The Sacred Hunt Duology (94 page)

The den fell silent as they watched her expression; they'd seen it before, and they knew it well. “What is it? What're you looking at?”

“A battle,” Jewel replied, her voice curiously flat. “Dead all around. Armor. Swords. A lot of blood.” She swallowed, staring as she paled. “And The Terafin, staring; standing. I don't understand it—but behind her, behind her is her death. It strikes, and she falls.”

“
What
strikes?” Carver demanded.

“I don't know. I can't see it at all.”

“Is she dead?” Teller asked.

“I—I don't know. I thought she was dead last night. She may well be dead—but
I don't know.
”

Finch looked unconvinced. “Sounds like you're trying to sell us something you're not sure you believe.”

“Maybe. Maybe I am. But I'm tired of feeling helpless. This—it's a not-happened-yet thing. It's not like Lander or Fisher. I
knew
it was too late for them.” She pushed her chair back and stood. “But I think it's up to
us.
We're not important, you see. You, Carver, Angel—the rest of us; we're not important. Everyone knows that we're thieves and ne'er-do-wells.”

Ellerson cleared his throat.

“Shut up, Ellerson,” Jewel said, without looking over her shoulder. She was quite surprised at the silence that followed, but not so surprised that she wouldn't use it. “So that's what we are. We're used to having to hide from armed men. We're used to trying to hide in plain sight, and we're used to being watched if we're noticed.”

“So?” Angel said again.

“So we don't have armor, and we don't have fancy weapons. So what? Never did. We were the
best.
We're still the best. We've just got to change the rules a bit. Look—we can't stand up to the guards in a fight—and we can't stand up to anything that can kill half the House guard. We don't have what it takes. Doesn't mean we don't have anything.

“There's going to be a fight. It's going to be aimed at The Terafin. And it's going to go crashing through the guards trying to reach her. That's not our problem.

“But there's also going to be a different attack; I don't know what. And
that
one's a sneak. I think. And that's the one we might be able to help with.”

“So why don't you just tell her this, and let her deal with it?”

“I'm going to,” Jewel said softly and with utter certainty. “And she will. But not well enough.”

“And we're going to be able to do better?”

“Count on it,” Jewel said, with no less certainty. She reached into the sash at her side, and pulled out a sheathed dagger. It was fancy, the handle so ornate and so perfect that it looked like it should be fenced. Her solemn expression told them that it was more important than that. She handed it to Carver without a word.

“Where did you get this?”

“I found it.” She didn't add that she'd found it in the private quarters of Devon ATerafin, one of four such knives. “It's special, Carver, real special. Worth more than your life. Don't screw around with it; don't take it out of its sheath until it's needed. Got it?”

“Why?”

“Because I said so,” she replied sharply. Then, relenting, “And because I'm not sure what it does, and I'm not sure it'll work more than once.” Swallowing, she
took a deep breath, and once again surveyed her den. She wanted Duster, missed her sharply. Was surprised at how much it stung, to start a fight without her. “You know what's at stake,” she told them solemnly. “We've already lost four. Vote.”

Carver placed his right hand, palm down, on the table's surface. “I'm in,” he said, without hesitation. Made her wonder if he really did understand what was at stake.

“Me, too.” Angel also reached into the table's center with the flat of his right palm.

Jester plunged in with both hands, meaning he was committed if they all were. Finch came down with the flutter of a right palm, as did Teller a second later. Arann took the longest to decide, but in the end, he, too, chose the right hand. As his fingers unfurled to lay flat against the smooth wood, he looked up into his den leader's eyes.

“No healers if things don't work out,” he told her softly.

“No healers,” she replied, not certain whether or not she was lying.

“Uh, Jay?”

“What?”

“That only applies to Arann. If I'm not dead, I don't want to be left to get that way.” Carver's grin was cocky. Always was, really.

“Got it.”

“What's the plan?”

