The Sacred Hunt Duology (35 page)

And none of this mattered as she met Gilliam's suddenly shuttered face. She spoke, although she knew it was unwise.

“Lord Elseth,” she said, her voice very cold, “we are not enemies, or even rivals, in this.”

Gilliam's jaw set as he hoisted Stephen to his feet and draped one strong arm under Stephen's shoulders. “I never said we were.” If possible, his voice was colder than Cynthia's.

Cynthia snorted. “You didn't have to say it. For the past two months you've been barely civil—and this evening you were a positive disgrace to Elseth!”

“Cynthia,” Stephen said weakly. “Gil.”

They ignored him. “That isn't for you to decide,” he said, grinding his teeth. “Lady Elseth will make her opinion known, and I answer to her alone.”

“Gil—”

“He isn't yours,” Gilliam continued, brushing aside Stephen's weak plea. “He'll never be yours. You've got no right to interfere with the huntbrother's bond.”

As Gilliam bristled, so did the wild girl.

Cynthia heard the snarl, turned, and snapped. “Be quiet!” The girl took a step back, but her growl grew tighter and lower.

“I'm not trying to interfere with what you and Stephen share,” Cynthia said
evenly, her cheeks suddenly crimson. “I know full well that I'll never have it—or anything else of his, besides. I was—concerned for him. That's all.”

Gilliam made no reply. They stood, in the darkness of moonlit sky, their faces shadowed by more than night.

“Gilliam,” Stephen whispered. “You idiot.”

Gilliam bridled; he always did. But he did not let his brother fall. “Come on,” he said, to no one in particular. “Let's get inside. We'll have to call healers.”

Cynthia nodded stiffly and turned to lead the Hunter and his brother out of the damaged maze. As she did, the girl darted forward. Gilliam shouted wordlessly, and the girl whined—but she continued forward until she could butt her head against Stephen's bloodstained chest.

Stephen staggered; Gilliam caught him in both arms.

The girl shoved her hands into her dirty, torn shift, still keening softly.

Gilliam shook his head, but the girl ignored him. Hands trembling, face quite still, she watched Stephen. After a second, she shoved her head into his midsection again, demanding some attention, some gesture.

Stephen put his hands out to gently push her aside. Before he could so much as brush against her shoulders, she pushed something into his shaking palms and jumped back, skittish. His fingers closed reflexively against something smooth and cool.

Gilliam, Lord Elseth, felt his huntbrother's sudden lurch of terror. “Stephen?”

Stephen shook his head. Even in darkness more complete than this, he would have known what it was that the wild, strange girl had given into his keeping. He could not look. He did not have to.

The wyrd of Fate and mystery, so long suspended, settled heavily upon his frail shoulders, contained as it was by the deceptively simple form of the Hunter's Horn.

“G
ILLIAM,” LADY ELSETH SAID
softly. “What happened?”

Gilliam knew that his mother's soft-spoken question was nothing short of a demand for information. Unfortunately, he also knew that Stephen did not wish that question answered. As he hadn't Stephen's faculty for words, he shrugged instead. A poor substitute.

The Mother-born Priestess, Vivienne of the King's City, had come as quickly as the night roads and travel allowed. She had said nothing at all as she entered the room that was to be Stephen's sick chamber. But she quickly cleared it of idle spectators—even, and including, Gilliam of Elseth. As always, he bridled.

“A shrug,” his mother said quietly, “is not an answer that I find acceptable.”

Lady Cynthia, newly changed, and now much more simply attired, stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on Lady Elseth's shoulder. “May I? Gilliam is also exhausted; the doctors prescribed rest for him.”

Elsabet's eyes narrowed as she glanced at her son. Her son wisely refused to meet her eyes, but made a display of a yawn that was only part act.

“Lord Elseth, why don't you tend to your other guest?”

“Other guest?” Lady Elseth's voice was even softer.

“What a good idea,” Gilliam said lamely. He knew it would spark his mother's curiosity further—but that was unavoidable now. Grudgingly, he nodded his thanks to Lady Cynthia of Maubreche and slunk out of the room, figurative tail between his legs.

“Lady Elseth, please forgive us for allowing this tragedy to occur on Maubreche lands. We've prepared rooms for you, should you wish to stay in the manor.”

Elsabet nodded almost absently. “Yes, I'd appreciate that.”

“Then let me show you to your rooms.”

• • •

Lady Elseth was a shrewd and perceptive woman. For that reason, Cynthia had always both admired and feared her. As she walked now by her side, fear was the stronger emotion. She felt Lady Elseth's keen gaze upon her face. In silence, and without turning once to meet her elder's eyes, Cynthia led the way to the manor's west wing.

There, she paused in front of the door.

“Why don't you join me, Cynthia?”

It was not a request, no matter how politely worded. Swallowing, Cynthia nodded assent, and together they entered Lady Elseth's rooms. A fire was already burning in the grate, and a cozy tea had been newly set in the sitting room. Lady Elseth took the chair closest to the fire and motioned for Cynthia to join her.

