If Stephen had been afraid of laughter, none came. In turn, each of the villagers that was old enough to know how came to offer their thanks and best wishes. They did all in silence, at the foot of the altar that signified the Hunter's Death.

Then the Master Hunters brought their previous day's kill. They placed it upon the altar with the help of the villagers, and Greymarten set about portioning it with the silver knife; the heart for the God, the hides for the Hunter, and the meat for everyone present. For this one special Hunt alone, the dogs were not allowed their portion of the felled beast; this stag was given in celebration of the coming-of-age of a new Hunter. A fire was already sparking to life in the pits to the south of the manor, and ale and wine were now brought in heavy, earthen mugs by manor servants.

Corinna was given an old harp, and she played it with both gusto and warmth. Several of the villagers, emboldened by wine, began to dance at her feet, and the blacksmith even approached the Lady Elseth, who was kind enough to join him in his jig. Truly, tonight, they were all the Hunter's people, and they lived in the moment of his blessing. The cost and the Price was a shadow made distant by merriment and celebration. Even Soredon, the most dour and grim of men, chose to catch a young girl in the circle of his arms and spin her about on the green. His son was Hunter-born, and by God accepted; this made a magic of the evening, and brought his past momentarily to light in the fires of his eyes and the warmth of a smile that was so seldom given it was truly special.

Stephen, too, was caught in the play of the rough country music, although not by any maiden; Norn grabbed him from behind and placed him deftly upon broad shoulders. Their robes blended together, becoming one moving tapestry of
times past and times present. Of all the burdens this huntbrother had carried, this slight, small boy was among the most precious.

“Welcome,” Norn roared above the laughter and out of tune singing of the crowd, “to Elseth!”

• • •

The following week, Gilliam was inducted into the Hunter ranks, albeit at the very lowest station: He was made a Page of the Running Hounds to the kennels of Lord Elseth. He was full of pride and happy pomposity until he discovered that he would fail at the first of his duties unless he paid more mind to the lessonsmaster.

Soredon was both amused and sympathetic to the young boy's reaction, but, as he said, it was important to take the roll of the dogs. Which meant, of course, writing and spelling, as well as better reading.

There were two things that made this onerous chore bearable. The first was that Hunter Maradanne of Corinth would board at Elseth and begin the rudiments of weapon lore, and the second was that Gilliam would have every reason and excuse to be in the kennels with the dogs that he loved.

Stephen was at his side for every moment of the lessons, although he took better to reading and writing than Gilliam would ever do. They learned to spar together, and although Gilliam was the stronger of the two, he was also more quick of temper, and bore the bruises of it more often than his huntbrother did.

They walked the dogs, tended them, and learned to write the letters of their names, but as promised at the binding, only Gilliam could feel their presence and know their minds. He shared this with Stephen, as he did all that he was given.

But they rarely stopped their fighting. Indeed, it became as much of an annoyance to Lady Elseth as Norn and Soredon often were.

• • •

Four months after Gilliam's birthday, he became a Page of the Scent Hounds, and he was given his first horn. It was not so fine or grand as his father's, being simple silver, but he wore it proudly, and even in sleep would not be parted from it.

Both he and Stephen learned the use of it; the different calls that comprised the Hunter's canon were intricate and necessary. Winding the horn was easier for Gilliam than for Stephen. The music came naturally to his lips, and he rarely forgot the use of a single note. He willingly prompted his huntbrother in the rote of the huntbrother's calls, which were different, but harmonious, with his own. Another source of conflict and companionship.

He learned the use and making of nets, as well as the coupling and uncoupling of the dogs. But he was still not yet old enough, at eleven, to be allowed out on the hunts. He did not bide his time with patience.

• • •

When they were twelve years old, just before they gained the rank of Varlet of the Running Hounds, they were called to the Valentin estates.

Lady Elseth was always quiet at this time of year, although there was enough to occupy her. It was the week that preceded the planting season, when the farmers were at their busiest and their requests had to be attended to immediately.

It was also the time of the Sacred Hunt.

Winter's chill was almost gone from the air; it lingered only in the face of the Lady and her most senior of staff. She counted the days in busy silence, watching the turnings and visiting the solitary altar on the green in the morning before her children rose. What had looked mysterious and almost forbidding on the night of the Hunter's Oath now looked like a thing of mourning and silence. And why should it not? It served to bind boys on the verge of manhood, and it served to lay them to their last rest.

It served the women differently.

This morning prayer was a custom of the women of Breodanir during the time of the Sacred Hunt. The Lords did not see it; how could they? They served their King and their country in the great forests that were reserved for the God's purpose. They found their prey, they loosed their dogs, they gave in to the wildness of the Hunter's trance.

A pained smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she waited at the stones for a response that never came. Next year Gilliam would begin his real training; he would come to know the Hunter's trance, and the greatest of all of the God's gifts. He was already growing into the role that the God decreed; the dogs, even though they were not his own, loved him and obeyed him; his use of weapons, if not words, had progressed immeasurably, if one were to listen to Norn. He talked of nothing but the Hunt, yearned for nothing but the ability to join his father.

To join his father. . . .

The smile dimmed and was lost for the day. Here, now, the price to be paid for the gift was writ large.

Where are you, Soredon? Is Norn still with you?