The Sacred Hunt Duology

by Michelle West

  He might have added that he couldn’t eat, couldn’t sit still, and couldn’t concentrate; might have pointed out that Stephen’s fear was so strong that it overwhelmed everything else. But he was Gilliam; he didn’t. It seemed too obvious a truth.

  Stephen sighed and nodded; his throat caught and tightened. He gestured toward the nearest corner of the room, and they both turned in silence.

  When they were as far from the hearing of others as possible, Stephen turned to Gilliam.

  “I had a dream.”

  Gilliam nodded, waiting.

  “I was in the temple. The temple that was here before the palace. I told you about it last night.” He stopped a moment, and looked at Gilliam. Gilliam’s brown eyes were unblinking, and unmocking, as they met his. “Everyone else was dead. All the Priests, the servants—everyone. It was three days before the calling of the Hunt.

  “I was alive—I was a Priest.”

  At this, Gilliam snorted. “You’d make a rotten Priest.”

  Stephen nodded, as if he’d heard the words without understanding them. “I was the only one. There were mages. There was fire and darkness. I was afraid. But I—I knew it was a dream—I knew it. I just couldn’t wake up.” He brought his hands to his face and examined them closely. “I was injured. Bleeding.”

  “What happened?”

  “I ran to safety. A room in the temple with an altar. There was a sword, a spear, couples, leads—but the most important thing was a horn. I picked it up. I sounded it.” He closed his eyes, remembering the only peaceful thing that had happened. “And someone came, someone in blue.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. The face was covered by a hood. But I couldn’t ask—because the Hunter’s Death came, too.” Shaking, he lowered his hands.

  “It was only a dream,” Gilliam said quietly. But he waited; Stephen was not yet finished.

  “I think I might have said that. And the person in blue—he said, ‘It is the first dream.’”

  “The first?” Gilliam shook his head and slowly sat down. It didn’t bother him that there was no chair to catch him; he was quite comfortable on the floor.

  Stephen nodded. He knew he should at least tell Gil to get a chair, but he didn’t have the energy. Saying the words aloud had made them more real than the silence of fear did.

  The first dream.

  The Unnamed God dealt in dreams and visions, and if he visited these upon you thrice in three nights, you were his subject, you bore his wyrd.

  “‘One dream is a dream.’” It was a quote, and Gilliam offered it to Stephen knowing that it wouldn’t be any help. Stephen didn’t answer in words, but after a moment he, too, lowered himself to the floor. They sat facing each other as they might have done on a normal day in the kennels.

  Gilliam reached out, caught his huntbrother’s hand, and held it very tightly. “You believed him, didn’t you?”

  Stephen nodded.

  “Wait. We’ll know in two days.”

  He nodded again.

  “And it doesn’t matter. If we’ve got the wyrd of the Unnamed on us, we’ll face it together—and we’ll beat it. I promise.”

  The knot in Stephen’s throat eased, but only a little.

  • • •

  Lunch went well, and dinner was another festive affair. The ladies and their eligible daughters were now out in force—a force to be reckoned with. Twice, Stephen had to rescue Gilliam before he said enough to earn his absent mother’s wrath. Norn was even busier with Soredon, and it soon became clear to Stephen that all of the huntbrothers present watched over their Hunter Lords with an eye to social details.

  The Elseth preserve was not a small one; indeed, compared to many it was quite sizable. But it was close to the eastern boundary of the kingdom, and farther from the capital, so in the early marriage-seeking forays, Gilliam was not besieged. He did speak with one or two of the young Ladies—and Stephen winced when Gilliam began his earnest, passionate discussions about how he was going to build his hunting pack to any who could hear.

  The Ladies listened politely of course, as any huntbrother would. Unfortunately, Gilliam could offer no like polite response when they attempted to steer the conversation to less specific topics. True to his class, he found it intensely uncomfortable to talk about the “weather,” and it was impossible to draw more than a grunt or a nod from him about anything but the Hunt.

