The castle did little to still Stephen’s fears; it was a grand old building—and the work of the maker-born was in evidence everywhere, from the solid, sheer surface of the outer walls, to the high balustrades and buttresses of the twin towers. A stag seemed to leap in white, hard life, from the very heart of the gate; beneath it, the poles of the portcullis cast evenly spaced shadows.
The gate shadowed them, and it was not plain either, for above their heads in the archway was the bold relief of a Hunter and his lymer as they sought out prey in the quiet alabaster of the King’s wood.
If he had just come to visit, Stephen would have been tingling with excitement and joy. Past the second portcullis, rearing on two legs, was a bear—but so ferocious a bear, and with such large teeth, that Stephen knew for a fact the artist had never truly seen one hunted. Yet even in ignorance, the sculptor had managed to portray nature’s primal anger and defiance—thus did the hunted become, momentarily, the hunter.
“It’s a fine work, isn’t it?”
Stephen looked down at the voice, and realized that a man in royal livery was waiting patiently at the reins. He blushed and looked around; all three of his companions were unhorsed and waiting. Soredon looked annoyed—which meant, of course, that the dogs had been kenneled by someone other than a “real” Hunter. Gilliam was bored and impatient, and Norn was smiling quietly.
He slid off Dapple’s back with a mumbled apology. The man in brown, green, and gold only smiled. He was older than Stephen, and his long thin forehead was obviously bereft of hair, although it was capped in gold-rimmed brown. “We don’t mind it ourselves. It takes the eyes of a newcomer to lend a little life to the courtyard—and you’ve the right sort of eyes. Makes me remember how I felt when he,” and he gestured at the stone bear, “was first dragged in here.”
“Were you here then?”
“I’ve been here a long time. I’m good at what I do.” The man bowed, his hands still firmly upon the reins. “I don’t know if I’ll be on shift to see you off, but if I’m not, we’re pleased to have you. This your first?”
It was pleasantry, nothing more, for the warden knew that Stephen and Gilliam had arrived at the correct time for aspirant Hunters. Still, Stephen nodded quietly.
“We serve our King—and the whole of our country—in the ways that we can. But your way, huntbrother, is hardest; our thanks and our welcome to you.” So saying, he turned and led the horse away from the flagstones.
Norn’s voice cut across the quiet grandeur of the courtyard. “Don’t worry about looking around for a bit. We’ve got a little wait ahead of us. The keeper of the outer estate is seeing to the Hausworth family, and we won’t get our lodgings until he returns. Besides, the first time you cross these gates, they’re significant. Do what you can to fix it in memory; it’ll all become commonplace soon enough.” Norn smiled, his eyes crinkled at the corners. “I did it myself when I first came.” He turned, whispered something to Soredon, and left Gilliam in the care of his father. It wasn’t necessarily a completely wise choice—two Hunters alone without the wisdom of a huntbrother to guide them—but they couldn’t do much damage to their reputations, or each other, here.
“Did the maker-born do this?” Stephen asked, his voice hushed and muted.
“Aye. You can see their touch where their hands have been. Some little, perfect magic. Some quiet impressions. There—do you see the awnings with the ivy creepers? By the fountain.”
Stephen nodded.
“They’re stone. Solid as my wrist. But don’t they seem to move with the breeze?” Norn shook his head in an echo of Stephen’s wonder. “That’s the maker-born though; if they can’t have the raw materials they need, they’ll force what they want out of the ones they do have.”
“Have you met them?”
“Them?”
“The maker-born.”
“Aye, some. Why?”
“What are they like?” Stephen reached out gently to touch the claws of the bear.
“Like anyone else with a mission or a talent. The Hunter-born live for the Hunt, the healer-born live for the healing—and the maker-born live for the making. Of course, they’ve got a little more leeway, and a little less similarity of personality, but that’s to be expected. They choose what they learn to make, after all.
