“Not yet,” someone whispered with amusement, and Stephen spun around to meet the crinkled corners of gray Hunter’s eyes. “You’ll be kneeling soon enough—make sure that you do it at your brother’s side.”
Embarrassment drove awe back to its proper place. Stephen walked briskly up the aisle, closing the distance between Gilliam and himself. His hands stopped their shaking; his pace grew measured and seemingly more confident. But he did not look at the King again. Instead he fastened his gaze neatly at the point on Gilliam’s back where shoulder blades bracketed spine.
He’s only a man, he thought, but the words were a tickle at his ear. He could not believe them, not when the very air seemed to glow in the perfect, silent hush. During the long trip to the King’s City, Stephen had been filled with many fears, most nameless—but among those had not been the fear of failure. He felt it keenly now. Although he knew his hunting craft as well as any huntbrother of his age, he felt raw and inexperienced. His hands began to tremble as doubt dwarfed the significance of the contents of the small Elseth chest.
Gilliam stopped walking and knelt three feet away from the King’s throne. Stephen made haste to join him, dropping to one knee as he opened the box and placed it before them both in supplication. He bowed his head.
“Who are you and why have you come?” The Master of the Game spoke at last, his voice as deep and purposeful as any fancy could have made it.
“I am Gilliam of Elseth. In my father’s name, I have hunted the Elseth preserves to feed her people and prove my worth.” Gilliam’s head, bowed, shadowed his legs in the flicker of torchlight and the sky seen through stained glass.
“And what have you hunted there?”
“The three.”
“When have you hunted them?”
“In their proper time.”
“And who will speak for you?”
“I will.” Stephen started slightly at the words; they were distant enough that they offered scant comfort, although he recognized Lord Elseth’s booming voice. “While Gilliam of Elseth has hunted in my name, I have hunted in yours.”
“So be it. Look at me now, Gilliam of Elseth.” The tone of the King’s voice changed slightly, a hint of amusement warming its depth. “You have the look of your father about you—and his father before him, if the portrait gallery indeed holds truth.” The voice cooled again. “But it is not in seeming that the Hunter judges. Who stands beside you?”
There was an eerie moment of silence before Stephen realized that his voice was meant to fill it. He remembered to keep his head bowed, and found fascinating creases in the dark folds of his tunic to hold his eyes. “Stephen,” he said, and his voice grew steady. “Stephen of Elseth.”
“And have you hunted at Lord Gilliam’s side?”
“I have.”
“What have you hunted?”
“The three.”
“And when have you hunted them?”
“In their proper time and at the need of the people of Elseth.” He almost looked up then, but he stopped himself; no permission and no order had been given. Still, the speaking of the words brought the comfort of an old truth, well understood by both speaker and listener.
“Who speaks for you, Stephen?”
Norn answered from a distance exactly as far as Lord Elseth’s. “I do. Stephen of Elseth has hunted at his brother’s side at the call of Elseth and her people.”
“So be it. Rise, Stephen of Elseth. Rise, Gilliam of Elseth. Come stand before me.”
Gilliam stood without effort and paused to offer Stephen a hand up. Stephen took it, leaving the chest behind. It had served its purpose and he did not think he could carry it.
“You have come to offer me your services, and I have seen that you are worthy to hunt with the Master of the Game. But I am also a worthy master. I will tell you of the risk and the Death that you face if you choose this path. There will be no other choice, and you cannot turn from it once you have begun—for all of Breodanir rests upon the choice once made.” The King rose then, discarding the finery of his throne. Behind his head, the antlers drew level with the circlet of gold, and he looked like the heart of the living forest.
“You will hunt in my name from this day forward, and I—I hunt in the name of the Hunter. This is my pledge to Him: that once a year I will call the Sacred Hunt, that he might Hunt, in return, those who serve him. You will hunt in my name, and perhaps in that Hunt you will earn Breodanir’s life by giving your own. But you might choose, in the King’s Forest, your own prey, your own hunt; you might bring, on that one day, your own dogs into domains that are otherwise solely mine.
“I accept your service, Gilliam and Stephen of Elseth. Do you choose now to honor your offer?”
Stephen thought that Gilliam would answer immediately and be done with it. Instead, Gilliam turned to him, one eyebrow lifted in question. There was no doubt at all in Gilliam’s mind, and no fear; this was the pinnacle of his years of training and hunting. He waited nonetheless on Stephen’s word and Stephen’s gesture—for no hunter came to the King without a huntbrother, and none left in his service without one by his side.
“We will serve the Master of the Game,” Stephen said, his voice very small.
The King raised his hands, and from the recess behind his throne two Priests emerged, each carrying a heavy green cloak. In silence they came to stand, one in front of Gilliam, the other in front of Stephen.
“This is the color of your office. Wear it proudly, Lord Gilliam of Elseth, in my name.”
Gilliam smiled and nodded as the gold leaf was fastened across his shoulders; the folds of deep, heavy green fell about his back like a perfect wave.
“And you, Stephen of Elseth, you share in your brother’s office. Wear these colors, as befits your station, in the name of the people of Breodanir.”
“And in your name, son of the Hunter.”
