Gilliam shrugged in turn, and his face, broader and harsher than Stephen’s, set in exactly the same lines. “Nothing.”
For a moment they glared at each other, and temper tightened their fists. But they were twenty-two now, no longer boys, or even adolescents, to be forgiven for fist play in public. Stephen, as always, turned away first. If Gilliam wanted to play out a stupid game, he could damned well do it on his own.
“It’s her again, isn’t it?”
Only the huntbrother’s head turned. “Her?”
“Cynthia.” No honorific, no title, and certainly no respect in the word. Stephen opened his mouth, but before he could answer in kind, Gilliam continued. “Why don’t you do something about it, instead of fretting here like a bitch in heat?”
The color drained out of Stephen’s face. His jacket slid to the stonework in a messy pile that also covered his boots.
“It’s Cynthia, Cynthia, Cynthia! You think of nothing but Cynthia!”
“I—”
“Maybe you’d rather be her lover than my huntbrother—but you aren’t doing both!” He slid to his feet and walked past Stephen, taking a moment to shove him to the side.
“Gil, I swear—”
“What?” Gilliam’s voice was low as he stood, half in the light, half out. Already a quiet hush had built around the recess.
“You understand nothing! All you ever think about are your dogs and their kills! Maybe that’s enough for you—who knows what—”
“Stephen.” The voice was soft and feminine. The chill in the word had nothing to do with the air. “Gilliam. You do your House no honor by this . . . display.” Her voice was not raised, and indeed her lips were turned up in the semblance of a perfect smile, which fooled no one. The Lady Elseth had grown in power over the years; if age had weakened her at all, none were there to witness it. She stood tall, although her cheekbones didn’t clear her son’s shoulders, and the regal fall of a perfect, night-blue dress made her face seem all the whiter.
“Lady,” Stephen murmured. He dropped his shoulders and his head in a bow, and held it long enough for the flush to leave his cheeks.
“Good. Gilliam!”
Stephen looked up to see the back of Gilliam’s head disappearing—none too politely—through the crowd. He was heading toward the doors.
“What was that about?” Lady Elseth asked softly.
“A private matter, Lady. Nothing important.”
“Good. If you need a few minutes, take them, but you might consider making the social rounds soon.” She nodded quietly to the alcove, and Stephen retreated as the curtains closed out the room once again. He picked up his jacket and brushed out the folds before they became wrinkles. All the while, his hands were shaking. In darkness, anger warred with pain; neither won.
For as Stephen stood alone again, under the eye of the moon, he felt a familiar tingle, an odd rush of warmth that surged through his skin and ran along his limbs. He cried out, but his throat passed a whisper, no more, and once again the jacket spilled to the stone like a liquid with no vessel to hold it. His hands found the balcony railing, for strength and stability’s sake, as his vision floundered in the darkness like a wild, hunted thing.
He stood in the glow of the Hunter God’s presence. And for just a moment, glimmering like fireflies near the perfectly kept lake, two golden, glowing eyes stared back at him. He blinked; they were gone. But the touch of God remained to sing its urgent, incomprehensible message.
He turned and the terrace became a spinning, unstable outcropping on the side of the larger building. His hair stood on edge, and his skin tingled so much it hurt. If the Sacred Hunt had ever threatened his life, he forgot it. Nothing had ever felt so full of danger as this moment.
Instinct, not any sure knowledge, guided his steps. He had to find Gilliam, and quickly.
• • •
Gilliam, Lord Elseth, was indeed an angry Hunter. His hair was a wild, dark mess, and his clothing, created at the behest of Lady Elseth, and chosen specifically for an occasion such as this, fit him both perfectly and poorly. Ashfel, the pride of his hunting pack, was safely kenneled at the Elseth Manor, as were the rest of his dogs; there was no release at all to be had in the streets of the King’s City.