“The maker-born who worked upon this castle was a foreigner at one time. He came here to create a residence worthy of any king, and he stayed. You’ll see his hand in the upper city as well. The maker-born who sculpted the bear—she’s an artist. No buildings or carpentry for her; she works from different impulses. But the gift is the same in either.” His arm caught Stephen’s shoulders companionably. “You and I, we don’t have talent to drive us. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Why do we do all of this? Why do we take our oaths?”
“I don’t know about Stephen,” Lord Elseth said, coming out of nowhere to stand at his huntbrother’s elbow, “but in your case it was probably just another chance to talk.”
“Aye,” Norn’s eyes sparkled, “and at that, a chance to do it without your interruptions. Are we ready to go?”
“We are.” Soredon stood aside, the tilt of his brow bringing shadowed lines along his square forehead.
“Stephen?”
“Hey! Don’t touch that! What are you doing? Get out of here! OUT!”
The raised voice was unmistakably Gilliam’s. Stephen recognized it, muffled though it was by two doors and a wall.
Oh, no. The lid of his small chest fell with a bang, crunching dress breeches that were halfway out. He had no time to put his boots on. In the seconds that he considered it, he heard another shout.
He wasn’t worried for Gilliam; Gilliam wasn’t frightened, just angry. Well, not even really angry. But very, very annoyed. He wasn’t quite out of his room when he heard Gilliam’s door slam shut. As he peered out, he saw the flying brown, gold, and green of heavy skirts. Wisps of dark hair trailed beneath a golden cap and down a smocked back.
Lady Elseth was going to kill him.
Angry, he walked over to Gilliam’s door and wrenched it open. “Gilliam, what in the Hells did you just do?”
Gilliam looked up from the mess of clothing and Hunter’s wear on his bed. His face was red, and his brows dovetailed neatly; his hands were curled around his horn and hat. “What did I do?”
“That’s what I asked.” Stephen took a deep breath, crossed the threshold into the room itself, and closed the door behind him.
“I got back here from Father’s room and found that—that girl snooping through my things!” He threw the hat down and pushed his dark hair out of his eyes. “So I asked her to leave.”
“Asked? Gilliam, half the hall must have heard you!”
“So? Is it my fault if they were listening?”
“Gil . . .”
“Look, you aren’t my mother, you’re—”
“I’m your huntbrother. She was a maid, Gilliam, not a ‘girl,’ and she was doing her duties. You don’t throw a maid in the royal service out of your room as if she were a common thief!”
As the full import of Stephen’s words hit home, Gilliam had the grace to blush. “I was surprised.”
“Great. And what are you going to do three days from now? Demand that the Queen get out of your way because she’s looking at your sword?”
“I’m not an idiot.”
“You’re worse than an idiot.”
“She shouldn’t have been going through my things!”
“Did you leave them in that mess on the bed?”
“I had to find my horn.” Gilliam let his hair fall as he picked up his hat again. “And this.”
“So you left these rumpled things all over the bed, and it was her fault that she saw them and assumed they were to be put away?”
“She’s got no business being in my room.”
“Then d
on’t leave things here like that—it’s begging for her help.” Stephen stomped over to the set of drawers against the wall beside the cherrywood headboard. He grabbed ornate brass handles and yanked so hard the drawer itself came off its rails and fell to the floor. Luckily the carpet muted most of the impact.
“Put them in here,” he said, without bothering to pick it up. “Put the drawer back into the dresser when you’re finished.”
“This is my room, and I’ll do what I like in it.”
“Oh, really?” Lord Elseth leaned against the door frame with his left shoulder. Both boys gave a guilty start, and both cursed the fact that the door hinges were so well-oiled. Soredon’s arms were folded neatly and tightly across his chest.
“Thanks, Stephen,” Gilliam whispered as he straightened up and faced his father.
“It’s your own fault, you idiot,” Stephen replied, his voice as quiet as possible.
