• • •
The Kovaschaii was furious. He followed the huntbrother, quickly catching up with him. As the boy dodged behind a tree, he corrected his path. It took no time and no thought; pursuit was the earliest teaching.
He knew that if he reached the boy now and managed to kill him, he would still fail in his taking. It was bitter knowledge; he would dance the death spiral yet, and it would be his own. But he also knew that Kallatin—the blackest name in the history of the Kovaschaii—was here to protect his victim. If he were to fail in his taken name, Kallatin, also, would fail. That much he would see to. Kallatin the traitor had barely completed the first—and the lowest—tier of training before he had disgraced the brotherhood by refusing a kill—and by vanishing into complex shadows and magic that even the Masters could not follow.
Estravim the Kovaschaii was of the third tier, and proud of it; he was young to be so skilled. But pride was not foolishness. He knew that the voice of the bard-born, from the throat of one Kovaschaii trained, would soon be his death.
He called on the last of his reserves, called up a power that he was never meant to touch, and used it. The boy’s progress slowed to near-halting; even strands of flailing hair ceased their struggle with the breeze. A second passed, maybe two, and the sword was raised above the back of the huntbrother’s neck, just as the arm had been earlier.
It came down in stillness and silence.
The clang of metal against metal was unmistakable as it reverberated to fill his ears. Time started to turn again; the boy’s back began to retreat. Estravim stared into the eyes of Kallatin the traitor. He spat.
• • •
Spittle, completely ignored, ran down the cheek of Kallandras the bard as he pulled back his blade and twisted it in the air.
Signal: now. Gesture, respect from one of lower tier to higher.
Estravim stepped into position with grace and deadly ease. He should not have granted the bard that respect, and he knew it—but it was automatic.
Kallandras held his blade in his right hand. His fingers shifted beneath the guard, his grip changed, and in a flick of motion, the tip of the sword cut his forehead, leaving a scant trail of blood in its wake. With his free hand, he gestured, a snap of motion from wrist to elbow that drove the cuff of his shirtsleeve momentarily up his forearm, revealing a slender bracer. Gold melded with silver glinted in the dull light; each termination of the ten-point star—the symbol of the Kovaschaii—glittered. The sword fell slowly, point to ground, and wavered in the wind—but Estravim knew that Kallandras drew the foci of the ten-point star in the air like a sigil. Challenge. And it was a challenge that Estravim could not avoid.
No Kovaschaii of the first tier would have been able to draw this sigil. A grimace tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he spoke, although this, too, was foolish. “How?”
“Second tier,” Kallandras whispered, his eyes remote.
“No master would train you. . . .” Words failed him, and his anger, stiff to the point of breaking, shattered. He saw the star traced, could not help but see the beads of blood that struggled waywardly down a nose that had been broken at least once. With a motion twin to the bard’s, he snapped his wrist. He also wore the golden manacle of the Kovaschaii—but he had the right to bear it. He wanted to decry the bard’s use of the symbol, but again the words would not come. For he looked at the eyes of his enemy; they were very blue, very pale. Beneath their slate surface was a hint of sorrow, a touch of shame. Estravim grimly traced the ten-point star, taking it from memory and engraving it in the air. His response. “How could you choose treachery? We were brothers.”
At the use of the familiar term, Kallandras winced. “I am wyrd-ridden. I was shown what the death of the woman would bring us to: the end of the Kovaschaii—and the end of the world.”
“You were shown lies.”
“I was shown truth. For nothing less would I have left you.” His blade came up and he lunged.
“Even so—what of it? We are guaranteed to the Lady.” Estravim dodged and blocked, the movement turning to a thrust at the halfway mark. He felt steel against his skin before it entered; it was a cool, clean pain. He smiled anyway. He could see the spread of crimson across the bard’s cheek. They had each called blood; each touched in the step of this intricate, ancient dance.
Kallandras nodded grimly and began in earnest. Beads of sweat had time to line his brow and cheeks as he fought. Estravim was good—had always been good—and he attacked like one possessed. Because, of course, he was.
