The Sacred Hunt Duology

by Michelle West

  The girl opened her mouth in a whine and bark.

  “You are well. Don’t worry; we will not fail.”

  “You—you know her?”

  Evayne nodded. “I do now.” She turned away from the girl. “And I know you, Stephen, quite well. I apologize if I confused you last night. It was—the first time I’d met you, and I am not good at first meetings, even though many years have passed.” She raised a hand, looked at it carefully, and then let it drop.

  “Years?”

  “It hasn’t been years yet, has it?” she said, almost to herself. “No, never mind it. As I said, I cannot hold us above Time forever; already I tire.”

  “Who are you?” Stephen asked softly.

  “Evayne.”

  Exasperated, he opened his mouth; she raised a hand and gently swatted his words away, as if they were insects.

  “You said, last night, that you would answer our questions,” he said, undeterred by her cool gesture. His arms, clothed in the velvet that told his station, he crossed against his chest. Gilliam recognized the look on Stephen’s face.

  “I was young then, Stephen. If you prefer to think so, call me liar. But I am not what I was, and I cannot answer the questions that I know you will ask.”

  “Time?” he asked, but it was almost a sneer, he was so frustrated.

  Her face lost the last of its warmth, and there had been little enough of it. “Would you become as I, Stephen of Elseth?” Her shoulders fell back, and her chin, proud and harsh, came up. “Would you walk a separate path, a separate time, from any other?”

  He didn’t understand the question.

  “Tomorrow,” she said, “you will wake and your Hunter will wake; you will go and breakfast and speak of the things that concern you, the worries you share.

  “Next year, you will marry the woman you choose—should you choose—and you will eventually father children. You will watch them grow, and you will love them as you are able, regardless of how they change. You will understand them because you will have had the time to share, the time to form the bond.

  “Tomorrow,” her voice grew cooler, but softer, and her eyes became eerie in their remoteness, “I will wake to the clamor of war on a distant plain. People that I have not yet met will die there—and perhaps ten years from now I will have seen enough of them to mourn their passing in some human fashion.

  “For I have walked away from Time’s path, and forged a path of my own. None can walk it, Stephen; none can follow it with me.

  “If you ask me questions, perhaps I will prove too weak to turn them aside, and you may find yourself above Time’s path—and quite alone.”

  He did not doubt the threat, but doubted the weakness; in her voice there was ice, and that ice was not brittle.

  “I’m sorry,” she said suddenly, although she did not sound at all contrite. “There is no time. Let me tell you what I must. Come, child, sit—either at my feet or at your master’s. Do not distract him until I have finished.”

  The wild girl tilted a head until her ear was almost level with her shoulder. Then she nodded, which looked even more peculiar, and folded up into a quiet little ball at Gilliam’s feet.

  Without further preamble, Evayne said, “You must leave Breodanir and travel to Essalieyan.”

  Gilliam’s eyes narrowed.

  “Essalieyan is the heart of the world,” Evayne continued, serene now. “In it, there is much knowledge, much that is old, much that is wise or powerful. It is there you must find what you seek.”

  “What do we ‘seek’? Why in the Hells would we travel to Essalieyan?” To say that Gilliam growled would have been inaccurate, but he did convey the sense of a growl by the curl of his lip and the lowering of his head.

  “Because in Essalieyan, Lord Elseth, you will find a cure for the ailments of your companion.”

  Involuntarily, Gilliam looked down at the brown—and for the moment, untangled—hair of the wild girl. He had not yet named her, and although he felt, no, knew her to be of his pack, he could not bring himself to do so. He reached down and stroked her fine hair. Answers. Essalieyan.

  Prejudice—for no one from Breodanir could ever forget the damage done by foreign nonbelievers—hope, and fear struggled within him. It was Stephen who spoke next, and he spoke to break the silence, after contemplating her directive.

  “Lady, you ask much without explanation.”

