“Good.” Lord Elseth opened his palm and tossed the coin into the air.
Benny was still scrabbling for it when the dogs came in through the door Soredon held open.
• • •
Stephen ran, holding his side as the cramps started. Let Luck only smile, and he’d never thieve again. He thought, for a moment, that she’d heard his prayers and had chosen to grant them. For a moment. Then a new sound started, worse than the horn. The dogs were baying.
He thought of their teeth, and had no doubt as to which would give first: his skin or their jaws. The alleys that towered above him in faceless, near windowless walls, became distant, unfriendly terrain. He searched in vain for stairs, for anything that would take his feet off the ground and give the dogs another pause.
The baying grew louder and closer, filling his ears completely, obscuring his shallow breaths. He bounded around a corner, sliding in the muddied snow. His hands scraped a wall and came away splinter-filled and bleeding as he continued to run.
The alleys opened up as he crossed a deserted street. Buildings flashed by, and he recognized them: The Tern, its board flapping in the breeze; the butchers’, the one baker’s. He hesitated a moment in front of the butchers’ and caught a glimpse of the bitch as she rounded the corner down the street.
There was only one place to go. His teeth bit through his lower lip as he put on a burst of speed—probably the last that was left him. The fear of the dogs was greater than the fear of Marcus and his retribution.
There. Ahead, in a nook that the restructuring a century ago had created, stood the door to the den. As always, it was closed. He ran at it full tilt, skidding at the last moment to give a first knock with his entire body.
A flap of wood, at an eye level that cleared his head by at least a foot, scraped open. Above the bridge of an oft broken nose, two dark eyes squinted in the sunlight.
“Marcus, it’s me! Let me in!” Stephen began to bang frantically at the wood; the dogs were closing fast.
“What’ve you brought for me?”
“Marcus, please! I need to get in—they’re coming!”
The flap shut. Stephen stood in the silence for a heartbeat before the dogs started again. He was shaking and gasping as he looked from side to side. There wasn’t any place else to run; the den had been chosen because it stood in the middle of an alley that had no escape to either side.
He lifted his hand to strike again, and then let it drop. Steadying himself, he turned, his dagger shaking as much as his thin arms did. He would have to face them. Maybe, if he was careful, he could injure the dogs enough to get away.
The large black and white bounded around the corner and lifted its broad, triangular head. It came to a stop but didn’t take its eyes from its quarry. At its heels came the bitch. The Hunter Lord could not be far behind.
If he’d had food, he might have tried to bribe the dogs, or at least distract them. It was an idea. But he wouldn’t be in this situation if he’d had anything to eat, and he suspected that the dogs ate well enough so they wouldn’t even look at the scraps he could throw them.
He crouched, holding the knife out as if it were a shield. Why hadn’t the dogs come forward?
As if in answer, the Hunter Lord joined them, following the same trail that both Stephen and the dogs had left in their hurried race through the snow; he wasn’t even breathing heavily. His cap was gone now, although he didn’t appear to be carrying it. All he held in his hand was the horn that had sounded the chase. The dogs moved apart, and he came to stand between them, placing one hand on either of their heads. The bitch bridled at the feel of the hard, cold horn but stayed her ground anyway.
Everywhere there was silence.
Stephen met the eyes of the Hunter Lord; they were brown to his blue, and narrowed as if in thought. He waited, wordless, until the waiting itself was as fine a torture as the running had been.
“Don’t—don’t you move!” He waved his dagger, swordlike, through the air in front of his face. “I’m telling you, stay where you are! I don’t want to hurt you!”
“Oh, indeed,” the Lord replied. “I can assure you, my boy, that you needn’t fear that. And I have no wish to harm you; you’ve led a fine chase. Better than I would have guessed. Come. Cease this nonsense. We have far to go.” The hand that wore the thick, cloth gauntlet rose. “Come.”
