The Sacred Hunt Duology (46 page)

“Stephen!”

He didn't answer; she didn't expect him to, although she had hoped that he might. Her fingers trailed against cool stone as she groped along the wall. Her sight began to clear, and as it did, she saw someone huddled against the floor, rocking under the weight of an unwieldy burden. She dropped to her knees as she approached; felt the crisp fabric of her crinoline brush against her legs.

“Stephen?” Her voice was a whisper now.

He looked up. “We won,” he said, whispering as well. But his arms were tight, and had her vision been just a little clearer, she would have seen that his fingers were white and shaking.

“Yes,” she said gently. Her eyes clouded, but this time there was no magic to blame. “Gilliam?” She reached out, slowly, and touched her son's still face. “Gil?”

“He won't answer,” Stephen said, his voice as flat as his eyes. But he allowed her to touch his Hunter, and she found, against the side of his neck, the thing that she sought.

“Stephen—he's still alive.”

Stephen looked at her blankly.

“You can carry him, but we have to see a doctor or a healer. Quickly. He's—he's still here.”

“But he won't answer.”

“I don't know if he can. Are you so certain that he's dead?”

Stephen looked down at the blood that was set and sticky, no longer sure that it was Gilliam's and not his own. “I don't know.”

“Then he
is
alive,” she replied, standing. “You would know if he were not, Stephen. There wouldn't be any question, any doubt. Now, come!” She straightened her shoulders, and the tilt of her chin held the power of long years of authority. She did not expect to be disobeyed, and Stephen, exhausted by loss of blood and
near-frantic worry, responded automatically, and although he lifted Gilliam at Lady Elseth's command, the weight he carried was diminished by the force, the absolute surety, of her words.

It was the beast that stopped him, swinging the wide trunk of its neck forward. Its eyes were dark, almost entirely black, but as it studied Stephen, he felt the last of his fear drain away. If this was the Hunter's Death, he had labored years under a nightmare that would not become reality.

It snuffled a little, and then brushed its snout against Gilliam's chest.

“We have to go,” Stephen said softly. “To take care of your master.”

The gleaming, iridescent head bobbed uncertainly to one side, its eyes flickering in the darkness, even as the last of the shadow faded. It turned, suddenly and swiftly, although so large a creature should have been slower, more cumbersome in movement.

Stephen followed its gaze as it surveyed the ruined wall, and the men and women that seemed to go on past torches and lamplight down the winding staircase. “It's over,” he said, equally softly.

The beast growled; the air around Stephen's ears buzzed with the sound of that throaty voice. And then, before Stephen's eyes, it began to change. He watched in wonder, and almost in terror, as the scales seemed to dwindle and gather in a cowl around its neck. It lifted its forepaws from the ground, and reared up on its hind legs, and the golden claws, now rimmed with darkness that might have been demon-blood, became flat, dull, and smaller. The jaw shrank, the head altered, and in a minute a naked, dirty girl stood before him, her head still cocked in an odd, questioning angle.

For the first time, Stephen felt no resentment and no unease as he gazed upon her. Her body was small, almost delicate, and were it not for dirt, and one or two long scratches, it would have been perfect, if a little boyish. Her hair was still a messy tangle, but its deep brown-black framed her silent face. She opened her mouth, and spoke.

In a whine.

He nodded, although he did not understand what she said, and began to walk, quickly now, as urgency grew, toward the open wall and the magicked door, still closed, that stood in its frame.

Before he reached it, the mages made way, and two women stepped out of the gathered, silent crowd into what remained of the Master's study. Stephen was the only person present who recognized both of them. He would have bowed, but that would have meant letting go of Gilliam.

Evayne, the mysterious woman of the wyrd and the night of demons, came first. Her dark blue cloak was draped around her, like the shadows had been around Sor na Shannen, but her cowl rested along her shoulders, and the blackness of her hair, drawn back, still framed her white face, her violet eyes.

At her side, lips pressed into a thin line, and eyes circled by weariness, stood Vivienne, the Priestess of the Mother. She was dressed in brown and gold and white, and her hands, as she lifted them, palm up, were steady.

