The man laughed suddenly, and the shadows resumed their normal, everyday dimensions. “Yes, I’m of the god-born,” he said. “Who else could hope to keep order within this Order of mages and knowledge-seekers?” Still, it was obvious that the chuckle was a pleased one, and although the fleeting aura of otherness vanished with the laugh, Zoraban did not choose to take his seat again.
“We want answers,” Gilliam said abruptly. “We wouldn’t have come had your mage not insisted.”
Zoraban raised an eyebrow. “I would have known you as Hunter Lord with no introduction.” His voice was grave. “But perhaps you will be glad of your journey, Lord Elseth. For I see that Zareth Kahn was correct in his appraisal. At your feet sits one god-born.”
The girl looked up then, shaking her hair free of Gilliam’s fingers. She met the mage’s golden eyes with her dark ones, and then smiled and bobbed her head up and down, as if in greeting. Or agreement.
“Gil?” Stephen’s eye were wide.
So were his Hunter’s. “Yes,” he said, half-whisper, half-word. “She says, yes.” And he, too, looked up to meet the eyes of the god-born mage. He put a hand on the girl’s shoulder, as if to draw her back—then realized what he was doing, and even had the grace to blush.
“The god-born can speak to the god-born,” Zoraban said, his eyes gentle. “No matter what their language, no matter who their parents. But I have never seen such eyes on one so blessed—or cursed—among our number. Come, girl.”
The girl rose and walked the length of the floor to stand before Zoraban. But she did turn—once—to glance back at Gilliam.
There were so many questions that Stephen wanted to ask—but as the mage lifted both of his hands and gently cupped the girl’s upturned face, he forgot them. He could not speak; there was something about the scene that felt almost too private to watch. Yet it was compelling, magical. For a moment, the bright edge of mystery pervaded the room, and all of time seemed to whirl around the two who stood with the blood of the Gods in their veins, without ever eclipsing them.
The mage’s eyes glowed; gold turned to sunlight, bright and crackling. The girl’s face was turned away from them; they could not see her reaction, but she did not move or pull away.
“Yes,” Zoraban said, in a voice too deep and too low for a human throat, “you are of the god-born. But I do not know your parent.” He let his hands drop, slowly, and raised his head to face the spectators until now forgotten. “I will walk in the half-world for you—and for my own curiosity. I will call my father. Will you wait?”
Zareth Kahn’s eyes widened in obvious surprise; Stephen, Gilliam, and Elsabet did no more than nod. What else could they do but wait? They had come this far seeking answers.
“He has only done this one other time,” Zareth Kahn whispered, for Stephen’s ears alone. “You are honored.” Then he, too, fell silent, as Zoraban lowered his hands completely, until the long black sleeves melded with the drape of robes and his fingers curved loosely. His face, he lifted to some point beyond the ceiling, searching upward, and up again, as if the heavens themselves were visible to the golden aurora of his gaze. His lips parted, his beard rustled as if at wind.
The air before him began to sparkle; clouds rolled in, heavy and thick, like low-lying mist on the moors.
“Stand your ground; stay your place.”
Stephen heard Zareth Kahn’s command as if from a distance. He gripped the arms of his chair and looked rigidly down as the ground gave way to clouds and a lattice of darkness and light such as he had never dreamed.
“Gil!” He shouted, as he felt his brother begin to rise. “Stay seated. The half-world is not for us.” He pressed his bond with his brother with more force than he had ever done; he could hear the distant screech of wood against wood as Gilliam sat back, hard.
“Trust him. He . . . has forgotten himself in his call. Let me explain. The half-world will open easily for the god-born—they speak with their parents in ways that normal mortals cannot. But humans were not meant to meet with Gods, and without a sure and certain guide, they cannot enter the realm. If they enter it, they can be lost until a God sees fit to return them—but no God can compel them there,” Zareth Kahn said again, his tone calmer, his words slower. “The half-world will not consume us if we stay in our place. Lady?”
