The Sacred Hunt Duology (21 page)

“Doesn't matter,” was the terse, but happy reply. “We did it. We're in.” He crossed the threshold and waited patiently for Stephen to follow. “And do you know what it means?”

From the seriousness of the expression, anyone other than Stephen might have thought Gilliam had somehow managed to be affected by the ceremony. Bound by more than blood, Stephen couldn't make that mistake, although he might have been happier had he been able to.

“You get to choose your dogs.”

“I get to choose my dogs!”

His father came out of the doors and into the nearly empty hall just in time to catch the echo of the words rebounding off beamed ceiling and walls. He arranged the hood to frame his head. “Gilliam!”

Gilliam turned and stopped. “Father?”

Soredon laughed. “Yes, there is the matter of your first pack. We'll have to discuss it now, you and I—after this Hunt, you won't be able to use my dogs anymore.”

They started to walk, and Stephen hung back by the doors, waiting for Norn to come out. It was only a few minutes, but long enough to lose sight of the Elseth Hunters as they turned the bend in the hall.

“Stephen, you did well.” Norn's hood was a fold of cloth against his shoulder blades. “Where's Soredon?”

“With Gilliam. Ahead. Talking about Gil's hunting pack.”

“A bit premature, isn't it?”

Stephen nodded.

“But you didn't say anything?”

“No. He already knows. He doesn't see his death in any of this.” His frustration was evident in more than the tone of his voice; his forehead was wrinkled, his brows gathered at the bridge of his nose.

Norn said, “I told you, they never do. Come on, let's get a drink. I'll take you to the Hunter's garden.”

• • •

“The Hunter's presence was strong today,” the King said softly, as the last of his Hunter Lords filed out of the hall. The banners that had formed a ceremonial rite of passage had been curled neatly against their poles. Servants would clear them away soon at the direction of Priests, and they would be held in keeping until next year's passage.

“Yes,” was the quiet answer.

“And I gather from your tone, you've a feeling why.” The King rose carefully and walked away from the throne, sparing a backward glance for the antlers that rose like white shadow above him. “I'm too old for this, Iverssen. Tell me what it was.” He knelt, a solitary man on the dais used when he served as Master of the Game.

What a deadly game.

Iverssen's square jaw tightened as he pulled his brown hood away from his face. A single, white scar that sun and time would never remove ran from his upper right eyelid to the point of his chin. Only a miracle had preserved his sight.

“What it was?” came the testy answer. “Hunter's touch, I'd say.” He walked over to where the King knelt and stood before him. The King bent his head a moment, both to hide his irritation and to murmur the Hunter's prayer—the one said only by the King.

Iverssen joined him with a counter-cadence. Their words mingled, at cross-purposes to begin, but in harmony at the end.

“They grow younger every year,” the King said, as he slowly removed the gold-trimmed green greatcoat that the passage ceremony demanded. It was followed by the rest of his finery, of which there was little enough: cuff links; two rings; his crown.

“Yes.” Iverssen took the coat and folded it, showing as much reverence as he ever did. He snorted as the rings hit his palm, and squinted as light circled the crown. “And not much smarter.”

“Iverssen.”

“Majesty.”

The King rose, clad now in a fine tunic that simply bore his colors in a crest above deep brown; his leggings were even plainer, and of the same color. “I have almost never felt His touch so strongly.”

Iverssen nodded gruffly. With a little twist, he made a bundle out of greatcoat and valuables that would set the seamstress screaming. “Almost never?” The question was grudgingly given.

“Maybe never,” the King answered, his thoughts turning inward. “You are no younger than I; you know that memory is never a trustworthy truth keeper.”

“I don't think I want to hear this,” Iverssen said, but he stopped walking so his robes wouldn't rustle.

“It was when I was a boy,” the King said quietly.

Iverssen's face became a set study of rigid lines. “Majesty, you—”

“I was four.” The King's voice grew distant as he faced a memory that was never very far away. “It was the day I watched my father and my grandmother kill my grandfather for the sake of all Breodanir. I saw what my father was that day, and I never doubted that he would succeed. He looked older, more powerful, and more harsh than I ever saw him before or after. He came to the throne room. I followed him. And he stood,” the King turned, “there. In front of the antlers. He was the very Hunter.”