But if Cynthia had thought to be questioned about the events of the evening, she was mistaken.

“Tell me,” Elsabet said softly, “about Stephen.”

Cynthia swallowed again. “You know him better than I ever will,” she replied. “Tea?”

“Yes, please. And as for the other, I'm not so certain.”

Cynthia poured slowly and let the liquid, still steaming, reach the gold rim of the cup before she passed it on. She poured for herself as well and then sat, cup between her hands, staring at her reflection upon the clear, brown surface of the liquid. Silence stretched widely between them before she ventured to speak. “Why do you want me to talk about Stephen?”

“Because,” Elsabet said quietly, “you talk to no one else of him—and perhaps you need to speak.”

“Am I so obvious?”

The smile that touched Lady Elseth's face was a wry one. “Perhaps only to me. Certainly not to Stephen.”

Cynthia lowered her gaze to stare moodily at the table-top. “It won't make any difference. We both know that.”

“Yes.”

The word hurt; it still hurt.

“But it already has, Cynthia. You are eighteen now, and not even at the start of your year. You have met and been courted by many of the younger Hunters, although that should more properly have waited until you came out.”

“I know,” Cynthia said, her voice surprisingly bitter. “And I know that I'll marry the younger son of some Hunter Lord, and both he and his huntbrother will forsake their family name for Maubreche. Because, of course, the line must continue.”

Lady Elseth said nothing at all.

“But that's not what I want.” There. It was said.

“No,” Elsabet replied. “And you have less choice than most of us had when we searched for our husbands. We had plans to tend to their estates; you are hampered by the fact that your estate will be—can only be—Maubreche. If you were not the only child, Cynthia, I would have happily recommended you to either of my sons. But Gilliam
is
Elseth; he cannot take Maubreche responsibilities as his
own. And Stephen is no Hunter Lord, to offer Maubreche's services in the Sacred Hunt.”

Cynthia set her tea down on the table; her hands were trembling. “Do you think I don't already know this?” she asked, her voice too low. “Do you think that I've thought about anything else for the last two years?” She rose, upsetting her chair; her cheeks were flushed and dark.

Lady Elseth did not move.

“Why are you asking me this? Why do you want me to speak openly about the impossible?”

“Because only by admitting it openly will you ever truly dismiss it. You parents are concerned; this you know well. Let me tell you that I, too, am concerned. For the sake of Stephen. Between you and I there is no pretense. What we do, we have little choice in, if we are not to abandon our responsibilities and our birthrights.” This voice, these formal words, were those that Lady Elseth used when she sat in judgment. “If we are lucky, then we will have love; if we are not, then we will have duty. Love is for children, Cynthia.”

Cynthia drew a sharp breath, but before she could frame a reply, Lady Elseth continued, sitting very, very still as she did.

“I was a child, too. I listened to the musings of the bard-born, and I dreamed. The man I chose was no Hunter Lord. He was a student, an academic in the King's City seeking admission to the Order of Knowledge. We met by accident at the Sacred Hunt in the year I came out.”

Cynthia was silent now, watching the pale, neutral cast of Elsabet's calm face.

“After the Sacred Hunt, when death and loss were in the air, I went to him. I don't know why.” She smiled, briefly, and shook her head. “I do know. I wanted no taint of loss or death; I wanted someone whose life was living. Or so I tell myself now.

“I contrived to stay in the King's City for three weeks, Cynthia. I met with Ladies and their sons, and began to search in earnest for the Lord of my future—during the days. But in the evenings, I went to him, stayed with him.”

“You didn't—”

“No; I asked for the intercession of the Mother-born to aid me in my cycle.”

Lady Elseth set her tea aside and closed her eyes, remembering. The fire crackled; not even breath was loud enough to be heard.

“Was it—was it worth it?”

“I thought so for those three weeks. For the next two years, I regretted it.”

“And now?”

“Now? I regret nothing.”

Cynthia met Lady Elsabet's gaze; their eyes locked; the room vanished around them. “But what if I want more than three weeks? What if I want forever?”

Elsabet knew what the question would be before it was spoken. There was no
softness in her when she answered. “What if you have a choice between nothing and three weeks?”

Silence again; the evening had been measured by the quality of their silences, rather than the force of the words spoken. Cynthia's eyes were watery and red, but she allowed no tears to fall. “What if three weeks aren't enough for Stephen?”

Lady Elseth looked down at her skirts; she brushed them out carefully and methodically, almost automatically arranging them into the most pleasing drape. “I cannot speak for Stephen. Perhaps you should let him decide.” She stood, then; the work on her skirts was undone. “I am fatigued by the evening, Lady Cynthia; I must retire. Perhaps we shall speak more of this tomorrow.”

