The Sacred Hunt Duology (72 page)

Devon was silent. The smile had deserted his face; his attention was focused inward with an intensity that he rarely showed. What was the connection between the demons, the girl, the foreign lord, The Terafin, Meralonne, and the urchin named Jewel? How many of these creatures were there, and how far up—or down—had they gone? If the power of the mage-born was at the heart of this problem, whose power, and what was their final goal?

He trusted The Terafin as much as he trusted any member of The Ten—but no more than that.

“Devon?”

The Crowns were his life, his sworn and his chosen life; and they
deserved
that loyalty and that dedication; they deserved it, and more, as no other rulers in any foreign country had ever done, or ever would. Against their well-being and their continued rule, the health of any House counted for little—any House save Terafin.
Ah, wisdom
, he thought, as he ran his hands his through his hair.
Where are you now?

“Yes,” he said softly. “I understand it.”

“And you understand that
no word
of this is to leave the House?”

“Are you so certain that this is a House affair?”

“It does not matter if I am not,” she said severely. “I gave you an order.” Then, knowing to whom she spoke, she relented. But in the manner of Terafin. “Patris Cordufar owes his loyalty to which House?”

“Darias.”

“Indeed. Do you see?”

Devon cursed inwardly. Less than fifteen years had passed since the House wars between Darias and Terafin had nearly brought The Ten to their knees. Forty-three men and women had died in the service of the two Houses, and not a few of them powerful, notable. The Kings had been forced to intervene, for only the second time in the history of Averalaan, and their intervention had cost both Houses dearly. Only in the last year had The Terafin finally brought the House back to its previous position of political power upon the council; Darias still had not recovered.

Darias.

“It may indeed be that this matter is not solely a difficulty which the House must face,” she said. “But to bring it to the attention of the Kings, in the light of the assassination attempt, will cost us more than I wish to pay. If it comes to that, it is a decision that
I
will make.”

He swallowed; he knew that she would never come closer to speaking of his rank within the Astari. If indeed she spoke of it. And he knew, too, that he could not keep this to himself for long, however he might try. If he tried at all. “I will
remain ATerafin if you judge me worthy.” The words and the tone were very grave. “But as a member of your House of little rank and merit, I must ask a boon.”

“Ask, then.”

“It is not, unfortunately, of you that that favor must be asked.” He turned to Lord Elseth and his huntbrother, Stephen. “At court there are two women, Lady Morganson and Lady Faergif; they are of the Breodani, and they traveled here when their sons inherited the responsibilities of their demesnes. They are sharp and canny in defense of the interests of your kingdom, and they have become accustomed to all things Essalieyanese. But if they learn that a Hunter Lord has left Breodanir to journey to the Empire, they will wish to meet that Lord—and, of course, his huntbrother.”

“You want us to go to court?” Lord Elseth said, with so much distaste that the huntbrother could not keep his disapproval from showing.

“What he means to say, Lord ATerafin—”

“Devon will do.”

“Devon, then. What he means to say is that we are not attired or prepared for a court so complicated and unique as that of the Twin Kings and he does not wish to insult.”

Devon did smile at that. “But he would come?”

“Yes, we would both be happy to accept your invitation.”

“Good.” Devon rose. If he could have the huntbrother for a gathering of the two courts, he could rest a little easier. He paused and met the eyes of The Terafin; he understood, then, why she had summoned him in the presence of foreigners. A gift, of sorts, to the Astari—guardians of the Kings. “Then I must prepare for your dogs—they will be properly kenneled and cared for in the style to which they are accustomed.” He bowed—and it was the bow of the Breodani that he offered. Then he turned to The Terafin and brought his arm across his chest in salute. “Terafin.”

“ATerafin,” she replied. “We will speak again, Devon. You may have your day in the two courts, and then we must have your day in the streets of the city. We need to conceal what we do.”

L
ORD ELSETH AND STEPHEN
were escorted off the premises by Devon ATerafin, who was charged both with finding them a suitable domicile for their stay and extending the hospitality of Terafin to them. In normal circumstances, they would be housed in the manor proper at the very least, but The Terafin felt it too much of a risk to have all of the enemies of the demon-kin concentrated in one place, and although she did not voice this concern aloud, it was understood.

Jewel gave her report, and if she was nervous and a little terse, The Terafin did not appear to notice. Instead, she nodded. “You work well, Jewel. I understand the difficulty you labor under, and I must add to it; we will no longer send out crews to the various sites that Ararath mentioned in his letter. Instead, I will send you out with Devon, and only Devon.

“You are to follow his commands in all things; if you feel that his command exceeds my wishes, you are nonetheless obligated to carry out his word. I will take your reports in my chambers, and I will entertain any concerns that you may have at that time. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Dismissed.”

Jewel's eyes flickered momentarily to Meralonne, and then away. She brought her arm across her chest and then stopped before the salute itself was complete. The Terafin smiled. “Indeed,” she said softly. “You owe me no such respect yet; I have not given you my name.”

Jewel nodded and walked away, and The Terafin watched her go. “She has temerity,” she said softly, almost to herself.

