The Sacred Hunt Duology (56 page)

The four guards in the next large room didn't speak at all; Jewel thought, for just a second, that they might be a trap.
As if
, she told herself, as her pulse returned to normal,
things could get that much worse.
She pulled at her sleeves as she crossed her arms, pressing the papers into her skin.

The papers.

“Don't stand on ceremony,” someone said, and Jewel looked up at the sound of a woman's quiet voice. The woman was not speaking to her, but rather to the guard who held Arann's very still body. “I do not require you to kneel, Torvan.”

She was, this woman, of medium height. Her skin was pale, almost milky white, and her hair was dark. It was probably long; hard to tell given that it was bound back in a net that cost more than Jewel's entire den was worth in a good year. She wore a simple dress, but Jewel thought it was silk; it was a pale blue that fell from shoulder to ankle without the interruption of a belt.

And, of course, the stones at her ear and finger were real. Had to be. Jewel found herself bowing awkwardly; she hoped that the rest of her den were doing the same. Bowing, that is; if they could get by without the awkward part, so much the better.

The room was fine but sort of empty; there was a single picture on the wall, and there was a fireplace—empty—beneath it; there were shelves of books—books!—to her right, and to her left, two grand windows with real glass. There were three desks in the room, and on each a large lamp was burning bright. It was clear that The Terafin had ordered her other attendants out.

“I believe,” The Terafin said, her voice almost musical, “that you have a message for me?” She smiled, and the smile was warm, but the eyes behind it were hard.

Jewel nodded. She didn't trust herself to speak.

“Then I would have you deliver it.”

The message was important to The Terafin. Rath had known it would be. Most times, she would have wondered why. But right now, the fact that it was important was enough. Jewel nodded again, pulled the papers that she held very carefully from their awkward hiding place, and then moved slowly forward. No one was prepared for her sudden lunge; she jumped to the left, grabbed the closest lamp, and held its casing against her chest as if it were a weapon or a shield.

“Jewel,” Torvan said, his voice hard. “You don't have to do this.”

Jewel shook her head; strands of hair flew out of her dust-covered cap. She felt dirty and grimy and poor and stupid and very, very desperate. “This is it,” she said, waving the rolled vellum above the brightly burning flame. “This is the last message from Ararath.”

The Terafin raised a delicate brow. “What are you doing, child?” She took a step forward.

“Stay right where you are.” Jewel let the edge of one of Old Rath's precious scrolls skim the flames.

“Who are you?” The Terafin asked, acceding to Jewel's demand.

“I'm—I'm Jewel Markess. I'm the den leader here.”

“And you've come to my House in order to extort something from me?” Her lips thinned. “I don't know how you found out about Ararath, but—”

“He taught me.” She waved the papers over the fire. “He taught me about all of
this.
I—” She shook her head. “I don't want to do this. But you've got something I need.”

“And that is?”

“Money.”

If possible, the woman's lips thinned further. “You do realize that there are a roomful of guards in the antechamber?”

She nodded.

“Vellum burns poorly. I dare say that they'll have you in hand before even one of the scrolls that you carry is lost.”

“Just try it,” Jewel replied, but her voice was thin, and her words held no strength. What The Terafin said was true.

“Shall I call the guards?” The Terafin took a step forward, and this time, Jewel did nothing.

“We used all our money to come here,” she murmured, so quietly it was hard to hear her. “And even if we hadn't, we'd never have enough for a healer.” Then she turned to look at Arann's body, and she lost her voice.

For the first time, The Terafin looked at Arann. “I see,” she said. “And this money—you want it for him?”

Jewel nodded. “He's my den-kin,” she said.

“And what would you do for it, if I had it to give you?”

“Anything,” Jewel replied, straightening up and lifting her chin. “I'll steal for you, if that's what you need done. I'll spy for you. I'll kill for you. I'll even—”

The Terafin lifted a ringless hand. “Enough.” She walked to the fireplace and pressed her hand against a square of the stone wall just above it. The square shimmered very strangely in Jewel's sight, but even as she squinted to see it more clearly, it became ordinary stone beneath an elegant palm.

But The Terafin looked at Jewel very carefully before walking back to her desk. This time, she sat behind it, signaling a more formal interview. “Tell me about Ararath.”

