“From Averalaan?” Iverssen’s frown made clear what he thought of that.
“He’s not a dignitary, Iverssen—he’s a bard, and a bard-born one at that. You know that the bards form no allegiances or alliances political. They travel with news and music, no more.”
It was obvious that the Priest felt the presence of an outsider improper just days before the most important ritual of the Breodani. He started to say as much, when the King held out a hand.
“He makes the Queen laugh, Iverssen. And almost nothing does before the Hunt. I’ve accepted the young man in the court for that reason. Do you question it?”
“No, Majesty,” Iverssen replied, bowing low. To that tone of voice, and that expression, there was no other answer.
“Good,” the King said. He turned and continued to walk until he reached the closed door. Iverssen opened it for him, just as the lowest of servants might, and the King passed him by, stopping at the last moment to meet the eyes of his closest friend. The matter of the bard was forgotten, as was his momentary irritation. Only things Breodani remained. “I ask you to pray to the Hunter, Iverssen. I know what happened the last time I felt His presence so clearly. Let there not be so terrible a price associated with it, this time.”
• • •
“No,” Norn said, as he adjusted Stephen’s jacket. “The King has no huntbrother. The closest he has is Priest Iverssen. Sometimes Priest Greymarten.”
Stephen looked at himself in the long oval mirror; his face was pale, his hair brushed back and drawn up around it. “Why not? He’s a Hunter, isn’t he?” It was a question that he had often wondered about, but had never pressed until now.
“Not just ‘a’ Hunter, no. You might have seen the difference today?” Stephen didn’t answer the question; Norn shrugged. “The King is the Hunter personified, when the Sacred Hunt is called. In the beginning of time, it was the King of our people to whom the Hunter God appeared. And it was with the King that the covenant between the Breodani and their God was forged. The King is the living vessel of the God at the time of the Hunt proper, and that vessel need not be reminded of . . . commonality. Not in the way the nobility must. Because the Hunter is not common in any way.
“Hold still; I’m beginning to think you’ve caught Gilliam’s jitters.”
Stephen waited patiently until Norn drew out of the mirror’s vision. “But the King hunts, doesn’t he?”
“Yes—” Norn shook his head. “I forgot. You’ve never hunted with the King. Yes, he hunts. He has his pack, just as Soredon does, as Gilliam will. But he never hunts without the Priests. They tend to him, as you tend to Gilliam. There are also the Huntsmen of the Chamber; when they hunt, they hunt in the King’s party. They offer him counsel and they offer him protection.
“Should you become such a one, you will learn an entirely new set of horn calls and obediences and services. The worst of which will be forcing Gilliam to conform to royal protocol.
“With all of that, a King doesn’t need a huntbrother. A King has to be closer to God than he does to the commoners, I’d imagine.” Norn shrugged. “Doesn’t make a lot of sense to me. If the Betrayer had had a huntbrother, we’d never have had the famines and plagues.”
“Why not? The Betrayer didn’t listen to the Priests either. Why would he listen to a huntbrother?”
“How easy a time does Gil have when he’s set on ignoring you?”
Stephen smiled.
“Well, and maybe there you have it. A huntbrother’s bond is strong—maybe stronger than the sworn oath the King gives when he takes the crown. You and Gilliam will have Elseth as a responsibility, but you’ll have the luxury of watching over each other as well. The King can’t afford that partiality; he is sworn to all of Breodanir for his term.”
“Do the Kings die in the Sacred Hunt?”
“Stephen, you think too much of death,” Norn said quietly. He looked at Stephen’s still face in the mirror, and then relented. “A King died once. Harald the Second, if I recall correctly,” Norn answered as he walked to the window to see where the sun sat. “It was . . . it was not a good time for the kingdom; his son was too young. The Hunt wasn’t called the year after the King’s death.”
Stephen knew what that meant.
