The Sacred Hunt Duology

by Michelle West

  The horses, saddled, were restive; the villagers—those that had the time—gathered in a quiet ring outside of the manor. They did not offer Zareth Kahn any friendliness, and for his part, he did not demand it.

  “Are we ready to take our leave?” he asked, for perhaps the fourth time.

  “We will be, momentarily,” Stephen answered. “Lady Elseth said she’d something she wanted us to take to the King’s City. She’s gone to her rooms for it; she’ll be down shortly.”

  “I suppose it won’t wait?” The mage drummed his fingers against his leg.

  Stephen watched, out of the corner of his eyes. It was hard to imagine that this slim, almost nervous man was the same one who had questioned them all two nights past. “It will only be a few more minutes,” he said.

  The mage nodded, and began to pace.

  Gilliam, Lord Elseth, might have been annoyed at the mage’s insistence—but he had his hands full. While the strange girl had, in the end, consented to ride within the confines of a carriage, she made it quite clear that she wanted nothing to do with horseback. Her incredulity at being asked to do so still made itself felt.

  He was determined to try, but equally determined not to force the issue. Because, as Stephen said, she wasn’t one of his dogs. His word was not—could not be—her law. He tried to tell himself this as he felt her press her disobedience. As he felt her test him, in a way that only the dogs ever did.

  “Gilliam?”

  “She won’t ride,” he said, the words clipped and uneven.

  “Then let her walk. She’ll change her mind.” Stephen turned to face the girl, who was already half out of the tunic and breeches they’d managed to dress her in. “Then again, perhaps she won’t. We aren’t on the message relay,” he added. “It won’t make a difference.”

  Gilliam nodded curtly. He did not want to speak; the words would have added nothing. But he glowered at the girl more effectively than he could have shouted.

  Stephen cringed. The girl did not. The mage politely inquired whether or not they could leave. And the manor door opened quietly.

  It was the door that everyone looked to. Lady Elseth stood framed by it. Almost casually, she threw one bag to the ground; the other, she carried over her shoulder. Gone was even the practical dress of the morning; she wore dark pants, a loose, cream-colored shirt, and a large woolen vest. A hat covered and contained her hair, and on her feet she wore boots of thick leather.

  “Mother?” Gilliam asked, contest with the recalcitrant girl forgotten.

  “Yes?” She tilted her head to one side, raising a brow. One of the villagers ran up the stairs, and very carefully relieved Lady Elseth of her burden. “To the horse,” she said, and he nodded.

  Maribelle, quiet until that moment, suddenly seemed to appear from nowhere. “Mother?” In the word was the same question that Gilliam had asked, but without his harsh incredulity.

  “Yes,” Elsa said softly, answering the unasked question. “And I trust the keeping of our responsibility to you, Maribelle. You are old enough, and learned enough; my people will follow your commands.”

  Maribelle’s forehead creased; watching her, Lady Elseth knew that those lines would one day become etched in her smooth brow. But in front of the villagers, she had the sense not to argue with her mother.

  It was a cheat, of course. Elsabet had never had any intention of allowing her youngest the room or the space to argue with her sudden decision. She acknowledged it quietly when she hugged her daughter.

  Maribelle said only, “Do you have to go?” But it was not the question of a child; it was the ambivalence of someone who had entered the twilight between childhood and adulthood, and stood on that line, for an instant, almost understanding all of the emotions of either.

  “I have to go,” Elsa whispered. “It’s my duty and my right as Lady Elseth.” Still, she felt oddly weak; her stomach was clenching, and her head felt a little too light. “No,” she added, “that’s not all of the truth. I—I have to be there. I have had to wait through so many Sacred Hunts.” She swallowed, her voice tight and heavy. “But it isn’t my duty to wait through this. They’re my sons, Maribelle.”

  “And sons are always the most important,” Maribelle said, her voice a whisper too, but a very, very flat one.

  Lady Elseth felt her daughter’s words as a blow. She held more tightly to Maribelle’s shoulders. “No,” she said, knowing that Maribelle would understand it one day, but not this one. “Sons are always the ones who die.”

