The Sacred Hunt Duology

by Michelle West

  The Exalted of Cormaris stood forward, and bowed very low. “It is done,” he said gravely. The Terafin bowed in return, but before she could speak, Lord Elseth did.

  “My dogs,” he said softly. “My dogs were killed in the same way.”

  The Exalted of Cormaris raised a dark brow. His face was pale and finely boned, with high cheekbones and brow. He was not a young man, but then again, no son of Cormaris ever truly seemed young. “The dogs,” he said gravely, “burning will save.”

  Before anyone could stop him—and that wasn’t difficult as no one in Averalaan could conceive of any sane person behaving in such a way—Lord Elseth grabbed the Exalted’s left arm and swung him around. He was the heavier man.

  The Exalted of Cormaris raised a brow, but did not struggle.

  “My dogs died fighting your enemies,” Lord Elseth said, teeth clenched and lips barely moving. “They will be given to earth; they will be honored.”

  Priests of Reymaris quietly joined the Exalted’s side; they were armed, and although their weapons remained sheathed, their meaning was clear. The foreign Lord stared at them a moment, as if weighing his chances.

  A young woman came, moving so quietly that she was noticed only as she reached his side. She touched his arm, caught the white, white knuckles that rested against the pommel of a sheathed sword. He turned to her and opened his mouth.

  She said, “It will not bring them back.”

  “Go away.”

  “Do not do this. It will not bring him back.”

  He paled; his hand slackened. If his feet were not so firmly planted, he might have stepped back. “Leave me.”

  She did, vanishing into the crowd with the same ease with which she had appeared.

  The foreign Lord released the ruler of the Church of Cormaris. The Exalted turned immediately and continued to walk away from the dead.

  The dogs at Lord Elseth’s feet began to snarl, although their master was silent and still. As if the ruler of the earthly dominion of Cormaris had set the standard for the behavior of the rest of the gathering, people began to melt away, giving wide berth to the stranger and his creatures without offering obvious disdain. Not even The Terafin chose to have words with her visitor, or to grace him with her support; not here, and not after his breach of conduct.

  And then, as the growl of the hounds turned to a soft, high whine, as the Lord Elseth turned to face the biers upon which his pack were laid, one person stepped out of the flow of the crowd, moving cautiously and confidently. She had, after all, little to fear.

  The Exalted of the Mother approached quietly, gesturing her attendants on either side to stand back. The growling of the beasts grew as she came near, but she offered them a frown, and after a few seconds, they fell silent. Only then did she smile and reach out—and the largest of the dogs began to trot across the platform to greet her. His tail was wagging, his ears were up.

  But he did not reach her.

  Brother Mayadar had never seen a dog stop in mid-stride before—but these dogs were unnatural, so it didn’t really surprise him when this one did. He thought the Exalted might say something, or do something, which would finally put this—this pompous, ignorant barbarian in his place. But when she spoke, it was to the dog.

  “Ashfel,” she said quietly. “You must tell your Lord that we mean him no harm. We have traveled to his country, to visit her Holiness in the King’s City; we have witnessed the Sacred Hunt.” As she spoke this last, she looked up from the dog’s cocked head to the master’s impassive face. “We do not understand the mysteries of the Breodani; we do not understand their Hunter God. But we do know that the earth and the hunt are tied in ways that we, daughter to the Mother, cannot fathom.

  “Your people are true to your Lord and to ours; and the dogs that you honor above almost all else are part of the Hunt that, in the end, feeds our children, our followers. We know that you are without your huntbrother,” she said gravely, the seriousness of her expression saying more than the words. “And we know that the huntbrother is the one who would be versed in our customs. We do not take offense at your request, Lord Elseth.” She paused, and lowered her head a moment, as if gathering her strength. “And it pleases us to grant you what you wish.”

  He stared at her, and the impassivity slowly drained from his face. That left him with words, and he would not speak them; he had never been good with words, and it was suddenly important that he not offend this woman.

  She knew what he had lost.

