The Sacred Hunt Duology

by Michelle West

  Maribelle turned around a corner, catching their attention as she made her way down the stairs. At eleven she’d lost both curls and lisp, and she no longer tried to worm her way into the kennels at her older brother’s heels. She could read better than Gilliam, which wasn’t saying much, and she could write better, too, which said even less. Numbers were one of her stronger points, and already she had shown her willingness to take part in Elseth duties at her mother’s side.

  Still, her face hadn’t lost all of its baby fat, and when it came right down to it, she was a full four years younger than Stephen, so he rolled his eyes at the tilt of her chin, a movement that she didn’t fail to catch.

  “Mari,” her mother said, gently pulling away from Stephen’s arm. “I was afraid you would miss the farewells.” Her skirts rustled as she moved to her daughter and caught her in a hug.

  Maribelle’s arms returned her mother’s embrace, and Stephen felt a twinge of envy.

  But there’s only so much comfort you can offer the Lady, Norn had said, and it’s very little when it comes time for the Sacred Hunt. You’ll go with the men, now—and you’ll have your chance to die like the rest of them. You can’t do anything to make her feel good about it, Stephen, but if it helps you, you can try.

  He sighed as he watched his mother and his sister pull apart, wondering which was harder: to stay and to worry, or to go and be at risk. Loss or death? He shivered, feeling a morning chill that the fires couldn’t protect him from. The nightmare image of Bryan’s corpse warred with the empty hollowness of William’s loss: his first funeral. Bryan was horribly dead, but William . . . even after five years, William was barely alive. He had his dogs, which helped—and he hunted without benefit of huntbrother—but even among Hunter Lords, William was withdrawn and silent. The glory had gone out of the hunt. The loss of Bryan would never be lessened with time; Stephen was certain of it.

  “Stephen?”

  He spun to face the open door, aware that he hadn’t heard its hinges at all. Norn peered in. “We’re almost ready. Is the young master down?”

  Maribelle snorted. “Gilliam?” Her mother very quietly whispered something that neither Stephen nor Norn could hear, but the meaning of the words was made plain by the flush they engendered in the young girl’s cheeks.

  Soredon joined them before Gilliam did. He walked over to Elsabet’s side and draped an arm across her shoulders. Her expression, as she leaned into his embrace, was one of resignation and fear. Stephen knew it well; for seven years he had waited quietly while Norn and Lord Elseth embarked upon their duty: the Sacred Hunt. This day marked the beginning of Stephen’s adulthood in Breodanir, and he, too, would add to the burden of her worry from this moment on.

  “Can someone help me with this?”

  All eyes looked up to see Gilliam teetering at the railings. A large chest, one double the size of Stephen’s modest choice, was precariously caught in a grip that was faltering even as they watched.

  “Gilliam!” Elsa shouted, as Norn began to run up the stairs. She had been worried about whether or not he would show up in appropriate dress, but her eyes slid off the heavy gray jacket and the brown pants that were folded haphazardly into leather boots without comment. “Why didn’t you send for the servants?”

  He answered her by dropping the chest. It clattered down the stairs, narrowly missing Norn. Everyone scattered as the large, heavy box came to rest. That the lock held surprised them all.

  Not an auspicious beginning.

  • • •

  “I don’t suppose it will do any good to tell you all to keep an eye on each other?” Lady Elseth stood on her toes to give her son a kiss on the forehead. He was a boy for these few days more; not until the King called and accepted him would he be a Breodani Hunter.

  “Mother.”

  “I’ll take care of him,” Stephen piped up. He held out his arms and caught Lady Elseth in a very tight hug. If Gilliam had become too self-consciously grown up for this sort of display, Stephen had not. He was going to have a few words with Gilliam on the subject once they were under way. “I’m sorry I won’t be staying.”

  “So am I.” Their foreheads touched. “You’ll be back, though. I keep telling myself that.”

  “And you don’t really believe it until you see it,” Norn added. “Now enough of your time with the whelp—what about the real Hunters?” Breathing and being hugged by Norn were mutually exclusive activities; Lady Elseth couldn’t have talked had she wanted to. She caught his beard in her fingers and yanked almost playfully.