“She has that,” the mage replied dryly. “She also has a temper and a tongue to go with it. You've not been at the digs with us,” he added. Then he inclined his head and held it, like a demibow, before raising his face.

“Well, then,” The Terafin said quietly. “You have your own report to offer, I presume?”

“I, Lady?”

“Indeed.” She leaned back and pulled the bell by the bay window. “Would you care for refreshments?”

“No, Terafin,” he replied.

“A pity.” She watched the doors swing open; a man walked through them, carrying a tray with a heavy decanter and three glasses at its center. The tray itself was ornate, a mixture of ebony and gold inlay that suggested great fragility while providing great strength. Not unlike the ruler of the House itself.

The servant set down the tray on the table between the desk and the mage; he proceeded to pour two glasses of a liquid that was cool and dark. Meralonne raised a brow.

“I may be persuaded to change my mind,” he said softly.

“Good. Please.” She lifted the blue liquid to her lips and then pulled it back, staring intently into its depths. She watched the surface of her drink, rather than her companion's expression, as she spoke next.

“Meralonne, everyone believes that you destroyed that creature.”

He sipped the chill, bitter liquid and smiled as it fell down the back of his throat. “Everyone but you?”

“I heard you and saw you; I would guess that you were fighting not the creature but the darkness that enwrapped it.”

“I see.”

“You did not mention, in your report, the probable cause of the creature's death; did not mention whether or not you thought the creature dead at all.”

“An oversight.”

“Oh? But you did mention that you had dispatched it.”

“There are games, young woman, that it is better not to play,” Meralonne said, lifting his glass by the stem and staring through its facets.

“Indeed. May I give you the same advice?”

The mage stared at her a moment and then reached into the folds of his tunic and pulled out his pipe. “Do you mind?” She did not answer, and he took her silence as acquiescence. The slightly sweet acridity of pipe smoke began to fill the room by slow degrees.

“Meralonne, what you choose to withhold from anyone else is your business. I will not point out that you are in my employ, because it is of little consequence. I am The Terafin, and the battle occurred within the confines of
my
domain. I
will
know what happened.”

“I'm not completely certain myself,” he replied benignly.

“And yet, if I'm not mistaken, the magics used against that creature were of a variety that was once called Summer magic. Except that Summer magic was closely tied to stellar conjunctions.”

“Obviously not completely.”

“Obviously.”

He stared moodily at the woman who was, next to the Queens, the most powerful in the Empire. “If only,” he said at last, with a grim smile, “you were a man.”

She raised a brow at his comment, and at the bark of bitter laughter that followed it, understanding neither.

“What would you have of me, then? I will tell you what I know.”

“I doubt that, Master APhaniel. I doubt that very much.”

As if she had not spoken, he continued. “There are always mages who study the lost arts, hoping for some glimpse of the powers that the mage-born once mastered in the past. It is,” he added, in a darker voice, “a past that they do not understand, or they would not chase it so fervently and so foolishly.

“Understand, Terafin, that as you are the head and the embodiment of your House, so, too, am I responsible for mine; I am a member of the Council of the Magi, and it is under our guidance that the Order flourishes.” Pipe smoke filled the air around his face like a thin veil of mist. “An incident of this like is by its very nature a matter for the Magi, and of great concern to the Order, for while not all of the mage-born are members of the Order, the Order
is
magic as far as most of the Empire is concerned.”

She stared at him, impassive in the silence of her demands. He met that gaze without flinching, pipe in hand as if it were a ward against external influences.

But, significantly, it was Meralonne who spoke next. “Until we are certain exactly what it is we are facing, we are not at liberty to divulge what scant information we do have. In all honesty, we have not yet managed to argue our way into any consensus with regard to that information. I'm sorry.”

Her eyes glittered like gemstones, cold and hard. “If the lack of that information costs this House, it will cost you, I promise it.”

“Of course,” Meralonne replied, smiling without a trace of humor. He lifted his glass to his lips and then raised it in her direction. “But let me say this, Terafin. For the sake of the Order, and your continued goodwill toward it, I will offer my services to your House, without interruption, for the balance of this difficulty. And I will do this without the usual fees that are involved in such a transaction.”

“And if I choose not to accept this . . . generous offer?”

“You must do as you will, of course.”

She watched him as he smoked his pipe; he was not in the least intimidated by her, nor she by him. They were both used to power and the subtleties of wielding it, and although they both craved information and knowledge, they were also used to making decisions based on instinct. At last, she nodded briefly.

“Very well, Master APhaniel. I accept both your offer and your service until further notice.”

He knew a dismissal when he heard it, and rose quickly, but not hastily; emptied his pipe into the hearth, and then, turning, raised a hand in a gesture of both respect and partial fealty. He did not salute her.

After the doors had closed at his back, The Terafin lifted her glass. “Well?”

“He is lying.” Morretz waited patiently until she had finished with her glass and then took it from her and placed it beside the decanter.

“You're certain?”

“Of at least one thing. He has not argued with the rest of the Magi, or even discussed the occurrence here with them. There has been no council called within the Order.”

“And the rest?”

“I do not know. But it is obvious that he knows more—I would guess much more—than he wishes us to know.”

