Angry? No. Or rather, not angry alone.
Stephen stumbled forward, staring now and trying to understand what his eyes saw. Before him, upon a perfect pedestal, surrounded by the greenery of the maze and the broken silence of night, stone robes seemed to flow in the wind. A man—no, the very God—stood, one hand held fast to a Hunter’s spear, and the other, palm slightly extended, as if in welcome. And then stone moved. The lips of the God formed near-silent words.
Help us.
He felt each one as a blow, and his knees collapsed, first the right and then the left, beneath him. He reached out with one hand, palm up, as if he could somehow bridge the distance between them. But even Stephen could not say, at that moment, whether his gesture was one of supplication or comfort.
• • •
Lady Cynthia of Maubreche squared her shoulders. The stone at her palms felt warm, almost living; the light at her back shone like a beacon and haloed her stiff form, growing stronger. She wanted to turn, then, and study the face of the God; but some instinct stopped her motion, and instead, she watched the demons as if from a great distance.
They burned. Just as the hedges had burned, shriveling and dying as the breeze blew their scent across the whole of the maze. It was hard to imagine, as they writhed and shrank in on themselves, that they had ever been a danger.
The wild girl, her lips black and wet, stood snarling as her enemy burned; she seemed leashed somehow. Cynthia heard the growl that came from this stranger’s lips and shivered. Had she been in any other place, she might have felt fear—but under the watchful eye of the God, she had none to offer.
And then Cynthia saw Stephen, and even the deaths of her enemies were forgotten. She left the comfort of warm stone and crossed the grass quickly toward him, wondering why he knelt, frozen in position, upon the grass.
The look on his face was more than she could bear, and without a second thought, she lifted her overskirt, pulling both her dagger and a swath of thick cotton from her petticoats. These, she cut into long, wide strips.
Gilliam appeared at her side; it was clear that he, too, had suffered—but none of his wounds were as dangerous as the one Stephen had taken.
“How is it?” Lord Elseth asked bluntly.
“Take these,” she murmured, handing him her newly made bandages. “Wash them in the fountain basin and bring them back. Quickly.”
He followed her orders; she had known he would. Kneeling, she touched Stephen’s face, one palm to either cheek, as she had never dared do before. He was cold; ice had settled beneath his skin. She closed her eyes, suddenly unable to look at the expression on his face.
“Stephen,” she whispered, and then, pulling him out of his kneel and toward her shoulder, “Stephen.”
He came, as if suddenly released, a heavy weight. His arms, both the injured one and the whole, found her shoulders and held them, convulsively; his face, he buried in the side of her pale, white neck.
He was shaking. She rocked him gently, wondering how the minutes could stretch so unbearably. At last she heard movement across the grass and pulled her head up, turning it in the direction of the noise. Stephen would not let go.
Instead of Gilliam, she saw the girl. This close, the blackness at her lips resolved itself into more than just liquid. Even Cynthia, raised on the unmaking of the Hunter’s kill, flinched. The girl did not seem to notice. Instead, she shuffled in, her head forward, her nostrils flared.
Like a dog.
“Not now,” Cynthia said, her voice quavering slightly.
Stephen raised his head.
“Stephen?” Cynthia turned, forgetting the girl. But Stephen’s eyes, wide and round, caught and distorted that feral child’s expression. The girl darted forward suddenly, butting Stephen’s shoulder with her head. He bit his lip on a cry and winced; the arm she had struck was the injured one.
“Go away!” Cynthia shouted.
The girl came forward again and began to nuzzle Stephen; there really wasn’t another word for it. Cynthia, caught by Stephen’s arms, nonetheless tried to physically shove the girl backward.
“What’s wrong?” Gilliam said, and then, as he saw the three of them huddled upon the ground, “No.” It was to the girl that he spoke. She looked up at him, guileless, and then began to whimper.
That whimper stretched out into a full whine.
Gilliam did not look away from the open darkness of her eyes. “Cynthia,” he said, holding out the dampened strips of cloth.