• • •

Stephen feigned sleep under Vivienne's gentle ministrations. It was only a partial act. Although the pain had receded, and the bleeding had stopped, he was exhausted. To be nursed and tended by the Mother-born was a balm, but it had its price. For to heal the body, the healer had to understand it, and to understand it well, she had to become, however briefly, a part of it. She brought warmth with her, sure knowledge, a deep understanding of all pain, all sorrow, all fear.

And when the healing was done, she left. His body, whole, let him feel the ache of the Mother's passing, as he had done only one other time in his life. It hurt.

She knew, of course. She could feel his pulse, unnaturally quick, at her fingers. But she, too, was weary. She had asked no questions about the injuries when she had first arrived, as Stephen had not been in any condition to answer them. Now that he was, she felt too weak to ask.

“Stephen,” she said quietly, as she rose from his bedside. “If you feel the need to ask any questions, I will still be in the Maubreche estate on the morrow. Summon me, if you will.”

He did not open his eyes; did not move or nod, or in any way acknowledge her offer. Trembling, he saw the shadow of her passing against his eyelids. She paused once; he heard the rustle of her robes. The lamps in the room were doused, and Stephen lay back against his pillows in the darkness.

He had not allowed them to take away the horn. He reached for it now, as it sat completely vulnerable upon the table beside his bed. As his eyes adjusted to the moonlight filtering in through the uncurtained window, he stared at his new burden.

He could still see the eyes of the girl in the moment that the horn had passed into his hands. And he did not understand what he saw there; a flicker of desperation, fear—something else. It had not lasted; her dark eyes had darted away, horn forgotten, to seek Gilliam.

The horn was smooth and curiously unadorned. It was simple bone or antler, but from what beast, upon close inspection, he couldn't say. Around the horn's lip,
burned there as if by a brand, were two interlocked circles; they were perfectly round, unbroken.

Three times he had lifted this very horn, and three times—in dreams—he had sounded it. He pressed its mouth to his lips; both were cold. He could not draw breath to wind it.

Evayne
, he thought. But this was no dream; she did not appear in the doorway to answer his questions or offer her unfathomable pity.

• • •

In the morning, he woke to a knock at the door. The sun was high; higher than it should have been. He began to scramble out from under the covers when the room spun back into focus. Maubreche. Not Elseth.

“Hello?” He expected breakfast, or lunch, judging the hour; neither came. Cynthia opened the door quietly and entered the room.

Speechless, he pulled the covers up to the tip of his chin.

“I see that your arm is better.” She smiled, hesitant, her hands behind her back. Gone was the unfamiliar young Lady who had danced in fine silks and velvets; gone was the proud and beautiful solitary heir to the Maubreche estates. She wore a simple brown dress, and her hair, no longer combed and jeweled, rested at her back in single braid.

“It's—it's much better.” He swallowed and sank farther back. “I—if you—”

“I brought you a book,” she said, too quickly. She started to step forward, stopped, and pulled the volume from behind her back. Advancing upon him, she held it as if it were a shield.

He held out his hand; she placed the book in it. Neither of them so much as glanced at the title. Their fingers touched, and Cynthia pulled back. The book tumbled to the floor.

She blushed, bent, picked it up, and shoved it firmly into his hands. “I'll speak with you later,” she said, and turning, fled.

• • •

On the third day of his recovery at the Maubreche estate, Stephen accepted Lady Cynthia's rather formally worded invitation to a tour of the grounds. He did so because he was curious; he wanted to see, in daylight, what night had shadowed. But he also wanted to see Cynthia, unwise though he thought it might be.

She met him in his rooms after breakfast had been served, and waited at the doors while one of the Maubreche valets helped him dress. Then, in near silence, she led him along the corridors and down the stairs of the wing. Only when doors opened into sunlight did she seem to relax.

Wind swept the strands of hair not caught in braids up along the sides of her cheeks; it ruffled the pale brown of her stiff, heavy skirts. She closed her eyes a moment, took a deep breath, and then accepted the arm that Stephen offered almost hesitantly.

“Is there anything that you'd like to see?” she asked. Her voice was soft, almost a whisper.

Several answers came to mind, but when he finally spoke, all he could say was: “The labyrinth.”

She seemed to be expecting that, or perhaps that was what she had intended to show him. She nodded and began to lead him toward it.

Even from the house, the neatly kept sweep of tall, green wall dominated the perfect landscape of the Maubreche gardens. In their foreground, there was a tall stone slab, cut deeply across the middle, as if by a sword. Water trickled from the edge of the gash.

“What is it?” Stephen questioned quietly.

She didn't answer; instead, she approached the fountain to let the monument speak for itself. It seemed to be marble, shot through with hints of smoky gray and green. Etched into the grained pattern of the marble were names; Stephen recognized very few of them. But he knew them for Maubreche ancestors. Cynthia bowed very quietly to both the monument and the names it housed; after a moment, Stephen did likewise.

“Corason built the maze,” she said, pointing to the very first name on the list. “Let me show you his work.”

Stephen looked at the hedges as they approached. On first sight, they were not so different from any other shrubbery that he had seen—they were carefully tended, carefully pruned.