The Sacred Hunt Duology (19 page)

It wasn't the answer he'd hoped for. He was silent, and after a moment, Norn continued.

“What does it look like? That's a question that every Hunter, and every huntbrother, asks. But the only way to get an answer is to die the Hunter's Death, and no one rushes eagerly into that. Well, no huntbrother. The Hunters . . . I'm certain that each and every one of them dreams about facing the Hunter's Death and taking it in the full glory of a called Hunt.

“But say that it looks like this: Nightmare, fear, and a very dark desire. This is what the artists have done. When we arrive, I'll show you.”

• • •

It gave Stephen a very odd feeling to pass through the gates of the King's City. Years had passed since last he'd walked these streets, and they were no longer snow-covered or cold. It was almost spring, almost First Day, the time of renewal when the new year began. Even this close to the city gates he could see the brown and greens of the Mother's followers as they set up their banners to line the main thoroughfare beside the banners of the Hunter Lords. He felt young again, in the worst possible way, as the arches of the gate trailed fingers of shadow down his back.

Since leaving the King's City with Lord Elseth and Norn, Stephen had never had cause to return. He wished that he had never been given cause, and then felt ashamed of the impulse. Gilliam glanced up, and steadied his horse into a waiting step as Stephen approached. He couldn't just bring the horse to a stop, no, not Gil.

“Something wrong?”

Stephen shrugged. He could say no, but there was really no point. If Gilliam
hadn't known something was wrong, he wouldn't have stayed his horse. “Just nervous.”

“Why?” It wasn't the Hunt, and Gilliam knew it. Stephen's fears about the Hunt were crystal clear and completely unique in feel. Gilliam ignored those because it had been made clear, by a succession of heated arguments, that Stephen wished them to be ignored.

“I keep expecting to see Marcus come pounding down the road looking for me.” He said it sheepishly, and placed a hand firmly on the pommel of his sword. “Not that I wouldn't be able to defend myself now.”

“But you couldn't then.” Gilliam shrugged. “Maybe we should leave Father and Norn at the castle. We can go looking for this Marcus ourselves and teach him a lesson.”

“Don't even think it, Gil.” Norn's voice was crisp and clear. Not a hint of amusement gentled it.

Unfazed, although the interruption was unexpected, Gilliam whirled in his saddle. “But it's just—”

“Nothing.” The older man replied, just as crisply. “You're here in your official capacity as Hunter-aspirant of Breodanir—you don't have time to settle some petty score from bygone years. You hunt for the land's blood, not for the blood of a den warden. Clear?”

“Yes, Norn.”

“And you, Stephen. You aren't a child anymore, and you aren't a den rat. No den could claim you now, even if one were foolish enough to try. You're of Elseth, and you
will
leave your fears of childhood behind. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Norn.” Of the two, only Stephen's quiet acknowledgment held any conviction. Norn hesitated a moment, and his hands bunched the reins in fists. Stephen could practically hear the older man's inner dialogue as he weighed Gilliam's impulsive determination with Stephen's ability to rein it in.

At last he nodded. He swung his horse around and sidestepped Gilliam's black gelding before looking back over his shoulder.

“Gilliam, you are here as an Elseth Hunter. If you embarrass your father or do anything to disavow the responsibility of that title, Lord Elseth will be furious. Rightly so.”

Sullenly, Gilliam nodded. But he was too used to arguing with his own huntbrother to just let the matter drop into silence, even though the conversation had already drawn the ears of passersby. He glared rudely at an elderly matron who was obviously on her way to market. She blushed, pulled at her kerchief, and began to fiddle with the straps of her basket.

“Gil!” Stephen whispered, as he reached for Gilliam's shoulders. Gilliam ducked his hand.

“But we've got rights, Norn! We protect our own!”

Weary and annoyed, Norn shook his head. “You're your father's son!” He didn't even look back over the broad green of his shoulders to acknowledge Gilliam's shout.

Stephen didn't feel uneasy about Marcus anymore. Norn's words had penetrated deeply enough to drive that ghost away. Instead, he settled into the familiar worry about ceremony and custom.

