The Sacred Hunt Duology (83 page)

“You have always had some loyalty to the House that gave you its name,” Duvari said at length. “I am aware of this—and I have never distrusted that loyalty until now. Why did you not disclose the full particulars of the attack in Arannan?”

“Because there is a magic loose which, carefully used, could destroy the Astari—perhaps even the empire.”
Choose your words carefully, Devon. Speak them softly.
“Not only can the caster assume the appearance and likeness of another, but he can also assume the memories. He
is
, to all intents and purposes, that person. Or he is in part. I could not make such a report if I—”

A hand was raised in the shadows; the call for silence. Duvari did not speak a word, which was either a good or a bad sign. Devon knew that the full import of what had been said was already obvious to the master of the compact. The shadows between them lessened, although the light did not grow. Duvari stepped back and with a gesture, bade Devon to rise.

“You have a method of detection,” he said. It was not a question. “You intend to use it before you make your report, unless your findings indicate otherwise.”

“Yes.”

“And you can trust it?”

“To be accurate, yes.”

“Does it involve magery?”

“No.” The sound of Devon's breath cut the air. “We have reason to believe that most available forms of magery would not detect the imposters, if they are there.”

Duvari inclined his head; there was an anger and tension that seemed to ebb out of him, softening the line of his jaw and shoulder. “Continue, then.” There was no apology for the suspicion, nor would any be forthcoming. “But if your findings indicate infiltration, do not make the report.”

Devon nodded grimly. Stephen of Elseth would be in court on the morrow unless he was dead.

6th Corvil, 410 A.A.

The Queen Marieyan's Court

O
F ALL THE LADIES
in Breodanir, the one that Stephen had most dreaded as a child was Lady Faergif. She was sharp-tongued when she spoke at all, and wont to be severe, and she made age seem the very pinnacle of power, where in others it was an unfortunate consequence of time. She dressed in a manner to match her character, and she neither ate much nor drank much; it was perfectly clear that it was her hand that ran Faergif's responsibility.

Still, Lord Faergif was, for a Hunter, jolly, and his huntbrother—what was his huntbrother's name?—more so; it was clear that Lady Faergif had not managed to ruin their lives by her grim and dour disposition.

Of course, to be charitable, Lady Faergif was only Lady Faergif for two years of Stephen's life as a huntbrother—his eighth and ninth—and his memories were tinged with the absolute harshness of unforgiving youth. He hoped, almost prayed, that time would take the edge off those memories and replace them with something more pleasant.

On the other hand, he did remember Lady Faergif, whereas the memory of Lady Morganson was not so clear.

Gilliam's mood was sour; he had been told to leave his dogs behind—which was acceptable, as dogs were not usually to be taken to a court that involved Ladies—but Stephen had also made it perfectly clear that Espere was to remain behind with the pack. The very idea that a young woman in the company of a Hunter Lord might suddenly turn and remove all of her clothing—or those bits that were possible for a single person to remove—had made the very idea of her presence anathema.

Gilliam turned a stare upon him that might have wilted strong stalks of corn; Stephen ignored it. Gilliam never worried about the Ladies, but then again, that was not the duty of the Hunter. It was the huntbrother who was expected to smooth the way, with manners, tact, and as much grace as possible. Of course, the Ladies would expect minimal grace and manners from a Hunter, which meant that Stephen's task, at least in terms of keeping Gilliam out of trouble, was not so difficult.

Therefore it was not Gilliam but Devon who worried Stephen. Devon had such a placid expression, such a pleasant disposition, such a grace and surety of movement, that Stephen should have found him charming. And perhaps he might have—but Gilliam's hackles rose, as if at the thought of a rival Lord poaching in his demesne, whenever Devon came too near or stayed too long. Gilliam's instinct was a Hunter's instinct, and Stephen had learned to trust it, even if he lamented the way in which it was handled.

“Stephen,” Gilliam finally said, through clenched teeth. “Stop pacing.”

Stephen grimaced. He was pacing, as accused. It was several hours to the meeting with Lady Faergif, but he was already nervous. The proper clothing of the Hunter's court was heavy and cumbersome when compared with the wear of the Essalieyanese; it was also very formal and seemed, when compared with the clothing of a man like Devon, overdone.

Overdone.

Stephen stopped pacing, closed his eyes, and took a deep, deep breath. The green, the brown, and the gray were the colors upon which the entire kingdom prospered; they were the colors by which the Lords fulfilled their responsibilities to their people and their lands; they were the colors by which they fulfilled their promise to the Hunter God, and the colors in which, in time, they died.