Iverssen knew the “he” the King spoke of. “Your father was of the blood, and it ran true. Your grandfather was a foolish and weak man.”

“Was he?” The King's voice was soft. “He was a man of great heart.”

“What great heart destroys the very people he is meant to rule and protect?” Iverssen's words were cutting; they spoke seldom of this, for this very reason. “Your father was Breodani.”

“My father,” the King replied, with only a trace of bitterness, “was still judged by the Mother for the crime of patricide. He ruled a scant ten years.”

“Majesty,” Iverssen said, conveying perhaps less respect than the word demanded, “we are all judged for the crimes we commit, and I believe the judgment was not the Mother's, but rather, Aered's.”

“Yes.” The King shook his head. “As heir to the Breodani, my father had little choice. I know it. I've been told no less for the entirety of my life—and I believe it's truth. But . . . I remember my grandfather, although not well. He was a gentle man.

“It broke my grandmother and my father. Killing my grandfather was the worst thing that either of them ever did—and they did it for the Breodani.

“My grandfather hated sending the young to their deaths. He listened to the foreigners, and I believe—if no one else does—that he wanted to end the Hunt to save his people. Not more, and not less. If it would not weaken our people, I would make that truth known.”

Iverssen's pursed lips and lined brow made his thoughts on that revelation quite clear.

“As I get older, Iverssen, I understand my grandfather's folly too well.” The King shook his head, his voice very soft as he spoke what was almost heresy. Iverssen was disquieted, but he had seen the King in many moods. During the ceremonies of the Sacred Hunt—or those leading up to them—that mood was often the most bleak, the darkest. It was not easy to sentence your followers to death. Still, he was King, and the mood must be put aside. They would leave these chambers soon, and melancholy was not a public sentiment. “But the Hunter's power was strong today.”

“Yes,” Iverssen nodded.

“The Elseth brothers.”

“Yes.”

“You're being very agreeable,” the King said wryly. “It's unlike you, and I'm not sure that I favor the change.”

Iverssen snorted. “Agreeable, is that it?” But he started to walk again, absently swinging his precious bundle. “It was those two, yes. I don't know why. But did you see the huntbrother? I didn't think he'd make it to the throne.”

“I saw him. And I saw what he did as he left.”

“Aye, and I as well. The Death stopped him cold.” Iverssen shook his head quietly. “Think he has a touch of the seer-born?”

“Not unheard of,” was the equally quiet answer. “But I'm not sure that this is the case here. The Hunter God has some plan that requires one, or both, of them.”

“You're certain?”

“As much as I can be. But time will tell, as always. Come; we have barely enough time to change and present ourselves for the festivities. Some young bard has journeyed all the way from Senniel College in Averalaan in order to woo the ladies of the court. I heard his song last eve, and it was . . . pleasant.”

“From Averalaan?” Iverssen's frown made clear what he thought of that.

“He's not a dignitary, Iverssen—he's a bard, and a bard-born one at that. You know that the bards form no allegiances or alliances political. They travel with news and music, no more.”

It was obvious that the Priest felt the presence of an outsider improper just days before the most important ritual of the Breodani. He started to say as much, when the King held out a hand.

“He makes the Queen laugh, Iverssen. And almost nothing does before the Hunt. I've accepted the young man in the court for that reason. Do you question it?”

“No, Majesty,” Iverssen replied, bowing low. To that tone of voice, and that expression, there was no other answer.

“Good,” the King said. He turned and continued to walk until he reached the closed door. Iverssen opened it for him, just as the lowest of servants might, and the King passed him by, stopping at the last moment to meet the eyes of his closest friend. The matter of the bard was forgotten, as was his momentary irritation. Only things Breodani remained. “I ask you to pray to the Hunter, Iverssen. I know what happened the last time I felt His presence so clearly. Let there not be so terrible a price associated with it, this time.”

