“When they called a second time, when their pleas could be heard across the Fields, I again undertook the journey to the place of meeting, and rebuked them for their summons. For the freedom of man the Covenant was joined; man had prospered by it—would they have me break it? Their silence was their answer.
“Thrice they called; but this last time, they did not ask for aid. They had become, at the last, a people of pride and strength. In their failing, in their twilight, they sought me. I came in anger; they met me in silence. And then the leader of the people that you once were knelt in the mists and plunged his spear into the half-earth.
“‘Why have you called me thus?’
“‘We have followed the ways of the Lord of Truth all our lives; as did our parents before us, and their parents, and theirs. Those who have failed have been cast out in accordance with the severity of their breach.’
“‘This I know,’ I told them, waiting.
“‘But we have failed. We are few, and our children succumb to the harvest of the Lady. The land is barren; the hunt yields nothing.’
“Now it comes, thought I, for this is the way of man. ‘Why have you called?’ I said again.
“‘To the East and the South—from a great remove—there are a people who do not know the Ways. They do not hunt, and they do not honor the seasons, and they do not keep the covenants that they have made, for they will not seal them with their lives.’
“‘I know of these people,’ I said, for I did, and with misgivings.
“‘We have come, Lord, to lay before you the rings of your binding and the spears of our adulthood. Our land will not bear fruit, nor any to the North that we have searched, and to the South and West, there is death. But in the East, we have been offered food and shelter for our children.’
“‘We would have died for you, and in truth, we may still. But many of our children are not of the age to make the Choice that you have decreed, and we cannot in honor sacrifice them when a haven remains.’
“‘You have honored us in our life with your wisdom. You have strengthened us with the Code. We thank you, Lord. And we bid you farewell.’ They stood, leaving their spears in the gray ground before me. ‘But we vow that in our time, we will return to you if we are able.’
“I did not take that oath. These people were my people, and while I had fashioned the Covenant’s binding, I was not subject to it. Were they to be lost to the whim of the Southerners? Were they to become a people without honor, without oath, dwindling in time to a shadow of their former selves?
“I came. You know this.
“But the divide was not meant to be crossed by one such as I. The world that the Gods once knew, the world that we once walked, was strangely, subtly changed.” His eyes grew distant. “This city is not the city that it was; not so grand, and not so terrible. And humankind is not what it was.” He shook his head. “They have changed, but so, too, have the Gods.
“We cannot walk here without paying a price.” He lifted his chin and his eyes were very, very bright. “You walk to the Hall of Mandaros, to be judged and to choose, but if you return to walk in flesh again, you have no memory of the past for which you have been judged. Yet if you have no memory, it does not mean that you have not been born before, that you have not died; it means that you cannot know what has gone before until your return to Mandaros. That is the nature of this new world: That the essence of the divinity is absorbed into the flow of mortality until it wanders unknowing to remake its choices. It does not die, but it does not live as it was.
“I did not know this when I came.” He bowed his head. “I spoke with the Maker of the Covenant; he was cool to my cause, and angry. Be wary of him.
“But he explained much to me. And much was bitter. A mortal cannot know the before, but a God can—because the power of a God is vast and deep. It is not endless.
“I came to my Priests—my children—and between us we fashioned a magic to hold the land; we brought life to the vast and empty wastes. The body of the earth is an ancient thing, and not easily appeased; not in a day or a month, a year or a single mortal lifetime, could such an undertaking be finished.
“Such was the power that I used, that during the fifth year, I could no longer remember the Fields; during the sixth, I could no longer remember my brethren; during the seventh, I could no longer hold the shape of the magic that we had built. I succumbed to the nature of the World of man because I had no power left.
“The land began to die. I knew it; and knew that there was nothing further I could do. I was not in my dominion. There was no power to call upon; no thing that was immortal and everlasting.”
Evayne’s drawn breath was so sharp it cut off the voice of the God.
“You see much,” he said softly, “as you were born to. There was one thing upon which I could draw.”
“Them,” she whispered, horrified.
Her horror did not offend or perturb. He turned quietly to the silent Hunter before him. “They would not offer your strong; but your weak, your sick, your crippled—those could still be of use, when they could no longer aid your people in their struggle to feed their own.
“It was not so simple for a people of honor; while the Priests and the Hunters understood our need, they could not ask the Breodani to murder their mothers, their fathers, their children—it was too high a price, and too dark a stain. Days, we spoke on this, and weeks. And yet, in the end, the choice was not our own.
“I remember him still, the man who began the long tradition. He had been a Hunter for all of his young life, but in the prime of his days, he was struck in the thigh and the leg by a wild beast. The bleeding did not kill him, nor the infection thereafter—but he could not hunt again, and he fell in upon himself and grew old in a space of years, shadowed by the light of his former glories.
“His name was Jerem, and he offered his life as sacrifice—his life and more—that his people might live. His only request was that he once again be allowed to accompany the Hunters; that he die in the Hunt.
“He died as he lived. Bravely, and with honor. That much I could still do, then. I took his spirit as it lingered for the Three, and I made it a part of my own, that I might draw upon its brief light to remember, to retain what I knew. It was not enough, this single life, yet it was something, and after the ceremonies and the silence, we gave his blood to earth. And there, too, came the unlooked for.