The fact that none of the other Hunter Lords had traveled with their dogs did nothing to still his temper. They, at least, had the attention and fealty of their huntbrothers, whereas he—
He swore, a steady stream of words that the Ladies would have heartily disapproved of—if they condescended to hear them at all. What was so bloody interesting about Lady Cynthia anyway? He kicked at a clod of dirt and overturned the edge of the flower bed that had been newly planted. A long green stem, topped by a stiff oblong bulb, keeled over into the cold air.
Oh, he supposed she was pretty enough, if you cared for that sort of thing; she was certainly quiet and not given to loud displays or political games; she dressed well and spent little time powdered and primped as so many of the younger Ladies did. So what? Any of her so-called good points were negatives; she wasn’t like most of the other Ladies. And she still couldn’t hold a candle to the glory and the stress of the Hunt.
He kicked something else that got in his way, a rock of some sort that lined the garden path. Hurt his toe, too, although his boots were heavy. He didn’t really notice.
If Stephen wanted to mope around after Lady Cynthia, he could bloody well do just that. But if he thought that Gilliam would stand around and plaintively watch, he was an idiot. Gilliam, Lord Elseth, had far better things to do with his time—and anyway, he hated coming-of-age balls with all their attendant frippery and stiff-lipped good manners.
• • •
Shoving his hands into pockets that were not designed for a bulge made of fists, he stalked off down the street under the watchful eye of the ever present moon-in-glory.
“Stephen?” Lady Elseth’s fingers were gentle as they curled around the crook of his arm. “What is it?”
He shrugged her off as gently as possible, and once again donned the jacket that now seemed impractical and gaudy. “Did you see which way Gilliam went?”
“Out.” Her voice made clear what she thought of his departure. It was enough to give Stephen pause, but not enough to stop him.
“I—I’m sorry, Lady Elseth. You’ll have to give our regrets to Lady and Lord Maubreche.”
She raised one graying brow, but her hands fell idle and disappeared into folds of blue velvet. “Why?”
“Gilliam’s in danger.” As the words rolled off his tongue, he felt them to be both true and false; later, perhaps, he’d have the time to wonder why. “I’ve got to find him.”
She caught his face in her hands then, searching his eyes thoroughly—but quickly—before releasing him. His cheeks were warm with the imprints of her fingers as he bowed his head. “Oh, Stephen?”
“Lady?”
“We need to speak about Lady Cynthia when you return.”
“Lady.” But he felt no dread, and little embarrassment; the urgency of his brush with God had put his life in perspective again. Gilliam, had he known, would have been pleased.
• • •
The guards at the door were not completely useless; they pointed to the damage that Gilliam had done to both the flower bed and the rock garden on his way out of the west gate. The keeper of the house was less helpful; he stopped Stephen once to comment quietly upon the state of the grounds, and twice to assure himself that Stephen needed no carriage. Stephen only barely managed to shake the man off before he made his way to the stables.
Gilliam was walking; Stephen would soon be mounted. Surely it wouldn’t be that difficult to catch up to his Lord and bring him back to the estate. Whatever there was to be faced, they would face it together in the company of other Hunter Lords and their huntbrothers.
But the stables were s
hadowed and dark, and the stable boys too slow for Stephen’s liking. He demanded a horse, and they brought out three that he deemed less than useless; they were fine-spirited, high-strung animals meant to be ridden by those with the time for odd tempers. They pranced about, evading bit and saddle and nickering their displeasure and their anxiety.
As if speaking in their tongue, he snorted to make his annoyance plain, and the fourth he chose himself: Greysprint, a horse used for riding that might as easily have pulled a great carriage without aid. He was steady, or so the stable boys vowed, but as Stephen mounted, he felt the beast shudder.
“Not now,” he murmured, the words at odds with the soothing tone of his voice. He caught the reins, waved the hands off, and cantered out into the open air. The night, even with the moon to lessen it, was dark and shadowed. And unlike her sister sun, the moon gave off no warmth.
