Of course, after a few minutes of standing in their midst, the glitter of their wear vanished beneath the tense excitement of the soon-to-be-called Hunt. Conversation revolved around dogs, goals, battle plans. There was camaraderie, yes, but also competition, which had remained, until this moment, unspoken. One or two, younger Hunters to be sure, even mentioned the Hunter’s Death as a type of prey. The older Hunter Lords said nothing, but a shadow passed over their faces, stilling them a moment before anticipation returned—the remembered costs of each passing year.
It was the Ladies and the attendants who lost none of their aura. When they entered the hall, whether on the arm of their Hunter, or attended by other companions, it was clear where the power in Breodanir lay. The older women, especially, walked with a grace and confidence that spoke of experience and easily accessible knowledge. They were comfortable talking of the Sacred Hunt, but equally comfortable arranging the last few bits of trade and barter, giving the final words of judgment advice or supping frugally on what was placed before them.
Gilliam had to elbow Stephen twice, hard, in the ribs when his attention strayed to the less relevant members of the huge hunting party.
Norn had looked sharply at Stephen when they finally appeared in the hall, but Stephen’s curt and controlled nod seemed to satisfy him. The edge of the anger the older huntbrother had shown the day before—had it only been one day?—was blunted and put aside.
Stephen was keenly aware of the fact that Elseth put on no fine display. Both Norn and Soredon—heads of the Elseth responsibility—wore good, solid, serviceable spring cloaks. They were also incredibly dull.
Well, he’d talk with Lady Elseth about it when they got back to the manor, and if it could be afforded, they’d look better next year. He consoled himself with the fact that all of the finery would vanish the minute the King’s horn was sounded. Then the Hunters would be measured by their true worth, not by their clothing. Still . . .
The drums sounded in the distance, and the hall quieted as all eyes turned to the doors. No horn sounded to announce the coming of the King—no horn would be winded this day until the start of the Hunt.
But the drums did their work, beating in time like an unnatural heart. The doors rolled open, and the King entered the room, the Queen by his side. He was clothed in the colors of Breodanir, all dark greens and browns, but his cloak and jacket were emblazoned across chest and back with gold thread. He wore no cap, and his hair hung in a single braid, beneath a simple circlet. Behind him, pages carried two spears, one long and slender, one thick with protrusions near its iron point.
The Queen had left behind the greens and browns; nor did she choose a simple dress for the outdoor occasion. She walked, in full skirts, like sunlight made human. Gold brocade danced just above her boots, and lit around her shoulders and arms like spreading fire. Where the King wore a circlet, she wore a crown, and the jeweled work, even from the back of the hall, bore the mark of the maker-born. It was perfect.
The King raised his Lady’s hand and stood facing the gathered nobles. “We welcome you to the King’s City,” he said softly. “On this day we are called upon to prove our ranks, and their worth, to our people. Will you follow?”
The hushed susurrus of assent filled the room, as did the King’s grave smile. He paused only once, his eyes scanning the crowd, until he found the one he was searching for. Stephen met his gaze and bowed; it obscured his eyes.
They left the palace, perhaps not in as orderly a fashion as one would wish; there was subtle jockeying for position between the various landed Hunters. But it was kept to a minimum, and by the time the procession, with carriages and footmen, banners and flags, reached the palace gates, the dignity of the occasion prevailed.
The streets were lined. It seemed that everyone, whether gainfully employed or not, bore witness to the passing procession. Some merchants had even taken the time to set up stalls and displays, although they didn’t attract the nobles. The smell of food and ale was in the air, and the musicians that led the royal procession carried tunes that even the children here could sing; cradle songs, school songs—tunes of youthful fear and hope.
The dogs were growling in the wagons that carried them. Small children, whose age gave them some excuse, and large youths, whose age did not, approached the wheels and peered cautiously in to see snapping, white teeth.