Here, in the open spaces of sparse woods and flat ground, Estravim gave in to his training; his sword grew wings, and the wind ran down the runnels along the crescent in a sibilant song that the Kovaschaii were trained to listen for. There was art in his movements, and in his attack; he chose the grace of line and action that was only displayed among equals. It didn’t change the ferocity of his weapon-play, but rather, made an art of it.
Kallandras, in defense, could not come up with half of the beauty and artistry that Estravim displayed in attack.
But that grace couldn’t last; the man who had once been called Kallatin knew it. Estravim had exhausted reserves of power that no Kovaschaii not resigned to death could call. That he could attack so perfectly spoke of his skill and his determination.
Estravim knew it, too—and his attack was a dance, almost a farewell. One second, he was dodging in midair, his feet clearing the ground by a good twenty inches, and the next, he was looking down the blade of the sword that ended—or started—in his chest.
“So soon?” His eyes shuttered and dimmed immediately; his face twisted in a pain that had nothing to do with the physical.
“I will remember. You had no equal here.”
A smile broke through the pain before his eyes rolled up. Kallandras stared down at him as he started to fall.
The clash and clang of swordplay stopped abruptly; the silence that followed was chilling. Stephen watched, his face at knee level, his body obscured by the trunk of the largest tree he had found.
The assassin had just stopped in mid-step, as if asking for a deathblow. Kallandras’ sword appeared out of nowhere to grant the man his request. The pale man sank to the ground, his knees bending and giving under his weight. Kallandras watched for a moment and then suddenly cursed. He yanked the sword free—sending a spray of red droplets across the ground—and threw the sword, hard.
It landed inches away from Stephen’s hand.
He barely noticed. Rising slowly, he began to retrace his steps, twice tripping over small inclines. His eyes were upon the bard.
Kallandras, in an odd mimicry of the assassin’s slow crumple, knelt to the ground and stretched out his arms to catch the body. Where the wound was open, blood splashed his breast. He ignored it as he gathered the body close, and cradled it against his chest. He heard Stephen coming and looked back. Only the trail of drying crimson across his forehead colored his face at all; even his eyes were flat and colorless.
“Go,” he whispered. “This is not for you.”
Stephen heard the anger in his voice and stopped moving. “I—thank you for—”
“Don’t say it.” Kallandras rose, still holding the body. “This is not for you, young huntbrother. Go.”
Stephen swallowed.
“It’s been minutes,” Kallandras said, as he lay the body down. “You won’t have lost them if you run.” He stiffened as Stephen hesitated. “Go.”
This time, confused or no, Stephen had no choice; the meaning of the word was made manifest in a way that no other spoken word had ever been. His legs were moving, his feet following the trail broken by dogs and Gilliam both—without his guidance.
And he was weeping. Tears coursed down his cheeks, warming them before wind turned them to ice.
It was how he knew that Kallandras’ smooth, pale face really was a mask over private p
ain; the bard hadn’t been able to keep the grief out of his command.
• • •
He was ashamed. To use the voice on the boy was inexcusable; a poor display of self-control if ever there was one. But he had no time; the Kovaschaii spirit awaited its death dance, and there were none here but he to give it.
None here yet, he reminded himself. The Kovaschaii knew when one of their number had fallen. They would come as soon as possible unless the dance was done. Cradling the head gently, he stroked the hair out of the slack face. He sat thus a moment, contemplating. Then he shook himself. He had no right to dance the death, but he wanted to anyway.
The arms and legs he arranged properly, until they formed four points of a star, to the fifth point Estravim’s still face made. Then he rose lithely, for all that he was out of practice, and hesitantly began to trace the five secret points—the five that completed the ten. His movements grew more sure as he progressed, his feet leaving shadows across Estravim’s body without ever disturbing his rest. He opened his lips and began to sing.
