The Sacred Hunt Duology

by Michelle West

  “My aide is correct,” Devon said tersely. “Our business is within Arannan Hall, and we do not have the time to dally.”

  “My orders are clear, sir. But Primus Cortarian is present, and I’m certain that he would make an exception for you. Please wait here.”

  “I will wait,” Devon replied, raising his hand; he did not have to add that he would not wait long. On his left ring finger, he wore a band of solid gold that came up in the shape of a circle; within that circle was a sapphire, and around it, in perfectly carved symbols, was the name Terafin. There were few ATerafin who were given such a symbol and allowed to flaunt it so publicly; it made it clear that Devon ATerafin was a Lord with some influence in the upper echelons of the Kings’ council, even if that influence was not official.

  Primus Cortarian did not disappoint. He was a bronze-haired man only slightly older than Devon, and Devon knew him well, although they had met only once or twice in passing. The Kings’ Swords were trusted with much, and those who rose in the ranks were scrutinized carefully by the Astari. There were also those in the ranks of the Swords who were Astari.

  “Patris Devon ATerafin,” the Primus said. “Am I to understand that you require access to the Arannan Halls?”

  “Indeed.”

  “On whose authority?”

  “My own,” he replied. The reply was lost to the sound of thunder yards away—and on the ground. Devon started forward, cursing.

  Primus Cortarian, under orders to protect the visitors and the civilians, let him go; were it a security matter, he would have argued it with the Queens themselves. But although Devon ATerafin worked within the office of Patris Larkasir—and that office was possibly the most important of the ministries of Essalieyan, as it was responsible for all of the royal charters given to the various merchants and their lines—he had an authority that that work did not convey. He had the name of one of The Ten. One day, Cortarian hoped to have exactly that—but he knew that that day was not yet close. To be offered a name, you had to have a lot to offer in return. Primus of the Kings’ Swords was a start—but it wasn’t good enough if you wanted to be a member of import in the House’s council.

  He wondered what Devon had had to offer so young and so early.

  • • •

  “That way,” Devon said, and Gregor nodded, dropping the outer shell of his servant’s garments in one easy motion. Devon did the same; they stood in the unrestricted leggings and tunics of the Royal Troupe of acrobats. They carried weapons, but the weapons were slight and of a hidden nature.

  Thunder came again, and over the dying sounds of its rumble, a roar of pain.

  Devon tested the wind with a hint of his trained ability, although it was more out of habit than necessity. Magic. There.

  They ran.

  • • •

  Espere bled freely from a gash across her forehead. Her arms were likewise cut, and blood ran from her shoulder; the creature, human in appearance, had suddenly sprouted an elongated snout full of perfectly formed fangs. It was unexpected enough that both Gilliam and Espere were caught by surprise; had Gilliam been the target, he would have lost his face.

  The creature fared a little better, but not much. Espere did not have the jaws of a beast—but her teeth were not entirely the flat, blunt chewing things that most humans possessed. She was also fast; faster than Gilliam in the depth of trance. The creature’s fire came twice more, and each time Espere was the target.

  Gilliam was vaguely aware that the fire had become too strong and too dangerous; he could smell the acridity of dark smoke as it began to fill the air with its poison. And he knew, too, that if he tarried for even seconds too long, the emptiness that was Stephen’s place would never be filled.

  But the creature would not retreat, and it would not die.

  • • •

  Smoke filled the arboretum, rising in black clouds to the open air. Devon knew exactly which windows were surrendering those clouds to the skies. He donned a thick mask, one designed by the mage Everem as a lark, which would protect him for a while from the effects of the smoke. Gregor, at his side, did the same.

  Together, they crossed the wide, empty courtyard.

  Half of the door coverings had been burned away; it looked as if someone had severed them with a sword of fire. Devon hated magery with a quiet passion. He pulled up to the side of a seat-window and then, swinging below the level of the smoke, tried to see what occurred within.

