The Sacred Hunt Duology

by Michelle West

  “If I—if we—need guards, who do we ask for?”

  “Arrendas,” he replied. “Arrendas or Torvan.” He waited until he was satisfied that she would ask no further questions, and then turned and led his guards out.

  Finch waited until he was out of sight, and then threw up her birdlike arms and let out a squeal of glee. “Look at us!” she shouted, bouncing up and down. “Look at this!” She ran over to the west wall of what appeared to be a sitting room of some sort “If we took this with us, we’d have it made. This is worth a fortune!”

  “Indeed it is,” someone said.

  Finch jumped ten feet and everyone else started.

  In the inner door of the sitting room stood a severely dressed older man, watching the den with a mild frown. It was as close to disapproval as anything they’d yet seen—and that made it familiar and almost welcome. He stared at them for a few minutes, until he realized that they weren’t going to speak. Then he cleared his throat.

  “I,” he said, “am Ellerson. I am the keeper of these rooms; if you will permit me to ask you a few questions, I shall see that your needs are fulfilled while you reside within them. I am called,” he added, “the domicis.”

  “Does everyone have to talk like that?” Jester muttered under his breath.

  As she’d been wondering the same thing, Jewel didn’t snap at him. “Well, we want food,” she told the old man.

  “It has already been laid out, and is waiting for you in the dining room.”

  “Great!” Angel started forward. “Just lead us there and let us at it.”

  Ellerson raised a peppered brow and looked down his nose as Angel approached. “Follow me, sir.” He led them—slowly—through the sitting room, past another room, and down a long, wide hall. Had they wanted to run down the halls, it would have been hard; there was something about his presence that was so imposing he couldn’t be ignored.

  When they reached a bare, pale room lined with towels and filled with the fragrance of some mix of flowers that Jewel would never have been able to identify, Ellerson stopped. “These,” he said in an arch voice, “are the towels. Soap is with the bath. Those are pitchers and small basins, and there are two boys who will help you with your bathing needs.”

  “But we’re hungry,” Angel said, just before Jewel stepped on his foot.

  “Of course, sir,” Ellerson replied benignly. “And after the traditional bath, you will be seated in all haste. Unless,” he added, raising an eyebrow, “you’d prefer the barbarian custom of coming to a table in your . . . current state.”

  Jewel recognized an order when she heard it. She wasn’t even in the mood to be offended by it. “Bath first,” she said curtly.

  “But, Jay—”

  “Now.”

  • • •

  There was food for days; so much meat you could feed the den for a year if you could cure it all. There was milk and butter and cheese, but there were also fresh greens and sweeter things as well. They were served water, but if Angel and Jester hoped for a finer wine, they were to be disappointed.

  Jewel stared down at the plates and the knives in front of her. There was also another tined utensil which she didn’t often see—a fork. There was a spoon, no, two spoons. Three cups. She felt stupid not knowing what they were for, and then felt angry for feeling stupid. It didn’t matter what they were for; there was food here, and she intended to eat it.

  “Aren’t you hungry, Jay?”

  Normally, this would mean that Angel intended to eat whatever she didn’t inhale right that instant—but there was so much food on the table, that Jewel took it as an honest gesture of concern.

  “Yeah, I’m hungry.”

  He looked at her mostly full plate, shrugged, and went back to shoveling food into his mouth as fast as he could swallow.

  “Jay?”

  “Just eat, Teller.” She pushed her chair back; it made no noise at all as it ground itself across soft carpet. Frustrating, that.

  “Where’re you going?”

  “To find Carver and Arann.”

  “You want company?” Finch piped up.

  “No.” It was exactly what she didn’t want. “I want you to eat and rest up. We’re probably going to be thrown out in a few hours, so we might as well get what we can.”

  • • •

  Ellerson stopped her as she came into the sitting rooms, and after she told him where she wanted to go, he reached out and rang a series of chimes in a very distinct pattern. A well-dressed young man appeared before the last of the notes had died out. He was attractive enough if you noticed that sort of thing; his hair was a burnished copper, and his hands were long and fine. His face, like his hands, was long and finely boned, his eyes dark.

  “How may I be of service, sir?” he asked, standing with his arms stiffly at his sides.

  “You may show the young lady to the healerie, and then lead her back after she’s finished her business there.”

  “Yes, sir.” He waited until Ellerson nodded his tufted head, and then began to walk at a crisp but leisurely pace. Jewel joined him.

  “You work here?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Ma’am? She sighed. “I’m Jay. You?”

  “Burton, ma’am. Burton ATerafin.”

  “B-but—”

  The corners of his lips turned up in a smile. “Yes?”

  “Nothing.” She knew when she was being laughed at.

  He knew what she’d been about to ask. “I have the honor of being one of The Terafin’s personal servants. The Terafin’s personal servants are all ATerafin, although the servants in other wings of the house are not. The title is granted for service—for service that The Terafin sees fit to reward. The title doesn’t make us all-powerful lords. Most of us won’t come near to the governing council. Doesn’t matter. The Terafin’s house wouldn’t run without good men and women to see to it.” He spoke with a natural pride that Jewel found odd. “I was born to a Terafin. I worked hard to show that I knew the value of serving, the value of service. Eventually, my father recommended that I be adopted by the house—and The Terafin herself approved it.”