“Lady,” Stephen whispered. He took three steps, and stopped when he reached her side.

Her dark eyes widened. “Lay him down at once,” she said, her voice almost harsh.

He did, but gently, placing Gilliam of Elseth at the feet of the Priestess. White, ringed hands touched Gilliam's neck carefully, and then moved out to span his chest. “You were right,” she said, speaking over her shoulder to the woman in midnight blue who had not moved or spoken. “And I apologize for the harshness of my temper. He would not have survived the journey to the temple. Do not move him further, Stephen of Elseth. I have him now, and I will help as I am able.”

Stephen nodded, and knelt by her side.

“I should have known,” Vivienne added, in her slightly sharp tone, “that it would be one or the other of you. The night had that darkness about it. Breathe easy, huntbrother. If he can be saved at all, I will save him.”

He recognized a dismissal when he heard it and made to rise. The girl did not, and one other came to kneel at the Priestess' feet. It was Lady Elseth.

• • •

This is the first time
, she thought, head bowed, body stiff with control,
that you have answered my prayers.
She wanted to cry now, for the first time in years, but dignity and station forbade it. She could almost feel the warmth and heat that radiated from Vivienne's hands, and she was grateful for it, although she longed to touch her son and feel for herself the strength of his pulse, the beat of his heart, the tickle of his breath.

She knew better than to interfere with the healer's communion, and clasped her hands in her lap instead. She was not going to lose her son this night. She let that sink in, let herself believe it. Glancing up, she saw the eyes of the strange woman who had led the Priestess in. They were fixed upon Vivienne and Gilliam with such intensity that Elsabet could not help but notice it.

There was something odd about the stare, though; something strange about the woman. She was, to look at her, very young—no older than Maribelle, and perhaps younger—but her face was hard, emotionless, and her lips were drawn in a line that held no mirth, nor ever seemed likely to.

Then she turned, ever so slightly, and met Lady Elseth's gaze. They locked eyes, and for a second Elsabet caught a glimpse of something younger in the woman's face. A hint of wistful envy. Before she could even name it, it was gone, and the ice was back in place.

“Lady Elseth,” the woman said, and bowed. “I am Evayne.”

• • •

“Zoraban is dead,” Zareth Kahn said flatly, wincing as the dagger was at last pulled from his shoulder. He felt the warmth of blood and the sting of the cut; it was deep.

The older man who attended him nodded grimly, although it had not been a question. “We know. Sela attends his body now, with Jareme. Sit
still
, Zar. You only make it worse, and I fear that the Priestess will have neither the time or the energy to attend to you.”

“She wouldn't have had to,” the mage said, clenching his teeth and attempting to sit still, as Elodra so quaintly put it, “had you deigned to notice the shadow-magic and arrive less tardily.”

Elodra raised a frosted brow, and tugged tightly at the bandages he manipulated by hand. His was a slender, almost arch face. “Zareth,” he said softly.

Zareth Kahn flushed heavily and looked away. “You didn't deserve that,” he conceded.

“We didn't feel the shadow-magic,” Elodra said. “Until we came to the tower's height itself.” He knotted the bandage and then examined it more closely. Satisfied, he stepped back. “Is this to do with Krysanthos?”

“I don't know. He wasn't here, if that's what you're asking, and I didn't feel his signature.” Free from Elodra's fussing—it was something that Elodra did well, and did constantly, which was why he also handled most of the Order's financial dealings—Zareth Kahn flexed his shoulder, winced, and then sagged. “But if you didn't—”

“The woman,” Elodra replied, turning his gaze upon the diminutive figure who stood in the isolation of her midnight-blue robes and her unearthly strangeness. “She came, with the Priestess of the Mother, and bade us hurry for the sake of your lives. I started up on my own, but she insisted that we gather the brethren before we made our ascent.” Elodra shivered. “I well understand why, now.”