  “Yes,” she said, bowing her head. Her brow wrinkled; she massaged it gently with her fingertips. “Stephen, you will be free from your wyrd only in Essalieyan. The demon-kin will hunt you, and only in Essalieyan is there any hope of refuge.”

  “Why will they hunt me? What do they seek?”

  Silence answered him, silence and the remote chill of her expression. She watched his face; he felt her eyes, unblinking, scrape across his brow. His skin tingled as if he had endured a great cold before entering warmth. Essalieyan. It was a whisper of a word, a youthful dream, a story. He looked down and met Gilliam’s eyes. Gilliam nodded. “Evayne, Lady, what you offer us, we accept. We will travel, if possible, to Essalieyan. Shall we venture to the capital, Averalaan?”

  “Yes,” she answered softly. Then, her eyes narrowed as if the light from the window had grown too intense. “But you must leave at once.”

  “At once? Impossible.”

  “Is it so?”

  Stephen looked away. He had known, somehow, that she would ask them to leave immediately; he had his answer prepared. “We cannot make the trek and be guaranteed to return in time for the Sacred Hunt; it’s a journey of two or three months. We will have to wait until the Hunt is called before we take our leave, or we lose our lands, our titles, and our people.”

  “If you wait for the Hunt,” Evayne said, turning her back upon him, “you doom Breodanir.”

  Silence reigned in the wake of her words. The words themselves seemed to reverberate with a life of their own; they had a truth to them that Evayne was conduit for, no more.

  “Will you go? I cannot travel with you,” she added, a little bitterly, “but I will see you on the road, and in the city itself.”

  Stephen looked back at his Hunter.

  Gilliam was silent, almost brooding. For it was Gilliam who held the title and the lands that were forfeit if they did not return in time to Hunt at the King’s—and the God’s—call. “Could we make it?” he asked, his voice a whisper.

  “If traveling conditions are good; if there are no bandits and no problems in the free towns; if the mountain pass is not heavy with snow—don’t forget, it’s late enough in the season. That would leave us with scant weeks, maybe two in total, in the city of the Twin Kings before we had to retreat. And once again, we depend on perfect conditions of travel if we are to return to the King’s City and the Sacred Hunt.”

  “And how long will this thing take?” Gilliam said speaking directly to Evayne’s dark back. She turned slowly, glancing over her shoulder, showing the perfect profile of her face.

  “I do not know.”

  “And what exactly must we do?” Gilliam said, bringing his hands down hard on the armrests of his chair.

  “I am not certain; I can’t see it clearly.”

  “That’s what I thought.” He was silent again. Almost brooding. Stephen felt his Hunter’s anger and his fear, his hope and his unease, as they braided themselves around the bond that he and Gilliam shared. And then, almost at once, they went slack as Gil raised his head, and his voice, again.

  “Evayne.”

  “Yes?”

  “What is her name?”

  The question was unexpected, even to Evayne, who stared a moment in confusion before she realized who Gilliam was speaking of. Then a smile shadowed her face for the briefest of instants. “Her name is Espere.”

  The wild girl, so named, suddenly raised her head and barked. If she had had a tail
, Stephen was sure it would be thumping away at the carpet.

  Gilliam started to stand, which galvanized his huntbrother into action. That action, unfortunately, was to offer an arm as support, rather than to force an errant Hunter back to his seat. Gilliam would stand, and Stephen, knowing that this was not a point that he could win without a protracted and public argument, gave in gracefully.

  “Evayne, mage, or whatever you are, we will go to the city. With Espere.”

  At this, Evayne laughed, although the laugh was a gentle one. Then the laughter faded, and she turned to face them both, fully. “He chose Espere’s protectors well, when he sent her to you. Listen, both of you. Listen well. What I speak here will not be repeated.” Her arms, she raised to either side; stiff and dark-robed, she became a mortal cross. Her eyes, violet, became darker still, irises spreading across the whites until nothing human remained.

  When she spoke, her voice was a chorus.

  Just as Teos’ voice had been.

