He thrashed instead; he lashed out, claws raking whatever they could reach. The Hunter Lord seemed—for a moment—to be scion of the Hunt itself; he was bleeding, that much could be seen even at this distance, and he must be tiring, but he did not release the spear. Nor did he seem to notice anything but the God of the Hunt and the Hunt itself.
The Breodanir belief was that the god decreed this Hunt. It was the first day of Veral across the Empire, and across the Western Kingdoms as well, and it was upon the first of that month that the Sacred Hunt, in the Sacred Woods of The Breodanir King’s forests, was called. It was the first day of spring. Of renewal.
It was said that one Hunter Lord or one Huntbrother—or sometimes both—always fell during the Hunt, and they fell, it had been said, to the God Breodan, who on this one day turned the tables on his followers, chose his prey, and hunted them to ground.
Devon, watching, understood the visceral truth of this ritual now. The Hunter Lords met their death at the hands of this visage of their god. And they knew it. They knew they faced this death, once a year, and that without it, there was no true spring, no crops, no growth in the land. They faced it, they hunted, and they fought.
As Gilliam of Elseth now fought—blooded, weakening, but unwilling or merely incapable of acknowledging failure until death was simple, unadorned fact. He was not yet dead. But his grip was weaker, and he was slipping.
But the spear was no normal spear; it had been given to Lord Gilliam for this hunt, and it bit deeply, drawing blood, weakening the struggles of the god as the god weakened his follower. This was a battle of attrition. They both seemed to understand it and to accept its terms, and perhaps those terms had been agreed to not only by followers but by the god himself.
The god could not toss the spear—and its bearer—forever; when Lord Gilliam failed to loose his grip on the spear’s shaft, the beast lowered his chest, and the Hunter Lord fell with it, feet once again planted on the ground. Trees surrounded them, spaced like columns. The god roared.
His follower bared bloody teeth in silence.
They faced each other, and Devon lost sight of the merely mortal man as the Hunter tried to rise; the god’s fur and his form were a pale shroud that obscured the Breodanir Lord, momentarily, from the sight of the witnesses. The intruders.
The god roared once more.
And then Lord Gilliam of Elseth, unseen, found the strength to push the spear home.
The god fell silent; for a moment he looked like an Artisan’s rendition of himself; every hair on his body, every scale, the twisting lash of tail and the hard, downward curve of claws, made larger, in all ways, than life. Above it.
Silence.
The form of the god grew less solid as they watched, turning from sculpted stone to blown glass that held, at its center, a radiant light. Through his wavering body they could see the bloodied face of Lord Gilliam of Elseth, the widening of his eyes.
He collapsed slowly to the ground.
Wind came, then. Wind as unlike the storms that had torn rock from its masonry as it was possible to be. Wind touched the trees that had sprung up at the will of the god, and wind bore the leaves from the branches, spreading their green shadows across the whole of the coliseum’s floor like a benediction.
Light came, as well, as if the cavernous heights above had broken to allow the entry of dawn. It felt like the first dawn, a significant one—and why wouldn’t it? It was the first of Veral. It was the day of Ascent. From out of the shrouded homes of the patriciate, from out of the shrouded hovels of the commoners, people would now be emerging from the shadows in the streets high above.
But they would do so, in the end, because of one Hunter and the sacrifice of his brother. And his dogs, who had abandoned the dignity of the battle itself for something that made them look ridiculously young: They leaped up on their Hunter, knocking him flat, and they took turns pushing each other off the rise of his chest.
The Exalted of the Mother now departed the guard she’d been given, for if there was cause for celebration—and there was, and men’s voices were raised a moment in the songs that sustained them on the long marches to and from a war—there were those who lay aground, injured but not yet dead.
She went to Gilliam of Elseth, and she tended his wounds, although his expression—seen, admittedly, at a distance—made her attentions seem less welcome and more fearsome than the jaws and the claws of a bestial god. Devon, who had seen many, many poor patients in his time, had to turn to hide a broadening smile.
He could now look away from Lord Elseth and his foe, and he saw, in the distance, Meralonne APhaniel, cradling the body of one of the fallen to his chest. It was an odd gesture for the mage to make, and Devon marked it. He marked, as well, the moment the mage simply ceased to be present.
To travel at will was a singular magical gift, not because it was difficult but because it took so much power. Meralonne revealed himself by that action as one of the truly powerful of his Order, for he had twice fought the kin, had taken his injuries, and still had enough in reserve to return to the city above—without the weary and long journey back through the caverns.
But it would not be so wearying a journey as all that. The caverns were silent. The dead were at peace. The living? They would mourn. They would remember, and their memories would wake them from sleep in the quiet of the night. But they lived. The Kings lived. The threat of the Lord of the Hells was now lessened.
It never completely ended, though; how could it? The gods might be defeated in their physical form, but they were eternal. What could truly kill gods? Bredan was merely free, now, of the mortal plane.
But if the gods could be killed after all, who would be willing, and who capable, of such an act?
Duvari spoke, coldly and curtly, as was his wont; Devon’s sudden brief burst of laughter at his comment passed unremarked.
