The Sacred Hunt Duology (18 page)

“If you were Kovaschaii—”

He lifted a hand; his right hand. “I will not answer questions about the brotherhood. You know this, Evayne.”

“It's not a specific question.”

“It's a question. Of yours. I will not answer it.”

“Very well. You know me—not as well now as you probably will in the future. Tell me what my chances against you would be if you were sent to kill.”

“Kill who?”

“Anyone.”

“Evayne—”

“Let me make it clearer. I would know, in advance, who the victim would be.”

“Impossible,” he said flatly. “You could not know.”

“Just answer the question.”

“If you knew, your chances would be better than if you didn't. But I wouldn't say they'd be high. Against what you fight, Evayne, we are not sent. You wouldn't be at your strength if you chose to fight me.”

“No,” she said quietly, and turned away.

“Is that all?” He rose.

“No,” she said again. “I have a mission for you.”

“And it is?”

“Go to Breodanir. Be there for the Sacred Hunt.”

“The what?”

“The Sacred Hunt; it is the festival of the greatest import to the Breodani, and one of their number is always killed in it. It occurs, without fail, on First Day, although preparations leading up to it start weeks in advance. Go to the King's City, and there you will be able to find out all that you need.”

“That is the whole of your order?”

“No. There will be a boy there. Stephen of Elseth. He must be protected against any threat. Tell him—tell him that I sent you.” Her voice dropped, but she did not turn to face Kallandras. Instead, she waited.

“Evayne.” She heard him rise. He pulled the chair slightly on purpose, because when he chose to be, he was completely silent.

“Yes?” She stared at her hands. The room was suddenly too small for both them and their memories.

“Your question. Why did you ask it?”

She didn't answer.

“Evayne.”

She wouldn't answer.

It was answer enough for Kallandras. She heard the door open and close with force before she turned to look. Kallandras was Kovaschaii, and even young, he hated to show emotion.

Will you do it, Kallan? Will you do as I direct?
She raised her palms to her cheeks and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the silver-misted walls of the path rose to her right and left. She did not turn back, but a smile helped to erase some of the lines from her face.

Healer Levec was going to be most angry.

• • •

Kallandras the bard sat in the darkness of the empty theater, his harp in his lap. His lute was at his side; he always traveled with both. The wind from the sea was moist and cool in the open stands.

Two hours ago, the stands had been full. Every eye in the audience was turned toward him; reckless, he had used a touch of the voice to assure that. The stage lights, protected by large shells, cast a glow beneath him. At times like this, surrounded by light, he could almost forget his loss.

Music helped. The old lays, with their history and their grim tales of sacrifice to duty, were both a goad and a balm. But words, while they had their lovely cadences and intrinsic harmonies, were not necessary. The lute and the harp in isolation had their tales to tell, their sorrows to speak of.

Without words, he let his music weep for him. He offered the audience, in their ignorance, his fear, his self-loathing, and his final determination. He knew it disturbed them, but he had to release his burden—and no member of the brotherhood would now stand to witness or comfort the only member, in all of the
Kovaschaii's long history, to betray them. Sioban might ask about his concert choices, but he doubted it. After the musical play, he had once again returned to the more traditional performance arts.

The audience offered him their left hands, palm out—a gesture of the highest approval. He accepted it gracefully and then melted into the stands to better hear the next performer. Two hours after the end of the set, both audience and performer were gone. He remained.

How could she ask this of him? His fingers strummed the strings of the harp rhythmically, seeking solace, not answers. He shifted the smooth, unornamented frame in his lap and stared into the darkness.

I have not seen my brothers for almost four years, Evayne. Am I to see them now as an enemy?

The air rippled with the dissonance of the chord that he struck. He was, to them, a traitor, but they were his family, his friends. Only for their sake, in the end, had the words of Evayne held sway. For in the end, even the brotherhood could not face a god.

It was a bitter fact: He would willingly have given his life to save the brotherhood—but giving up the brotherhood to save the brotherhood. . . . What was done, was done. But he could not say with certainty that, had he the choice again, he would choose as he had.

