Gilliam grudgingly met Stephen’s gaze.
“This—it’s personal to me, and it’s going to be personally very costly, very painful. But in the end, it has nothing to do with you.”
“How can it have nothing to do with me? You’re my huntbrother!”
“Yes. Not one of your hounds.” He pulled the Hunter’s Horn from the sash at his side. Held it gingerly, the way one might hold a dangerous poison; he couldn’t hold it any other way, for he was suddenly certain that his life and his death were notes that the Horn, when winded, would sound. “This is my Wyrd.”
“And that means you have to face it alone?”
“No. And yes.”
“You were—”
“I was afraid. I’m not anymore.” He lifted the Horn, searching its simplicity for some rune, some marking, some hint of its maker’s purpose. It was easier than meeting Gilliam’s eyes. “We have a task, and I don’t know how to do it.”
“What task?”
“We have to find the Hunter God.”
The silence, although short, could not have been more complete.
“And then, when we find Him, we have to return Him to the Heavens.” He looked up then, to meet his Hunter’s eyes. They were slightly wide.
Before Gilliam—who had never been good with words—could frame a reply, Espere appeared at his side; how she’d crossed the room unnoticed, Stephen didn’t know. She placed a small hand on Gilliam’s chest, drawing his gaze downward; then, when she had it, she nodded solemnly and quietly.
“She’s afraid,” Gilliam told his huntbrother, as he cupped her face in his hands. “But she knows that you’re right.”
• • •
“You’re back,” Meralonne said softly as he stared out of the shuttered windows into the early morning street below. The wagons were rolling into the Order, carrying from the farmers’ fields the food with which the members would be fed their day’s meal. They disappeared quickly from his line of sight, taking the route that the merchants and servants were to use.
“You’re awake.”
“Did you hope to find me sleeping?” The mage turned, his smile both sharp and sardonic.
“You? No, Master APhaniel. I never expect to find you asleep.” The bard gave a low, deep bow. The movement was precise and crisp; it was also silent. What he wore was dark and simple; his hair was caught and pinned into near invisibility. He did not carry a visible weapon, which was not terribly surprising—but he also did not carry his lute, which was.
Meralonne started to speak, and then shook his head softly. “I weary of this game. Speak, Kallandras; you have come for a reason.”
“You know what I was, once.” There wasn’t even a trace of question in the sentence.
“I know,” the mage replied evenly, “what you are.”
“And that?”
But Meralonne smiled thinly. “The youngest master bard that Senniel College has ever produced. Were it not for your elusive past, I believe that you might become the youngest bardmaster as well—Sioban favors you. It is well known.”
“And you,” Kallandras said gravely, “are a mage-born member of the Order of Knowledge. You were born in the South—or some say the West, and you have resided here for twenty years or more.” He paused. “So that we understand each other.”
“What do you seek? For it appears that we will walk this road together for the time.”
“We will walk it and be damned,” Kallandras’ voice was barely a whisper, but it carried; a bardic whisper could make itself heard down a city block without losing subtlety or nuance. He bowed again, and then stiffened; his skin was as pale as the mage’s hair. “I need you to carry word to those who protect the Crowns.”
Meralonne’s eyes became steely slits so narrow they seemed a weapon’s edge. “What do you mean?”
“I cannot carry the word myself, or I would do it; you can.”
“Kallandras—we have not the time for this. Speak plainly.”
“Two men were to be hired to assassinate the Kings.”
A silver brow rose, hovering. Meralonne did not fill the silence with questions.
“They refused the kill.”
“Very wise.”
“They died for their refusal.” Blue eyes iced over as he spoke.
“I see.” Meralonne reached out and closed the shutters. “When?”
“Ten days. Two weeks. I cannot be certain.”
The mage turned. The room, without natural light, was darkened and gray; there were no lamps burning, no magestones glimmering. A crack of light traced the shutters, as it had already done once this morn. It was enough to see by, if one knew how to look. Kallandras knew. And he stared into the face of Meralonne APhaniel, seeing in it a surprise that was already dying and being replaced by an expression of understanding, a sympathy that could only be born of experience.
“What killed those two,” Meralonne said softly, “must be dangerous indeed. Where did they fall?”
But Kallandras could not answer; his tongue was suddenly thick with the horrible truth that it had uttered. This was truly an act of betrayal so profound that the Lady Herself would damn him for eternity with serenity. The killers had already condemned themselves to death by the hands of the Kovaschaii; but the target, the victims—that was information that had never in the history of the brotherhood been spoken aloud. There had never been a need, until now.
He thought to explain it, but the mage lifted a hand. “I am sorry, Kallandras. I will not ask further.”
And yet, because he had come this far, he felt he must at least excuse himself somehow. “The Coliseum,” he said, his voice so alien it was not the voice of a bard.
“When?” Meralonne said, so softly that the question should not have carried urgency. It did.
“The deaths were to occur during the month of Veral, mid-month, at a date that was to be made precise as the time drew near.” No bard’s voice this. And no brother’s. Yet it held its story, its music, its dread.
