The Sacred Hunt Duology

by Michelle West

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “Gil—”

  The Hunter Lords of Breodanir were not known for their tact or their lack of temper, but Lord Elseth did what he could to bite back the words that he knew, on some level, he’d regret later.

  “Espere is . . . she’s . . .”

  “Yes?” Alowan knelt in front of Espere and waited, his hands on his knees. He did not move, although he did continue to speak. “Are you saying that she’s simple?”

  “Not quite.”

  “Not quite?”

  “We believe her to be god-born. No, we know it. But she cannot speak, as you see her now.”

  Espere was very much like an intelligent dog; she knew well who was the center of attention, and while she hovered around Gilliam, she let her attention stray to the old man who knelt so oddly before her. After a few minutes she tilted her chin in Gilliam’s direction; a question. He nodded grimly.

  Very slowly, wild dark hair a tangle as she shook her head, she approached Alowan.

  “Do you have reason to believe that she can speak?”

  “Yes. We’ve heard her talk—just as you or I do—and I believe that when she speaks, she knows that she should be more than a—more than a—” He glanced almost guiltily at Gilliam. “More than a beast.”

  “Beast?” Alowan’s white brows rose. “I see.”

  “It was to aid her that we were to come upon this road. I believe that, in aiding her, we will somehow help your lord—but I do not know it for fact.”

  Alowan’s curved fingers were upon either side of the wild girl’s face; he patted her cheeks with his thumbs, as he might have a tamed pet. But he did more; he spoke in a rhythmic chant, in syllables that Stephen could feel, although he could barely hear them.

  Time passed; minutes blended together in the hypnotic sway of his voice. But at last, with the moon a little higher in the open sky, the healer bowed his head and gently released her captive face. “You are right,” he said, and if possible his voice was weaker than it had been. “She is god-born. But she is healthy, she is whole, she is what she is. If you came to have her healed, if you thought her behavior some sort of physical affliction, I must disappoint you. She is exactly as she should be.”

  “I see.” Stephen nodded almost ruefully. “But we have heard her speak. There are rumored to be houses of healing. Might they—”

  At this, Alowan looked genuinely annoyed, and he was not a man who was given to irritation. “Stephen, the houses of healing are peopled with the healer-born who charge in crowns for the service that I have just rendered. If I cannot aid the young woman’s complaint, there is not a healer in Averalaan who can.”

  “I’m terribly sorry,” Stephen said, and it was quite clear that his embarrassment was real. “I don’t have much experience with the healer-born, and I didn’t—”

  “And you didn’t know that you might sting the pride of a testy old man.” Alowan ran his hand over his eyes. “I’m sorry, Stephen, Lord Elseth. That was completely uncalled for.” He smiled wanly. “But as you are well, and as the young lady is beyond a healer’s skill, I believe I will return to the healerie of Terafin.

  “I hope you won’t misunderstand me when I pray that you have no reason to call upon me again.”

  If the affliction was not physical, Alowan could tell them nothing else about it. Nor did Stephen have any desire to press him. Gilliam, satisfied and also ashamed of that satisfaction, had once again retired to the east court. Stephen chose to retire to his room.

  • • •

  It was the fifth of Corvil, and if Lord Elseth was to retain title to his lands, they must leave by the fifteenth of the month in order to arrive in haste, and with a smaller pack than usual, for the calling of the Sacred Hunt. That did not leave much time, although if they traveled hard—as they undoubtedly would have to—things would be well.

  They had to be well.

  Lord, Stephen thought, invoking the image of the Hunter God, smile on your Hunter and his huntbrother. Our spirit has not faltered; bring us home in safety; bring us home in time. Then, unbidden, he thought of Evayne. You had a purpose, he told her in the silence. We cannot cure Espere; there is no means to do it. But even thinking it, he knew that their task was not finished. Tell us what your purpose was. But he knew, should she come, that she would tell him little or nothing. He trusted her, but that trust was fast becoming a burden. And one he was too tired to carry this eve.

