The Sacred Hunt Duology

by Michelle West

  The Terafin raised a dark brow before accepting his lack of formality; it had been a most trying morning. “I was not the author of that risk.” Glancing at Jewel, she smiled; the young thief sat meekly on the window ledge, attempting to hide in the very scant shadows.

  Jewel had the grace to blush under the scrutiny. “I’m sorry,” she offered at last. “But thanks for covering for me. I owe you.”

  Devon and The Terafin exchanged glances.

  “I don’t think you understand,” Devon said quietly. “Did you think that she was merely trying to save you some time at the hands of the Lord of the Compact?”

  Jewel stared at him blankly.

  “The name ATerafin is not offered lightly.” It was The Terafin who spoke. “And it is never offered in jest or in subterfuge. You are ATerafin, Jewel. This is no game.”

  Speechless, Jewel gaped; it caused Devon to laugh, and the mirth was genuine, if somewhat edged.

  The Terafin waited patiently for the sound to die out; it did not take long. “Why do they believe it?” she said to Devon, as if the interruption—and the slight to her House—had not happened.

  “Because,” he said soberly, “the Sleepers are history, and they have slept, unchanged and unchanging, forever. I do not believe that our enemies somehow missed this entrance into the undercity; I believe that they unmade it—as they unmade the rest.

  “But the Exalted believe that unmaking was rejected, as all known attempts to change the Sleepers have been—in a slow and subtle reworking that a mage in haste would miss completely. It is almost as if time itself guards them.”

  “They unmade the way,” Jewel said softly, “and the protection around the Sleepers unmade their unmaking.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then . . . they don’t know.”

  “That is our hope,” Devon agreed softly. “And we believe,” his voice grew into a thin whisper as he shaded his eyes in the darkness, “that it is our only hope.”

  “No,” a new voice said.

  Devon threw himself from his chair, and when he rolled to his feet, his hands were shining with the glint of metal in the poor light. He threw them; they stopped an inch from the hooded face of the intruder and then fell with a clang to the ground.

  Jewel gaped for a second time that day—and not because of the magic; she’d seldom seen a throw that good—he’d’ve hit both eyes if not for the spell. She was certain of it.

  But the spell was there; the daggers lay, cold and flat, against the floor. “Well met, Devon ATerafin,” the figure said. “I come in peace; I mean no harm.” So saying, she reached up and pulled the folds of the hood from her face.

  A woman slightly older than The Terafin stared out at them, her eyes violet, her hair still dark, although time had frosted it slightly. Her chin was strong, her nose prominent; she was not lovely in the way the delicate are—but age and power lent a depth and beauty to her face that she could not have possessed in youth. “I am Evayne,” she said softly.

  “And I,” The Terafin said, rising to greet an equal, “am The Terafin.” She paused. “I do not recognize you.”

  “No? But we’ve met. A long, long time ago. I was a youth, Terafin, and you were a combatant.”

  The Terafin’s frown deepened. And then her expression changed. “The robes,” she said. “Seer. You are . . . much aged.”

  “Yes. I am.” She nodded quietly to Jewel ATerafin. “Jewel. You have not yet made the pilgrimage, but if I am not mistaken, and my memory does not fail me, you will.” Jewel stepped back, hit the wall, and stopped self-consciously, for she saw in this woman the girl who had come running into the foyer, all darkness in pursuit, the two foreigners close behind. “You are young; younger than I was when I was left upon that road. But enough.

  “My time is brief; if the Lord of the path is willing, I will meet you ere this battle’s fought.”

  “Put it away, Devon,” The Terafin said, although she barely caught the slight movement with the corner of her eye. “I believe that if the seer wished us dead, we would be.”

  “I am no threat to the Crowns you defend, Astari,” Evayne said remotely.

  The Terafin’s eyes widened, as did Devon’s.

  At last, Devon ATerafin spoke. “How did you know that I am Astari? It is not common knowledge.”

