The Sacred Hunt Duology (28 page)

A foot from the boy's back, he raised his hand; it was hard, flat—as much a weapon as a sword might have been.

“HOLD!”

The arm stopped in midair, but not by the will of the Kovaschaii. Pain shot up through elbow and shoulder at the speed of his response. Anger, mixed with a foreign emotion, danced in lines across his pale face. He tried to force the hand down, to follow through on the imperative of his given mission, and failed. The fair-haired youth was already turning. His victim's motions were so painfully slow—a gift of the Kovaschaii magics—they stoked the fires of the assassin's anger. His plan had been perfect. There had been no interference, no followers, no witnesses. It was ash now, burned as if touched by the anger that had momentarily shorted control. He watched as the boy threw himself—again, slowly, slowly—off the trail and out of reach of the fatal strike.

Defeat, then.

The Kovaschaii spun on his feet in the direction of the single inimical word, casually relocating the joint in his arm. Only the voice of one bard-born and bard-trained had such raw and immediate power. He felt it still, although he could now deny its strength. He struggled to cast anger aside, and this time succeeded. Implacable, his face once again the cool, seamless mask, he met the eyes of Kallandras the bard.

• • •

The fair-haired man in Hunter's garb was inches away. His arm trembled awkwardly, like a branch in a stiff wind, but Stephen barely noticed this; his gaze was caught by a face of sharp, pale lines. It was calm, almost still, but its eyes were a
gleam of light over steel—inhuman and dangerous. With a cry, Stephen threw himself to the side, forgetting the stag, the Hunter, and the pack. He rolled through the mud and came to his feet a little way off the track, his hands the color of dead bark and dirt. He looked wildly over his shoulder, as he had done many, many times as a thief in the lower city. Fear brought back memory, and made of it a sharp, clear weapon. There was no pursuit. He tensed further, brought himself around, and saw why.

Kallandras the bard stood astride the trail, hands on his hips, head tilted in the chill breeze. His hair, shoulder-length curls of gold-flecked brown, rustled and blew round his cheeks. Stephen thought it singularly stupid; long hair, especially in a fight of any note, was an idiotic risk.

But if there was any fear of risk in Kallandras, it was buried well beneath a jaunty, arrogant smile.

“Well met, Estravim.” His voice, rich, deep, and warm, performed an invisible bow.

“It
is
you, Kallatin,” the young man answered quietly. The tone of voice made a curse of the words in its intensity.

“Oh, yes,” Kallandras answered, still in the same friendly tone. Stephen's eyes could only see the blur of white sleeves—billowing, more fool the bard—and Kallandras was suddenly armed. His weapon was a sword, of sorts—it was long and seemed far too thin to be dangerous. “I have your name.” He whispered, but the bardic voice carried the words easily.

The smooth lines of the pale man's face rippled uncertainly. Stephen thought he saw fear until he heard the young man's words. “You
cannot
take a name now, traitor.” He moved, and he, too, carried a sword that was, in shape if not in guard, the twin of Kallandras'.

“I have your name.” The answer was implacable. The bard moved suddenly, covering yards of trail in long strides that barely left time for feet to touch ground.

And this, too, Stephen understood. The other man was moving easily as quickly—toward Stephen. The blade that he carried suddenly seemed a significant weapon. Stephen reversed himself, using the tree for interference as he ran. His cloak caught a branch, and he heard an awful tearing at his ankles. If he had the chance to explain it later, he'd consider himself lucky.

• • •

The Kovaschaii was furious. He followed the huntbrother, quickly catching up with him. As the boy dodged behind a tree, he corrected his path. It took no time and no thought; pursuit was the earliest teaching.

He knew that if he reached the boy now and managed to kill him, he would still fail in his taking. It was bitter knowledge; he would dance the death spiral yet, and it would be his own. But he also knew that Kallatin—the blackest name in the history of the Kovaschaii—was here to protect his victim. If he were to fail
in his taken name, Kallatin, also, would fail. That much he would see to. Kallatin the traitor had barely completed the first—and the lowest—tier of training before he had disgraced the brotherhood by refusing a kill—and by vanishing into complex shadows and magic that even the Masters could not follow.

