The Sacred Hunt Duology (82 page)

Always.

With genuine regret, he left the balcony, with its cool, stone seat and its thick, overadorned rail; with its exposure to moonlight and starlight and the crisp, soothing breeze. Devon was a moonchild, not a sunchild, and the light that he preferred was one that accented shadows without stripping them of power.

He turned and pushed the curtains back, holding them long enough to enter into the office from which he served Patris Larkasir in the overseeing of the Crowns' trade routes.

On his desk were reports and paperwork, and the paperwork at this time in the season was unusually heavy. Trade with Annagar was still opening up, and many were the merchants who clamored for permission to bear the Crowns' seal along the various routes. Patris Larkasir had been most patient about Devon's comings and goings, but judging from the size of the small mountain on his aide's desk, Devon thought that patience would soon wear thin. It was unfortunate; an impatient Larkasir was rather like an impatient bull.

In the small, middle drawer above his lap was flint and tinder; he pulled them out, navigating his way around the quills and brushes that work demanded use of without making a sound. Almost, he lit the sole lamp that stood, full, on the right corner of his desk. Almost. But there was a shadow, and it was wrong.

He froze at once, but before he could arm himself, he heard a voice he knew quite well.

“Devon ATerafin,” it intoned, “the Astari summon you.”

• • •

Water trickled out of the cupped palms of a kneeling, alabaster boy. He was blindfolded, and his hair was cropped very short; there was nothing at all around him but still water. Stephen found the fountain vaguely disquieting, and wondered if that had been what its maker intended. It was hard to say; there was so much in Averalaan that seemed to defy sense, reason, or beauty.

He was well enough that the night no longer exhausted him; well enough that, during the day, he could begin to pen long letters to Cynthia, as was his wont. He was not quite well enough that he was willing to venture into the Kings' court—or the Queens, as they seemed to be two separate things—to meet with the Ladies of Breodanir.

On the morrow, however, he would have no excuse; guilt and a sense of duty, even in this foreign place, conspired to rob him of peace as he stood alone in the silence. Gilliam was someplace in the eastern courtyard, with his dogs and Espere for company—but Stephen could sense his Hunter's unease and restlessness. They had come to Averalaan for a reason, but that reason was Evayne's to dictate, and she had not seen fit to visit again.

Or rather, the path had not seen fit to bring her.

He tried, at a distance, to calm his brother, and felt the hint of Gilliam's
annoyance in return; it was familiar, and he missed the familiar enough that it made him smile.

Come, Stephen
, he thought, as he stood and left the fount behind,
don't tire yourself. Tomorrow, you must fulfill your word to Lord Devon.

“Am I interrupting?” The voice was soft and faint, but Stephen would have recognized it in a crowd that roared. He turned at once, dropping into a bow of genuine respect and gratitude at the feet of the healer-born Alowan.

Alowan's smile was genuine but tired. “I've come to see the patient, but I see the patient is well.”

He found himself nodding; found himself trying to square his shoulders enough that he might look the picture of perfect health. It drew another smile from Alowan; that of a father who knew what the son was about.

“I'm well,” Stephen said, and then added sheepishly, “well enough to visit the Queen's court on the morrow.”

“On the morrow? Well, that
will
be the occasion. If I'm up to it, I may see you there.”

Stephen raised a brow, and almost asked the healer what he meant—but he set it aside. Alowan looked his age at the moment; Stephen felt guilt for being the cause of his venture into the palace and the Arannan Halls. There was a cadre of guards at every entrance and exit, and running their gamut bred a type of exhaustion that was unique.

Almost, he sent the old man away, but as he led him to the door, he hesitated. And then, quietly, he called to Gilliam; Gilliam's concern came back, and Stephen calmed it as he could.

“After all you have done for us, Healer, I know it would be ungrateful to ask you for more.”

“But?” A white brow rose, skeptical, at Stephen's graceful words.

“But indeed,” Stephen smiled, as one caught out, “if I might trouble you to answer a question of some urgency to myself and the Hunter Lord Elseth? We can pay,” he added quickly, and then, seeing the lines in Alowan's forehead, fell just as quickly silent.

