The Sacred Hunt Duology (105 page)

Unadorned, she would still not have been mistaken for a woman like any other; her eyes were glowing with a golden brilliance that could not be met.

“It is as you feared, daughter,” the Exalted said. “Brother Mayadar. Sister Taralyn.” They began to walk in step across the dais at her command. Her lips folded in a frown. Mayadar missed a beat. “Bring us the dagger,” she told them, patiently but tersely.

The dagger was part of the First Day ceremonies, but it was seldom called for until the dead were to be interred. Mayadar retrieved the box from the young Priest-designate who had been chosen to carry it. With unseemly haste, he returned to the side of the Exalted, bowing low. She nodded her thanks, but her attention was already upon the dagger. Without preamble, she lifted it and slid its wavering edge across her palm. That was not part of the usual ceremony. Blood.

No one spoke as she touched the dead man's forehead before that blood had cooled or ceased its flow. His muscles slackened by slow degree as the shadows left his face. Paler, the Exalted stood. “As you feared,” she said gravely to The Terafin, “and worse.”

“Daughter of the Mother.”

She did not turn to look; only four in the city could call her by that title, and only one would feel the need. “Son of Reymaris,” she replied. “The Terafin has seen truly. This is the work of the Allasakari, this rictus; but its hold is stronger and surer than any shadow that I have yet felt.”

“And may we help?”

“You may.”

The Exalted of Cormaris did not feel a like need to gain her permission, and, as she, he divested himself of the symbols and the finery of his office, save one: the power behind the Church. In silence they worked their blessing against the darkness of their parents' eternal enemy.

• • •

Chanting quietly, the Priests formed up behind their leaders, holding braziers, burning incense, whispering over and over the phrases that centered the Exalted in the mysteries of their parents. The Terafin had seen such effects before, but she had never felt they were necessary; today, for the first time, the ceremony of the First Day had a very practical, very pragmatic meaning.

Is it true? If the shadow is not dispelled, will the bodies of the dead rise at the end of the Three Days when the spirit is at last free?
But it was a scholar's question, an earnest youth's, or even a child's. She was The Terafin; curiosity did not force her speech.

In the end, the work was done. The Terafin watched the Exalted, sweaty and fatigued from their labor, as they retreated to the circles of their attendants. The air was heavy with the combined scent of three braziers and the perfumes and oils in which the dead were bathed.

The Exalted of Cormaris stood forward, and bowed very low. “It is done,” he said gravely. The Terafin bowed in return, but before she could speak, Lord Elseth did.

“My dogs,” he said softly. “My dogs were killed in the same way.”

The Exalted of Cormaris raised a dark brow. His face was pale and finely boned, with high cheekbones and brow. He was not a young man, but then again, no son of Cormaris ever truly seemed young. “The dogs,” he said gravely, “burning will save.”

Before anyone could stop him—and that wasn't difficult as no one in Averalaan could conceive of any sane person behaving in such a way—Lord Elseth grabbed the Exalted's left arm and swung him around. He was the heavier man.

The Exalted of Cormaris raised a brow, but did not struggle.

“My dogs died fighting your enemies,” Lord Elseth said, teeth clenched and lips barely moving. “They will be given to earth; they
will
be honored.”

Priests of Reymaris quietly joined the Exalted's side; they were armed, and although their weapons remained sheathed, their meaning was clear. The foreign Lord stared at them a moment, as if weighing his chances.

A young woman came, moving so quietly that she was noticed only as she reached his side. She touched his arm, caught the white, white knuckles that rested against the pommel of a sheathed sword. He turned to her and opened his mouth.

She said, “It will not bring them back.”

“Go away.”

“Do not do this. It will not bring
him
back.”

He paled; his hand slackened. If his feet were not so firmly planted, he might have stepped back.
“Leave me.”

She did, vanishing into the crowd with the same ease with which she had appeared.

The foreign Lord released the ruler of the Church of Cormaris. The Exalted turned immediately and continued to walk away from the dead.