Silence surrounded him; the strings were absolutely still. His left hand held the harp, his right was curled into a fist so tight his nails cut the skin of his palm.
I
won't do it. I
can't
do it. I will not confront a brother. I
—

Golden light flared in the darkness, half-blinding him. He recognized it as the flash of a diamond reflecting sunlight at an awkward angle.

Except there was no sunlight; not even the fires along the stage still burned. A mile down the boardwalk, near the docks proper, the lights were clearly haloed by the coming sea mist, but they hadn't the power to wake the gem.

He stared at his right thumb in bitter silence.

“S
TEPHEN?” LADY ELSETH SMOOTHED
out the wrinkles her hands had put in the folds of her gray skirts.

“I kneel first, and if Gilliam doesn't remember, I knock his knees out from under him.” Stephen's gaze was not upon Lady Elseth, but rather upon the head of the stairs.

“Yes, but do it surreptitiously.”

Her tone of voice caught him, and he gave up watching for Gilliam. Gilliam wasn't late, after all. On this occasion it was Stephen who had finished packing and preparing early. He stepped over his single, modest trunk and made his way to Lady Elseth's side.

“Do you think Gilliam will remember—”

“I packed it,” he said, placing an arm around her shoulders just as Norn would have done had he not been busy with Soredon. “With mine. If he forgets his trunk, we'll still have our uniforms, don't worry.” He smiled, but it was only half real, and it vanished as she met his eyes.

“You'll know soon enough that I'll never stop worrying. Not now. This is the first year you won't be here when Soredon goes off to the Sacred Hunt. You'll be with him.” Her hands had returned waywardly to the skirts, and were already kneading new creases into them before she caught herself.

Maribelle turned around a corner, catching their attention as she made her way down the stairs. At eleven she'd lost both curls and lisp, and she no longer tried to worm her way into the kennels at her older brother's heels. She could read better than Gilliam, which wasn't saying much, and she could write better, too, which said even less. Numbers were one of her stronger points, and already she had shown her willingness to take part in Elseth duties at her mother's side.

Still, her face hadn't lost all of its baby fat, and when it came right down to it, she was a full four years younger than Stephen, so he rolled his eyes at the tilt of her chin, a movement that she didn't fail to catch.

“Mari,” her mother said, gently pulling away from Stephen's arm. “I was afraid
you would miss the farewells.” Her skirts rustled as she moved to her daughter and caught her in a hug.

Maribelle's arms returned her mother's embrace, and Stephen felt a twinge of envy.

But there's only so much comfort you can offer the Lady
, Norn had said,
and it's very little when it comes time for the Sacred Hunt. You'll go with the men, now—and you'll have your chance to die like the rest of them. You can't do anything to make her feel good about it, Stephen, but if it helps you, you can try.

He sighed as he watched his mother and his sister pull apart, wondering which was harder: to stay and to worry, or to go and be at risk. Loss or death? He shivered, feeling a morning chill that the fires couldn't protect him from. The nightmare image of Bryan's corpse warred with the empty hollowness of William's loss: his first funeral. Bryan was horribly dead, but William . . . even after five years, William was barely alive. He had his dogs, which helped—and he hunted without benefit of huntbrother—but even among Hunter Lords, William was withdrawn and silent. The glory had gone out of the hunt. The loss of Bryan would never be lessened with time; Stephen was certain of it.

“Stephen?”

He spun to face the open door, aware that he hadn't heard its hinges at all. Norn peered in. “We're almost ready. Is the young master down?”

Maribelle snorted. “Gilliam?” Her mother very quietly whispered something that neither Stephen nor Norn could hear, but the meaning of the words was made plain by the flush they engendered in the young girl's cheeks.

Soredon joined them before Gilliam did. He walked over to Elsabet's side and draped an arm across her shoulders. Her expression, as she leaned into his embrace, was one of resignation and fear. Stephen knew it well; for seven years he had waited quietly while Norn and Lord Elseth embarked upon their duty: the Sacred Hunt. This day marked the beginning of Stephen's adulthood in Breodanir, and he, too, would add to the burden of her worry from this moment on.

“Can someone help me with this?”

All eyes looked up to see Gilliam teetering at the railings. A large chest, one double the size of Stephen's modest choice, was precariously caught in a grip that was faltering even as they watched.

