The Sacred Hunt Duology

by Michelle West

  “We have to go,” Stephen said softly. “To take care of your master.”

  The gleaming, iridescent head bobbed uncertainly to one side, its eyes flickering in the darkness, even as the last of the shadow faded. It turned, suddenly and swiftly, although so large a creature should have been slower, more cumbersome in movement.

  Stephen followed its gaze as it surveyed the ruined wall, and the men and women that seemed to go on past torches and lamplight down the winding staircase. “It’s over,” he said, equally softly.

  The beast growled; the air around Stephen’s ears buzzed with the sound of that throaty voice. And then, before Stephen’s eyes, it began to change. He watched in wonder, and almost in terror, as the scales seemed to dwindle and gather in a cowl around its neck. It lifted its forepaws from the ground, and reared up on its hind legs, and the golden claws, now rimmed with darkness that might have been demon-blood, became flat, dull, and smaller. The jaw shrank, the head altered, and in a minute a naked, dirty girl stood before him, her head still cocked in an odd, questioning angle.

  For the first time, Stephen felt no resentment and no unease as he gazed upon her. Her body was small, almost delicate, and were it not for dirt, and one or two long scratches, it would have been perfect, if a little boyish. Her hair was still a messy tangle, but its deep brown-black framed her silent face. She opened her mouth, and spoke.

  In a whine.

  He nodded, although he did not understand what she said, and began to walk, quickly now, as urgency grew, toward the open wall and the magicked door, still closed, that stood in its frame.

  Before he reached it, the mages made way, and two women stepped out of the gathered, silent crowd into what remained of the Master’s study. Stephen was the only person present who recognized both of them. He would have bowed, but that would have meant letting go of Gilliam.

  Evayne, the mysterious woman of the wyrd and the night of demons, came first. Her dark blue cloak was draped around her, like the shadows had been around Sor na Shannen, but her cowl rested along her shoulders, and the blackness of her hair, drawn back, still framed her white face, her violet eyes.

  At her side, lips pressed into a thin line, and eyes circled by weariness, stood Vivienne, the Priestess of the Mother. She was dressed in brown and gold and white, and her hands, as she lifted them, palm up, were steady.

  “Lady,” Stephen whispered. He took three steps, and stopped when he reached her side.

  Her dark eyes widened. “Lay him down at once,” she said, her voice almost harsh.

  He did, but gently, placing Gilliam of Elseth at the feet of the Priestess. White, ringed hands touched Gilliam’s neck carefully, and then moved out to span his chest. “You were right,” she said, speaking over her shoulder to the woman in midnight blue who had not moved or spoken. “And I apologize for the harshness of my temper. He would not have survived the journey to the temple. Do not move him further, Stephen of Elseth. I have him now, and I will help as I am able.”

  Stephen nodded, and knelt by her side.

  “I should have known,” Vivienne added, in her slightly sharp tone, “that it would be one or the other of you. The night had that darkness about it. Breathe easy, huntbrother. If he can be saved at all, I will save him.”

  He recognized a dismissal when he heard it and made to rise. The girl did not, and one other came to kneel at the Priestess’ feet. It was Lady Elseth.

  • • •

  This is the first time, she thought, head bowed, body stiff with control, that you have answered my prayers. She wanted to cry now, for the first time in years, but dignity and station forbade it. She could almost feel the warmth and heat that radiated from Vivienne’s hands, and she was grateful for it, although she longed to touch her son and feel for herself the strength of his pulse, the beat of his heart, the tickle of his breath.

  She knew better than to interfere with the healer’s communion, and clasped her hands in her lap instead. She was not going to lose her son this night. She let that sink in, let herself believe it. Glancing up, she saw the eyes of the strange woman who had led the Priestess in. They were fixed upon Vivienne and Gilliam with such intensity that Elsabet could not help but notice it.

  There was something odd about the stare, though; something strange about the woman. She was, to look at her, very young—no older than Maribelle, and perhaps younger—but her face was hard, emotionless, and her lips were drawn in a line that held no mirth, nor ever seemed likely to.

