“Each noble must keep granaries full in case of drought or a very bad harvest. The second year emptied the last of the granaries, and people began to starve. Without the Sacred Hunt, the lands became parched and dry. The crops did not take at all.
“The King’s oldest son, Prince Aered, knew that the Breodani could not survive a third such year. In anger and sorrow he took counsel with the Queen and the King’s Priest.
“‘The Sacred Hunt must be called,’ he told them both, and they both agreed. All of them knew what this meant, because only a King can call the Sacred Hunt. The Priest prayed to the Hunter God, as did the Prince, and the next day, the Prince killed his father in combat, by the grace of the God, and became King.
“He called the Hunt, and we knew the wrath of the Hunter God betrayed. Two-thirds of our number perished that day.” Norn was silent again, contemplating deaths he had been too young to witness, but could imagine just the same. “But that year the harvest was the richest it had been in ten, and the hunting, for those of the Hunter Lords who still remained, was also good.
“This is why we need Hunter Lords, Stephen.”
“Then what are huntbrothers good for?”
“Huntbrothers?” Norn cleared his throat. “They must be both protectors and friends to their Hunters. They must train in all things to do with the Hunt, and hunt by their Hunters’ sides in the Sacred Hunt, dying if that is the will of the Hunter God. They must become well schooled and must deal with the Ladies and their laws.
“We are the common people whom the Hunters are supposed to protect and feed, Stephen—and our very presence, as decreed by the God, is meant to remind them of that, so that they never misuse the powers that God has granted them.”
Stephen was silent; Norn wasn’t certain that he understood all that had been said. But he’d understood enough of it.
“If you can vow that you will do all of this, you will be accepted as huntbrother. You will live with our family, and become Stephen of Elseth.”
Oh, yes, it was a trick. Had to be. But Stephen’s hands were sinking into soft down, and the warmth of the fire was pulling his eyelids down. Why shouldn’t he say yes? Even if he didn’t like the stupid boy, why shouldn’t he lie? He could take the oath and pretend—and he’d have all this for his own. If he’d been born to the right person, he’d have had it anyway.
But Norn’s words about the Hunter’s Death had been true: Stephen could tell that Norn was afraid of it. “Are they afraid of this Hunter’s Death?” he asked, before he could stop himself.
“No,” Norn replied. “The Hunter Lords are not. But they die it, just the same. I’ve seen it, Stephen,” he added in a somber voice.
Stephen waited for Norn to continue, but the older man would not speak further. They were quiet for a few moments. What difference does it make? I can die of cold or hunger, or I can take a chance that I might die once a year.
“Yeah. I could do that.”
“You’ll take the huntbrother’s vow?”
“Didn’t I just say yes?”
“Then I will inform Lady Elseth.”
Stephen froze, and his fingers became fists. “Tell the—the Lady?”
“Yes. It was she who provided the choice of room and clothing. I think she’ll be quite pleased at your decision.” Norn rose then, and made his way to the door.
Stephen wanted to stop him. He opened his mouth, and shut it forcefully enough that his teeth snapped. He didn’t mind lying to Norn, and he especially thought he’d enjoy lying to the Lord’s son—but the Lady was a different matter. She was—she must be—really nice. Special. And he wasn’t certain that he wanted to lie to her.
His face hardened and he was disgusted at himself again. So what if she was special? She was a Hunter’s Lady, after all. She’d had an easy life.
Even so, he was glad that he wasn’t going to be the one to deliver the lie.
“Stephen?” Norn said, his hand on the door frame.
“What?”
“I hated Soredon when I first met him.” That, and Norn’s chuckle, lingered in the room long after he’d left. Norn was no fool, after all.
Four days into his stay at Elseth Manor, Stephen silently cursed his decision. If it hadn’t been winter, he’d have taken the road back to the King’s City on a minute’s notice.