  Stephen navigated his way to his sleeping room by the lights of the courtyard and the near-full moon. There, he found his sleeping silks and removed his sandals; he opened the curtains wide to let the night breeze blow in; he placed his sword and his dagger aside, and removed the hat that he had half forgotten. Weary, he sank back, and felt the edge of something hard beneath him.

  It was a book.

  Books were rare and expensive enough that he didn’t travel with them, and for a moment he wondered who it belonged to. And then he remembered Meralonne APhaniel. He had forgotten, in all of the events that had occurred, to return the tome to the mage; it was another task, and one that he did not relish, for he also found the mage an enigma that he did not like.

  Still, he was curious; there was no book upon the Elseth Estate that had been proof against his curiosity. Had the sun been high, he would have been tempted to read. It’s a sign, he told himself, as he set the book aside. I’m not a child, to be ruled by curiosity.

  • • •

  Duvari waited for Devon in the silent library of the Kings’ palace. Moonlight cast long shadows through the two-story windows, bending them across desk, chair, shelf, and man. The light was poor, but it was not by light that Devon knew who had summoned him. Who else but Duvari had the authority?

  The doors swung shut at his back; he could not tell if they were closed by the hand of Duvari—for Duvari was many things and possessed talents that not even the Astari had cataloged all of—or by another member of the compact. Nor did he dare to look around. Instead, he assumed that he was not alone; there was at least one man at his back, possibly two.

  He walked to within ten feet of Duvari, and saw the shadows beneath the master’s eyes. They were like scars as they rested beneath his unblinking gaze. He knelt then, resting his forearms against his left knee. “Duvari.”

  “Devon.”

  “You summoned me.”

  “Yes.” Duvari did not move; it was as if all of his attention was bound up in the intensity of his stare. “You failed to make a report.”

  Inwardly, Devon cursed. “Arannan Halls,” he said; there was no point whatever in playing the fool.

  “Indeed.”

  “I have not gathered enough information to make the report formal.” Devon tried very hard to pierce the darkness, but Duvari wore it like a gauze mask—not enough to hide his face, but enough to obscure nuances of expression.

  “And when will you have enough information?”

  “By the end of tomorrow, Duvari.”

  “I see.” The shadow stood, rising to full height in the moonlight. He left the chair and table behind, and also left the distance. “You remember your vows, Devon.”

  “Yes.”

  “You remember that you are not ATerafin in the service of the Astari.”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me of Arannan Halls. Tell me of the two who stay there. Tell me of the work that you have been doing at the behest of The Terafin.”

  Are you a demon? Devon thought it, but the words would not leave his lips. “Are we alone?”

  Duvari stared down, again cloaking his face in shadow. Then he raised his head and nodded. The door creaked very slightly; Devon heard no footsteps, but rather, the small scrape of metal against metal—the latch. “Speak.”

  Devon did not pray, but his spirit withered. Duvari was the master of the compact; there was no
option but obedience. And yet, if he were not who or what he seemed . . . He cursed the young huntbrother’s illness, and cursed the lack of time with which to use him in court. He met the eyes of the man who had taken his oath, knowing that he had only his own judgment at this moment, and nothing more.

  Swallowing, Devon ATerafin made his choice. “There is an element of magery involved,” he said. “One that I have not encountered previously. There is a mage, or possibly a group of mages, who set an elaborate trap for The Terafin. Had they succeeded, Terafin would now be ruled by a demon.”

  “Continue.”

  “I cannot say more at this time—not of that; she demanded my oath, and I swore it: that I would not speak of the investigation’s particulars unless I was certain that it involved more than Terafin.” He waited for Duvari to speak, knowing that the master of the compact had little patience for the foibles and the secrecy of the patriciate. He was not of the nobility, and not even his family name remained to him; Duvari was the Astari. He knew no other loyalties and was bound by no other duty.

