The Sacred Hunt Duology (39 page)

Young Talbet jumped back; this far away, the surge of heat could still be felt. Elsabet remained steady. Maribelle, at eighteen the youthful pride of her mother's training, did likewise—although if she betrayed herself by starting, no one noticed.

But she looked to Lady Elseth for commands.

Lady Elseth closed her eyes, weighing and deciding all actions. “Are these three the only intruders?” she asked at last.

“The only ones we've seen,” Talbet volunteered.

But Maribelle shook her head. “I think there are others,” she said softly. “The kennels.”

You have
, Elsa thought,
your father's vision.

The fires there were so bright and so high that the kennels were out of the question. Lady Elseth narrowed her eyes and shaded them as she turned, rigidly, to examine those very flames. The stone itself was on fire. Which was impossible, unless . . .

Stephen's words came back to her. Grimly, she looked back to the great trees. Those trees would not serve as shelter to enemies of Elseth for one moment longer. She took a breath, deeply, to steady herself. “This is my judgment,” she said, and for a moment she might have been sitting in the ancient, Elseth seat. “Kill them.”

“But the kennels—the Lord!” Talbet's eyes widened.

“We cannot go to them through those fires; they will not be banked by sand or water.” Lady Elseth's voice was ice. “But we may find another method of putting the flames out.”
Stephen. Gilliam.

Maribelle nodded grimly. “Your judgment,” she said, lifting her bow, “is accepted in the eyes of God, Lady of Elseth.” Turning, she nodded to Talbet.

But Elsabet was not to be left behind. Not if one—or all—of these isolated three were, as she suspected, mage-born.

She had thought, one day, to lose either of her sons to the God. She had been born to it; she accepted it with the sorrow that was the burden of every noble mother. But if her sons were lost to her this eve, through unnatural fire and human malice . . . she struggled, holding her anger, tightly confining it. Control, especially in crisis, was everything.

“Approach them by the pastures,” she said. That was all. She did not need to mention speed or silence.

• • •

Five feet into the kennels, the smoke vanished. It had not dispersed; indeed, Stephen could feel the heat and see the blackness that the flames shed. But some wall, some sort of barrier, had been erected here; he could mark the circle of it very clearly.

He knew what it was, and in silence he named it. Magic. He stayed low to the ground as his eyes adjusted to the muted, unnatural light.

There were four men in the kennel's confines. Four men, all of the dogs, the girl—and Gilliam. The intruders wore black—why was it always black?—masks and clothing; they had shoes of soft leather, and each carried a sword and small buckler. The smoke, and the magical absence of it, did not deter or bother them at all.

But the hounds did.

For once, Stephen was glad that he had no bond with the dogs. Through his
link with Gilliam, he could feel an echo of their pain and their confusion, their anger and their determination—and that echo sent him reeling, his back to the smoke and charred embers of wood. Eyes stinging, he looked away and down; upon the rushes strewn along the floor he could see three of Gilliam's pack. Two at least would never rise, or hunt, again; in the darkness and smoke, he could not tell who.

He shook himself, and started to rise; he wanted to be at the side of his Hunter in this most dangerous of fights. Then he stopped, and let himself sink back into the ground, unnoticed. This was no Hunt, and these no animals; the danger that they presented could not be met by force of spear or hounds alone.

Swallowing, Stephen began to trace the perimeter of the smokeless circle in the hope of getting behind those who attacked.

• • •

Gilliam had never been so close to insanity in his life. Each and every voice, from the youngest to the most experienced of his hounds and lymers, clamored for attention. Only Piper and Vorel were silent, and their silence filled him with a bitter rage.

The kennels were dark, and the space in them far too confined, to be used to advantage. As well, the intruders were very good at what they did. He had almost misjudged their skill—and his arm, cloth and skin split by the same swift stroke, bore witness to that stupidity.

