The Sacred Hunt Duology (111 page)

We are with you. We are watching. We stand guard.

Sleep, precious children, sleep.

One by one the bard-born took up the chorus and verse of the command, weaving into it, as they must, the parts of it that were themselves and their own experience.

So when the youngest, and the last, of Senniel's bard-born masters spoke of endings, he did not speak of sleep.

Into the darkness, he sang of darkness, and his voice rose above the voices of the bards of Senniel College as if they were sparrows, and he the matchless eagle. He called power, his voice was the very thunder; all who spoke shuddered a moment as they heard the force of his words.

He spoke of killing.

He spoke of claw in eye, of sword through heart, of the snap of bone at the back of the neck; he sang of deaths in endless number—quick and rapid, sudden; he told the assassin's tale, not the torturer's.

Behind each word was force, for those to hear it.

The master bards of Senniel College spoke to the humans who were waiting to die or worse, contained by chain or spell or barrier in untold, unseen number. Kallandras spoke to the kin who presided over the ceremonies.

Each found their audience.

The pleading stopped in mid-word, first child and then mother, never to be resumed. A great beast howled, loud and long, with a voice that contained the wildness of forests at the dawn of time, forgotten except in nightmare. A cacophony of human voices erupted, abruptly broken by the sounds of wings, some great bird landing.

Abraxus-karathis! Stop!

The roar grew louder, and the cries fewer; among them, one or two voices were raised in a wail of song, a tremulous giving of thanks, a terrified peace.

STOP! I COMMAND YOU!

But the bardic voice passed into darkness, just as the sound of the dying passed out of it, magnified by the unknown and unseen. The creature that heard its call heard little else; the voice of an angry Lord did not have the command that Kallandras' determination did.

The beating of wings grew louder; thunder clapped air in the storm beneath the barrier. A snarl, a growl; the utterance of a challenge so old words could not contain it.

And beneath it, quiet but distinct, a chuckle.

Very clever.

• • •

Mirialyn ACormaris watched the bards as they tended to Kallandras. The youngest—and easily the most attractive—of the master bards lay upon a thin pallet, his eyes wide and unblinking. The land was once again quiet; the bards of Senniel had paid their price and done their duty. For now. The members of the Order were assembled, waiting upon her instruction; she nodded, and they departed to once again comb through this emptied den of changeling nobility. All save one: Meralonne.

“Bardmaster Glassen?”

Sioban shook her head wearily. “I've never heard his voice so strong.” In spite of herself, she shuddered. “No, Kalian. Lie back. That's an
order
. You'll catch the fevers if you don't rest now, and you're no mage to handle them well.”

“No mage handles the fevers well,” Meralonne said gravely, staring at the wan bard. “Might I speak with him?”

“He needs rest, not—”

“Sioban.”

She met Kallandras' piercing eyes and then shrugged, wilting as this last responsibility was removed from her. Standing, she winced; she'd almost forgotten what her knees were like in this kind of air.
Who are you, Kallandras?
She looked at him a moment, and he met her gaze unflinchingly. Better not to ask, not now. Later would do, if there was one. She stood back and gave his care to the mage.

“You did well,” Meralonne said, kneeling.

“What happened?”

“What you intended, if I heard the voice correctly. The torturer descended upon his intended victims and slaughtered them outright. No torture, no games; just the death. And the death does not provide the God with all that he requires.”

“You . . . heard the voice.” Kallandras smiled quietly, and then the odd smile dimmed. “They will not stop,” he said.

“No. The creature was not allowed to kill them all before he himself was destroyed; the game of sacrifice will continue. But not, I think,” he said, looking toward the silent house, “today.” He caught Kallandras' hand in his own; the movement was unexpected. “The bards are weary, but at peace for the moment.”

“I heard them,” Kallandras whispered. “I heard them so clearly I had to shout to hear myself.” He closed his eyes.