“The Old Earth answered: a life for life.
“It was an offer, Lord Elseth. And we were failing in our power. We accepted. It is to the Old Earth that the blood of the Hunt still falls; it is the Earth that punishes you when the Hunt fails, and only when the ancient ways are a shadow of memory, forgotten even in child’s play, will the land—and the Breodani—be free of that binding; for the Breodani and the Old Earth are Oathbound.”
He paused, measuring the Hunter who knelt before him in angry silence. And then, so softly it might have been a single voice speaking, he said, “The soul of Jerem still resides within me, trapped until the moment of my ascension.”
• • •
“And Stephen,” Evayne whispered, when she could speak at all.
“Even so,” the God replied.
Gilliam of Elseth said nothing; it was Evayne who cried out wildly, savagely, “Let him go.”
The antlered God was not troubled; he spoke. “I cannot; I do not have the power. These are not the forests of Breodani; not the lands of the Leoganti, and even there, the choice is not mine. Under a different sun, I was a Lord of the Wild—and not for the sake of a soul, not for hundreds, would I unleash that upon this earth.”
It was to Gilliam that he spoke, but it was Evayne who shook her head numbly.
“This is not the time of renewal.” The tines of the Lord of the Hunt angled up, and up again, as he stared at the curvature of the ceiling that was now hidden in the darkness of the chandelier�
��s demise. “But you have called, I have come. The price has been paid. You are Lord of the Elseth Responsibility, and I deem you true to your Oath.” His face was impassive as he spoke, but something in his eyes shifted when the daughter of his earthly flesh stepped forward, shielding the man who was—and was afraid to be—her master.
She did not bow as she stood; instead she tossed the wild tangle of matted dark hair defiantly, angrily. Gold eyes met eyes that had no earthly color; blood-spattered lips opened upon a single word. “Father.”
He flinched as she spoke it, and then bowed his head. “Tell me,” he said, the softness of the words in no way masking the command they contained.
Not even Kallandras could have told a deeper—or a truer—story, but no one in the hall could know it, for the language that she spoke was not a human language, and the throat that uttered it, not a human—not quite—throat. Her voice was the rush of wind, the twisting of ocean current, the slow growth of forest—a roar that spoke of time and change and more subtle things beside.
His voice was the beast’s voice, but robbed of the wilderness that was death; and in timbre it matched hers, but in glory far outshone it. He called her once, and she would not come. A second time, and she stepped forward but held her ground. A third and she snarled back, pain mingled with defiance.
And then the God smiled, and the smile was light. “I see,” he said softly. “Very well. It is your choice to make now.” A youthful seeming was upon him as he turned to Gilliam.
“Your history has been lost to time. But my child tells me that you are still a proud and honorable people. That you wield your power as the sword and the responsibility that it is; that you bring nobility to being noble-born. The lands are green, the game is plentiful, the magic of the sacrifice renews all in its human season.”
Gilliam looked up bleakly.
The God’s smile vanished as he met his follower’s gaze. Gilliam pulled back as Espere whined—for in the eyes of the God was a terrible longing. Almost a fear. “It is time,” the Lord of the Hunt said. “I have fulfilled my oath.” He lifted a hand and a trail of gold-edged light pierced the darkness. “Fulfill you now your people’s.” The Horn came to him. “Take this, and wind it on the Day. Call me, as the Hunters of Breodanir have called throughout time.”
Gilliam struggled in the silence a moment before he spoke a single uninflected word. “Why?”
“Why?”
“Why should I obey you?”
A glint of red beneath the tines of the antlered God; a glimmer of simmering anger. Then, “Because you have given your oath to my service.”
“I’m not a Priest.”
“There are no true Priests left. Allasakar saw to that.” As he spoke the name of the Lord of the Hells, the air snapped and crackled with his anger made manifest. “But I will tell you this, although your boldness displeases me. With the spear that was hewn from the Fields of the Guardians, you shall hunt me.
“For it is my time. Kill the body of the beast, Hunter Lord, and I will no longer be wrapped in mortal flesh, or trapped in mortal lands. Hunt, as you have been trained to hunt, and you will find your quarry.”
“And if he does as you ask?” Evayne said. “If he frees you from these lands, will there be no more Sacred Hunts? Will his death be the final death?” She did not name him; she did not need to.
The God turned then to Evayne as she stood with her burden: a quiet, injured dog. “While Breodanir exists, the Hunt will be called,” he said. “The earth will take its due, or in the Hunters’ lands, there will be no spring.”
Grim but satisfied, Gilliam nodded; if there was relief at the Hunter God’s reply, it did not show. He held out his hand, and the simple Horn came to it as if called.
“Daughter of my kin, you know what is at risk here. Lead him, if you can. Guide him. For there are no forests in this small and crowded space, and we face the twilight and the darkness is almost nigh. It is in Averalaan that the Hunt will be called.” He lowered his chin to meet her gaze. “For the Hunter, the Hunt is all. But you are not a Hunter.”