  Then she turned, ever so slightly, and met Lady Elseth’s gaze. They locked eyes, and for a second Elsabet caught a glimpse of something younger in the woman’s face. A hint of wistful envy. Before she could even name it, it was gone, and the ice was back in place.

  “Lady Elseth,” the woman said, and bowed. “I am Evayne.”

  • • •

  “Zoraban is dead,” Zareth Kahn said flatly, wincing as the dagger was at last pulled from his shoulder. He felt the warmth of blood and the sting of the cut; it was deep.

  The older man who attended him nodded grimly, although it had not been a question. “We know. Sela attends his body now, with Jareme. Sit still, Zar. You only make it worse, and I fear that the Priestess will have neither the time or the energy to attend to you.”

  “She wouldn’t have had to,” the mage said, clenching his teeth and attempting to sit still, as Elodra so quaintly put it, “had you deigned to notice the shadow-magic and arrive less tardily.”

  Elodra raised a frosted brow, and tugged tightly at the bandages he manipulated by hand. His was a slender, almost arch face. “Zareth,” he said softly.

  Zareth Kahn flushed heavily and looked away. “You didn’t deserve that,” he conceded.

  “We didn’t feel the shadow-magic,” Elodra said. “Until we came to the tower’s height itself.” He knotted the bandage and then examined it more closely. Satisfied, he stepped back. “Is this to do with Krysanthos?”

  “I don’t know. He wasn’t here, if that’s what you’re asking, and I didn’t feel his signature.” Free from Elodra’s fussing—it was something that Elodra did well, and did constantly, which was why he also handled most of the Order’s financial dealings—Zareth Kahn flexed his shoulder, winced, and then sagged. “But if you didn’t—”

  “The woman,” Elodra replied, turning his gaze upon the diminutive figure who stood in the isolation of her midnight-blue robes and her unearthly strangeness. “She came, with the Priestess of the Mother, and bade us hurry for the sake of your lives. I started up on my own, but she insisted that we gather the brethren before we made our ascent.” Elodra shivered. “I well understand why, now.”

  Zareth Kahn nodded, and then slid his hands over his face. It was safe, now, to shudder; to feel pain and the hint of a loss that the Order might never fully recover from. And in scant days, perhaps hours, he would also begin to question, to dissect, to understand, treating the events of this night as all things, in the end, were treated by the Order of Knowledge.

  But here and now, his mage-power guttered, and the chill already beginning to set his teeth on edge, he had only questions with no depth and no force behind them. Shivers turned to shudders; he curled into the floor, bringing his knees to his chest.

  Elodra was at his side at once, offering help. No, not offering, not precisely. Few indeed were the mage-born who resisted any of Elodra’s assistance for long. And one caught by mage-fever had less chance than most. Almost docile, the second-circle mage allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, braced, and led out of the ruins of the tower.

  • • •

  Although Gilliam’s injuries were healed, he had suffered much blood loss, and over his loud objections, was taken by mages out of the tower’s rooms. The girl accompanied him, circling his carriers in an odd hop and jump step, and Lady Elseth walked, shivering and pale, at the side of his stretcher. Vivienne, Priestess of the Mother
, was wan and pale. Only with the Hunter-born and their brothers was the cost of the healing—physically and emotionally—so one-sided. She was glad of it, or she would be, later.

  But Stephen remained in the room until the last of the stragglers had left it. Then, and only then, he bowed once, deeply, to Evayne.

  Evayne’s smile was a bitter one. “Stephen of Elseth,” she said, her voice soft and alien. Where, in the dreams, she had been power and mystery, in this room, at this moment, her words were no different in strength than the words any woman might speak. In such a situation. Indeed, perhaps because his vision of her had been the object of fear and confusion for so long, he found her almost disappointing.

  “Evayne,” Stephen said, stepping forward. “Twice now you’ve saved our lives. I should thank you for it.”

  The smile became more edged, the eyes colder—violets hit by a sudden, deadly frost. “But you won’t, Elseth huntbrother.”

