“The very fact that there were no casualties is suspicious. We did not understand why, given the fact that he had chosen to mount such an attack, he did not proceed with more force.”
“More force?”
“He is capable of far, far worse than he showed. If the man you saw was indeed the same mage. We assume that he was.”
“Explain.”
Zareth glanced away, to the fires that burned in the wide, open hearth of the room. His eyes were lambent orange; a reflection of heat. “I cannot,” he replied at last. “Forgive me.”
Stephen was surprised when Elsabet returned a shrug for the mage’s refusal. “Very well. Continue.”
“There is little else to say. I have come, at your summons, to ascertain what it was that would attract a member of the mage-born to this household. This information will be reported to the head of the Order. You have our word,” the mage added, “that we will pursue our investigations to the full extent of our combined power.”
She listened. Her expression had only changed once in the course of the interview—and that small change could hardly be considered encouraging. Slowly, she folded her hands and let them settle into her lap. The fire crackled; breaths were drawn. No one moved.
At last, she nodded. “Gilliam. Stephen. Bring in our visitor.”
• • •
Aside from an argument that threatened to delay them long past Lady Elseth’s tolerance, Gilliam and Stephen obeyed her command. The subject of the argument made it clear that she would be presented, as she was, to the mage. Gilliam, of course, could see nothing wrong with it—but Stephen, taking in the torn, dirty fabric of her shift, and the matted tangle of straw and darkness that passed as her hair, shuddered.
He would have pressed his point had the mage not been at a disadvantage with Elsabet. As it was, he gave in to Gilliam’s insistence, and together they returned to the manor, the girl trailing Gilliam in the wide, happy circles that the dogs usually did.
“. . . and here she is,” Lady Elseth said, as they made their way into the parlor.
Zareth looked up immediately. His eyes, shadowed now as the sun crept down the horizon, were wide and unblinking. “This one?”
Gilliam bristled at the incredulity in the voice, but held his tongue. Which was, considering his mother’s mood, the only wise option possible. The girl, catching Gilliam’s anger, bristled as well. Her growl, lower than a pup’s, but certainly high compared to a full-grown hound, filled the room as she raised her lips over bared teeth.
“I see,” the mage said. “May I?” Without waiting upon an answer, he rose.
Gilliam placed a hand firmly on the girl’s shoulder. She didn’t seem to mind, although it was perfectly clear that the hand was meant to restrain. “Hold,” he said softly.
“You’re certain that the girl was the object of the attack?”
“Stephen?” Lady Elseth said, looking quietly across the room.
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
Stephen shrugged. “I don’t know why he attacked her.”
“Why,” the mage said again, his voice less soft, “are you so certain it was the girl he sought?”
Stephen did not answer. The mage looked up, his eyes leaving the girl for the first time since she had entered the parlor. “Stephen of Elseth, the question is not idly asked. I would have you answer it.”
“I understand,” Stephen answered. “But I can’t.”
The mage drew himself to his full height and lifted a hand. For a moment, the hand played against the air. Stephen felt the faintest tingle of something odd, something wrong. It had been many, many years since he had last encountered this strangeness, but he knew it at once—it was not something he would ever forget, no matter how he might desire to. His hand was on his weapon at once; he fell back two steps, his midsection folding into a defensive crouch.
Zareth Kahn’s eyes widened in surprise. In haste, he dropped his hand. “Your pardon,” he said softly and bowed his head.
“You may have his pardon,” Lady Elseth said, and her voice was undisguised ice. “It is not the pardon of Elseth. What has happened here?”
The mage looked warily at the Lady, suddenly reminded of where he was and why he had come. He met her eyes, unflinching beneath her cold regard, and then bowed his head again. When he raised it, his face was free of all conviviality; his eyes were dark and unblinking.
“I attempted to use my magics,” he said softly. “To compel Stephen to speak more freely.”
Even Elsabet was surprised at the bold frankness of this confession. Words left her; she once again raised her hands to her chin.
“You arrogant son of a—”
“Gilliam.” Lady Elseth raised one hand, calling for silence. Not even her son dared gainsay her gesture, and although he bristled, he waited her word. As did Zareth Kahn. “I don’t like the mage-born,” she said at last, as if coming to a decision. “And I do not like foreign dignitaries. Twice in our history they have almost been our ruin.”
Zareth Kahn nodded, offering no argument. His face, bland and expressionless, showed nothing.
“I particularly dislike the way both of these groups assume that because we are not of their number, we are ignorant or savage.”
At this, the mage opened his mouth; she waved him to silence.
“But I imagine that our own opinions are worn just as gracefully by either of these two parties: mage-born or foreigner. Stephen, if it pleases you, you may speak freely without regard to the Elseth fortunes. The Order of Knowledge will likewise speak freely—through its representative—without regard to its reputation. If the one is hurt, I give you my word that the other will suffer.”
The mage bowed. “You are gracious, Lady.”
“No. I am pragmatic.”
At this, the mage laughed again. “When you retire from the running of your demesne, you might consider foreign service—you would do well abroad.”
She did not warm to his compliment, but did incline her head. “I have considered this. Stephen?”