  “You have always had some loyalty to the House that gave you its name,” Duvari said at length. “I am aware of this—and I have never distrusted that loyalty until now. Why did you not disclose the full particulars of the attack in Arannan?”

  “Because there is a magic loose which, carefully used, could destroy the Astari—perhaps even the empire.” Choose your words carefully, Devon. Speak them softly. “Not only can the caster assume the appearance and likeness of another, but he can also assume the memories. He is, to all intents and purposes, that person. Or he is in part. I could not make such a report if I—”

  A hand was raised in the shadows; the call for silence. Duvari did not speak a word, which was either a good or a bad sign. Devon knew that the full import of what had been said was already obvious to the master of the compact. The shadows between them lessened, although the light did not grow. Duvari stepped back and with a gesture, bade Devon to rise.

  “You have a method of detection,” he said. It was not a question. “You intend to use it before you make your report, unless your findings indicate otherwise.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you can trust it?”

  “To be accurate, yes.”

  “Does it involve magery?”

  “No.” The sound of Devon’s breath cut the air. “We have reason to believe that most available forms of magery would not detect the imposters, if they are there.”

  Duvari inclined his head; there was an anger and tension that seemed to ebb out of him, softening the line of his jaw and shoulder. “Continue, then.” There was no apology for the suspicion, nor would any be forthcoming. “But if your findings indicate infiltration, do not make the report.”

  Devon nodded grimly. Stephen of Elseth would be in court on the morrow unless he was dead.

  Chapter Fourteen

  6th Corvil, 410 A.A.

  The Queen Marieyan’s Court

  OF ALL THE LADIES in Breodanir, the one that Stephen had most dreaded as a child was Lady Faergif. She was sharp-tongued when she spoke at all, and wont to be severe, and she made age seem the very pinnacle of power, where in others it was an unfortunate consequence of time. She dressed in a manner to match her character, and she neither ate much nor drank much; it was perfectly clear that it was her hand that ran Faergif’s responsibility.

  Still, Lord Faergif was, for a Hunter, jolly, and his huntbrother—what was his huntbrother’s name?—more so; it was clear that Lady Faergif had not managed to ruin their lives by her grim and dour disposition.

  Of course, to be charitable, Lady Faergif was only Lady Faergif for two years of Stephen’s life as a huntbrother—his eighth and ninth—and his memories were tinged with the absolute harshness of unforgiving youth. He hoped, almost prayed, that time would take the edge off those memories and replace them with something more pleasant.

  On the other hand, he did remember Lady Faergif, whereas the memory of Lady Morganson was not so clear.

  Gilliam’s mood was sour; he had been told to leave his dogs behind—which was acceptable, as dogs were not usually to be taken to a court that involved Ladies—but Stephen had also made it perfectly clear that Espere was to remain behind with the pack. The very idea that a young woman in the company of a Hunter Lord might suddenly turn and remove all of her clothing—or those bits that were possible for a single person to remove—had made the very idea of her presence anathema.

  Gilliam turned a stare upon him that might have wilted strong stalks of corn; Stephen ignored it. Gilliam never worried about the Ladies, but then again, that was not the duty of the Hunter. It was the huntbrother who was expected to smooth the way, with manners, tact, and as much grace as possible. Of course, the Ladies would expect minimal grace and manners from a Hunter, which meant that Stephen’s task, at least in terms of keeping Gilliam out of trouble, was not so difficult.

  Therefore it was not Gilliam but Devon who worried Stephen. Devon had such a placid expression, such a pleasant disposition, such a grace and surety of movement, that Stephen should have found him charming. And perhaps he might have—but Gilliam’s hackles rose, as if at the thought of a rival Lord poaching in his demesne, whenever Devon came too near or stayed too long. Gilliam’s instinct was a Hunter’s instinct, and Stephen had learned to trust it, even if he lamented the way in which it was handled.

  “Stephen,” Gilliam finally said, through clenched teeth. “Stop pacing.”