  Her eyes were bright as she waited for the acknowledgment that would not come, and then, realizing it was there in the openness of his expression, in the suddenness of vulnerability, she said, “Come; we fear that our blood has been thinned by the ceremonies. You must provide that which we cannot.”

  10th Corvil, 410 A.A., evening

  Hall of Wise Counsel

  The screaming was distant now; like the tide, it was low and high, and at times such as this he might almost forget that it existed.

  His body had accustomed itself to the niscea. A bad sign, but he was more aware of its effects than the untrained would be, and he did what he could to limit the dosage. If the dead were not laid to rest, the cure would become a curse of its own.

  “Kallandras.” The voice was quiet, softened by enchantment into an otherworld whisper. He was trained to listen to all manner of speech and song; he knew at once that the words to follow were meant for his ears alone, and would reach no others.

  Still he glanced at his companion to see if her presence had been noted—for it was Evayne who spoke, and at that, the older woman, not the child. Devon ATerafin, on edge, had noticed little out of place; Kallandras swept the chamber with the eye of his early training. She was not immediately obvious.

  “What is it?” Devon said quietly, pitching his voice low.

  Kallandras shook his head. Devon’s sensitivity had nothing to do with magic or ritual or training. A most unusual man in many ways. He tried not to remember the brotherhood, and failed—for Devon was like, and unlike, the Kovaschaii.

  “Kallandras?”

  “Kallandras.”

  “Nothing is out of place, ATerafin,” he said, and then, using the talents for which he was known, “Evayne. What tragedy have you brought this eve?” No one who was not Evayne could catch the words, but one bard-born and trained would know that there was speech, and that it was private.

  “You’re looking for something,” Devon said tersely, his blue eyes icelike in the chill of his face.

  Evayne was silent, and when she spoke again, he lost the drift of her words to Devon’s continued accusation. Luckily, it didn’t last long; Devon had made the chamber his first concern, and could spare little time from watching over it.

  In the annoyed silence that Devon offered as he turned his vigil back to the Kings’ Swords who stood at the doors that led to the Hall of Wise Counsel, and thence, to the interior rooms that the Kings occupied in the winter season, Kallandras sorted out the words that had been Evayne’s. They were curt and brief.

  “Carry the spear that the wild one brought you to Lord Elseth.”

  He nodded, knowing that she would see it, and accept it as his pledge, no matter where she stood. She was seer-born; little was hidden from her sight when she chose to look.

  Twenty-four men—on the ground floor—made the chamber itself look small, although a dozen of those men and women were tucked away near servants’ entrances. Another two dozen lined the gallery above, patrolling the three doors that had been locked and barred for the evening. There was not a young man or woman among them; Devon had, with the aid of the Princess, chosen only those with experience. And skill.

  It was odd, though, to see four Primus and a Verrus serving in the role of night watchmen. Kallandras risked a sidelong glance at his dark-haired companion. The ATerafin had pulled in many favors for these evening shifts—and the
y would not last long. The bard did not wish to see Devon’s fears made real, but he knew that, should nothing happen, it would cost Devon his credibility.

  Folding his arms, he relaxed into the edge of the basin by the wall. And what should he care, if Devon failed? Moody, almost grim, he stared into the chamber, aware of every movement within its walls.

  “It seems,” Evayne said, “that I’ve made an error in judgment.” Her inflection was wry but cautious. “Having given you the message, I thought the path would take me where it must—but it appears that I am already there.

  “I should have guessed,” she added. “Why else would I come upon you here, surrounded by evening and the Kings’ Swords, if there were no . . . difficulties?”

  Before he could answer, a door in the upper gallery drew his attention. Someone was on the other side of it, banging loudly. He turned to Devon ATerafin; Devon was rigid but silent.

  “Mailed fist,” Kallandras said, sweeping his hair up and catching it so firmly with a long pin and net that the curls lay flat. Salla was in his temporary quarters, and he wore no sword—but he was armed, and armed well. Shaking his wrists with a distinctive snap, he armed himself with stilettos.