1st of Veral, 411 A. A.
Sanctum of Moorelas, Averalaan
The Kings appeared at the foot of the Sanctum of Moorelas as the sun fully crested the horizon. They did not, perhaps, arrive with their usual dignity and decorum, for they appeared six feet above ground in midair. But they didn’t fall into the shadow cast by the statue, and when they gained their feet—quickly, by all reports, and given gossip and the speed and accuracy at which it traveled, reports varied widely—they turned toward Moorelas, and they tendered him a bow such as Kings never tendered anyone.
Duvari and the rest of the Astari were not, of course, far behind; it was small wonder that they didn’t land on the Kings. Devon, however, had had some warning of what their exit would entail. The rest of the Kings’ forces followed.
When they were at last assembled, when they were, in fact, looking across the bay at the spires of the Exalted and the towers of Avantari, the night left them. The Kings waited until their standards were once again properly positioned before they gave the signal. Horns were lifted and winded to herald the day. The first day.
They progressed slowly toward the bridge that led to the isle, and there they made another departure from accepted protocols. The Kings did not turn toward the bridge; instead, they turned toward the holdings. The black shrouds of the Six Days still remained in some windows, but even as they watched, they were removed. So, too, the dark ribbons that adorned the poles in the Common. Fewer bakers and farmers had dared to travel to Averalaan for the first of Veral this year than in any year in living memory, but they were there, and their signs, bright, gaudy, and ofttimes greedy, were small flecks of brilliant color lining the street, just as certainly as flower beds lined the walks of the patriciate.
Sigurne Mellifas, supported in part—and not for show—by Matteos, watched wearily as the surviving members of this necessary expedition were unceremoniously dropped on their behinds near the Sanctum. She was exhausted enough that she did not direct her mages to intervene in any of these landings where there were no injuries. However, the healthy fell first and warned those bringing the injured. The dead would come las
t. The Kings would not leave them in the open grave of the hidden city; nor would they leave them to shadows and the straggling remnants of their enemies, greater and lesser. The fact that their spirits had already fled to the peace—and the blessed forgetfulness—of Mandaros’ long halls would not sway them in this decree, nor did most of the living make the attempt.
But, Sigurne thought, gazing once again at the few brave—or foolish—farmers who had made their trek to the city, this is how the dead, in the end, were respected: this life, this normal, everyday life, with its little greeds, its little customs, its little necessities. Sometimes it took strength to live that life. No one now knew this better than the people in the holdings.
“Sigurne?”
She glanced at Matteos. “I’ll stay.”
“You’re exhausted.” His tone was accusatory, and she smiled in spite of the truth of the words.
“I am,” she said serenely. “But so are we all. This is the first dawn, Matteos; do not, in your severity, seek to deprive me of it. I thought it might never come again in this fashion, and it does not—quite—feel real to me yet.
“It is good to see it. It is good,” she added, her smile gentling, “to see it at your side. We lost many, there. But,” she added with a grimace, as three familiar voices now carried to her ears, “it appears that the ones we didn’t lose are engaging in unflattering public debate. Which may force me to strangle them myself.”
1st of Veral, 411 A. A.
Averalaan
Finch stood at the edge of the footbridge that led to both Averalaan Aramarelas and the Terafin manse. She could not quite think of it as home yet. But the twenty-fifth holding was no longer home, either.
She’d chosen this bridge, which, while guarded, was less well traveled, not because she wished anonymity; if you crossed over to the Isle or from it, you obviously had wealth and access to power. No. This bridge, the footbridge, had been built at the command of the first Twin Kings, Reymalyn and Cormalyn. On this day, centuries ago—this very day—Veralaan had returned from the Between, where men might meet their gods if they had the will, with two young men by her side.
And those two men were the sons of gods: Cormaris, Lord of Wisdom, and Reymaris, Lord of Justice.
At the foot of this bridge, perhaps as a reminder—to themselves or to the people who lived in the city that now bore their mother’s name—they had ordered statues built. Three gods therefore stood not on the Isle but the holdings, two on one side of the bridge and one on the other. The two who stood on the side closest to Finch, Jester, and Teller, were the sons of Wisdom and Justice: Cormalyn the First and Reymalyn the First. Across from them, and watching them as carefully as any mother watches her sons, stood Veralaan.
Finch sat between Jester and Teller, her knees drawn up and tucked beneath her chin, her arms wrapped around her legs. She was silent because the city itself was—blessedly—silent. There were no screams, no sobs, no pleas; only the gulls cried, and if they sounded hungrier than usual, there was a reason for that: There was very little food to be scavenged from the bustling streets of Averalaan during the Six Dark Days.
The shadows that had covered the city now broke as if they were simple clouds, and dawn, in purple, pink, and orange, heralded the new day. First Day had come, as it had once come during the life of Veralaan, the woman after whom the city was named.