“What question is this?”

“It concerns—ah, Gilliam. There you are. Did you bring Espere?”

Gilliam's suspicion was immediate, as was Stephen's annoyance at it. They glared at each other a moment as Espere very neatly stepped round her Lord and into the open courtyard.

The old man looked down at the girl. “Is she the matter of concern?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Gil—”

The Hunter Lords of Breodanir were not known for their tact or their lack of temper, but Lord Elseth did what he could to bite back the words that he knew, on some level, he'd regret later.

“Espere is . . . she's . . .”

“Yes?” Alowan knelt in front of Espere and waited, his hands on his knees. He did not move, although he did continue to speak. “Are you saying that she's simple?”

“Not quite.”

“Not quite?”

“We believe her to be god-born. No, we
know
it. But she cannot speak, as you see her now.”

Espere was very much like an intelligent dog; she knew well who was the center of attention, and while she hovered around Gilliam, she let her attention stray to the old man who knelt so oddly before her. After a few minutes she tilted her chin in Gilliam's direction; a question. He nodded grimly.

Very slowly, wild dark hair a tangle as she shook her head, she approached Alowan.

“Do you have reason to believe that she can speak?”

“Yes. We've heard her talk—just as you or I do—and I believe that when she speaks, she knows that she should be more than a—more than a—” He glanced almost guiltily at Gilliam. “More than a beast.”

“Beast?” Alowan's white brows rose. “I see.”

“It was to aid her that we were to come upon this road. I believe that, in aiding her, we will somehow help your lord—but I do not know it for fact.”

Alowan's curved fingers were upon either side of the wild girl's face; he patted her cheeks with his thumbs, as he might have a tamed pet. But he did more; he spoke in a rhythmic chant, in syllables that Stephen could feel, although he could barely hear them.

Time passed; minutes blended together in the hypnotic sway of his voice. But at last, with the moon a little higher in the open sky, the healer bowed his head and gently released her captive face. “You are right,” he said, and if possible his voice was weaker than it had been. “She is god-born. But she is healthy, she is whole, she is what she is. If you came to have her healed, if you thought her behavior some sort of physical affliction, I must disappoint you. She is exactly as she should be.”

“I see.” Stephen nodded almost ruefully. “But we
have
heard her speak. There are rumored to be houses of healing. Might they—”

At this, Alowan looked genuinely annoyed, and he was not a man who was given to irritation. “Stephen, the houses of healing are peopled with the healer-born who charge in crowns for the service that I have just rendered. If
I
cannot aid the young woman's complaint, there is not a healer in Averalaan who can.”

“I'm terribly sorry,” Stephen said, and it was quite clear that his embarrassment was real. “I don't have much experience with the healer-born, and I didn't—”

“And you didn't know that you might sting the pride of a testy old man.” Alowan ran his hand over his eyes. “I'm sorry, Stephen, Lord Elseth. That was completely uncalled for.” He smiled wanly. “But as you are well, and as the young lady is beyond a healer's skill, I believe I will return to the healerie of Terafin.

“I hope you won't misunderstand me when I pray that you have no reason to call upon me again.”

If the affliction was not physical, Alowan could tell them nothing else about it. Nor did Stephen have any desire to press him. Gilliam, satisfied and also ashamed of that satisfaction, had once again retired to the east court. Stephen chose to retire to his room.

• • •

It was the fifth of Corvil, and if Lord Elseth was to retain title to his lands, they must leave by the fifteenth of the month in order to arrive in haste, and with a smaller pack than usual, for the calling of the Sacred Hunt. That did not leave much time, although if they traveled hard—as they undoubtedly would have to—things would be well.

They had to be well.

Lord
, Stephen thought, invoking the image of the Hunter God,
smile on your Hunter and his huntbrother. Our spirit has not faltered; bring us home in safety; bring us home in time.
Then, unbidden, he thought of Evayne.
You had a purpose
, he told her in the silence.
We cannot cure Espere; there is no means to do it.
But even thinking it, he knew that their task was not finished.
Tell us what your purpose was.
But he knew, should she come, that she would tell him little or nothing. He trusted her, but that trust was fast becoming a burden. And one he was too tired to carry this eve.