  Devon raised a dark brow, and for the first time in three evenings, he smiled cautiously. “Meralonne said you were . . . more than you seemed.”

  “Meralonne,” Kallandras said, almost bitterly, “said no more than he needed.” He paused. “Arm yourself. There is danger.”

  Devon nodded and looked to the door.

  Primus Cortarian came from beneath the gallery, walking briskly toward the ATerafin. He bowed, making of the gesture something perfunctory and quick.

  “Report.”

  “An urgent message. From The Terafin. The Kings are to be informed at once.”

  “Of what?”

  “The man will not say—the message is to be delivered to the Kings.” He paused. “The message is, apparently, not written; it is verbal. There is no seal to verify. We do not know who the carrier is; as per your instructions, we have not opened the doors.”

  “Ready your men,” Devon said softly. He turned swiftly. “I will deal with the Terafin messenger.”

  Primus Cortarian bowed again.

  Before either man could reach the galleries, the doors flew off their hinges, splintering against the rails opposite them. The two men who had been standing in front of those doors had no chance to cry out; the force of the impact drove them over the rails to the ground below. They lay there limply.

  In the semidarkness, in the doorless frame, stood a single man: Verrus Allamar. He wore no armor, and carried no shield, but in his left hand he held a great sword as if its weight was of no more consequence than a dagger.

  And at his back, in numbers the light made difficult to judge, were Kings’ Swords.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Verrus Sivari stepped forward from his position by the doors to the Hall of Wise Counsel. He was a younger man than Allamar, and smaller of build, but he had thrice been Kings’ Champion; he was a man who not only knew how to command, but also how best to use the minutiae of the swordsman’s life.

  Verrus Allamar stepped into the gallery in silence, ignoring the challenge posed by the only man in the room who might be said to outrank him. He lifted an arm, and waved the men at his back forward; they came in like a tide made of something thick and heavy.

  A twang cut the silence, and a crack; Verrus Allamar smiled broadly as he glanced down at the quarrel in his right fist. With a twist of fingers, he snapped it in two and tossed it aside.

  Devon cursed and lowered the crossbow; Kallandras felt a twinge of surprise; he hadn’t noticed the older man arming himself with the weapon, and he was not given to missing much. Fire flared from Allamar’s hands, singeing the wall where Devon wasn’t.

  Devon ATerafin could move.

  “It has started,” Allamar said, with a grin that was literally too wide for his face. “Shall we dispense with pretense?” He gestured in a wide arc, and his skin began to fall away, peeling down the sides of his face even as it burned. Throughout it all, his grin grew wider—and the teeth in his mouth more pronounced, more fanglike.

  The men at his back and side, dressed in the two crowns above the crossed rod and staff, bore quiet witness to the transformation.

  Devon swore as he gained the ground two inches from Kallandras. “Not one of those men are ours,” he said.

  “Then we have our work cut out for us,” was his companion’s inflectionless reply, “for there are seventy-seven of them.” He paused. Then, “ATerafin, what do you know of the Allasakari?”

  Devon ATerafin’s low, vicious curse was all the answer he needed.

  • • •

  The Kings’ Swords regrouped in front of the doors to the Hall of Wise Counsel; there were forty of them now. Devon ATerafin joined them. Kallandras did not, for he was in need of shadow more than he feared it, and he was not trained to work with such obvious soldiers.

  Meralonne, curse him, was nowhere to be found—and from the gathering darkness that centered upon Allamar—upon what had once been Allamar—he would be missed.

  With hooks and grappling ropes, the enemy began to descend from the gallery; the two sets of stairs, delicate and narrow, were barely wide enough for one large man in good armor.

  Their leader came as well, stepping out into midair and finding, in the thickening shadow, a platform that slowly descended. “We will kill you quickly, or we will kill you slowly,” the creature that had been Allamar said. “But this is the only chance you will have to choose. Choose swiftly.”