Oh, the food was everything that the first dinner had promised, and there was always a fire in the grate as proof against the cold. He’d clothing to spare, although where it came from he didn’t know, and Lady Elseth was like a walking miracle. Better than that, Lord Elseth was never really home, except at dinner for one evening, and Norn was often out with him. The servants didn’t even seem to notice that he’d grown up in the streets, and they were always polite, even when he was deliberately rude. After the first week, he stopped trying to provoke them out of frustration and shame.
No one pried into his past with unwanted questions, so he didn’t have to tell them about the last year of his life. Didn’t have to remember in detail the start of it: Three days alone in the small room he’d shared with his mother, after which he fully realized that he was alone. He didn’t know what happened to her body; he didn’t want to know. He didn’t tell them about how he’d learned to steal things, about how many times he’d almost been caught, about how many packs he’d had to run from. He was alone here without being lonely, and he almost liked it.
The manor house was wonderful. It was so big and grand, he could get lost forever in it. The servants’ wing was bigger than the den had been, and even their rooms were fine in comparison with what he’d lived in for most of his life.
He didn’t even hate the lessons as much as he’d thought he would. Hours spent sitting in front of a rectangular slate with a piece of chalk while some “lessonsmaster,” as Lady Elseth had called him, droned on and on actually became interesting. And he could put up with Maribelle, who followed him around every minute he wasn’t busy, babbling at him and spilling things on his clothing.
What he hated was Master Gilliam.
“I don’t have all day, Stephen.” Just at the moment, said Master was trying to look down his broad nose. “Are you coming or not?” The side door that led to the outside from the empty kitchen let a draught of cold air into the room.
Stephen locked his eyes into place so they wouldn’t roll. Unfortunately, his jaw also locked, making his smile more rigid than usual.
“Well?”
“It’s sort of cold, don’t you think?”
Gilliam snorted. “I don’t care if it’s cold. The kennels aren’t.” His brown eyes narrowed, and he drew himself up to his full height in unconscious imitation of his father. It wasn’t very impressive. “Besides, you’re the huntbrother; you have to follow. And I say we’re going.”
And that was that.
It isn’t worth it, Stephen thought, as he took deliberate steps into the snow and the wind. Food and a home isn’t worth this.
No? His breath came out in clouds that wreathed his thin cheeks; his cheeks grew pink under winter’s weakening fingers. The sky was bright, the sun blazing, and both conspired to cast his shadow forward in a long, thin line. He walked it, delicately balancing between two bad choices.
He swallowed and started to jog. The kennels, as Gilliam said, were warm. He had almost decided again, but biting back the words that anger gave him was difficult.
The kennel opened up around him. It was the longest building Stephen thought he had ever seen, and it was dark. It smelled of wood and straw and dogs. In both stone—stone, of all things!—walls, the east and west, two large fires burned merrily. The heat of their light put the house fires to shame. The north and south walls were wood, but not the dovetailed, clumsy work of many of the poorer shacks he’d seen in his life. Whole families in the King’s City would be proud to call this home. And what lived in it? Dogs.
There
were, at the moment, twelve here; the others were in their runs. Gilliam called them six couple, and Stephen had learned that a couple was just another word for a leash that held two dogs. Each of these dogs had a heavy, oaken bed, with boards carved out in the simple stark letters of their names. Stephen couldn’t read them yet, although it would be one of his duties. He didn’t need to. These dogs lived like kings. They even had a second story in the kennel which was built solely to give them more protection from the cold.
Well, at least they didn’t have mattresses, and the blankets on them were rough wool, not down. Straw surrounded them, and Gilliam had told him a huntbrother’s duty was to see to its turning at least once a day.
Closest to the west wall was the grandest of beds, and in it, head perched on two crossed paws, lay Corwel, the leader of the pack. Both eyes were patched black, and the rest of his face was white, but his eyes, where they caught the fire, were a peculiar red shade.
Stephen thought it suited well; these dogs, the Hells would be proud to own.