“I am . . . here. This is interesting, Zareth.” Her voice was dry, with just the edge of a quiver. “What is this patchwork on the ground?”
“What do you see?” the mage replied.
“I see the golds and yellows of the harvest,” she answered, measured, calm. “I see the shadows of the villagers in the fields; I see the foot of the seat of judgment. I see . . . I see my children—all of our children. The winter. It moves.”
“What else?”
But she had fallen silent, and did not answer further.
“I don’t see it,” Gilliam said. “I see the hunt. I see stag and bear and boar; I see wolf and fox and hound. I see the spear and the sword and the bow. And Stephen.”
“Stephen?” Zareth Kahn said softly.
“What do you see?” Stephen asked.
The mage laughed. “I see wind and rain and fire. I see the earth buckling, the heavens opening. I see books and lore and even a little death. More, but you wouldn’t understand it. You?”
“I see darkness and light,” Stephen replied.
“What?”
“Darkness, light—like the clouds here.”
The mage was silent; his thought made the air heavy. “Stephen,” he said at last, in a tone that was devoid of expression. “You are rare. What the half-world shows, no one fully understands—but not even I see it as it is; I see it as my hopes, my life, my dreams, my fears—but it is always connected with the everyday.”
“Earthquakes happen every day, do they?” Stephen shot back. But he shivered. And then he felt it: the presence of God. It crept into his body slowly; started as a tingle, the vaguest hint of something familiar that teases the memory. It did not stop there. Instead, it grew stronger, brighter; the clouds at his feet closed over the lattice until there was mist, no more.
Still, he felt it. And as it grew more persistent, he found himself moving, as if to escape, all of his warnings to Gilliam forgotten. First one foot, then the other, fell firmly against what had been planked oak, and then his hands left the confines of his armrests.
Unanchored, and alone, he stood in the mists of the half-world. He could not even hear Gilliam’s shout—but he felt it clearly along their bond. It was comforting to know that not even this place where man and God might meet could sever what they had made together.
He sent his peace back to Gilliam. Stay, Gil. I’m safe. Then he began to walk forward. He thought he might walk forever, lost. Thought, without the guidance of Zoraban, that he might pay for his foolishness the way that the fools in the children’s stories that Lady Elseth told always did.
But if he had to walk, he did not walk alone.
Gilliam, Lord Elseth, appeared beside him, a shadow with substance in a strange world that seemed to have none.
“Gil! I told you to stay!”
Gilliam smiled grimly, and punched his huntbrother, hard, in the shoulder.
Stephen laughed and offered no further demur; what he had said and what he felt were two very different things, and Gilliam rarely paid attention to the said thing when the felt thing beckoned.
“Where are we?” Gilliam said, looking around.
“In the half-world,” someone answered. The ground, if ground it was, rumbled and buckled slightly. They both looked up, and up again, following the strange echo of the voice.
And thus is was that the Elseth Hunter Lord and his huntbrother first met a God in the half-world.
Chapter Twenty-One
GILLIAM SAW A SLIGHTLY bent old man, leaning against a smooth, dark staff with one hand, while in th
e other he carried a heavy tome with a thick brass latch and two cracked leather covers. He wore robes, those dark and gray ones that the Priests of the Hunter often wore, and his head, hands, and throat were unadorned. His hair, long and white, fell past his shoulders, gathering in the hollows of his stooped shoulders, and a beard trailed into the mist.
But his eyes were not gold, not any living color; they had a depth to them that eyes should not have. Were it not for the towering height of the God, Gilliam might have mistaken him for Zoraban, Master of the Order.
Stephen saw differently.
Age was a thing for mortals, and this tall, inscrutable Lord of the Heavens bore no such taint. He wore robes, yes, long and fine, but they had no colors and all colors as they shimmered to the unseen ground. His perfect forehead was cut by a circlet of light; his face was smooth, his hair drawn tightly, completely back. In Stephen’s vision, the staff was no staff, but rather a fine and perfect blade, edged along both sides, pointed into rising fog. But he carried a book, and in it, Stephen was certain that the knowledge of the cosmos was writ.