He had never before fought men with his hounds. He could not count on their fear, as he did with stag, or bear, or boar; nor could he predict their rages. He needed the dogs now more than he had ever done, but he did not—quite—know how to use them to their full advantage.

The girl fought at his side. Her, he had ordered back, and of all times, she had chosen this one to test him. She remained at his side, spitting fury, although his mental shout should have given her little choice but to flee. He did not dare to see from her eyes, for fear of being lost behind them.

But it was she that they wanted. Although they might cut at his hounds—at he himself—they had eyes for her, and her death.

Snarling, Gilliam rushed forward in a barely controlled frenzy of flickering swordplay.

• • •

If smoke could not fill the inner circle, the snap of crackling fire could. Stephen tried to ignore the splintering sound of wooden beams and tried not to think about the rushes on the floor and the way they would soon catch fire. They were damp now, damp and warm—but they would not remain so.

Stop it.
He took a breath of the air closest to the floor; it was acrid, but it did not hurt his lungs. He listened again to the noises that came with fire. Against them, his movements were hidden and silent.

Straw scraped his cheeks and chin and clung to his jacket and pants as he moved. He felt little, sharp ends against his shins as his boots caught and held them. But he moved, struggling with Gilliam's anger and fear; afraid to let it in, but terrified to let go of it.

And then he saw the backs of the intruders, black-clad and wraithlike through the smoke.

Don't look
, he whispered, his eyes turned up in supplication as he tightened his grip on his weapon.
Don't look back.

Trembling with tension, he rose in the poor light, a multicolored, rush-strewn shade. Hands shaking, movements precise, he brought the edge of his blade down in a tight, forceful arc that ended with the back of the closest man's knees.

• • •

Maribelle moved, just a shade more quickly than her mother, through the tall grass. Elsabet could see her by the movements of the tops of the grass, but that was all. She counted three and then saw the grass move again, a little more forcefully, at Talbet's passing. They did well, although they had not been trained to this.

For that matter, neither had she. And if she had, she would certainly not have chosen the long, formal skirts of the evening meal for such an enterprise. Every crinoline rustled as she crept along. She swore, then, that she would forsake fashion entirely after this night's work. But she did not stop.

When she came at last to the old, slanted fence post that marked the farthest reach of the horses' pastures, she dared to glance up, dared to attract the attention of the three who waited.

And she saw, although she only looked up for an instant, that they were three men, all oddly garbed, with a light at the center of their triangle. They wore robes that were darker than the sky, with hoods drawn up and around their faces. The light that hit their cheeks made them appear skeletal, threatening.

She crawled beneath the fence, gently disentangling her skirts. Maribelle's head bobbed up; she bit her lip, and then exhaled slowly into the passing breeze. These men stood downwind—but they had no dogs to guide or warn them. Good.

And then, at last, they came to the edge of the tree's farthest roots. She saw her daughter's face in the moonlight, and she nodded quietly. They exchanged no words; none were needed. Maribelle's posture told Lady Elseth everything that she needed—or wanted—to know.

You have never killed a man
, she thought, as she saw the silhouette of her almost-adult daughter shiver,
but you will be called upon to do it. We are those who sit in judgment, Mari
—
and when we judge a crime worthy of death, that weight is upon our shoulders. It is time to learn.

Still, she hesitated. She herself had never learned this bitter truth so completely bare of pretense or tradition. Perhaps this was something to spare her daughter—Maribelle would, in the end, prove true to her lessons.

Or perhaps not. She realized, as she slowly brought her bow to bear, that she did not know which of these three, if not all of them, were mage-born. Taking a deep breath, she made the only quick decision she could: to trust her daughter's speed.

She crept as far away from the base of the tree as she dared before she rose to add her silhouette to the night.

“Hold!” Her voice was strong and clear in the darkness. As one, the three turned to face her. But only the man in the middle, bereft of all of the insignia of the Order of Knowledge, moved. His hands cut upward in a sharp steeple, his movements graceful, precise, controlled.