Estravim the Kovaschaii was of the third tier, and proud of it; he was young to be so skilled. But pride was not foolishness. He knew that the voice of the bard-born, from the throat of one Kovaschaii trained, would soon be his death.

He called on the last of his reserves, called up a power that he was never meant to touch, and used it. The boy's progress slowed to near-halting; even strands of flailing hair ceased their struggle with the breeze. A second passed, maybe two, and the sword was raised above the back of the huntbrother's neck, just as the arm had been earlier.

It came down in stillness and silence.

The clang of metal against metal was unmistakable as it reverberated to fill his ears. Time started to turn again; the boy's back began to retreat. Estravim stared into the eyes of Kallatin the traitor. He spat.

• • •

Spittle, completely ignored, ran down the cheek of Kallandras the bard as he pulled back his blade and twisted it in the air.

Signal: now. Gesture, respect from one of lower tier to higher.

Estravim stepped into position with grace and deadly ease. He should not have granted the bard that respect, and he knew it—but it was automatic.

Kallandras held his blade in his right hand. His fingers shifted beneath the guard, his grip changed, and in a flick of motion, the tip of the sword cut his forehead, leaving a scant trail of blood in its wake. With his free hand, he gestured, a snap of motion from wrist to elbow that drove the cuff of his shirtsleeve momentarily up his forearm, revealing a slender bracer. Gold melded with silver glinted in the dull light; each termination of the ten-point star—the symbol of the Kovaschaii—glittered. The sword fell slowly, point to ground, and wavered in the wind—but Estravim knew that Kallandras drew the foci of the ten-point star in the air like a sigil. Challenge. And it was a challenge that Estravim could not avoid.

No Kovaschaii of the first tier would have been able to draw this sigil. A grimace tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he spoke, although this, too, was foolish. “How?”

“Second tier,” Kallandras whispered, his eyes remote.

“No master would train you. . . .” Words failed him, and his anger, stiff to the point of breaking, shattered. He saw the star traced, could not help but see the beads of blood that struggled waywardly down a nose that had been broken at least once. With a motion twin to the bard's, he snapped his wrist. He also wore the golden manacle of the Kovaschaii—but he had the right to bear it. He wanted
to decry the bard's use of the symbol, but again the words would not come. For he looked at the eyes of his enemy; they were very blue, very pale. Beneath their slate surface was a hint of sorrow, a touch of shame. Estravim grimly traced the ten-point star, taking it from memory and engraving it in the air. His response. “How could you choose treachery? We were brothers.”

At the use of the familiar term, Kallandras winced. “I am wyrd-ridden. I was shown what the death of the woman would bring us to: the end of the Kovaschaii—and the end of the world.”

“You were shown lies.”

“I was shown truth. For nothing less would I have left you.” His blade came up and he lunged.

“Even so—what of it? We are guaranteed to the Lady.” Estravim dodged and blocked, the movement turning to a thrust at the halfway mark. He felt steel against his skin before it entered; it was a cool, clean pain. He smiled anyway. He could see the spread of crimson across the bard's cheek. They had each called blood; each touched in the step of this intricate, ancient dance.

Kallandras nodded grimly and began in earnest. Beads of sweat had time to line his brow and cheeks as he fought. Estravim was good—had always been good—and he attacked like one possessed. Because, of course, he was.

Here, in the open spaces of sparse woods and flat ground, Estravim gave in to his training; his sword grew wings, and the wind ran down the runnels along the crescent in a sibilant song that the Kovaschaii were trained to listen for. There was art in his movements, and in his attack; he chose the grace of line and action that was only displayed among equals. It didn't change the ferocity of his weapon-play, but rather, made an art of it.

Kallandras, in defense, could not come up with half of the beauty and artistry that Estravim displayed in attack.

But that grace couldn't last; the man who had once been called Kallatin knew it. Estravim had exhausted reserves of power that no Kovaschaii not resigned to death could call. That he could attack so perfectly spoke of his skill and his determination.