He met the God’s eyes for a second, no more, and then looked away. He did not trust the ground beneath his feet, and so bowed instead of dropping to one knee in deference.
“You are not the ones who called me,” the god said, his voice filling their ears, although it was mild, even soft.
“No, Lord,” Stephen said. His voice was quiet as the God’s was loud.
“Then follow,” the God replied. “We are close to the one that did.” He raised a delicate brow and looked down his straight, slender nose. “You walked without him.”
To that, there was no answer. Stephen nodded.
“Brave,” was the only reply. The God began to walk, and as he did, the mist cleared behind him, forming a path wide enough for two men to walk abreast. In grateful silence, the Hunter and the huntbrother did just that.
They did not have long to walk; ahead, standing on what appeared to be a little hill or groundsheet, stood Zoraban; at his side stood the girl.
“Lord,” Zoraban said, his voice oddly resonant.
“Zoraban.” To Stephen’s surprise, the God bowed low. “It is good to see you again so soon. Why have you called me?”
“To ask the right question,” the mage replied gravely. He bowed as well, although there was nothing as majestic or grand in his gesture. Then he straightened, and his eyes widened. “Lord Elseth, Stephen.”
“I found them wandering the mists,” the God said. “Will you take them in?” The words were formal, almost ritualistic.
“I will, as my responsibility,” Zoraban replied.
“Then they are your care.” He looked down and then lifted the arm that held the sword. “Go and stand beside him.” Although there was no light above, or anywhere in sight, the blade cast a cutting shadow.
They reached the side of the mage, chastened but unbowed. “You will let me speak,” Zoraban said. They nodded, and Gilliam didn’t even show rancor at the severity of the tone. “Teos, it is your light and your labor that has granted man vision beyond the seen. To you, all knowledge is eventually brought, and from you, the desire for knowledge is kindled and burns yet.
“I come to you with information; it is my hope, my supplication, that that information will return to me as understanding, if you will it.
“And if you do not will it, Lord, I will be content, and I will continue to seek information in both your name and my own.”
Gilliam rolled his eyes. “Why can’t he just say ‘I’ve got a question?’”
Stephen planted his elbow sharply between the two ribs his reach was most familiar with. He did not speak his disapproval, for fear of interrupting either Zoraban or Teos, the Lord of Knowledge—but he sent it sizzling along their bond.
The girl raised her head and looked back at Gilliam while the mage continued to intone the prologue that the Hunter Lord found of such little interest. Then, at last, Zoraban stopped.
Teos, meditative, looked down upon the four with his endless eyes. Then, if possible, the corners of his lips turned up as if in a smile. “Yes,” he said softly, “you may present your case and ask your question.” The mists curled up around him, becoming thicker and more dense. They took on shape and form, like water hardening to ice, until they at last held the appearance of a huge, if simple, throne. The god sat, laying his sword across his legs, and his book across the sword.
“This is an echo,” Zoraban whispered, “of all that he is in the heavens.” Golden eyes met endless ones without so much as flinching. If there was affection between the immortal and his son, it was not obvious, not noticeable.
“My lord, I bring you a mystery. This woman.”
Teos studied the girl for a moment, and then inclined his head. Unlike a human monarch, he was not at all distressed by the state of her clothing, hair, or skin; these things rarely interested the Gods.
“She is god-born, Lord—but I do not know the God who was her parent, mother or father.”
“Her place of birth?”
“She does not know it in a manner that I can repeat to you.” He paused. “And she does not speak.”
“I see.” The God lifted a hand. “Come, girl.” And on those two words, his voice changed. For a moment, it was indistinct, not a single voice, but a multitude of voices—high, low, deep, thin—all blended into a precise harmony of sound. Each syllable held the power and the mystery of command.