  Her youngest surprised her. She returned the tight warmth of her mother’s hug; held her longer than she should have in so public a circumstance.

  “I wouldn’t go,” her mother said, again in the softest of whispers, “if I couldn’t trust you here.”

  “I don’t want them to die either,” her daughter replied. And that was her apology. She pulled away, her clear eyes wide, her chin tilted, her shoulders squared. She was dressed to her station in a deep blue frock, and looked more the Lady than her mother, although no one who knew them would have mistaken the station of either. She curtsied, low, and held that gesture. “I will watch over Elseth in your stead, Lady.” Her voice was strong, young, and rather loud.

  “Thank you,” Elsabet said. “You do our line proud.” Then she looked at her still silent companions. “Well, gentlemen? Shall we ride? Or shall we rather gawk all day?”

  Stephen shook his head in wonder, and then began to laugh. His body shaking, he caught the reins of his horse, and led it forward for his mother’s use. Gilliam, still gaping, was nudged in passing.

  “Yes, Lady Elseth. We ride.” But the mage looked singularly less amused than Stephen did.

  • • •

  It shouldn’t have been a grueling trip; it was. Zareth Kahn, himself exhausted and barely fit for the rigors of saddle, pressed the party hard. Lady Elseth accepted this prompting mildly, even docilely, Stephen and Gilliam accepted it gracelessly. But they did ride.

  The girl, almost tireless, kept both feet on the ground, and circled Gilliam’s horse whenever he paused. Still, she was quiet and caused little difficulty, perhaps understanding that there was urgency in their journey.

  So it was that they came at last to the gates of the King’s City, travel-worn, tired, and very much in need of sleep and bathing.

  Stephen had thought to stay in an inn, but Zareth Kahn would not hear of it, and in the end they came to the grand halls of the Order of Knowledge, leading tired horses and a wild girl who never seemed to feel the exertion.

  They were not an impressive delegation. Only Lady Elseth seemed to remember her bearing, although her clothing was not suitable for an embassy. She made certain that the horses were tended to, and quietly whispered a prayer of thanks to the Hunter—for Gilliam, pressed to move quickly, had elected to leave his dogs behind. The Order, of course, had no kennels for their keeping, as any normal inn would have.

  Zareth Kahn, on the other hand, perked up almost the moment his feet crossed the grand threshold into the towering hall. Lady Elseth could well understand why. Her breath stopped a moment as she arched her neck back. Her eyes rose up, and up again, until they rested upon the very peak of the ceiling’s stone arches. They were unadorned, but grand in their simplicity; a shout could be caught and echoed forever without losing any of its strength, or so she thought.

  Stephen’s eyes never reached the ceiling. He took in the rich red and gold of the carpeted stairs, glanced at the deep, dark wood that formed railings and borders, and then lighted upon the walls themselves.

  They were not plain, although no tapestries or frescoes lined them. Where a statue or two was common in any such building, and an alcove dedicated to either a God or a relative should have been in evidence, these halls had neither. Instead, in row upon row, they had heavy, perfect shelves, with beveled glass in leaden frames, and ladders on wheels to walkways that rose f
our stories. And in each of these shelves, there were books.

  Those books held voices, all silent now, that nonetheless called to him. The silence, the hush in the halls through which people could be seen moving, made perfect sense. This was a library that not even the King could boast. He reached out, pressed his fingers against the glass, and forgot about the complaints of a long and arduous journey.

  “It is not so grand,” Zareth Kahn said, his voice soft. “Our library in Essalieyan is by far superior.” But he smiled almost fondly. “There is a library of older and more delicate works farther down the hall; it is the grandest of all of our rooms.”

  Stephen nodded, wordless. It made sense that the Order of Knowledge would have such a collection; it even made sense that mages would. Books, after all, were a hint of magic in Stephen’s life.

  “Wonderful,” Gilliam snorted. “Do you have kitchens as well?”

  As one person, they both turned, and their faces bore very similar expressions. Zareth Kahn recovered first. “Yes,” he replied shortly. “We have kitchens. We also have rooms and wings for visiting . . . dignitaries. If you follow me, I’ll see that your needs are attended to. Forgive me for forgetting the hospitality of the Order.”

