The Sacred Hunt Duology (73 page)

They were silent, weighing the need for information against the need to minimize the possible consequences to the Order. Only in the Order of Knowledge would the struggle have taken so long, and been so close. But it was Sigurne's turn to preside over the twenty-one-member council, and no one thought to gainsay her when at last she spoke.

“Kill him,” she said. “I will prepare the writ of execution and have it sent to the Kings.”

3rd Corvil, 410 A.A.
Arannan Halls

Stephen of Elseth looked out at the cloud-shrouded sky before letting the heavy curtains fall once again across the window.

“What's bothering you this time?”

“Nothing,” he said, over his shoulder. But he disliked the quarters they had been given; there was no glass in most of the windows, and no shutters either. Instead, like a veil or a shroud, heavy curtains on rods the width of his forearm hung across the open spaces.

There was a fountain of sorts that trailed into a cool bath—one that didn't see much use at this time of year, or so he'd been told—and all around their feet,
inlaid marble and ebony, bits of gold and silver, and the occasional planks of darkly stained wood invited a soft tread. The heavy boots that had survived the rigors of the road had been exchanged for supple leather soles with straps and strings. Sandals, Devon had called them. He had also provided them with loose-fitting robes and belts that Stephen secretly felt better worn by the ladies—there were fine links of chain that formed a glittering web of sorts across the waist.

Gilliam, of course, refused to wear them. And Stephen, after a half hour of annoyed argument, gave in. But he wore the garments that Devon ATerafin provided him.

Devon was a mystery. Dark-haired and dark-eyed like the Breodani, but with finer features than most—a very handsome man. But also a man used to dealing with both power and the consequences of power; used to deliberating and then following difficult courses of action; used, Stephen thought, to killing if killing was necessary.

He did not know it for fact, but knew it for truth; he had met many Ladies and seen how they wielded their powers, and over the years he had developed a second sense for the mighty, no matter how demure or cheery, dour or grim, they appeared. But he found it disconcerting to see it so clearly in a man. Power for the men of the Breodani—for the Lords who hunted and died so that the kingdom could prosper—was a more immediate, a more visceral, occupation.

“What do you think he wants?” Gilliam asked, absently patting the head of a lolling Connel.

“I don't know.”

“You're worried.”

“I'm worried.” Stephen laughed. “I'm not sure which is worse—knowing that we now depend on his good grace, or knowing that we're going to have to meet with Lady Morganson and Lady Faergif.”

“Why?”

“You obviously don't remember Lady Faergif.”

Gilliam seldom remembered anyone who wasn't a Hunter. He shrugged. Devon was not a threat, but rather a boon; the quarters—usually offered to official royal visitors and dignitaries from the South—were the first that had been set up to properly house and kennel his dogs. He was heartily sick of arguing with ignorant innkeepers along the route. The Terafin was much like the Queen, really; a woman with a great deal of personal power, but not one that he would distrust.

The same could not be said of mages. He pushed Ashfel's head off his lap and propped himself into a sitting position with his elbow. “You didn't tell Meralonne about the Hunter's Horn. Or the Wyrd. Why?”

“I don't know.”

“You think the demons want it.”

Stephen nodded. “But if they want it, maybe everyone will. I don't know what
it's supposed to do, and I don't know why she gave it to me.” Espere was asleep on the floor in the corner, having been given eight pillows, each the size of her back. “But they were hunting her for the same reason.”

“Or because she's the Hunter's daughter.”

“Maybe that's why she has the Horn.” Stephen ran his hands through his hair. “I can't make sense of any of it. There are mages involved, or there wouldn't be demons. But there are priests of this—this Dark God involved as well as the demons.” He frowned. “I don't know enough about Essalieyanese Gods.”

“Can't be just Essalieyanese—not if it involves the Hunter.”

“The Hunter is
our
God.”

“Absolutely,” Gilliam said with distinct pride.

“It's got something to do with the Dark Lord. Teos said that he was not upon his throne in the Hells. So where is he? Do you think he's trying to fight God in the Heavens?”