Jewel swallowed. “I—we didn't call him that. We called him Old Rath. He lives in the thirty-fifth. He's a . . .” She I met the older woman's eyes directly and held them for the first time. And as she did, instead of feeling lesser and more insignificant, she felt calmer; there was something in their depths, some coolness that spoke of shade and not shadow; shelter and not prison. “He was a thief there. The best. He was good with a sword—that's why he lived to be old. He knew how to read and write and speak like a gentleman.

“He didn't much care for the patriciate. He didn't much care for commoners either, when it comes down to it. But he was a good friend.”

“Was?”

“We . . . think he's dead.” She looked down at the curled papers with their extensive writings, their fear. She couldn't destroy them; not even for Arann. Her hands stopped their shaking, and she quietly set the lamp on the floor.

“I . . . see.” The Terafin folded her hands and looked down at her fingers.

There was a knock at the door. Torvan very gently set Arann down on the floor. Teller waited until the guard stepped away from the body, and then knelt on the carpet beside his friend. He listened for a moment to Arann's breathing, and then quickly dropped his head to Arann's chest. “Jay,” he said, swallowing, “I don't think he's . . .”

She pushed him out of the way with more force than she'd intended, and knelt on the carpet as well. “Arann!” Her ear scraped the fabric of his shirt as her cheek came to rest on a patch of crusted blood. She listened and heard what Teller had heard: silence, stillness.

“Arann, come on. We're safe now.” She lifted his face in her hands and shook him, but not hard. He was cool and slack. “Please, Arann, please.”

“Jay?”

She shook her head fiercely, refusing to turn around.

“Jewel, come. There's nothing you can do now.” She felt hands on her shoulders
and she stiffened; they were gloved and mailed. Torvan. She shrugged them off and crouched closer to Arann's chest. When had he gone? When had he slipped away? Was it while she was trying to bluff her way past the guards? Was it while Torvan—a stranger, an outsider—carried him? When?

“Jewel.” The hands on her shoulders were heavier, the grip firmer. “Come.”

She shook her head. Couldn't turn around. There were tears on her face and in her eyes, and she couldn't hold them back. She could stop herself from making any noise. She could control her breathing. But the tears, damn them anyway, were going to fall for just a few minutes. She couldn't afford to have them seen.

“Torvan, it's not necessary,” someone said, and a figure distorted by the thin film of water that covered her eyes knelt beside her. It was a man, older than either Torvan or The Terafin—older even than Rath. His hands were callused and wrinkled, and his shirt—she would remember the cuffs of the sleeves for the rest of her life—was plain and simple white, except for the golden embroidery on the cuffs and collar. That embroidery was a sun symbol, a light symbol, in a pattern that repeated itself, dancing across a white field as if it were alive. He touched her right hand gently with his left hand, and with his right, he touched Arann's still chest.

She looked up, knowing that he would see her tears. But she was mistaken. His eyes were closed, although the fine skin, laced with blue and green veins, seemed to twitch at odd intervals.

This is magic
, she thought, and knew it for truth.

“I'm Alowan,” the man said, whispering.

“I'm Jay,” she replied, before she realized that he wasn't speaking to her. She looked down at the hand that held hers, and very slowly covered it with her left hand.

“Come, Arann. Come home. I am Alowan. Follow me. No, do not be frightened. It is safe. Come.”

There was no sound in the room save for his words; Jewel was no longer breathing. She listened for the sound of Arann's voice, but only Alowan heard it, if he heard it at all. He spoke again, calling, and again silence answered his words. But the silence had rhythm, private spaces for breath and pause; he broke it only to speak, and then, only to call Arann.

She wanted to join her voice to his, but she could not; instead, she mouthed the name. Arann.

And then the strangest thing happened. Arann's chest started to move, slowly but surely lifting their joined hands. She tightened her grip on Alowan, but Alowan didn't seem to notice. The old man smiled tiredly.

“Welcome back, boy,” he said. Then he turned to the girl at his side. “Jay, you must release my hand now. It isn't safe for the healer and the healed to be too long joined.”

She did as he asked, hardly hearing him. Arann's lids began to flutter, although his eyes didn't open. His lips twisted; he reached out weakly and grasped at air. Then he began to moan, and at last, his eyes opened. He was crying.

“Arann?”

“Jay?”

He reached out for
her
as if she were his mother. She froze for an instant, stiff as his arms encircled her neck and shoulders, and then she hugged him back, crying as well.