  He began to walk the halls briskly, leaving their wonder to Stephen. Stephen’s frown deepened, aimed as it was at the spot between Gilliam’s shoulder blades.

  • • •

  The rooms they were given were grand, even by noble standards. They were both larger and better equipped than the rooms in the King’s castle and on his grounds, in which the Hunter Lords lived until the Sacred Hunt. The ceilings, tall, were not arched; they were flat, and crossed by magnificent beams. There were paintings hung above the fireplaces that bore artist’s signatures that even Gilliam could recognize. Attached to each sleeping chamber was a small, simple room with a stylized, but serviceable altar for votive offerings, prayer, and meditation. The Order had taken pains to ensure that these altars could be used by worshipers of many different faiths, although it was equally obvious that the altars themselves saw little use.

  There was a sitting room, a small parlor, and a large study. The study was equipped with shelves, although these were empty, and two desks, either of which dwarfed any that the Elseth Manor claimed. It was clear that whoever visited these chambers came to both work and live.

  “Do these rooms meet your approval?”

  “Indeed,” Lady Elseth replied, before either Stephen or Gilliam could speak. “They do. If this is the hospitality of the Order, Zareth Kahn, than we of Elseth are deeply grateful.”

  “Will you require anything? I shall send up servants and water for the baths, unless you would prefer to use the more public ones.”

  She raised a brow. “No, the small ones will do.”

  He nodded. “When would it please you to dine?”

  “After our baths, I think.” She lifted a hand to forestall Gilliam, and caught him in mid-word. “Is there a hall for the Order, or will we dine in our rooms?”

  He hesitated a moment, and then bowed. “If it would not trouble you, Lady, I would prefer that you remained in your rooms until I have had time to confer with my colleagues.”

  Her shoulders relaxed. “It would be no trouble at all.” Then she smiled, and although she looked weary, her smile was completely genuine—the first such one with which she had graced the mage. “My thanks.”

  • • •

  “. . . and that,” Zareth Kahn said, sinking to rest in his chair, “is the whole of it, Zoraban.”

  The light in the room was low; although it was full day, and Zoraban’s chambers had windows aplenty, the curtains had been drawn. They were a subtle, soft weave that allowed a whisper of light, no more, to pass through, but they were also magical in nature—a gift of creation from the Order in the capital of Essalieyan. What was spoken in these rooms when the curtains were drawn would be caught by no magical eavesdroppers, should any try to listen.

  Zoraban nodded softly, and even in the poor light, the pale twinkle of his golden eyes was clear. He wore his age like a mantle, letting it suggest both wisdom and the power of gathered knowledge. It had been so for fifteen years, and if any thought it suspicious that Zoraban had not noticeably aged in those fifteen, they were wise enough not to voice their doubts. His long white hair gleamed softly, a halo around his slender features. His beard, thick and heavy, fell like milk into his lap.

  Zareth Kahn raised his head idly, after minutes had passed in silence. Zoraban was not the most powerful of the mages that the Breodanir Order boasted—but he was easily the most learned of their number, and for that reason, held the seat of the Order. None had tried to gainsay him. After all, rare indeed was a god-born child of Teos, God of Knowledge—and when Zoraban had proved himself such a one, the Order had all but begged to receive him.

  What are you thinking, Zoraban? What do you know that you’ve not seen fit to share with us?

  As if he could hear the thoughts—and at times, Zoraban was uncannily, uncomfortably perceptive—the Master of the Order met Zareth Kahn’s ringed eyes. Against all odds, the Teos-born man smiled; his face lit up with a deep, quiet joy.

  “Have they eaten?”

  “Pardon?” It was not the question he had expected.

  “Have your companions eaten? Would they be willing to speak now, at my request?”