Jewel smiled. “First: We don't tell The Terafin. We don't tell any ATerafin either. This is
ours.
We know our own, and we know how to make sure no outsiders get in.” She took her chair slowly, turning it back to the table and sitting with her legs astride it as she usually did in their war council. It felt good. It had been a long time since they'd done anything other than be afraid—or be quiet.

Ellerson very loudly cleared his throat at her back.

“What is it?”

“The rest of your plan, while I'm sure it's laudable, requires that you be on the
inside
of Terafin—if I may be so bold as to guess.”

“Yes, so?”

“The Terafin has been expecting you for five minutes, and I do not believe that even her right-kin, Gabriel ATerafin, keeps her waiting longer than ten.”

• • •

Verrus Allamar sat in the sanctuary of his office. The hour was late, but he was known as a hard-working soldier; indeed, perhaps the most dedicated of all the Verrus. His lips thinned into a smile that would have chilled the men who served with the Kings' Swords. “Enter.”

A young woman, dressed in the livery of Darias, made her way across the threshold, walking neither too quickly nor too slowly. But she made certain that the door at her back was closed tightly before she turned.

The light around her body shimmered and flared; her voice became deeper and
heavier as she chanted softly. Her body blurred, as did her uniform; her face changed, chin elongating into a frosted, black beard, shoulders broadening, waist thickening. The livery was still of Darias.

Verrus Allamar's eyes narrowed. “You took your time.”

“We did not have the choice,” Krysanthos replied tightly, as he unstooped his shoulders and clapped his hands in front of the door's keyhole. “After your failed attempt at delivering the Breodanir hunters to us, security has grown . . . difficult.” He turned back to the Verrus. “You were supposed to see that the Hall of The Ten remained relatively free of interference.” It was an accusation.

“You did make it in,” Allamar replied coldly.

“Yes. And at some personal cost. This had better be important.”

“It is.” The Verrus planted both of his hands on the flat of his immaculate desk and rose, placing the weight on the tips of his fingers. The desk creaked beneath the force he exerted. “Mirialyn ACormaris has requested the use of the Kings' Swords three days hence for a meeting with an un specified personage. She did
not
route her request through the regular channels.”

“This means that you've no idea what the meeting is about?”

“It means that I was not even supposed to know that the meeting existed.” He smiled at that, the very wolf of a smile. “And I find that rather odd. It seems that my position here has been compromised, and it will probably be of little use in the very near future.”

“Agreed,” Krysanthos said, almost absently. “What else have you discovered?”

“Both of the Kings—and the Queens—are to be in attendance.”

Krysanthos swore. That meant—it could only mean—a personal request from one of The Ten; no one else could demand and receive an audience with the four Crowns on such short notice. And only one House might consider the affairs of the city to be in enough of a state of emergency to do so. “Terafin,” he said softly.

Verrus Allamar had the grace to look surprised. His confirmation was unnecessary, but he gave it anyway. “How damaging will this be?”

“I'm not certain.” The mage took a chair and sat heavily, brooding. “Sor na Shannen is loath to part with information about her activities; I only know that the work in the labyrinth is not yet completed.”

“That would make us vulnerable.”

“Yes. But not by much. Remember that none of the people who lived by the maze had full knowledge of its workings.”

“Depending on the ignorance of our enemy has always been folly.”

“Tell that to Lord Karathis,” Krysanthos replied, with a shade too much bitterness.

The Verrus smiled at the sound of the grating in the mage's voice. It was a hint of food to a man starving. “Very well. How much time is needed to seal the maze completely?”

“As I said, I don't know.”

“Your best guess?”

“More than three days.”

Verrus Allamar flicked his finger and the desktop cracked. He smiled, and as he did, his lips grew thinner and wider until they opened fully upon a row of teeth that could never belong in a human mouth. “Only give me the word, Krysanthos; give me the word of my Lord. I will see to the rest.”

Krysanthos' eyes snapped open; his expression became crisp and clear of worry. “You will do
nothing
until you have that word. Your position here as a Verrus is of import to us, as you well know.”

“My position here has already been compromised.”