  It was up to Stephen to fill the awkward silences, and again he did Lady Elseth proud. He talked, or rather listened intently, to matters of trade and governance; bowed with exactly the right amount of deference—forcing Gilliam to do the same by dint of a glare they both understood the meaning of—and complimented the women on their finery. That last was not hard to do. Any time a Lady, dressed in full evening wear, walked across the ballroom’s threshold, he felt a hint of awe. The Hunter Lords had a grace that was born of agility and aggression, and honed on the Hunt; the Ladies had a grace born of the same, but honed on the dance floor, or in odd etiquette lessons—and Stephen found the mixture of delicacy and swift, sure steps the more entrancing of the two.

  As well, although he didn’t bother to say so to Gilliam, he found the colors that the Ladies wore much more pleasing to the eye; he’d had enough of Hunter green, brown, and gray to last a lifetime. Pale blues, azures, brilliant magentas, crimsons, golds—each dress as unique as the clothing of the Hunter Lords was uniform.

  The only time he lost sight of Gilliam was when Lady Alswaine began her discourse on the problems with the seat of judgment in her preserve. For Stephen, to whom the law was still absolute and carved in stone, her ambivalence was both shocking and fascinating.

  “There are mitigating circumstances for many crimes,” she said, speaking more to the young women present than to Stephen. “For instance, Veralyn, what would you do if one of your villagers was caught stealing from the manor house?”

  Lady Veralyn’s cheeks clashed with her dress as she flushed. She opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it slowly, wondering at the game that Lady Alswaine, older and wiser, was playing, for Lady Alswaine asked no idle questions. Lady Veralyn was a year older than Stephen, and not yet pledged to any Lord or Lord’s son. “I would—I would have to know more.”

  Lady Alswaine’s smile held a glimmer of approval. “Indeed, and when you occupy your seat, you will have that opportunity. In this case, it was winter, and a harsh one.” She tilted her head to the side and glanced at Stephen. “What of you, Stephen of Elseth?”

  Stephen flushed, wondering whether or not Lady Alswaine knew of his origins. He was certain she must, and his response, defensive, was also a completely correct recitation of the laws of Breodani. “Fine, work edict, or finger. It would depend on what he’d stolen.”

  “Pigeons.”

  “Fine.”

  “He had no money.” Lady Alswaine’s lips turned up in a smile that was both friendly and annoying.

  “Then work edict.”

  “Would you trust him in your manor?”

  “Finger.” It was the most severe of the sentences that could be meted out, and Stephen said it reluctantly, remembering his own fears, his own days in the lower city, surrounded by his hungry den mates.

  “And what would his family do come spring and the common season? Death, I think, would be kinder—and death is not an option. Come, Stephen. I am the person who metes out justice, with the aid of the village head. In this case, the man committed a very real crime—but for foolish reasons, nay, stupid ones.”

  “But he committed a crime.”

  “Of course.” She folded her arms very delicately. It made her look as fragile as a rock. “But the why of it was interesting. He was young, and had just taken a wife the previous summer. His wife was the pride of her parents, and the desire of many of the younger men—and he was still not comfortable in her choice of him. He co
nsidered the gift of her acceptance the whim of luck, and was afraid that if he failed her, she would revoke it. The house that they dwell in is simple, and was, of course, built with the aid of the village as a whole—but in order to impress her, he foolishly bartered and used supplies that were to have seen them through the winter.”

  Stephen shrugged uncomfortably, but did not look away from Lady Alswaine. She waited a moment before continuing, to judge both his expression and his temper. Satisfied, she nodded and went on.

  “What would you have done, were you in his position?”

  “Gone to the village head,” Stephen replied promptly. “If the village head wasn’t prepared to deal with the shortage and arrange for repayment, they could go to the manor proper and ask for the reserves.”