  He set her down without comment. He had been through this routine for so many years, he knew there was nothing to be said. It would wait until they returned, because it had to.

  Last, she turned to Soredon.

  “This is his first Hunt,” he said quietly, a hand on either of her shoulders. “Try to be as proud as he is, Elsa.”

  “I am.” Her voice was soft. “The Hunters have their risk, and all of Breodanir depends on it. But we Ladies have our risk as well. I am proud for Elseth. I am worried for Elsabet.”

  He kissed her quietly, holding her face in the palms of his hands. Then he stepped back, still staring into her red-rimmed eyes. She wanted to cry; he knew it, and knew she would not.

  “I love you.” He turned. “Is everything ready?”

  Norn nodded.

  “The dogs?”

  Gilliam nodded.

  “Then we’re off!”

  • • •

  The roads were very quiet for most of the journey. This year, because Stephen and Gilliam were to be presented to the Master of the Game, they had to arrive two weeks before the Sacred Hunt, rather than the usual four days.

  Gilliam was in good spirits—this was the pinnacle of his youthful dreams. He would walk into the King’s court with his huntbrother by his side, kneel, and be given the dress cloak and horn of the Hunter. He would be allowed to take part in the Sacred Hunt, and there he would further prove himself.

  And on his return home, he would finally be able to form his own pack. Corwel’s newest brood looked promising, and although Corwel was now too old to be the pride of Elseth, he was still capable of breeding true.

  Soredon was happy as well, especially when he contemplated the arrival in the capital of his son and heir. Gilliam was everything that one Hunter-born could aspire to. He was young, strong, fast—and his ability with the trance had grown so quickly Soredon half-regretted that they hadn’t had time to choose a proper pack for Gilliam’s first appearance. Gilliam would hunt with a select number of Soredon’s dogs.

  Corwel would be at the head of the pack that Soredon had chosen for himself. He wasn’t pack leader anymore, but he was second, and if Terwel was separated from him, Soredon was certain that Corwel would still make a good show of himself.

  He knew it was foolish to take Corwel along; any of the younger dogs would be better for show. He was becoming sentimental. Well, yes, but what of it? He would hunt Corwel just this one last time, and they would face the Hunter’s risk together, as they had for so many years.

  We’re both getting older, he thought with wry affection. He turned to look at Gil, who was positively impatient as he sat astride his horse, and shook his head with a smile. It may well be time soon; the younger generation will eclipse us both.

  But we’re not doddering and useless yet.

  • • •

  “They aren’t worried, are they?” Stephen wrapped another scarf around his throat, and fastened the highest button of his jacket. It was chilly here; the wind across the plain had few trees or rocks to break its passage.

  “Them?” Norn looked over his shoulder. “No, probably not.” He, too, wore an extra scarf for warmth, but the color of his jacket was deep, warm green. Hunter’s clothing. “I’ve rarely met a hunter who was. Not an oath-bound Hunter, at any rate. Why?”

  “Are
you?”

  “Worried?” Norn nodded. “Of course. I always am. I have to be—I’ve got two people to worry about, since one of us isn’t worrying about himself. Why?”

  “I’m worried.” Stephen’s voice was quiet. “I’m worried that Gilliam will make a fool of himself in front of the King. I’m worried that we’ll do something wrong before the Sacred Hunt. I’m worried that I’ll forget all of my horn calls—it isn’t as if they’re used anywhere but the Sacred Hunt.” He took a breath and shadowed his eyes although the sun wasn’t sharp, and the light was muted. “But mostly I’m worried about . . .” The words stopped, trailing into the quiet rush of wind against the ears. All of a sudden he didn’t want to say them. For Stephen, words had always had a special magic, a feel of permanence, a ring of truth. To give voice to his fear was more than acknowledgment; it was empowerment.

  “The Hunt is always a risk,” Norn said quietly. He glanced at his companion, seeing an odd echo of the boy he had once been, traveling to the King’s City and the duty of the Sacred Hunt for the first time.