Through dint of will, the Hunter Lords kept their packs contained—but as they prepared for the Sacred Hunt, with all of its little competitions, so, too, did the dogs.
Gilliam didn’t have to worry about it for this hunt. Later, he would understand why the Hunter Lords grew testy and snappish as they rode by in their carriages, past plain small buildings, stalls, and real storefronts. Stephen, fulfilling the function of the absent Lady Elseth, reached out of his window and waved, keeping both his hands and his smile stiff and formal. One or two people waved back, but these were mostly the young, or the parents of the young who wished to teach them a friendly example. The oldest among the watchers only inclined their heads gravely, standing as if in salute, which, indeed, they were.
It was a bright, clear day—crisp and cool, which was to be expected. Some of the lords and ladies rode in open carriages and smiled as if they little minded the chill bite of the cold breeze. They had furs, mind, and cloaks that were up to spring’s test.
Stephen thought an open carriage would be splendid, but knew that it would have to wait until Maribelle was of age and she and Lady Elseth came to the court in person. Hunters just didn’t have the necessary pomp and circumstance about them to merit it on their own.
But he thought better of it when he realized just how exposed the lack of a roof above his head would make him; one open side window was enough. He waved until his arm was sore, and then continued to wave, thinking that it couldn’t be much farther. To his amazement, the line of gathered well-wishers continued right up to the city gates that led north—and beyond that, as farmers and those who did not dwell within the King’s City also lined the road to pay their respects.
The villagers, for such they were, were old-fashioned and not so prone to the casual ways of the city dwellers. The older folk bowed, hatless, and held their bows until the last member of the procession rode by.
Of course, the younger children tailed after the last carriage with happy little yowls of delight, until caught by their grandparents, which didn’t happen in the city either.
• • •
Outside of the preserve, gardeners had been at work since the snows had melted, clearing away dead branches, old leaves, and the occasional remains of winter food the forest’s predators had left behind. There were no trees here. They had been cut down and uprooted centuries past, and none were allowed to encroach. Seedlings which were lucky enough to survive the northerly climate’s snow and wind did not escape the gardeners and the wardens.
The ground was soft and damp, and tended toward mud in some places, but the King’s servants were up to the task they excelled in. New grass had already been laid—at great expense—and the King’s pavilion, with its flat planks and colorful tents, was visible the moment the road came to an end. Flowers, carefully tended to indoors in the off-season, had been planted and arranged so as to be in their glory for the arrival of the nobles. The pits were ready, and would not remain empty past the late afternoon. Stones lined them, and the spits that served to grill meat for the feast were already set up.
A dais that was neither simple nor new had been erected. Only one throne sat upon it, not the customary two, and it was clearly not meant for the King.
The King and Queen were the first to disembark, as they led the procession. The King dismounted first, setting both feet on the ground before turning to offer his Lady his hand.
The Queen came out like the sun, and if her smile was slightly sad, only the footmen saw it, and they never commented. They bowed, and held their bows as their monarchs
walked by, her hand on his stiff forearm. The King led her up to the dais and to the throne. There, he withdrew his arm, and as she sat—with the help of two attendants who managed to stay in the background while they arranged her billowing skirts—he, too, bowed, falling to one knee. She reached out, and placed the tips of her fingers against his velvet hood, pushing it back and away from his hair.
For a few moments, in the silence of the cool dawn, she was all of the waiting Ladies, and he all of the Hunters at risk—both of whom had seen too many deaths to make any promises or any wishes known.
And then their somber silence was rudely broken by the thrum of harp strings struck badly for just that purpose. Without so much as a by-your-leave, a very young man holding a harp at his hip as if it were a comfortable sack, leaped up onto the dais, singing. His hair was soft, burnished gold, which fell in ringlets past his shoulders in such a perfect way that some of the younger Ladies watched with envy—and interest. He moved with grace, surety, and speed, and somehow managed to toss the edge of his pale gray cloak over his shoulder without interrupting the music.