• • •

“We do not understand the nature of the barrier,” Meralonne said quietly, for perhaps the hundredth time. “We do not know how it was made permeable to sound, but not light, not spell, not any other physical intrusion. The barrier is not a magic that
we
use.”

Mirialyn and Devon ATerafin listened quietly; there were two other observers in the audience chamber, but they observed from the shadows, unremarked on by the three. And each of the three knew who they were and why they were present: Duvari of the Astari, and his boy, come to seek the information that would protect the Crowns.

Devon spoke softly. “They magnified the sounds they wished us to hear.”

“It was not only those on Cordufar that they wished to speak to,” Miri said. “You were occupied, Devon—but I came through the front gates. I was close enough to them when the noise started that I could see the reaction of the people passing by on the streets.” She grimaced and dropped a small sheaf of papers onto the room's only desk. “These are the reports that made it to the magisterial guards. Because of the nature of the reported crime, and the severity of it, the reports were passed immediately to the Courts of Reymaris, and through them, to the Kings' Swords.” She ran a hand over her eyes. Before either Devon or Meralonne could ask, she said, “There are just under fifty of them.”

“Cormaris' blood,” Devon said softly, sitting on the desktop.

“I spoke to the members of the Order involved in the excavations—your pardon, Meralonne, but you were in council with the Exalted at that time—and the screams were growing in volume almost hourly. Sigurne believes that at the end of less than two weeks, a third of the city will be able to hear what the demons are doing in their pits, should they choose that method of . . . attack again.”

Meralonne raised a platinum brow. “You managed to get that definite an opinion out of Sigurne? I
am
impressed. Oh, you most certainly can trust it; in fact, she is wont to be conservative when she estimates.” He smiled softly. “Matteos Corvel—a mage of the first circle as well—calls her the dormouse.”

“That sounds like Matteos. But Sigurne's of the first circle, isn't she?”

“Yes—and part of the Magi as well. But she is unassuming to the point of invisibility at most times; she rarely states an opinion, chooses no side of a debate or argument—but she is meticulous in her honesty. And yet, of all the Council, Sigurne has been the one most diligent in her duties at the ruin of Cordufar, the one least put off by the feeding of the God.”

“Of all the Council save one,” Devon said quietly. “But we stray. The ploy of the bard-born is unlikely to work a second time. From what I understand of the bard-born, I'm surprised that it worked the first time.”

“True.”

“Do you think they'll try again?”

“This may surprise you, ATerafin, but I'm not so well-versed on the strategy and tactics of the demon-kin that I can readily answer that question.”

“My apologies. I believe that the kin are a summoned creature—and only the mage-born would have that ability.”

Meralonne bristled at the implication. “It is a forbidden art.”

“Then the Magi have not been vigilant in assuring—”

“Gentlemen.” They both looked up at the cool, impatient word. “Let us assume that the demons will pursue this attack; it costs them little—”

“It costs them greatly,” Meralonne said. “But yes, they have much to gain. If our efforts are diverted to containing the panic—and the ensuing possibility of chaos and violence that panic will breed, they are that much closer to the safe completion of their task.”

Devon stood. “I will speak with The Terafin.”

“And she?”

“She,” he said, with just a hint of the pride of the House, “will mobilize The Ten.”

“Good,” Mirialyn replied. “For the Exalted have mobilized their priests and the noteworthy among their congregation; Meralonne has taken the Order in hand; Sioban has called the bards from every town and college within a week's hard ride, with orders to spare no horses.”

“And all of that,” the mage said darkly, as he stared into the distance of the Hall of Wise Counsel, “will avail us nothing if we cannot find a way to break the barrier down before the creature walks.”

• • •

The dreams meant something.

“Jay?”

She looked up from the glow of wasted oil in the otherwise darkened kitchen. Carver. “What?”

“You're up again.”

Sarcasm took energy, so she nodded instead. “So are you. Couldn't sleep.” She paused. “Seen Arann lately?”

