The Sacred Hunt Duology (69 page)

Zareth Kahn knew that the invisibility that his magics afforded them would not be a blessing forever. Truthseekers were often also mages, trained in very specific and very narrow ways. Call a few, with the right guards to back them, and such a spell would prove not only useless, but actively harmful. Few were the people who dared to use magic openly in the city streets; the laws that governed magic's use—and the mages who enforced them—were the strictest of the laws in Essalieyan.

He was, of course, breaking at least one; Evayne, with the use of her light spell—a light that he had never seen before—had broken three. The truthseeker who had originally apprehended them had broken two, and if the guards had been quick and fast off the mark, would have broken three.

He was not a man who was readily accustomed to breaking the laws of Averalaan, although it had been many, many years since he had seen the city of his birth. He was, luckily, not a man who was inexperienced at the breaking of those laws, either. What had hunted them on the night of High Winter obviously had eyes here, and the niceties of royal law could be set aside for the niceties of survival.

• • •

It was not until they reached the bridge to the Holy Isle that Zareth Kahn realized where Evayne was leading them. He dispensed with a portion of his spell, freeing her to speak with the guards on duty while hiding the rest of his companions. It was difficult, this breaking and unfraying, but he was a past master at it, and if he had not used it recently, he was pleased to note that the old skills did not fade with disuse. She walked toward the guards, and then returned, nodding with obvious relief.

They had arrived before word from the magisterial forces—if the magisterial
forces had considered the Holy Isle a likely goal—and were safe to pass. He let the last of his illusory protection fade from sight, sorry to let it go, but pleased that the strain had been lifted. He was not close to the fevers yet, but he would sleep well that night.

“We're going to the Order,” Evayne said, and each word sounded grudging and slightly apprehensive.

“I haven't been there in years,” was the older mage's reply.

“I—I want you to talk with Meralonne APhaniel.”

“Member APhaniel? Why?”

“Because I think he's the only mage in the city who might be able to help us.”

“You know him?”

She nodded into her hood, and then turned abruptly to face Zareth Kahn. Her dark hair hung in loose strands about her unblinking violet eyes. “I was his student for a number of years. We—we haven't spoken in months. Tell him—no, ask him—to aid these men; if he is reluctant, tell him that Evayne says they are part of her mystery.” She smiled, and the smile had the feel of ash and shadow to it; Zareth Kahn had the absurd desire to reach over and wipe it gently clean. She was far too much the adult to deserve that gesture.

“I have my own friends in the Order,” he began, but she shook her head.

“I cannot stay, Zareth Kahn. Already, I am being called away.” She left him then, walking quickly to where Stephen stood. “I will only be with you for a few more blocks, and then my work is done for the moment. I was sent here because I—I was supposed to flee. And there is only one person that I dare flee to in this crisis, one person that I have relied on, and at Kalliaris' whim, will rely on again.

“Look carefully at him, Stephen—but never speak of what you see if you see anything unusual.”

“At who?”

“Meralonne.” She hesitated, and as she did, he reached out and caught her hand. Clasped it tightly between his own, and then, on impulse, kissed it.

“Good-bye, Stephen of Elseth. We will speak, I think, but not soon.”

• • •

The manors that lined the roads of the Isle were not overly large, although they were all exceptionally tall. There was good masonry here, and very little wood or thatch to mar the sense of history and timelessness. Stephen had had little time to take in the view of Averalaan, and the High City was perhaps not the best place to start. It made him feel at once poor and ignorant, although the riches that were here were those that time had laid the foundations for, and that a generation alone would never dissipate. The roads were wide, the streets cobbled very prettily in places; there were gilded gates that sat no more than fifty feet from the mansions they enclosed. He was surprised by the number of columns that he saw; they seemed to adorn the fronts of most of the buildings that they passed. As he
approached them, he could see engraved along their length, in a pattern that spiraled upward, runes in the Kallantir style. He could not read them all.

Zareth Kahn silently urged him on, and he went, trying to remember the flare of fire in the city beyond the bridge. But there was a hush on the Isle, a silence and a peace, that made him understand why it was called holy; he thought that whatever threatened them would not dare to come so openly here.

“What are those?”

Zareth Kahn sighed in resignation. “Those are the spires of the Lords Cormaris and Reymaris. They are the rulers of these lands, and their towers are the grandest buildings on the Isle. Not even the towers of the Kings' palace can match them; nor would either of the Kings try.”

“But—but how can they stand?”

At that, the mage smiled. “More money than Breodanir sees in a year went into each day of work on those towers, and they were a long time in the building. This is Averalaan, Stephen. The guild of the maker-born flourishes here, and in some ways, even rules.”