“Gilliam!” Elsa shouted, as Norn began to run up the stairs. She had been worried about whether or not he would show up in appropriate dress, but her eyes slid off the heavy gray jacket and the brown pants that were folded haphazardly into leather boots without comment. “Why didn't you send for the servants?”

He answered her by dropping the chest. It clattered down the stairs, narrowly missing Norn. Everyone scattered as the large, heavy box came to rest. That the lock held surprised them all.

Not an auspicious beginning.

• • •

“I don't suppose it will do any good to tell you all to keep an eye on each other?” Lady Elseth stood on her toes to give her son a kiss on the forehead. He was a boy for these few days more; not until the King called and accepted him would he be a Breodani Hunter.

“Mother.”

“I'll take care of him,” Stephen piped up. He held out his arms and caught Lady Elseth in a very tight hug. If Gilliam had become too self-consciously grown up for this sort of display, Stephen had not. He was going to have a few words with Gilliam on the subject once they were under way. “I'm sorry I won't be staying.”

“So am I.” Their foreheads touched. “You'll be back, though. I keep telling myself that.”

“And you don't really believe it until you see it,” Norn added. “Now enough of your time with the whelp—what about the real Hunters?” Breathing and being hugged by Norn were mutually exclusive activities; Lady Elseth couldn't have talked had she wanted to. She caught his beard in her fingers and yanked almost playfully.

He set her down without comment. He had been through this routine for so many years, he knew there was nothing to be said. It would wait until they returned, because it had to.

Last, she turned to Soredon.

“This is his first Hunt,” he said quietly, a hand on either of her shoulders. “Try to be as proud as he is, Elsa.”

“I am.” Her voice was soft. “The Hunters have their risk, and all of Breodanir depends on it. But we Ladies have our risk as well. I am proud for Elseth. I am worried for Elsabet.”

He kissed her quietly, holding her face in the palms of his hands. Then he stepped back, still staring into her red-rimmed eyes. She wanted to cry; he knew it, and knew she would not.

“I love you.” He turned. “Is everything ready?”

Norn nodded.

“The dogs?”

Gilliam nodded.

“Then we're off!”

• • •

The roads were very quiet for most of the journey. This year, because Stephen and Gilliam were to be presented to the Master of the Game, they had to arrive two weeks before the Sacred Hunt, rather than the usual four days.

Gilliam was in good spirits—this was the pinnacle of his youthful dreams. He would walk into the King's court with his huntbrother by his side, kneel, and be given the dress cloak and horn of the Hunter. He would be allowed to take part in the Sacred Hunt, and there he would further prove himself.

And on his return home, he would finally be able to form his own pack. Corwel's newest brood looked promising, and although Corwel was now too old to be the pride of Elseth, he was still capable of breeding true.

Soredon was happy as well, especially when he contemplated the arrival in the capital of his son and heir. Gilliam was everything that one Hunter-born could aspire to. He was young, strong, fast—and his ability with the trance had grown so quickly Soredon half-regretted that they hadn't had time to choose a proper pack for Gilliam's first appearance. Gilliam would hunt with a select number of Soredon's dogs.

Corwel would be at the head of the pack that Soredon had chosen for himself. He wasn't pack leader anymore, but he was second, and if Terwel was separated from him, Soredon was certain that Corwel would still make a good show of himself.

He knew it was foolish to take Corwel along; any of the younger dogs would be better for show. He was becoming sentimental. Well, yes, but what of it? He would hunt Corwel just this one last time, and they would face the Hunter's risk together, as they had for so many years.

We're both getting older
, he thought with wry affection. He turned to look at Gil, who was positively impatient as he sat astride his horse, and shook his head with a smile.
It may well be time soon; the younger generation will eclipse us both.

But we're not doddering and useless yet.

• • •

“They aren't worried, are they?” Stephen wrapped another scarf around his throat, and fastened the highest button of his jacket. It was chilly here; the wind across the plain had few trees or rocks to break its passage.

“Them?” Norn looked over his shoulder. “No, probably not.” He, too, wore an extra scarf for warmth, but the color of his jacket was deep, warm green. Hunter's clothing. “I've rarely met a hunter who was. Not an oath-bound Hunter, at any rate. Why?”

“Are you?”