Pleased, the King smiled, and his smile deepened his face, revealing the warmth that lay beneath severity. He nodded again to the attending Priests. Simple horns, with mouths of silver, appeared in their hands. These were offered in turn to Gilliam and Stephen.
Stephen’s hands shook as he placed the horn in his sash. He could feel Gilliam’s pride and excitement, but when he snuck a glance, no sign of it showed. Gilliam stood a little taller, and perhaps his chest was farther forward than normal posture allowed, but that was all.
“Turn,” the King said quietly. “You wear the green of the Hunter now, and you have the blessing and approval of the Master of the Game. From this day forth, at this time, you will journey to the King’s City at my behest, and you will hunt in my forest. If you fail to do so, you will be stripped of your title and the honors that you have accepted this day; you will be shunned by the Hunter Lords and cast out by the Priests. No Hunter will speak your name, and your deeds will be forgotten. Your children, should you have issue at that time, will inherit in your stead if you hold the preserves of your family. If you do not, your lands will return to the crown, to be given to others who have proved themselves worthy.” The words were harsh, but the King’s tone made it clear that they were strictly a formality; he did not doubt those who had become Hunters in his name. “You are among equals now. Go into Breodanir in pride and with determination.”
Stephen did not gasp as he turned, but only because he lost his breath for a moment. The ranks of the Hunters that had formed a human wall from the side entrance of this chamber to the foot of the King’s dais had somehow changed shape and form. Leading directly to the double doors the Hunter Lords had entered by was a dark, green carpet with a border of gold filigree nestled around brown. On either side of it stood Hunter Lords and their huntbrothers in three evenly spaced ranks. They carried spears by their sides, and they were now unhooded as they all looked, as one man, to the two who had passed the final test.
“Go now. I will call you again within
the ten-day for the Sacred Hunt.”
Neither looked back; they had no choice, and no inclination, to do other than obey. Slowly, they began their silent procession, and as they did, banners unfurled above their heads. The first, a leaping stag on a white field, held by Hunter Lords, and older ones at that, on either side of the carpet. The second was a golden bear on a green field, held likewise. The third was a boar, black as pitch, again on a green field. And beyond it there was darkness; a field of ebony with a single, broken spear, a solitary broken horn.
Stephen paused before it; he had but to pass beneath it and he would gain the door. But he understood well what it was: the Hunter’s Death. Gilliam didn’t even seem to notice the way it hung like a pall above the day’s ceremony. He walked until its shadow covered his head before he realized that Stephen was no longer in step.
“Yes, Stephen of Elseth,” someone said, but although Stephen strained his eyes searching through the ranks closest to him, he could not see the speaker, “you see truly. But you will have no freedom now. You have accepted the path and must pass beneath this shadow, or it will hold you back forever.”
“Stephen,” Gilliam hissed, before his huntbrother could come up with an answer to that strange voice, “it’s just a bloody banner.”
A breeze blew in through the open doors, and the spear and horn disappeared in the sheen of moving black cloth. Stephen shook his head and grimaced in sudden embarrassment. “Sorry,” he whispered, as he walked quickly to join his brother.
“Doesn’t matter,” was the terse, but happy reply. “We did it. We’re in.” He crossed the threshold and waited patiently for Stephen to follow. “And do you know what it means?”
From the seriousness of the expression, anyone other than Stephen might have thought Gilliam had somehow managed to be affected by the ceremony. Bound by more than blood, Stephen couldn’t make that mistake, although he might have been happier had he been able to.
“You get to choose your dogs.”
“I get to choose my dogs!”
His father came out of the doors and into the nearly empty hall just in time to catch the echo of the words rebounding off beamed ceiling and walls. He arranged the hood to frame his head. “Gilliam!”
Gilliam turned and stopped. “Father?”
Soredon laughed. “Yes, there is the matter of your first pack. We’ll have to discuss it now, you and I—after this Hunt, you won’t be able to use my dogs anymore.”
They started to walk, and Stephen hung back by the doors, waiting for Norn to come out. It was only a few minutes, but long enough to lose sight of the Elseth Hunters as they turned the bend in the hall.
“Stephen, you did well.” Norn’s hood was a fold of cloth against his shoulder blades. “Where’s Soredon?”
“With Gilliam. Ahead. Talking about Gil’s hunting pack.”
“A bit premature, isn’t it?”
Stephen nodded.
“But you didn’t say anything?”
“No. He already knows. He doesn’t see his death in any of this.” His frustration was evident in more than the tone of his voice; his forehead was wrinkled, his brows gathered at the bridge of his nose.
Norn said, “I told you, they never do. Come on, let’s get a drink. I’ll take you to the Hunter’s garden.”
• • •
“The Hunter’s presence was strong today,” the King said softly, as the last of his Hunter Lords filed out of the hall. The banners that had formed a ceremonial rite of passage had been curled neatly against their poles. Servants would clear them away soon at the direction of Priests, and they would be held in keeping until next year’s passage.
“Yes,” was the quiet answer.
