The Sacred Hunt Duology (93 page)

“Norn?”

Stephen started to speak, but the words were too heavy to contain even the slightest trace of the man that Norn had truly been. He tried a second time, and then a third; but there was no fourth attempt. Let the dead rest; let the sorrow still felt at death, sleep. He said merely, “Norn was the huntbrother to Gilliam's father,” and then dropped his forehead into the palm of his waiting hand.

“And I believe,” Kallandras added softly, “that Norn died of a wasting illness some six months after his Hunter Lord was taken in the Sacred Hunt.”

Silence.

• • •

“Does Lord Elseth know?” The question, coming from Meralonne, was unexpected.

Stephen did not hesitate. “No.”

“And will you tell him?”

Again there was no hesitation. “No.”

Meralonne nodded quietly and sat back in his chair to ruminate. But Kallandras leaned slightly forward. “Why?” he asked gently. “Why would you keep this from him?”

“Because he's my brother,” Stephen replied.

Kallandras stiffened a moment and then smiled sadly. “He would die for you.”

“His oath is the Hunter's Oath; to fulfill it, he
must
join the Sacred Hunt. What choice would he have? To refuse the Hunt is unthinkable, but if he knows what I know, to take part in it is almost worse. Gilliam
is
a Hunter. It's all that he is. He's good at it; in time, he'll be the best. I won't take that away from him.”

“And you, Stephen?”

“What of me?”

“Will you die for him?”

Bitterly, Stephen laughed. “If the Hunter demands it, it looks like the only choice I have is the manner of death, not the fact.” His eyes narrowed, becoming streaks of darkness in the room. “You will not tell him,” he said.

“I? No. Nor Meralonne, I think.” He looked to the silent mage. “But why, then, are the Allasakari involved? Why are the kin involved?”

“I do not know,” Meralonne replied. “I have been thinking on it, but I do not know enough.” It was obviously not an easy admission for a member of the Order of Knowledge to make.

“And do you know the right questions?” Stephen asked.

“Pardon?”

“If you ask the right questions, there are always answers.” The young huntbrother rose, pushing his chair back with a shove, a fey expression about his face, and a dangerous light in his eyes.

“Stephen,” Meralonne said cautiously, rising as well, “I think perhaps you have had—”

Stephen lifted his arms and his face, looking not to the roof of the tower room, but to the space beyond it, above it.
“Teos!”
he cried, and in the single word a plea, a demand.

His two companions froze as the word hung in the air, resonating as if it had been picked up by a distant chorus and now echoed in the timbre of a thousand—a hundred thousand—voices.

“What is this?” Meralonne said softly, all warning forgotten. He set aside his pipe as the room began to dissolve into mist as thick as smoke. The floors vanished first, and then the walls; the chairs melted into distance, as did the window with its waft of sea breeze.

Clouds grew, like foliage in a jungle, all around them; Stephen could see Meralonne and Kallandras, but poorly, as if they were obscured by the veil of distance. Light touched the surface of the eye-level clouds, and at his feet, a path opened, arrowing toward the unseen. There was no human architecture here, no trace of human structure. Only cloud and then, miraculously, sound and sight.

“Well met, Meralonne APhaniel. Well met, little brother; it has been long since last we met, and I hope you have fared well.”

They looked up at once, into the eyes of a man both young and old, slender, tall, and fair, who was girded as if for war. His hair, where it could be seen beneath his helm, was fair and his eyes, brilliant; his face was bearded with fine-spun gold.

The half-world took the shape and substance of Teos, the Lord of Knowledge. Stephen saw the face, and knew it. But where there had been a book, finely bound and heavy with the knowledge of man, there was a shield, and where there had been robes, there was a breastplate and greaves of perfect manufacture. Only the Sword remained as it had been, and it was wielded.

“And well met, Kallandras of Senniel. Well met, Stephen of Elseth.” At the last, he bowed, and the gesture was so perfect that Stephen almost forgot how to speak. “I have been waiting for your call.”

7th Corvil, 410 A.A.

Terafin

“T
ERAFIN.”
Morretz's voice. Quiet, in deference to the hush of the hour. He brought light with him, trapped in crystal and gold: a fitting illumination for The Terafin. Dawn was not far; the sky was the blue of early evening or early morn, pale and cold.

She sat so still, her cloak heavy and stiff around her slender shoulders, that she might have been sleeping. But Morretz knew well that sleep was not what she sought here, and doubted very much that she had found it. He gazed skyward a moment, and then set the light aside on the roof's flat. Her feet were bare, and her legs; she wore a sleeping shift and a simple, brown wool cloak, which was older than she. It had come from the estate of her maternal grandfather shortly after his peaceful death. Very few knew that she possessed it, and only Morretz knew that she had requested it; her departure from the family fold of the Handernesse clan had been difficult, and she had taken very little with her when she assumed the rank ATerafin. Even after the family had reconciled itself to her rapid rise through Terafin, she had allowed herself to take little from it. Just an old man's worn cloak.

But she wore it seldom.

