On the fourth day, Gilliam woke in a quiet mood, and on the fifth, that mood turned sour. He hated being confined to bed, and his thoughts were not only with the dogs, but within them as well. Lord Elseth made clear to his sole heir how pleased he was with the hunt’s progress, but the taint of failure clung to the whole venture and as Gilliam’s memories of his first hunt were a patchwork of motley scenes at best, he wanted to be up at once and leading the pack again. This time, he swore, he would do much better.
Lady Elseth kept him confined for a full week, and Stephen was certain that had she been able to tolerate more of her son’s surly behavior, it would have been longer. Stephen wished it so, but Stephen’s temper was easily the better of the two brothers’, and in the end Gilliam won out.
Suddenly, all of the duties of the huntbrother took on their full, and often irksome, meaning. No longer was Stephen allowed to spend time in his beloved libraries, learning the intricacies of history and language that had become his love. Instead, he was called to hold couples, and the hounds, in the forested lands. Months stretched to winter, and the busy Lady Elseth lost her evening reading with Stephen to the demands of the mill and the farmers of her demesne.
But the hunts, of course, never ended—and Stephen was obliged to follow Norn, Soredon, and Gilliam wherever it was that the season dragged them in search of food and prey. In the winter, they would spend days or even weeks away from Elseth Manor.
Stephen hated the cold. The dangers of winter had been ingrained by childhood into his reactions, and even though he was bundled in warm clothing with a hat, scarves, mittens, boots, and layers of sweaters and furs, none of these made up for the comfort of his own bed and the security of a place that was home.
But he had made his oath, and some small part of him—one that was firmly committed to silence—found satisfaction in tending both the dogs and Gilliam when they returned from their long hunts, exhausted and weary. Sometimes they succeeded, and sometimes they failed, but Stephen usually didn’t move quickly enough to catch the hunt’s end—or Hunt’s glory, as Lord Elseth called it.
He was glad of it. He could barely stand the unmaking of the poor beast that the hunt caught. He was certain he would have no stomach to watch the beast’s struggle as it was brought down.
But at least after the second hunt, Gilliam didn’t return home ill. After the fourth, he didn’t suffer from the headaches and nausea that always seemed to come with the trance.
And after the eighth, both he and Stephen were brought before the Hunter’s Priest, and there they were given their full rank of Assistant Huntsmen, while Norn, Soredon, Lady Elseth, and Maribelle looked on with pride.
From there it was only a matter of time before Stephen and Gilliam completed the Hunter’s triple: On their own, and with the use of Soredon’s dogs over the months to follow, they brought back stag, bear, and boar.
The boar was the last, and the hardest, and Norn and Soredon both waited at the periphery of the chosen forest during their sons’ four attempts. Two dogs, Vellas and Browin, were felled there, and their bodies joined the boar’s on the silent return home.
But it was the third, and come the spring of their fifteenth year, Gilliam and Stephen were ready to be called by the crown to take the rank of Hunter.
Chapter Five
HIGH ON THE SUMMER POLES, wind curled round the flags of Cormaris, Lord of Wisdom, lifting them lightward. Rays of sun glinted off the gold in embroidered beams of the light that signified knowledge, sparkling as if on water. Multihued ribbons were entwined down the length of the poles, and later in the afternoon the young men and women of the King’s City would choose their colors and begin their dances. Ironic, really, that this dance occurred under the watchful eyes of the Lord of Wisdom, for the young women and men in their light, summer colors were often anything but.
Wine, provided by the King’s cellars, flowed perhaps a little too freely, and ale more freely still, but the Breodani had a knack for handling their drink, and they’d do nothing to embarrass themselves here, at the edge of the King’s Forest.
It was the eighth of Lattan, the longest day of the year; it was always celebrated thus. Farther down the hill, toward the clear, cold waters of Lake Camrys, the Priestesses of the Mother were weaving willow wreaths; the unsuspecting were crowned with them to the amusement of their elders.
The Hunter’s green was the only area that seemed almost unoccupied by comparison, but the Hunter’s Priests and the Hunter Lords took no slight from it. It was the summer solstice, after all, and the time for death and mourning had passed with the chill of early spring and the land’s renewal. Although the Lords did not join in many of the festivities, their Ladies did, adding color, grace, and a cunning wit to the proceedings.
First among these was the Queen of Breodanir; she held her court at the center of the fair, and everyone, from the greatest of the Ladies to the least of the children, made their way there to bend knee and bow head at her feet. Yet for all that, it was not a somber or stately affair. There was a genuine joy in the air that no formality could stifle.
Into this day, she came.
She was tall, slender, pale; her hair, dark and straight, fell down her shoulders past the spill of her midnight-blue hood. Where the celebrants gathered to glory in light and summer, she was ice and night; obviously not one of the Breodani.
Evayne a’Nolan, in the cover of shade made stronger by a touch of violet mage-light, watched and listened to the gathering throngs. There were games being played that had lost all of the significance that once made them ritual; there were songs being sung that had lost all magic; there were prayers being whispered that had lost all power to invoke. Yet for all that, they were imbued with life, with an enjoyment of the moment, that they had not possessed at their beginning.