“Can we go to see the temples?”

“We may have no choice,” was the cryptic reply. “But we will not see them today.”

• • •

The Order of Knowledge in Breodanir was small and humble compared to the Order of the High City, and the building that housed the scholarly mages was rough and very common in comparison. There were pillars here that supported a roof four stories high; there was a courtyard of size and simplicity in which water ran from a fountain that looked like a suspended waterfall; there was a ceiling taller than any temple that Breodanir's finest city boasted. Light came down like spears, sharp and perfect through the glass above.

Zareth Kahn even stopped for a moment, almost as if to marvel. Then he shook his head and smiled. “I've been too long away, I fear. Come.”

They walked between the columns and the arch, and into the grand foyer. At the far end, beyond a mosaic pattern of brilliantly colored marble and gold, was a large desk. The man behind it looked almost as pleased to see them as Gilliam was to see court balls.

“What,” he said, in a voice sharp enough to cut, “are you doing with those
dogs
?” He lifted the metallic rims that adorned his face as if to see more clearly the outrage that was being perpetrated within the Order's sedate walls.

“Jacova, is that you?”

“What, is that little Zareth?”

“It
is
you.” Zareth Kahn looked slightly uncomfortable, but very resigned. “I see that you're holding the desk.”

“And I see that you've let this Breodanir nonsense infect your brain—bringing dogs into the building!”

Gilliam bristled.

“A matter of urgency, Jacova.” He turned to Stephen. “This is Stephen of Elseth, and this is Lord Elseth. I'm afraid that we did not have time to kennel his animals before we crossed the bridge.”

“Yes, well. Highly irregular, and I should have you thrown out on principle. I will if the dogs make a mess.”

“I have control of my dogs,” Gilliam said, from between clenched teeth.

Jacova gave him a severe look but declined to respond. “What brings you here?”

“I'm afraid it's not entirely social. You see, we'd like to make an appointment, if at all possible, to speak with member APhaniel.”

“Member APhaniel?” He frowned. “Member APhaniel is currently involved in an investigation,” and here he looked over his shoulder, scanned the foyer, and then lowered his voice and leaned over the desk, “with House Terafin. Under the direction of The Terafin herself.”

“It's—it's very urgent that we speak to him.”

“Impossible. As I said, he's—”

“Is he in the building?”

“He's making his third report of findings, and he's in a
foul
mood.”

Zareth Kahn turned to Stephen. “I think we should delay, if at all possible,” he said in a very hushed voice.

“What?”

“Master APhaniel is always rather, ah, temperamental. At least, he was known for it before I left for Breodanir. To say that he's in a foul mood . . .”

“We'll chance it. I think that the truthseeker was one of the kin.”

Zareth Kahn smiled weakly and turned back to Jacova ADarphan. “We must see member APhaniel; we've important information that is part of the investigation that he's conducting.”

“You have? Why didn't you say so? And why haven't I seen you around until today?” Jacova hated desk duty with the passion of any proper scholar, but he was not a stupid man. His eyes were narrowed with suspicion.

“Because I could not reasonably travel without being noted or remarked upon—everyone who knows me knows I'm in Breodanir,” was the apologetic reply. “Do you think you might tell member APhaniel that we are here, along with a message from one of his former pupils?”

“That being?”

“Evayne.”

Jacova snorted, but he rose and started his long climb up the stairs twenty feet from the desk. Zareth Kahn counted to fifteen—slowly and distinctly—and then turned to Stephen. “We follow.”

“Shouldn't we wait?”

But the answer was obvious; Zareth Kahn started up the wide, marble stairs, taking them two at a time, but slowly enough that he never saw more than the black-edged hem of Jacova's robe. Gilliam and Espere were next, followed by the dogs that Jacova found so offensive. Stephen brought up the rear, as any good huntbrother usually did.

• • •

“I don't care if they carry a message from the Goddess herself—GET OUT!” Light flared into the hall from the open doorway in the tower room that member APhaniel occupied. The air had a prickly feel to it; Stephen thought, as he breathed it, that it should crackle.

Zareth Kahn cringed. “He
is
in a foul mood. Magics of that nature are strictly prohibited in the collegium. I really wish this could wait. He's a member of the Council of the Magi, and he's also an initiate of the first circle mysteries.” Yet even as he spoke, he led them the rest of the way across the landing. Jacova, looking both harried and frightened, bumped into him.

“He—he doesn't want to see you,” he said, but without any of the annoyed or irritated edge that usually accompanied these words.

“I can see that,” Zareth Kahn replied mildly, “but unfortunately it's a matter of enough urgency that I will have to insist. Thank you for your diligence, but I believe I can handle things from here.”