  “The Covenant has been broken in spirit; the portals are open; the Gods are bound. Go forth to the Light of the World, and find the Darkness. Keep your oath; fulfill your promise. The road must be taken, or the Shining City will rise anew.”

  “What oath?” Stephen shouted, for the voices were a storm; even when the words had finished, the air was heavy with their texture. Pain and peace, age and youth, love and hatred called out through Evayne’s lips, and then lingered a moment in her eyes. “What oath?” His words were heavy; sharp. The Shining City was a thing of legend—and a legend so fell and so dark that in the end, it claimed Morrel’s life at the dawn of time.

  Violet eyes cleared as Evayne lowered her arms; she had offered him no answer. “I thank you both,” she said softly, her voice once again her own. “But I must travel now.” Speaking had diminished her somehow.

  “That was a God’s voice,” Stephen said.

  “Yes. I am your wyrd, Stephen. You know which God speaks through me. And if you do not, I cannot speak of it. I must leave.”

  “What in the Hells did it mean? What oath are we supposed to keep? What is the darkness and what is the light?”

  “I don’t know.” Bitterness returned to her face. “I only know from my own experience that my advice to you is sound—you must go to Essalieyan.” When his eyes narrowed, she added, “I am no more god than you, Stephen of Elseth. Do you think that my God will grant me permission to enter his counsels, any more than yours does?” She turned, then, and began to walk away.

  “Wait!” Stephen said, swiftly following her. He caught her shoulder in a tight grip, and she drew herself up to her full height. She did not pull away, but instead pivoted to face him.

  “Yes?”

  “Last night—last night you . . .” He didn’t know what he wanted to say, and looked away from the pale violet of her steady glance. “Did you know, last night, what would happen to us? What we would choose?”

  Her brows drew together into a peppered line; the wrinkles there deepened enough that it was clear what expression had formed them. “Yes,” she answered at last, as if the words had been dragged from her. “But I did not know that now you would ask me of it. I was bitter in my youth,” she added, and her lips turned up in a simile of a smile, and of wisdom. Neither reached her eyes. He saw her age clearly, but more clearly saw the weakness and the fear that he associated with only the very youthful.

  “And not now?” He pressed her.

  “I don’t know. Am I?” Before he could answer, she reached up and touched his cheek, trailing its hollow with her fingers until they trembled off the line of his jaw. As he opened his mouth in shock, she withdrew her hand. There was an intimacy, a knowledge, a familiarity in her touch that Stephen was afraid of. She started to speak, and then shook her head and pulled away. He did not stop her.

  But she turned again as she reached the door. “Time will start the moment I leave.”

  Gilliam, Lord Elseth, Stephen of Elseth, and the newly named Espere, watched her with wide, unblinking eyes.

  It was to Stephen that she spoke, and the next words were so odd they were almost incomprehensible, although they were simple and plain.

  “Stephen—when I was young, you were kind to me. Will you—can you—” She looked away. Drew herself up. Smiled ruefully, and shook her head. “We will meet again, you and I. Be as merciful as you can.”

  • • •

  “She’s gone,” Stephen said quietly when Zareth Kahn pushed the door open and lightly stepped into the room. The scene that greeted his eyes was almost cozy; wood burned in the curtained fireplace in the room’s northernmost wall, and around it, Gilliam and the wild girl sat, eyes drawn to the flame, attention absorbed by what they saw flickering in its heart.

  It was late enough in the season to be chilly here, but the mages rarely burned wood at this time; they chose instead to don heavier robes and save the heat for more dire need. Zareth Kahn opened his mouth to mention this, then shut it again on the words.

  Gilliam was quiet and pale, and the girl, not touching her Lord, but still by his side, even more so. Were it not for the windows, with their open view of birds and greenery, he might have thought it winter.

  He cleared his throat, but before he could speak, the door at his back opened rather awkwardly. Navigating its wide, heavy swing, he stepped quickly out of the way as Lady Elseth entered the room.

