The Sacred Hunt Duology (95 page)

“And we saw what he showed us, and we saw what might follow; we saw the truth in the words that he spoke—although we did not comprehend all of his motives. There were the Heavens, and there were the Hells, and to these, in the end, those souls of man would go; and when the Mother at last was appeased—for it was hardest to part her from the children she had known, but that is another story—the gods withdrew to let the last-born flower.

“But Mystery was not content, and wisely so; he went to Bredan, and asked him for a binding that the very Gods could not break, and Bredan bound us by our words and his being: No God could come directly to the world again and wreak their power upon those too weak to bear it. And Mystery sealed the bargain, and there was the Great Change, that closed the world of the last-born to us forever. Bredan was the Oathholder, and Bredan the guardian of the divide.

“Yet there were three who did not swear the binding oath: Bredan of the Covenant among them, for he is the holder of the oath, and he enforces it.”

The air was alive with the last words of Teos, Lord of Knowledge. His sword sparked, and the book slammed shut, as if a final judgment had been pronounced.

Meralonne cursed in the silence.

“But it doesn't make any sense!” Stephen cried out. “If—if he's
here
—why would the Hunter God not tell us this? Why would he hide his true name and his true nature?”

“Mortal life is short,” the God replied gravely, “and mortal memory shorter still. The ages pass and change it. For my part, I do not believe that Bredan lied to his people. It is not his way.

“For there is more, Stephen. The Covenant bound us, but it was
not
the only binding; the Great Change sundered us from the world, and the world from us. We are not as we were, and we can never be so again, and just as we have sought to change you, so you have, in some remote way, touched us. There is a divide between us and within us, and the crossing of it would be perilous even if the binding were not in place. Not one of us knows—not even I—what might happen to a God who makes that crossing.”

If there were a chair, or ground that he could see, Stephen would have let his legs collapse beneath him. He did not. “He's here,” he said softly. “He's always been here.”

The God made no reply.

Stephen paled, and then, wind taking his hair, he raised his face, lifting his sky-blue eyes to meet the warmth of golden ones. “If the Lord of the Darkness is not on his throne in the Hells, where is he?”

• • •

Teos lowered his helm and lifted his great sword. “War will come,” he said softly, “and I pray that war can be contained in the Hells.

“Find Bredan. Find our brother, and return him to us.” He bowed to Stephen, the full bow of the Breodanir.

“What? How?”

But the Lord of Knowledge did not answer. “I fear that we will not meet again, Stephen of Elseth. At least not in this world.” He rose, and then nodded to Kallandras and Meralonne as they stood in silence. “Perhaps,” Teos said to the mage, as the mists began to grow and thicken between them, “you and I will meet again in future. You have but to ask any of my children in the Order.”

Meralonne nodded gravely.

“You know what is at stake, Illaraphaniel. Do what must be done.”

“Have not I always?” The words hung in the air as the walls of the mage's tower study became substantial, became real. A crack of pink light, straight and thin, peered out from the edges of the shuttered window. Time passed strangely in the half-world, or in its lingering aftermath.

Stephen looked up into the pale face of the slender mage whose gray eyes were focused on a distance that none but he could see. “Meralonne?”

The mage looked down, as if from a great height, and a cold one. “Yes?”

“He's here, isn't he?”

“I think not,” was the quiet reply. “If I read the Lord of Knowledge aright, then he is neither here nor there. Were he here, in fact, we would know it; and not just us. The continent itself would be re-formed to the vast wastes of his desire.” Absently, almost as if by drill and not conscious desire, he reached for the pipe that he had set aside. He lifted it, empty and cold, to his lips, and inhaled. “Yet he is not on his throne in the Hells. He is somewhere
between.
”

“And we must stop him,” Kallandras said, speaking for the first time since the half-world had taken him into its fold. “I saw the arch. The gate,” he added. “I saw it, but I did not know it for what it was.”