Zareth Kahn nodded, and then slid his hands over his face. It was safe, now, to shudder; to feel pain and the hint of a loss that the Order might never fully recover from. And in scant days, perhaps hours, he would also begin to question, to dissect, to understand, treating the events of this night as all things, in the end, were treated by the Order of Knowledge.

But here and now, his mage-power guttered, and the chill already beginning to set his teeth on edge, he had only questions with no depth and no force behind them. Shivers turned to shudders; he curled into the floor, bringing his knees to his chest.

Elodra was at his side at once, offering help. No, not offering, not precisely. Few indeed were the mage-born who resisted any of Elodra's assistance for long. And one caught by mage-fever had less chance than most. Almost docile, the second-circle mage allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, braced, and led out of the ruins of the tower.

• • •

Although Gilliam's injuries were healed, he had suffered much blood loss, and over his loud objections, was taken by mages out of the tower's rooms. The girl accompanied him, circling his carriers in an odd hop and jump step, and Lady Elseth walked, shivering and pale, at the side of his stretcher. Vivienne, Priestess of the Mother, was wan and pale. Only with the Hunter-born and their brothers was the cost of the healing—physically and emotionally—so one-sided. She was glad of it, or she would be, later.

But Stephen remained in the room until the last of the stragglers had left it. Then, and only then, he bowed once, deeply, to Evayne.

Evayne's smile was a bitter one. “Stephen of Elseth,” she said, her voice soft and alien. Where, in the dreams, she had been power and mystery, in this room, at this moment, her words were no different in strength than the words any woman might speak. In such a situation. Indeed, perhaps because his vision of her had been the object of fear and confusion for so long, he found her almost disappointing.

“Evayne,” Stephen said, stepping forward. “Twice now you've saved our lives. I should thank you for it.”

The smile became more edged, the eyes colder—violets hit by a sudden, deadly frost. “But you won't, Elseth huntbrother.”

The vehemence in the words took Stephen by surprise; he stepped back a pace, although she had not so much as lifted a hand. Then, before he could speak, she passed a hand over her eyes. The folds of her robes changed and fell as she moved, and he thought of shadow again. Natural shadow, of the kind that occurred only upon the clearest of nights, with the moon in her glory.

“I am sorry,” she whispered, as her hand fell away over shut lids. “That wasn't necessary. I have never been good at beginnings, Stephen. Let us try this again.”

He nodded, although he didn't understand. “This isn't the beginning,” he said tentatively.

“No,” she replied. “And, yes. I will not leave you when sleep does, and I will not leave you to flee. You have questions, and I carry news; we will share these together before I depart.” She shivered again and seemed to shrink inward.

Stephen moved slowly forward, and held out his arm as stiff support. He looked down at his sleeve, wondering why it was so dark, when it had become so, and whether or not the shadows of her fingers would pass through his forearm instead of resting there.

“Don't.” Once again, she was ice as she pulled back, staring at his proffered arm as if it were a sword. “I am not so weak, or so old, to require your aid.”

“You don't have to be weak or old to be weary,” Stephen said, but he stepped back and lowered his hands to his side. “Evayne.” His voice was soft. “If you do not wish help, I won't offer it again.”

She shook her head, looking down at her feet in silence, as if suddenly aware of her poor manners—if manners and the politenesses of society could be an issue in the ruined tower of a dead mage. “You have questions to ask me. Why don't you ask them now?”

“The questions I have I can't ask without Gilliam.”

“No?”

“No. He is my Lord, as you are my wyrd.”

“Don't,” she said again, but less sharply. She lifted a hand as if in surrender.

“Come,” he was gentle, as if he spoke soothing nonsense to a wild creature that stood petrified just out of reach. “It's dark here. There will be light in the morning, and perhaps we both need it.”

“Before the morning, there's always the dreaming,” she said, and then bit her lip. Her teeth trembled there for a moment, and then her expression flowed into a still, stately mask; she looked older, more regal—a thing of vision or wyrd. “Lead the way, then, Stephen of Elseth.”

He did, although he had to force himself not to offer her his arm again. He stepped carefully over rubble and dust, lifting his hand to cover his head as he passed below the edge of the ruined wall closest to the ceiling.