Teller came first, and quietly; Finch came last, and hesitantly. In between, Carver and Angel joined her at Arann's side. Jester rolled his eyes in mock contempt, grinning broadly and tapping his left foot as if to a tune.

“Torvan,” The Terafin said, as she watched them, “escort Alowan and the boy—Arann?—to the healerie. If they're concerned,” she nodded in the direction of the den, “take one of them with you. Anyone,” she added, “save the leader.”

“Lord.” He stepped forward.

“Now,” The Terafin said, her voice suddenly loud and distinct. “You will deliver your message without further delay.”

“Carver,” Jewel said, nodding in the direction of the door without taking her eyes off The Terafin.

“Me? But—”

“Go.”

“Yessir,” he replied, obviously disgruntled. But he went, just as Torvan went.

Jewel Markess, feeling every year she owned as if it were insignificant and fragile, took a firm step forward and placed the sheets of paper she'd carried from Old Rath's flat into the hands of The Terafin.

The Terafin lifted them carefully in white, perfect hands, and rose, motioning for Torvan's attention. “Tell the secretary to continue without me for the moment; I can be found in my chambers if matters of import arise.” She did not wait to see his open hand before she turned to Jewel. “Please wait for me in the antechamber.”

Winter road

Scarran

T
HE SHADOWS LEFT HER
slowly, lingering longest in the corners of her eyes, darker than coal where white should have reigned. They trickled out of her mouth, although her lips were pressed firmly together; they tinged her fingers and nails with a hint of darkness.

Watching her, Stephen thought she held them in somehow; held them back. He didn't know because he couldn't stand to look at her for long; the very wrongness of her magics—if that's what the shadows were—made him more queasy than any hunt he'd ever run, including the first.

Espere lost the gold in her eyes much, much faster. And that, in its own way, was just as disturbing. She still didn't speak very much, as if speaking—when she had the ability—was simply not her way. But it was clear that intellect was giving way to instinct as they shuffled along the cold, icy path. She stared at him once, with an odd, pained longing. He waited for the words that usually followed such an expression, but they never came.

Gilliam did instead, wrapping a protective arm around her shoulder even as he watched her uncertainly.

It was dark, but nothing was hidden by that darkness; Stephen felt more vulnerable, and more revealed, under the sharp sky, than he'd felt since he'd run the streets of the King's City as a hungry, desperate boy. He glanced at the empty road at their back, and then cast his glance forward to where Evayne's robes seemed to twist and turn as if they were alive and on fire.

He wanted to ask her what a Dark Adept was, but he couldn't bring himself to break her silence. Asking Zareth Kahn was an option, but the mage, once distrusted and now familiar, would not take his eyes off Evayne. He wore a patina of orange light like a hooded cloak. And orange, as Evayne had explained to him, was the color of protection.

Zareth Kahn didn't trust her. Neither did Gilliam. Even the girl bristled when she came too close. That left Stephen.

“Where are we going?” he heard someone say, in a strained and low voice. It was his own.

“You hunt, do you not?” she responded, and her expression, as she turned her gaze upon him, made them all shrink back a step. At their offered silence, she grimaced and turned again. “Listen for the horns, little huntbrother. Listen, and heed them.”

She raised an arm, and gestured at the trees that surrounded the road they walked upon. “This is the forest in Winter. It is all that remains of the old rites. The forest in Summer is much safer, but no less mysterious.” She stopped speaking suddenly, and doubled over. “No, don't touch me! I will be fine.

“If we are lucky, we will not see the Hunter and his Queen. Not in the Winter.” But her voice was grim, if weak.

“There is no Luck on the Winter road,” Zareth Kahn replied.

“Indeed.” She raised her head, testing wind as if she were touched by the wildness of Espere, before she spoke again. “You know much about Winter rites for a scholar of little renown.”

He grimaced at the mild insult, but did not take it to heart—she was living history, and as such, entitled to her scorn. “I have studied much, but I have no practical experience.” He paused. “Were the circumstances different, I would welcome this.”

“Then you are as much a fool as any cozened scholar-mage. Listen. Can you hear them?” She moved a little closer as she slowly turned to watch their faces.

Stephen closed his eyes and concentrated. As he did, he caught the quiet echo of a musical note. It clung to the air like a scent that is only bearable when faint and subtle. “Yes,” he said. “Are they horns?” For they sounded distinctly unlike any horn he had ever heard.