  She was severely dressed in heavy wool skirts and a rather stiff jacket; it was as if she, too, felt the cold here. “Well?” she said quietly, as all eyes turned to face her.

  “Evayne is gone,” Stephen replied.

  Lady Elseth nodded mildly, as if to say that she had expected as much. She walked over to her sitting son and inspected his ribs with all the nonchalance of a worried mother. “What did she have to say?” she asked in a casual tone of voice that fooled no one.

  “We’re to travel,” Gilliam replied, leaving off the preamble that would have been Stephen’s opening, “to Essalieyan and the city of Averalaan. We leave within the week.”

  Lady Elseth had twice undertaken that trek on matters of commerce and trade before Gilliam’s father had passed away and the duties of the Elseth demesne demanded her attention and her presence. It took her less than a minute to pale. Her eyes grew round and her hands fell to her sides as her fingers began to curl into the heavy, thick wool of her skirts. But her voice didn’t waver. “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Gilliam said, and looked to Stephen’s back.

  “What did she say?” Zareth Kahn stepped between Lady Elseth and her adopted son. “What did Evayne say?”

  “That Breodanir will fall if we fail to leave.” Stephen stared into the fire, seeing in the flames neither warmth nor comfort. “I believe her,” he added softly.

  “Does she know what this may mean to Elseth?” Elsabet’s eyes narrowed as she waited for the answer.

  “She knows.”

  “And you know it,” Lady Elseth said. “Very well.” She swallowed and then pulled her hands from their nervous dance. “A week is not long enough to see to all of your needs. But—”

  “It has to be long enough,” Stephen said, and turned then to face her. His eyes were ringed, his face pale.

  “This has to do with the . . . the demons, doesn’t it?”

  “What else can it possibly be?”

  “Stephen.” Gilliam, hand on either wheel, rolled his chair forward until he could touch his huntbrother’s hand. “We faced them last night, and we won.”

  Stephen nodded, but it was clear that he took no strength from his Hunter’s words. He was afraid. Time had begun, as Evayne had promised, the moment she left the room. Time turned; the birds touched branches and left the ground, the wind bobbed in leaves, teasing them away from their trees.

  The shadows grew darker, although the sun was bright. The Hunter’s Horn hung, heavy, at his side. H
e had the uncanny sense that if he left this city, this kingdom, he would never return to it again.

  And everything that he loved was in Breodanir.

  “Lady,” he said, and bowed to the woman who was his mother. “We will have two weeks in the city of the Twin Kings to see to our task.”

  “What is your task?” the mage asked, crossing his heavily clad arms, daring to interrupt their discourse. Stephen had expected that Zareth Kahn would be irritated, but instead the mage seemed peculiarly intense and intent. His thin face, shadowed by lack of sleep, looked sharp—the edge of a personality, honed and pressed a little too close for comfort.

  “Find the Light of the World. Find its darkness. Keep our oath.”

  “In other words,” the mage replied, “you haven’t the barest of notions.” He shook his long dark hair, and his eyes became very bright. “But I may have, at the end of this week. With your leave, Lord Elseth, Stephen, I will travel with you at the end of the week—at least as far as Corason.”

  Stephen had never thought to be grateful for the company of a mage—especially not one who had attempted to force words from him by dint of a spell. He was grateful now. “She said—she said one other thing,” he told Zareth Kahn in the quiet of the library.

  “And that?”

  “We must stop the Shining City from coming again.”

  “The Shining—”

  Silence.

  • • •

  Elsabet watched as her two sons left the King’s City. She knew that they would stop in the Elseth demesne; Gilliam would not be parted for months on end from all of his dogs, and had elected—against the quiet, restrained objections of Zareth Kahn—to take six of his dogs on the road with them.

  The girl—Espere, he had called her; she wondered if he knew what it meant—still walked, pranced really, by the side of Gilliam’s horse. She could not be forced to mount, but Gilliam insisted that this would not slow their progress. She did not believe him. Still, she had no choice but to believe Stephen when he solemnly backed his Hunter’s word.