The dogs at Lord Elseth's feet began to snarl, although their master was silent and still. As if the ruler of the earthly dominion of Cormaris had set the standard for the behavior of the rest of the gathering, people began to melt away, giving wide berth to the stranger and his creatures without offering obvious disdain. Not even The Terafin chose to have words with her visitor, or to grace him with her support; not here, and not after his breach of conduct.

And then, as the growl of the hounds turned to a soft, high whine, as the Lord Elseth turned to face the biers upon which his pack were laid, one person stepped out of the flow of the crowd, moving cautiously and confidently. She had, after all, little to fear.

The Exalted of the Mother approached quietly, gesturing her attendants on either side to stand back. The growling of the beasts grew as she came near, but she offered them a frown, and after a few seconds, they fell silent. Only then did she smile and reach out—and the largest of the dogs began to trot across the platform to greet her. His tail was wagging, his ears were up.

But he did not reach her.

Brother Mayadar had never seen a dog stop in mid-stride before—but these dogs were unnatural, so it didn't really surprise him when this one did. He thought the Exalted might say something, or do something, which would
finally
put this—this pompous, ignorant barbarian in his place. But when she spoke, it was to the dog.

“Ashfel,” she said quietly. “You must tell your Lord that we mean him no harm. We have traveled to his country, to visit her Holiness in the King's City; we have witnessed the Sacred Hunt.” As she spoke this last, she looked up from the dog's cocked head to the master's impassive face. “We do not understand the mysteries of the Breodani; we do not understand their Hunter God. But we do know that the earth and the hunt are tied in ways that we, daughter to the Mother, cannot fathom.

“Your people are true to your Lord and to ours; and the dogs that you honor above almost all else are part of the Hunt that, in the end, feeds
our
children, our followers. We know that you are without your huntbrother,” she said gravely, the seriousness of her expression saying more than the words. “And we know that the huntbrother is the one who would be versed in our customs. We do not take offense at your request, Lord Elseth.” She paused, and lowered her head a moment, as if gathering her strength. “And it pleases us to grant you what you wish.”

He stared at her, and the impassivity slowly drained from his face. That left him with words, and he would not speak them; he had never been good with words, and it was suddenly important that he not offend this woman.

She knew what he had lost.

Her eyes were bright as she waited for the acknowledgment that would not come, and then, realizing it was there in the openness of his expression, in the suddenness of vulnerability, she said, “Come; we fear that our blood has been thinned by the ceremonies. You must provide that which we cannot.”

10th Corvil, 410 A.A., evening
Hall of Wise Counsel

The screaming was distant now; like the tide, it was low and high, and at times such as this he might almost forget that it existed.

His body had accustomed itself to the
niscea.
A bad sign, but he was more aware of its effects than the untrained would be, and he did what he could to limit the dosage. If the dead were not laid to rest, the cure would become a curse of its own.

“Kallandras.” The voice was quiet, softened by enchantment into an otherworld whisper. He was trained to listen to all manner of speech and song; he knew at once that the words to follow were meant for his ears alone, and would reach no others.

Still he glanced at his companion to see if her presence had been noted—for it was Evayne who spoke, and at that, the older woman, not the child. Devon ATerafin, on edge, had noticed little out of place; Kallandras swept the chamber with the eye of his early training. She was not immediately obvious.

“What is it?” Devon said quietly, pitching his voice low.

Kallandras shook his head. Devon's sensitivity had nothing to do with magic or ritual or training. A most unusual man in many ways. He tried not to remember the brotherhood, and failed—for Devon was like, and unlike, the Kovaschaii.

“Kallandras?”

“Kallandras.”

“Nothing is out of place, ATerafin,” he said, and then, using the talents for which he was known, “Evayne. What tragedy have you brought this eve?” No one who was not Evayne could catch the words, but one bard-born and trained would know that there was speech, and that it was private.

“You're looking for something,” Devon said tersely, his blue eyes icelike in the chill of his face.