Evayne paled, if that were possible. She reached for her crystal and then pulled her hand away quickly.

“Yes,” she replied. “But they are horns made of flesh and bone, the undying and the unliving, and the note that they carry is the cry of the forever displaced.”

Stephen bowed his head, and murmured a quiet prayer to the Hunter God.

Evayne's derision was harsh, but brief. “Did you understand nothing? We are forsworn while we walk the road in Winter. Not even the Dark God could hear your prayers should you choose to make them to him, Sor na Shannen knows the darkness and the rites, and she has the power to call them both; she travels with speed and impunity, but even she did not chance the road in Winter.” She looked at Stephen intently. “The horns?”

“I don't hear anything,” Gilliam said.

“It was pretty quiet,” his huntbrother replied. “But it's getting stronger.”

“I don't hear it either,” Zareth Kahn said.

Stephen's brow furrowed. “Gil, does she?” A few seconds passed as Gilliam and Espere stared at each other. Then the Hunter Lord shook his head. “No.”

“No one hears it,” Evayne replied, “save you.”

“But you said—”

“I've heard it once before, Stephen of Elseth, and I will never forget it.” She shivered, as if with cold. “But rest assured. This is not your death.”

She spoke with such certainty that he felt a moment's relief. And then he realized that she did speak with certainty.
What
is
my death, Evayne?
For he was suddenly sure that she knew.

“Death is not our concern,” Zareth Kahn said. “There are many things that can happen to a man that would make death desirable and pleasant.”

“Oh, yes,” Evayne replied distantly, the corners of her lips twitching. “Stephen, is it getting any louder?”

“Yes.”

“Is it at our backs?”

“Yes.”

“Then come.”

“Where are we going?” Zareth Kahn broke in, as Evayne began to hurry them along the thin stretch of road that disappeared into forest ahead, and yet seemed endless.

“Onward,” she replied coldly. “Onward, before they catch their quarry.”

Stephen swallowed, as he realized what the significance of the horns was.
He
was their quarry. What had Evayne said? One of them would not leave the Winter road.

• • •

The horns were winded again, and this time, their song was distinctly unpleasant; cold and clear but just off-key enough to be grating. He must have stopped moving as he listened, for Gilliam's hand was on his shoulder as the note died away. He met his Hunter's eyes, saw the concern in them, and felt the warmth return to his legs—although, until he felt it, he hadn't realized how cold they had become.

“Stephen,” Gilliam said, shaking him. “Come on.”

Stephen looked about him; his companions surrounded him in a half-circle. Evayne kept her distance, and her hood was drawn low so it covered the edge of her eyes. The wild girl was almost nipping at his heels in her unease.

“What is it, Evayne?” he asked, as he started moving again. “What is the Winter road? If no Gods reign here, who built it and who travels it?”

“A wise man,” she replied, “wouldn't want to know. But as you may be traveling the road for a long, long time, I will tell you what I can. Come to me, Stephen.”

He started forward and came to a halt as Gilliam's hand—still on his shoulder—
bit into his collarbone. “Not yet,” his brother said, in a hard voice. “The darkness hasn't left her.”

“Very good, Hunter Lord,” Evayne replied, drawing the moving folds of her cloak tight around her body. “And wise. But I will answer your question. Come. Walk more quickly, but keep your distance.”

Stephen watched her robe; it seemed both alive and trapped as it sought to escape her hands.

“Do you think that nothing existed before the Gods?”

Gilliam snorted. “The Gods created the world,” he said, in a stiff, matter-of-fact voice.

“The Mother did,” Stephen added, gently correcting him.

“And what created the Gods?”

“The Gods have always been.”

Evayne lifted a hand as darkness fled her fingers, dripping like otherworld blood onto the hard snow. “Very well. They have always existed.” She smiled at Zareth Kahn's exhalation.

“But they were not always so separate from us as they are now. They lived in our lands, and they warred in them; they ruled and destroyed us in their battles. Yet they also granted us great vision and greater power.

“They had children, God and God, upon this world.” She lifted her head, but what she sought, they could not tell; they could see her hood ripple in the night. “And when they left this world, the children could not leave it; they are earth-born. They are First-born.”

“Why,” Zareth Kahn asked softly, “did they leave this world?”

“You are not the hunted here, mage,” she replied evenly, “and I answer no question of yours.”

He lifted a brow, but made no protest.