  “I’ve met you many times, ATerafin, and in many situations. This is one of the most peaceful, and it may be the last; it is not given to me to know my future.”

  “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

  “No. You have not.” She turned from him to Jewel, and reached into her robes. What she drew out shone in the room like a living crystal laced with shadow, cloud and lightning. “Jewel—or Jay, if you prefer—I know who you are. Look at me carefully, and look at what I hold. Then tell them what it is.”

  “But it’s a—it’s a seer’s ball,” Jewel said.

  “Very well. But what, exactly, is a seer’s ball? A crystal? A globe blown of glass for use by charlatans? Come, Jewel.”

  Jewel looked to The Terafin; The Terafin nodded quietly.

  Thus granted permission, she turned the focus of her attention upon the orb the mage held, but she did so uneasily. She did not fear danger, not precisely; did not fear for her life. But her chin shook as she leveled her gaze, and her eyes darted toward the wall and windows—not this unknown woman’s face—as if they could anchor her somehow.

  “Jewel.”

  She swallowed. Nodded.

  Seconds blended into minutes; time froze as the young thief’s dark eyes slowly widened, absorbing the light. Devon and The Terafin glanced between Jewel and the mage, waiting for some word, some sound, some reaction. And there were minute signs of it: the young woman’s shoulders, tense and curled downward, relaxed; the line of her brow lost the creases that had not yet been etched there by age. Her mouth opened slightly, in wonder, but not even a whisper escaped.

  At last, Devon cleared his throat.

  Jewel started, flicking a glance in his direction as if she’d forgotten that there was anyone else in the room. Even Evayne’s face, inches above the globe, seemed a bit of a shock to her, judging from the expression that crossed her face. She came back to herself slowly, remembering first who was with her, and then where she was, and last, the question that had set her staring into the roiling light.

  “It’s her heart,” she told them hesitantly, as if afraid of their mockery.

  “And you can read it?” Evayne asked.

  Swallowing, the young den leader said to her companions, “I—I’d trust her.” She looked up, and found that she didn’t have to; she and Evayne were of a height. “I already do. This—it was made by you.”

  “No, Jewel,” Evayne replied, her voice almost sad. “It was made of me. I walked the Oracle’s path; I passed the Oracle’s test. And she,” the seer added, with the flash of a grim smile, “passed mine.”

  “The Oracle,” The Terafin said, the two words distinct yet hushed, as if they were a secret. “You walked her path. They called this a soul-crystal, a soul-shard. I remember my grandfather’s stories,” she added, as the seer raised a dark brow. “Is it like all the stories? Does it lose its romance and power as you approach its reality?”

  Evayne’s smile turned sharply inward, although it remained upon her face, changed in tone and texture. “It loses none of its power,” she whispered, “and all of its romance.” Her attention turned to Jewel again. “I thank you, little sister. And I hope—although in truth, I fear there is little chance of it—that you will not bear a like burden in your day.” She lifted the stone one final time, and then shuttered its light with the folds of her cloak.

  Drawing herself to her full height, she spoke to The Terafin. “You have in your dwelling a foreign noble.”

  “Yes,” The Terafin replied. “We believe he is of import.”

&nb
sp; “He is. But he is the weapon, not the swordsman; know how to wield him, and when to let him fly. It matters little who else is chosen, but Lord Elseth must be sent to the Sanctum when the way is open.” She turned her attention to Devon. “And you have, at court, a young bard. Bring him as well.”

  “I see,” Devon said. “She is to send, and I am to bring? You do not know The Terafin.”

  Evayne shrugged. “It will not be easy, and it will not be simple, but the ways must be opened, and the path must be walked. Jewel, you and I will meet again ere this long battle is over. But time,” her lips quirked up in an odd smile, “is of the essence.” She stepped forward, toward them; the air swallowed her, leaving no sign of her presence.

  25th Corvil, 410 A.A.

  Senniel College

  “We can magnify the sound of your voice,” Sigurne said quietly.