  If Soredon felt a pride and continuity in the legacy of his blood as he contemplated Gilliam, Norn felt something equally strong as he rode beside Stephen. They were not related, but in the end, they were bound by a choice and a purpose that made them unique in Breodanir. Hunters were chosen by birth and by blood, with all of the abilities that the Hunter God could grant. Huntbrothers were the link between the Hunters and the rest of the populace, and they chose the same risk as their sworn oath brothers, without any of the God-granted advantages.

  But they chose anyway, and they held true to their vows. If a brotherhood like this could extend forever outward, in all of the facets of Breodanir society, miracles could be achieved, he was certain of it. And proud of it as well.

  “Why aren’t they afraid?”

  “You wouldn’t want them to be,” Norn answered. He shifted in his saddle, keeping an eye on the road. It was muddy, even with the chill, and the horses were not always as watchful as they could be. “Well, maybe you do now. But it isn’t a pretty sight, and it feels wrong. Like a little breaking of the vow.”

  “But why aren’t they afraid?”

  “I don’t know. Have you asked Gilliam?”

  Stephen shook his head curtly. No.

  Norn knew that Stephen would never ask. “Ah, well. I’ve never asked Soredon either. But I think it’s because they live for the Hunt, those two and the others like them. You and I live for more because we can’t feel what they feel—no matter what the Hunt or the conditions of it, we’ll always be strictly human, strictly normal. The God-touch—the Hunter’s trance—it’s not for us. We’d never be able to attain it. So we want what other people want. Family, friends, a little knowledge outside of nets and couples and boar spears and dogs.”

  “You’ve never married outside.”

  “No.” Norn closed his eyes for a moment. “And I won’t either. Don’t ask, Stephen; it’s silly enough, and it isn’t relevant. You may well marry as you please and find those who will be happy to accept your troth.” His lips turned up in a smile, and his eyes softened.

  “I don’t know.” Stephen shot a glance at Gilliam’s straight, gray back. “I don’t know how I could have a family and Gilliam at the same time.”

  Norn’s laughter caught the attention of their brothers. He waved them on, still laughing into his beard. “Aye, there’s truth in that. But he isn’t your life, even though he may be your death in the end. You’ll find a life that calls you yet, and you’ll have to balance your vows with your aspirations.” His laughter left a red glow at his cheeks. “It’s the life of a huntbrother, Stephen. And it’s true: When you’re young enough to make the vow, it’s always the easiest. Growing into it gets harder year by year.” He shook his head. “Perhaps you will make the choice that we did, Soredon, Elsa, and I.”

  Norn’s voice, full, deep, and tinged, every word, with affection, told no tale of regret at the choice he had made. Stephen gripped his own reins firmly and tried not to think of the Hunter’s Death. He didn’t want to die it, and he didn’t want Gilliam to die it either. But he was certain that it was for him; so certain that he could not speak to Norn of it for fear that the speaking would make it real. Still . . .

  “What does it look like?”

  “What?”

  “The Hunter’s Death.”

  “No one really knows, Stephen. And it’s better so—although, when we reach the King’s court, you’ll see at least five artistic depictions of it. The only thing these artisans agreed on is size: It’s big. Everything else—fangs, claws, number of legs, number of heads, color, shape—that changes depending on the artist. But the finest artists in the kingdom have turned their hands to the subject more than once—you’ll even find a sculpture by Ovannen himself in the grand foyer.”

  It wasn’t the answer he’d hoped for. He was silent, and after a moment, Norn continued.

  “What does it look like? That’s a question that every Hunter, and every huntbrother, asks. But the only way to get an answer is to die the Hunter’s Death, and no one rushes eagerly into that. Well, no huntbrother. The Hunters . . . I’m certain that each and every one of them dreams about facing the Hunter’s Death and taking it in the full glory of a called Hunt.

  “But say that it looks like this: Nightmare, fear, and a very dark desire. This is what the artists have done. When we arrive, I’ll show you.”