  The vehemence in the words took Stephen by surprise; he stepped back a pace, although she had not so much as lifted a hand. Then, before he could speak, she passed a hand over her eyes. The folds of her robes changed and fell as she moved, and he thought of shadow again. Natural shadow, of the kind that occurred only upon the clearest of nights, with the moon in her glory.

  “I am sorry,” she whispered, as her hand fell away over shut lids. “That wasn’t necessary. I have never been good at beginnings, Stephen. Let us try this again.”

  He nodded, although he didn’t understand. “This isn’t the beginning,” he said tentatively.

  “No,” she replied. “And, yes. I will not leave you when sleep does, and I will not leave you to flee. You have questions, and I carry news; we will share these together before I depart.” She shivered again and seemed to shrink inward.

  Stephen moved slowly forward, and held out his arm as stiff support. He looked down at his sleeve, wondering why it was so dark, when it had become so, and whether or not the shadows of her fingers would pass through his forearm instead of resting there.

  “Don’t.” Once again, she was ice as she pulled back, staring at his proffered arm as if it were a sword. “I am not so weak, or so old, to require your aid.”

  “You don’t have to be weak or old to be weary,” Stephen said, but he stepped back and lowered his hands to his side. “Evayne.” His voice was soft. “If you do not wish help, I won’t offer it again.”

  She shook her head, looking down at her feet in silence, as if suddenly aware of her poor manners—if manners and the politenesses of society could be an issue in the ruined tower of a dead mage. “You have questions to ask me. Why don’t you ask them now?”

  “The questions I have I can’t ask without Gilliam.”

  “No?”

  “No. He is my Lord, as you are my wyrd.”

  “Don’t,” she said again, but less sharply. She lifted a hand as if in surrender.

  “Come,” he was gentle, as if he spoke soothing nonsense to a wild creature that stood petrified just out of reach. “It’s dark here. There will be light in the morning, and perhaps we both need it.”

  “Before the morning, there’s always the dreaming,” she said, and then bit her lip. Her teeth trembled there for a moment, and then her expression flowed into a still, stately mask; she looked older, more regal—a thing of vision or wyrd. “Lead the way, then, Stephen of Elseth.”

  He did, although he had to force himself not to offer her his arm again. He stepped carefully over rubble and dust, lifting his hand to cover his head as he passed below the edge of the ruined wall closest to the ceiling.

  Evayne watched him go.

  Why, she thought to herself, for she was very, very weary, can you never choose someone I can hate?

  There was no answer, of course, and she expected none as she followed Stephen’s awkward gait. But she prayed as she walked, that he would be the last.

  She knew that this, too, would not be answered.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  EVAYNE DID NOT DISAPPEAR with the troubled dreams of the short night. By the time that dawn had cleared the remnants of darkness from the sky, she was awake and waiting.

  Or so it appeared to Stephen of Elseth, as he entered the long hall that served as both study and library to the wing of the building that only the mages were called to. He saw her by the large arch of a window, as the sun streamed in through pale yellow panes of thick, perfect glass. She stood, facing out into the gardens, positioned beneath the peak of the window’s height. The sun cast her shadow in a thin dark line against the empty tables at her back.

  “That’s her?” Gilliam said quietly, catching Stephen’s attention.

  “Yes.”

  “She doesn’t look the same as she did when she saved us from the demon-kin.”

  “No,” Stephen replied, as he began to move again. Still, it comforted him to hear it—because until Gilliam had spoken those words, in this place, he had not remembered it. A shadow lifted, perhaps a hint of the doubt that Stephen had not even felt strongly enough to place into words. “Sit still, Gil.”

  But Gilliam, not used to this odd contraption of a chair and wheels, could not. The girl who walked on his other side suddenly reached down and butted her head into his shoulder playfully.

  “And keep your arms away from your sides.”

  “Yes, Priestess,” Gilliam replied smartly. He cursed when Stephen whacked him suddenly on the top of the head. “Stephen,” he began, as he grabbed the girl’s arm before she could retaliate on his behalf.

  “Gilliam,” his huntbrother countered. “This is not the time or place. We’ve come to speak with—”

  “Me.” And the dark-robed figure at the windows turned.

