The Sacred Hunt Duology (38 page)

• • •

“Gil,” Stephen said, the moment the door had closed, “what in the Hells is going on?”

“I told you, it's none of your damned business.”

Stephen stiffened. “Why is the girl sleeping in the kennels? She isn't one of your damn hounds!” But looking down at his arm, he wasn't so sure. He tried not to remember the night of the demon-kin, and failed.

“She doesn't like sleeping in the house,” was Gilliam's stiff reply.

“You said that already.”

Gilliam turned. His jaw was set, and his face was nearly purple—and not just from their fist play.

“Don't start it again, Gil. What the
Hells
were you doing sleeping there?”

“I don't answer to you, Stephen!”

“You goddamned well do! You might have forgotten this, you flaming idiot, but you aren't a dog!”

Gilliam, never as good with words as his huntbrother, took two steps forward.

“There's no excuse for this—this sort of behavior. You're not fourteen anymore,
and you aren't with your first pack. Remember who you are, Gilliam—you're the Lord of Elseth, for the Mother's sake!”

“‘This sort of behavior?'” Gilliam's eyes narrowed, and Stephen felt a sudden pull along the bond that they had shared since they were eight. Then Gilliam's eyes widened, before narrowing again, this time dangerously. “You think I've—you think that she and I—you think that
of me
?”

There was not, and there never could be, any lie between a Hunter and his huntbrother. Stephen said, “What the Hells am I supposed to think? You want to!”

And those last three words were the truth, too. But if there was honesty, there was also incredible anger—and that was never easily hidden either.

“You son of a bitch!” Gilliam roared.

Stephen didn't bother with words; the time for them had passed. He had time to dodge the full force of Gilliam's furious charge before they connected again. This time, free from the dogs and the need to control or confine them, they tried, as brothers sometimes will, to beat each other senseless.

• • •

“Look at the two of you,” Lady Elseth said, as she picked up her napkin. Breakfast had been set and served, and the sun that filtered in through the windows of the breakfast room was bright and unforgiving.

Stephen did not reply, but looked across the table at his Hunter. Gilliam did not look up from his plate. Neither of them had gotten much sleep during the previous evening.

“You do realize,” Lady Elseth continued, her frosty voice belying the warmth of the early day, “that the servants haven't had this much cause for gossip in years?”

“Mother.” Gilliam's single word was a warning. His face was set and etched in lines of sullen anger.

Lady Elseth was not to be put off, but she did not ask, as she had every previous breakfast, where Gilliam's guest could be found. “I think, Gilliam, that both Maribelle and I have been tolerant enough.”

Maribelle, following her mother's lead, had seen to her napkin and her serving, but her eyes, openly curious, followed her brother's face. Gilliam was bruised; there was a cut just under his eye, probably caused by Stephen's signet ring.

Stephen looked no better, although it was a wonder, given his smaller stature, that he didn't look worse. His arm was bandaged and hung in a sling across his chest. The servants that had just been mentioned had been called to help him dress, and although on one other occasion he had likewise been tended to, that had had the excuse of a hunting accident behind it.

He ate stiffly and awkwardly, and although he made polite conversation with both of the Ladies, he never once looked at his Hunter.

Lady Elseth did not have a good morning. For that matter, lunch was no better,
and by the end of the day's second meal, only Maribelle dutifully tried to keep conversation light and pleasant. The only boon to Elsabet's day was the fact that Gilliam, whom she subtly kept watch over, did not once go down to the kennels after seeing to the dogs' morning run and feeding.

When dinner commenced, weighted down by the same heavy silence, she finally put both her fork and knife to the side—setting them down so heavily, the wine in her glass sloshed over the brim.

“I have had enough of this,” she said, the anger behind the words so forceful that for a moment the similarities between mother and son were obvious. “Stephen, Gilliam—both of you have things to discuss.”

Stephen, ever obliging, rose. He knew a dismissal when he heard one, and he wasn't particularly hungry.