“And you believe incorrectly.”

Stephen felt, hearing those words, that he truly heard the voice of Meralonne APhaniel for the first time. It hung in the air like a fog, discordant and yet somehow melodic. He looked up, and a man dressed in emerald silk bed-robes strode onto the overcrowded landing. His hair was white and long and wild, and his eyes, gray and pale, looked like steel embedded in a thin, fey face.

The robes that he wore looked wrong, so out of place that they were almost an obscenity.
He has to sleep sometime
, Stephen told himself, but he almost didn't believe it. He shied back as the mage's glare swept across them all. It was familiar, somehow; there was something about it that he had seen or felt before.

But those eyes did not dwell for long on him; they swept with anger and not a little contempt past Jacova and Zareth Kahn, past Gilliam, Stephen, and the dogs. It was the wild girl that caught and held them.

“And are you back again, strange one?” he said, and his tone of voice was altered.

Zareth Kahn cleared his throat. “She is,” he said. “We brought her here because we hoped that we could find a cure for the condition that ails her.”

“And that?”

“We do not know,” he replied. “But Zoraban ATelvise bespoke his father before his death, and his father identified her as one of the god-born.”

“Which God?” And then, before Zareth Kahn could answer, he added, “His death?”

“Word was sent,” Zareth Kahn replied mildly. Jacova nodded at his back but chose, perhaps wisely, to remain silent.

“I've been otherwise occupied.” Member APhaniel shoved his hands roughly into the wide, baggy pockets of his robe. “Very well, if you will interrupt me, interrupt me with intelligence. Come.” He pulled out a pipe, and Jacova took the opportunity to return to desk duty; he had a great hatred of pipe smoke, especially of the variety that Meralonne preferred. “But I warn you, gentlemen—I am not in the mood to be bored.”

M
ERALONNE LEANED AGAINST THE EDGE
of his desk, pipe in hand, back to the shuttered window. “So Zoraban agreed to your request, and bespoke his father?”

Zareth Kahn nodded gravely. “Since the kin appeared to be involved, we all thought it wisest.”

“A pity. I would have liked to be there; it is so seldom that any of the knowledge-born seek their parent's advice in the presence of . . . strangers. But do continue.”

“The girl is god-born, although she bears none of the markings of such a child. Her eyes, for instance.”

Smoke rings rose in the air as Meralonne stared down at her. When he was not asking questions, it was to her that he looked, as if, by staring, he could wrest answers from her.

“Teos told us that Espere was, in the more traditional sense of the word, Hunter-born. She is the daughter of the Hunter God of the Breodani.” He expected there to be an outburst of some sort from the older mage; none was forthcoming. Instead, he received a curt, even brusque nod, which held the silent command to continue. “When we returned from the half-world, we were attacked by two demons.”

“And you know for a fact that these were of the kin?”

Zareth Kahn looked slightly impatient. “I know it, yes. One was a blade-demon, and one a life-drinker. I have,” he added, “made lost magical arts a major area of my studies.”

The pale-haired mage raised a platinum brow. “I see.”

“The life-drinker had the ability to wield mortal magics, as well as the magics of the Dark Lord. There was an aura to her magic use, a particular—and strong—signature. I believe her to be either a demon lord, or perhaps not far from becoming one.”

“A life-drinker? Impossible!”

“As you will,” was the cool reply. It was clear that the dark-haired mage,
younger and less odd, knew enough not to argue with the older one—but it was also clear that, as the narrative progressed, he liked it less and less. “She killed Zoraban, and would have taken Stephen of Elseth, but she did not.”

“She could not?”

“I'm not certain.” Zareth Kahn's brow was creased with displeasure; now that he had entered the Order proper, he was once again impatient with any questions that he did not possess the answer to. “She called him, and he came—but when she attempted take him, she was repulsed by a power not her own. She called him oathbound.”

“Oathbound?”

“Yes.”

Meralonne stood and began to pace the room, trailing a cloud of smoke past his shoulder.

“What do you know of this, member APhaniel? I have come across the term once or twice in my studies, but only in a religious context—and at that, a religion long dead.”

But Meralonne was clearly in no mood to answer another's questions. “Continue,” he said, quite curtly. “I will make my observations on the full story, or not at all.”

Zareth Kahn was not completely unused to this behavior from mages of the first circle, but he was not amused by it. His lips became a thin line, and it was Stephen of Elseth who adroitly stepped in to take up the tale.

He spoke of the blade-demon, and the fight with it; spoke of Gilliam's fall, the loss of the communication between them, and the sudden transformation of the wild girl into a creature out of legend.