“What is his game?”

“It is too early to say,” Morretz replied gravely, “but were I to guess, I would say that it does not directly involve Terafin.”

She smiled. “Is this your way of telling me that you would have also accepted his offer?”

“I believe it better to have him under our surveillance than otherwise. Besides which,” he added, as he lifted the tray, “young Jewel seems to be able to work with him.”

“A telling sign,” The Terafin said, rising as well. “Probably
the
telling sign.”

“I have already advised you,” Morretz said, turning, “against relying upon one seer-born; the talent is wild and inefficient. You might recall the fate of Megan fair-hair.”

“Megan fair-hair is—and should remain—a cautionary tale meant to guide children. And I have already said,” she continued, in just as pointed a tone, “that it is not her talent alone, but my instinct, that serves me here. Now come. We have more important matters to arrange. I wish a meeting with Lord Cordufar.”

“Out of the question.”

The Terafin laughed; in tone and texture it made her seem bereft of both age and title. “Morretz, I believe you to be the most irritating and also the wisest of all the choices that I have made in this office.”

3rd Corvil, 410 A.A.
Order of Knowledge

Sigurne Mellifas was a mage of no little power, which was not unusual on this, the Council of the Twenty-one, the Magi who governed the magical practices of the mages—and the mages themselves—who studied within the confines of the Order of Knowledge. But she was a woman of little temper and a spine of steel; it was an odd combination. One could not dislike her—she had no edges upon which to pin such a feeling—but one could not move her once she had decided her course of action. She could, Meralonne thought, probably run a man through while apologizing for the necessity of such an extreme course of action.

Or without apologizing at all, depending on the situation. Today, she offered no apologies as she spoke.

“There is only one course of action available to us. We must begin the mage-hunt. The information that young Zareth Kahn has delivered cannot be ignored.”

The “young” Zareth Kahn winced slightly as he rose. “Master Sigurne is correct,” he said, his voice strong and deep compared to hers, but somehow less forceful. “The Queen of Breodanir herself has made it clear that she expects a resolution. Were it not for the death of Zoraban ATelvise, the position of the Order would be untenable at this moment. The Queen realizes that, due to the loss of our leader, our House is in chaos—her words, not ours—and she waits upon our response.” He did not need to add that she did not wait patiently. Reaching into the folds of his silver-lined, black and white robes, he pulled from them a rounded, wooden tube. Uncapping it, he reached in and removed the scroll that he had carried to the Order's council.

This he carefully handed to Sigurne Mellifas. She broke the seal, read it, and frowned slightly. She rarely frowned.

“Matteos,” she said, lifting her chin.

“Sigurne?” He was a tall man; not a young one, but not a man to whom the passage of years had been unkind. Battle had etched a scar or two across his brow and cheek and instilled a wariness in his dark eyes, but his hair was still a dark brown, his shoulders still broad and strong, his arms still capable of bearing the weight of war's weapons.

“I think you had best send your boys out.”

Matteos Corvel was, in all ways, Sigurne's protector—but he was more, besides. He nodded gravely because he understood—they all did—the danger that a rogue mage presented to the Order, and the safety of the Order.

A mad mage, especially one who practiced the dark arts, was remembered and feared long after he had met a particularly gruesome end. His name and his deeds became the measure by which all mages were judged and feared. Only by meeting the challenge of such magery openly did the mages of the Order protect themselves, and champion their own survival.

And they did so ruthlessly when the need arose.

“Put it to a vote, Sigurne,” Meralonne APhaniel said quietly.

She turned her brown-eyed gaze upon him from the head of the table; saw the weariness in eyes that were lined with care. Meralonne's specialty was the study of ancient magics.

“Do you think Krysanthos could have summoned The Terafin's would-be assassin?”

“If you had asked me a month ago, I would have told you that Krysanthos couldn't summon a fly.” Silver hair shifted as the mage shrugged a slender shoulder.

“He
is
a mage of the second circle, Meralonne,” she replied, chiding in tone.

Member APhaniel shrugged again. “No, Sigurne. I do not believe that Krysanthos had the power to summon such a creature as I fought. But I very much believe that he is linked to a mage, or mages, that
do
have that power.”

Silence, then, cold and still.

“Meralonne,” Sigurne Mellifas said, the single word a rebuke. “If you wish to make an accusation, make it. If you wish to remain silent, remain silent. But you know as well as I that the only members of the Order who stand within the first circle preside upon this council.”

“I know it,” the mage said softly, casting a steel-gray glance around the long, heavy table. “But I have no accusation to give. No single mage here has fallen under such scrutiny, and no single mage—without exception—would survive it well. I have trusted this council as much as I have trusted anything—but I tell you, Sigurne, that the hand of the kin's summoner is a greater power than Krysanthos was capable of summoning.

“Send it to vote,” he said again.

She did, although it was a formality.

Matteos Corvel bowed his head a moment and then placed both of his large, square hands flat against the table. He pushed himself out of his seat and rose. “I can try,” he said, although no one had asked. “But you know as well as I that the risk to the civilians is increased a hundredfold if we have to bring him back alive.”