“If I were God and he were hunting on my preserve, there'd be war.”

Before Stephen could answer, the chimes did. As there were no real doors, chimes, long and reedlike for all that they were made of some strange metal, were used in the place of door knockers. They were gently musical, almost like a contained breeze, and of all the strange things in the rooms they occupied, he liked the chimes best. “Enter,” he said.

The curtains were thrown back, and Stephen had enough time to gasp and launch himself to the side before the crossbow bolt flew. It hit him, but not full in the throat; he cried out and reached for his shoulder as if to somehow damp the pain by touching it.

Someone cursed in a language that Stephen didn't understand; it was low and guttural, but it had a menacing musicality of its own. He looked up to see a thin-faced man with only half a head of hair—the left half—dressed very much like the servitors of the grand house in which they stayed. Damn the robes anyway; brown and long, they were ideal for hiding something as ungainly as a weapon.

Gilliam snarled; Stephen heard it, and realized that he had to keep the pain to himself for as long as he possibly could. Because, just behind the man with the crossbow was another one, tall and thin. And there was fire in his open eyes.

“Demon!” Stephen shouted.

As a warning, it was hardly necessary—their bond carried his surprise and his surge of fear more effectively than the word could. The Lord of Elseth turned as the first of the would-be assassins was lifted by the second and thrown bodily across the room to crash, hard, into Stephen.

The sound of flesh hitting stone—his own—softened the sound of steel against steel; it did nothing to drown out the rumbling growl of the wild girl. Stephen's ribs were cracked or broken; he'd suffered the injury before, and he knew what it felt like. It was a familiarity that he could well do without.

He did not, however, have to worry about the assassin. The dogs were there, and the man was stunned. It was not really much of a contest.

Stephen started to roll free of the dogs, and then stopped in mid-motion, cursing the stupidity of reflex. He crawled instead, lifting his head clear of Ashfel's back to see that Espere had bounded past Gilliam toward the door.

She was sleeping
, he thought, but like a cat—not a dog—her sleep must have been an illusion.

The creature was smiling as he waited almost patiently for Espere's charge. And then, at the last moment, he threw his hands up, palm forward as if to repel her.

Flames gouted from the center of his hands.

Espere screamed.

• • •

Devon ATerafin looked up from his desk as he heard the horns winded and the bells—sonorous bells that were larger in diameter than the width of three brawny men—begin their steady, low tolling. He was on his feet before he had finished the count. Fire. And it was a fire in the Southerners' quarters. He had expected that there might be some difficulty—but not so soon, and not nearly so overt. It said much of him as a man that he did not even pause to think of what The Terafin would do should these two die in his care and responsibility.

The door to his chambers flew open and a young man in the gold and grays raced in, formality set aside—the servants here were too well-trained to merely forget or panic.

“Patris—”

“Fire in the Arannan Halls.”

The fair-haired man nodded; the fact that Devon already knew what the calamity was seemed to take the edge off the youth's concern. “Gregor?”

“Sir.”

“See that Alowan at the House Terafin is sent for at once, by my authority.”

“Sir.”

• • •

Her hair burned, and her charge was broken by the force of the blast—but she stood within its eye as if it were a passing storm. At her side, the curtains caught fire as if they'd been soaked in ale; the knotted rug was likewise consumed. For the first time, Stephen was grateful for her hatred of clothing.

He reached for his dagger—or tried to—as Gilliam charged in, leaping above the small tongues of flame that separated him from the woman who was part of his pack. Stephen's fingers felt strangely heavy; he fumbled a moment with the dagger sheath before he managed to grip the pommel. Levering himself to his feet was even more difficult; braced against the wall with back and hand, he found himself wondering where he was, and why.

The room was cloudy; the air quite heavy and hard to breathe. Fire, he thought,
but although he tried to speak, the words came out as the faintest of croaks, ungainly and unheard.