But before he could speak one word, utter even the beginning of a syllable, Maribelle of Elseth fired. The small lamp, carried by the man farthest from her, guttered suddenly.

As did the fires that surrounded the kennels like an impenetrable wall.

Lady Elseth fired into the night; heard a sharp cry followed by the sound of stumbling, running feet. She herself did not dare the darkness to pursue. Instead, she began to rewind her bow.

“Damn,” Maribelle whispered softly, coming to stand at her mother's side. “I didn't kill him.”

“Your aim was off,” her mother agreed.

• • •

Stephen's entry into the fight proper changed the balance of the game—and Gilliam was quick enough, instinctive enough, to take advantage of it. The dogs found their openings, and moved from a defensive crouch and snap into full leaps beneath the swords of their attackers. Gilliam's strike was less lucky, or less deadly; the moment he stepped forward, his dark-robed assailant suddenly snapped back into the present, and the very real threat to his own survival.

They had scant minutes before the smoke, dark and thick, suddenly began to cross what had been an invisible boundary. The smoke changed everything again, for with it, came fear. Gilliam could almost smell it rising.

It was then that he knew he would win. One of the standing men suddenly broke and ran—an obvious, stupid mistake. Ashfel took off in pursuit, the embers and little flames disregarded.
This
hunt was Ashfel's territory and strength. Gilliam cursed, but let him go; he renewed his attack with ferocity and the last of his Hunter's strength.

Fear did not make his enemy a more tenacious fighter, and in the end, he fell. As did the man that his dogs now savaged. He waited a few seconds before calling them, sharply, back. It was bad to let the dogs eat flesh outside of the confines of the Hunt's end.

Only when he was certain that they would not test him further did he lead them out of the kennels, calling them quickly and giving them their positions. Ashfel also waited, angered.

“Gilliam,” someone said, and Gilliam squinted into the darkness to see his mother's stiff form.

At her feet, unmoving, lay the one man who had seen fit to run. “Your work?” he asked softly.

She nodded. “Stephen?”

“I'm here, Elsa,” Stephen said, emerging from what remained of the kennels. He was shaking and pale.

“What of the girl?”

Stephen twisted his head sharply to the side in denial. “She's—she's safe.” But his color, if possible, became worse. He tried to close himself off, tried to keep the disgust and fear from Gilliam. This time, the Hunter Lord didn't need to test their bond. He turned sharply.

Stephen caught his arm. “Gil—”

But Gilliam shook him off without a word and returned to the kennels to call the girl out.

“Gilliam, you don't want to see her.”

“Go away, Stephen. I'll—”

The light in the kennels was poor; moonlight came through the walls with barely perceptible rays of light. It was enough. On the rushes of the kennel's floors, the girl sat crouched over the twitching body of one of her assailants. Her eyes were narrowed, and her lips, where they could be seen, were flecked with blood.

Her teeth were planted firmly in the throat of the man; her jaw muscles were tense, and the high rasp of a growl filled the silent air.

Stephen closed his eyes, reaching for his dagger. He expected Gilliam to interfere—to say something, do something. But Gilliam was frozen, his mouth open in surprise.

As Stephen approached, the girl's wary eyes followed his movements. Her hands tensed, flexing as if they were the claws of some wild, dangerous beast. He hoped that Gilliam could hold her. He didn't care if he couldn't. With a soft, decisive strike, he planted his dagger firmly into the would-be killer's heart.

He left it there, his hands suddenly too weak to hold the hilt. The body stilled.

Sickened, Stephen walked away, past Gilliam and the sounds the girl made at his back.

I
N THE MORNING,
Lady Elseth rose early, refusing to feel her age. She called for the village head and saw to the burying of the bodies that remained. Sourly, she noted that the mage-born man, and one of his associates, was not among them.