• • •

“No,” Norn said, as he adjusted Stephen's jacket. “The King has no huntbrother. The closest he has is Priest Iverssen. Sometimes Priest Greymarten.”

Stephen looked at himself in the long oval mirror; his face was pale, his hair
brushed back and drawn up around it. “Why not? He's a Hunter, isn't he?” It was a question that he had often wondered about, but had never pressed until now.

“Not just ‘a' Hunter, no. You might have seen the difference today?” Stephen didn't answer the question; Norn shrugged. “The King is
the Hunter
personified, when the Sacred Hunt is called. In the beginning of time, it was the King of our people to whom the Hunter God appeared. And it was with the King that the covenant between the Breodani and their God was forged. The King is the living vessel of the God at the time of the Hunt proper, and that vessel need not be reminded of . . . commonality. Not in the way the nobility must. Because
the Hunter
is
not
common in any way.

“Hold still; I'm beginning to think you've caught Gilliam's jitters.”

Stephen waited patiently until Norn drew out of the mirror's vision. “But the King hunts, doesn't he?”

“Yes—” Norn shook his head. “I forgot. You've never hunted with the King. Yes, he hunts. He has his pack, just as Soredon does, as Gilliam will. But he never hunts without the Priests. They tend to him, as you tend to Gilliam. There are also the Huntsmen of the Chamber; when they hunt, they hunt in the King's party. They offer him counsel and they offer him protection.

“Should you become such a one, you will learn an entirely new set of horn calls and obediences and services. The worst of which will be forcing Gilliam to conform to royal protocol.

“With all of that, a King doesn't need a huntbrother. A King has to be closer to God than he does to the commoners, I'd imagine.” Norn shrugged. “Doesn't make a lot of sense to me. If the Betrayer had had a huntbrother, we'd never have had the famines and plagues.”

“Why not? The Betrayer didn't listen to the Priests either. Why would he listen to a huntbrother?”

“How easy a time does Gil have when he's set on ignoring you?”

Stephen smiled.

“Well, and maybe there you have it. A huntbrother's bond is strong—maybe stronger than the sworn oath the King gives when he takes the crown. You and Gilliam will have Elseth as a responsibility, but you'll have the luxury of watching over each other as well. The King can't afford that partiality; he is sworn to all of Breodanir for his term.”

“Do the Kings die in the Sacred Hunt?”

“Stephen, you think too much of death,” Norn said quietly. He looked at Stephen's still face in the mirror, and then relented. “A King died once. Harald the Second, if I recall correctly,” Norn answered as he walked to the window to see where the sun sat. “It was . . . it was not a good time for the kingdom; his son was too young. The Hunt wasn't called the year after the King's death.”

Stephen knew what that meant.

“And you'd know it, too, if you'd more time for our history. That'll come, now that Gil is a Hunter proper and both of you have less to prove. The King's vows are more complicated and subtle than ours were. One day, Stephen, you'll be witness to them, for they must be taken at a gathering of the Sacred Hunt, and the Hunter Lords.”

“You've seen them?”

“Aye, but I was young and impressionable. Now come; these festivities are paid for by the crown—do you think to make me miss them?”

• • •

“It's a fine new generation of young Hunters, isn't it?” Lady Alswaine looked out at the crowd with a predatory sparkle in her eyes. She had two daughters of marriageable age, and had every intention of pressing their interests with a suitable family. She had been quite the beauty in her time, and even now, with the spark of youthful verve faded, she was still one to catch and command the attention. She lowered the powder-pink fan and turned her gaze upon her companion.

“Indeed,” he replied softly. From long habit, his fingers strayed to his beard as he smiled across at her. Few women were his equal in height; she was one.

“What is this, Krysanthos? Have the mage-born become dullards with words in some vain attempt to equal the Hunter Lords?” Her smile was warm and only a trifle edged as it glanced off the back of her husband. There, from the gallery, she could see him surrounded by his hunting companions. They were involved in an animated discussion which no one not born to the Hunt could possibly have any interest in.