  “Yes. That is what’s supposed to happen. But if he went to the village head, his young bride would be sure to know. So instead, he came to the manor at night.” Lady Alswaine held out her cup as a signal to a passing servant. The young man bowed and carefully refilled it before moving on. “He was caught, of course, and his case was brought to me immediately. Now, Stephen, Veralyn—place yourself in my position, and more important, place yourself in his. He committed a crime against Alswaine, yes, but that was only a symptom.

  “The real wrong was done to his wife.”

  For a moment, Stephen’s brow furrowed; his face grew intent, and his eyes less focused. The lessonmaster would have known the expression immediately and approved of it. As the Lady Alswaine commanded, Stephen tried to place himself in the young man’s position. He found, to his surprise, that it was easy. He was in the King’s City, after all; the place of his birth and the first eight years of his life.

  He remembered, although the memory was blurred and fuzzy now, how he had spent those eight years. Luck had smiled often on him, and he had escaped the notice of the King’s guard—and therefore, of the Queen’s judgment—but he remembered how the fear felt.

  “Did he steal wood?” he asked quietly.

  She chuckled. “The city isn’t out of you entirely, is it? No, wood is not a problem in Alswaine. He took only food, and it was near the end of the season.”

  He nodded, and continued to furrow his brow. Lady Alswaine spoke of the thief’s crime against his wife, but clearly there wasn’t one. First, she had nothing to steal, and second, he probably only wanted to feed her. Of course, if he had wanted to feed her, and he’d had half a brain, he’d have just gone to the village head, admitted his need, and been done with it.

  But then he’d have to tell her that he’d wasted all of their winter supplies, and she’d be angry and leave him.

  Or would she? He stopped, and the lines in his forehead melted away. “He didn’t trust her,” he said quietly.

  “No, he didn’t. And if you see that, you might know what I demanded as restitution.” Clearly pleased, she turned her full attention upon him, her gold-fringed skirts rustling as she moved.

  “You made him tell her.”

  “Very good!” She almost clapped, but the goblet she held prevented it. “Yes, but more; I had her called to the manor. I’m afraid I was rather cruel to the young man, which certainly suited the nature of both of his crimes. I didn’t tell him that I had summoned her, for I believed that I understood his motives. Instead, I had her wait behind a screen with the various servants who attend the judgments. When he told me, at length, of the reasons for the theft, she could hear every word.

  “I must say that I had always thought her sweet and relatively even of temper.” Here she smiled, but the smile was one that Stephen couldn’t understand at all. “She knocked the screen over and stood with her fists by her side. I thought she was going to hit him in front of all of us.” She was laughing; wine swirled over the rim of silver and slid in droplets down her fingers. It was some minutes before she could speak again. Stephen didn’t understand what was funny about it at all.

  “She didn’t kill him—I mentioned that I thought it was rather too severe for his crime—but she made her displeasure quite clear.” And here, her eyes softened. “And when he understood that she was angry, not because of the theft or the shortages, but because he hadn’t trusted her . . . well, they left together, and in the end I think she was glad that she hadn’t killed him.” She set her glass aside when the servant next passed by. “So there you have it. Not everything is clear, especially to those of us who must judge. And before you think that you learn more with age, I’ve news for you both—you unlearn much. Things become more complicated and less clear.”

  Stephen nodded attentively before he chose to speak again. When he did, his voice was quiet. “But, Lady,” and he bowed, “what would you have done if the thief’s wife was exactly what he was afraid she was?”

  “Your point, young Stephen.” Her smile was sad. “But you’ve ruined my little story for the evening. Even the unclear becomes more unclear with time. What would I have done? As I did, I think, but I wouldn’t remember it fondly, nor as a triumph. And I would have grieved for the foolish young man in the privacy of my rooms. It is difficult for the young when their dreams die.

  “Now. Enough. Where is your Hunter? You’ve left him long enough that he’s bound to embarrass your House; go, quickly.”

  Stephen showed her a hint of the man he might become. Although he did not understand her sudden change, and the loss of her little smile, he asked no further questions. Instead he bowed, low and formal in his respect.