Estravim knew it, too—and his attack was a dance, almost a farewell. One second, he was dodging in midair, his feet clearing the ground by a good twenty inches, and the next, he was looking down the blade of the sword that ended—or started—in his chest.

“So soon?” His eyes shuttered and dimmed immediately; his face twisted in a pain that had nothing to do with the physical.

“I will remember. You had no equal here.”

A smile broke through the pain before his eyes rolled up. Kallandras stared down at him as he started to fall.

The clash and clang of swordplay stopped abruptly; the silence that followed
was chilling. Stephen watched, his face at knee level, his body obscured by the trunk of the largest tree he had found.

The assassin had just stopped in mid-step, as if asking for a deathblow. Kallandras' sword appeared out of nowhere to grant the man his request. The pale man sank to the ground, his knees bending and giving under his weight. Kallandras watched for a moment and then suddenly cursed. He yanked the sword free—sending a spray of red droplets across the ground—and threw the sword, hard.

It landed inches away from Stephen's hand.

He barely noticed. Rising slowly, he began to retrace his steps, twice tripping over small inclines. His eyes were upon the bard.

Kallandras, in an odd mimicry of the assassin's slow crumple, knelt to the ground and stretched out his arms to catch the body. Where the wound was open, blood splashed his breast. He ignored it as he gathered the body close, and cradled it against his chest. He heard Stephen coming and looked back. Only the trail of drying crimson across his forehead colored his face at all; even his eyes were flat and colorless.

“Go,” he whispered. “This is not for you.”

Stephen heard the anger in his voice and stopped moving. “I—thank you for—”

“Don't say it.” Kallandras rose, still holding the body. “This is not for you, young huntbrother. Go.”

Stephen swallowed.

“It's been minutes,” Kallandras said, as he lay the body down. “You won't have lost them if you run.” He stiffened as Stephen hesitated.
“Go.”

This time, confused or no, Stephen had no choice; the meaning of the word was made manifest in a way that no other spoken word had ever been. His legs were moving, his feet following the trail broken by dogs and Gilliam both—without his guidance.

And he was weeping. Tears coursed down his cheeks, warming them before wind turned them to ice.

It was how he knew that Kallandras' smooth, pale face really was a mask over private pain; the bard hadn't been able to keep the grief out of his command.

• • •

He was ashamed. To use the voice on the boy was inexcusable; a poor display of self-control if ever there was one. But he had no time; the Kovaschaii spirit awaited its death dance, and there were none here but he to give it.

None here yet, he reminded himself. The Kovaschaii knew when one of their number had fallen. They would come as soon as possible unless the dance was done. Cradling the head gently, he stroked the hair out of the slack face. He sat thus a moment, contemplating. Then he shook himself. He had no right to dance the death, but he wanted to anyway.

The arms and legs he arranged properly, until they formed four points of a star, to the fifth point Estravim's still face made. Then he rose lithely, for all that he was out of practice, and hesitantly began to trace the five secret points—the five that completed the ten. His movements grew more sure as he progressed, his feet leaving shadows across Estravim's body without ever disturbing his rest. He opened his lips and began to sing.

Singing was common, and part of the death dance—and if Kallandras, who had been Kallatin, had never been particularly graceful at the challenge or the attack, none had sung a better death than he. Wordless sorrow, endless loss, a blackness the night fled from—all these rose in him, contained by the thrum of throat and the shape of lip.

Faster and faster he flew, his arms like wings, his face the Kovaschaii mask. But the mask was cracked, imperfect; tears fled it, leaving the face unchanged in their passage.

Come, Lady, come.
He danced.

Set my brother free; grant him passage.

He danced, and the world shifted; the forest fell away into mist and gray softness that humans had no words for. He sang, and the mist took shape on the periphery of the ten-point star.

“Who calls?” a toneless voice whispered. “Who wishes to meet me in the half-world?”

He spun to a standstill, one foot on either side of Estravim's face. “I do.”

“And you?”

He squinted but the mists fogged his eyes, becoming both solid and less substantial. “I am Kallatin. Lady, you hold my name.”