And then, last, he spoke of Evayne.

Meralonne APhaniel's eyes grew very dark as he listened. “She told you to come to the city, and she left you?”

“Not exactly, no. She came to us five weeks ago, when the moon was at nadir; she called it
Scarran.
We'd been on the road for several days, and were in an inn along the eastern border of Breodanir. She said that the demons were gathering their shadows, and that it was not safe for us to remain as we were; she intended to lead us to safety.”

He said nothing.

“And she—she led us along the Winter road instead. But—but she brought us back to the townships.”

“All of you?” The pipe froze; a thin stream of smoke, trailing air, rose unheeded to the ceiling.

The eyes that Stephen met asked a question that he could not understand, and did not want to. He looked away, but nodded, shivering at a cold that was still too easily remembered.

It seemed that the mage might ask more; his lips were open as he stared at Stephen's fair face—and then at all of them, even the dogs. But he shook himself and lifted the pipe to his open lips instead. “I see. And then she led you to Averalaan, and told you to come to
me
?”

Stephen nodded.

“Did she bother to tell you that we did not part on the best of terms?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

It was Zareth Kahn who replied. “When we arrived in the city—when we were only a few yards from the demiwalls—we were stopped by a truthseeker and four magisterial guards.”

“And?”

“Evayne believed the truthseeker in question to be a demon. She cast a spell that I believe to be an old Summer spell, and the truthseeker was indeed affected. We fled, using illusion to mask the direction and the speed of our flight.”

“Who did the truthseeker want? The girl?”

“Not apparently, no. He was interested in the Lord Elseth and his huntbrother.”

“I see.” Meralonne pulled a worn leather pouch from his robes. He set about emptying his pipe with care and caution—it was a delicate, long-stemmed object of obvious antiquity—and then, with just as much care, set about lining the bowl with new leaves.

“There is one other thing you might want to know,” Zareth Kahn continued, although the words were edged. “I was summoned by Lady Elseth when a number of assassins, led by a member of the Order, were apprehended and destroyed. They wore the pendants of the Dark Lord.”

Meralonne did not seem remotely surprised, but he seemed suddenly very weary. “Ah. Priests.” He lifted the pipe to his lips.

Stephen started; memory made the words of Teos suddenly sharp again. “Yes, Priests,” he said. “Member APhaniel—the Lord of Knowledge said something that I did not understand.”

“Yes?”

“That the Dark God is not on his throne in the Hells.”

“Not on his—” Smoke swirled around his face as if at a sudden breeze. The slender, pale mage turned to Stephen, his expression suddenly changed. He looked not man but ghost or guardian as he spoke next. “What else did the Lord of Knowledge say?”

“He spoke of the Covenant of the Lord of Man.”

Pale lids closed over gray eyes; the mage lifted a hand to the wall as if he needed the support. “I see. This is . . . of import to us.” He shook himself and his face slowly folded into its regular unfriendly expression. “Go, member Kahn. Eat, drink, and then await me in the Kallavar room.”

“And my companions?”

“Turn them out in the street,” was the sharp, sarcastic reply. “What do you think I intend? You brought them, they're your responsibility. Feed them and keep them out of trouble until the appointed hour of our interview.”

“And that hour?”

“Get out.”

• • •

Gilliam had only one argument with a man in the dining hall, but it was loud enough to attract the attention of a cluster of mages, who then began complaints of their own when they saw the six dogs that were sitting restlessly beside the wall. Zareth Kahn, still angry at his interview with Meralonne, was in no mood to handle the offended men, which meant that Stephen, stretched between an irritable Gilliam, an annoyed Zareth Kahn, and a bustle of mages, had to soothe any ruffled feathers. Only Espere seemed at ease, and that held until she decided that she had had enough of the restrictive clothing that she was wearing.

It was a disastrous meal, but at least the dogs got fed, although they ate food that they were not normally given; they were of the finest of the Breodani hunters, and as such, were quite restricted in diet. Gilliam was furious that so-called members of the Order of Knowledge didn't know how to feed a dog—but the dogs, to Stephen's eyes, were gleefully smug at the giblets and gravy that were finally laid out—in the thinnest and most perfect bowls that he had ever seen—on the floor in front of them.

It was when Espere began an angry keening and tried to knock Salas from his bowl, rather than eat the normal human food provided her, that things got rather messy. She snarled at Salas; Salas, of course, defended his food, and Gilliam, angry enough with the setting, nearly threw up his hands in disgust and let them fight it out. He didn't, but that was probably as much due to the fact that the dining hall mysteriously emptied, and that Zareth Kahn was sitting, food untouched, elbows on the table, face in his hands.