Gilliam felt the change in his huntbrother's mood, and it only incensed him more. He knew what Stephen was worried about—but did
everyone
he was traveling with have to assume he was an idiot? With a very curt nod, he yanked at the reins of his horse and sent it cantering down the city streets.

Stephen sighed as an echo of Gilliam's anger flittered past. With more concern for his own mare—and her mouth—than Gilliam had shown, Stephen brought up the rear and followed the thoroughfare to where the King's castle lay in wait.

The castle did little to still Stephen's fears; it was a grand old building—and the work of the maker-born was in evidence everywhere, from the solid, sheer surface of the outer walls, to the high balustrades and buttresses of the twin towers. A stag seemed to leap in white, hard life, from the very heart of the gate; beneath it, the poles of the portcullis cast evenly spaced shadows.

The gate shadowed them, and it was not plain either, for above their heads in the archway was the bold relief of a Hunter and his
lymer
as they sought out prey in the quiet alabaster of the King's wood.

If he had just come to visit, Stephen would have been tingling with excitement and joy. Past the second portcullis, rearing on two legs, was a bear—but so ferocious a bear, and with such large teeth, that Stephen knew for a fact the artist had never truly seen one hunted. Yet even in ignorance, the sculptor had managed to portray nature's primal anger and defiance—thus did the hunted become, momentarily, the hunter.

“It's a fine work, isn't it?”

Stephen looked down at the voice, and realized that a man in royal livery was waiting patiently at the reins. He blushed and looked around; all three of his companions were unhorsed and waiting. Soredon looked annoyed—which meant, of course, that the dogs had been kenneled by someone other than a “real” Hunter. Gilliam was bored and impatient, and Norn was smiling quietly.

He slid off Dapple's back with a mumbled apology. The man in brown, green, and gold only smiled. He was older than Stephen, and his long thin forehead was obviously bereft of hair, although it was capped in gold-rimmed brown. “We don't mind it ourselves. It takes the eyes of a newcomer to lend a little life to the courtyard—and you've the right sort of eyes. Makes me remember how I felt when he,” and he gestured at the stone bear, “was first dragged in here.”

“Were you here then?”

“I've been here a long time. I'm good at what I do.” The man bowed, his hands
still firmly upon the reins. “I don't know if I'll be on shift to see you off, but if I'm not, we're pleased to have you. This your first?”

It was pleasantry, nothing more, for the warden knew that Stephen and Gilliam had arrived at the correct time for aspirant Hunters. Still, Stephen nodded quietly.

“We serve our King—and the whole of our country—in the ways that we can. But your way, huntbrother, is hardest; our thanks and our welcome to you.” So saying, he turned and led the horse away from the flagstones.

Norn's voice cut across the quiet grandeur of the courtyard. “Don't worry about looking around for a bit. We've got a little wait ahead of us. The keeper of the outer estate is seeing to the Hausworth family, and we won't get our lodgings until he returns. Besides, the first time you cross these gates, they're significant. Do what you can to fix it in memory; it'll all become commonplace soon enough.” Norn smiled, his eyes crinkled at the corners. “I did it myself when I first came.” He turned, whispered something to Soredon, and left Gilliam in the care of his father. It wasn't necessarily a completely wise choice—two Hunters alone without the wisdom of a huntbrother to guide them—but they couldn't do much damage to their reputations, or each other, here.

“Did the maker-born do this?” Stephen asked, his voice hushed and muted.

“Aye. You can see their touch where their hands have been. Some little, perfect magic. Some quiet impressions. There—do you see the awnings with the ivy creepers? By the fountain.”

Stephen nodded.

“They're stone. Solid as my wrist. But don't they seem to move with the breeze?” Norn shook his head in an echo of Stephen's wonder. “That's the maker-born though; if they can't have the raw materials they need, they'll force what they want out of the ones they do have.”

“Have you met them?”

“Them?”

“The maker-born.”

“Aye, some. Why?”

“What are they like?” Stephen reached out gently to touch the claws of the bear.