She had seen the dead before; had, indeed, seen deaths much worse than these. She didn't flinch when it came time to inspect the bodies. Letters would have to be written, and some dispensation from the Queen's Justice would have to be granted. She also made a note to begin her own investigations into the Order of Knowledge within the King's City. She did not, however, expect to find the mage harbored there any longer.

“Lady!”

She looked up from her musings and saw one of the caretakers of the dead approaching her. He carried something that glinted in the sunlight, cupped carefully in hands held away from his body, as if he bore a serpent. “Kelset?”

Kelset was obviously tired; there was much to be done, and quickly; the air was warm, and there were many dead. He wore a hat to protect himself from the sun's light, and had she desired to do so, she could have pretended the shadows in the hollows of his face were cast by the hat's wide brim. “Look. On one of the dead.”

She held out her hand, and after a minute's hesitation, the older man gave over what he held. It was a pendant on a long, thick chain, by its coloring platinum. She knew this because she knew that silver warmed with age and wear; this metal was still a cold, shining gray. The pendant itself was simple; a deep obsidian held by a platinum circle. No design, no engraving or carving, marred its black surface.

“Do you recognize it?” she asked, glancing up to see Kelset's intense gaze.

“No, Lady,” he said hesitantly. He reached up to massage the growing knots of tense muscle along the top of his neck.

“But?”

“What good can come of it? It's black; blackness. And the man was wearing robes of some sort.”

“Was he god-born?”

“No. Wrong eyes for it.”

“Good news, then,” she replied lightly. “It wouldn't do to anger any one of the Gods.” But she held the pendant more carefully.

• • •

Stephen knew that he'd overslept when he heard the knock at his door. He had closed the curtains, just before he'd come to bed, as a precaution against the night. Unfortunately, it had served as a shield against the dawn as well. He swung quickly out of bed, sliding his feet into the slippers that stuck out beneath the wrinkled counterpane and reaching for his robe.

The knock came again.

Before he could walk the length of the room to answer the door, it opened. The servant that he had expected was nowhere in sight, but Gilliam of Elseth filled the door's frame for a moment as he lingered between the hall and the room.

There was no anger at all left in him, but Stephen didn't need their connection to know it. The night, with its fire and death, had killed the rage in them both.

Hesitant, perhaps a little too quick to offer, Stephen said, “Come in, Gil.”

Gilliam nodded stiffly. He entered the room, closed the door at his back, and then used it as a support. His face was lined—creased almost as deeply as Stephen's sheets—and his eyes were circled and dark. It was obvious that he had had no help dressing; the buttons of his shirt were askew.

“Mother's seen the bodies,” Gilliam said at last, when it became clear that Stephen would not speak first.

“Does she have any information?”

Gilliam shrugged. “She's waiting to speak to both of us. After lunch.”

They stared at the carpets and walls in uncomfortable silence. It was Gilliam who, at length, broke the silence again. “I slept in the house last night.”

Stephen started to speak, but with Gilliam's words came the image of the girl as he had last seen her. He paled. But he did not keep his queasiness away from his Hunter.

“I know,” Gilliam said. His voice was low and unsteady. Had he been a dog, he would have been halfway between whine and growl, were it possible. “Stephen?”

Stephen nodded.

“The girl—she's part of my pack.” There was no anger and no possessiveness in his words; his voice was even, but his hands shook where his words did not.

“Part of your pack?”

“I can see behind her eyes,” Gilliam replied. “I can call her; I can command her. I know when she's near.” He turned away. “It happened the night we were first attacked.”

At once, Stephen understood everything. It happened like that, sometimes—information gathered in bits and pieces suddenly coalesced to form a whole that
could never again be forgotten. His shoulders sagged slightly, and he thrust his hands into his pockets; they were fists. “How?”

“I don't know. I—I didn't think about it.”

He hadn't wanted to think about it. Stephen didn't point it out; they both knew it, so there was no need.