She took them and eased herself out of Stephen’s grip. “Who is she?” Her voice was soft; she did not look up at Gilliam.
“I don’t know,” he answered, each word measured.
“What is she?”
“I don’t know.”
But she heard, as she began to bind Stephen’s wound as tightly as possible, the quiver in Gilliam’s voice. Had she been in the seat of judgment, she would have called him forward and asked for the truth. She did not.
Instead, she worked in silence, aware that Gilliam had not turned or wavered at all. The girl’s whine grew higher and sharper, but at least the girl was somehow contained, for she did not approach Stephen again.
“It’s all right,” Stephen said softly.
“Shhhh.” She touched his fingers with her lips. “Lord Elseth, will you aid me? I do not think Stephen will be able to walk.”
“I can walk,” he said, ever so faintly. He started to prop himself up on one elbow. “I can walk; I will walk for you, Lord.” His eyes were wide, almost glassy; Cynthia knew, as she stared at his face, that they did not see her. She paled.
Gilliam was at her side at once.
“What is it?” she asked him, grabbing his arm and holding it tight, as if to somehow shake the answer out of Gilliam. “What is he feeling?”
Gilliam pulled himself out of Cynthia’s grip and bent down, placing a hand under each of Stephen’s shoulders.
“Gilliam!”
He looked at her, over the pale thatch of Stephen’s hair. “I can’t answer that,” he replied evenly. “He’ll tell you himself, if he wants to.”
Lady Cynthia, heir to the Maubreche responsibilities, was a very tired young woman. Her hair, carefully coiffed and secured at the evening’s start, had come loose from combs and pins, and curled in darkness around her dirt-stained face. Her gowns were askew, and the very lip of her undergarments, cut so jaggedly with her personal dagger, hung loosely at her feet. Her body ached; her head felt so heavy, it hung with the weight of exhaustion.
And none of this mattered as she met Gilliam’s suddenly shuttered face. She spoke, although she knew it was unwise.
“Lord Elseth,” she said, her voice very cold, “we are not enemies, or even rivals, in this.”
Gilliam’s jaw set as he hoisted Stephen to his feet and draped one strong arm under Stephen’s shoulders. “I never said we were.” If possible, his voice was colder than Cynthia’s.
Cynthia snorted. “You didn’t have to say it. For the past two months you’ve been barely civil—and this evening you were a positive disgrace to Elseth!”
“Cynthia,” Stephen said weakly. “Gil.”
They ignored him. “That isn’t for you to decide,” he said, grinding his teeth. “Lady Elseth will make her opinion known, and I answer to her alone.”
“Gil—”
“He isn’t yours,” Gilliam continued, brushing aside Stephen’s weak plea. “He’ll never be yours. You’ve got no right to interfere with the huntbrother’s bond.”
As Gilliam bristled, so did the wild girl.
Cynthia heard the snarl, turned, and snapped. “Be quiet!” The girl took a step back, but her growl grew tighter and lower.
“I’m not trying to interfere with what you and Stephen share,” Cynthia said evenly, her cheeks suddenly crimson. “I know full well that I’ll never have it—or
anything else of his, besides. I was—concerned for him. That’s all.”
Gilliam made no reply. They stood, in the darkness of moonlit sky, their faces shadowed by more than night.
“Gilliam,” Stephen whispered. “You idiot.”
Gilliam bridled; he always did. But he did not let his brother fall. “Come on,” he said, to no one in particular. “Let’s get inside. We’ll have to call healers.”
Cynthia nodded stiffly and turned to lead the Hunter and his brother out of the damaged maze. As she did, the girl darted forward. Gilliam shouted wordlessly, and the girl whined—but she continued forward until she could butt her head against Stephen’s bloodstained chest.
Stephen staggered; Gilliam caught him in both arms.
The girl shoved her hands into her dirty, torn shift, still keening softly.
Gilliam shook his head, but the girl ignored him. Hands trembling, face quite still, she watched Stephen. After a second, she shoved her head into his midsection again, demanding some attention, some gesture.