• • •
Gilliam had had enough of the social circus to last a long lifetime. He hated the odd dress and foreign mannerisms deemed necessary to interact with either the Ladies or the other Lords, who undoubtedly felt as dubious about the privilege as he. He hated the food, bits of ridiculous portions and equally ridiculous methods of preparation; hated the tinkling music and the constricting form of the few dances he knew; hated the milling servants with their stiff voices and perfunctory bows that so reminded him of his own manor’s keeper, Boredan. He was angered by the strict adherence to the dogs-stay-at-kennel rule, angered by the idiotic velvet and silk that his mother insisted he wear, and annoyed by the fact that Maribelle, born of the same father and mother, fit so smugly into the whole charade.
But mostly, he was angry at Stephen.
The night was indeed cool now, and he’d left his jacket over the rails of the grand central staircase that pointed the way out of Maubreche Manor, so he walked briskly to keep the chill at bay. He had no idea where he was going; destination was not so important as escape.
Buildings, grand and recessed from the streets, loomed like hard shadow with hearts of orange flame where lamps were lit at entranceways. Guardhouses also contained a hint of light and movement all along the wide, cobbled streets. No one stopped him or attempted to challenge his passage; he strode the thoroughfare like a man with angry purpose.
But as he passed the last of the Lord’s circle and left it at his back, the lights grew dim and intermittent. The buildings crowded in on the streets, as if no longer held back by gates or fences; they rubbed shoulders in a compacted, awkward way, and only garbage and refuse took up residence in the open air between them.
The scent—the awful, dank smell of the place—told him, more clearly than his limited vision, where he had come: the lower city. He slid his hand down to his sword belt, and smiled with just a hint of vindication. The Lords were allowed swords—not spears or axes or any other useful weapon—and daggers, but many of the older men chose to leave this formality in the comfort of their quarters. Or rather, many of the older men chose to let their Ladies direct them. Gilliam didn’t have this problem, and as he refused to dance at all, the sword had been no hindrance.
He was glad to have it now. Out of habit, he checked his stride and glanced warily about. The wind rattled shutters and sent a hint of spoiled food from the mouth of an alley. He squinted, and the darkness settled in around his eyes.
He should go back. He knew it, but the moment he thought about returning, tail between his legs like any sorry dog, to the Maubreche estate—and to Stephen—the hairs on his neck stood on end. Stephen had no bloody time for anyone but Cynthia of Maubreche—and Gilliam had no time for Stephen.
He felt the raspy tickle at his throat before he realized that the sound he heard was himself. He was growling. He wanted a hunt. He began to breathe more deliberately. He knew of one way to make his vision clearer.
With moon full and at quarter height, Gilliam, Lord Elseth, called Hunter’s trance in the lower city.
• • •
Stephen felt it.
He had spent fifteen minutes asking guards if they had seen his Lord’s passage, and another five following their directions as he kept his horse on a tight rein. At least the streets had been empty; no steady stream of people, no farmers’ wagons or merchants’ train had slowed his passage with their right-of-way.
He was thankful. He forgot it. For the odd tingle, the strange and terrifying warmth that had been riding just above his shoulder, descended with a lurch. His fingers curled around the reins as if for support; Greysprint’s mouth took the brunt of the shock.
The hand of God. But not God’s alone; he felt something familiar, something raw and impatient and angry. Gilliam.
The Hunter’s gift, he thought, as he urged Greysprint forward. Gil, where are you?
As if in answer, the feeling grew stronger as he rode. He concentrated on it, and on the horse, trying desperately to ignore the fact that they’d left both the Hunter’s and the Priest’s city circles. I don’t have my sword. His shoulders stiffened. This one eve, Gilliam had probably been right to be stubborn and graceless.
The dagger would have to do—but the dagger seemed small and insignificant compared to the menace the lower city contained as Greysprint crossed its lip.
• • •
The world grew more distinct; the breeze slowed from a wispy brush to a gentle billow; the smell of the streets assailed his flared nostrils. Here and there, cedar burned in the fireplaces of those who had money to waste on that sort of warmth. These were few in the lower city.