Stephen backed into the door, shaking his head firmly from side to side. How stupid did this Hunter Lord think he was? “I ain’t going nowhere. Go away, or I’ll have to use this.” He waved the knife wildly, loosing a startled cry as the door gave way behind him.
Before he could react, he was jerked off the ground by the back of his collar. His dagger went tumbling into the snow. He didn’t have to look back to know who held him.
“Well, fine sir,” Marcus said, raising Stephen higher. “It seems that you’ve had trouble in our fair city streets.”
“Let the boy go,” the Hunter Lord replied. “I have no business with you.”
“Don’t you just?” Marcus looked down at Stephen, noted the creeping purple tinge to his skin, and slammed him to his feet. “Well, I’ve got your thief, at no small risk to myself. I think that’s worth something.” The convivial smile Marcus wore was so out of place on his face that the Hunter Lord couldn’t even manage a similar expression. Lip curling, he said, “Let the boy go.”
“Not from around here, are you?”
“No.” The one word made clear what the Lord thought of that.
“Well, maybe I’ll explain a few rules of the King’s City. This,” he shook Stephen, who was too stunned to struggle, “is a thief.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“I,” once again he used Stephen as punctuation, “am the man who caught him.”
The black and white answered with a low, warning growl.
“In my books that makes me the one who gets the reward. But I ain’t a greedy man. I’ll share it with you.”
“Marcus—please. . . .” Stephen’s voice was a rasping choke.
“Shut up.” No openhanded slap, this. When Marcus’ hand drew back, it was bloodied.
Lord Elseth stared hard at Marcus for a moment. When he moved his mouth, it formed no words, and the lift of his lips was no smile. “Corwel.” The Lord took a step back. “Yours.”
He lifted the horn to his lips.
The dogs sprang, their feet covering the short distance as if they needed no ground to run on. Marcus’ eyes grew wide, and with a loud cry, he threw Stephen at them. He ran into the old building, yelling as if they had already reached him.
Corwel’s voice joined his in the music of hunter and hunted. Without pause, he followed through the open door.
The Hunter Lord ignored the sounds that came out of the building. Quietly, he walked over to the huddled bundle of youth that lay at Maritt’s feet.
No, Maritt, he sent softly. Go and join Corwel.
She needed no other word. Like the breeze, she passed them by, leaving almost no trace.
The Lord knelt, unmindful of the snow that immediately began to melt into his knees. He reached out with one large hand, saw the horn that it held, and stopped to return it to his belt.
Stephen was too tired, too weak, to offer any more resistance. He lay on his side, his face covered by hands that showed red. What Marcus had done had taken the last of his spirit and guttered it. It had been stupid to come here. But even if Marcus wouldn’t let him in, he didn’t have to—didn’t have to . . .
Lord Elseth reached down gently and drew Stephen’s hands away from his face. “Come, boy. Let me see it.”
His lips were already swelling. Very gingerly, Lord Elseth probed at the bruised jaw. Stephen gasped.
“It may be dislocated. Can you walk?”
Nodding, Stephen tried to rise. His eyes were dark, their blue lost, as he glanced furtively up at
the larger man.
“We don’t go to the Justice-born, lad. We go to the Mother-born. There’s a temple not far from the lower city. I’ll make the offering.” Lord Elseth rose and put his hands under Stephen’s arms. He set the boy on his feet, saw that he wobbled dangerously, and lifted him up instead.
The child weighed almost nothing.
“Boy?”
Stephen shook his head, flailing weakly, although he had almost no strength for it. Then he sank into the furs that surrounded the Lord. They were soft, and so very, very warm.
“Dogs?” He muttered, an edge of fear in the solitary word. His lids were already too heavy and he missed the expression on the Hunter Lord’s face, which was just as well.
“They’ll be along soon. When they’ve finished here.”
• • •
The silver mists rolled in over the scene like fog across the lowlands. She sat in an inn half a continent away, in Everani, a fishing village downcoast of Averalaan, her palms cupped around a glowing, crystalline sphere.