“I will go,” Meralonne said quietly. “I will go in haste to the Crowns. And you?”
“If Sioban can manage it, I will be in attendance until this affair is resolved.”
The mage nodded quietly. What he did not say, and what they both knew, was that two of the brotherhood lay dead at the hands of their enemies; how difficult would it be to kill one more?
Chapter Nineteen
7th Corvil, 410 A.A.
Terafin
“REPORT.”
Carver nodded quietly. “She’s surrounded by her Chosen all the time now. Had two appointments today, but she canceled them. She’s not taking dinner in the dining hall with the rest of the House Council; she’s staying in her private chambers.
“But there is one interesting thing. Apparently—and I didn’t see them myself—two foreigners and a bunch of their dogs arrived here under heavy guard just half an hour past dawn.”
Jewel’s brow furrowed slightly, and then she smiled. “Where are they?”
“Not sure yet. I should know in an hour or two.”
“Good. Angel?”
“Pretty much the same. Her food’s being prepared by the ATerafin on staff, and none of the cooks or servants are new. This started today. They’re all talking about it, and they’re all worried—but I don’t think she’s in any danger there. If Carver can’t find out what we need to know, I think I might be able to dig it out of the cooks’ servants if I eavesdrop for long enough.”
“Better.” Her smile deepened. “Teller?”
He shrugged. “Nothing much.”
“Which means?”
“Guards are antsy. They’ve doubled patrols and started overlapping shifts. But they’re not great about it. As long as they recognize you, you’re okay.”
“They can hardly be expected,” Ellerson interjected,
“to turn the entire building into a prison. That is not their function.”
“Finch?”
Finch’s naturally pale cheeks reddened slightly. “Well, I’m not sure. I don’t think there’s much danger from the valets and the personal servants—but you should hear them talk! I don’t think anyone here’s got a private life that anyone else doesn’t know about.”
“And we don’t need to hear about it either. Well, not now.” She looked at Arann. Arann smiled almost shyly. “And you?”
“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the House Guard. But I can’t really tell. None of ’em trust me yet.”
“Well, no. They wouldn’t; it’s your first day.” She stopped to really look at Arann; he was still wearing the armor that had been laid out for him as part of his pay. He filled it; he had always been big. At his side was a long sword, with the crest of the House in brass as a pommel. It was to be kept clean, Arann had said; everything was.
He was to report for training in the early morning, along with the rest of the new guards—of which there were, she thought wryly, three—and then, the rest of the day was his. Apparently, the new recruits were always put onto the latest shift.
“Are you still all right with this?”
He looked down at his mailed fist and then carefully removed the gauntlets. They were heavy, and overly warm. Everything was.
“Arann?”
“You should see the old man in the drill yard,” he said, staring at the tabletop rather than his den leader. “He’s older than Rath. And meaner. I think he almost broke Claris’ arm.”
Jewel grimaced. “But you’re okay?”
“Me? Yeah. I didn’t tell him I knew anything about using a sword.”
“Good. You don’t.” She reached across the table and caught his unmailed hand; it was sweaty, and not, she thought, just from training. “Was he surprised?”
“About me? I think so. But it was The Terafin’s order, and he doesn’t question ’em.” He looked up and met Jewel’s eyes; there was something in his expression that she wasn’t sure she liked. “Jay?”
“What?”
“You told her you wanted me in with the guards?”
“I told her,” Jewel said, “that I thought you would make a good House Guard; you’ve the size for it, and the strength—and what you lack in training, you make up for in loyalty. Even I didn’t think she’d react so quickly.” It wasn’t the truth, but it was truth of a sort. “Why?”
“They’ll count on me,” he said quietly. “To stand and fight if we need to. To protect the House at all costs. Stuff like that. And they don’t care what I used to do. They don’t care where I come from. They didn’t even ask. They just asked me—asked me to take up arms and take the—the oath.”
“So?” Angel said. “Take the oath.”
“Shut up, Angel. You wouldn’t know an oath if it kissed your—”
“Carver. Angel.” They both subsided as Jewel’s grip on Arann’s hand tightened. “What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know,” he said again, and again he dropped his gaze. “But—but they said, if I serve well, and if I—I distinguish myself, I can be ATerafin. And more than that—if I serve the House well enough, I might one day be one of the Chosen.”
Angel snorted in disgust. “When the Sleepers wake!” He slapped the table with both palms, hard.
Teller drew a sharp breath, and everyone else winced. They knew that Jewel didn’t like the phrase; something had happened to her and Duster a year ago. Wouldn’t say what, but she’d made them stop using it. Angel flushed, avoided meeting the gaze of his den leader, and continued. “Like any one of us is ever going to be ATerafin. Use your head.”
“Angel, shut up.”
“Well, what’s the problem anyway? Take the god-frowned oath and—”
“Angel.”
Silence. “Do you want to take the oath, Arann?”