  Lord Elseth and the odd—naked—girl were fighting with something that appeared to be almost human, except for the face and hands. The creature blocked the door, and the exit with which Lord Elseth was probably most familiar. There was no sign of the huntbrother.

  It was not, of course, the only way into the room—but it was the best way to approach. Devon signed to Gregor, and Gregor signed back. They left, clinging to walls like silent, moving shadows cast by intense light.

  Devon stopped down the hall that led to that door, and the demon’s—for he was certain that the creature could be no other thing—back. Then, mouthing a faint prayer, he pulled a dagger from the sheath beneath his vest. It was not in any way standard issue, and in fact would have been the last choice for a man of Devon’s skill; it was ornate to the point of ostentation—even the blade was engraved with intricate knots and elemental signatures—it was unbalanced, and it was far too heavy. Not only that, but the steel itself was soft, some fancy ancient alloy that robbed it of a real edge.

  But it was not meant to be an ordinary weapon—it had been created as a ceremonial device for the Church of Cormaris, and then it had been consecrated by the rituals of the Church of Reymaris. The rituals were old and even dangerous, or so the Priests had said—but Devon’s station and demeanor had convinced them of the need for both the rituals and extreme haste in performing them. He had not realized how little time he would have.

  Devon smiled bitterly. He had spoken as openly as he dared—certainly skirting the edge of his oath to his own liege lord—with the Exalted of the Church of Reymaris; the Exalted was of the god-born, and the god-born could not be corrupted.

  Let them be right, he thought, as he gripped the golden handle and stared down at the pommel into a diamond the size of a narrowed eye. He crept along the wall until the sounds of fighting were unmistakable; took a few steps more, until they were almost overwhelming.

  Then, lithe and silent, he struck, seeing the creature’s back for the first time half a second before the blade buried itself, as if pulled there, into the creature’s spine.

  The creature screamed.

  • • •

  For a moment he was angry, and anger was all that he felt. He knew a deathblow when he saw its effects, and knew further that it was not he who had dealt it. This was his hunt, and his alone to end.

  But he was a well-seasoned Hunter Lord; the anger’s moment passed as he watched the demon scream and turn his clawed, deadly hands to his back. Espere growled and tensed as if to leap; he called her to his side. She came, back facing him, eyes upon the creature.

  The demon’s cries were loud and furious as he rent his own flesh in an attempt to reach something that Gilliam couldn’t see. Blood flew, and where it touched the sputtering flames of his mage-fire, it sizzled, forcing the flames up.

  Almost mesmerized, Gilliam watched as the creature toppled slowly to its knees.

  “Lord Elseth!” someone shouted. He looked up, coughed a little, and saw Devon ATerafin. “We do not have the time to linger here—come. Where is Stephen?”

  Stephen. Gilliam wheeled suddenly, still caught in the speed of the Hunter’s trance. There, against the far wall, standing in an almost protective circle, were his hunting dogs. He could see the sandaled foot of his huntbrother, but little else. Without regard for the fire that separated them, he crossed the room, bidding Espere to remain behind. The dogs parted at his unspoken, almost subconsci
ous command.

  Stephen’s skin was pale—almost blue-tinged white. Gilliam could not hear, in the noise of the room, the sound of his huntbrother’s breathing. Without a word, he lifted Stephen and bore him toward the door.

  Devon was waiting, and with Devon a fair-haired man that Gilliam did not know. They both glanced at Stephen and then at each other. He didn’t like the look that passed between them.

  “Is he dead?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Follow us, quickly.”

  • • •

  The old man was not a regular visitor to the grandeur of the royal palace and its many outbuildings—but he was used to luxury and the finery that comes with rank and power. Devon knew it, but still found it odd to see Alowan, one of the most prized retainers of Terafin, dressed in his workmanlike and serviceable clothing, as if he were a mere servant with no pretensions of ever becoming anything more.