“And you’d know it, too, if you’d more time for our history. That’ll come, now that Gil is a Hunter proper and both of you have less to prove. The King’s vows are more complicated and subtle than ours were. One day, Stephen, you’ll be witness to them, for they must be taken at a gathering of the Sacred Hunt, and the Hunter Lords.”
“You’ve seen them?”
“Aye, but I was young and impressionable. Now come; these festivities are paid for by the crown—do you think to make me miss them?”
• • •
“It’s a fine new generation of young Hunters, isn’t it?” Lady Alswaine looked out at the crowd with a predatory sparkle in her eyes. She had two daughters of marriageable age, and had every intention of pressing their interests with a suitable family. She had been quite the beauty in her time, and even now, with the spark of youthful verve faded, she was still one to catch and command the attention. She lowered the powder-pink fan and turned her gaze upon her companion.
“Indeed,” he replied softly. From long habit, his fingers strayed to his beard as he smiled across at her. Few women were his equal in height; she was one.
“What is this, Krysanthos? Have the mage-born become dullards with words in some vain attempt to equal the Hunter Lords?” Her smile was warm and only a trifle edged as it glanced off the back of her husband. There, from the gallery, she could see him surrounded by his hunting companions. They were involved in an animated discussion which no one not born to the Hunt could possibly have any interest in.
“Ah, your pardon, Lady. I was merely looking at the young Hunters. It is, after all, their occasion.” He leaned slightly over the edge of the gallery railings. “Who are those two?”
“Which ones? I’m afraid my sight is not as good as it used to be.”
He knew that her sight was as poor as an eagle’s, but smiled and indulged her; it cost him nothing. “The young, fair-haired one; he’s smartly attired—or rather, he wears his clothing like a huntbrother. I believe his Hunter is the dark-haired boy with his hands in the canapes, standing beside Astrid of the maker-born guild.”
“Ah, those two.” Her voice took on a lilt of interest. “I don’t know, but I believe they’re from Elseth. Come, why don’t we go down and congratulate them on their passage? It is why we’re here, after all.”
“Why not?” Krysanthos replied, offering Lady Alswaine a perfectly accoutered arm. She smiled as she slid her fingers around the black velvet of his sleeve. They took the stairs carefully and crossed the main floor with ease. The Hunter Lords didn’t notice their passage, and the other guests usually made way for Krysanthos; he wore the emblem of the Order of Knowledge, after all, and all who saw it, save perhaps untutored children, knew him for one of the mage-born. Vivienne, Priestess to the Mother, nodded coolly at his passing before turning again to listen to the words of a shy young man.
All of the nobles and all of the noteworthy people of the kingdom came to this feast and this festival of celebration. There—heard more than seen—the bard-born trilled some ageless, deathless melody of a Hunter’s bitter rite of passage. At the doors, priests of other orders could be seen making their entrance, chief among them Vardos, justice-born, with his gold-irised eyes, and his grim, severe face.
Lady Alswaine and her escort did not appear to notice their arrival; they were seeking other prey. “Hello,” Lady Alswaine said, as she released Krysanthos’ arm and walked up to one of the two young men.
Stephen looked up at her and smiled brightly. The hand that she offered, he took, holding it for exactly the right length of time. His hands were dry, and certainly not food encrusted. She would not ha
ve offered her hand to Gilliam.
“I’m Lady Alswaine. My husband is a Huntsman of the Chamber.”
“I met him earlier. I’ve heard that he’s a Hunter without match, except perhaps for the King himself.”
Clearly pleased, Lady Alswaine bowed her head, tipping her fan in Stephen’s direction. “You’ve been listening to him speak, then?”
A little “o” of shock came out before Stephen recovered himself. “He would never admit the truth of any of the tales, Lady.” Especially not while she was present.
Lady Alswaine was a tall woman. This was made clear to Stephen when she bent down to whisper in his ear. “Gilliam of Elseth has found himself a fine huntbrother. You will do Lady Elseth proud—you already have tonight.”
“Don’t monopolize the young man, Lady.”