  The bardmaster looked back out of eyes rimmed black with sleep’s lack. “If it were that easy,” she said softly, running a hand over those eyes, “wars would have been fought and won with the use of a single mage and a single bard.”

  Sigurne raised a pale brow. “I confess that I’ve studied little of the bardic voice. The bardic colleges are not—”

  “Open to the study of the Order,” Sioban finished for her. It was a complaint that she had dealt with, more or less directly, for the duration of her tenure. “Some magnification is helpful, but we cannot increase the effect of the voice without using our personal power. I don’t know why,” she added quickly, as she saw the question flash through Sigurne’s dark eyes. Talking to the Magi was an exercise in frustration; they were always wont to ask questions that, while of interest in the long, idle hours after a tavern’s jig, drew attention away from the immediate and the necessary.

  On the other hand, a break from the immediate danger—and its attendant responsibility—was something that Sioban desperately craved; it had been a hard week, and by all accounts of the Council of the Wise, it was only going to get worse.

  The demons in the undercity had returned to their work carefully; the voices below were not so distinct as they had been, and not nearly as strong—but the power in their despair and terror was growing daily. The bards could not contain it.

  The Priests of the Church—the god-born Priests—had joined their efforts to the bardic colleges’. Sioban privately believed that the answer to their dilemma lay with the Gods—for it was through the power of a God that the barrier had been created. But the Gods were disappointingly silent in their conferences with their half-blood children, and the power that the god-born could channel did not meet or scratch the surface of the power that . . . she shook her head, weary. Fear did that.

  The members of the first and second circles of the Order of Knowledge were also struggling daily with the question of the blackness below: what it was, how it functioned, how to contain the cries that emanated from it, how to control the panic that was beginning to sink deep roots in the heart of Averalaan.

  “Bardmaster?”

  Sioban found herself on her feet, staring into the waves that rolled against the break below Seahaven. Here, in the heart of her small dominion, she could not make out the screams unless she called upon her training and her power. She did not.

  “We can’t keep it up forever,” she said softly.

  Sigurne was quiet a moment.

  “I don’t know how you do it.”

  “I?” Sigurne rose to join the weary bard at her place by the window. “What choice have I?”

  What choice, indeed. “How long will it take?”

  “Until the voices can be heard by the entire city?” The mage shook her head. “I can’t say with certainty. But if it follows its current growth curve, four weeks.”

  Lady Mother, Sioban thought, pressing her forehead into her hands, help us all.

  11th Henden, 410 A.A.

  Avantari, Kings’ Palace

  “And I tell you, Verrus Sivari, that there’s no possible way that we can evacuate any more of the city. The Cordufar Estates are situated in an ideal locale—most of the neighboring families are noble-born and can afford to retreat to their alternate homes. But this area,” the red-faced magisterial guard said, stabbing the map with his finger, pausing to swear when he hit a marker pin, and then continuing, “is packed to the roof with people who won’t be pried out without an army. It’s their home—they’ve got nowhere else to go.”

  “The army is available,” the Verrus said coldly.

  The magisterial guard sputtered a moment; he hated dealing with the Kings’ Swords. He started to speak, and Verrus Sivari placed his own pointer—a brass stick of some sort—against the contour lines of the map. “We received the reports from the magisterial courts this morning,” he said, his voice growing quieter as the magisterial guard’s grew louder, “and in the last two weeks, in areas that have not been properly depopulated, the increase of violence—and violent death—has become unacceptable to the Crowns.”

  “It’s nothing compared to what you’re going to get if you try to force an evacuation.”

  “Major Capren,” Verrus Sivari said, grinding his teeth slightly, “there is no guaranteed evacuation; it is an emergency plan. Now, if you have nothing further to add, I believe I have business—”

  The door burst open; both men looked up.

  An ashen-faced Sentrus forced his arm across his chest in a sharp salute as he stood just this side of the heavy door. “Verrus, forgive the intrusion. You are needed at once.”

  The Verrus reached for his sword. “Report.”