“At dinner—he came here.” Carver was snickering. “Covered in a dozen bruises bigger than my fist. Says he's learning how to use a sword.” Pause. “He asked about you. He thinks you're mad at him.”

“What'd you tell him?”

“That you were out chasing one of the ATerafin.”

“And?”

“Nothing else.”

Carver couldn't lie worth a damn. “Look, how much does everyone know?”

He spread his hands out, palm up, in the shadows. That much. “We're your den-kin,” he said, defensively. “It's our business to know.”

“It's your business to know what I think you should know. And where the hells did you hear it, anyway?”

“One of the servants told me. The redhead with the gorgeous—”

“Carver!”

“Yessir.” He was quiet for a long time. Then another voice chimed in.

“Jay?” Finch.

“All right,” she said, turning up the oil and brightening the kitchen considerably. “Get your backsides in here.” She watched as, one by one, her small den joined her in the kitchen. All of their important meetings were held there; it was a habit that she didn't think they'd break, because she couldn't.

Last came Ellerson, but no one seemed to mind; in fact, if it weren't for the flickering of the light, Jewel would have sworn that Finch actually winked at him. They dragged chairs across the smooth floor, propping them up against walls and the table's edge. She looked at them in the darkness. Saw Arann there and actually felt better about it. Angel, Teller, Jester. Her den.

“It's like this,” she said, and haltingly began to describe the days she'd spent working with Devon. Described what she'd managed to eavesdrop on. Talked about the Lord of the Hells without ever mentioning his name. She was no Priest or Exalted; she had no way of protecting herself from his attention.

If anyone in Averalaan did, anymore.

“I can't leave here,” Jewel told them softly. “But the usual offer is open.” A minute passed, and then more, before she finally exhaled into the welcome silence. They were, by the Gods,
her
den.

“Is there anything that anyone can do to stop him?” Teller. He never walked around the tough questions.

“Yes.”
The word was out of her mouth before she realized that it was the truth. She
knew
it. Maybe she'd known it all along.

Her den relaxed visibly—as did she. There
was
something. After another minute, she realized that her den was waiting, and she gave them an apologetic smile. “It's the feeling,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “Don't ask me
what.
”

“Well,” Finch said, with a false bravado that surprised no one. “Look at the bright side.”

“What?”

“If things get much worse, we'll all be here when Moorelas rides again.”

“Moorelas is a story,” Angel said curtly. “And we're going to need a hell of a lot more than stories to save us.”

“Well, Allasakar was supposed to be a story, too! And if he's here, Moorelas can't be far behind.”

But Teller said, “Jay?” and they all turned to look at him; his face had that
stillness it got when he was thinking—and at that, thinking about something he didn't much like.

“When the Sleepers wake.” Jewel laughed a bit weakly at her own humor, and then continued uncomfortably when no one else got the joke. “When Moorelas rides again, the Sleepers wake,” she whispered. “‘To fulfill their broken oath and restore honor to their lines.'” Her eyes widened then. She pushed her chair back as far as it would go, balancing on two legs while Ellerson frowned.

“It's the crypt,” she said. “Mother's blessing, it's the crypt.”

“The what?”

But Jewel was already off her feet in agitation. “We were there,” she said softly, so softly her voice didn't sound like her own. “That's what they're trying to tell me.”

“Can you explain it to the rest of us?”

“Back when we first started exploring the maze, Duster and I—we found one old tunnel that was, well, like a manor hall. It was made of big, wide cut-stone blocks—real high ceilings, pretty frilly engravings, stuff like that. There were mage-lights in the walls. We thought it'd be the perfect place for the den; we'd never have trouble with turf wars again, and we could live in style.

“But something was already living there.”

“You never told us about it.”

“If I told
you
,” she said sharply, “you'd've dragged Lander off on some crazy search for—” She bit her lip as Carver's face paled. Lander. He and Carver had always done point together. “Sorry,” she muttered.

“Doesn't matter. Tell us now.”