  She might have sneered at him, but it would have been an empty gesture of resentment. He was obviously the better clothed, fed, housed, and taught for all that he was a servant. “Does it bother you,” she said, giving him a sidelong glance, “to have to wait on us?”

  “A guest,” he replied, with even greater dignity, “is a guest. A servant who can’t remember that is . . . well, common, really.”

  She’d always known that she’d never understand the nobility. She’d never realized that she wasn’t even going to understand their servants.

  “The healerie is coming up on the right.” Burton looked straight ahead. “If you request it, we can arrange a tour of the grounds for you and your companions. If you’d—”

  “Thanks. I’ll keep it in mind.” She veered off to the simple doors on her right. Burton cleared his throat at her back to catch her attention.

  “That box beside the door, ma’am, is where your weapons are to be left.”

  “What?”

  “That box beside the door is where you are to leave your weapons.”

  “I heard you the first time. What do you mean, leave my weapons?”

  He blushed. “Healer Alowan will not have them cross the threshold of the healerie.”

  “But—but we didn’t have to leave our weapons behind before we visited The Terafin.”

  “The Terafin is not so concerned,” he replied gravely. “But it’s hard enough to find one of the healer-born who will reside within a noble manor. Alowan sets many of his own rules, and if you wish to enter into his presence, you—just as The Terafin herself—must follow them.”

  Snorting, Jewel walked over to the box. She pulled open the lid—it was heavy
—and saw that Carver’s dagger and Arann’s dagger were the only things in it. Sighing, she pulled her own out of her belt and gently placed it with the others. “You’ll watch them, won’t you?”

  He nodded quite seriously.

  “Good.” She took a deep breath, put her hands on the latch, and gave the door a yank. It was deceptively heavy, but it came with a little work.

  Jewel had never seen a healerie before, and she was quite surprised when she did. In the center of the room, where she thought beds should have been, was a grand fountain. In the center of that, like the grail of Moorelas, was a simple cup, held high by a thin, strong arm that rose from the water’s depths. Liquid trickled over the brim of the cup, tinkling as it touched the pool beneath.

  Light, from what seemed a hole in the roof, glinted off the moving surface of the water and the green, large plants that surrounded it. Jewel had no idea what they were; they were plants, and they were beautiful. That was enough.

  “May I help you?”

  She started, wondering for how long the fountain had captured her attention. “I’m here to see Arann.”

  “Arann?” The young woman’s brow creased, and then her eyes widened. “Ah—you mean the young giant that was brought here late this morning?”

  “That would be Arann, yes.”

  “Let me check with Alowan.” The white-robed girl was gone as quickly and quietly as she had appeared. This time, Jewel watched her trace her path around the fountain and into a room on the far side.

  When she returned, she nodded quietly—as she seemed to do all else—and Jewel followed her. Beyond the fountain, there were beds, although the beds themselves were arranged in small alcoves that gave them both light and air from open windows. Plants grew in abundance from hanging pots and trellises; Jewel ducked under their leafy vines and trails as she made her way to the only occupied bed in the healerie.

  There, Arann, propped up by many pillows, lay quietly staring out the window. Carver was beside him, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

  They were safe. Usually, she would have shouted something, but the healerie was so quiet, she felt that shouting would be some sort of crime. She padded silently across the floor and tapped Carver on the shoulder. He jumped, shouted, and fell out of his chair.

  “Shhhhh!”

  “Jay.” He rolled his dark eyes. “What’re you doing here?”

  “It’s fine. Everything’s all right.” She took the chair that he had vacated. “There’s someone waiting outside the door for you. Tell him you’re part of my den; he’ll take you to where there’s food. More food,” she added, as he eyed her somewhat doubtfully, “than a den full of Angels could eat.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “No, you’ll eat.”

  “I—”

  “That’s an order, Carver, not a request. Do it.”

  He gave her a very sarcastic salute, but it was obvious that he was tired and hungry, and after another halfhearted attempt to change her mind, he left the room.

  “Arann?”

  He turned to look at her, and she could see tear tracks down both his cheeks. “Jay.”

  “What is it? Are you still in pain?”

  He nodded, and then smiled weakly. “But not the side, not the ribs. It’s—the Healer. He’s—he’s gone.” Speaking the words brought the tears back, and he sank into the pillows in silence and sorrow.

  Jewel shook her head slowly. “Arann? What do you mean?” Her voice gentle, she caught his left hand in both of hers. He returned her grip tightly, but shook his head and turned away.

  What is it? What’s wrong? “Arann, I want to talk to someone. I promise,” she added, extracting her hand, “that I’ll come right back.”

  • • •

  She found the old man in a small room to the west of the fountain. He sat, legs crossed, on a flat stone bench that was surrounded on three sides by a profusion of greenery. Birds fell silent as she approached his back. She didn’t even stop to wonder what they were doing inside.

