The Sacred Hunt Duology

by Michelle West

  Only in the kill.

  She rolled, dodged, ran in short bursts. He followed, slashing and snapping at empty air or the occasional fold of cloth that just barely slid out of his grasp.

  Neither spoke a word, as if, by mutual agreement, they chose to make their combat as quiet as possible. The Hunter’s Death was close, and even fighting for their lives, they had no wish to attract it.

  But Evayne was tiring rapidly, and the tracker was not; the kin didn’t feel physical exhaustion when on the mortal plane.

  He’s too fast, she thought, as she rolled again. I’m not going to—No. She bit her lip and took a second to catch his moving shadow. Jumped out of his way. Then, lifting one arm in a rigid line, she began the incantation.

  As Evayne watched, a thin streak of lightning crossed the clearing in a blink of the eye. It wasn’t going to work. The demon-kin had a way of protecting themselves against the weaker magics, and her strongest elemental spell was considered unworthy of note by the Collegium and the Order.

  Crackling blue light struck the demon’s chest, transforming into a thin, erratic cage an inch from its skin. The creature screamed.

  It was a cry of rage and of pain; there was no fear in it. Evayne didn’t stop to marvel or wonder. She ran. And as she ran, she smiled crookedly, remembering what day it was. High Summer. She intended to make the most of it, although she knew it wouldn’t last.

  Come on, girl, she thought as she nearly flew between the trees, where are you? In the distance, the demon was once again silent. Evayne knew what it meant, and she cursed the Hells for it, for all the good it would do. She was tired, and she didn’t have the energy necessary to contain the creature magically; she wasn’t even certain that she had the skill.

  Where are you?

  Evayne paused behind the smooth, barkless wood of a stripped cedar. Breaths were shallow and slightly painful; she forced herself to inhale slowly and deeply. Standing thus, she found the girl.

  Or rather, the girl found her. She came out of the woods in a sudden rush. The movement barely caught the corner of Evayne’s eye before she was overrun.

  Where the demon and Evayne had fenced in silence, the girl had no fear. She let out a strange, keening noise that was halfway between a child’s whine and a dog’s. Before Evayne could move, the girl bounded up to her, throwing her arms around the seer’s waist.

  Evayne pulled her arms free, and placed a hand on the girl’s shoulders. “We don’t have time for much,” she said, her voice light with relief. “Hold on tightly and walk when I say walk.”

  The girl said nothing at all, but she watched Evayne with unblinking eyes as the seer reached into her robes and pulled out three things: a pale, speckled robin’s egg for spring, a diamond—symbol of eternal beauty—for summer, and grains of the coming harvest for autumn. She placed them on the ground and traced three concentric circles that enclosed them both, whispering quietly as she did. Then she placed the robin’s egg in the outer circle, the diamond in the middle, and the grains at her toes. The sun was still high, the day was still strong. Fingers of light illuminated the forest floor.

  The girl growled; Evayne looked up. A breeze blew strands of her hair into her eyes, but she saw nothing else. The growling intensified, and Evayne began the High Summer chant.

  Reaching into her robes a second time, she pulled out her dagger. An amethyst caught the light and sent it scuttling down the perfectly balanced blade. It was an old piece, this dagger, and the getting of it had cost her much.

  But it was not the time for memory. With a quick blade stroke, she drew her own blood, and then with another, the girl’s. The girl stared down at her forearm as blood dripped earthward, but she made no new complaint; growling seemed to require all of her attention.

  The breeze grew stronger and then died down. It felt nice to let the sweat evaporate in the summer heat. The wind reminded Evayne of Callenton in her youth. The wind . . . downwind . . . she looked down at the girl and realized why she was growling.

  Evayne lifted her knife-hand skyward in supplication.

  “I have drawn the circles, and I have paid the price. In darkness, and against darkness, have I fought and will I. On this day, shadow shall have no dominion.” She let her knife drop to the ground within the smallest of the circles. The outer circle began to shimmer.