He had been long away from the courts of the land, and far too concerned with pleasing foreigners, if he could forget that, even for a moment.

The exterior chimes sounded and he turned as their high tinkle faded into silence. “Enter.”

The heavy door-curtains were folded to one side as Devon ATerafin stepped neatly into the room. He bowed quite low—and in the custom of the Breodanir commoners to their Hunter Lords; Stephen was both surprised and impressed. Gilliam was suspicious.

“Lord Elseth,” Devon said gravely, showing no indication that Gilliam's obvious lack of grace had been noted. “Stephen.”

“ATerafin,” Stephen said. He was rewarded by a glimmer of a smile—one that was both fleeting and genuine.

“Let me again apologize for the lack of proper security within the Halls. I trust that you have not been troubled again?” Devon said.

“Not once,” Stephen replied graciously. “And the rooms are not what we're accustomed to, and for that reason quite welcome.”

“Do you mind if I take a few moments of your time?”

“Not at all,” Stephen replied. He motioned to a chair, and Devon took it; they were both crisp and formal.

Devon sat. For a moment his gaze was appraising, and in that appraisal quite distant. Then he leaned forward, and his eyes were a bright darkness, his gaze intent. He looked, Stephen thought, like a falcon free to hunt.

“I do not know what your part is in all of this,” Devon said quietly—and unexpectedly. “I don't even know if you know it. But it can be no accident that these creatures—these demons—are hunting you. We have a common enemy, Stephen of Elseth. And I require your aid in the hunting of it.”

At this, Stephen felt the current of Gilliam's curiosity shift. The Hunter Lord, not addressed, nevertheless came to stand a discreet distance from his huntbrother's side. He was listening keenly.

“What aid do you require?”

“Your vision,” was the quick reply. “Not even the mage APhaniel can see as quickly and clearly as you seem to.

“I have invited you to court—or rather, you have been so invited; Lady Faergif and Lady Morganson will be in attendance at the request of Queen Marieyan. You will no doubt be waylaid by these two fair Ladies, and no doubt they will wish every bit of news that you can possibly bring them about their distant home. But I ask you to discharge your duties with both grace
and
speed; I have need of you in the palace, if you will consent.”

Stephen cringed; he knew what Gilliam was going to say a fraction of a second before it was said.

“We will.” Any excuse to be free of the niceties the court forced on him would do—but Devon ATerafin proposed a hunt, of sorts, and that was to Gilliam's liking.

Seeing the expression upon Stephen's face, Devon smiled, and the smile almost reached his dark eyes. “I realize that I've not set an easy task for you, and I apologize. The women of Breodanir are sharper than Annagarian daggers, and more determined. But I must, of course, ask you to say nothing at all of what has befallen you.”

“I understand.” Stephen rose. “But, ATerafin?”

“Yes?”

“What do you wish me to do if I see another of the kin?”

“A wise question,” Devon replied, and ran a hand through his dark hair. “And one, of course, I assumed you would know. Forgive me, Elseth huntbrother; it has been a long three days. If you see such a creature, say nothing; do nothing to indicate that you recognize it for what it is.”

“And if it attacks?” Gilliam broke in.

“If,” Devon replied, his smile no less friendly, “it attacks, you must naturally feel free to respond in kind.”

“Then we need Espere,” Gilliam said.

“Very well.”

Stephen sent as strong a surge of disapproval as he could to his Hunter, and received only smug satisfaction, and the keen desire for a hunt, in return.

Devon rose. “I am not, unfortunately, the man who will guide you to court,
but I will be present as quickly as I can discharge my other responsibilities. I shall meet you there.”

“Of course.”

Stephen waited until the curtains' circular pattern, with its bold gold lines and red, red center was once again whole, heavy with the weights that kept its halves straight. Then he turned on his Hunter. “We can't take her,” he began.

“We need her,” was the reply. “Without her, we'd have died during the last attempt, and you know it.” Gil's expression dared him to disagree, but Stephen was not so foolish; he knew that his Hunter was right. “I can keep her under control,” Gilliam added, his voice taut as wire drawn across a lute's bridge.

Stephen said nothing at all. Espere glanced apprehensively at Gilliam, and then swung her wild, tangled hair toward Stephen. Nervous, she pranced back and forth between them, butting Gilliam in the chest, but stopping short before she touched Stephen. She was willing to mock-fight with the hounds, but Stephen she did not touch. Which was just as well.

She's not an animal, Gilliam. She deserves to be treated like more than a running hound.

He didn't say it aloud; he was half certain that Gilliam wouldn't even understand what he meant by it: After all, what was more important than the hunt and the hounds?