“We have no positive proof of that—your squabbles with the Princess are well known, and a slight of this nature would not be beyond her.” He paused. “However, we assume that you are being watched; it is why I was sent.”

Verrus Allamar's face shrank back into the confines of a human expression, and at that, a sour one. “Very well. I will wait your word. But do not delay. I do not relish the fate of Akkrenar.”

“Agreed,” Krysanthos replied. “But were I you, and I wished to avoid such a fate, I would not challenge APhaniel directly. He is more than your match. As,” he added softly, “am I.”

• • •

Stephen bowed low, his face wreathed in the curling mist at the God's feet. He felt humbled by the aura of the Lord of Knowledge, but not so humbled that he could not speak. For he had come to ask his questions, have his answers, and have done with the Gods for as long as he possibly could.

Before he could speak, Meralonne did, and his voice, in the muted surround of the half-world, was stronger, richer, and deeper than Stephen had heard it before. “Why are you dressed for war, Master of Lore?”

“Because there will be a war,” Teos answered without preamble, his voice a thousand voices. He lifted his sword arm and pointed; the tip of the double-edged blade touched Stephen's forehead. “This one has ridden at the front of that storm. And I foresee that it has not yet finished with him.”

“Bredan
is
the Hunter God,” Stephen said with certainty.

The Lord of Knowledge gazed at him a moment, and then gave a measured nod. “We did not know, although we suspected it to be so. My sons and daughters are not among his kin, and his powers are not what they were.”

“I have come,” Stephen said softly, stumbling over a ritual that he only half-remembered, “to offer you information and, if it pleases you, to ask of you the question that you granted me.”

Teos' eyes glimmered with a smile that did not reach his still face. He nodded gravely. “Your information?”

“The demon-kin have found Vexusa, the home of the Dark League.”

The golden eyes of the God closed as he bent his head in acknowledgment. “And?”

“We believe it to be beneath the ground upon which we stand.” It was Meralonne again. “And worse; the Allasakari and the kin are
unmaking
the ways that lead to it.”

“Unmaking?”

“Indeed. They use power as if there is no end to the power that they can summon. They use power as if—as if the Covenant of the Unnamed One had never been made.”

“What
is
the Covenant of the Unnamed?” Stephen said, surprising himself. It was not the question that he had thought to ask, but he asked it, and it hung in the air as if the words had become physical, tangible.

The God stared at him a long time, and then at last, said, “that is the right question, Stephen of Elseth, although you yet may regret the asking of it. Will you hear the answer?”

“I will.”

“Very well.” He nodded and the book fell open in his left hand; pages, thin and supple, turned as if at the behest of a strong wind. “We are the Lords of the Heavens, and the Lords of the Hells; we are the Gods to whom you look and from whom you receive direction, should you choose to ask it. We are the gatherers, and we are the judges.

“But in the time of the Shining City, we were more than that. We walked among you, in the Age of Gods.” He looked up, and his face was the very face of youth; what he remembered, Stephen could not even imagine—for what could make a God feel young?

“You are the last-born,” he said softly. “And you are the strangest of the creations. Your bodies are weaker than we could have imagined when first we encountered you, but your minds are quick, and you are, of all the creations, most curious.” His smile was fond. “But you did not survive much.”

He looked up. “The Gods warred in their youth. The mountain ranges to the west of Averalaan were created in an afternoon's battle, and might just as easily have been unmade.

“But not the humans. It was Mystery who showed us their truth. For the souls of the mortal kin were little shards of light too beautiful to be cased forever in dying flesh; and when the flesh was stripped away, the shards remained, colored by the brevity of the life led.

“Mystery said to the Gods of the Heavens and the Lords of the Hells: Here, within each mortal, is the best and truest test of your power; no more will your battleground be earth alone. Each mortal is infinite in possibility, and finite in time. Do you call yourselves powerful?” At this, the God's expression darkened,
but he continued to speak. “Behold: the changes that you have made over landscape are already healed; for all your rage and glory, they might never have been. Yet your influence here, with these mortals, might be lasting and felt forever.