It was a blessed day. Finch, more than any of the den except Jay, had had to endure the endless, tormented deaths of people she couldn’t name and didn’t know. She had hardened herself, and she had gone to work, day in and day out, hoping for silence. Praying for mercy—whether for herself or the dying, in the end she couldn’t say. That hardness now cracked like a shell, and she closed her eyes and lowered her head until she could feel her knees.
In the silence and the, fading darkness, she heard the sounds of horns, and she lifted her head immediately.
Teller and Jester were watching the holdings. No, not the holdings: the Sanctum.
“The Kings,” Teller said to her, uncertain whether or not she also watched. “The Kings have returned.”
“How can you even see them?”
“I can’t. But the standards are there. Look.”
She did. And then she looked down at her feet. Or rather, at Jester’s. Between his boots—his heavy, well-made, Terafin-bought boots—lay a wreath of flowers. They had been twined with care around a wire frame, and they were still new enough that their petals hadn’t begun to wilt or droop. White roses. Orchids.
Ellerson had given them to her. Because, he had said, the customs of the Six Days must be observed. She had stared at him as if he’d finally lost his mind, although his expression was the familiar, starched expression she’d grown to love.
“Where did these come from?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes. The gardens haven’t really recovered; the Master Gardener will have our hides—if only that—if these flowers came from the Terafin grounds.”
Ellerson had raised a brow. “I am not,” he said stiffly, “in the habit of stealing flowers from the grounds; nor am I in the habit of misrepresenting the needs of this wing when speaking with the gardeners.”
She started to tell him that wasn’t what she meant but fell silent, because it was, in fact, what she’d meant.
He waited, because he often waited, and Finch said, at last, “What do you want me to do with them?” They were very fine, very beautiful flowers. When Finch had been a smaller child, and she had still had a family she believed in, they had found daisies or other small weeds that had weathered the colder clime with which to celebrate the end of the Six Days; in truth, in most years, there had been none.
“Make a wreath,” he replied.
It was her turn to wait, and after a moment, he said, “I am a fool. You’ve never made one.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and then said, “Come, then, help me. I will show you how.”
White was for loss. Color was for the living; white, the color of shrouds and death; the color of snow. She worked by Ellerson’s side with the flowers he had brought.
And the work had been good, although the roses had thorns and her fingers looked like pincushions at the end of it. He was better at this than she was, and she wondered where he had learned it, and why; she didn’t ask. Ellerson never spoke of anything personal.
When they were done, he set the wreath on the table and rose.
“The Kings have gone,” he told her gravely, “and the Kings will return.”
She nodded. She’d told herself this on and off for hours, in a desperate hope that repetition would become belief.
“When they do, Finch, my days here are numbered.”
They weren’t in the kitchen now because Jay wasn’t here. She was with The Terafin. But Jay should be here for this.
“They wouldn’t fire you—”
He smiled. It was a pained smile. “No,” he said gravely, his words at odds with his expression. “They would not and will not. But I am an old man, Finch. And the life I chose as domicis is not the life of a man who serves the powerful. Morretz’s choice was not mine, in the end.”
“But—but you don’t! You serve us!”
“Yes. And I will not lie. It has been challenging to do so. Challenging, but infinitely rewarding. I repent of every unkind thought I have directed at Morretz since I came out of retirement to serve your den; I would do it again, were the situation different.
“But there will be no service if the Kings fail. I speak not of their failure but their success. Is that clear?”
She nodded.
“If they succeed, it will be in large part because of the efforts of Jewel Markess. What she has done for the House is now known to the Kings, and will it or not, she will become a significant power.”
“But she can’t—she’s not even an adult! She’s from the holdings—”
Ellerson lifted a hand. “I cannot serve her. She will be known as a seer before the year is out, if she even has
a year. Not all Houses will be happy to have her input into the affairs of Terafin, and those who are pragmatic will desire her death.”
“They couldn’t—”
“Not with ease, no, and not without some repercussions if they are foolish enough to be caught. But it will start, Finch, and I cannot protect her if it does.”
“That’s not your job—”
“No. It is not. And because it is not, I cannot remain. She would not ask me to leave,” he added. “But I cannot serve her in good conscience. At the very best, I can hope not to hobble her. But at worst?” He didn’t feel the need to expand on the worst, but Finch understood him.
“I will tell her,” he added. “But . . . I wished to give you some warning. I understand that she accepts me, and I understand that she has allowed herself to rely on me. I will do what I can to see to her replacement.”
“Someone else will come?”
“Yes, Finch. The Terafin will not allow Jewel to be without a domicis.” He lifted the wreath, then, and handed it to her. “Take it. Place it wherever in the city seems appropriate to you and your den.” He rose then; he had allowed himself the unheard of luxury of actually sitting in the presence of one of the den in order to show her how to twine stems around the wire frame he’d provided.
“And in truth, I tell you this because I will miss you, your tea—which has become somewhat better of late—and the way in which you also care for your den, and I am not certain I will have any other opportunity to convey the depth of my regret.”
When they had finished, Finch found Jester and Teller in the wing; the others were gone. She bore the wreath Ellerson had made with her help. Teller looked at it, but Jester was the one who nodded. How much, in the end, did she really know about him?
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