“If you saw it and you escaped, he was weak indeed, and his grasp upon the world was poor. When?” As the bard hesitated, the platinum brows of the mage drew into one thin, long line. “Kallandras, we have no time for foolishness.
When?
”

“Eight years ago. Near Lattan.”

The mage smiled softly to himself, but the smile was bitter. “I see.” The smile withered. “Where?”

“By Myrddion's final resting place. In Vexusa. I would not have escaped, but
she
sent me away; she used her magic to move me from the coliseum to the streets of Averalaan Aramarelas.”

Meralonne turned to Stephen. “He thinks that you are capable of finding Bredan of the Covenant—of finding your God. Do it.”

“I—” All protest died on Stephen's lips as he met the mage's eyes. Winters were warmer than what he saw there. He swallowed. But before he could speak, the mage spoke again, and his tone was softer, although his face was no less bleak.

“I understand that if you find your God you may well face the fate to which you were bound. But that fate was your choice, and if you did not understand all of what you were swearing, you swore the oath nonetheless, and you have benefited from it. If you do
not
find your God, then it is not only Breodanir that will suffer, but the Kingdoms of the West, the Empire of Essalieyan, and the Dominion of Annagar.”

“I don't—I don't understand.”

“Bredan was the keeper of the Covenant, but he was also the guardian of the ‘divide.' It is that unknown divide that the Lord of the Hells is crossing as we speak. If we want any chance of hindering Allasakar—yes,
Allasakar
—in his passage, we
must
find Bredan.”

• • •

Ashfel saw Stephen first and bounded up to him, taking long easy strides that ended with two gray paws splayed out against the breadth of Stephen's chest. Were it not for the intervention of the wall, Stephen would have fallen, and he lost no time in telling Ashfel exactly that.

Ashfel's response was unacceptable, and he knew it; he also knew the exact moment that Gilliam was about to cross the threshold, for he bounded up and off, and sat with delicate good grace at the disheveled huntbrother's feet.

Dogs, of course, were usually rather stupid when it came to lying, and Ashfel was no exception. The idea that Gilliam had already
seen
the end of Ashfel's paws planted firmly against Stephen's chest just didn't occur to him until Gilliam caught him by the snout. At that point, he realized that he'd been caught out, and struggled between defiance and pathos; pathos won.

Or at least it might have had Stephen been the Hunter Lord. Gilliam was unamused. Stephen thought it strange—he almost always did—that these dogs revered Gilliam, that they would die for him without hesitation, yet that it was Gilliam who was most severe and rigid when any of his rules were broken.

“You're late,” Gilliam said, although his gaze was on Ashfel, who lay belly to ground in the entry hall.

“Sorry.”

“What happened?”

“We're in trouble.”

“I'd guessed,” was the quiet response. He caught Stephen by both shoulders; the huntbrother tensed, but met his Lord's gaze.

Don't ask, Gil
, he thought.
Just don't ask.

Gilliam was not good at asking questions; he was not well-versed at the art of starting a dialogue with little help. He also had his pride; Stephen felt it prickling
the edges of their bond. He knew that Gilliam was hurt, and knew better that Gilliam would never admit to it. Just as well. Anger, he could deal with.

“Messenger came,” Gilliam said gruffly, as he let go of Stephen and turned away.

“What?”

“A messenger.”

“At this hour?”

Gilliam nodded. “From The Terafin. She wants us back.”

“Why?”

“How should I know?” He turned to walk away, and Stephen went after him.

“Gil—”

“Don't bother.” He walked to the flat surface of an unused desk, and picked up a curled scroll. “This is the message,” he said, turning, his face dark.

Stephen took it, looked at it, and saw the perfect brush strokes of a person well-versed in the art of writing. More than that would have to wait. He curled the message up and slid it into the hip sling that he wore. “Gilliam, I won't lie to you.” He couldn't; a lie required the building of far too many walls, and the bond would not allow them. “But I won't tell you things that are too personal either. You've said nothing at all about Espere, and I've only ever asked the one time.”

Gilliam grudgingly met Stephen's gaze.