“Worried?” Norn nodded. “Of course. I always am. I have to be—I've got two people to worry about, since one of us isn't worrying about himself. Why?”

“I'm worried.” Stephen's voice was quiet. “I'm worried that Gilliam will make a fool of himself in front of the King. I'm worried that we'll do something wrong before the Sacred Hunt. I'm worried that I'll forget all of my horn calls—it isn't as if they're used anywhere but the Sacred Hunt.” He took a breath and shadowed his eyes although the sun wasn't sharp, and the light was muted. “But mostly I'm worried about . . .” The words stopped, trailing into the quiet rush of wind against the ears. All of a sudden he didn't want to say them. For Stephen, words had always had a special magic, a feel of permanence, a ring of truth. To give voice to his fear was more than acknowledgment; it was empowerment.

“The Hunt is always a risk,” Norn said quietly. He glanced at his companion, seeing an odd echo of the boy he had once been, traveling to the King's City and the duty of the Sacred Hunt for the first time.

If Soredon felt a pride and continuity in the legacy of his blood as he contemplated Gilliam, Norn felt something equally strong as he rode beside Stephen. They were not related, but in the end, they were bound by a choice and a purpose that made them unique in Breodanir. Hunters were chosen by birth and by blood, with all of the abilities that the Hunter God could grant. Huntbrothers were the link between the Hunters and the rest of the populace, and they chose the same risk as their sworn oath brothers, without any of the God-granted advantages.

But they chose anyway, and they held true to their vows. If a brotherhood like this could extend forever outward, in all of the facets of Breodanir society, miracles could be achieved, he was certain of it. And proud of it as well.

“Why aren't they afraid?”

“You wouldn't want them to be,” Norn answered. He shifted in his saddle, keeping an eye on the road. It was muddy, even with the chill, and the horses were not always as watchful as they could be. “Well, maybe you do now. But it isn't a pretty sight, and it feels wrong. Like a little breaking of the vow.”

“But why aren't they afraid?”

“I don't know. Have you asked Gilliam?”

Stephen shook his head curtly. No.

Norn knew that Stephen would never ask. “Ah, well. I've never asked Soredon either. But I think it's because they live for the Hunt, those two and the others like them. You and I live for more because we can't feel what they feel—no matter what the Hunt or the conditions of it, we'll always be strictly human, strictly normal. The God-touch—the Hunter's trance—it's not for us. We'd never be able to attain it. So we want what other people want. Family, friends, a little knowledge outside of nets and couples and boar spears and dogs.”

“You've never married outside.”

“No.” Norn closed his eyes for a moment. “And I won't either. Don't ask, Stephen; it's silly enough, and it isn't relevant. You may well marry as you please and find those who will be happy to accept your troth.” His lips turned up in a smile, and his eyes softened.

“I don't know.” Stephen shot a glance at Gilliam's straight, gray back. “I don't know how I could have a family and Gilliam at the same time.”

Norn's laughter caught the attention of their brothers. He waved them on, still laughing into his beard. “Aye, there's truth in that. But he isn't your life, even though he may be your death in the end. You'll find a life that calls you yet, and you'll have to balance your vows with your aspirations.” His laughter left a red glow at his cheeks. “It's the life of a huntbrother, Stephen. And it's true: When you're young enough to make the vow, it's always the easiest. Growing into it gets
harder year by year.” He shook his head. “Perhaps you will make the choice that we did, Soredon, Elsa, and I.”

Norn's voice, full, deep, and tinged, every word, with affection, told no tale of regret at the choice he had made. Stephen gripped his own reins firmly and tried not to think of the Hunter's Death. He didn't want to die it, and he didn't want Gilliam to die it either. But he was certain that it was for him; so certain that he could not speak to Norn of it for fear that the speaking would make it real. Still . . .

“What does it look like?”

“What?”

“The Hunter's Death.”

“No one really knows, Stephen. And it's better so—although, when we reach the King's court, you'll see at least five artistic depictions of it. The only thing these artisans agreed on is size: It's big. Everything else—fangs, claws, number of legs, number of heads, color, shape—that changes depending on the artist. But the finest artists in the kingdom have turned their hands to the subject more than once—you'll even find a sculpture by Ovannen himself in the grand foyer.”