  The girl shifted restlessly. Evayne continued to chant. “Let the light be cast wide enough that I might see the paths hidden, the paths perilous. For on this day, darkness shall have no dominion.”

  She raised her voice so that it carried over the sudden crashing in the undergrowth. She did not turn her face to see the tracker as he ran. The girl did; Evayne’s one-handed grip grew pincer-like.

  “As we see by the light, let the light see by us; on this day, let us be judged worthy to walk; we are supplicants, we will abide without fear. On this day, evil shall have no dominion.” The second circle began to shimmer.

  Now, Evayne turned to see the demon-kin. She felt no fear and no exhaustion. She threw her shoulders back and felt the light of the High Summer circles warm her throat, her chin. The girl, she drew against her chest and held tight.

  The demon’s smooth skin glistened in the sunlight. She could see his muscles as his hind legs propelled him forward. Even as she watched, they locked; he froze as he reached the outer periphery of the High Summer Circle. His eyes were darkness and shadow, and these Evayne had already denied.

  “You are,” she said, raising her empty knife-hand, “too late. The path is open. I see what the darkness hides. Your name is clear.” The demon began to back away. He gestured, but it was futile. He had no defense against the season, and none whatsoever against his name. “You are Ellekar-sarniel of the kin, and by the light of the High Summer Circle, I bid you begone!” And the last circle flared to life, glowing so brilliantly it hurt the eyes. Golden light bathed the clearing, the very essence of the sun at High Summer.

  The creature screamed in rage and pain. He struggled against her knowledge and against her control. But the circles glowed brighter, glowed stronger, and he raised his hands to his eyes as he fell. His face sought the dirt as his skin began to burn.

  “On this day, you shall have no dominion.” Evayne felt the thread of his resistance snap. As quickly as that, he was gone; only the gouges in the ground were left to prove he had been there at all. She looked away as her charge stirred restively against her.

  “Come,” she said, in a voice full of strength and hope. “Can you see the path? We must walk it.” She lifted one arm and held it wide; a fine, beaded mist seemed to trail from her sleeve toward the circles on the ground.

  Evayne thought that this conjunction might resemble the path of the otherwhen, but in this she was mistaken. She watched as, for the first time in centuries, the hidden path was revealed.

  The forest did not fade from sight. Instead, it became, by slow degree, older and grander. The trees became wide and wider still; they stretched skyward until their tops could not be seen. The forest floor became darker and softer, but where sunlight cut through the tree cover, it was distinct and golden.

  “Come.” She spoke quietly to her companion; the forest seemed to demand it. “We must be clear of the path by the end of High Summer’s Day or we will not leave it for another year.” Her hand, she placed upon the girl’s bare shoulder. She felt a shock of kinship then, a recognition that words could not express.

  The girl looked up at Evayne and uttered a soft, little bark. Evayne returned the girl’s regard, and then shook her head softly. “You cannot speak?”

  Silence was enough of an answer.

  “It doesn’t matter here. We will find another way to talk. Are you cold?”

  The girl said nothing, and after a moment, Evayne reached out and gently took one of her hands. “Follow me, child. We will be off the road and in safe surroundings soon enough.”

&nbs
p; Her robe began to heal itself as she walked. It was a gift from her father, and it could not be easily destroyed. The same, she thought, in quiet reflection, could not be said of its wearer.

  • • •

  They came out of the forest so abruptly they were almost hit by a passing wagon on the crowded city streets of Averalaan. What made matters worse, and a reasonable apology on either side difficult, was the fact that Evayne’s companion had not, magically, become well-clothed, or even clothed at all, during their walk on the hidden path. Averalaan was the capital of the empire of Essalieyan, but although a more cosmopolitan atmosphere could not be found on the continent, or off it for that matter, nude, disheveled young women were not a common public sight.