Stephen turned at the words and stiffened. Years of etiquette lessons took over, and he held out his hand with a smooth smile as he performed the half-bow of equals. The bow was awkward. Stephen’s gaze was drawn and held by the platinum medallion that clung round the stranger’s throat. A slender crescent, a half moon, and the moon in full circle were raised in a triad that spoke of mystery and the light in darkness. Quartered in the moon at zenith were the symbols of the elements.
“Yes,” the man said quietly. “I am of the Order of Knowledge. Let me welcome you to our city.”
“Thank you, sir.” The words were formal, as stiff as Stephen himself. His fingers and legs tingled with the urge to be gone. The matters of the mage-born were not the concern of common men, and Stephen knew well the folly of trying to bridge the gap. All children, no matter whether they lived as unparented thieves in the lower city streets, or as wealthy scions of the highest families in the land, had heard many of the tales that surrounded the mage-born.
“Let me introduce myself. I am Krysanthos of the second circle. You are?”
“Stephen of Elseth.” He looked up and met the mage’s eyes. They were brown, palely tinted with flecks of gold and green, and they were clear and unblinking. In stories he had often read about how hair stood on end at the nape of one’s neck—and now he was certain it was no fanciful bardic wording.
“You’ve heard of Elseth, surely?” Lady Alswaine said, as she once again reached for the mage’s arm.
“Lord Elseth is a Master Hunter, I believe—and Elseth is a well governed preserve.” He did not raise his arm, or otherwise acknowledge Lady Alswaine’s unspoken request. Instead he stared at Stephen.
Stephen couldn’t look away. He froze as the eyes of the mage-born man came to life with a luminescent flare of blue. He could not even gasp as that light flashed forward toward his defenseless face.
“Stephen?”
Gilliam was there; suddenly Gilliam was at his side, instead of at the tables. His voice was quiet, concerned. He reached out quickly to place a hand on Stephen’s paralyzed shoulder.
The white mage-light sprang forward and fell short, dripping into nothing like an awkward spray of shining water. Stephen felt warmth for a moment, a familiar heat that radiated outward from a center no mage-light could reach. He caught Gilliam’s hand in his own and met the mage’s gaze squarely.
The mage shrugged; there was no hostility at all in his expression. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, young man. May you fare well in the Sacred Hunt.” He turned, moving neither too quickly nor too slowly, and left Stephen to wonder if his fear had grown fangs from his imagination.
“Who was he?” Gilliam asked, as he watched the velvet robes retreat.
“Krysanthos. Of the Order of Knowledge.”
“Mage-born.” Gilliam sounded as if he’d just swallowed something bitter. “I don’t like him.”
“Neither do I.” Stephen shivered. “I—I don’t know why.”
“He’s a mage.”
Which was as good an answer as any. Stephen shook off the shadows, but he stayed as close to Gilliam as possible for the rest of the evening. Which meant, of course, that Gilliam was remarkably well behaved for a young Hunter Lord.
• • •
Krysanthos was concerned. Although he had tried several times throughout the course of the evening, he had not been able to come close to the young Elseth huntbrother. He had made a cursory scan of all the rest and found them to be common, uninteresting young men; certainly not eager to go to the Hunter’s Death, but also caught up in their Lords’ pride.
But this Stephen worried him slightly. No other boy had reacted so strongly to what was a completely invisible use of magic—it was almost as if the youth had seen the flare of power, which was impossible.
The mage-born recognized the mage-born; it had always been so. And Krysanthos had seen no kinship, no like spark, in Stephen of Elseth. But he was certain the boy knew that a spell had been cast on him.
Angry, he paced the length of his chambers, pausing when he reached the carpet’s edge and turning on the ball of his heel. He hated Breodanir and longed to be quit of the place. Give him Essalieyan, and the most dangerous of missions there, and he would be content.
But no. He was here, with a mission that bordered on ludicrous for all its import, and a mystery that was not to his liking. For not only had the boy apparently been aware of his spell, he had also, somehow, negated it.
