The Sacred Hunt Duology (43 page)

“I am . . . here. This is interesting, Zareth.” Her voice was dry, with just the edge of a quiver. “What is this patchwork on the ground?”

“What do you see?” the mage replied.

“I see the golds and yellows of the harvest,” she answered, measured, calm. “I see the shadows of the villagers in the fields; I see the foot of the seat of judgment. I see . . . I see my children—all of our children. The winter. It moves.”

“What else?”

But she had fallen silent, and did not answer further.

“I don't see it,” Gilliam said. “I see the hunt. I see stag and bear and boar; I see wolf and fox and hound. I see the spear and the sword and the bow. And Stephen.”

“Stephen?” Zareth Kahn said softly.

“What do you see?” Stephen asked.

The mage laughed. “I see wind and rain and fire. I see the earth buckling, the heavens opening. I see books and lore and even a little death. More, but you wouldn't understand it. You?”

“I see darkness and light,” Stephen replied.

“What?”

“Darkness, light—like the clouds here.”

The mage was silent; his thought made the air heavy. “Stephen,” he said at last,
in a tone that was devoid of expression. “You are rare. What the half-world shows, no one fully understands—but not even I see it as it is; I see it as my hopes, my life, my dreams, my fears—but it is always connected with the everyday.”

“Earthquakes happen every day, do they?” Stephen shot back. But he shivered. And then he felt it: the presence of God. It crept into his body slowly; started as a tingle, the vaguest hint of something familiar that teases the memory. It did not stop there. Instead, it grew stronger, brighter; the clouds at his feet closed over the lattice until there was mist, no more.

Still, he felt it. And as it grew more persistent, he found himself moving, as if to escape, all of his warnings to Gilliam forgotten. First one foot, then the other, fell firmly against what had been planked oak, and then his hands left the confines of his armrests.

Unanchored, and alone, he stood in the mists of the half-world. He could not even hear Gilliam's shout—but he felt it clearly along their bond. It was comforting to know that not even this place where man and God might meet could sever what they had made together.

He sent his peace back to Gilliam.
Stay, Gil. I'm safe.
Then he began to walk forward. He thought he might walk forever, lost. Thought, without the guidance of Zoraban, that he might pay for his foolishness the way that the fools in the children's stories that Lady Elseth told always did.

But if he had to walk, he did not walk alone.

Gilliam, Lord Elseth, appeared beside him, a shadow with substance in a strange world that seemed to have none.

“Gil! I told you to stay!”

Gilliam smiled grimly, and punched his huntbrother, hard, in the shoulder.

Stephen laughed and offered no further demur; what he had said and what he felt were two very different things, and Gilliam rarely paid attention to the said thing when the felt thing beckoned.

“Where are we?” Gilliam said, looking around.

“In the half-world,” someone answered. The ground, if ground it was, rumbled and buckled slightly. They both looked up, and up again, following the strange echo of the voice.

And thus is was that the Elseth Hunter Lord and his huntbrother first met a God in the half-world.

G
ILLIAM SAW A SLIGHTLY
bent old man, leaning against a smooth, dark staff with one hand, while in the other he carried a heavy tome with a thick brass latch and two cracked leather covers. He wore robes, those dark and gray ones that the Priests of the Hunter often wore, and his head, hands, and throat were unadorned. His hair, long and white, fell past his shoulders, gathering in the hollows of his stooped shoulders, and a beard trailed into the mist.

But his eyes were not gold, not any living color; they had a depth to them that eyes should not have. Were it not for the towering height of the God, Gilliam might have mistaken him for Zoraban, Master of the Order.

Stephen saw differently.

Age was a thing for mortals, and this tall, inscrutable Lord of the Heavens bore no such taint. He wore robes, yes, long and fine, but they had no colors and all colors as they shimmered to the unseen ground. His perfect forehead was cut by a circlet of light; his face was smooth, his hair drawn tightly, completely back. In Stephen's vision, the staff was no staff, but rather a fine and perfect blade, edged along both sides, pointed into rising fog. But he carried a book, and in it, Stephen was certain that the knowledge of the cosmos was writ.

He met the God's eyes for a second, no more, and then looked away. He did not trust the ground beneath his feet, and so bowed instead of dropping to one knee in deference.

“You are not the ones who called me,” the god said, his voice filling their ears, although it was mild, even soft.

“No, Lord,” Stephen said. His voice was quiet as the God's was loud.

“Then follow,” the God replied. “We are close to the one that did.” He raised a delicate brow and looked down his straight, slender nose. “You walked without him.”

To that, there was no answer. Stephen nodded.

“Brave,” was the only reply. The God began to walk, and as he did, the mist cleared behind him, forming a path wide enough for two men to walk abreast. In grateful silence, the Hunter and the huntbrother did just that.

They did not have long to walk; ahead, standing on what appeared to be a little hill or groundsheet, stood Zoraban; at his side stood the girl.

“Lord,” Zoraban said, his voice oddly resonant.

“Zoraban.” To Stephen's surprise, the God bowed low. “It is good to see you again so soon. Why have you called me?”