  Stephen grimaced. He was pacing, as accused. It was several hours to the meeting with Lady Faergif, but he was already nervous. The proper clothing of the Hunter’s court was heavy and cumbersome when compared with the wear of the Essalieyanese; it was also very formal and seemed, when compared with the clothing of a man like Devon, overdone.

  Overdone.

  Stephen stopped pacing, closed his eyes, and took a deep, deep breath. The green, the brown, and the gray were the colors upon which the entire kingdom prospered; they were the colors by which the Lords fulfilled their responsibilities to their people and their lands; they were the colors by which they fulfilled their promise to the Hunter God, and the colors in which, in time, they died.

  He had been long away from the courts of the land, and far too concerned with pleasing foreigners, if he could forget that, even for a moment.

  The exterior chimes sounded and he turned as their high tinkle faded into silence. “Enter.”

  The heavy door-curtains were folded to one side as Devon ATerafin stepped neatly into the room. He bowed quite low—and in the custom of the Breodanir commoners to their Hunter Lords; Stephen was both surprised and impressed. Gilliam was suspicious.

  “Lord Elseth,” Devon said gravely, showing no indication that Gilliam’s obvious lack of grace had been noted. “Stephen.”

  “ATerafin,” Stephen said. He was rewarded by a glimmer of a smile—one that was both fleeting and genuine.

  “Let me again apologize for the lack of proper security within the Halls. I trust that you have not been troubled again?” Devon said.

  “Not once,” Stephen replied graciously. “And the rooms are not what we’re accustomed to, and for that reason quite welcome.”

  “Do you mind if I take a few moments of your time?”

  “Not at all,” Stephen replied. He motioned to a chair, and Devon took it; they were both crisp and formal.

  Devon sat. For a moment his gaze was appraising, and in that appraisal quite distant. Then he leaned forward, and his eyes were a bright darkness, his gaze intent. He looked, Stephen thought, like a falcon free to hunt.

  “I do not know what your part is in all of this,” Devon said quietly—and unexpectedly. “I don’t even know if you know it. But it can be no accident that these creatures—these demons—are hunting you. We have a common enemy, Stephen of Elseth. And I require your aid in the hunting of it.”

 
; At this, Stephen felt the current of Gilliam’s curiosity shift. The Hunter Lord, not addressed, nevertheless came to stand a discreet distance from his huntbrother’s side. He was listening keenly.

  “What aid do you require?”

  “Your vision,” was the quick reply. “Not even the mage APhaniel can see as quickly and clearly as you seem to.

  “I have invited you to court—or rather, you have been so invited; Lady Faergif and Lady Morganson will be in attendance at the request of Queen Marieyan. You will no doubt be waylaid by these two fair Ladies, and no doubt they will wish every bit of news that you can possibly bring them about their distant home. But I ask you to discharge your duties with both grace and speed; I have need of you in the palace, if you will consent.”

  Stephen cringed; he knew what Gilliam was going to say a fraction of a second before it was said.

  “We will.” Any excuse to be free of the niceties the court forced on him would do—but Devon ATerafin proposed a hunt, of sorts, and that was to Gilliam’s liking.

  Seeing the expression upon Stephen’s face, Devon smiled, and the smile almost reached his dark eyes. “I realize that I’ve not set an easy task for you, and I apologize. The women of Breodanir are sharper than Annagarian daggers, and more determined. But I must, of course, ask you to say nothing at all of what has befallen you.”

  “I understand.” Stephen rose. “But, ATerafin?”

  “Yes?”

  “What do you wish me to do if I see another of the kin?”

  “A wise question,” Devon replied, and ran a hand through his dark hair. “And one, of course, I assumed you would know. Forgive me, Elseth huntbrother; it has been a long three days. If you see such a creature, say nothing; do nothing to indicate that you recognize it for what it is.”

  “And if it attacks?” Gilliam broke in.

  “If,” Devon replied, his smile no less friendly, “it attacks, you must naturally feel free to respond in kind.”

  “Then we need Espere,” Gilliam said.

  “Very well.”