The guards stiffened, and then their expressions changed. “Halt! Halt in the name of the Kings!” Even under the power of suggestion, the magisterial guards resisted the order to kill. “Halt!”
Zareth Kahn looked confused, but Evayne’s features were harder and grimmer. She raised her arms and spoke three words; light flared from her hands. Stephen saw her limned with it, as if she were the Goddess at the birth of creation, offering the sun to the world.
The truthseeker screamed in agony.
The magisterial guards stopped as the fleeing suspects suddenly appeared, standing before them as if they had never left. “KILL THEM NOW!”
Evayne sent light in a fan of sparks, and the guards cried out, blinded even as their former leader. “Follow!” Evayne cried. No one gainsaid her.
• • •
She was afraid.
She was not the older Evayne; power such as her enemies possessed was still just outside of her grasp. But she recognized those enemies—that much was obvious to Stephen.
“Where do we go?” Zareth Kahn asked, looking over his shoulder, as he’d done every time they’d slowed their pace. He did not seek to accuse Evayne of causing trouble or breaking the much-loved laws of Averalaan; he knew her well enough by now to know that her reasons for it were unimpeachable—and more important, were not reasons that could be explained at leisure without some loss of life.
She looked around the streets, gazing at buildings and moving crowds as if to wrest some answer from them.
“There!” came a cry at their backs. “The men with the dogs! Stop them—they’ve murdered a magisterial ’seeker!”
Zareth Kahn swore.
Evayne paled.
And pale, she made the only decision that it was safe to make. She lifted her arms and cast a web of violet light across her group.
The people immediately around them gave a collective gasp and drew back, staring intently.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m doing my best to keep us hidden,” she replied, speaking slowly and with some difficulty. “But I can’t keep it up for long.”
Zareth Kahn stepped forward quietly. “No, you can’t. But I can. Let me, Lady.”
She was not used to accepting help; not accustomed, judging from her expression, to hearing it offered. But she swallowed once and nodded.
“You will,” the mage said softly, as his web seemed to settle over hers, dissolving and replacing the strands, “have to lead us.”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
“Where are we going?” Stephen hissed.
“Do you see the circle on the ground?”
He nodded.
“Don’t step outside it. Tell Gilliam to keep his dogs, and Espere, well within its confines. We go to less traveled streets.”
“Should we avoid going beyond the net?”
“The what?”
“The net. The one that Zareth Kahn has cast.”
Her brows went up. “You can see it?” And then she shook her head. “Never mind. If you see me later, remind me. You are not a mage, and not mage-born, and only the mage-born have the sight. Or the seer-born.” As an afterthought, she added, “And yes, avoid at all costs going beyond the net; if you pass your arm through it, it will appear, without the usual body attached, in midair in front of passersby.”
• • •
Zareth Kahn knew that the invisibility that his magics afforded them would not be a blessing forever. Truthseekers were often also mages, trained in very specific and very narrow ways. Call a few, with the right guards to back them, and such a spell would prove not only useless, but actively harmful. Few were the people who dared to use magic openly in the city streets; the laws that governed magic’s use—and the mages who enforced them—were the strictest of the laws in Essalieyan.
He was, of course, breaking at least one; Evayne, with the use of her light spell—a light that he had never seen before—had broken three. The truthseeker who had originally apprehended them had broken two, and if the guards had been quick and fast off the mark, would have broken three.
He was not a man who was readily accustomed to breaking the laws of Averalaan, although it had been many, many years since he had seen the city of his birth. He was, luckily, not a man who was inexperienced at the breaking of those laws, either. What had hunted them on the night of High Winter obviously had eyes here, and the niceties of royal law could be set aside for the niceties of survival.
• • •
It was not until they reached the bridge to the Holy Isle that Zareth Kahn realized where Evayne was leading them. He dispensed with a portion of his spell, freeing her to speak with the guards on duty while hiding the rest of his companions. It was difficult, this breaking and unfraying, but he was a past master at it, and if he had not used it recently, he was pleased to note that the old skills did not fade with disuse. She walked toward the guards, and then returned, nodding with obvious relief.
They had arrived before word from the magisterial forces—if the magisterial forces had considered the Holy Isle a likely goal—and were safe to pass. He let the last of his illusory protection fade from sight, sorry to let it go, but pleased that the strain had been lifted. He was not close to the fevers yet, but he would sleep well that night.
“We’re going to the Order,” Evayne said, and each word sounded grudging and slightly apprehensive.
“I haven’t been there in years,” was the older mage’s reply.
“I—I want you to talk with Meralonne APhaniel.”
“Member APhaniel? Why?”
“Because I think he’s the only mage in the city who might be able to help us.”
“You know him?”
She nodded into her hood, and then turned abruptly to face Zareth Kahn. Her dark hair hung in loose strands about her unblinking violet eyes. “I was his student for a number of years. We—we haven’t spoken in months. Tell him—no, ask him—to aid these men; if he is reluctant, tell him that Evayne says they are part of her mystery.” She smiled, and the smile had the feel of ash and shadow to it; Zareth Kahn had the absurd desire to reach over and wipe it gently clean. She was far too much the adult to deserve that gesture.