“I’m glad to see,” Lord Elseth said, looking anything but, “that you’ve both decided to make yourselves at home here. But in case you weren’t aware, this is the King’s castle, and you are expected to behave like polite, happy young men while you’re in it. I don’t care if you want to squabble outside of his gates; it’s expected from huntbrothers. But do not do it here. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
They cast very dark looks at each other, and Stephen, barefoot, stomped back to his room. Why, indeed, did anyone choose to take the Hunter’s Oath?
• • •
“That was careless.”
The woman knelt in the center of the golden mandala that had been worked into the large, dark carpet. Her hair, brown and straight, cascaded down her back and cheeks, obscuring her pale face. Her hands, palms out, lay before her; her knees were shaking slightly. The King’s colors, caught in the common dress of a chambermaid, looked drab and unseemly in the room’s light. She had removed the cap, but had not had time for any other changes.
“Yes, Lord.”
The man so addressed nodded quietly. His eyes were hooded by frosted brows; his face lined by the long thin winter of a beard. His nose was his most pronounced feature, and he made the most of his height by looking down it. Silently, he let her fear take root before deigning to speak.
“Still,” his fingers curled around a platinum medallion. Four symbols stood in shining relief along quartered lines beneath his hand; one each for earth, air, fire, and water. “The circumstances could have been worse. Are you certain it was only one of the children?”
She nodded without looking up. He had not given her leave to rise. “T-two.”
“Two children? Ah, yes. I suppose one was the huntbrother.” He let the medallion drop, and it nestled quietly against a black field with a white fur border; the robes of moneyed nobility. “Rise, then.”
She lifted her head. Her pretty face, her widened eyes, met his.
“Did you find anything?”
“No, Lord.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.” She swallowed. “You said that I was to look for a very simple horn, with odd markings along the mouthpiece.”
“Well, then. I think we can rest in peace for the moment.” He smiled. “Our duty to God is done, and we may now consider our duty to less lofty principles.”
She froze; her outstretched hands grew pale. Licking her lips, she turned only her eyes away. “I must—must return to my duties, Lord.”
“Duties?” His voice deepened. “Ah, yes. But little Linden, that is what I spoke of.”
“W-what do you mean?”
“Don’t you know?” He gestured suddenly, and her whole body stiffened as the air crackled. The door that led to his sleeping chambers flew open and rocked on its hinges. “Your duty to the King of Breodanir means nothing. But your duty to Krysanthos, Priest of Allasakar, may well save your life in the end. Or do you recant?” Even the mention of the Dark God’s name was enough to ensure her loyalty. Still, it was a risk to speak it aloud.
Silence again, heavy on her tongue, and the ashen gray of her face. This was always the moment he loved best in these little charades: the sinking anchor of realization, the loss of hope.
He gestured again, with the slightest twist of his fingers, the merest syllable. Her hair fell away from her face, and the golden strings that kept tight the forestgreen bodice were suddenly undone.
With magic he held her still, although he knew she would not be foolish enough to run. Her breath, short and sharp, was nearly silent in its panic.
“Come, Linden. Surely others Priests have called upon your services before me.”
He did not allow her to answer, but instead raised her to her feet. She walked past him stiffly and almost blankly into the waiting room, to the bed with sheets already turned back.
He would have to kill her sometime, but that was weeks away. Now, he indulged in the luxury of the moment. He would have to finish in hours and send her back to the castle. The Hunter Lords would be arriving within the week, and he still had need of her special access to their rooms.
But he was certain that he would not find the thing that the Dark God feared. After all, his coven had been watchful, and they had seen no reappearance of the cursed Horn that had somehow been stolen from their keeping. Neither had they seen the Spear, although it was less of a concern. It was harder—much—to hide, and had little use without the sounding of that Horn.
Anger lined his face and he turned away from it to view instead the ivory lines of a young maid’s body. Soon, very soon now, the wait would be over—and the Hunter’s Kingdom would be just another vassal for the Dark Lord’s coming empire.
Allasakar would walk, whole, upon the face of the world, as no God had truly done in all of mortal memory. And Krysanthos, the mage-born Priest, would be there at His side, to reap the benefits of years of service.