Evayne was silent, and when she spoke again, he lost the drift of her words to Devon's continued accusation. Luckily, it didn't last long; Devon had made the chamber his first concern, and could spare little time from watching over it.

In the annoyed silence that Devon offered as he turned his vigil back to the Kings' Swords who stood at the doors that led to the Hall of Wise Counsel, and thence, to the interior rooms that the Kings occupied in the winter season, Kallandras sorted out the words that had been Evayne's. They were curt and brief.

“Carry the spear that the wild one brought you to Lord Elseth.”

He nodded, knowing that she would see it, and accept it as his pledge, no matter where she stood. She was seer-born; little was hidden from her sight when she chose to look.

Twenty-four men—on the ground floor—made the chamber itself look small, although a dozen of those men and women were tucked away near servants' entrances. Another two dozen lined the gallery above, patrolling the three doors that had been locked and barred for the evening. There was not a young man or woman among them; Devon had, with the aid of the Princess, chosen only those with experience. And skill.

It was odd, though, to see four Primus and a Verrus serving in the role of night watchmen. Kallandras risked a sidelong glance at his dark-haired companion. The ATerafin had pulled in many favors for these evening shifts—and they would not last long. The bard did not wish to see Devon's fears made real, but he knew that, should nothing happen, it would cost Devon his credibility.

Folding his arms, he relaxed into the edge of the basin by the wall. And what should he care, if Devon failed? Moody, almost grim, he stared into the chamber, aware of every movement within its walls.

“It seems,” Evayne said, “that I've made an error in judgment.” Her inflection was wry but cautious. “Having given you the message, I thought the path would take me where it must—but it appears that I am already there.

“I should have guessed,” she added. “Why else would I come upon you here, surrounded by evening and the Kings' Swords, if there were no . . . difficulties?”

Before he could answer, a door in the upper gallery drew his attention. Someone was on the other side of it, banging loudly. He turned to Devon ATerafin; Devon was rigid but silent.

“Mailed fist,” Kallandras said, sweeping his hair up and catching it so firmly with a long pin and net that the curls lay flat. Salla was in his temporary quarters, and he wore no sword—but he was armed, and armed well. Shaking his wrists with a distinctive snap, he armed himself with stilettos.

Devon raised a dark brow, and for the first time in three evenings, he smiled cautiously. “Meralonne said you were . . . more than you seemed.”

“Meralonne,” Kallandras said, almost bitterly, “said no more than he needed.” He paused. “Arm yourself. There is danger.”

Devon nodded and looked to the door.

Primus Cortarian came from beneath the gallery, walking briskly toward the ATerafin. He bowed, making of the gesture something perfunctory and quick.

“Report.”

“An urgent message. From The Terafin. The Kings are to be informed at once.”

“Of what?”

“The man will not say—the message is to be delivered to the Kings.” He paused. “The message is, apparently, not written; it is verbal. There is no seal to verify. We do not know who the carrier is; as per your instructions, we have not opened the doors.”

“Ready your men,” Devon said softly. He turned swiftly. “I will deal with the Terafin messenger.”

Primus Cortarian bowed again.

Before either man could reach the galleries, the doors flew off their hinges, splintering against the rails opposite them. The two men who had been standing in front of those doors had no chance to cry out; the force of the impact drove them over the rails to the ground below. They lay there limply.

In the semidarkness, in the doorless frame, stood a single man: Verrus Allamar. He wore no armor, and carried no shield, but in his left hand he held a great sword as if its weight was of no more consequence than a dagger.

And at his back, in numbers the light made difficult to judge, were Kings' Swords.

“What is the meaning of this?” Verrus Sivari stepped forward from his position by the doors to the Hall of Wise Counsel. He was a younger man than Allamar, and smaller of build, but he had thrice been Kings' Champion; he was a man who not only knew how to command, but also how best to use the minutiae of the swordsman's life.

Verrus Allamar stepped into the gallery in silence, ignoring the challenge posed by the only man in the room who might be said to outrank him. He lifted an arm, and waved the men at his back forward; they came in like a tide made of something thick and heavy.