  • • •

  It gave Stephen a very odd feeling to pass through the gates of the King’s City. Years had passed since last he’d walked these streets, and they were no longer snow-covered or cold. It was almost spring, almost First Day, the time of renewal when the new year began. Even this close to the city gates he could see the brown and greens of the Mother’s followers as they set up their banners to line the main thoroughfare beside the banners of the Hunter Lords. He felt young again, in the worst possible way, as the arches of the gate trailed fingers of shadow down his back.

  Since leaving the King’s City with Lord Elseth and Norn, Stephen had never had cause to return. He wished that he had never been given cause, and then felt ashamed of the impulse. Gilliam glanced up, and steadied his horse into a waiting step as Stephen approached. He couldn’t just bring the horse to a stop, no, not Gil.

  “Something wrong?”

  Stephen shrugged. He could say no, but there was really no point. If Gilliam hadn’t known something was wrong, he wouldn’t have stayed his horse. “Just nervous.”

  “Why?” It wasn’t the Hunt, and Gilliam knew it. Stephen’s fears about the Hunt were crystal clear and completely unique in feel. Gilliam ignored those because it had been made clear, by a succession of heated arguments, that Stephen wished them to be ignored.

  “I keep expecting to see Marcus come pounding down the road looking for me.” He said it sheepishly, and placed a hand firmly on the pommel of his sword. “Not that I wouldn’t be able to defend myself now.”

  “But you couldn’t then.” Gilliam shrugged. “Maybe we should leave Father and Norn at the castle. We can go looking for this Marcus ourselves and teach him a lesson.”

  “Don’t even think it, Gil.” Norn’s voice was crisp and clear. Not a hint of amusement gentled it.

  Unfazed, although the interruption was unexpected, Gilliam whirled in his saddle. “But it’s just—”

  “Nothing.” The older man replied, just as crisply. “You’re here in your official capacity as Hunter-aspirant of Breodanir—you don’t have time to settle some petty score from bygone years. You hunt for the land’s blood, not for the blood of a den warden. Clear?”

  “Yes, Norn.”

  “And you, Stephen. You aren’t a child anymore, and you aren’t a den rat. No den could claim you now, even if one were foolish enough to try. You’re of Elseth, and you will leave your fears of childhood behind. Is that clear?”

 
“Yes, Norn.” Of the two, only Stephen’s quiet acknowledgment held any conviction. Norn hesitated a moment, and his hands bunched the reins in fists. Stephen could practically hear the older man’s inner dialogue as he weighed Gilliam’s impulsive determination with Stephen’s ability to rein it in.

  At last he nodded. He swung his horse around and sidestepped Gilliam’s black gelding before looking back over his shoulder.

  “Gilliam, you are here as an Elseth Hunter. If you embarrass your father or do anything to disavow the responsibility of that title, Lord Elseth will be furious. Rightly so.”

  Sullenly, Gilliam nodded. But he was too used to arguing with his own huntbrother to just let the matter drop into silence, even though the conversation had already drawn the ears of passersby. He glared rudely at an elderly matron who was obviously on her way to market. She blushed, pulled at her kerchief, and began to fiddle with the straps of her basket.

  “Gil!” Stephen whispered, as he reached for Gilliam’s shoulders. Gilliam ducked his hand.

  “But we’ve got rights, Norn! We protect our own!”

  Weary and annoyed, Norn shook his head. “You’re your father’s son!” He didn’t even look back over the broad green of his shoulders to acknowledge Gilliam’s shout.

  Stephen didn’t feel uneasy about Marcus anymore. Norn’s words had penetrated deeply enough to drive that ghost away. Instead, he settled into the familiar worry about ceremony and custom.

  Gilliam felt the change in his huntbrother’s mood, and it only incensed him more. He knew what Stephen was worried about—but did everyone he was traveling with have to assume he was an idiot? With a very curt nod, he yanked at the reins of his horse and sent it cantering down the city streets.

  Stephen sighed as an echo of Gilliam’s anger flittered past. With more concern for his own mare—and her mouth—than Gilliam had shown, Stephen brought up the rear and followed the thoroughfare to where the King’s castle lay in wait.