As if hearing this, Corwel raised his massive head and opened his jaws, displaying his teeth as if they were regalia. Stephen flung himself back, coming to rest in time to feel foolish: the dog was only yawning. He smiled nervously, but stayed where he was.
Corwel sat up, shrugging the blanket off. He bounded to the floor, shook himself, stretched, and then padded forward, head up.
Lady Luck wasn’t frowning; she was shouting in anger.
If he could have run, he would have—but his legs didn’t remember how. He opened his mouth and didn’t recognize the squawking that came out.
Corwel’s jaws opened suddenly, closing on a snap that seemed to break the air. He jumped forward, forelegs extended, and caught Stephen’s jacket in his teeth, bearing him to the floor.
Stephen screamed.
Corwel barked.
Five sleepy dogs suddenly joined him in a hideous cacophony of sound. But worse than that was the sound of laughter. Master Gilliam’s.
“You idiot!” He was bent over, as if laughter were a burden that was heavy. “You should see your face! What did you think he was going to do? Eat you?”
Corwel’s tongue, wet and decidedly smelly, washed over Stephen’s face.
“Maybe you’re too stupid to be my huntbrother.”
“I’m not too stupid,” Stephen said, giving Corwel a vicious shove. He rose, straightening out his clothing. “I’m too smart.” And on that last word, he lashed out, his thin fist all sharp knuckles.
• • •
“Mommy! Mommy! The dogs’re barking!” Maribelle skidded to a halt around the corner, slipped on the carpet, and rolled knees over head, sending her carefully starched skirts into a wrinkled blue spray.
Lady Elseth rose immediately from the long chair, her lips turning ever so slightly in a delicate frown. “The dogs?”
The discovery was too important to be forgotten in tears, and Maribelle hastily pulled herself to her feet, any scratch or injury ignored. “Barking and barking.”
“Oh, dear. Where is your father?”
“Don’t know.”
Norn, who had been sitting beside Lady Elseth while she practiced her stitches, rose also. “He’s at his letters. Lord Poreval requested his presence on a Hunt in a two-month.”
“Well, I hate to interrupt him,” Elsabet said softly, “but this might be important.” Her regret was completely genuine; it was nigh impossible to get Soredon to sit down with quill and ink, even when the correspondence related to the one true love of his life: The Hunt. And a two-month meant boar or bear, so it was a more serious business.
“Maribelle, why don’t you wait here while I find your father.”
Norn followed his Lady out of the sitting room. He could tell by her gait that she was worried; the dogs seldom barked for no reason. To be truthful, he was slightly worried himself.
They walked the halls to Soredon’s study, and Lady Elseth knocked firmly at the door before entering. It was habit; Soredon rarely paid attention to formality, and was never insulted when one just walked into his chambers. That was, when he noticed the interruption at all.
True to form, he sat facing the window, his eyes captured by the winter world outside and its dreams of coming spring. Winter was not the best hunting season, but it was a fact of life, and Soredon never railed against the inevitable.
“Soredon,” Lady Elseth said softly. She, too, knew better than to wait for his notice.
“Hmmmm?” He turned, and his eyes brightened on seeing her. “Elsa.” He pushed the parchment aside and stood, thankful for the excuse to leave it.
“Maribelle says the dogs are barking. Can you see to them?”
He was up in an instant. Household squabbles and small emergencies couldn’t command his attention or concern—but the dogs were his domain alone, and Gods help any who troubled or injured them. He was halfway out the study door when he paused.
“Where is Gilliam?”
Lady Elseth’s brow creased in mild concern. Her brief shake of the head answered the question.
Her husband stopped inches away from her hands. He closed his eyes, pulled his chin up, and looked into the distance of eyelids and darkness.
Norn recognized the Hunter’s trance at once. He, too, became silent and intent as he watched the blank lines of Soredon’s face. He could see the subtle shift of lips and eyes that spoke of contact. He was, even bounded by walls and windows, with his hunting pack.