“Who are the First-born?”

“They are many, and unnamed. They have the power of their parents, and they live along the hidden ways, the old ways. It is the Winter turning of the old world, Stephen, and you walk in the kingdom of one of the First-born. If you are spared, you will not meet her.”

He lifted his head and then turned slowly to look at the winding, narrow road behind him. The horns were crying, and above their blended notes, he could hear a distant baying. No dog made such a sound; no beast of little intellect. The night grew darker and more chill.

“Stephen!”

“What do you hear?” Evayne said.

“Baying,” he answered, numbly.

“Dogs,” Gilliam muttered.

Stephen and Evayne answered as one person. “Not dogs.”

They began to run, and after a beat less timely than the heart makes, their companions followed, carefully cleaving to the road, or what little of it they could safely see.

• • •

It was colder, always colder. Breath came out in clouds and hung in the air like a shroud. The sky was the color of true night; endless and eternal. Running beneath it, Stephen could almost forget that he had ever seen daylight.

He heard the horns, if horns they were. They sounded like the call of twisted birds—something alive and unpleasant winded only to violate the air. He heard the baying, and as it grew louder, he forgot that he had ever been uneasy around Espere. Forgot that he had ever feared the death the Hunter God offered. His breath became sharper and harder to take; he felt his arms and legs grow sluggish.

“Stephen!” Gilliam's hands were under his arms. How they had got there, he didn't know. “Come on. She says we've got to move!” He shouted the words into Stephen's ears, but it did no good; they were tinny, like words spoken in a whisper into a late night cup.

Zareth Kahn's mage-light glowed bright white and orange, and Stephen felt warm for a moment. He shook himself, gasped for air, and began to run. The moment passed.

“They're coming,” he whispered.

The wild girl pushed at his back. He did not often touch her, but he reached for her now, seeking warmth, familiarity. Her hands were strong, real enough that he could almost feel them.

“I don't hear anything!” Gilliam shouted back. But there was no doubt in him; he felt Stephen's fear and revulsion more clearly than words could express them. He caught his brother again and began to drag him forward. “Relax,” he said, through teeth gritted with effort. “Don't fight me.” He sent protectiveness through their bond.

“It is not you,” Evayne said, “he fights.” She faced them, and the darkness was a halo around her irises. It lanced out like lightning from her fingertips as she spoke the syllables of a night whisper.

Stephen cried out as the shadow touched him. He hurt; it was as if she had picked him up and slammed him against the ground at a very good speed. Coughing, he made to rise. Then he realized he was already standing.

“What do you hear? Evayne said, urgent now.

“Hooves,” he answered softly.

She cursed in a language that no one else understood, and that only Zareth Kahn had any hope of identifying. “Then we have no choice.” She smiled, but the smile was bitter and angry. “I understand, Father, why. I understand it all now. Nothing, truly nothing, was ever just for me alone.”

“Come,” the seeress said, addressing Stephen. She cast her arms wide and the
darkness that was trailing to the ground ceased its flow. “
Come.
There are shadows to hide in, Stephen of Elseth.” Her cloak flew in the roar and howl of wind, stretching from end to end like a cloth door suddenly revealed. Except that there was no wind, save that which came from the long, hidden drape of her sleeves.

Stephen hesitated.

“Do as I say,” she commanded. The power of compulsion underlay her every word. And then she stopped, clenching her jaw as if to trap and change her words before they left her lips. Her mouth worked, she spoke slowly, and the darkness that gathered about her grew stronger. “Stephen, listen to me. You
will
surrender to the darkness; you have only the choice of master, and it may be late for that. You will serve her for Winter's eternity, or you will trust me. But you will choose
now.
”

He watched her struggle, and realized that what she fought for was the ability to give him the choice.

At his back, the sounds were larger, louder; he twisted in their direction like a leaf in a gale. Gilliam held him back; Gilliam, and the sense of his concern, his worry, his fierce possessiveness in the face of danger, kept him steady for long enough to take two steps.

Into darkness and shadow.

Evayne's cape wrapped round him like a serpent; he drew one sharp breath, but made no other noise, as he disappeared into its folds.

But Gilliam cried out in terror and lunged forward. Evayne lifted her hands, palm out, in curt denial, and he struck a shield that crackled with veins of orange across a black field. It was the first time that he had seen the color of her power as Stephen saw it, and it burned itself into his vision and memory.