Chapter Ten
GILLIAM AND STEPHEN WAITED nervously at the side entrance to the King’s Hall. Although they were impeccable in their dark-brown velvet jackets, shadow-black pants, and gold-trimmed sashes, they were not nearly so ornate, so full of history, as even the door that lay closed before them. At a distance, that door seemed plain compared with the inlaid and wreathed great hall entrance that the nobles were using now to crowd the halls. But this close, one could see the fine quality of the darkwood beneath the cast-iron band; one could touch the cold stone frame, with its plain, gray surface free of any detailing or sculptor’s fancy. This door stood as it had always done since the first day of its making—the passageway for those who would step between youth and adulthood.
“Stop it.” Stephen’s whisper came from the depths of a carefully placed smile which faltered only as he watched Gilliam fidget.
“When are we going in?”
“When they call us.” Sighing, Stephen caught Gilliam’s collars and straightened them, as much to soothe his own nerves as to clear away any wrinkles. “Do you know what we’ve got to do?”
“Walk down the side path to the—”
The door swung open, and a green-robed Priest of the Hunter nodded to them both. Like the door itself, there was a deceptive elegance and age to the man. His robes, although simple, were the purest green of the Hunter; they needed no ornamentation. “Who are you who seek to enter?”
“Gilliam of Elseth and his huntbrother Stephen.” Gilliam bowed low, and remembered to keep his arms stiffly at his side.
“And what is your business?”
“We have come to offer our service to the Master of the Game.” It was the King’s Hunter title, and as such, the only one of many titles that Gilliam found easy to remember. “We have hunted together and we’ve completed the Triple Hunt.”
“And your proof?”
“Here.” Stephen stepped forward and held out a small, plain chest. He flipped it open; the rounded and well-oiled l
id rested briefly and coolly against his chest as the Priest examined the stag hoof, bear claw, and boar horn carefully displayed therein.
The Priest passed his steady, large hand over the open box. The air tingled around the three for a moment before the Priest nodded to Gilliam. Gilliam left the rigid stance of his bow behind.
“You have done as you have claimed. Come, then. You are judged worthy to seek His audience.” The door swung fully open, and the dais which led to the King’s throne, and to the Master of the Game, came into full view. The throne itself was inset too far back to be seen without actually entering the room. It bothered neither Stephen nor Gilliam, for they had no intention of turning away.
Gilliam went first, as was his right and duty. He walked calmly, if a little quickly, and he looked neither to the left, with its long, floor-to-ceiling tapestry depicting all of the greatness and glory of the Hunt, nor to the right, at the row of men clad in greens and browns, with their horns at their belts, and their weapons at their sides. They were not young men, not any of them—and they wore the scars caused by both prey and the passing years across their silent features. Stephen could not resist glancing at both the wall and the men, and it was Stephen who would remember it in detail. Quieted by the sight of so much finery and so much experience, he followed in Gilliam’s wake, his hands still clutching the box that the Priest had viewed. The effort kept him steady.
He had thought that Gilliam would be the nervous one, because Gilliam hated both public occasions and the crowds that came with them. But Gilliam, in bearing and stride, was already one with the Hunters that he had come this far to join; he didn’t falter or misstep.
Stephen did, but only once, when the dais opened up and the throne came into view, and he saw the King upon it. He had never seen the King before, although he had seen his likeness several times on most of the coinage of the realm, both in the lower city as a child and in Elseth as a youth. What he had expected, he did not know, or perhaps it just fled his mind, leaving only the reality behind.
The King was not a young man, but not as old as Soredon either. His hair was black shot through with a glimmering of gray that would one day overtake it all. His eyes, even from this distance, were a deep brown and seemed preternaturally large. He was not overly tall, but even seated he gave the impression of height, although the back of the throne dwarfed him, its simple wood edge bearing the horns of the very Stag itself above him. He wore a circlet of plain gold, yet without it he would still have been known as Master of the Game.
The Sacred Hunt Duology Page 18