• • •

Gilliam knew the feeling the moment it hit him: separation, an echo of the Winter void. Stephen was gone. He knew a second's panic, but not more; some instinct, something at a level that even the Hunter's bond could not reach, told him,
Keep fighting.

He sent his call to Espere, reining her in; he sprang to the left with his sword, and she to the right, with no obvious weapons. He no more worried about the lack than he did about arming his alaunts on a hunt.

His trance gave him the time to examine things more closely than normal speed allowed. Espere was soot-tinged; her dark hair was an uneven crop of curled, burned strands that smelled not unlike seared flesh. But her eyes were both dark and light, blazing with things that by nature must remain unspoken. She looked like a creature out of legend, and at that, the dark wild legends that the cities had all but forgotten.

And the creature that Stephen called “demon” looked like a man—one tall and broadly built, with just a hint of muscle. He wore clothing much like the rest of the servants wore, with split burgundy sleeves and split skirts. He was in every way unprepossessing, but he carried his danger with him; the palm that had called forth flames still faced the farthest wall of the room. He stood, impassive, as Gilliam lunged forward first.

The demon caught the blow of the sword with his hand and grunted as the edge bit into the flesh of his palm. Illusion; Gilliam was certain of it; the last demons he had fought had been immune to the effects of steel.

It didn't matter; the blade and the blade's thrust were no more than a delaying action. It was Espere who was the deadly weapon.

He felt her anger and her eagerness; her focus and her strength. She was not like the dogs—not quite; there was an intelligence beneath the fire of her connection that made everything sharper and clearer. It also made things more dangerous; he had to work to keep away from the lure of seeing through her eyes.

The demon's cries of pain, he heard through two sets of ears; he smiled, and it was the Hunter's smile—feral and grim.

• • •

Gregor was a quiet aide, but he was both swift and efficient. His only weakness was his tendency to panic at times—but age would cure that. Or death would; to serve the Astari was sometimes a risky business.

Still, he began his job at once when they arrived at the Arannan Halls. The Kings' Swords were there in profusion, and they blocked Gregor's entrance.

“Have three foreigners, a dark-haired man of medium height and build, a fair-haired, slender man, and a rather unusual woman left the halls?”

The Kings' Sword thought for a moment and then shook his head gravely. “Either they left before I assumed this duty, or they are still within the halls.”

“Then we need to enter,” Gregor replied.

“No one is allowed to pass,” the Kings' Sword said firmly—but politely. “There is a fire in the quarters, and the elemental masters are attempting to control it as we speak. If you reside in the hall, go to the Labaran Halls instead; there are rooms being readied and supplies that will see you through this difficulty.” He bowed and then lifted his shield; it bore the twin crowns above the crossed rod and sword, but on either side were swords in the upright position.

“I'm afraid that my master's duties are within Arannan Hall itself, given the nature of the difficulty,” Gregor replied carefully.

“Out of the question.”

Devon stepped around Gregor; the eyes of the Kings' Sword widened and he dropped his head in a half-bow. “Patris,” he said, his tone changing slightly.

“My aide is correct,” Devon said tersely. “Our business is within Arannan Hall, and we do not have the time to dally.”

“My orders are clear, sir. But Primus Cortarian is present, and I'm certain that he would make an exception for you. Please wait here.”

“I will wait,” Devon replied, raising his hand; he did not have to add that he would not wait long. On his left ring finger, he wore a band of solid gold that came up in the shape of a circle; within that circle was a sapphire, and around it, in perfectly carved symbols, was the name Terafin. There were few ATerafin who were given such a symbol and allowed to flaunt it so publicly; it made it clear that Devon ATerafin was a Lord with some influence in the upper echelons of the Kings' council, even if that influence was not official.

Primus Cortarian did not disappoint. He was a bronze-haired man only slightly older than Devon, and Devon knew him well, although they had met only once or twice in passing. The Kings' Swords were trusted with much, and those who rose in the ranks were scrutinized carefully by the Astari. There were also those in the ranks of the Swords who
were
Astari.