• • •

A servant came to escort them from their rooms to the palace proper; for some reason, she came very much earlier than the sun's shadow indicated, and Stephen would have worried had something about her nature not been so calming. She was young, but tall and supple, and her hair, like burnished bronze, was drawn back in a complicated crisscross that Stephen had not seen even in the Ladies in the King's City. Her face was not beautiful, but rather striking; her eyes were deeply inset and her nose fine, long, thin; her cheeks were high and her chin almost too delicate. She wore a white shift that hung from three braided straps across her shoulder; it was edged in gold, and across its back, in full display, was the emblem that Stephen associated with the Twin Kings: The crown and the rod. She introduced herself, but quickly, and Stephen missed her name, which was just as well; he found her striking.

Gilliam knew it at once and snorted; the servant was good enough that she did not seem to notice this unexplained expression. Or perhaps she was used to foreigners.

The air was brisk, almost chilly. It caught Stephen's green velvet cape, and the servant's white robes, and tangled them a moment in the air.

“It's a sea wind,” the bronze-haired woman said. “At this time of year it can almost be cold.” She smiled softly, showing her teeth; she had all of them. “I've been told you come from a land of winter.”

Stephen nodded. “In Breodanir the lands are still covered with snows, and in the North, the storms are strong.” He stopped a moment in the open courtyard to gaze skyward; there were clouds across the sun's face, but the breeze pushed them aside, forcing Stephen to squint or look away. “But you could almost forget that winter existed in a place like this.”

“Almost.” She smiled again, staring skyward, completely oblivious to the sour grimace on Gilliam's face. “But occasionally the northern winds have a stronger hand and the cold blows in from the mountain chain. Then, it's often dangerous. We aren't a people prepared for bitter cold. They say that when Averalaan sees even a glimpse of the winter, the darkness follows—but I don't believe it.”

“No?”

“No. How can it, with snow so white and so brilliant?”

Gilliam snorted loudly enough that it was clearly meant to be a contribution to the conversation. The imperturbable servant looked up, waiting. “It's pretty clear you've never seen a real winter,” he said dourly. “Nothing grows; there's no food. Only the predators and the sleepers survive it.”

“And, of course,” Stephen added smoothly, “the people of Breodanir, who know the winter well enough to prepare for it, and who also honor it with their games. There's little harvesting to do in winter; little work. If you know the winter well enough, it's no more a danger than the spring.” He stepped between Gilliam and their guide; the point was not lost on the Hunter Lord.

“They have snow in the South, beyond Annagar, or so I'm told,” the guide said. She smiled at that, and her cheeks dimpled; there was a sparkle in her eyes that spoke of a secret memory.

“And none in Averalaan. You must have a growing season that lasts forever.”

She shook her head. “It's not that simple—but I must admit that matters agrarian have not been my field of study. Come; the Queen and her Ladies will be waiting.” Her stride widened slightly, although she never once appeared to be hurrying. Stephen followed her from the carved, stone courtyards of the Arannan Halls to the open quadrangle that seemed almost a small forest. He could hear water running, but he could not see its source, and he almost stopped to search for it.

Their guide was at his side in an instant. “Averalaan Aramarelas is like this; it has its hidden pockets of life and light. Will you be staying here long?”

At that, Stephen returned to his duty. “Not long, no.” His smile was shadowed, although it did not leave his face entirely. “We must depart by the half-month of Corvil.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he said, “it is the custom of the Breodani. You might ask Lady Faergif or Lady Morganson to explain it. I'm sure they're most curious to know why we're here in the first place.”

“Oh, indeed,” she replied, with just a touch of sardonic smile. “Leave the dell, then. Come—the doors to the palace are just beyond the footpath.”

• • •

To call it a footpath was to call the gown of the Queen's coronation, with its multiple layers of jewels and colors and textures, a frock. But with a city that the maker-born called home, what else could one expect? Stephen walked as if a dream had opened up before him, one in which time and urgency retreated like any other daytime squabble. There were flowers that lined the simple, but perfect path, shadowing it with their leaves and petals, of a type and kind that he had never seen; plants of a texture that made them seem dangerous, yet still hypnotically beautiful with their deep indigos, their fuchsias, their magentas. There were birds that stopped at their feet, staring up at them in haughty pride as if they knew they belonged at court more than the intruders; there were small creatures that hung from the trees, fur-covered and round-eyed and altogether magical.

The servant stopped again and again, but she did not interrupt Stephen's reverie, and indeed, after a few moments, Gilliam allowed himself to be pulled into it as well—a testament to the achievement of the maker-born of Averalaan, although they would never have known it.