Stephen put his hands out to gently push her aside. Before he could so much as brush against her shoulders, she pushed something into his shaking palms and jumped back, skittish. His fingers closed reflexively against something smooth and cool.
Gilliam, Lord Elseth, felt his huntbrother’s sudden lurch of terror. “Stephen?”
Stephen shook his head. Even in darkness more complete than this, he would have known what it was that the wild, strange girl had given into his keeping. He could not look. He did not have to.
The wyrd of Fate and mystery, so long suspended, settled heavily upon his frail shoulders, contained as it was by the deceptively simple form of the Hunter’s Horn.
Chapter Seventeen
“GILLIAM,” LADY ELSETH SAID softly. “What happened?”
Gilliam knew that his mother’s soft-spoken question was nothing short of a demand for information. Unfortunately, he also knew that Stephen did not wish that question answered. As he hadn’t Stephen’s faculty for words, he shrugged instead. A poor substitute.
The Mother-born Priestess, Vivienne of the King’s City, had come as quickly as the night roads and travel allowed. She had said nothing at all as she entered the room that was to be Stephen’s sick chamber. But she quickly cleared it of idle spectators—even, and including, Gilliam of Elseth. As always, he bridled.
“A shrug,” his mother said quietly, “is not an answer that I find acceptable.”
Lady Cynthia, newly changed, and now much more simply attired, stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on Lady Elseth’s shoulder. “May I? Gilliam is also exhausted; the doctors prescribed rest for him.”
Elsabet’s eyes narrowed as she glanced at her son. Her son wisely refused to meet her eyes, but made a display of a yawn that was only part act.
“Lord Elseth, why don’t you tend to your other guest?”
“Other guest?” Lady Elseth’s voice was even softer.
“What a good idea,” Gilliam said lamely. He knew it would spark his mother’s curiosity further—but that was unavoidable now. Grudgingly, he nodded his thanks to Lady Cynthia of Maubreche and slunk out of the room, figurative tail between his legs.
“Lady Elseth, please forgive us for allowing this tragedy to occur on Maubreche lands. We’ve prepared rooms for you, should you wish to stay in the manor.”
Elsabet nodded almost absently. “Yes, I’d appreciate that.”
“Then let me show you to your rooms.”
• • •
Lady Elseth was a shrewd and perceptive woman. For that reason, Cynthia had always both admired and feared her. As she walked now by her side, fear was the stronger emotion. She felt Lady Elseth’s keen gaze upon her face. In silence, and without turning once to meet her elder’s eyes, Cynthia led the way to the manor’s west wing.
There, she paused in front of the door.
“Why don’t you join me, Cynthia?”
It was not a request, no matter how politely worded. Swallowing, Cynthia nodded assent, and together they entered Lady Elseth’s rooms. A fire was already burning in the grate, and a cozy tea had been newly set in the sitting room. Lady Elseth took the chair closest to the fire and motioned for Cynthia to join her.
But if Cynthia had thought to be questioned about the events of the evening, she was mistaken.
“Tell me,” Elsabet said softly, “about Stephen.”
Cynthia swallowed again. “You know him better than I ever will,” she replied. “Tea?”
“Yes, please. And as for the other, I’m not so certain.”
Cynthia poured slowly and let the liquid, still steaming, reach the gold rim of the cup before she passed it on. She poured for herself as well and then sat, cup between her hands, staring at her reflection upon the clear, brown surface of the liquid. Silence stretched widely between them before she ventured to speak. “Why do you want me to talk about Stephen?”
“Because,” Elsabet said quietly, “you talk to no one else of him—and perhaps you need to speak.”
“Am I so obvious?”
The smile that touched Lady Elseth’s face was a wry one. “Perhaps only to me. Certainly not to Stephen.”
Cynthia lowered her gaze to stare moodily at the table-top. “It won’t make any difference. We both know that.”
“Yes.”
The word hurt; it still hurt.
“But it already has, Cynthia. You are eighteen now, and not even at the start of your year. You have met and been courted by many of the younger Hunters, although that should more properly have waited until you came out.”