She stared beyond him, to the body that lay unmoving in shadows. She even nodded, and as she did, the hood of her robes fell away, revealing her face. Her eyes were reddened, but her smooth, young skin was very, very pale.
“You do not understand,” he said; it was not a question.
• • •
She did not answer. Instead, she walked steadily and quietly toward him, holding the dog as if he were a shield. He was. For Evayne knew little, but she knew this: Only she could walk the Path, and it would not take her if she carried any other living thing. She was not ready to leave, not yet.
The words that the God spoke made a dim and distant sense, but they did not touch her. The soul still resides within me, trapped. . . . She could not look at him, so she looked at the dog’s head instead, at its flat, triangular gray and brown fur, at its floppy ears. It was heavy, this dog, but not so heavy that she couldn’t hold it for just a moment longer.
Don’t stop me, she thought, and he didn’t. She walked past him, past the light that he shed, and into the shadows.
There, kneeling slowly and carefully, she came to rest beside the body of Stephen of Elseth. Huntbrother. Friend. She’d brought him to this, somehow; she was certain of it. Kallandras was right; he was always right. She was like death, but less merciful.
I didn’t mean it, she told him, looking into his still face. His body was rent like so much thin fabric; blood, sticky and red, was cooling everywhere. But his face was untouched. Pressing the dog firmly into her lap with her left hand, she reached out with her right one and touched his cold cheek.
The body was nothing. She’d heard it before from any number of priests. Even the one who called himself her parent said this over and over, as if it was supposed to render death meaningless. As if it did away with loss.
Angrily, she shoved the dog aside and sat beside Stephen, pulling his head into her lap; trying to give him a place to rest.
She cried out once in pain and anger and denial, and then cried out in surprise. When she rose, gingerly lifting Stephen’s head and setting it once again against the cold floor, her face was the face of a woman of power, not a tortured girl. But her lips still bore the faint twist of a pain renewed.
She saw the God, and he her; he turned to face her.
“I hoped never to see this place again,” she told him gravely.
“Perhaps you never will. But that was a child’s hope, and this is not a children’s war.”
“Children will die in it,” she answered softly, “and most certainly,” she added, staring through the wall of mist as if she could see through it, “they will fight in it. But I believe I understand why it is I who am here.”
“I cannot remain here long,” the God said. “The forests of Leoganti provide some protection against the ruin of the world, and I must return to them—already, my time is dwindling and the pull of forgetfulness and the wild is growing.” He stopped a moment, staring into the mists as if they were a seer’s ball. “Allasakar seeks to break the Covenant. He will; it can be done.”
“It is to stop him that I have labored,” she replied, but she did not meet his eyes.
“The Hunt will be called in this city, Evayne a’Nolan, for I believe that our enemy is here. Call the Hunt in the proper place, and before I ascend, I will fight him.”
“And will you win?” she asked coolly. “Will you take an oath to end his threat forever?”
“I take no oath I cannot fulfill, as well you know.” He paused. “It is dangerous to judge a God, little one.”
“It is dangerous to have anything to do with Gods.” She lifted a proud head, and the robes that she wore rose to frame her face. “Especially if you are not one.” Her gaze touched darkness, and skittered shyly off Stephen’s body. His corpse.
“Evayne,” he sai
d, “if it were not for the ability of the mortals to choose, what threat would any of us be? The Covenant—”
“The Covenant was not enough!”
He stared at her oddly, the light glimmering in his eyes like sun at midday. “Not enough?” he said softly, the voices a whisper. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. You are mortal; you are of this world. Make of it what you will. Come the first of Veral, if you wish to have a world that is not an extension of the Hells, you will call the Hunt.”
“Oh, the Hunt will be called,” she said bitterly. “For Gilliam of Elseth is a Hunter. The Gods will continue to have an even field on which to play their games.”
“Games?” The tines of the Hunter God began to fade, dissolving into air and nothingness. The pale, scarred brow of a slender, ageless man remained. He was tall, this man; taller than Meralonne APhaniel; taller than any mortal Evayne had ever met—and she had met many. “I pity you,” he said softly. “For you do not understand all that is at stake. Our power is not like the studies of the mage-born; not even like the compulsion of the healer-born to the hurt. It is older than time, and stronger; it compels us, and it will not be denied.
“And now, I have truly said enough.” He turned very carefully, and before anyone could stop him, gathered up Stephen of Elseth’s limp body, cradling it as if it were a child’s. “The earth,” he said sadly, “demands its due. We shall return home, he and I.”
Gilliam bore it proudly, lifting his chin as he stared with a terrible longing at the Hunter’s burden. And then, before the tears could start, the Hunter was gone, dwindling in the sight as if a great distance had come upon them unawares. He waited until he could no longer see a thing; until even the afterimage of bright light against his vision had faded completely into darkness. Then he turned to Evayne.
“Get me the Spear,” he said. Dreams of death. Of vengeance. Of killing.
She nodded, seeing death as it hovered about the lines of his face. Like a bruise, the marks took a little time to darken; he was in shock. Her face was well-schooled; she offered him no pity, and even the horror of her youth fell away before the shadow of his loss. It was one of the few things they shared, although he could not and would not admit it yet. And she would not ask.
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