Gilliam looked at his mother. “There isn't much else to discuss,” he said. His voice was not quite the match for hers.

“Then discuss nothing,” she replied evenly. “But do it like civil adults. And do it now.”

He looked as if he might speak, but enough of his anger had played itself out the past evening that he had the sense to be cautious. He rose, scraping his chair against the floor and dumping his napkin, in an unceremonious white pile, on the floor.

They approached the closed door at the same moment, and stopped, neither willing to open it first and allow the other to precede him.

For a moment, Lady Elseth wished she had never had sons. She rose, her cheeks reddened by a sudden wash of color, and walked evenly to the door. Her dark eyes were wide as she cut both of the Elseth men with her glare. Stephen had the grace to blush and look away; Gilliam did not even meet his mother's eyes.

She opened the door. “Out,” she said. That one word contained as much anger as she ever showed.

But in the face of it, neither Stephen or Gilliam dared to offer a word of resistance. They went—Gilliam first, and Stephen in his wake.

• • •

“I hope you're happy,” Stephen said softly, as he leaned against the fence that kept the Elseth horses at pasture. His arm hurt, although Boredan had done what he could to insure it would not become infected, and he took care to favor it.

Gilliam said nothing. Instead of leaning forward, he let the rough-hewn wood of the fence cut into his back. He stared ahead, in the growing darkness, to the walls and runs of the kennels.

They were uncomfortable; it was rare that anger between them lasted this long. But Stephen tested the bond, and he felt the anger, mixed and folded into every other emotion, that lay between them. He would have been proud if he could have said that the anger was solely Gilliam's. It was not.

“You took your time getting back,” Gilliam said at last.

“Yes,” Stephen said, equally quietly.

“Did you spend the time with her?”

Stephen's hands tightened into fists at the tone in his Hunter's voice. “Hunter's Oath, Gil—let it lie!” He could see clearly the glint of Gilliam's bitter smile; there was triumph in it. “You might recall,” he said, his voice cold and sharp, “that I nearly died. Unlike the Hunters, I'm merely human. I was abed four days.”

“You didn't want to come back.” It wasn't a question.

“No.”

Gilliam started to speak, and bit back the words in disgust. He was silent a moment; the air felt heavy, was made heavy, by what he said next. “Go back to her, then. We don't need you here.”

It was meant as a slap. Stephen shut his eyes and clenched his fists. He exhaled slowly. “What of the girl?”

Gilliam did not reply.

“What about the girl, Gilliam?”

“What about her?” His voice was low; deep. Stephen had heard him speak just so before, although it took him a moment to remember when. He paled.

“Gilliam, she isn't yours. You can't keep her here. She's not right. She needs help.”

The low rumble at the back of the Elseth Lord's throat was a growl. He turned toward Stephen, and then away, slamming his fist into the fence post.

Stephen reached out through their bond, pulling at Gilliam, urging him to understand. He felt an echo of the strangeness that drove Gilliam—and then he felt a terrible lurch as Gilliam leaped forward into the night. Anger was forgotten; pain and the bitter taste of betrayal vanished like morning mist. All that was left was panic and a desperate drive to action.

Stephen knew why an instant before it would have become obvious to any other observer.

The kennels burst into sudden flame, a symphony of night fire.

• • •

There were men on the grounds.

In the sudden flare of light—a light that burned and crackled with the faintest aurora of blue haze—Stephen could make out their shapes as they ran across the grass. He had not marked the setting of the sun, but although the edges of the sky were still bright, darkness had settled, and these intruders sought to take advantage, or cover, in it. They moved lightly on their feet, but he saw the glint of weapons; they wore no armor, or very little of it.

Gilliam, no!
He did not shout; he did not want the attackers aware of his position or his place. Indeed, they moved so quickly, and with such a determination, he wasn't certain that either he or his Hunter had even been seen.

Gilliam's panic ebbed. He took a breath, and then another, deeper one. His heart was beating too quickly. He was frightened—terrified—for the dogs. It was never fear of his own mortality that drove him; it was fear, always, of the loss of things loved.