Singing was common, and part of the death dance—and if Kallandras, who had been Kallatin, had never been particularly graceful at the challenge or the attack, none had sung a better death than he. Wordless sorrow, endless loss, a blackness the night fled from—all these rose in him, contained by the thrum of throat and the shape of lip.
Faster and faster he flew, his arms like wings, his face the Kovaschaii mask. But the mask was cracked, imperfect; tears fled it, leaving the face unchanged in their passage.
Come, Lady, come. He danced.
Set my brother free; grant him passage.
He danced, and the world shifted; the forest fell away into mist and gray softness that humans had no words for. He sang, and the mist took shape on the periphery of the ten-point star.
“Who calls?” a toneless voice whispered. “Who wishes to meet me in the half-world?”
He spun to a standstill, one foot on either side of Estravim’s face. “I do.”
“And you?”
He squinted but the mists fogged his eyes, becoming both solid and less substantial. “I am Kallatin. Lady, you hold my name.”
And suddenly, the mist unraveled and fell away from his eyes like gauze too thin to trap sight. He saw her, and she him. Hair, so dark a black that ebony would seem faded beside it, flowed around her thin, long face and past her shoulders. She was not tall, but height made no difference to her; she was majesty, a royalty that only the other gods could contest.
Upon her shoulder perched a raven, wings glossy black, beak pale orange. At her feet, where her flowing cape parted, a small, dark shape curled around her ankles and stared out through unlidded eyes.
“You are no longer Kallatin.”
He bowed.
“But I know of your wyrd. I have not . . . forgiven you, little son. But I have not ordered your death either. I have heard your dance, and I accept it, although you have killed your brother, who served me truly.” She stepped forward. “No, do not offer me your tears or your sorrow; they are not finished yet.”
So saying, she lifted one hand, and her fingers curled up in calling. Estravim’s pale eyes blinked open, the white sheen of lashes resting against dark, slack circles.
“I heard the music,” Estravim said softly, and made to rise. His arms, weak and suddenly thin, would not move from the points of the star. Kallandras touched his forehead, which was still wet and sticky from the challenge. His fingers came away reddened, and he looked at them a moment before he knelt, taking care not to leave the points of the star that his feet formed. He placed his hands beneath Estravim’s shoulders and concentrated.
Very slowly, Estravim rose out of his body. His face took on the color and the vibrancy of life that the corpse would never again have. But he did not look back to see who aided him.
“Have you come to give me back my name?” he said quietly to the Lady who waited.
“Yes,” she answered. “You will find your strength soon; do not be concerned. When we walk, I shall guide you and protect your path. You are Estravim nee Soldaris Corasin. You have served me well.”
He caught her hand, and with her help gained his footing. Before she could speak again, he was on one knee in front of her. Her smile was dark, but not cold, and her own hand rested gently upon his forehead as her pale, pale fingers stroked his hair. “Rise.”
He did. And then he turned to see which of his brothers had danced his death, called the Lady, and lifted him from his prison.
“You.” There was no anger in the word; only confusion lingered behind his otherworld eyes. “Why?” Before Kallandras could answer, he spun around to face his Lady. “Why did you come at his call?”
“Do you question me already?” She asked, but not harshly. “Very well. I hold his name still.”
Estravim’s smile was grim. “Then he will be trapped fully when he dies; none will call you to release him.”
“It may be so,” she answered quietly. “Come.”
“Wait!”
They both turned to see Kallandras standing perfectly still. “What I saw—Lady, what I saw was truth.”
“A truth.” But she heard what lay beneath the words and the perfectly controlled tone. She nodded, ever the regal monarch.
“If I had killed her, we would have perished in time—each of my brothers, each of my teachers. Only for love of them could I make my choice; I have been as true to my Order as any. And I have lost all.” He hated to plead.
“All?” One slim line of frosted black rose over a dark eye. What he left unsaid, she knew. Her expression grew remote as she stood, hand upon one of her chosen. “I have not forgiven you, bard. But you served me in your time, and I am not without compassion.