“To ask the right question,” the mage replied gravely. He bowed as well, although there was nothing as majestic or grand in his gesture. Then he straightened, and his eyes widened. “Lord Elseth, Stephen.”

“I found them wandering the mists,” the God said. “Will you take them in?” The words were formal, almost ritualistic.

“I will, as my responsibility,” Zoraban replied.

“Then they are your care.” He looked down and then lifted the arm that held the sword. “Go and stand beside him.” Although there was no light above, or anywhere in sight, the blade cast a cutting shadow.

They reached the side of the mage, chastened but unbowed. “You will let me speak,” Zoraban said. They nodded, and Gilliam didn't even show rancor at the severity of the tone. “Teos, it is your light and your labor that has granted man vision beyond the seen. To you, all knowledge is eventually brought, and from you, the desire for knowledge is kindled and burns yet.

“I come to you with information; it is my hope, my supplication, that that information will return to me as understanding, if you will it.

“And if you do not will it, Lord, I will be content, and I will continue to seek information in both your name and my own.”

Gilliam rolled his eyes. “Why can't he just say ‘I've got a question?'”

Stephen planted his elbow sharply between the two ribs his reach was most familiar with. He did not speak his disapproval, for fear of interrupting either Zoraban or Teos, the Lord of Knowledge—but he sent it sizzling along their bond.

The girl raised her head and looked back at Gilliam while the mage continued to intone the prologue that the Hunter Lord found of such little interest. Then, at last, Zoraban stopped.

Teos, meditative, looked down upon the four with his endless eyes. Then, if possible, the corners of his lips turned up as if in a smile. “Yes,” he said softly, “you may present your case and ask your question.” The mists curled up around him, becoming thicker and more dense. They took on shape and form, like water hardening to ice, until they at last held the appearance of a huge, if simple, throne. The god sat, laying his sword across his legs, and his book across the sword.

“This is an echo,” Zoraban whispered, “of all that he is in the heavens.” Golden eyes met endless ones without so much as flinching. If there was affection between the immortal and his son, it was not obvious, not noticeable.

“My lord, I bring you a mystery. This woman.”

Teos studied the girl for a moment, and then inclined his head. Unlike a human monarch, he was not at all distressed by the state of her clothing, hair, or skin; these things rarely interested the Gods.

“She is god-born, Lord—but I do not know the God who was her parent, mother or father.”

“Her place of birth?”

“She does not know it in a manner that I can repeat to you.” He paused. “And she does not speak.”

“I see.” The God lifted a hand. “Come, girl.” And on those two words, his voice changed. For a moment, it was indistinct, not a single voice, but a multitude of voices—high, low, deep, thin—all blended into a precise harmony of sound. Each syllable held the power and the mystery of command.

Stephen understood then that the bardic voice was an echo of the voice of the Gods. He was not certain that, had he wished it, he could have disobeyed Teos. The girl did not, but she did not seem troubled or even awed by the presence of the deity. The mists moved and parted at her feet; she traced a path cleanly and quickly, raising her face as she approached.

Teos reached down for her, and placed one hand upon her upturned head. Light lanced out from his fingertips, crackling in the silence.

“Lord Elseth,” Zoraban said, his voice even, “stay your ground. She is not harmed.”

But Gilliam had made no move, nor would he. Although he did not understand why, the girl was not afraid; had the God's magic harmed her in any way, he would have known it the moment she felt any pain. Still, his breath was tight and loudly drawn between clenched teeth.

Stephen did not even look at his Hunter; his eyes were drawn and bound to the hand of the God, the eyes of the God, the face of the God. Even the girl, straight and supple, with no taint of fear or awe, and therefore none of mortality, was barely a flicker in the field of his vision. He did not know that he held his breath until he was forced to expel it, and even then, he would not look away. He did not know why.

The God looked up. “She is god-born,” he said, his voice once again a storm of voices. “But her mortal parent was no human.”

“Ah,” Zoraban said. “Which of the Gods was she born of?”

Teos' brow furrowed. Minutes passed; his eyes flickered gray and then flashed light, the essence of storm. “The Hunter God.”

Gilliam closed his eyes and nodded. Stephen dropped to one knee; the mist rose to his chest. Only Zoraban dared to speak, and the word held only incredulity. “WHAT?”

“The God of the Breodani.”

“But—but, Lord,” Zoraban sputtered. “There is no Hunter God!”

“So we thought,” Teos replied, while both Gilliam and Stephen gave way in turn to incredulity, if for very different reasons. “So I thought. But she is that, Zoraban.” The God smiled suddenly, and the smile was a terrible, sudden change. “Ask the right question, my son.”

“What do you mean, there is no Hunter God?” It was Stephen who asked the question, and he didn't care if it was “right” or not.

“Not a single Lord of Heaven has ever seen or met this God that Breodanir claims as its own,” Zoraban answered tightly. “Not a single one of the so-called Hunter-born,
not one
, has ever manifested any signs of the god-born. Breodanir is a mystery to the Order—why else do you think so large a group would live in your King's City, away from the heart of Essalieyan, and the Order proper? But we have studied for years, and received no answers, found no records.