  Alowan had, many times, been offered the House name, and each time, gently and firmly, had declined the offer. Other Houses had attempted to secure his services with similar—or greater—counteroffers. These, too, he declined. Devon did not understand him at all.

  But he did understand that he was one of the very few healer-born who served a House. And he was not going to be the House member that offended or drove him away.

  “Alowan Hanna.” He dropped to a knee in the deepest gesture of respect that he could give.

  “I believe you must be Devon,” the old man replied. “I’m to understand that we have no time for pleasantries or even explanations.”

  “You understand correctly,” Devon replied, straightening out and offering the healer his best smile and his arm. “Come this way.”

  Alowan returned the smile and accepted the courtesy. But as he walked, his smile dimmed. “These are Kings’ Swords, and in great numbers. Tell me, Devon. What is the ailment that I have been summoned to tend to? The Terafin said we did not have time for explanations.”

  “There was a fire in the Arannan Halls.”

  Alowan winced. “Burns,” he said, but mostly to himself.

  “Not burns, at least, not to the outside of the body. We don’t know how much smoke your patient inhaled, but we do not believe that that is the cause of his . . . current state.”

  “ATerafin—”

  “Here we are.” Devon ATerafin stopped in front of a wide oak door. The width of the door was covered by four men, each bearing the emblems of the Kings’ Swords. “Primus Allarus,” Devon said, lowering his chin in a formal nod, “this is Healer Alowan.”

  Alowan lifted his lined hand; the emblem of the twin hands, palms up to succor the needy, caught the light and held it for long enough that the Primus might identify it.

  “I will personally vouch for him,” Devon added gravely. “But his services are necessary immediately.”

  The Primus nodded his armored head and ordered his compatriots to grant them safe passage. The door swung wide on perfectly oiled hinges. To either side of the door, on the interior of the large room, there were also Kings’ Swords—and there were two at the windows as well.

  They relaxed marginally as their Primus gave them the nod that signaled safety.

  “Lord Elseth,” Devon said, for the fortieth time, “please. We have quarters prepared for both yourself and your pack. Do not feel it necessary to remain here; Stephen will be well-guarded. I give you my personal word, and the word of my House, that this is truth.”

  It was quite clear from Lord Elseth’s response—an almost angry silence—that he did not appreciate the import of the vow that Devon was making, Devon knew it, and knew enough of foreigners and their customs not to be offended by it—but only just. “Very well. Please, stand aside.”

  “Who is that?”

  Devon stiffened, but his smile never faltered. Why, he thought, because it had been a most difficult and long day, could it not have been the Hunter instead of the huntbrother? “This is a healer.”

  The healer in question touched Devon’s arm and pushed him aside so gently that it took Devon a moment to realize that that was what he’d done. “I am Alowan,” the old man said. “And I have come to see if there is anything I can do to aid your companion.” He frowned. “You are wounded.”

  Gilliam nodded as if Alowan had asked a question about the weather; it was clear that the Hunter Lord was concerned about only one thing.

  “What happened to him?” Alowan asked, as he took a seat by the injured man’s bedside.

  “He was hit by a crossbow bolt. But only in the shoulder. I don’t understand it.”

  Alowan’s face grayed at once as he placed first one hand, and then the other, against Stephen’s clammy brow. It was quite clear that he understood. “Do you have the bolt, Devon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know what was on it?”

  “No.” He paused. “But the end is dyed or stained.”

  “Color?”

  “We’re not certain what the original color was. I’m sorry, Alowan.”

  “Not half as sorry as the young man is going to be,” the healer replied grimly. “I am not much of a poison smith,” he added. “And the study of poisons and toxins is an entire branch of the healing art.” He drew a breath, exhaled forcefully, and then looked down at the unconscious man. “But I am all that you have, and I will do the best that I can.”

  He looked up as he finished speaking, and met the anxious Lord Elseth’s eyes. “You may sit by me if you wish, but these others must clear the room.”