“I have my own friends in the Order,” he began, but she shook her head.
“I cannot stay, Zareth Kahn. Already, I am being called away.” She left him then, walking quickly to where Stephen stood. “I will only be with you for a few more blocks, and then my work is done for the moment. I was sent here because I—I was supposed to flee. And there is only one person that I dare flee to in this crisis, one person that I have relied on, and at Kalliaris’ whim, will rely on again.
“Look carefully at him, Stephen—but never speak of what you see if you see anything unusual.”
“At who?”
“Meralonne.” She hesitated, and as she did, he reached out and caught her hand. Clasped it tightly between his own, and then, on impulse, kissed it.
“Good-bye, Stephen of Elseth. We will speak, I think, but not soon.”
• • •
The manors that lined the roads of the Isle were not overly large, although they were all exceptionally tall. There was good masonry here, and very little wood or thatch to mar the sense of history and timelessness. Stephen had had little time to take in the view of Averalaan, and the High City was perhaps not the best place to start. It made him feel at once poor and ignorant, although the riches that were here were those that time had laid the foundations for, and that a generation alone would never dissipate. The roads were wide, the streets cobbled very prettily in places; there were gilded gates that sat no more than fifty feet from the mansions they enclosed. He was surprised by the number of columns that he saw; they seemed to adorn the fronts of most of the buildings that they passed. As he approached them, he could see engraved along their length, in a pa
ttern that spiraled upward, runes in the Kallantir style. He could not read them all.
Zareth Kahn silently urged him on, and he went, trying to remember the flare of fire in the city beyond the bridge. But there was a hush on the Isle, a silence and a peace, that made him understand why it was called holy; he thought that whatever threatened them would not dare to come so openly here.
“What are those?”
Zareth Kahn sighed in resignation. “Those are the spires of the Lords Cormaris and Reymaris. They are the rulers of these lands, and their towers are the grandest buildings on the Isle. Not even the towers of the Kings’ palace can match them; nor would either of the Kings try.”
“But—but how can they stand?”
At that, the mage smiled. “More money than Breodanir sees in a year went into each day of work on those towers, and they were a long time in the building. This is Averalaan, Stephen. The guild of the maker-born flourishes here, and in some ways, even rules.”
“Can we go to see the temples?”
“We may have no choice,” was the cryptic reply. “But we will not see them today.”
• • •
The Order of Knowledge in Breodanir was small and humble compared to the Order of the High City, and the building that housed the scholarly mages was rough and very common in comparison. There were pillars here that supported a roof four stories high; there was a courtyard of size and simplicity in which water ran from a fountain that looked like a suspended waterfall; there was a ceiling taller than any temple that Breodanir’s finest city boasted. Light came down like spears, sharp and perfect through the glass above.
Zareth Kahn even stopped for a moment, almost as if to marvel. Then he shook his head and smiled. “I’ve been too long away, I fear. Come.”
They walked between the columns and the arch, and into the grand foyer. At the far end, beyond a mosaic pattern of brilliantly colored marble and gold, was a large desk. The man behind it looked almost as pleased to see them as Gilliam was to see court balls.
“What,” he said, in a voice sharp enough to cut, “are you doing with those dogs?” He lifted the metallic rims that adorned his face as if to see more clearly the outrage that was being perpetrated within the Order’s sedate walls.
“Jacova, is that you?”
“What, is that little Zareth?”
“It is you.” Zareth Kahn looked slightly uncomfortable, but very resigned. “I see that you’re holding the desk.”
“And I see that you’ve let this Breodanir nonsense infect your brain—bringing dogs into the building!”
Gilliam bristled.
“A matter of urgency, Jacova.” He turned to Stephen. “This is Stephen of Elseth, and this is Lord Elseth. I’m afraid that we did not have time to kennel his animals before we crossed the bridge.”
“Yes, well. Highly irregular, and I should have you thrown out on principle. I will if the dogs make a mess.”
“I have control of my dogs,” Gilliam said, from between clenched teeth.
Jacova gave him a severe look but declined to respond. “What brings you here?”
“I’m afraid it’s not entirely social. You see, we’d like to make an appointment, if at all possible, to speak with member APhaniel.”
“Member APhaniel?” He frowned. “Member APhaniel is currently involved in an investigation,” and here he looked over his shoulder, scanned the foyer, and then lowered his voice and leaned over the desk, “with House Terafin. Under the direction of The Terafin herself.”
“It’s—it’s very urgent that we speak to him.”
“Impossible. As I said, he’s—”
“Is he in the building?”
“He’s making his third report of findings, and he’s in a foul mood.”
Zareth Kahn turned to Stephen. “I think we should delay, if at all possible,” he said in a very hushed voice.
“What?”
“Master APhaniel is always rather, ah, temperamental. At least, he was known for it before I left for Breodanir. To say that he’s in a foul mood . . .”
“We’ll chance it. I think that the truthseeker was one of the kin.”
Zareth Kahn smiled weakly and turned back to Jacova ADarphan. “We must see member APhaniel; we’ve important information that is part of the investigation that he’s conducting.”