“And I don't know how to find out.” Gilliam turned again, his hands, palms up, before him. It was as close as he would come to asking for aid.

Stephen could not demand more. “I think we can help her,” he said quietly, mind racing. He swallowed. “Does she—does she feel different than the hounds do?”

His Hunter nodded, hesitant. “She—she's more than an animal. But less than—than you and I. And I hear her all the time. Even now.” His voice dropped. “She's unhappy. She knows I'm upset. Knows it's because of her, but doesn't understand why.”

“Gil—has she ever spoken to you?”

“Never. I thought that she didn't know how. At first.”

“I'd still say she doesn't know how,” Stephen said mildly.

Gilliam shook his head. “It's there. Somewhere. If I get close enough to her, I can almost hear the
words.
She's more than a dog. She's stronger, too.”

“Then maybe you can—”

“I can't. Don't ask me, Stephen. I can't.”

This, too, Stephen suddenly understood. He looked across the room to his Hunter, and then bowed his head. He was proud of Gilliam, but he would never say so in words that would only embarrass them both. Instead, he let the feeling thrum down their Hunter's bond.

“Is Elsa waiting?”

Gilliam smiled. “Impatiently.”

“Then I'd better finish dressing.”

• • •

“Well?” Lady Elseth looked up across the length of the table as her luncheon dishes were finally cleared away. She had eaten little—but that was in keeping with her three companions at the meal.

Stephen met her gaze first. “They were after the girl,” he said quietly.

She raised one slightly frosted brow. “The girl?”

“We think so.”

“Do you know why?”

“No.” Stephen shrugged.

“I've taken the liberty of sending for a member of the Order of Knowledge. No, not that one.” Her own lips turned up in an imitation of a smile. “I don't believe that Krysanthos will be found within the Order's walls after last night's work.”

“I'm not sure that we want one of the mage-born here.”

“I'm certain that you don't,” Lady Elseth said, a little too pointedly, “but in this case, I think it wise. A mage wanted the girl dead, Stephen; it only makes sense that a mage would be able to explain her . . . condition.”

In matters of difficulty, it was Gilliam's custom to let Stephen speak for them both. He did not even venture a syllable now.

“Elsa, is that wise?”

“Perhaps.” It was her turn to shrug. “Perhaps not. But truthfully, Stephen, it is not just because of the girl that I summoned a member of the Order. I want answers—and some restitution—for the attack last evening. And answers, I
will
have.”

Stephen nodded; when the Lady of Elseth used that particular tone of voice, the matter was already settled. He tried to change the direction of the conversation. “Did you find anything of interest this morning?”

“On the corpses?”

Maribelle's eyes widened slightly at her mother's bluntness. Stephen didn't even blink. “Yes.”

Lady Elseth closed her eyes and raised a hand to her forehead. “I'm sorry, Stephen. That was uncalled for. But I like these affairs no more than you, and I'm not in the best of moods for delicacy.” She smiled wanly. “Yes. I did find something that may be of significance.” She rose. “If you wait, you can look at it and tell me if it has more significance for you than it does for me.”

They waited, still uncomfortable, while Lady Elseth left the room. Stephen did not even try to keep up light or pleasant chatter, and Gilliam certainly wasn't about to start what he had avoided for most of his life. Maribelle's silence was unnatural—but Maribelle looked very much like Gilliam; sleepless, dark-eyed, haunted.

Lady Elseth's return was a relief.

Until she stopped at Stephen's side and very gently unfurled one hand. Like liquid, the pendant she carried fell free, stopping to swing as the chain pulled tight against her thumb and finger. “This,” she said, studying Stephen's face.

Stephen stared at the pendant in fascinated horror.

“Stephen?”

He shook his head, reached out to touch the obsidian surface of the flat oval, and then pulled back sharply before his fingers made contact.

“You recognize it.” She put her free hand around his shoulder, as the pendulum continued its gentle swing. “Is it your—from your dreams?”