  It was one of the few times that Evayne did not wonder when she was before she wondered where—exactly—the path she traveled had taken her. She had friends in Averalaan scattered across at least five decades, and one of them was certain to be able to help her. One of them could guard and protect a girl who was important enough that some mage had risked the forbidden arts to conjure one of the kin to hunt her.

  Calm down, she told herself, taking a deep breath. Where and when am I? She looked around as people continued to shout or point, and the chaos of the crowds in front of buildings that overhung the street in a tight, disorderly fashion told her what she needed to know.

  Of course, had the path not led them to the heart of the city’s largest market square, life would have been less complicated. Or perhaps more so.

  “You aren’t going anywhere.” Grabbing the girl’s shoulder with her left hand, Evayne held her in place as she searched through the pockets of her robe, looking for coins. She carried gold solarii and silver lunarii, but coppers and half-coppers were not of interest to her; they weighed too much and proved, always, to be of too little value in her travels.

  The dates of the coins were as early as 387 AA, and as recent as 433 AA. She took, as always, the oldest coin first and began to push her way through the crowds. Several people tried to stop her, whether to lecture her or show their concern, she didn’t take the time to discover. She met their gazes with her now impenetrable violet glare, and they moved aside.

  The girl was content to be pulled through the crowd, although she herself did not seem to feel any of the acute embarrassment that Evayne did. I do not understand, the seer thought, as she turned onto Crafting Street, holding fast to her charge. It was clear that her mind was not quite right, and Evayne worried about adding a fey child to the struggle—although she knew instinctively that this “child” was no helpless pawn, no easy victim.

  We’re all part of it, child, adult, weak or strong. One way or another we win or we die, and if we die, does it matter how the death’s met?

  It mattered, of course. But what was done was done; the girl had come to Essalieyan, and safety. Together, they entered the long, open stall of a clothing merchant.

  • • •

  The year was 402 AA, and evening was closing in on the eighth of Lattan. She would not be able to leave the city the same way she had arrived in it, but she was glad of it—the High Summer road, while quiet, was not peaceful, and it was said that there was always a price to pay for the traveling of it. Superstition, of course, but Evayne herself was proof that superstition was not always wrong.

  The girl at her side did not seem to notice the strangeness of their transit. She did, however, seem to notice the oddity of her clothing, which was a simple, sturdy dress that could be pulled over the head and gathered at the waist. The color was a rusty brown with fringes of green and ivory, none of which suited the wearer—but it had been late enough in the day, and the buyer had been desperate enough, that aesthetics were not in question. Scratching and pulling at the dress, the girl kept an eye on Evayne as if to say, “You see, I’ll wear it, but I don’t have to like it.”

  The market square was a mile from the merchant’s port, but in Averalaan the city streets near the dockside were orderly, clean, and most important, very well patrolled. Evayne led her charge along the open roadways until she reached the boardwalks. They were the pride of Terralyn ASallan, master builder. He said they could keep back the very tides of time, and if no one believed him, they were still impressed at the length and breadth of the builder’s work.

  “If we hurry,” Evayne said, speaking more to herself than to her companion, “we’ll be able to cross by the bridge. Otherwise it’s the ferry for us.” She caught the girl’s hand and began to walk more quickly, listening to the thump of her feet against the planks.

  They made the bridge, although they almost missed the hour; Evayne’s pockets contained coins too large for the toll required, and the guards, after a long shift, were not in the mood to be lenient. Neither was Evayne, and after the ensuing debate, in which they implied that she wasn’t fit to cross the bridge to the High City and she implied that they weren’t fit to bear the emblem of the Twin Kings, she was at last granted passage across.

  She let the wind across the open water play with stray strands of her hair. Be calm, she thought, and as quiet as possible. He hates noise and bustle.

  Holding to that thought, she made her way through the High City streets toward the Order of Knowledge.

  Before she entered the grand, four-story building, she took the time to pull her hood up and arrange it so its shadow covered all but the tip of her nose.