“Until now.”

“There were answers,” someone said. Stephen was almost shocked to find that the words were his own. “I have dreamt of them. Three times.”

Very slowly, the God's gaze left the mystery of the girl and came to rest upon Stephen's face. Stephen tried to look away. “Three times, Stephen of Elseth? Tell me of your dreams, then. I would hear them.”

“And may I then ask a question?”

“You are bold, but I am curious. Yes; you may ask.”

Very quietly, Stephen began to tell the God of the dream that, three times, had troubled his sleep. He spoke of darkness, and as he did, the mists shifted, the ground rocked. He spoke of the destruction of the temple, the killing of the Priests, and the appearance, each of the three times, of Evayne.

“Evayne?” Teos said, lifting a hand.

“It was what she named herself,” Stephen answered.

“You are wyrded.”

Stephen nodded. “But upon each of these occasions, I found this, and winded it. And the Hunter's Death came.” So saying, Stephen reached into his jacket, and very carefully pulled out the Hunter's horn.

In the half-world, it crackled with light and energy. Stephen nearly dropped it as it outlined his hand with its aura of power.

“Will you wind it for me now?” Teos asked softly.

Stephen lifted the horn to his lips at the command inherent in the God's request. But before his lips made contact with the mouthpiece, the girl shrieked. His hands froze in midair.

For in that shriek, he heard two words:
Not yet.

Eyes wide, he met the girl's agonized stare, and saw what he had never seen in her eyes: a human sentience, and a very human fear.

“I see,” the God said. “Very well, put it aside, Stephen of Elseth. Guard it well. It is your answer.”

“It's what the followers of Allasakar seek.”

Teos lifted his fair face; the lines of his lips tightened; his pallor grew dark, and his eyes, darker still. “Why do you speak that name in my presence?”

“Because,” Stephen replied, “Zareth Kahn, a member of your Order, recognized the pendant that only Priests of the Dark God wear. Or so he named it.”

“I see.” Teos' face became calm once again. “And yes. I do not know what credence to lend your dreams; they are Mystery given, and not even the Gods,” here he frowned delicately, “may know Mystery's plans.”

“Mystery?”

“He is called the Shadowed One in the East, the Unnamed One in the North; to the West, he is called Teiaramu, and in a time long past, he was called the God or the Guardian of Man. We of his brethren call him Mystery, and not even the Mother claims to know his purpose. But his wyrd may have shown you a truth. The darkness hunts that artifact.” The God fell silent a moment, but lifted his hand for peace; it was clear that he had not yet finished. His eyes grew gray, and more dangerous, his brow furrowed. “Yes,” he said at last, although it was a reply to none of the four. “We must trust you with this information. Hold.

“The Lord of the Darkness is not in his seat in the Hells.”

“Not in his seat? Is he in the half-world?” Again, Stephen surprised himself, for the God was obviously used to a different ritual when receiving the questions of the merely mortal.

“No, Stephen of Elseth. This is what troubles us.”

“Then where?”

“We do not know. No, do not fear that. The Covenant of God of Man forbids the mortal lands to the Gods. But I fear that his absence is a danger to all.”

“Covenant of God of Man?” Stephen's eyes narrowed. Something about those words felt familiar; he wondered if, in one or the other of the books he had read as a child, he had touched upon this covenant, this agreement.

And then Zoraban suddenly turned, his face pale, his hands clenched tight in fists. “Stephen,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “That pendant. The one you said Zareth Kahn recognized. What became of it?”

Stephen shrugged. “We brought it with us. Lady Elseth is its keeper; she has it for your inspection.”

Zoraban spoke in a language that Stephen did not recognize, and then met the eyes of his parent. “My lord, Stephen's question to you, and my own, must remain unasked for this evening.”

“Understood,” Teos said, rising. The throne vanished as both of his feet touched the ground once more. “But what I have allowed, I will still grant.” Before either of them could move, he lifted his sword and swiftly brought it down upon Stephen's shoulder. Stephen cried out as the flat of the blade pressed against his jacket.

A net of color sprang to life around him; the world spun, the mists grabbed at his ankles. He gave a strangled cry as he felt the Sword of Knowledge pass
through
him.

“Heed me, Stephen of Elseth. Although you are rash and impetuous, you have of me one question to ask, and I will answer it to the best of my ability. But you cannot ask it now; indeed, you cannot ask it at all if you travel to the halls of judgment. The darkness is gathering.

“But if you have the time, or the need, or the right question, you will be able to call as if you were, in blood, my own son. And I grant you the gift of vision in your fight against a most ancient enemy, even if you do not yet understand what it entails.

“Now, go.
GO!
”

Zoraban lifted his arms, and the mist began to flee him, almost scurrying in its sudden roll away from the swell at his feet. The girl scampered forward to join him, and held fast to the hem of his sleeve. The sky, if sky it was, darkened and grew indistinct and hazy.