She knew what this celebration had once been, and what it no longer was: High Summer’s Day, when the hidden paths of the First-born briefly touched the world of man. Twelve years of study had given her knowledge that had been lost to all but the most dedicated of the Order of Knowledge. Birth gave her the ability to use it.
And she knew, the moment that she appeared beneath the ancient trees, that that knowledge had been gleaned and gained for a reason. It was High Summer’s Day, and she was to invoke the power of it. Why, she did not yet know.
When am I? She knew it was the eighth of Lattan, but did not know which year. Very slowly, with care to avoid the scattered rays of sunlight through the leaves, she reached into the hanging folds of her robes. The robes had been a gift from her father, and they sheltered many things, but none more precious than this: the soul-crystal; the seer’s ball.
At faires and carnivals throughout the empire of Essalieyan, men and women who claimed mystical insights carried crystal balls. With light and smoke and mirrors, they huddled in darkened tents and wagons, mumbling cryptic nonsense and touching the edge of their customers’ beliefs. The intellects among the Order knew that crystal balls were balderdash and children’s nonsense.
But the wise knew that some children’s rhymes held hidden and deeper meanings than the adult world could remember.
Evayne knew it well. She held in her hands the proof of that. When am I? She thought again and looked into the ball itself. It was smooth and hard as glass, but the light that struck it was absorbed, not reflected. And where?
Mists caught the sun’s rays and turned silver as they rolled in on themselves. She looked into them, waiting for the visions to come. Resolving themselves out of formless clouds, they obeyed her silent supplication.
At first, all she saw was the faire itself, but it was closer and clearer than her cautious distance otherwise allowed. She studied the faces that drifted quickly by, searching for one woman, or one man, whom she might know. There were none—not directly.
But there were the Hunter Lords and their huntbrothers, and she recognized their green uniforms, although sh
e did not know what the gold, gray, and brown embroidery signified. She knew she was in Breodanir, and as her vision scanned further, and she saw the Queen’s pavilion, she knew that she was near the Sacred Wood, the King’s Forest.
Her heart quickened; her teeth bit her lower lip. She scanned the crowd more intently, half-hoping. But no; minutes passed, and there was no sign of him. Stephen of Elseth was not here.
You aren’t a girl anymore, she chided herself bitterly, you’re twenty-eight; you’ve work to do. Get to it. But she looked a little longer. It had been years since she’d last seen Stephen, but she did not forget.
When?
But this time, at this place, she knew where to look. The mists rolled, resolving themselves into pale gray ghostly images. There. Stephen of Elseth was with Gilliam. They were hunting in the woods of the southern Elseth demesne. The corners of her lips turned up as she watched them. The ball gave them no voices, but it was clear that they were arguing.
She thought that they might be fourteen or fifteen; it was hard to tell. Certainly, they were not the men that she had met years ago, but there were traces of those men in the lines of their jaws, the width of their shoulders, their height. She lingered over the vision a little longer and then let it fade. It was costly to maintain it, and she still did not know what her purpose in this time was.
The mists shifted; she felt her hands tingle in a rush of dangerous warmth. She was no longer in control of the crystal. It caught her attention and held it fast, whether she willed it or no. White light sparked like lightning across the clouds; the silver mists folded and then folded again, moving at an unfelt gale.
Then, suddenly, they flew apart like curtains pulled too quickly. At the heart of the ball, creeping through the undergrowth, was a shadowy figure. Evayne watched in silence as the figure rose and became clearer. It was a young woman with dark, wild hair. She was perhaps five feet in height, with a round face and pointed chin. Her lips were thinned over teeth that seemed a little canine, and her eyes were so dark a brown they appeared black. Her hair was a black, burr-infested tangle, and her skin was darkened by sun and dirt. She wore no clothing.
She had seen this girl before, as wild and unkempt, but almost never alone. There was something strange about her, something that Evayne couldn’t quite place—until she realized that, in fact, she had seen exactly this girl; there was no change between the then and the now.
It can’t be time yet, she thought. In the now, Gilliam of Elseth is too young. But the ball never lied, although it was never completely clear, and she knew her task was urgent by the color and immediacy of the vision itself. She had to do something for or about the wild girl whose name she had never thought to ask. But what? The mists began to creep in; the girl was slowly obscured.
She almost set the ball aside, for there were dangers associated with its use, but some instinct held her back for a few seconds longer. Because of this, she was prepared for the second vision—and the second vision explained the first too clearly.
In the shadows of the forest, cloaked in a seeming that shimmered when seen through the soul-crystal, was a tall, lean figure. It ran, catlike, on all fours, and then paused to stand and test the air with a flick of a sliver-thin tongue. Its eyes were obsidian, its teeth long and sharp where opened lips revealed them.
Demon-kin. Her fingers whitened as they clenched the crystal sphere. Not all of her journeys through the otherwhen were dangerous; this had just become so. Although she had studied enough to discipline her magery, her mastery of it was uneasy—it would be years before she had the power necessary not to feel so threatened.