The Terafin had at her disposal the wealth of Terafin; she owned this mansion, a summer estate to the northwest, several smaller guest houses throughout the city, trade missions through the Empire, and at least one diplomatic estate in each of three cities in the Dominion of Annagar. She could, at her whim, fashion out of any of these a private space, a personal retreat—a place of safety, wherein she could discard, for moments at a time, the weight of Terafin.

Had she, she would not have been The Terafin to whom Morretz had sworn life service.

“Terafin.”

She nodded, almost imperceptibly lowering and lifting her chin. This, this rooftop seen by those who tended the cisterns and saw to the repair of the manse itself, was her chosen retreat, the aerie of her fancy. Beneath her bare feet, the
grounds were waking slowly; dew was on the grass and the leaves of the low-lying Southern flowers. The gardeners of Terafin were about their business and she watched them calmly.

“The plants in my rooms always die,” she said softly, as she watched the men and women at their work. “I forget to water them.”

“The servants would water them if you would let them.”

“Yes.” She lapsed into silence, knowing that he knew that the growing of a plant, to The Terafin, was also the owning of it; having the servants water them would make them servants' plants, and not her own.

He said nothing, knowing it better to offer her the comfort of his silence. In silence, many things could be said, and many things hidden.

Wind came to punctuate the stillness; her hair flew back from her pale cheeks in dark, fine strands—loosed, as it seldom was. Unfettered by the severe and perfect finery that she chose for her rank, she seemed young; the slenderness of youth, the coltishness, lingered in the slim frame of her body; the defiance, behind the surface of her open eyes. She had been a girl once, although it was only at times like this that he could see even a trace of it in her.

He was the second man to see it, and the only man living; he felt a slight twinge—envy?—as he saw her curl the cloak more tightly about her shoulders, taking comfort from the ghost of memory, the false safety of childhood.

She brought her chin to her knees and stared bleakly ahead as he studied her profile. At last, he asked, “Will you eat?'

“No.”

“Amarais,” he said softly.

“Morretz, go away.”

He started to speak, stopped, and retreated to the edge of the roof trap. There, he watched her, holding light in his palm which the sun's ascent made less and less useful.

It was hard to touch her when she was like this; hard to know how to be careful with her. She seldom needed care; she was hard and cold, although not cruel and not unjust. She knew power well, and understood its uses, but understood better than that the responsibility involved in invoking it. And he knew her and admired her for what she was.

Yet it was at moments like this that he found her most fascinating. He had chosen to serve Terafin because Terafin was a House of power, and such a House needed a domicis of his capability; he had chosen The Terafin because she was strong, and in this passage, he desired to learn the ways of strength. Weakness had a different lure; that of necessity, of being irreplaceable, of walking the very farthest edge of the life that service—that the honor of serving—demanded.

It did not attract him.

And yet, in her . . . He shook his head softly, closing his fingers over the light. Perfection was something to be striven for, but not to be attained; it was the flaws that were the blood and flesh of a living person.

Is love a strength or a weakness?
he wondered, as he watched her fingers ruffle the edge of her grandfather's worn cloak. As a child, the answer was simple; as a youth, simple as well, although the answer was different. Now, with youth and childhood behind him, he had lost the confidence required to make of anyone's life a simple statement.

She looked up, as if hearing him; she was uncanny that way. Her eyes were wide and unfocused, staring through him as if she had no sight to speak of. But the vulnerability that he had seen moments before was already sinking quickly beneath the surface of her face. She was steel and stone as she rose, pulling the cloak from her shoulders and making of it a bundle of cloth.

“Morretz.”

“Terafin.”

“Please send for a messenger.”

“Terafin. To?”

“The Kings.”

“At once.” He bowed. “May I also arrange for—”

“Summon Jewel Markess, if she is within the grounds. Have her meet me after the messenger has been sent, and only then.”

He bowed again. “And may I—”

“And
after
Jewel and I have finished our meeting, you may, if it pleases you, arrange for the midday meal to be served in my personal quarters.”

“Terafin.”

“I will join you shortly,” she added, as she took one last look at the grounds of Terafin from the mansion's height.

• • •

“Where in the hells have you been?” Angel vaulted from the ledge of the low, long window in the courtyard, turning easily in midair to land on both feet with a solid thump.

“Getting sloppy,” she said. “I'd've heard that a block away.” She reached up and pulled the servant's kerchief from her hair and face.

Angel shrugged. “The way you've been lately?” His derisive snort was enough of an argument.

The blackening on her teeth came next, and the “shadows” beneath her eyes. Her hair, on the other hand, would remain the russet color that the dyes had decreed. “What's up?”

“Where've you been?” Angel said again, falling into step beside her as she marched past him. “C'mon, Jay.”

“Out. Why?”

He frowned; ran his hand through the bangs of his otherwise monstrous shock of platinum hair, and then gave in. “Carver's looking for you.”

“Great. What happened?”

“So's The Terafin.”

That got her attention. She stopped, doffing the last of the heavy towels that added weight to her midriff and arms. “Terafin can wait,” Jewel told him. Angel's brows disappeared into the line of his hair. It made her smile, although the smile was less than kind.

“I want you to gather the den,” she told him, not giving the surprise a chance to lessen any. “Have 'em meet me in—in the kitchen.”