“This—it's personal to me, and it's going to be personally very costly, very painful. But in the end, it has
nothing
to do with you.”

“How can it have nothing to do with me? You're
my
huntbrother!”

“Yes. Not one of your hounds.” He pulled the Hunter's Horn from the sash at his side. Held it gingerly, the way one might hold a dangerous poison; he couldn't hold it any other way, for he was suddenly certain that his life and his death were notes that the Horn, when winded, would sound. “This is
my
Wyrd.”

“And that means you have to face it alone?”

“No. And yes.”

“You were—”

“I was afraid. I'm not anymore.” He lifted the Horn, searching its simplicity for some rune, some marking, some hint of its maker's purpose. It was easier than meeting Gilliam's eyes. “We have a task, and I don't know how to do it.”

“What task?”

“We have to find the Hunter God.”

The silence, although short, could not have been more complete.

“And then, when we find Him, we have to return Him to the Heavens.” He looked up then, to meet his Hunter's eyes. They were slightly wide.

Before Gilliam—who had never been good with words—could frame a reply, Espere appeared at his side; how she'd crossed the room unnoticed, Stephen didn't
know. She placed a small hand on Gilliam's chest, drawing his gaze downward; then, when she had it, she nodded solemnly and quietly.

“She's afraid,” Gilliam told his huntbrother, as he cupped her face in his hands. “But she knows that you're right.”

• • •

“You're back,” Meralonne said softly as he stared out of the shuttered windows into the early morning street below. The wagons were rolling into the Order, carrying from the farmers' fields the food with which the members would be fed their day's meal. They disappeared quickly from his line of sight, taking the route that the merchants and servants were to use.

“You're awake.”

“Did you hope to find me sleeping?” The mage turned, his smile both sharp and sardonic.

“You? No, Master APhaniel. I never expect to find you asleep.” The bard gave a low, deep bow. The movement was precise and crisp; it was also silent. What he wore was dark and simple; his hair was caught and pinned into near invisibility. He did not carry a visible weapon, which was not terribly surprising—but he also did not carry his lute, which was.

Meralonne started to speak, and then shook his head softly. “I weary of this game. Speak, Kallandras; you have come for a reason.”

“You know what I was, once.” There wasn't even a trace of question in the sentence.

“I know,” the mage replied evenly, “what you are.”

“And that?”

But Meralonne smiled thinly. “The youngest master bard that Senniel College has ever produced. Were it not for your elusive past, I believe that you might become the youngest bardmaster as well—Sioban favors you. It is well known.”

“And you,” Kallandras said gravely, “are a mage-born member of the Order of Knowledge. You were born in the South—or some say the West, and you have resided here for twenty years or more.” He paused. “So that we understand each other.”

“What do you seek? For it appears that we will walk this road together for the time.”

“We will walk it and be damned,” Kallandras' voice was barely a whisper, but it carried; a bardic whisper could make itself heard down a city block without losing subtlety or nuance. He bowed again, and then stiffened; his skin was as pale as the mage's hair. “I need you to carry word to those who protect the Crowns.”

Meralonne's eyes became steely slits so narrow they seemed a weapon's edge. “What do you mean?”

“I cannot carry the word myself, or I would do it; you can.”

“Kallandras—we have not the time for this. Speak plainly.”

“Two men were to be hired to assassinate the Kings.”

A silver brow rose, hovering. Meralonne did not fill the silence with questions.

“They refused the kill.”

“Very wise.”

“They died for their refusal.” Blue eyes iced over as he spoke.

“I see.” Meralonne reached out and closed the shutters. “When?”

“Ten days. Two weeks. I cannot be certain.”

The mage turned. The room, without natural light, was darkened and gray; there were no lamps burning, no magestones glimmering. A crack of light traced the shutters, as it had already done once this morn. It was enough to see by, if one knew how to look. Kallandras knew. And he stared into the face of Meralonne APhaniel, seeing in it a surprise that was already dying and being replaced by an expression of understanding, a sympathy that could only be born of experience.