“I don’t know.” He looked strained by the question; it was obvious from his tone that he’d done enough thinking and more. “I can’t take it if I can’t keep it,” he told her quietly. “But if I take it—”
“You don’t serve me anymore.”
His shoulders slumped as she said it—as she said what he—and no one else in the room—had already considered.
“All right,” she said softly, but not to Arann. “Get out of here—go back to watching. I have some things to think about myself.”
Everyone stood quietly, and everyone stared at Arann, who in turn stared groundward with a fixed determination.
“Oh, I forgot. Finch and Jester.”
“Jay?”
“Put them back. All of them. Now.”
“Put what back?”
“Don’t give me backtalk, just do it. We can collect household items later, if we have to fly the coop. But it’s later, and only at my say so. Understood?”
Jester pursed his lips and made a very wet sound; Finch kicked him in the shins. “Yes, Jay,” she said meekly, but there was a twinkle about her eyes that said more. “You know what they say.”
“No. What do they say?”
“You can take the girl out of the street, but you can’t take the street out of the girl.”
“Out.”
• • •
“Well?” Ellerson said, when the room had been emptied for five minutes and it became clear that Jewel had no intention of moving.
“What?”
“Can you take the street out of the den?”
“Why don’t you do something useful?” she said softly.
“At your command.”
“Get lost.”
He cleared his throat. “I will of course, give you privacy should you desire it. But might I also say that there are members of Terafin who serve other organizations, just as The Terafin herself serves the Crowns?”
Jewel nodded quietly. After another silent moment, Ellerson left the room, letting the doors swing on well-oiled hinges in his wake. When she was certain he was gone, she finally let her elbows collapse and slide along the surface of the table. Her cheek touched the cool, waxed wood, and her eyelashes brushed her cheek; she was tired, and the night to follow didn’t look like it was going to be any more restful than the last had been.
Arann wanted to take that vow.
He knew what it meant, and he didn’t want to ask her for permission—but he wanted to take that vow and be counted as one of the fancy-dress guards of Terafin. And why shouldn’t he? Why shouldn’t he want to be part of guards that used real armor, real weapons, and served a real purpose? Why shouldn’t he want to be shoulder-to-shoulder with people he could trust, people who would serve the same cause that he did?
He’d never have to steal again, that’s for sure. And he’d never have to fight in the middle of a den war, with nothing but a few coppers and half-coppers as a reward for survival.
Isn’t that what you wanted? He’ll be safe. He’ll be safer here than he ever was with you.
But she felt a terrible pang, and worse. Arann was, of all her den, the most loyal—the most protective. He wasn’t simple, but he was direct; he protected his friends, and he followed his den-leader. Carver and Duster always argued, and sometimes, in the heat of it, things could get dicey. Angel was just as likely to disobey you after he’d agreed to whatever it was you demanded. But Arann—he was special.
It’s your own fault, she told herself, balling her hands into fists and then forcing them, slowly, to relax. I told her I wanted him in with the House Guards for a few days.
Still, she felt betrayed by The Terafin, because no matter what her decision, things with Arann would never be the same; she would always know that in his heart he wanted to serve a different cause, a different master.
A few days.
What had Rath said, years ago, when she thought him cra
zy and addled? It was always the honest ones that would break your heart.
The door swung open again; it was Ellerson. He was quiet. “Go away,” she said tonelessly. Then she stopped. “Ellerson?”
“Jewel?”
Funny. All her life, the name had been a joke. Only her father had ever used it seriously. But in Terafin, the only people who called her Jay were those she’d pulled from the streets and dragged here. She should’ve minded it more. “You said that you serve me.”
“That is my function.”
“But you said that you were chosen by The Terafin?”
“Indeed.”
“And if The Terafin chose to order you to cease your service, would you do it?”
“I? No,” he said gravely. “But The Terafin understands this well enough. The only choice I have, besides the choice of vocation—that of service—is whether or not I will take a given master. I believe,” he added, with a rare smile, “that I underestimated both the master and the difficulty when I chose to accept you.
“However, once I have made my decision, it is made—and it is only unmade in the event of my death, your death, any unusual change in circumstance or the expiration of any contractual period of time.”
“What?”
He smiled obliquely. “Some people will ask for the service of a domicis for a period of time—say, three years—and at the end of that time, I would then be free to leave.”
“What about the change in circumstance?”
“If, for instance, you were somehow to become Terafin—or rather, to become The Terafin, that would warrant a shift of service.”
“You mean, if I became more powerful, you’d leave?”
He nodded, and his expression was if possible graver. “To serve a person with power is a difficult task, and it often requires power. Few of the domicis understand the nature of power, or great power; it is brutal, gentle, and subtle. I do not, nor would I claim it.”
She was quiet a moment, and then her shoulders sagged again. “I don’t have any choice, do I?”
“You always have some choice,” he replied.
“What?” The single word was bitter. “I can’t keep him. I just can’t. He doesn’t want anything that I don’t. He wants—” She laughed, but it was a choked laugh. “To be ATerafin.”
The Sacred Hunt Duology Page 89