  “That’s not possible,” Devon began, speaking as gently as he could.

  Alowan raised a lined palm, cutting off the rest of the sentence. “That wasn’t a request, Devon. It was an order.”

  The guards were silent, as speechless as Devon was. Before they could find words, Lord Elseth had risen, and the dogs that sat at his feet rose also, in a single, almost eerie motion.

  Devon was angry; it would have been obvious to any who knew him well. There were very few who did. He smiled smoothly. “Gregor, have the Kings’ Swords double their contingent on the other side of these doors—and have them patrol the windows on the outside.”

  “Sir.”

  “The girl will have to—”

  “The girl will remain with us,” Lord Elseth said curtly.

  Devon looked askance at Alowan, an open request for permission that a man of his rank did not normally make. Alowan, hands already on Stephen’s bare chest, examined the girl closely and then, eyes flickering back to Lord Elseth, nodded almost grimly. “Go,” he said, in an almost whisper.

  Everyone who had not made the journey from Breodanir left the healer-born’s side.

  • • •

  Devon repaired to the offices of the Royal Treasurer as quickly as decorum allowed. Gregor would return to him after the last of the tasks he’d assigned had been completed, but for the moment he was quite alone. He was glad for the lack of company, although even in isolation he was careful not to reveal too much of what he felt.

  It was a trait that was being sorely tested.

  The demon’s body was gone; nothing short of summoning one of the Magi using the emergency protocols could prevent it from disintegrating—and Devon had no desire to summon any more of the Magi than were already involved in this affair.

  The demon’s ally had been badly savaged by the dogs. Devon had seen many different deaths before, but few quite so unpleasant. He wondered at these Western lords—for Lord Elseth not only seemed unconcerned, but even satisfied, at the man’s grisly death. It was a type of savagery that Devon identified with the worst of the Southerners; he had not thought to see it in the heart of Essalieyan, so close to the court of the Kings.

  But it was not just that that bothered him, for he was a pragmatic man; any of the Kings’ Swords and any of the Astari would have thought first of capturing a
nd containing the man for future questioning, regardless of where their personal preferences lay. Questioning a corpse offered very little in the way of satisfaction. For most men, it offered nothing.

  But Devon knew from the markings around the man’s wrists—faint and pale with time—that he was from the South. In and of itself that wasn’t surprising; the Arannan Halls were used to house visitors—even those on extended stay—from the Dominion of Annagar, and where possible, it was staffed with Annagarians or those of Annagarian descent. He also knew that the man was not one of those servants.

  But there was no telltale mark to give Devon proof of what he suspected, or if there had been, the dogs had savaged it into nonexistence. And without proof, he did not wish to raise the specter of the Allasakari among the Astari until he knew for certain that the Astari had not been infiltrated. Information was valuable; why give warning, where warning might serve an enemy?

  Oh, he cursed, but silently, as he muttered a very real prayer to the fathers of the kingdom for the life of a lone Breodanir huntbrother. He sat back in his chair, surrounded by the trappings of a normal day, and began to formulate his report.

  • • •

  Stephen woke with a start to see an old man leaning against his chest. His mouth was dry and an odd, bitter taste lingered along his tongue.

  “I told you,” Gilliam said softly, and the old man’s eyes opened slowly.

  Stephen had never met one healer-born who did not wear the vestments of the Mother; he blinked at the lamp that the old man seemed to pull from nowhere as light shone off the golden emblem of twin palms. “Open your eyes, Stephen,” the man said gruffly. “We’re both tired, even exhausted—but I can’t leave until I’m satisfied that you’re safe.”

  Stephen nodded absently. He tried to remember how he’d arrived in this bed, but the memories were fuzzy and distant. He began to sit up and then stopped as a sharp pain in his shoulder buckled the length of his arm.

  “Take his care,” Alowan said softly to the Lord Elseth.