  “Wisdom,” she said, as he rose from his bow, “is not knowledge. It is experience. You will find, as you grow older, that you are capable of many wrongs which you consider evil now; you will also understand much about people that you dismiss. You may even understand the fear that comes with love, and the love that transcends fear.”

  • • •

  That night he returned to the temple. This time there was no silence and no isolation, and the air was full of smoke and ash—the rewards of fire. He was standing in the pews which were only half full when the wall uttered a roar and suddenly crumbled.

  He saw four men in dark robes, and behind them saw soldiers with raised swords, and crossbows that were already loosing quarrels. Because he was spinning, he was spared. A wooden bolt grazed his forehead, leaving a red trail but no death in its wake.

  He ran; he was closest to the doors that led to the inner temple. The sounds of slaughter had already started before he crossed the threshold, but he spared no backward glance. He knew that there was nothing he could do. This was a dream, after all.

  But he couldn’t shake it and couldn’t defeat it. His feet carried him where his will could not prevent it; already the halls and the torches were familiar, as was the pursuit. He reached the inner sanctum, threw the doors wide, and ran for the altar. The passage of time did not slow; he could feel darkness and hear the approach of the mages. Gone was the moment where each item laid out for the Hunter could be studied and appreciated—only one artifact was of any import.

  His hands curled around the horn. He lifted it, shaking. He sounded it and the call was clear.

  And once again, the midnight-blue robes that concealed and presented at the same time appeared. He was bent now, as if from some great work, or great injury; he seemed older and more diminutive. Behind him, the darkness was held at bay—and beyond that, a glint of unnatural light on divine fur and fangs began to grow.

  “But it’s only a dream!” Stephen shouted.

  “Yes,” the figure said, and it sounded just as it appeared—older or weaker. “But this is the second dream.”

  • • •

  Stephen had breakfast brought to his room the next day. Although he woke early, he could not bear to enter the dining hall. He tried to think on other things; caught the strand of Lady Alswaine’s lesson, and held it firmly. He even prayed to the Mother. It was foolish, but in the privacy of his room, there was no one to laugh or call him a child.


  It was the last day of festivities; tomorrow, the hunters would leave the King’s City—and the King’s palace—to enter the royal preserve. There, when the Master of the Game called the Hunt, he and Gilliam would face the creature of nightmare: the Hunter’s Death.

  Before they could do that, there was the packing to attend to. In silence, Stephen rose and began to empty his drawers and closets of the things he would need: sword, spear, horn. Norn had, for the moment, the couples and leads; he would hand them over with the part of the pack that Gilliam would lead in the Hunt.

  The dress jacket and cloak, the breeches and shirt—all of these would be carefully set aside, to be worn during the great feast that followed the Sacred Hunt. He started to hang them properly, when the door creaked open.

  It was Norn.

  “I heard you had words with Lady Alswaine last eve,” he said jauntily. Then he stopped, hand still on the door. “Stephen—what’s wrong? Too much drink?”

  “No,” was Stephen’s reply, but it held little indignation, little fire.

  “You’ve not been swept off your feet by a young lady, have you?”

  “No!”

  “Well, good, then. The Hunter Lords are oblivious when it comes to the ladies, almost the entire lot of them—but the huntbrothers are sometimes a little foolish at their first Hunt. About the ladies, that is.” He walked into the room and shut the door. “Gilliam didn’t do anything really bad, did he?”

  Stephen shook his head. “Spilled ale on Lady Marget’s dress; I apologized.”

  “You’re sure that’s all?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then if it’s nothing, you’d better snap out of it.” Norn’s voice grew harder. He sat down on the bed, resting his elbows against his knees. “You’re having your effect on your Hunter, Stephen—and he can’t afford it now. Any other time of the year, yes—but not before the Sacred Hunt. He’ll need his wits about him; he’ll need to be sharp and focused, not distracted and exhausted.”