The contact lasted for seconds. It was over before the Hunter Lord opened his eyes and brought himself back to his study.
“Well?” Norn said softly.
Lord Elseth turned to him and smiled. The surface of the smile broke, and laughter welled up from beneath it.
“In the kennels,” he said, as he managed to fit the words between breaths. “With Stephen.” The laughter ended, leaving affection and memory in its wake.
Norn’s expression lost its worry, and he shook his head wryly. “He’s not as patient as I was. This is what, four days? Five?”
“If I might interrupt this?”
They both turned to stare at Lady Elseth, losing the privacy of their moment.
“Elsa?”
“What is going on in the kennels?”
“Stephen and Gilliam are at fist play.”
“I see.”
“Elsabet, where are you going?”
“To the kennels.”
“Wait a moment, then. You know the dogs don’t like—”
“I don’t care what they like,” she said icily. Nonetheless, she stopped.
“You’re learning too much from Boredan,” Soredon said, shaking his head in mock disapproval. “Why don’t I go to the kennels and bring them.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Norn.”
“With you,” was the swift reply. Norn, brave and steadfast as he was, had no wish to be left behind with Lady Elseth’s decidedly ill humor.
“And gentlemen?”
They turned warily.
“If you can stop congratulating yourselves for the Mother only knows what, you can bring both boys to me.” Fist play indeed.
• • •
Silver mist obscured the reminiscing grins of Lord Elseth and his huntbrother, leeching them of color and warmth until they looked like ghosts within the confines of the sphere.
Evayne a’Nolan had been a young woman when she first walked the Hunter’s wood—the King’s Forest, as the Breodani called it. That was years past; more years than she cared to remember, although she was not, by the standards of the empire of Essalieyan, old now.
She shook her head softly and put aside her seer’s ball, folding it into sleeves of midnight blue until its glow could no longer be seen or felt.
Gilliam of Elseth. I remember you.
She knew wh
en she was.
But it was not the time for memory, whether fond or painful. She began to study the periphery of the wood itself, walking with great care, searching with the vision that was by now second nature: seer’s sight.
She found what she sought. It was hidden from normal magic and normal sight, and it was subtle enough that she almost missed it at first. But interwoven with leaves, roots, and blades of wild grass was a net: a shadow-snare. Shadow-magic was the province of the demon-kin and the priests of Darkness; they were at work here, now.
Lifting her arms, she waited for the path, certain that she had seen what she had been sent to see; as she stepped onto it, the forests faded from her view. She dared not linger, for fear of being spotted.
Chapter Three
“GILLIAM, STOP FIDGETING.”
“I’m not.”
Lady Elseth sighed before she stepped back to look at her oldest child. The robes that the Elseth Hunters were confirmed in looked odd and empty on the shoulders of their youngest heir. They hung low, and although pains had been taken to belt them, they looked awful.
But Gilliam, on the eve of his eighth birthday, did not, through no merit of his own. The blackened eye that had been the start of his friendship with Stephen had given way from yellow to pale pink. On the other hand, the large scrape on his cheek from their enterprise at the mill remained a thin mess of scabs and flaked skin. What, by the Mother’s grace, had possessed them to try to climb the mill wheel, she didn’t know—and at three days from his ceremony, not much could be done to aid him; the nearest of the healer-born was sixty miles away. Worse still, Stephen had quietly come forward, and in private no less, to take the blame for the escapade.
Elsabet was not a stupid woman; how could she be, and occupy the seat of judgment for her lands? She knew a lie when she heard it, but the heart beneath the lie was sound, and the reason for it unquestionable. Before he had even given his oath, Stephen had truly declared himself huntbrother. She wondered if he knew what those words and that false confession had meant, and did mean, to her. Of course, she had still had the duty of meting out just punishment for both the lie and the escapade, but the doing had not made her heart heavier.
The Sacred Hunt Duology Page 4