  “Why have you come?” Devon asked, gaining what time he could.

  Allamar’s teeth flashed; it was clear that he understood the gambit. “Why, to kill the Kings, of course. The Queens are already dead.”

  Silence, deep and profound.

  Then: The clang of swords against shields in the dim hall, a metallic cry of despair.

  “No quarter!” cried Verrus Sivari.

  “No quarter?” Allamar replied, incredulous. “No quarter?” He lifted his arms, throwing them wide; fire flared like a fan from the arc he traced in the air.

  There was no time to brace for the fire, but the men that Devon had chosen were fast enough to respond, raising shields in a line against magics that they did not understand. If Verrus Sivari had only a few seconds to speak—if he had the choice of only two words—he had chosen well. The men and women sworn to the service of the Crowns did not falter.

  Not even when the fire splintered their shields.

  Behind the Allasakari and their leader, the shadows grew, leeching the chamber of color, and then, of light. In a mockery of the uniforms they wore, the Allasakari paused in ugly salute and then drew their weapons—not swords, but daggers. The blades did not glint or reflect light in any way; they were like pieces of the shadow itself, made hard and sharp.

  “Your souls will feed our Lord,” Allamar said. “The first of many so reaved. Take them!”

  “Bold,” a quiet voice said, “and as ever, a liar. We know well that the Gods alone may take such a sacrifice.”

  “What is this?” Allamar looked into the galleries above. His eyes narrowed, and then he grinned broadly, for around the galleries, against each of three walls, was a thin line of shadowed figures. “Do you think to menace me?”

  The reply seemed to come from all around, above and below; it was colder than the darkness of moonless winter in the northern wastes. “Kevellar-arrensas, I bind you by the power of the trinity made one. Your name, the Hells have surrendered.”

  The creature cried out, and its followers shifted, shying like horses made nervous by sounds of unexpected battle.

  “And no,” the voice continued, coming now from the center of each of the four chamber walls, “the darkness shall not take what we have labored to capture; this
is Averalaan Aramarelas and when the Lord of Darkness himself walked upon this world, his city still fell before the trinity.”

  The shadows that had filled the room ceased their upward struggle.

  “Reymaris,” a deep voice said, as a man stepped forward into a light that had no source. He was dressed in the simple robes of the Church, and girded round with a single, sheathed sword; he wore a small shield strapped across his chest from shoulder to waist, but did not seek to ready it.

  “Cormaris,” another said, and he, too, came forward, bearing the staff of his office.

  “The Mother.” This third voice was the only voice that was tinged with regret, and yet the woman who spoke was stern in seeming. Her hair was golden, but drawn and bound tightly, and she wore a shift that would have been more appropriate on a well-muscled farmwife.

  “Think you to bind me so close to the source of His power?” Allamar was incredulous, and yet beneath the scorn of his words was the first hint of doubt. “He stood against the trinity until the coming of the cursed rider—He has nothing to fear from you!” Once again, fire gouted from his fingertips.

  “Forgive me, but I fear you misunderstand me. The trinity is the power that will bind you—but it is not the only power present.” The first voice to speak was also the last, yet no figure came to stand out of the darkness and the shadows. The demon’s fire went out so suddenly it might never have been called. “For I represent the Covenant of Man—the Covenant and its maker.” The voice changed in tenor. “Lord of the Hells, bear witness: We are the sons and daughters of mankind, and these lands are ours. We have worked our lives against your dominion, and we declare ourselves now. Behold!” And the shadows were devoured in an instant, snapping and shattering into a welter of light—and at that, no cold light, but the light of spring dawning, the light of summer day, the light of autumn’s harvest. The light of the trinity.

  “This is not possible!” the creature cried.

  Night itself shrank from the Exalted as they stood at the edge of the gallery: East, South, and West. They looked down, the hidden power of their heritage unveiled for a moment as the creature named Kevellar-arrensas struggled against a binding not visible to the naked eye. But his struggle diminished as the binding grew; in the end, not even his eyes were free to move.