“Like anyone else with a mission or a talent. The Hunter-born live for the Hunt, the healer-born live for the healing—and the maker-born live for the making. Of course, they've got a little more leeway, and a little less similarity of personality, but that's to be expected. They choose what they learn to make, after all.

“The maker-born who worked upon this castle was a foreigner at one time. He came here to create a residence worthy of any king, and he stayed. You'll see his hand in the upper city as well. The maker-born who sculpted the bear—she's an artist. No buildings or carpentry for her; she works from different impulses. But the gift is the same in either.” His arm caught Stephen's shoulders companionably.
“You and I, we don't have talent to drive us. Makes you wonder, doesn't it? Why do we do all of this? Why do we take our oaths?”

“I don't know about Stephen,” Lord Elseth said, coming out of nowhere to stand at his huntbrother's elbow, “but in your case it was probably just another chance to talk.”

“Aye,” Norn's eyes sparkled, “and at that, a chance to do it without your interruptions. Are we ready to go?”

“
We
are.” Soredon stood aside, the tilt of his brow bringing shadowed lines along his square forehead.

“Stephen?”

“Hey! Don't touch that! What are you doing? Get out of here! OUT!”

The raised voice was unmistakably Gilliam's. Stephen recognized it, muffled though it was by two doors and a wall.

Oh, no.
The lid of his small chest fell with a bang, crunching dress breeches that were halfway out. He had no time to put his boots on. In the seconds that he considered it, he heard another shout.

He wasn't worried for Gilliam; Gilliam wasn't frightened, just angry. Well, not even really angry. But very, very annoyed. He wasn't quite out of his room when he heard Gilliam's door slam shut. As he peered out, he saw the flying brown, gold, and green of heavy skirts. Wisps of dark hair trailed beneath a golden cap and down a smocked back.

Lady Elseth was going to kill him.

Angry, he walked over to Gilliam's door and wrenched it open. “Gilliam, what in the Hells did you just do?”

Gilliam looked up from the mess of clothing and Hunter's wear on his bed. His face was red, and his brows dovetailed neatly; his hands were curled around his horn and hat. “What did
I
do?”

“That's what I asked.” Stephen took a deep breath, crossed the threshold into the room itself, and closed the door behind him.

“I got back here from Father's room and found that—that girl snooping through my things!” He threw the hat down and pushed his dark hair out of his eyes. “So I asked her to leave.”

“Asked? Gilliam, half the hall must have heard you!”

“So? Is it my fault if they were listening?”

“Gil . . .”

“Look, you aren't my mother, you're—”

“I'm your huntbrother. She was a
maid
, Gilliam, not a ‘girl,' and she was doing her duties. You
don't
throw a maid in the royal service out of your room as if she were a common thief!”

As the full import of Stephen's words hit home, Gilliam had the grace to blush. “I was surprised.”

“Great. And what are you going to do three days from now? Demand that the Queen get out of your way because she's looking at your sword?”

“I'm not an idiot.”

“You're worse than an idiot.”

“She shouldn't have been going through my things!”

“Did you leave them in that mess on the bed?”

“I had to find my horn.” Gilliam let his hair fall as he picked up his hat again. “And this.”

“So you left these rumpled things all over the bed, and it was her fault that she saw them and assumed they were to be put away?”

“She's got no business being in my room.”

“Then don't leave things here like that—it's begging for her help.” Stephen stomped over to the set of drawers against the wall beside the cherrywood headboard. He grabbed ornate brass handles and yanked so hard the drawer itself came off its rails and fell to the floor. Luckily the carpet muted most of the impact.

“Put them in here,” he said, without bothering to pick it up. “Put the drawer back into the dresser when you're finished.”

“This is my room, and I'll do what I like in it.”

“Oh, really?” Lord Elseth leaned against the door frame with his left shoulder. Both boys gave a guilty start, and both cursed the fact that the door hinges were so well-oiled. Soredon's arms were folded neatly and tightly across his chest.

“Thanks, Stephen,” Gilliam whispered as he straightened up and faced his father.

“It's your own fault, you idiot,” Stephen replied, his voice as quiet as possible.