  “May I help you?” the old man said without turning.

  Surprised, she stopped. Then she squared her shoulders. “Yes.”

  He turned as she spoke, and she was surprised at how frail he looked, how delicate. There were tears nestled in the wrinkles beneath his eyes; they caught the light and held it as if they were crystal.

  “You are the young boy’s friend,” he said.

  “I’m his den leader,” she replied.

  He nodded, as if the word meant nothing more to him than friend. Again, she was surprised at how frail he appeared to be. “What would you have of me?”

  “I want to know what you’ve done to Arann.”

  The old man’s lips turned up in the saddest of smiles. “I called him back,” he replied. He unfolded his legs and slowly gained his feet.

  Jewel quickly joined him and offered him the support of her arm. He shied away and instead pulled a gnarled old cane from out of the leaves of a nearby bush. “You don’t know very much about the healer-born,” he said softly.

  She shrugged. “I’ve never been to a healer,” she said, half-bitterly. “Couldn’t afford one.”

  He grimaced. “There are reasons why the healer-born do not walk through the city on errands of mercy. Do not judge me harshly, young one. I do not judge the choices your life has forced upon you.”

  To her surprise, she felt almost ashamed. She didn’t like it much.

  “There are healers who will not call the dying back,” he said, almost as if changing the subject. “To heal the wounded and the injured still has its cost in pain and time—but to call the dying is the hardest of the healer skills, and there are many who will not pay its price.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know that we can mend the broken bone, and knit the ruptured flesh—but there comes a point when doing either is not enough. For your young friend, it was not enough. His injuries were too great. If The Terafin had not summoned me, he would have gone beyond the reach of even one healer-born.

  “He was almost beyond mine.” The old man closed his eyes, shook his head, and began to walk in the direction of the fountain. “Do you like the healerie?” he asked.

  She shrugged, and he sighed.

  “The young are always so impatient. I designed the healerie for myself. When I decided that I would serve The Terafin and her family, I knew that I would be called upon to heal the slightest of injuries on a daily basis. I knew also that, should the need arise, she would expect—and I would be in no position to argue—that I call back the dying.

  “This fountain, these plants, these two rooms—they are my peace after the healing is done.

  “Do you know why,” he asked, as he came to rest at the marbled lip of the grail, “healers who do not choose to become Children of the Mother charge so much coin for their services?”

  “Everyone likes money,” she replied, almost flippant.

  “True enough. But that is not what they seek. They charge money for their services because so few are willing or able to part with it, and it means that they will not be bothered by the injured and the dying every waking—or sleeping—moment for the rest of their lives. People understand that nothing is offered for free.

  “You have not seen the things I have seen, young one.” He closed his eyes and let the trickle of water speak for him for some minutes before he resumed. “I have seen healers who let their friends die, rather than summon them back.”

  Jewel had the uneasy feeling that she no longer wanted to hear the answer to her question. If she could have taken it back, she would have—because she knew, by the hunching of the old man’s shoulders, that he was steeling himself to speak with her of something that still caused him pain. She wasn’t always good at listening to other people’s pain. Well, she told herself sternly, you brought it on yourself by prying,
and you’ll damned well accept it. Echoes of a lost voice.

  “There is spirit—or soul, if you’d rather—and there is flesh, and the dying is merely the sundering of the two. But it takes the spirit time to divest itself of the rudiments of lung and heart and bone and muscle; time to relinquish the memories and experiences of a lifetime.

  “No, I’m no Mother’s Priest, if you’re wondering where I get my understanding of theology. To me—to any healer who has called the dying back—it is not theology, it is truth, and no simple truth at that.

  “We, the healer-born, can talk to the spirit long after the flesh has refused to listen—but we speak with the upper limits of our skills, the limits of our power, and we can only make ourselves heard if we shout into the threshold of the afterlife with all that we are. Do you understand me, youngling? All that we are.

  “At that moment, our whole lives are focused and honed; our entire desire is aimed at the spirit that has wandered. And that spirit’s body, still broken, is no home for it. No, if we are to catch the spirit, we are its body. We are its home. Do you understand?

  “They return to us because we call them, because we can take them and hold them and comfort them against the pains that they feel and have felt. They return to us because they can see all that we are, and in that revelation of faults, of flaws, of aching and yearning and happiness, of weakness and strength, they see that we trust them, and in return, they give us trust that they have never given to anyone else—most of them, not even to themselves.

  “And we need that trust to bring them from the darkness.”

  Jewel was silent because she could think of nothing to say. Would I do that? she thought, as the import of his words sank in and became real. Would I let someone see everything that I ever thought or felt? She took a step away from him.

  He smiled, but it was a heavy expression. “And we see everything that they are, little one, just as they see everything that we are. We become one for as long as it takes to make the body whole. We belong together, for that instant. But once we bring them, once we have used this trust to keep them from the lands of the dead, we must snap it, break it, and send them away. There is no desertion,” he added, although it wasn’t necessary, “that will ever be worse.