Stephen understood then that the bardic voice was an echo of the voice of the Gods. He was not certain that, had he wished it, he could have disobeyed Teos. The girl did not, but she did not seem troubled or even awed by the presence of the deity. The mists moved and parted at her feet; she traced a path cleanly and quickly, raising her face as she approached.
Teos reached down for her, and placed one hand upon her upturned head. Light lanced out from his fingertips, crackling in the silence.
“Lord Elseth,” Zoraban said, his voice even, “stay your ground. She is not harmed.”
But Gilliam had made no move, nor would he. Although he did not understand why, the girl was not afraid; had the God’s magic harmed her in any way, he would have known it the moment she felt any pain. Still, his breath was tight and loudly drawn between clenched teeth.
Stephen did not even look at his Hunter; his eyes were drawn and bound to the hand of the God, the eyes of the God, the face of the God. Even the girl, straight and supple, with no taint of fear or awe, and therefore none of mortality, was barely a flicker in the field of his vision. He did not know that he held his breath until he was forced to expel it, and even then, he would not look away. He did not know why.
The God looked up. “She is god-born,” he said, his voice once again a storm of voices. “But her mortal parent was no human.”
“Ah,” Zoraban said. “Which of the Gods was she born of?”
Teos’ brow furrowed. Minutes passed; his eyes flickered gray and then flashed light, the essence of storm. “The Hunter God.”
Gilliam closed his eyes and nodded. Stephen dropped to one knee; the mist rose to his chest. Only Zoraban dared to speak, and the word held only incredulity. “WHAT?”
“The God of the Breodani.”
“But—but, Lord,” Zoraban sputtered. “There is no Hunter God!”
“So we thought,” Teos replied, while both Gilliam and Stephen gave way in turn to incredulity, if for very different reasons. “So I thought. But she is that, Zoraban.” The God smiled suddenly, and the smile was a terrible, sudden change. “Ask the right question, my son.”
“What do you mean, there is no Hunter God?” It was Stephen who asked the question, and he didn’t care if it was “right” or not.
“Not a single Lord of Heaven has ever seen or met this God that Breodanir claims as its own,” Zoraban answered tightly. “Not a single one of the so-called Hunter-born, not o
ne, has ever manifested any signs of the god-born. Breodanir is a mystery to the Order—why else do you think so large a group would live in your King’s City, away from the heart of Essalieyan, and the Order proper? But we have studied for years, and received no answers, found no records.
“Until now.”
“There were answers,” someone said. Stephen was almost shocked to find that the words were his own. “I have dreamt of them. Three times.”
Very slowly, the God’s gaze left the mystery of the girl and came to rest upon Stephen’s face. Stephen tried to look away. “Three times, Stephen of Elseth? Tell me of your dreams, then. I would hear them.”
“And may I then ask a question?”
“You are bold, but I am curious. Yes; you may ask.”
Very quietly, Stephen began to tell the God of the dream that, three times, had troubled his sleep. He spoke of darkness, and as he did, the mists shifted, the ground rocked. He spoke of the destruction of the temple, the killing of the Priests, and the appearance, each of the three times, of Evayne.
“Evayne?” Teos said, lifting a hand.
“It was what she named herself,” Stephen answered.
“You are wyrded.”
Stephen nodded. “But upon each of these occasions, I found this, and winded it. And the Hunter’s Death came.” So saying, Stephen reached into his jacket, and very carefully pulled out the Hunter’s horn.
In the half-world, it crackled with light and energy. Stephen nearly dropped it as it outlined his hand with its aura of power.
“Will you wind it for me now?” Teos asked softly.
Stephen lifted the horn to his lips at the command inherent in the God’s request. But before his lips made contact with the mouthpiece, the girl shrieked. His hands froze in midair.
For in that shriek, he heard two words: Not yet.
Eyes wide, he met the girl’s agonized stare, and saw what he had never seen in her eyes: a human sentience, and a very human fear.
The Sacred Hunt Duology Page 40