“You have? Why didn’t you say so? And why haven’t I seen you around until today?” Jacova hated desk duty with the passion of any proper scholar, but he was not a stupid man. His eyes were narrowed with suspicion.
“Because I could not reasonably travel without being noted or remarked upon—everyone who knows me knows I’m in Breodanir,” was the apologetic reply. “Do you think you might tell member APhaniel that we are here, along with a message from one of his former pupils?”
“That being?”
“Evayne.”
Jacova snorted, but he rose and started his long climb up the stairs twenty feet from the desk. Zareth Kahn counted to fifteen—slowly and distinctly—and then turned to Stephen. “We follow.”
“Shouldn’t we wait?”
But the answer was obvious; Zareth Kahn started up the wide, marble stairs, taking them two at a time, but slowly enough that he never saw more than the black-edged hem of Jacova’s robe. Gilliam and Espere were next, followed by the dogs that Jacova found so offensive. Stephen brought up the rear, as any good huntbrother usually did.
• • •
“I don’t care if they carry a message from the Goddess herself—GET OUT!” Light flared into the hall from the open doorway in the tower room that member APhaniel occupied. The air had a prickly feel to it; Stephen thought, as he breathed it, that it should crackle.
Zareth Kahn cringed. “He is in a foul mood. Magics of that nature are strictly prohibited in the collegium. I really wish this could wait. He’s a member of the Council of the Magi, and he’s also an initiate of the first circle mysteries.” Yet even as he spoke, he led them the rest of the way across the landing. Jacova, looking both harried and frightened, bumped into him.
“He—he doesn’t want to see you,” he said, but without any of the annoyed or irritated edge that usually accompanied these words.
“I can see that,” Zareth Kahn replied mildly, “but unfortunately it’s a matter of enough urgency that I will have to insist. Thank you for your diligence, but I believe I can handle things from here.”
“And you believe incorrectly.”
Stephen felt, hearing those words, that he truly heard the voice of Meralonne APhaniel for the first time. It hung in the air like a fog, discordant and yet somehow melodic. He looked up, and a man dressed in emerald silk bed-robes strode onto the overcrowded landing. His hair was white and long and wild, and his eyes, gray and pale, looked like steel embedded in a thin, fey face.
The robes that he wore looked wrong, so out of place that they were almost an obscenity. He has to sleep sometime, Stephen told himself, but he almost didn’t believe it. He shied back as the mage’s glare swept across them all. It was familiar, somehow; there was something about it that he had seen or felt before.
But those eyes did not dwell for long on him; they swept with anger and not a little contempt past Jacova and Zareth Kahn, past Gilliam, Stephen, and the dogs. It was the wild girl that caught and held them.
“And are you back again, strange one?” he said, and his tone of voice was altered.
Zareth Kahn cleared his throat. “She is,” he said. “We brought her here because we hoped that we could find a cure for the condition that ails her.”
“And that?”
“We do not know,” he replied. “But Zoraban ATelvise bespoke his father before his death, and his father identified her as one of the god-born.”
“Which God?” And then, before Zareth Kahn could answer, he added, “His death?”
&nbs
p; “Word was sent,” Zareth Kahn replied mildly. Jacova nodded at his back but chose, perhaps wisely, to remain silent.
“I’ve been otherwise occupied.” Member APhaniel shoved his hands roughly into the wide, baggy pockets of his robe. “Very well, if you will interrupt me, interrupt me with intelligence. Come.” He pulled out a pipe, and Jacova took the opportunity to return to desk duty; he had a great hatred of pipe smoke, especially of the variety that Meralonne preferred. “But I warn you, gentlemen—I am not in the mood to be bored.”
Chapter Nine
MERALONNE LEANED AGAINST THE EDGE of his desk, pipe in hand, back to the shuttered window. “So Zoraban agreed to your request, and bespoke his father?”
Zareth Kahn nodded gravely. “Since the kin appeared to be involved, we all thought it wisest.”
“A pity. I would have liked to be there; it is so seldom that any of the knowledge-born seek their parent’s advice in the presence of . . . strangers. But do continue.”
“The girl is god-born, although she bears none of the markings of such a child. Her eyes, for instance.”
Smoke rings rose in the air as Meralonne stared down at her. When he was not asking questions, it was to her that he looked, as if, by staring, he could wrest answers from her.
“Teos told us that Espere was, in the more traditional sense of the word, Hunter-born. She is the daughter of the Hunter God of the Breodani.” He expected there to be an outburst of some sort from the older mage; none was forthcoming. Instead, he received a curt, even brusque nod, which held the silent command to continue. “When we returned from the half-world, we were attacked by two demons.”
“And you know for a fact that these were of the kin?”
Zareth Kahn looked slightly impatient. “I know it, yes. One was a blade-demon, and one a life-drinker. I have,” he added, “made lost magical arts a major area of my studies.”
The pale-haired mage raised a platinum brow. “I see.”
“The life-drinker had the ability to wield mortal magics, as well as the magics of the Dark Lord. There was an aura to her magic use, a particular—and strong—signature. I believe her to be either a demon lord, or perhaps not far from becoming one.”
The Sacred Hunt Duology Page 64