The dogs.

And the girl.

Stephen felt the shift as Gilliam called Hunter's trance. And he felt Gilliam recoil as the dogs began to whine.

Steady, Gil
, he thought. He had no time for more. Passing his hunter, he made a direct line to the kennel doors that faced the pasture. For good measure, he drew his sword, and felt its weight settle comfortably into his hand. He tried to ignore the throb of his arm as he threw off the sling that Boredan had been so insistent upon.

Gilliam joined him in seconds, weapon likewise drawn and ready.

“Hold the dogs,” Stephen said tersely, as he struggled, in a light blackened with tendrils of smoke, to free the latch and open the door.

Gilliam nodded, his eyes almost glazed. “She felt it,” he whispered.

“Felt what?” Stephen did not pause until the latch had been lifted.

Gilliam shook his head, frustrated; Stephen knew, from his expression, that the thing felt could not be put into words that a human could understand. But he had a very bad feeling that he knew what that word would be, if Gilliam could find it.

Then he heard, through the door, the change in the tenor of the dogs' voices.

Gilliam cursed, and the anger that had been replaced by concern flared up, just as the fire had. “They're in through the other side!”

• • •

“Mother!”

Lady Elseth rose at once as Maribelle's high voice broke the silence of her sitting room. She left her papers, and the month's numbers, in an even, neat pile, and although she rose with both haste and force, not even the inkstand was upset.

The hall was empty, although Maribelle's single, imperative word had certainly come from outside of her doors. Lady Elseth looked around, concern growing. She began to walk down the hall when one of the younger boys threw open a door and came careening into the hall, his arms full.

“Talbet!”

He skidded to a stop, stumbling into the closest wall. “Lady?” His breath barely forced the word out.

She stepped forward to see what he carried, and her face paled. “Where did you get these?”

“Maribelle sent me, ma'am. The kennels're on fire and there are intruders on the ground.” His pale hair was matted to his forehead with sweat, and his eyes, normally bright and crinkled, were a deep, wide green.

Without another word, Lady Elseth helped to lighten the boy's burden: She took from him one of the several crossbows he carried and began to wind its spring as she walked. “Run,” she said softly. “I'll catch up with you.”

• • •

Almost before the door was fully opened, Gilliam wedged his body through the darkened gap. His face gleamed with sweat, and the dirty smoke had added grime and circles to his eyes. The fire was eating the wood of the building; Stephen had expected that.

What he had not expected was the destruction of the stone walls. He bit his lip, narrowing his eyes as something—not human—shrieked in pain. Gilliam's back, and the clouds of smoke were all he could see—and in seconds he lost sight of his Hunter as well.

But he heard the sudden clash of steel against steel; heard a grunt and a scream.

Send the dogs out, Gil
, he thought, as he dropped to his knees and began to crawl, sword still at hand, into the heart of the kennel.

• • •

“There,” Maribelle whispered softly, pointing into the night sky.

Her mother nodded quietly as she followed Maribelle's finger. Three men stood, near the cover of the great trees that alone had not been cleared when their ancestral manor had been built. They carried a light, but only a small one. Even during the day, the distance would have prevented any recognition on Elsabet's part.

She had sent out an urgent request for the aid of the villagers, but the rising flames that encompassed the kennels were probably beacon enough. Soon, the wagons, with sand and what little water there was available for such an enterprise, would begin to wend their way up the roads.

She had two questions. The first she could not give voice to; the second she concentrated on. But Maribelle did not have her mother's sensibilities.

“Where are Gil and Stephen?” Maribelle scanned the horizon even as she asked.

Swallowing, uncertain of her voice, Elsabet lifted a perfectly steady hand and pointed. To the kennels. She heard Maribelle's sharp intake of breath—but Maribelle offered no argument to her mother's silent answer. It was obvious, after all. Where else would Gilliam have gone?

As if in taunt, the fires suddenly blazed again, becoming a solid, near-white wall.