“I know,” Cynthia said, her voice surprisingly bitter. “And I know that I’ll marry the younger son of some Hunter Lord, and both he and his huntbrother will forsake their family name for Maubreche. Because, of course, the line must continue.”
Lady Elseth said nothing at all.
“But that’s not what I want.” There. It was said.
“No,” Elsabet replied. “And you have less choice than most of us had when we searched for our husbands. We had plans to tend to their estates; you are hampered by the fact that your estate will be—can only be—Maubreche. If you were not the only child, Cynthia, I would have happily recommended you to either of my sons. But Gilliam is Elseth; he cannot take Maubreche responsibilities as his own. And Stephen is no Hunter Lord, to offer Maubreche’s services in the Sacred Hunt.”
Cynthia set her tea down on the table; her hands were trembling. “Do you think I don’t already know this?” she asked, her voice too low. “Do you think that I’ve thought about anything else for the last two years?” She rose, upsetting her chair; her cheeks were flushed and dark.
Lady Elseth did not move.
“Why are you asking me this? Why do you want me to speak openly about the impossible?”
“Because only by admitting it openly will you ever truly dismiss it. You parents are concerned; this you know well. Let me tell you that I, too, am concerned. For the sake of Stephen. Between you and I there is no pretense. What we do, we have little choice in, if we are not to abandon our responsibilities and our birthrights.” This voice, these formal words, were those that Lady Elseth used when she sat in judgment. “If we are lucky, then we will have love; if we are not, then we will have duty. Love is for children, Cynthia.”
Cynthia drew a sharp breath, but before she could frame a reply, Lady Elseth continued, sitting very, very still as she did.
“I was a child, too. I listened to the musings of the bard-born, and I dreamed. The man I chose was no Hunter Lord. He was a student, an academic in the King’s City seeking admission to the Order of Knowledge. We met by accident at the Sacred Hunt in the year I came out.”
Cynthia was silent now, watching the pale, neutral cast of Elsabet’s calm face.
“After the Sacred Hunt, when death and loss were i
n the air, I went to him. I don’t know why.” She smiled, briefly, and shook her head. “I do know. I wanted no taint of loss or death; I wanted someone whose life was living. Or so I tell myself now.
“I contrived to stay in the King’s City for three weeks, Cynthia. I met with Ladies and their sons, and began to search in earnest for the Lord of my future—during the days. But in the evenings, I went to him, stayed with him.”
“You didn’t—”
“No; I asked for the intercession of the Mother-born to aid me in my cycle.”
Lady Elseth set her tea aside and closed her eyes, remembering. The fire crackled; not even breath was loud enough to be heard.
“Was it—was it worth it?”
“I thought so for those three weeks. For the next two years, I regretted it.”
“And now?”
“Now? I regret nothing.”
Cynthia met Lady Elsabet’s gaze; their eyes locked; the room vanished around them. “But what if I want more than three weeks? What if I want forever?”
Elsabet knew what the question would be before it was spoken. There was no softness in her when she answered. “What if you have a choice between nothing and three weeks?”
Silence again; the evening had been measured by the quality of their silences, rather than the force of the words spoken. Cynthia’s eyes were watery and red, but she allowed no tears to fall. “What if three weeks aren’t enough for Stephen?”
Lady Elseth looked down at her skirts; she brushed them out carefully and methodically, almost automatically arranging them into the most pleasing drape. “I cannot speak for Stephen. Perhaps you should let him decide.” She stood, then; the work on her skirts was undone. “I am fatigued by the evening, Lady Cynthia; I must retire. Perhaps we shall speak more of this tomorrow.”
• • •
Stephen feigned sleep under Vivienne’s gentle ministrations. It was only a partial act. Although the pain had receded, and the bleeding had stopped, he was exhausted. To be nursed and tended by the Mother-born was a balm, but it had its price. For to heal the body, the healer had to understand it, and to understand it well, she had to become, however briefly, a part of it. She brought warmth with her, sure knowledge, a deep understanding of all pain, all sorrow, all fear.
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