Eventually the man in charge of the hall came to speak with Zareth Kahn. His words were measured and slow, his voice calm and reasonable. But Stephen caught enough of the tone to know that if words were weapons, Zareth Kahn would have been slowly and evenly skewered.

They spent the next three hours waiting in the Kallavar room.

• • •

When Meralonne came to them, he was attired in clothing, and not in the casual emerald green robes that most of the mages of the Order were familiar with. The clothing was of an old style, although just what that style was would have been hard for Stephen to say; the fashions of Essalieyan were not the fashions of Breodanir among any but the most daring of ladies, and even then, only when the clothing was practical and everyday.

Cloth fell in a direct drape from shoulder to just below the knee; it was a shimmering darkness with hints of gold and platinum throughout—but no more than hints; to study the cloth too intently was to lose them as if they were the faintest of stars tickling the corner of the eye. He had sleeves, and they, too, were draped but gathered six inches above the wrist. The collar was high at back and squared in front; it was, in all, an unusual effect.

And Meralonne APhaniel carried it well, which was a surprise.

“I apologize if I've kept you waiting. I have been at some pains to conduct research in these pathetic libraries, and have come up with scant information. If you had a few months—if either of us did—I would have left you here. However,” he added, raising a pipeless hand, “we do not have the time.” He walked over to an unoccupied chair by the fire—there were several—and sat with his back to it. Shadowed thus, he looked almost like a ghost from an ancient past.

“I am involved in my own investigation under the command of The Terafin. It is connected to your case, although I am not completely certain of how. The facts, as I know them, are simple. Let me relate them to you.

“First: There are demon-kin in the city of Averalaan. There is no question of this fact; I was called in to an encounter with one, and while I do not personally recognize its type, I know it for what it was.

“Second: The kin seem to be operating in the holdings of the city itself. We are conducting investigations into which areas are possibly infested.

“The third fact is in dispute: that a mage, possibly a rogue, but unfortunately, probably not, dabbling in dark arts, has been hired to use these creatures to kill The Terafin—and quite probably to take possession of her form, and with it, her power.” He saw Zareth Kahn pale immediately, and held up a hand before the younger mage could speak. “Krysanthos is a possibility, from what you've said. Let me finish.”

“Fourth: The kin that I dealt with—and therefore, possibly others of its phylum—was able to wear the semblance and take on many, but not all, of the memories of the person it killed.” Zareth Kahn ceased his attempt to interrupt. “Because of this, we cannot know who is, and who is not, an enemy. Not without the use of magics that most of the mages here have forgotten. Yes, Zareth Kahn. The Summer magics.”

“You know them,” the mage said, his eyes wide.

“Yes.”

“And her—you taught her.”

“I taught her some of them; she has obviously grown adept through teachers other than myself.”

“Did you teach her the Winter magics as well?”

“Not I,” was the soft reply. “But Winter and Summer are reflections; where there is one, the other is coming. There is balance,” he continued, turning
suddenly to pin Stephen of Elseth with his slate eyes. “Even if you do not see that balance addressed in a single mortal life, it is there, and it
will
be addressed. It is the law of the living Gods, and those that they left behind.”

Zareth Kahn snorted. “Those who practiced the Summer magics did not learn the Winter.”

“No?” A platinum brow rose. Then he smiled, but the smile was not warm. “But the use of Summer magics requires an intimate understanding of the strengths of the Winter. And more to the point, the only mage that has learned those arts in your lifetime has learned both.”

It was Stephen who replied. “She may have learned both—but she learned them for a higher purpose.”

“Oh?” He lifted a hand as Stephen began to speak again, waving him into angry silence. “Then think on this, young Stephen of Elseth, for I will not argue purpose with you. Many, many acts are committed in the name of a higher purpose, and a higher purpose has often claimed the lives of innocents as it rolls outward, so secure in the grandeur of its mission that it will no longer look at the cost to others.”

“Maybe,” Stephen countered, stung, “it's because there is no better choice. Grandeur has nothing to do with it—the course that saves the most life is the only one open.”

Meralonne sank back in his chair and studied Stephen's face. Then he closed his eyes and shook his head. “As you say,” he said, and the annoyance was gone from his voice. “But in all things, there are costs.

“Let me continue briefly. We have on our hands a young street urchin and her den. They claim to know something of tunnels that exist beneath the city streets—tunnels that Ararath Handernesse, the victim of the demon I fought, led them to. It is clear that the victim believed these tunnels to be of significance in the disappearance of a variety of people from the holdings in the central city. I have spent the last four weeks searching the city extensively for the whereabouts of just such tunnels. I have found nothing, no matter where these urchins have led me.