The Sacred Hunt Duology (8 page)

Then Cadfel, the leader of William's pack, darted forward with open jaws. His teeth snapped at air and the hem of the rustling black robe that William wore. William jerked his leg back, lifting his head. His face was pale and gaunt, too empty even for tears.

No one heard the words that he sent to Cadfel, but all knew, from the dog's sudden growling, that there was to be a testing here. Cadfel's hackles rose, and his throat rumbled in growling. Sorrel, the pack's bitch, suddenly lunged for William's other leg, catching the robe between her teeth. She began to back up, her growl higher than Cadfel's, but no less defiant, as she sought to drag William forward.

The villagers were surprised. They murmured indistinctly among themselves. The Hunter Lords were worried. In silence, they lent their strength to the dogs. The dogs who, in their animal way, understood a truth that only Hunters knew: William walked too close to Bryan, and his voice would be lost to them all if he could not be called back to life.

William's foot came up, connected with Sorrel's side, and then found the ground again as he staggered. His white cheeks took on flags of color; his eyebrows, fair though they were, could be seen to rise into the folds of cowl that framed his face.

Sorrel yelped, let go, and then started anew.

“Cadfel, Sorrel, go!”

Cadfel backed up a step, and then growled, hesitating. Sorrel grabbed wet robe in her jaws and started to tug again.

“Leave us alone!” William's face was suffused with red now—the most color that he had shown since the end of the Sacred Hunt. He kicked out, harder this time, and Cadfel caught the blow on the length of his face. He rolled, whining, to start at his master anew.

“What is this?” William shouted. His face had lost the peculiar tension of the Hunter's trance. “
I
am your Hunter. Do as I order!”

The dogs did not listen.

Stunned, William stared down at them as they worked at his feet. And then his eyes narrowed, and when he spoke his voice was low, deep-throated; his eyes were flashing. “And will you leave my command? Will you forsake your Hunter?” He bent all of his will outward, throwing it against the dogs' testing. “What was Bryan to you, but another commoner? You will not take him from me.
Let go!
”

This time, the dogs did as bid, growling all the while. They stopped when they touched the first of the gathered crowd. Stopped at Stephen's feet. He stepped back even as the growls changed, becoming the whining and whimpering that the pack offered only to its Hunter.

“And will you leave them?” The Priest asked softly, his voice breaking the
silence. He did not move as William turned to face him. “They are yours as much as Bryan was. Must they pay the price of his loss too?”

William's eyes widened again. He stumbled and dropped to one knee, still clutching Bryan to his chest. Aware now.

“William, you have committed no crime. Your huntbrother made his oath at his own choice, or it would not have been accepted. Remember the King's folly. Remember what has always been the Hunter's Price.”

“It should have been me,” William said.

“The Hunter God did not choose, this year, to take your life—although you may well have your wish in another Sacred Hunt. You live. This is what your brother would have wanted. Bryan was no child. He knew the Price.”

William closed his eyes and nodded, but bitterly, bitterly. He tried to rise and staggered again, but would not let Bryan touch the ground. No one moved to help him; they could not. Bryan was his huntbrother and his friend; to him fell the last task of rest. He was aware of it, even as he struggled; his pride, his duty, would not let him ask for any aid.

What aid, after all, had Bryan had, facing the Hunter's Death?

He rose and walked the last few feet to the altar. Then, very carefully, he laid his burden down. He started to stand once, but his arms would not release Bryan's body to the stone.

Now the Priest came. Now it was allowed. He gently but firmly caught William's shoulders and pulled him away.

William's eyes flared again, but he nodded and stepped back. He fell to one knee in front of the altar and bowed his head into his hands. Then he raised it, seeing the gray of sky and the sun. Silent, he called for the one thing that remained.

Cadfel and Sorrel bounded up to stand at his side. He reached out with a shaking hand to touch Cadfel's neck. Cadfel turned to lick his master's face. The bond between Hunter and dogs, tested so harshly, had not, and would not, be broken.

The ceremony started. The Priest spoke. And William, dogs at his side, paid his respects to his huntbrother, offering at last to share the emptiness and loss with the one who could never answer it, or comfort it, again.