  She was hard to look at; the sun at her back made a shadow of her, a figure of darkness. Stephen could make out the outline of her chin and brow; he could see the light pass through stray strands of her hair, so he knew her hood was back and at her shoulders. But her hands were at her sides, and she was so perfectly still she could almost have been a dark statue, an ornament in a library for scholars and students, to be remarked upon and then forgotten as part of the daily surroundings.

  “I am here,” she said quietly, “and I have much to tell you both.” She stepped into the room, away from the frame of blinding light that kept her obscured. “Shall we start?” She lifted a hand and curved her fingers gently in summons.

  “We should wait for Lady Elseth and Zareth Kahn,” Stephen replied, rolling Gilliam, with a grunt, over the edge of the carpet. “The Priestess will be here, too, I think. She’s been tending Gilliam, but says she hasn’t recovered enough to finish until this eve.”

  Evayne continued to walk toward them, and as Stephen’s eyes grew used to the normal light of the room, he froze. For although her face was familiar, she was not the same woman who he had tried to comfort the evening before.

  No, her chin was harsher, more defined, and her brow was lined; her eyes, although still violet, were lined as well. She walked, and carried herself, as Lady Elseth did, and would do in the future—as a woman who wears age and wisdom as tokens of power.

  He recovered quickly, although the words did not return as easily as they might have. Instead, he busied himself, arranging Gilliam’s chair at Evayne’s dark side.

  “None of your companions will arrive,” this Evayne replied, with just a hint of bitter amusement to turn her lips at the corners.

  “None?” It was said quickly; harshly. Stephen frowned as he met Evayne’s eyes directly for the first time that day.

  “No, Stephen of Elseth,” she said, dropping her smile and her voice, “but not because I have magicked them or caused them any harm.”

  He had the grace to blush, and she, to look away.

  “Go,” she said, “and look outside for only a moment. You will understand, then, as much as I can explain to you. Do not ask
me questions about what you see, Stephen. Even if I wished it, I could not answer them.”

  Reluctantly, he let go of Gilliam’s strange chair and turned to the window that towered above him, stretching for the ceiling and the sky. The girl, as ever, stayed at Gilliam’s side; Stephen might not have left his Lord otherwise. But whatever it was that Evayne thought he might see escaped his notice, and he almost turned away in disappointment.

  The sky was blue and lightly clouded. The grass was perfectly cut, and rolled into distinct, velvet flatness—even around the base of the trees that topped the building’s height by many, many feet. Flowers, in precise rows, grew against the base of the walls, gates, and walkways. Small animals, with more temerity than wit, ran across the green, and birds of all sizes cut across the air between ground, tree, and fountain.

  And then he knew what the subtle strangeness was; knew why Evayne thought that none, after he and Gilliam, would arrive. One of those birds was frozen in the air, iridescent wings stretched wide, feet forming an outward strut inches away from the nearest fountain’s ledge. It did not land; it did not move. As he shifted his focus, he saw that nothing did.

  Not even breeze disturbed the Order’s garden.

  He turned slowly to face her and noted that she did not squint into the sunlight. But her face, with sun to light it, was still as pale as it had been last night, her eyes still as brilliant.

  “I . . . understand.” He bowed.

  “Good. Explain it to me,” Gilliam said. He shifted in the chair, winced, and settled back into his former position.

  “I think—I think that time doesn’t turn outside.”

  “Very good, Stephen. But within this room, it does, and we have little of it. This is costly, even if necessary, and I cannot hold it long; the world here is already too hectic and too busy.”

  He wanted to ask her why she needed to perform this magic, if magic it was, at all. Why not just speak with Zareth Kahn and Lady Elseth and the Mother’s Priestess? He did not ask; her glance strayed.

  “Hello, wild one,” Evayne said quietly. She held out one hand, and after a moment, the wild girl—Gilliam’s only packmate in residence—stepped forward almost timidly. “You found them, I see.” Although the girl wore a simple shift—one loose enough not to be immediately discarded—she was hardly decent. Evayne, if she noted this at all, did not remark upon it.