“Estravim of my Kovaschaii, this bard who was once Kallatin spoke the truth that he believes—yet even so, his actions were a betrayal of his oath. You have done me nothing but honor; therefore I will leave your response at your discretion. Recognize him, or not, as you choose. I will make no judgment.”
Estravim turned with eyes of death and looked long at the bard.
The bard stared back, unblinking, his face a mixture of apprehension, longing, and bitterness. He opened his mouth and lifted his hand, as if to start another explanation; silence fell as he bit it back. It was not his choice—it was Estravim’s, brother, and lost.
“I could not have made your decision,” Estravim said at last. “Truth or no. The loss would have been too great. I loved none but the Kovaschaii, and none but the Kovaschaii have mattered to me, save the Lady.
“You danced my death,” he bowed. “None among us could dance a death so perfectly. We all know it, even though we do not speak your name. I thank you. You have honored me, Kallatin.” Stiffly, as if movement were no longer natural, Estravim touched his forehead and fell to one knee.
“Thank you,” the bard whispered; the name that was lost lingered in the air. “It is I who am honored.” As the mists faded and the half-world went with the Lady, the tears rolled down Kallandras’ cheeks. He reached out blindly and ran his fingers across Estravim’s face; it was still warm.
• • •
Stephen did not know the exact moment when he regained control of his feet, but he thought it was when he heard the dogs baying. The tenor of their voices, the precision of their cacophony, drove away all images of the bard save one: the way he knelt, heedless of mud, to cradle the body of the strange, pale man.
Stephen was near the end of his running breath, his throat raw and dry. The bardic voice had left him little choice but to sprint full out up the trail.
Please, please, please, he thought, when his breath refused him even a whisper, finish the Hunt, Gil. The baying stopped suddenly. The sides of his throat clung together. He gagged, but kept moving.
This one moment was safest for worry, fear, and anger. Gilliam was wit
h the dogs—so completely given over to the hunt that his huntbrother’s voice was the slightest of tickles in his inner ear.
Don’t let the dogs eat, Gil. Don’t please please please don’t join them. He’d seen that once, and it was an ugly, horrible sight. Soredon had thought it funny, and even Norn had worn a grim, tired smile as they had pulled Gilliam away from the carcass of the boar he’d been hunting. But not even the smell of roasting flesh and boiling broth at the end of the long, cool day could entice Stephen to eat any meat that night—or for weeks afterward.
The ground at his feet became a blur of gathered tracks and gouged mud; he was close.
Gilliam, please, please—
The call of a horn answered his frantic litany. Nine notes, nine perfect, fully winded notes, came back to him, carried downwind by a faint breeze. Hunt’s end had been called. He pulled out his horn and leaned his back against the smooth bark of the nearest tree. His hand shook as he carried the horn to his mouth and blew back the proper response. It sounded like a strangling duck. On any other Hunt, he would have laughed at the pathetic noise the horn made.
He started to cry.
“Stephen?”
“What?” He wiped viciously at his eyes with the cuff of his jacket.
“I heard it.” Gilliam looked exhausted but content; sweat ran down his forehead, matting thin dark curls to his face. “Come on, we’re waiting for you.”
“You didn’t let the dogs—”
“No.” Gil held out a hand, and after a moment, Stephen took it and crushed it as hard as he could. Gilliam grunted and returned the grip, and they stood that way a moment before Stephen suddenly surrendered and let his hand go limp.
“You fell behind,” the young Hunter said as they started to walk.
“I’m sorry,” Stephen answered. “Someone tried to kill me.”
• • •
It took the better part of half an hour to convince Gilliam that the danger was past, and even convinced, the young Hunter wanted his enemy’s blood. Stephen thought it the aftereffects of being so long at the Hunt, and did his best to put out the odd, reddish light in Gilliam’s eyes. Only afterward did he realize that the tone of voice and the simplicity of repetitive words he had chosen to use with Gilliam were like those he would speak to the dogs.
The Sacred Hunt Duology Page 26