Unfortunately, he was singing the song that most peasants knew as “The Drunken Hunter,” a ribald and silly little ditty that one didn’t sing around one’s mother. His voice, perfect in pitch and sweet in tone, carried so that even those farthest from the King and Queen could hear it clearly. This was the talent of the bard-born, and by his brazen act, rather than by any symbol of any college, Kallandras the bard made himself known.
Shock kept the Lords silent, and the Ladies kept straight faces, although one or two of the younger girls shook silently behind spread fans, which made it impossible to tell whether they were crying or laughing.
But the Queen laughed gaily, and the sparkle in her eyes made it clear that the cheek of the young bard did no damage to her good opinion of him. The King raised an eyebrow, but made no comment as he gained his feet. Kallandras’ voice was so buoyant and cheerful, it was a delight to listen to, even wrapped as it was around such a questionable series of stanzas.
For his finish, he coaxed from his harp a series of notes that seemed impossible, and then bowed with a flourish, drawing his small cap down and across his chest in the manner of those from the East. A smattering of applause followed, mostly from the Ladies and the servants.
“Kallandras, why have you come?” The Queen held out one slender hand, her expression making clear her welcome, as the question did not. He took it gracefully, brought it to his lips, and smiled.
“Did you think I would miss such a festive occasion without just cause? I’ve decided to accept your invitation, Majesty. What other opportunity have I,” he added, lowering his voice, “to spend so much time surrounded by such elegant and powerful Ladies—without the interference of their husbands?”
“Have a care, young minstrel,” the King said, mock-sternly. “You give the studious and serious bards a poor name.”
“Indeed I do, Highness,” was the reply. “But it’s not half so bad as the names they give—well, call—me.”
Stephen, who had edged as close to the dais as he dared, realized that the stories the servants told of the bard-born were true: They would say anything at all, no matter how improper or inappropriate, and give no offense. Kallandras’ voice was filled with a warmth and friendliness that permeated every word he spoke in the presence of the highest powers in the land. And they, King and Queen, could not help but respond.
“And who is the young eavesdropper?” Kallandras said quietly. The voice changed; it still held warmth, mixed now with curiosity—but beneath that there was something as cool as steel.
Stephen started as the bard turned to look directly at him. Then he cringed as the gazes of the King and Queen followed.
“The young man? He’s huntbrother to Lord Gilliam of Elseth. Stephen?” The word, from the King’s lips, had the force of command.
Stephen walked to the side of the dais and quietly mounted the steps. He took care with his cloak—the last thing he wanted, in front of personages such as these, was to trip or stumble.
“Stephen. Of Elseth.” The bard came forward as Stephen hesitated, too aware that he had the attention of all of the Hunters and their Ladies. “I’m Kallandras of Senniel.” He frowned when it was obvious that the name of the most illustrious of all bardic colleges meant nothing to the young huntbrother. That frown rippled and deepened; it became distant and cool once again.
This close to the bard, it was clear to Stephen that that coolness was not directed at him. He waited because he had nothing to say, and after a moment, Kallandras smiled wistfully. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Lord Stephen.” His voice was full, his bow, low. “I’ve heard about you.”
Stephen’s mouth formed a half “o” of surprise. He opened his mouth to speak, and the bard’s ringlets shifted with the shake of his head. “Not now, huntbrother—you and I have other duties at the moment, or so the King’s glare tells me.”
The King was not glaring. “Duties? You?”
“Ah, yes. Didn’t someone tell you?”
“Tell me?” The King turned his head to meet his wife’s gaze. She smiled a little ruefully and nodded. “Tell me what?”
“It is almost the call of the Sacred Hunt. I join the drummers, Your Highness.” Now, for the first time in the King’s presence, Kallandras fell to one knee. “I will sing the Hunt’s beginning with your permission, Master of the Game.”