Stephen, straight and once again composed, nodded and bowed to his Lady, with all the formality due her office, and not their relationship. “Zareth Kahn. We know that it is the girl who came under attack, because less than a month ago, on the eve of the majority of Cynthia of Maubreche, we found and saved her. She was beset by three creatures that we know for a fact were not human.”
Zareth raised a pale hand; it was shaking slightly. “Hold. What do you mean, you know they were not human?”
“They could not be cut by our swords. They had blades for fingers. They had skin of stone. Is that enough?”
“There were three of these?”
“Three.”
What Zareth Kahn said next could not have been repeated in the company of Ladies—should not have been even whispered in the parlor. “I will take my seat again,” he said quietly, and proceeded to almost stumble back until the chair caught and held him. “How did you survive this?”
“Through the intervention of a mage,” Stephen said shortly.
At this, Zareth Kahn’s dark eyes narrowed. “Who? And how did you know for certain that this person was a mage?”
“Because the non-mage-born don’t usually call lightning and have it answer.”
“Stephen,” Elsabet said, her voice quiet. He took the warning from it.
“She said her name was Evayne. She saved our lives, and lit a path for us to follow. They pursued the girl to the gardens of the Maubreche Estate. There, we finally managed to defeat them. I was injured and spent some time recuperating in the King’s City.
“When I returned home, this same girl was attacked again, or, rather, her . . . rooms were.” Even given leave and command by Elsabet, Stephen could not say everything to this stranger. “And this time, we found one other item of interest. You migh
t know it, but let me describe it.”
“Please do.”
“It’s a platinum chain with a simple oval obsidian stone at its end. The stone is ringed by platinum as well.”
“I see,” the mage said, very, very quietly. “Come, then. Let me examine the girl. I will use magic,” he added, the words tentative.
“You will not!”
“Gilliam!”
“Gil . . .”
The girl began a low growl; it was almost as if she spoke the words that Gilliam had been forbidden.
“I will cause her no harm, Lord Elseth,” the mage said, swiveling his head to meet Gilliam’s angry glare. “If you wish, you can stand behind me with your sword. I seek answers only.”
Gilliam nodded curtly, and strode across the room, his hand on his sword hilt. Stephen cringed.
“Gilliam. I have seen fit to trust this visitor, who has come at my summons.”
“Lady,” the visitor in question broke in. “I made the offer in all seriousness. It appears clear that the girl . . . responds to her master’s unease. If this will make him feel more easy, I’m willing to submit to it without calling your hospitality into question.”
She frowned, but grudgingly nodded her acquiescence. Gilliam did indeed come to stand behind the mage’s chair, sword drawn. He was a dark shadow—the only one that didn’t flicker with the fire and the lamplight. Steady in his defense, poised for some unforeseen battle, he looked more at ease—although the mage could not see this—than he had in the last three weeks.
A hush formed in the air, part magic, part shadow, part absence of sun. Zareth Kahn, instead of reaching out, settled back into his chair, striking a pose not dissimilar to the Lady Elseth’s. Lines settled into the circles beneath his eyes; his forehead creased. Only the fire snapped and crackled as it burned away at the wood.
And then, growing so slowly it was hardly visible, came the faintest hint of blue light, as if lightning had indeed been harnessed and forced to stay its quick strike. Strands of the mage’s dark, long hair began to rise.
Stephen drew breath and held it. He was uncomfortable, and as the blue light grew, his sense of unease increased. The gaunt contours of the mage’s face drank in shadow until he looked skeletal; the horrors of a young boy’s nightmares. For just an instant, Stephen was glad that Gilliam could not see the mage’s face.
The mage gestured; the light leaped suddenly from his fingers. His fingers danced heavily, but certainly, through the air, like a drugged athlete. When they were again still, perfect blue rings surrounded the girl’s body.
Stephen did not understand why she did not move, or snarl, or fight them. His hair, much like the mage’s, stood on end at the back of his neck, and he was only an observer, not a participant.
The rings began to move, but Stephen saw that they cast odd shadows; they did not touch her skin, or even what remained of her ruined clothing, at all. He exhaled slowly, caught by the strangeness of the spectacle. For a moment, he could see an eerie beauty played out in her features, the perfect smoothness of her skin, her suddenly closed eyes. And then it was gone.
The lights vanished, and the mage sagged forward, visibly exhausted.
“Zareth Kahn?” someone said.
He looked up to meet Elsabet’s concern. “It cost much to arrive here in such haste,” he said softly. “But I think I have an answer for you.” His forehead creased; his lips tightened. “Although I admit that I don’t understand it.”
“What answer?”
“The girl is god-born.”
“God-born?” Stephen’s brows vanished beneath his hair. “But that’s impossible! Look at her eyes!”
“I know,” the mage replied, and his sourness grew. “I don’t claim to understand it either. But she is god-born. I have tested that to the limits of this spell—information is my specialty.” He sat back heavily against the chair. “And the study of historical magics was one of Krysanthos’.” He raised a hand to his brow. “Apparently, Mother watch us, summoning was one of those magics.”