The image began to slide away, and she concentrated on the fading details. Tracker. She had not yet encountered one, but knew them to be deadly—even the least of the kin posed a threat to the unwary, and the trackers were by no means the least.
Where?
The ball’s light flickered; what had been warm against skin was now cool, calm blue. Her face went blank as she stared; her eyelids slowly closed. The answer to her question was not given in pictures or words, but rather in feel. She knew where she must go, although she couldn’t have given a simple direction other than the word “follow,” had there been others to speak with.
Before the last of the sense-light faded, the ball vanished into the folds of her sleeves. She murmured a word, and the sleeves retracted toward her body.
Evayne a’Nolan, seer, mage, and historian, began to run.
• • •
The leaves that grew closest to the sunlight were thick and plentiful enough to make the forest a place of shadows, which suited Ellekar perfectly. Hunting in shadow was his specialty, his existence. No matter that the scents were strong and oversweet in these mortal woods; the scent of his prey was unmistakable and singular. She was a light thing, with clumsy feet, but she was faster than most humans her size.
He had to be careful, cunning. Less than a mile away the humans who styled themselves the Breodani were playing the games of High Summer. Against High Summer, only the rites of Winter held sway. Shadows meant nothing, and shadow-magic was at a nadir that made it virtually powerless.
None of the demon-kin would willingly allow themselves to be without power, but today Ellekar’s power was weak indeed, and his ability to track was lessened. He had to rely on things physical not things magical, and he cursed High Summer as he hunted, for this was not a pleasure hunt, and the consequences of its failure would be extreme. He twisted around the trunk of a tree, head snapping at air as he ran.
The girl must not be allowed to leave the forest.
• • •
There are demons in Breodanir. Evayne tried to remember the canon of the kin, but she could not recall it without the aid of the seer’s crystal, and she had no time to coax the information from the mists. How did it get here? Who’s the fool who plays at demonology?
It was supposed to be a lost art, although there were mages—there would always be mages—who studied its lore and practiced it. In the debate in Averalaan’s Order of Knowledge, there were always those who felt that the study of the lost arts—demonology, necromancy—should be allowed to come out into the open, if for no other reason than the fact that knowledge was a weapon against the dangers of misuse. The motion was always brought forward by the younger members of the Order, and always defeated by the elder.
Evayne, on the rare occasions when she was present for debate, always counseled the vote against. You cannot control them all of the time, and it only takes one slip, one mistake, to begin the end of everything.
“Evayne Doomsayer,” she had been called. “Evayne Truthspeaker,” was her reply.
She almost tripped over a tree root that had been exposed by the spring runoff. Cursing, she righted herself, leaving some of her skin on the bark. She had no time to lose.
The demon must not be allowed to reach the girl.
• • •
There is a wild keening that only animals can make. Part howl, it holds the essence of the forest nights, the sparse winters, the fires, and the storms that nature knows and accepts.
The seeress froze as that cry filled the wood. It was low yet loud, the tremor before the quake.
Evayne realized just how much noise and life there was in the forest when it suddenly ceased to be. There was a silence so encompassing that she thought, for a brief instant, it might go on forever. Into that silence, the howling started in earnest. Where there had been three in the forest, there were now four.
She raised a hand to her mouth and whispered a quiet prayer to the Hunter God. She had seen death, but the Death that he granted was one that she prayed never to witness again—certainly not to experience. Balling both hands into fists, she began to run once more.
• • •
Ellekar’s hair would not come down; it rode the back of his neck and arms like iron spikes. He, too, felt the reverberations in th
e silence.
It cannot be. It is not the right time.
But correct time or no, when the second such cry came, Ellekar knew it for what it was: the Death of the human Hunters. Such a howling was almost akin to the Great Beast of Allasakar—and what made it could not be faced down. Not by a tracker.
He froze in place, becoming more rigid and still than the trees that surrounded him. Ears pricked, he listened as the silence returned, trying to gauge direction and distance. What he heard instead was the sound of snapping twigs and shaking leaves. The sound of human breath.
It was not his quarry, and it was not the Death. But it was human, and it was approaching him quickly. He’d listened to the sounds of their clumsy feet through the forests for decades, and he knew it well. He now had three problems; one, he could not face and survive; the other two he could not allow to survive.
He growled, but the sound was almost entirely contained by his throat.
• • •
The seer-born had instincts that they learned quickly not to question. Evayne a’Nolan suddenly leaped between two maple trees to her right, responding physically to the instinct before she realized it was there.
A claw shredded her hood, grazing the back of her neck.
She wheeled, crouching behind the broad back of a rotting log. A second later, she was rolling again—a controlled thrust of leg and turn of shoulder that ended with both of her feet firmly planted.
Ten feet away, staring at her with an expression of surprise that was already fading into determination, stood the demon-kin. He was tall, almost preternaturally slender; his head was roughly human in shape, except around the jaw. The skin there was extended around teeth that came out in a long wedge.
She moved again as he pitched forward, dropping his hands onto the earth. Trackers ran best on four legs, not two, and they never chose to be slow in the chase.
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