At her back, she heard the whispers: seer-born. She did not disillusion them; it gave her privacy for the moment, and besides, it was not altogether untrue. But she was more, and different, than simply talent-born.
Stephen of Elseth, she thought, as she pushed strands of hair back into the privacy of her hood. You’re so young. We don’t meet yet. But she knew where she was, and more important, knew when she was.
The mists obscured the young boy completely before she looked away. She was Evayne a’Nolan, and quite alone. She straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath, and rose. It was time for work now, not for dalliance, and she had lost precious minutes watching.
And remembering.
Chapter Two
THE BROAD-SHOULDERED, AUBURN-HAIRED NOBLE who rode beside the Hunter Lord was not in a good mood. He spoke gently enough to Stephen, but every time he turned his attention to the lord, his lips whitened around the edges. The Hunter Lord was also angry.
Stephen did his best to shrink into the saddle and avoid the notice of either of the two large men. It was hard; his legs ached, first from walking and then from riding. Horses had been, at best, a thing to dream about until three days ago. Now, they were incredibly wide, large, and frightening animals that he could, just barely, sit astride.
The dogs were still the dogs, and if the bitch looked up and growled periodically, she was a good few feet out of range. When the Hunter Lord wasn’t looking, he took the opportunity to sneer at her.
He’d been fed, clothed in warm furs, and given a real bed to sleep in as they’d traveled along the road to Mother only knew where. But his own mother had told him once that they fed sheep and cows before they slaughtered them, too.
He stared at his breath as it misted.
• • •
The red-haired man in gray and green glowered at his Hunter.
“Let it be, Norn,” Lord Soredon said, his voice low and grating.
Norn of Elseth snorted.
Late snow fell in a thick, wet blanket that made travel difficult. Inns were cold and not well provisioned to deal with a Hunter Lord’s disgruntled dogs, and Lord Elseth was never capable of dealing with ruffled innkeepers. In fact, Norn thought, as he walked his horse around a particularly tricky bridge—which had iced in the evening and was only visible at all because he knew the roads here well—Soredon wasn’t capable of dealing with people. Period.
As a prime example, he took the waif who had walked, or ridden, listlessly between them for the better part of the journey. Fright was still upon him and he answered any question with a monosyllable or a silent nod. His winter legs had finally given out two days ago, and he rode now on the packhorse. The four-legged one. Of course the horses couldn’t be further burdened down, not with Lady Elseth’s commands for purchases in the King’s City, and Soredon, stubborn idiot that he was, had refused to take a proper wagon. Norn, huntbrother to Lord Elseth, carried one half of the boy’s weight in goods, and Soredon, grumbling, took the rest.
An argument was brewing between the two men, but Norn didn’t wish to have it out in front of the boy. The boy was just too vulnerable and too isolated to have to deal with the tempers of the nobility. And Norn didn’t trust him not to try to effect some sort of escape during such an argument, which would probably kill him in the end.
Norn glanced over his broad shoulder, shifting so the pack frame didn’t block his sight. Stephen sat sidesaddle across the horse, clutching at the braided manes for dear life. They had had a coat and mittens for him, but the latter he’d removed when he’d been deposited on the beast. His fingers were reddened by cold; Norn feared the bite of frost there.
He exhaled a fine, billowing mist and looked at the sun’s crisp shadows. Soon, he was certain, they would see the village that sprawled around the manor grounds. And once the boy was safely inside, he had a word or two to say to Soredon.
• • •
In winter, the light was gone too early from the sky. For the villagers and the farmers, dinner was an afternoon affair. The cost of tallow and wick was high enough that they were perfectly happy to see their hours dictated by the sun. Solstice had passed, and the day was lengthening. Enough so that the Lady Elseth, along with her two small children, took dinner amid the fading pinks that showed through the towering bay window that was the manor’s pride.
A fire burned merrily against the two walls, and servants busied themselves tending to it; it was warmer here than in their quarters. All was as it should be in the manor of Elseth.
“Lady.”