Chapter Twenty
THE ROOM WAS AWASH in the heat of flame; the fire had been piled high, and quiet servants tended it at the mark of each hour. But Zareth Kahn still felt the chill. Blankets, pulled from winter storage, were piled high around him; he shivered against them, pulling them closer and higher.
This was the mage-fever, the result of pushing too hard with too much power and too little energy. He contained what he could of it in the presence of the Elseth family. But the act of examining the god-born girl had been madness, a symptom of the disease of insatiable curiosity.
He would pay for it; was paying for it now.
Yet even as his body was racked by shudders in the moon-touched room, his mind was elsewhere. On the girl. On Krysanthos. On Stephen of Elseth. It was not possible that Stephen was mage-born; a talent as strong as his sensitivity to magic indicated would have destroyed him, untrained as he was, before he left puberty behind. And he was certainly not god-born.
Or was he? The girl, to everyone’s surprise, had proved to be just that. But the girl was mad, not nearly so human as Stephen showed himself to be. It was a puzzle. Zareth Kahn hated puzzles, and lived to defeat them. The puzzle of the Hunter God had brought him to Breodanir—and years later, the God’s mystery remained unsolved. The mage was certain that Stephen and the girl were somehow involved in it.
Answers come from strange places. He told himself this, as the cold attacked again. It was bad tonight. But not nearly so bad as it had been when he first crossed the Elseth threshold.
Krysanthos was also a dire portent—of what, Zareth Kahn could not say. But although he had not concentrated on it during the course of the eve—had barely acknowledged the Elseth huntbrother’s words—he recognized the medallion that Stephen had described.
Allasakar, the Lord of the Hells, was the only God to claim such an insignia.
Krysanthos, you fool, what have you done?
And why are you interested in the girl? Is she hells-born?
The question was rhetorical; the magical scan that Zareth Kahn had slowly and deliberately completed ruled out that possibility. Ah. The cold subsided further; perhaps sleep had a chance to claim him, should it move quickly.
But even as his lids flickered down over his eyes, he felt annoyed. Not at Krysanthos’ involvement—although that had consequences for the Order that he did not have the strength, or desire, to fully contemplate now—but rather at the fact that the mage of the second circle somehow had answers that he, Zareth Kahn, did not himself possess.
He would change that. He would bring the girl to the King’s City.
• • •
“Elsa,” Stephen said lightly. “Aren’t you here early in the season? The time for the Sacred Hunt has passed us.”
Lady Elseth looked up from her prayers. She was simply dressed this morning, favoring the practical over the fanciful. Her dress was a crisp brown, with long, plain sleeves that were wide enough to give her elbow play, but narrow enough not to be a nuisance. The skirts were wide and split at the hems; it was obvious that she planned some sort of physical labor this day. Perhaps the overseeing of the kennel’s construction.
“Stephen. Is it that time so soon?”
He nodded and approached her, crossing the soft green to do so. “Will you come to see us off?”
She offered him a hand, and he took it, helping her to her feet. She rolled up her mat and handed it to him; he caught it carefully and placed in under the crook of his free arm. “Gilliam’s excited about this, isn’t he?”
Stephen drew a slow breath. “Yes. But worried, as well. And the mage tells us little, for all that he asks.”
“You tell him less, Stephen. You failed to mention the horn the girl brought—and I think we both know that it is important. Perhaps important enough to launch such an obvious assault on our
grounds for.”
He nodded. “Later, if he proves trustworthy.”
Lady Elseth inclined her head. “I will not gainsay you; if you do not see fit to trust a mage—especially one who has attempted magics in my presence—I will trust your judgment.” She fell silent. Her lips were set, and her chin was tilted; she looked severe, or tired, or both.
“Elsa,” Stephen said, placing an arm around her shoulders. “This isn’t the Hunt. We’ll be fine.”
“You tell me that?” she said, turning sharply. “When you don’t even believe it yourself?” Her voice was taut, like a rope pulled so tight and fine it might snap if touched.
“We don’t have to go,” Stephen said, leaving his convivial—and hollow—smile behind. He caught her cheek in his hand. It was cool to the touch.
She met his eyes; hers were filmed. For a moment, it seemed that she wavered; she lifted her own hand, and pressed it lightly against his, seeking either warmth or comfort. Then at last, she said, “Don’t lie to me, Stephen. I have not lied to you.” But her voice was softer than the words she spoke.
Stephen released a breath he did not know, until that moment, he was holding. He felt weak, as if her answer were not the one he had expected—or, rather, hoped for.
“It’s the ‘farewells’ that I hate the most. Until I’ve said them, I can pretend that everything is, or will be, fine. But once you’ve gone, I can do nothing but wait.”
“Should I have left you with the Hunter?”
“No.” Her eyes were watery again; she looked away. “Because if I don’t grasp the chance to say farewell, I might never have it again. This is the Hunter’s land,” she added bitterly. She bowed her head a moment. When she raised it, her expression was once again calm. “Shall we go? I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”
• • •
Zareth Kahn was impatient to be off. Although still fatigued, his face was less hollowed, less dark; his eyes darted back and forth, as if he were trying to make sure he missed nothing, not even the most trivial of details.
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