He pulled a tasseled bell. He would call the maid back and have her search, as thoroughly as she dared, the young man’s chambers. Some sort of protection spell, perhaps a maker-born amulet, was obviously behind this.
Yes. Of course. And when he found it, he would conveniently replace it with one less . . . potent. That done, he could catch the boy and mask out the memory of white-light and mage-spell. If that failed, he would have to resort to a common assassination—which might anger the Lord if any grew suspicious.
He walked over to the curtains and drew them aside. He had done it so often the finery of gold, brown, and green was beneath his notice. The sun was gone, the moon a crescent against the sky. Clouds ate away at the stars in blackness. It was time.
He let the curtains fall and left off tracing his impatient path into the carpet. The mirror in his bedchamber, perfectly dusted and gleaming in the light of his lamp, watched him like a sightless eye. That would change. He stood before it, saw the lines of concern around his lips and the corners of his eyes, and forced himself to smooth them into a cold, noncommittal expression. Pride made him pull his medallion from the folds of his shirt so it stood out as a proclamation of what and who he was.
The crackle of white mage-light came readily. It shot out and surrounded the mirror’s surface, dancing against it as if the silvered glass were liquid. He felt the pull of power as it left him; the cost of communication from Breodanir to the heart of the city of Averalaan was high. He was glad that he performed this spell so seldom. Unfortunately, recent casting times had come relatively close together and it took him some weeks to recover.
The mirror grew murky as it lost his reflection. The light without dwindled, and the light within grew, taking shape and substance until once again the mirror’s surface looked polished and reflective. It did not show his image.
“Sor na Shannen.” His bow was indolent, at best half-respectful—but he bowed.
“Krysanthos.”
He saw her back, and felt a flash of annoyance. She knew the time and the hour, and had had enough warning to comport herself with dignity. But no; the pale luminescence of her skin was completely uncovered. Her perfect shoulders rippled as she turned, slowly, to face him.
“You must be early.” She was seated on a low divan. Her hair was a spill of finespun night that trailed around exposed breasts and perfect torso. Her lips were red and full, her teeth a pale glimmer.
Against his will he felt himself responding. Annoyed, he cast a distancing spell with his personal power; it robbed some of the glamour of its strength—but not all. Sor na Shannen was a powerful demon, and
she held her demesne in the Hells with an absolute strength that many of the demon lords admired. No others of her kind had made the climb to such a height.
“You’ve been long away from the Hells,” he said quietly. “Do you trust your lieutenant?”
Her smile fell away from sharp, white teeth. “I will return in good time.” But she was cold now, and in coldness, quite safe. “You have a report to make; make it. I have waited until now to feed, and I am impatient to be out.”
“It is as it has been for the last four years.”
He knew what she would say, and she did not disappoint him. “Are you certain?”
“I am certain.”
“The last four years and the last three months differ greatly in circumstance.” Her voice grew sharper. “You saw no sign of the Horn?”
“I have seen no sign of it.”
“The Spear?”
“The Spear is useless without the Horn,” he said, through teeth that were already clenching. “But no. I have seen no sign of the Spear either.”
She relaxed, and her eyes once again grew liquid and lazy. “I don’t need to remind you of their import.”
“No.” He smiled, as cold as she had been. “Had they been in my keeping, I would not have been required to waste precious energy to speak about them.”
She hissed, and his smile grew warmer. “Enough. The priests that were responsible have perished, and I, too, grow tired of this game.”
“Then let me return.”
“No. We know that the agent who stole the Horn and the Spear came from the King’s Forest in Breodanir; Ellekar perished there. We know that the girl was not a Hunter, and we know that the Horn’s power resides with the ‘Hunter-born.’ It must be there. We are less than ten years from the completion of our plans—the gate-spell goes well, and our Lord should soon have free access to the mortal lands. Find the Horn. Do not let it be winded.”
The Sacred Hunt Duology Page 20