There were shadows everywhere; deep and darker than the night. But they were still, and when Gilliam moved in near silence to confront them, he found them empty as well. The faces of houses and squat, tired buildings became so much scenery; he wanted to find something that moved.
The stories he’d been told of life in the lower city had made every dark alley a danger. Gilliam had half expected to see roving bands of thieves and cutpurses, each of whom carried glinting daggers as a substitute for fangs. He was to be bitterly disappointed as he stalked the city streets. Even the breeze seemed to die into stiff, unnatural silence.
• • •
The darkness brought back the dreams. Six years of quiet and relative peace had all but buried the wyrd. Although he walked in no faceless stone halls and heard no tortured screams or splintering of wood and stone, the three returned to him sharply. He shivered; Greysprint pulled at the reins in an attempt to turn around and head back.
“It’s all right,” he whispered, but his hands were shaking. Above his head, perched like vultures, the second stories of the street’s buildings crowded out the sky. The road was narrow and poorly kept; weeds made new by spring were already claiming their territory.
These did not trouble him. But the shadows did. Even darker than he remembered, they seemed to have become a solid presence—one that absorbed both sound and light. And with every step that Greysprint took, each more grudging than the last, these living shadows grew substantial.
Stop it, he told himself firmly. You’re just being nervous about the past. But Marcus’ voice did not return to him, and the days that he’d lived in the den were far, far behind. The wyrd was not.
Greysprint came to a halt, and Stephen realized that he’d reined the horse in. Taking a deep breath, he forced the horse forward again. Gilliam, where are you?
He hated the answer.
• • •
He heard it before either his eyes or his nose could alert him. A loud, high-pitched keening threw off the silence of the city streets. Even the shadows seemed to shudder with the force of a wail that was either mournful or fearful. It was hard to tell; the voice was no human voice.
Gilliam froze, straining to hear as his eyes sought the shadows. Sound came before scent or sight did; the cry was either louder or closer. His hand dropped to his side; his fingers found the curved metal hilt of his sword. He drew it, and for a moment
the ring of steel against the lip of the scabbard hid the sudden sound of running feet.
The Hunter’s trance had set his heart to racing; he felt the pulse at his neck beat in time to steps that were many. Something was coming in his direction—and someone was following it. If he had heard the horns, he would have set his sword aside—the horn calls would have declared the hunt another Lord’s preserve.
But blessed silence answered him; he had no reason not to interfere. His entire body tingled with the anticipation of action. All thoughts of Stephen vanished as a pale blur escaped the shadows. From an alley. Perhaps the stories had not all been lies.
It was a woman, or maybe a girl—it was hard to tell in the poor light, even in trance. She was wrapped in shadow, and her hair, from this distance, seemed knotted and dirty. Her face was long and thin, her jaw slender but angular, her forehead short. Whether or not she was pale or dark was impossible to tell; her skin was made blotchy by dirt and sweat. She saw him, but instead of halting, swayed her course. It should have surprised him. It didn’t.
In silence, he waited to see what would follow her; she was headed directly for him. But she was at least a minute ahead of her pursuers, and in trance a minute is a long time. He watched her lips as they stretched thin over her teeth, and saw the lids of her eyes flutter down over irises so black they seemed to be all pupil. He waited to hear what she had to say.
And the long, thin sound left her lips. There was no mistaking it: it rose in the air like a howl in a throat not built to utter one. But there was no mourning or fear in it any longer—in fact, her expression was one of recognition. His eyes met hers and pressed against them across the distance as he struggled to remember who she was and how he knew her. He felt a tingle, an odd lurch, and a dizzy, spinning warmth. The moon changed position.
Suddenly, he saw himself, standing with his sword at the ready, his feet planted slightly apart, his knees gently bent. He wore no jacket, and he could see the sweat of the Hunter’s trance along the linen of his shirt. His face was set and grim, but that expression slowly changed into one of astonishment.
The Sacred Hunt Duology Page 29