He nodded quietly. “But I also recognize it from my studies. In the King's library.”

“Yes?” Her voice was gentle, but the question demanded an answer nonetheless; Lady Elseth had that kind of voice.

“It's the emblem of the Priests of Allasakar.” Stephen glanced up and met the eyes of his Lady. “The Lord and ruler of the Hells.”

Lady Elseth was silent a moment, absorbing the news. “Well,” she said at last. “I think this merits a visit to the King's City. And perhaps even a visit to the Queen herself.” She caught the pendant firmly in a tight, solid grip. “If I guess correctly, that religion has been forbidden practice in Breodanir.”

“And in every other civilized land since the birth of the Twin Kings,” Stephen replied. “But so has thievery, and thieves have never died out in the history of
any
people.”

“True,” Lady Elseth said, her gaze remote. “But it is not the habit of the seat of judgment to ignore those infractions that are brought to its attention. Especially not when that seat is the High Seat. I have work to tend to here, and accommodations to arrange in the city itself.

“We will wait upon the arrival of the member of the Order of Knowledge before you set out.”

“How do we know they'll send one?” Maribelle asked.

“They'll send one,” her mother replied grimly. “And quickly.”

She was right, of course. She was the Lady of Elseth.

• • •

The Hunter Ladies had an informal messenger service and route that they used in circumstances of great urgency only. Elsabet had deemed this to be such an occasion, and had ordered her courier out on the roads with a horse and the writ of summons that bore her blood-red seal. She knew that once the messenger reached Valentin, he would turn his horse in to the Valentin stables in return for a fresh one; this operation would continue along the straightest path to the King's City. Therefore, a messenger that might normally travel for weeks would take perhaps five days to arrive. She expected one of the mage-born to arrive at the month's end.

He arrived two days after the earliest possible moment of the message's receipt.

His arrival was not an auspicious one to start; he walked, unhorsed, up the long and half-tended path to Elseth Manor. He was met by villagers who carried the long, wooden planks that were necessary to frame the second story of the half-completed kennels, and given the stories of attempted murder that had been whispered at the hearthside of each and every cottage and shanty in the Elseth village, his arrival was greeted with suspicion and worry.

Were it not for the fact that he arrived at midday, looking tired, travel-worn, and not a little exhausted, they might have been tempted to take matters into their own hands. Instead, the village head ordered him contained—much to his obvious chagrin—and marched, in the center of the village's most able young men, to Elseth Manor proper.

Elsabet discovered this oversight in her people's hospitality when a very harassed-looking keykeeper all but barged into her study. He knocked, yes, but entered without giving her the grace of time to give him leave to do so.

“Lady,” he said, his face pale and lined, “an emergency that requires your attention has arisen. If you would be so kind?”

“Is it Gilliam?” she asked, rising immediately.

“No. I believe it is a visitor that you've been expecting.”

“That hardly seems an emergency, Boredan.” But she followed him quickly down the long hall and out to the manor's wide doors. Stephen met her in the hall.

“What's upset Boredan?” he whispered.

She shook her head, and he let the matter drop, but did pause to offer his arm. She took it.

When they at last went through the doors that the keykeeper held open for them, they found most of the village gathered at their steps.

“Lady!” Corinna said, her voice a rather hoarse shout. She was dressed in the daywear of a busy village headwoman, and her sun-lined, darkened skin was covered in a fine mist of wood dust and dirt.

Lady Elseth surveyed the crowd quietly. “What has happened, Corinna?” she asked at last.

“We've brought another robed intruder. He came with no papers and no letters, and we thought it best you dealt with him.”

“I . . . see.” Lady Elseth had turned a very becoming shade of white. Unconsciously, she put an unadorned hand to her throat as she searched the crowd more thoroughly. Then the color returned to her cheeks in a blush. “You've done well,” she said, her voice so faint it could barely be heard. “But I believe all is as it should be. Have the men release him.”