  Almost, he said yes—but then he remembered two things. The first was the sour expression of Lord Elseth, and the second, that only Lord Elseth seemed to be able to communicate with the strange girl. Still, one did not easily say no to the Master of the Order. Zareth Kahn reflected on the wisdom of this, weighing the one against the other, before he sighed regretfully. “No, Zoraban. They will eat soon, and if you will it, I will bring them to your chambers the moment they have retired from their table.”

  Zoraban raised a frosted brow almost airily. “I see,” he said, his words dry. “Then I will wait here in reposed patience.” He smiled again. “There are answers here, Zareth—I can almost taste them.”

  “Answers?” Zareth Kahn asked mildly.

  “To the questions the Gods ask,” Zoraban replied. “Not to the questions of impertinent mages, even be they as exalted as to reach the second circle.”

  It was a matter of ease and custom to acknowledge a graceful defeat when the opponent was Zoraban; Zareth Kahn inclined his head elegantly. But his curiosity was piqued; it burned and flared to a life that hovered above his state of exhaustion, waiting. “If it won’t trouble you, I will also sup quickly.” He rose, without waiting a reply. In such a fey mood, Zoraban was unlikely to find a reason to protest.

  • • •

  Stephen found the very spartan simplicity of Zoraban’s rooms almost shocking. Unlike almost every other inch of the sprawling order, it was unadorned by either paintings, shelves, or carpets. The floor was constructed of simple, well-oiled wooden planks, and the desk against the wall was small. It had two drawers, one on either side of the empty chair, and an inkstand that appeared to be empty.

  There was a fire grate, but no mantle, and the only piece of finery in evidence anywhere was the expanse of draperies against the west wall. The drapes were closed and hung in a rippling cascade of oddly colored material; Stephen didn’t like them, but he couldn’t say why. Still, if not for those, he might have thought they’d been tricked into entering a confinement cell.

  Zoraban did not seem to notice the shock of his visitors. “I bid you welcome to the Order of Knowledge,” he said, rising. He wore simple robes, but dark ones; they were unbelted, and fell to his feet in a clean full-circle drape as he bowed, quite low. “I am Zoraban, Master here.”

  Lady Elseth, attired in a dress both simple and of obvious quality, returned his bow in kind; she knew that he was not, originally, of Breodanir, and left behind the formal curtsy that she would have otherwise offered. She was bathed and fed, a
much renewed person, and as she rose, it was hard to imagine that she had been forced to the capital at such a harrowing pace.

  “I am Elsabet, Lady Elseth,” she said softly. “This is Gilliam, Lord Elseth, and his huntbrother, Stephen of Elseth. The girl is unfortunately afflicted and has been unable to give us her name.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Zoraban replied. “But, please, those of you who will, be seated.” He gestured to the walls, where four chairs were unceremoniously placed. The chairs, unlike the rest of the chamber, were finely ornamented; the hardwood of the arms and legs were worked with carvings and symbols, and laced liberally with gold.

  Even Lady Elseth raised an eyebrow in question as she accepted the mage’s offer.

  “Bring the chairs in closer if you prefer; I don’t usually have this many guests in my rooms, so I had the chairs brought and left to the side. I should have placed them more hospitably.”

  Lady Elseth was first to comply, although Zareth Kahn went to her aid; the chairs were heavy and not easily carried. Stephen followed his Lady’s lead, and at length, so did Gilliam.

  The girl sat at his feet, resting her chin on his knee. He stiffened, and she lifted her face, her expression almost a parody of hurt. Gilliam looked up then, at Stephen, as if for permission.

  Stephen grimaced and then nodded quickly. He watched the girl’s head settle back into Gilliam’s knees, and after a moment, saw Gilliam slowly stroke her hair.

  “Why have you come?” the Master of the Order asked suddenly. He rose, as if he had no need of a chair, but stayed his ground, surveying them all from the advantage of his height. And he was in truth tall, if not in seeming; the lamps at his back cast a long shadow, and the windows were allowed no chance to provide light. For a moment, light at his back and perfect, ivory hair against the black background of his robes, Zoraban seemed the maker-born image of a God.

  Stephen drew breath sharply. Golden eyes seemed to flare, like the sun, in the pale face of the Master of the Order. At once, the Elseth huntbrother bowed his head.