“Why?”

“I'm not going to go through it all more than once—you can hear it when everyone else does.”

“But—”

“Angel?”

“Yes?”

“That's an
order.
Do it.”

He met her dark eyes with his slate gray ones, and then a slight smile, crooked but sharp, twitched at the corner of his lips. “You've got work for us,” he said softly.

“Maybe,” she said, relenting a little. “But
go on
.”

He didn't wait to be told a fourth time—which was just as well. Jewel wasn't a monarch, and she wasn't one of The Ten—so she didn't demand that her den obey her the first time she spoke; Hells, the first time she said a thing, it usually barely managed to get their attention—unless it was a matter of life or death. But she only repeated an order three times. There wasn't a fourth, and they knew it.

• • •

Ellerson stood stiffly at the door. Jewel had asked him to leave, and he had patiently explained that he was
her
domicis for the nonce, and that it was
his
duty to make sure that anything that she required be taken care of to the best of his abilities. He did
not
serve The Terafin; nor did he spy for her. He served Jewel Markess.

She told him that if he truly served her, he would never have insisted on the courtly clothing, the mannered manners, and the bathing every time she turned a corner—but he took it in stride, and waited patiently until she had finished her tirade before quietly pointing out that as he served Jewel, he insisted that she do what would best serve her interests.

In manners of the House, Ellerson knew what would serve her interests best, of course.

“Of course,” was the grave response.

The funny thing was that if Jewel ordered Ellerson to leave—instead of asking
as she had—he'd do it. She couldn't. Wasn't certain why, either, but didn't want to push it.

Carver, last to come as always, took a seat and then glanced uncomfortably at the domicis.

“You can trust him,” Jewel found herself saying. “I do.”

“Yeah, great.” Carver brushed his hair out of his eyes and slouched into his chair. “We're supposed to talk
work
around him?”

“Carver.”

He subsided, but his expression was just this side of mutinous. Jewel sighed and looked around the table. It was a lot larger than the table at home had been, which made her den look smaller than it ever had. But at least the table wasn't warped, the legs were all level with the ground, and the smooth, gleaming surface meant that no one dared to fidget by carving their initials—or worse—into the wood.

Arann was looking good. It surprised her, to see him look so well; she'd been so busy digging around the ground beneath the city that she just hadn't noticed. That was going to change. He smiled almost shyly at her, and if there was a trace of pain in the expression, they both chose not to notice it.

Jester was still, well, Jester. Teller, beside him, cupped his hand round Jester's left ear and whispered something behind the curve of those fingers. He rarely spoke at meetings like this, and when he did open up to the whole group, it was always with something worth hearing.

It was Finch who piped in first. “Angel says you have work?” She had lock picks dancing between her slender, tiny fingers, and light dancing in her eyes.

In fact, they all looked excited in their own way. She realized, with a shock, that this easy life, with more food than any hundred people could eat and more clothing than any two hundred could wear was just as hard on them as it had been on her—maybe worse. She was out in the streets, taking the risks she always had. They were in here, and they belonged in Terafin like The Terafin belonged in the streets of the twenty-fifth.

I only wanted to protect them
, she thought, but the words sounded hollow as she looked at their eager faces. Then the words took on strength as she thought of the den members who weren't here. And why.

“Jay?”

“Hmmm? Oh, sorry. I was thinking.”

“Share it with the rest of us?” Finch again. “You've been real busy.”

“Yeah. Maybe too busy to be smart.” She leaned slightly into the table as she spoke; they all did. “We've got trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?” Carver's slender dagger, well-oiled for a change, gleamed in the brightly lighted room.

No point in playing her hand close to her chest; no point at all. “Demon trouble.”

“You mean like Old Rath?”

“Yeah. Probably worse.” Her gaze skittered off Arann's very quiet expression and then came back to rest on it.

“Tell us,” the oldest member of her den said. “Tell us what you know.”

“First: I can't find any of the old entrances into the maze. Not a single one. But we do know that they're closing them.”

“The demons?”

“No, the magisterians, Angel. Don't interrupt me.”

“Sir!”

“Second: The Terafin knows more than she's telling me.”

Carver snorted. “Big surprise.”

“Carver,” she said, warning him. “It boils down to this, though. She thought maybe Old Rath was killed because they were trying to get at
her
—and even if it wasn't true, she thought she could take 'em.”

“Take who?”

“Don't interrupt me. Now she thinks it's got something to do with the whole damned Empire.”

Silence. Then Teller said softly, “So she goes to the Kings and gets them to fix things.”

“Right the first time,” Jewel said, smiling just as softly as Teller spoke. “And none of that is our problem—we couldn't help the Kings if we wanted to; couldn't get near the damned palace.”

“So?” Both Angel and Carver were practically flat out against the tabletop in frustration. “What about us?”

“They're going to come here.”

“Who?”

“Not sure. Either demons or people who work with demons. And we're going to stop them.”

“
We're
going to stop them? Jay—The Terafin's got about two hundred guards. Even if we wanted a piece of the demons, we can't take what those guards can't.”

“That's what I thought, too,” she replied. As she spoke, her eyes found the center of the empty table; she stared at it quietly.