“And will your bard-born voice soothe the Hunter’s Death and stave off the fulfillment of our promise?” It was said in jest, or at least it appeared so, but Stephen could see that the King’s eyes did not smile with his lips.
“No. But perhaps I will give heart to your Hunters.”
“And perhaps to our God.” The King looked up to meet Iverssen’s gaze. They locked stares for a moment, and then the Priest looked away. “Yes, if you will. Sing the Hunt’s beginning.” He reached up and unclasped his cloak. Before it left his shoulders, two attendants were behind him to smooth and preserve the folds of green velvet. “But, Kallandras?”
“Yes, Highness?”
“I charge you to do at the end what you claim you will do at the beginning. Lend heart to my Hunters.”
To this, Kallandras had no reply. He nodded again, and bowed his head low until the King passed by him. When he heard the royal feet upon the stairs, he looked up to meet the solemn eyes of the Queen.
He mouthed a few words, and the Queen’s eyes rose.
“No,” she whispered. “Not ‘The Drunken Hunter.’”
• • •
The drums began their sonorous roll at the edge of the clearing farthest from the preserve. The Hunter Lords had returned with their lymers—the best of the scent hounds in the kingdom. They had chosen their quarry well, if quickly, and all that remained was the Hunt. The huntbrothers coupled the dogs while their masters prepared as the drums beat on. It was an odd sound; steady and yet somehow almost musical. If the forest had a pulse, this was it: wild and primitive and endless.
The Ladies, those present, gave tokens to their Lords and wished them well—but it took mere minutes. The Lords were already in trance, and too far away from anything that was not either dog or huntbrother.
Stephen held the couples and every so often nudged a dog in the ribs with his boot. Terwel was the worst of the lot and could barely be kept from springing the leash and dragging his companion with him. He had sighted a competitor he dearly wished to test himself against—the big, red-brown hound that Lord Alswaine boasted as his pride.
Alair. That was his name.
Gilliam turned to stare wide-eyed at the leader of his borrowed pack. Terwel’s growl grew stronger, but he settled back into the lead; the Hunt was close, he would soon be allowed to run and track and feed. Today was not the time to test the son of the master.
The strain in Stephen’s upper arms and shoulders les
sened. Freed from the intense worry and concentration the large gray alaunt demanded, he looked up to watch Gilliam’s face. What he saw was the Hunter in trance. It was time, now, to join him.
He closed his eyes, and as sight left him nothing but the faint red-black beneath his eyelids, sound grew stronger. The drumbeats grew louder and more insistent, although they remained steady and rhythmic. He felt his own pulse racing to catch time, and felt one other join it. He could almost hear the whisper of the dogs, almost taste the absolute necessity to be free of the couples, hunting the running, jumping, cloven-hoofed, frightened prey. He felt energy, excitement, overweening pride—and none of it was his. Shaking his head, he pulled back. His eyes flew open and he saw the clearing as it was: full of dogs and men, the former gray and brown, black and occasionally white—the latter, green, brown, and gold. He did not understand, in that moment, how Gilliam could live in the Hunter’s trance; just the taste of it, seen through their oath-bond, alarmed him, and if he regretted not being born to the Hunter God’s service, he also felt relief.
And then he heard it: the single, haunting note of the King’s horn. It shattered the noise that Stephen had barely been aware of and, before silence could settle, continued with three shorter ones.
In answer, the Hunter Lords drew their horns, and lifted them as one man. Stephen was no musician, but he knew that the absolute perfection of timing, of inhale, start, and stop, should have been impossible. He waited until the drums commanded the air once again before fumbling at his belt. The horn the King had given him was cold to the touch against both fingers and lips. He drew breath around the mouthpiece and expelled it forcefully. One short note. One long. Two short notes. One long.
In the forest, the shadows stirred; the leaves rustled, unusually loud with the force of the wind and the morning. Stephen felt something snap into place as the notes died away. Almost reluctantly, he tied the horn to his belt once more.
The Sacred Hunt Duology Page 24