Thus it was that Gilliam and Stephen first understood that the Hunter's Oath had two edges. They stopped by the body to pay their respects and looked long at the damage that the Hunter God had done; it had been no easy death, and not a painless one.

Stephen lingered longest, looking at the ruins of what had been a strong face. He touched the white cloth with one small, shaking hand. Death was no stranger to him—but this death . . . it was his. He felt certain of it.

Gilliam, who had almost left, came back to him. In silence, in awe of a loss he
was old enough to fear, he put an arm around his huntbrother's shoulder and pulled him away. He knew what Stephen felt; he couldn't help but know.

“I won't let this happen to us,” he whispered. “I'll protect you.”

But Lord William could have meant to do no less, and even now he stood by the stone's side, the dead's side, a grim shadow of death and empty longing.

E
VAYNE A'NOLAN WAS
a young woman in search of truth in the libraries of House Terafin. Her hair was a perfect black sheen, her eyes were a pale, cool violet, and her clothing, if somewhat provincial, suited her perfectly.

She had been escorted into the grand array of domed rooms by The Terafin herself, and given leave to peruse any of the volumes that the librarian guarded so jealously.

“This is the first time you've met me,” The Terafin said quietly. “But it isn't the first time I've met you. You saved my life, Evayne of no House.”

Evayne was surprised, but she nodded gracefully and allowed herself to be led by the powerful, older woman. She could not imagine that a woman in her prime, with so much power and such a force of personality, could need help.

“Did I tell you about myself?”

“Yes,” the older woman replied. “But I would have guessed. It isn't often that a woman's age changes so drastically in the space of two days. Even I could hardly fail to notice it.”

“She must have trusted you,” Evayne replied.

“She?”

“I.”

“Perhaps she did. Perhaps she still does. I confess that I do not understand how you walk your path. But come. The libraries are yours.”

The doors opened, and Evayne saw, for the first time, the vaulted ceilings and multiple catwalks that were the pride of The Terafin. Books, many of them older than either of the women who stood before them, lined the walls in perfect rows.

“I hope you find what you seek.”

Evayne bowed low.

And then she began her search into the rites of old Weston. Three days later—she was almost never in one time for three days—she found what she sought, and to the librarian's rage and sorrow, borrowed a volume bound in midnight blue with gold trefoil stamping for the next twenty years.

By the time she had finished reading it a third time, she met a man who could give her the truths of the knowledge that time had buried.

Had buried for everyone but Evayne.

• • •

On the tenth day of Fabril, the second month, Gilliam of Elseth entered his fourteenth year.

The Hunter's green became a place where festive poles and decorations, and pitched, painted tents in the Elseth pavilion, proclaimed the day a celebration. It was still cool, and the rains fell frequently, but the green showed the color of the new year well. Musicians of varying quality brought out harp and fiddle, and impromptu dances sprang up like wildflowers as the sun began to wend its way to its rightful place of rest.

Stephen's birthday was also celebrated on the tenth of Fabril because he told Lady Elseth that he didn't know when his real birthday was. He lied; he remembered well the frugal celebrations he had had with his mother when he was five and six on the fifth of Lattan, when there was no cursed snow.

Here, while the shadows lengthened across the faces of slowly tiring celebrants, he remembered his mother's long, gaunt face, her dark-ringed eyes, her shaking hands. She'd been two-thirds the age Lady Elseth was now when she died, but to his mind she seemed twice as old, her face sagging into tired lines. He wanted to remember loving her, but he felt nothing at all except unease and a little pity. She had been—they had been—very poor.

“Stephen?”

At fourteen, he was far too old to run into Elsabet's arms, but he was not so old that he couldn't, with dignity, allow her to put an arm around his shoulder.

Stephen?
It wasn't so much his name, as the sense of his name. He looked into the crowd and caught Gilliam's eyes. His brother's concern and curiosity comforted him. He leaned back into Elsabet's arms, thinking only that he wanted no other brother, and no other mother, than these two.

She said nothing, but although no oath bound them, he felt her concern just as keenly as Gilliam's. They took a few moments of silence in the midst of the cacophony before duties took them, once again, to the middle of the Hunter's green.

It was the one time of year that the Hunter's altar was not forbidding or foreboding.