“And I gather from your tone, you’ve a feeling why.” The King rose carefully and walked away from the throne, sparing a backward glance for the antlers that rose like white shadow above him. “I’m too old for this, Iverssen. Tell me what it was.” He knelt, a solitary man on the dais used when he served as Master of the Game.
What a deadly game.
Iverssen’s square jaw tightened as he pulled his brown hood away from his face. A single, white scar that sun and time would never remove ran from his upper right eyelid to the point of his chin. Only a miracle had preserved his sight.
“What it was?” came the testy answer. “Hunter’s touch, I’d say.” He walked over to where the King knelt and stood before him. The King bent his head a moment, both to hide his irritation and to murmur the Hunter’s prayer—the one said only by the King.
Iverssen joined him with a counter-cadence. Their words mingled, at cross-purposes to begin, but in harmony at the end.
“They grow younger every year,” the King said, as he slowly removed the gold-trimmed green greatcoat that the passage ceremony demanded. It was followed by the rest of his finery, of which there was little enough: cuff links; two rings; his crown.
“Yes.” Iverssen took the coat and folded it, showing as much reverence as he ever did. He snorted as the rings hit his palm, and squinted as light circled the crown. “And not much smarter.”
“Iverssen.”
“Majesty.”
The King rose, clad now in a fine tunic that simply bore his colors in a crest above deep brown; his leggings were even plainer, and of the same color. “I have almost never felt His touch so strongly.”
Iverssen nodded gruffly. With a little twist, he made a bundle out of greatcoat and valuables that would set the seamstress screaming. “Almost never?” The question was grudgingly given.
“Maybe never,” the King answered, his thoughts turning inward. “You are no younger than I; you know that memory is never a trustworthy truth keeper.”
“I don’t think I want to hear this,” Iverssen said, but he stopped walking so his robes wouldn’t rustle.
“It was when I was a boy,” the King said quietly.
Iverssen’s face became a set study of rigid lines. “Majesty, you—”
“I was four.” The King’s voice grew distant as he faced a memory that was never very far away. “It was the day I watched my father and my grandmother kill my grandfather for the sake of all Breodanir. I saw what my father was that day, and I never doubted that he would succeed. He looked older, more powerful, and more harsh than I ever saw him before or after. He came to the throne room. I followed him. And he stood,” the King turned, “there. In front of the antlers. He was the very Hunter.”
Iverssen knew the “he” the King spoke of. “Your father was of the blood, and it ran true. Your grandfather was a foolish and weak man.”
“Was he?” The King’s voice was soft. “He was a man of great heart.”
“What great heart destroys the very people he is meant to rule and protect?” Iverssen’s words were cutting; they spoke seldom of this, for this very reason. “Your father was Breodani.”
“My father,” the King replied, with only a trace of bitterness, “was still judged by the Mother for the crime of patricide. He ruled a scant ten years.”
“Majesty,” Iverssen said, conveying perhaps less respect than the word demanded, “we are all judged for the crimes we commit, and I believe the judgment was not the Mother’s, but rather, Aered’s.”
“Yes.” The King shook his head. “As heir to the Breodani, my father had little choice. I know it. I’ve been told no less for the entirety of my life—and I believe it’s truth. But . . . I remember my grandfather, although not well. He was a gentle man.
“It broke my grandmother and my father. Killing my grandfather was the worst thing that either of them ever did—and they did it for the Breodani.
“My grandfather hated sending the young to their deaths. He listened to the foreigners, and I believe—if no one else does—that he wanted to end the Hunt to save his people. Not more, and not less. If it would not weaken our people, I would make that truth kno
wn.”
Iverssen’s pursed lips and lined brow made his thoughts on that revelation quite clear.
“As I get older, Iverssen, I understand my grandfather’s folly too well.” The King shook his head, his voice very soft as he spoke what was almost heresy. Iverssen was disquieted, but he had seen the King in many moods. During the ceremonies of the Sacred Hunt—or those leading up to them—that mood was often the most bleak, the darkest. It was not easy to sentence your followers to death. Still, he was King, and the mood must be put aside. They would leave these chambers soon, and melancholy was not a public sentiment. “But the Hunter’s power was strong today.”
“Yes,” Iverssen nodded.
“The Elseth brothers.”
“Yes.”
“You’re being very agreeable,” the King said wryly. “It’s unlike you, and I’m not sure that I favor the change.”
Iverssen snorted. “Agreeable, is that it?” But he started to walk again, absently swinging his precious bundle. “It was those two, yes. I don’t know why. But did you see the huntbrother? I didn’t think he’d make it to the throne.”
“I saw him. And I saw what he did as he left.”
“Aye, and I as well. The Death stopped him cold.” Iverssen shook his head quietly. “Think he has a touch of the seer-born?”
“Not unheard of,” was the equally quiet answer. “But I’m not sure that this is the case here. The Hunter God has some plan that requires one, or both, of them.”
“You’re certain?”
“As much as I can be. But time will tell, as always. Come; we have barely enough time to change and present ourselves for the festivities. Some young bard has journeyed all the way from Senniel College in Averalaan in order to woo the ladies of the court. I heard his song last eve, and it was . . . pleasant.”
The Sacred Hunt Duology Page 19