  “Come,” she said softly, taking the girl by the hand again. “But be as quiet as possible.” The warning wasn’t necessary; the girl hadn’t seen fit to utter more than an outraged squeak since their arrival.

  Together, they walked between the pillars of the entranceway and into the grand foyer. Here, the ceiling was one large arch that stretched from wall to wall. Sun, when the sun was high, streamed in through the slightly slanted windows above, giving the Order a sense of lightplay that otherwise dour mages would never see. There were guards lined up as they walked, one per pillar for a total of six, but they were less a matter of utility than show. As show, they wore the Order’s colors quite well; their black shirts, white pants, silver-embroidered sashes, and gold shoulder plates were of a quality made only by the High City seamsters.

  The girl seemed to find them quite interesting, and Evayne stopped to let her wander around both pillars and guards. When she returned, she wore a very quizzical expression.

  “They’re at attention,” Evayne said. “They aren’t allowed to move. Now, come.”

  The doors were opened by doormen who also wore the colors of the Order but without the dramatic weaponry that the guards bore. Evayne nodded politely, although she knew they couldn’t see her face, and walked up to the gleaming, stately desk that barred would-be curiosity seekers from the Order proper.

  A rather bookish man looked up from his paperwork. His face was as sour as the foyer was grand. Evayne wondered what mistake he’d made that had incurred the wrath of the Magi. Very few of the members ever manned this particular desk themselves. “What do you want?”

  Obviously, there was a good reason for the lack. Evayne’s hood hid her smile. “I’ve come to see Meralonne APhaniel.”

  “You’ve got an appointment, have you?”

  “I don’t usually require appointments to see him.”

  “You don’t usually see him, then. He always demands appointments be made. It’s a question of being orderly.” The man returned to his notes with something just short of a sniff.

  “Excuse me.”

  He looked up balefully. “Are you still here?”

  “Yes. I’ve come to see Meralonne APhaniel, and I’m afraid I can’t leave until I have.”

  “Well, we’ll see about that,” the man replied.

  “GUARDS!”

  • • •

  Meralonne APhaniel was one of the Magi, the council of twenty, and one that directed the business of the Order of Knowledge. He was not a young man, and E
vayne often wondered if he had ever been one. He was tall, but somewhat gaunt, his skin lined and pale, his hair a platinum and gold spill that crept down the middle of his back when exposed. As one of the Magi, he was not only entitled to wear the colors of the Order, he was expected to.

  But, as common wisdom held, the Magi were all a little insane—certainly, they were no ordinary men and women—and when Meralonne was forced from his room in the study tower by two of the Order’s guards, he came down the stairs in his favorite bathrobe, and very little else.

  The man at the desk—Jacova ADarphan—was consigned to desk duty for another three weeks, and there was every sign, from the mutinous expression on his face, that that stay would have cause to be extended. Evayne, however, was removed with extreme pointedness from that list of future causes by a rather irate Meralonne.

  “You really shouldn’t have been so hard on him,” she said, as she climbed the tower stairs. “No, we want to go up.” The girl gave her a look best described by the word dubious and then began her four-legged crawl up the carved, stone stairway.

  “If I’m to be disturbed,” he replied, his brows still drawn down in one white-gold line, “it had better be with good reason. ADarphan wouldn’t recognize a good reason if it spitted him.” He frowned. “And come to think of it, neither would you. What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “I’ve come to ask a favor.”

  “What, another one? I’ve wasted years of precious research time with your education—for free, at that!—and you’ve come to ask me for more?” A head bobbed out from around the corner of the third-story landing. “This is a private conversation, ALandry—get back to your books!”

  “Sir!” The head vanished.

  Meralonne had a tendency to have private conversations that the entire High City had no choice but to hear. Evayne’s forehead folded into delicate creases. “My Lord APhaniel, might I remind you that in return for your time, I’ve—”