  “It’s Queen Siodonay and the Princess.” The Sentrus swallowed. “They’ve been arguing with the Lord of the Compact.”

  Sivari paled. “Enough.” He turned to the magisterial guard, who looked somewhat queasy himself. “You will excuse me,” he said. It was an order.

  • • •

  When he passed beneath the arch that led from the Hall of Gods, he was immediately greeted by Primus Allarus.

  “Sivari—thank the Gods.” It was not an auspicious start.

  “Why in the name of Cormaris would Queen Siodonay be arguing with the Lord of the Compact?”

  “It’s not in Cormaris’ name that she’s arguing,” the Kings’ Sword replied. “But she’s got Mirialyn on her side.”

  “Queen Marieyan?”

  “Nothing. Not a word. She says that this is not a matter of common sense, or a matter of right and wrong.”

  “Enough, Allarus. Tell me.”

  “You won’t like it.”

  “I dislike it already. Tell me.”

  “Queen Siodonay intends—with Princess Mirialyn and the Kings’ Swords under her command—to ride the streets of Averalaan.” He paused as he watched the words take root in Verrus Sivari’s imagination. Then he added, “Until the crisis is over.”

  “Impossible,” the Verrus said flatly.

  “That,” Primus Allarus replied, “is what the Lord of the Compact told them.” He smiled briefly. “And this,” he said, as the Verrus made his way into the court rooms, “will be the first time I think I’ve ever seen you argue on the same side.”

  It was clear from the nonresponse that Sivari did not find it as amusing as the rest of the Kings’ Swords did.

  • • •

  Queen Siodonay stood beside her throne. Hanging at her side was the sword belt for which she was famous in the North, although she wore it rarely now. Ceremonial breastplates and greaves were being fitted to her by her attendants; she stood, arms out, like a cross, her dark eyes cold as any winter night.

  They brightened slightly as they caught sight of Sivari, and then narrowed. “Verrus. To what do we owe this honor?”

  “Sanity,” was his clipped reply. With the Crowns, a certain etiquette was required—except when one was dealing with Siodonay of the North. “You cannot mean to ride through the streets of the c
ity.” That she would not know the full extent of the crisis was not a possibility; in times of crisis, the Queens were involved as a matter of necessity.

  “I seldom don ceremonial garb for any other reason.”

  “Your Majesty—Siodonay—we cannot afford to lose one of the Crowns at a time like this. The streets are—”

  “Not yet in chaos.”

  The Verrus turned at the sound of the voice, recognizing it at once. “ACormaris,” he said, bowing stiffly, although privately he thought the title undeserved at this particular juncture.

  The Princess smiled, and the smile was almost rueful; she knew well what he was thinking—it was etched across the lines of his eyes, his mouth. “There is a wisdom to the human heart that follows no rigid logic, and no common sense. Yet there are rules to the heart’s sway, and I argue that it is folly to ignore those rules under the guise of ‘rationality.’”

  “Do you know what a blow it will be if the Queen is lost? She is the warrior of the city’s heart.”

  “Oh, yes,” Miri said softly, her eyes focused beyond his shoulder. “And it is precisely because of who she is that she must do what she must do. Excuse me, Verrus.”

  Sivari stepped aside as a swordbearer in robes the color of rust—or dried blood—stepped forward to the dais, kneeling reverently against the wide arc of the stairs. In his arms, cradled against ivory cushions, was a long, slender scabbard, one jeweled with three large stones, and lit with gold inlay. Nodding, Mirialyn lifted her arms to the side, and the swordbearer carefully girded her with the sword that was her birthright.

  He stared at her hips very carefully and then proceeded to make all the necessary adjustments. “You will not have the rest?” he asked her.

  “No. Just the shield and the sword.”

  Regretfully, the man bowed as low as, or lower than, he had the first time. “ACormaris.”

  Grinding his teeth, the Verrus waited respectfully until the man was out of sight. “What exactly is it that you think this will do?”

  “A moment, Verrus. Jordan—the horses?”