Elsabet looked up from her plate as the door opened and the keykeeper walked in. Boredan was an older man; the oldest of those who served the Hunter Lord. He wore his age as he did his fine, tailored robes: perfectly.
It was unusual for him to interrupt the Lady Elseth at her dinner, and she rose at once, fearing some accident or mishap. “Boredan?”
“My apologies for interrupting your repast, Lady.” He gave a low bow. “It appears that the Lord and his huntbrother are home.”
“Already? We weren’t expecting them for at least three . . . Where are they?”
“If I should be so bold as to hazard a guess, I would say in the kennels, Lady. They have, however, left a guest, and Norn was most insistent that he be attended to.”
“Father’s home?” The older of the two children leaped out of his chair, food forgotten. His linen napkin tumbled to the floor, a crumb-covered, gravy-stained heap.
“Gilliam.”
“But—but Father’s—”
“Father is busy.” Her tone made it clear that she was in no mood to indulge him.
He sat, disgruntled.
“Maribelle, do remember how you were taught to use a fork.” Lady Elseth carefully pushed her chair in, folded her napkin, which was spotless, and left it on the table. “Why don’t I see to the guest?”
“It would be appreciated, Lady.”
She was certain of it. “Boredan, I know you’re very busy, but do you think you could stay with the children?”
Boredan nodded as Gilliam rolled his eyes in despair. Mother was bad enough, but no one else in the house compared to the keykeeper for strictness of manners and demands on behavior.
“Most certainly. It looks as if Master Gilliam has forgotten everything I’ve taught him about dining habits.”
• • •
She could hear the shouting before she reached the wide, grand hall that opened out from the vestibule. The words were muffled by distance, and the voices were raised so much that she couldn’t distinguish them, which was for the better. On the other hand, the manor had been quiet since her Lord and his huntbrother had left. This would give the servants at least a three-day’s worth of amusement.
And it was good that somebody was going to be amused by it. Certainly, from the set of lines in her otherwise
smooth forehead, and the faint creases around her thinned lips, it was clear that she was not.
Now, Elsabet, she told herself. I’m certain things could be worse. She stopped in the hall, found it empty, and saw that both sets of doors were firmly closed. The shouting, obviously, carried through them. Biting her lip, she reminded herself not to think that in the future—it invariably turned out to prove true.
So annoyed was she that she walked to the door and tested the handle with a sharp yank before she saw the guest that the keykeeper had spoken of. He sat, his knees curled beneath his chin, against the banister of the stairs. His eyes were wide and ringed with the dark of sleeplessness or illness, and his clothing . . . best not to think about the dreadful state of that. Yet even though it was oversized and quite thick, she could see that he was mostly skin and bones; his cheeks were sunken, his fingers almost skeletal.
She knew why he had been brought here, and what he would become. It was quite clear that he did not.
If she had been angry before, it was forgotten; she was furious now. That two grown men couldn’t set aside their differences for long enough to see to a cold, starving boy. . . .
The child looked up to meet her eyes. His knees came down, and he straightened up, away from the banister. His effort to be more alert only made him seem more frail.
“Hello,” Lady Elseth said softly. “I see that you’ve been left quite alone.”
He nodded, not daring words in front of so grand a Lady. She couldn’t see her reflection in the dark of his eyes, but she knew that he was well aware of the contrast her fine dinner clothing made with his winter wear.
“You must be starving. And cold.”
He nodded again.
“Well, come then. You are a guest in our house, and I won’t do our hospitality a disservice by leaving you here any longer.” She held out a hand and he stared at it as if it were a weapon. There was no mistaking the fear that lurked beneath the wary surface of his eyes.
In all, it was probably a good thing that Norn and Soredon were outside. Had her Hunter Lord of a husband been within the walls, and within her reach, Lady Elseth might have killed him. In an instant, she forgave Norn—for she knew them well enough to understand the nature of their dispute after having met the boy.
The Sacred Hunt Duology Page 2