• • •

Soredon of Elseth was the only principal to escape the festivities almost before they'd begun. He was proud of his son, yes, and proud of his choice of huntbrother; he was proud of his people and the festivities that had been planned, and executed, in his heir's name. He was proud of Norn, and Norn's ability to deal with inane chatter. He was even proud of Elsa, although he knew that, come evening, he would feel the sharp barbs of her words for his irresponsibility.

But his pride in people had never been worth very much to him, and on the eve
of Gilliam's fourteenth year, it was worth less than usual. This year, Gilliam would finally be taught the Hunter's trance. If he could master it in the next season, he would finally answer the King's call. That would make him a Hunter proper, a Hunter Lord in his own right. He could choose and bind his own pack, and he could know, fully, the joy of the hunt.

The sun was indeed low; the foliage bore a faint, pink tint as the rising dew reflected it.

Corwel, sensing his master's mood, calmly placed his lower jaw into his Hunter's outstretched palm. Soredon smiled down at the leader of his pack. He would not be so for much longer.

The big black and white whined a little and placed a warm, wet nose against weathered skin.

I can't even hide that, can I? Not from you, old boy.
He tried anyway, allowing the pride he felt in this, the best of his hunting dogs ever, to overwhelm the sorrow he felt at his aging.

I shouldn't hunt you this season. You've become slower while I wasn't watching.
But he knew he would hunt Corwel this year, as he had done the last. And he knew that he would continue to hunt him until he couldn't track, couldn't run, or couldn't catch the running beasts beneath his jaws.

You're the best hunter in Breodanir. You're Bredari-born
—
you could have run with the first hunter in the first pack at the dawn of the best age.
The stub of a tail wagged happily. Soredon rested his left hand against Corwel's neck.

This was the hardest part of being a Hunter Lord. Not the risk of your own death, but the certainty of your pack's. The first pack was special, always special, and rare indeed was the Hunter Lord who didn't hunt that pack until it was too old and a little sorry. Rarer still was the Lord who didn't go into nearly open mourning at the death of his first leader.

One learned better, of course, over the stretch of years. One learned how to say good-bye, to look at the births and deaths of so many friends, so many true companions, as the Hunter's Way.

Soredon's hand tightened briefly as it rested against Corwel. He thought of another time, a different fourteen-year-old boy, a smaller dog.
Conner
, he thought, with a pained smile.
I
ran with you until you were what, nine?
If there was any justice in the world, Conner was still hunting in the deep, rich forests of the Hunter's Haven.

As Corwel would be.

Again his hand tightened. He could hunt for his people, feed them, protect them, provide for them. But he could do very little for his dogs in the end, and it was their loss that pained him most. They understood him better than any person ever could, with the exception of Norn, and they were loyal to the point of certain death. Only the loss of Norn would inflict a greater injury.

Out of the merriment of the celebration came a single voice. “Soredon?”

“I'm all right.” He didn't look up. He knew Norn's voice better than he knew his own—he certainly heard more of it.

“It's Corwel.” Norn's square hand came to rest on the black-and-white head.

“It's all of them.” Norn could feel his Hunter's loss, but he couldn't understand why; no one could, who didn't make the bond with their pack. “I tire of watching my friends grow old and die while I do nothing. Go back to the celebration. Distract Elsa for me.” He felt Norn's broad smile as it accompanied a gentle affirmative, and he returned to his brooding.

Tomorrow, Gilliam
, Soredon thought, as he stared at the horizon, seeing not the sun but the roster of long-dead hounds,
you'll begin to understand the Hunt's glory. And a few years from now, you'll know the Hunter's loss.

Corwel nuzzled his master's hand.

“It never ends, Corwel,” Lord Soredon said softly. “And it always does.”

• • •

Stephen was lost in the earliest of the myths and legends of the empire of Essalieyan—Morrel's final ride against the Lord of the Hells. The Shining City was before him, and at his side, the Princes of the First-born; his sword was raised above him in the darkness of unnatural night, and the hooves of his horse strode above the broken, blasted plain.

He knew this story well, of course. It was the one that had first revealed the true purpose of reading: ancient glories. Morrel's ride would take him to the very foot of the Lord of the Darkness, and the blow he would strike there would end evil's reign and bring the Shining City down.

It would also kill him.