Stephen navigated his way to his sleeping room by the lights of the courtyard and the near-full moon. There, he found his sleeping silks and removed his sandals; he opened the curtains wide to let the night breeze blow in; he placed his sword and his dagger aside, and removed the hat that he had half forgotten. Weary, he sank back, and felt the edge of something hard beneath him.

It was a book.

Books were rare and expensive enough that he didn't travel with them, and for a moment he wondered who it belonged to. And then he remembered Meralonne APhaniel. He had forgotten, in all of the events that had occurred, to return the tome to the mage; it was another task, and one that he did not relish, for he also found the mage an enigma that he did not like.

Still, he was curious; there was no book upon the Elseth Estate that had been proof against his curiosity. Had the sun been high, he would have been tempted to read.
It's a sign
, he told himself, as he set the book aside.
I'm not a child, to be ruled by curiosity.

• • •

Duvari waited for Devon in the silent library of the Kings' palace. Moonlight cast long shadows through the two-story windows, bending them across desk, chair, shelf, and man. The light was poor, but it was not by light that Devon knew who had summoned him. Who else but Duvari had the authority?

The doors swung shut at his back; he could not tell if they were closed by the hand of Duvari—for Duvari was many things and possessed talents that not even the Astari had cataloged all of—or by another member of the compact. Nor did he dare to look around. Instead, he assumed that he was not alone; there was at least one man at his back, possibly two.

He walked to within ten feet of Duvari, and saw the shadows beneath the master's eyes. They were like scars as they rested beneath his unblinking gaze. He knelt then, resting his forearms against his left knee. “Duvari.”

“Devon.”

“You summoned me.”

“Yes.” Duvari did not move; it was as if all of his attention was bound up in the intensity of his stare. “You failed to make a report.”

Inwardly, Devon cursed. “Arannan Halls,” he said; there was no point whatever in playing the fool.

“Indeed.”

“I have not gathered enough information to make the report formal.” Devon tried very hard to pierce the darkness, but Duvari wore it like a gauze mask—not enough to hide his face, but enough to obscure nuances of expression.

“And when will you have enough information?”

“By the end of tomorrow, Duvari.”

“I see.” The shadow stood, rising to full height in the moonlight. He left the chair and table behind, and also left the distance. “You remember your vows, Devon.”

“Yes.”

“You remember that you are not ATerafin in the service of the Astari.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me of Arannan Halls. Tell me of the two who stay there. Tell me of the work that you have been doing at the behest of The Terafin.”

Are you a demon?
Devon thought it, but the words would not leave his lips. “Are we alone?”

Duvari stared down, again cloaking his face in shadow. Then he raised his head and nodded. The door creaked very slightly; Devon heard no footsteps, but rather, the small scrape of metal against metal—the latch. “Speak.”

Devon did not pray, but his spirit withered. Duvari was the master of the compact; there was no option but obedience. And yet, if he were not who or what he seemed . . . He cursed the young huntbrother's illness, and cursed the lack of time with which to use him in court. He met the eyes of the man who had taken
his oath, knowing that he had only his own judgment at this moment, and nothing more.

Swallowing, Devon ATerafin made his choice. “There is an element of magery involved,” he said. “One that I have not encountered previously. There is a mage, or possibly a group of mages, who set an elaborate trap for The Terafin. Had they succeeded, Terafin would now be ruled by a demon.”

“Continue.”

“I cannot say more at this time—not of that; she demanded my oath, and I swore it: that I would not speak of the investigation's particulars unless I was certain that it involved more than Terafin.” He waited for Duvari to speak, knowing that the master of the compact had little patience for the foibles and the secrecy of the patriciate. He was not of the nobility, and not even his family name remained to him; Duvari
was
the Astari. He knew no other loyalties and was bound by no other duty.