For in the time of such greatness as Morrel, the very gods walked the world, changing it and shaping it to their pleasure and their whims.

In the act of turning a page, his fair hair falling almost into his eyes, Stephen of Elseth looked up.

Seven books were spread out before him in disarray; the long table was covered by slate, quill, and parchment. The shadows cast by the tall eastern window were long, hatched lines; it was early yet.

He sent his curiosity to his Hunter and waited.

The answer came back in a giddy rush that couldn't be contained by words. Gilliam of Elseth was more than happy, which was very rare.

Stephen stared up at the broad-beamed ceiling, and then slowly lowered his gaze to the shelves along the northern and southern walls. Lady Elseth's library was not the grandest, but it was by no means the least. Gilliam, at what distance Stephen didn't yet know, snorted in disgust. Of all the rooms in the manor proper, he hated this one most.

Stephen closed his eyes and saw in return a desk, an empty shelf, and an open window, which told him nothing. The vision shifted; he saw a fireplace with a
closed grate, and above it the insignia of the Triple Hunt. Gilliam was in Lord Elseth's study.

After six years of practice they had learned this short form, a type of speech without words. The oath-bond wouldn't carry words between them, but pictures and emotions had a visceral quality that words alone could never convey.

Especially, Stephen thought, as he reluctantly set aside the last great ride of Morrel, when those words were uttered by a Hunter. He made haste to reach Lord Elseth's study. The Lord was not a patient man, and six years had done nothing to improve his disposition.

Gilliam met him at the halfway point between library and den of doom.

“Stephen! It's finally time! Get ready, and meet us at the kennels!”

Time?
“Time for what?” Stephen shouted, at Gilliam's retreating back.

“Time,” a much softer voice said in an icy, quiet tone, “to remember the rules of indoor behavior.”

Stephen muttered a very quick “Yessir” to the keykeeper and retreated to his rooms, there to prepare to meet Gilliam at the kennels.

He found Norn before he found his Hunter.

The kennels formed a neat, almost tidy rectangle behind Norn's broad, green-clad back. It was cool, but both of the Elseth huntbrothers had dressed well for it, Norn in the green of the Hunter and Stephen in the gray-edged brown of the Varlet.

“Congratulations,” Norn said, extending a hand. “As of today your Hunter is elevated to rank of first; if you do well, at year's end you will be huntbrother to a Hunter proper.”

“He's calling the trance?” Stephen said, lowering his voice to a whisper.

Norn continued to speak in a normal bass. “He's trying.” Without further preamble they both began to stroll toward the enclosed runs near the west side of the kennels. Some of the puppies were at play in what could best be described as mud under the supervision of two of the village girls. Out of these dogs, or perhaps the next generation, Gilliam of Elseth—and Soredon, Lord Elseth—would choose their packs. They seemed diminutive, these pups; hardly the hounds and alaunts that would terrify the forest animals in their time. None of them showed the promise that Corwel fulfilled, but they were young yet; one might, again, resemble the Bredari of old.

“My part in the hunts won't change.”

Norn laughed. “They will, and then they'll ease off again, all your lessons aside. Gilliam's able to call a trance—but that doesn't mean he's able to control it.” There was a glee in Norn's eyes that Stephen was glad he wasn't the target of.

“Norn—”

“I remember when Soredon first called trance, the idiot. After all we'd been taught, all we'd been forced to memorize, he tried to run the full hunt on his first outing.”

“But—”

Norn laughed again; it was a bark, not unlike a dog's. “He paid. Gilliam will, as well.”

“Gilliam wouldn't be so stupid.”

“Let us wager, Stephen. A huntbrother's bet.”

Stephen grinned back. “I'd rather it were a Lady's bet; I want real money when I win.”

“I don't think I can take advantage of you in good conscience. Watch, and be amazed at what your elders know.”

Stephen started to reply, but the world spun in double vision and the words were forgotten. He stopped walking, blinked, and raised both hands to his eyes to rub them clear of whatever it was that was making them water.

“Stephen?”

Eyes closed, he could still see everything in a doubled, hazy way.
It's Gil
, he thought.
What in the hells is he doing?

“Walk slowly, Stephen,” Norn said, all gaiety gone from his voice. “They've started sooner than I thought. Remember your lessons.”