The Sacred Hunt Duology (99 page)

Sometimes the purpose was hard to know, harder still to fathom; sometimes, times like tonight, it was simple and clear.

Evayne, called a'Nolan in the free towns of her birth, had the fear and the confidence of youth. But she was not known—not yet—for infallibility.

T
HE MOMENT THE FIRST
of their enemies set foot on the grounds of Terafin proper, Jewel knew. Her skin felt as if it were the surface of a large bell tingling at the stroke of the clapper. Behind her, Carver pulled up short; he took one look at her face as she glanced over her shoulder, and closed his lips firmly on the question he'd been about to ask. It was dark in the halls, but not dark enough.

Not dark enough.

She shivered; the chill grew piercing.

Then, swearing none too softly, she lifted a hand in a pitched signal and began to run.

• • •

The halls were grand and smooth and glorious; taller than any but the cathedrals of Averalaan could boast. The ceilings were simple, although the height of the columns folded into a fanned pattern directly above them; the windows were full and long.

Yet as he stepped into those very halls, every hair on the back of his neck rose. Something struck him from within—a thing almost too forceful to be what it was: memory, however warped and twisted.

“Stephen!” Gilliam was at his side in a second, all irritation at the young Evayne—at Stephen, at The Terafin, and at the Empire—forgotten in the urgency of his huntbrother's fear. Ashfel joined him, growling uneasily, ears flattened against his broad skull.

Evayne glanced sharply up at them both, Stephen's white face and Gilliam's slightly flushed one. “What is it?” she asked, perhaps a bit too quickly. “What's wrong?”

Stephen raised an arm. It shook; there was a weight across it too heavy to carry for long. But he managed to point, his single finger tracing a downward curve until it met the floor in the distance of the fountain alcove.

They all looked, then. The dogs were silent, staring at something their master felt to be an enemy. Only Espere tossed her wild, tangled mane and snarled in
angry defiance; her eyes, dark, still seemed to carry a spark within them that left no space for fear.

Evayne drew a breath so sharp it cut the silence.

• • •

“What? What are you all looking at?” Gilliam said, his frustration held in check by his concern.

“Look through her eyes,” Stephen said, speaking for the first time. Only Gilliam was surprised to hear his voice—even weak and shaky though it was—because only Gilliam knew how paralyzing his huntbrother's fear was. He did not quibble or even hesitate. Instead, he did what came so naturally it was easier than making a verbal reply: he slid into Espere's eyes, seeing for a moment as she saw. No more, and no less.

The hall was as his own eyes made it to be: pretentious, grand, foreign. But the floor, tiled and etched and rugged—the floor was different. Shadow crept like living mist gone mad across every nook and cranny—a shadow cast by no light that he had ever seen. As Gilliam watched its slow progress, he wondered if anything that it obscured would emerge whole and unchanged. And if it did not, what change would the Darkness decree? For there was Darkness here.

Like Espere, his response was immediate; as Espere with her growl and her teeth, he drew his bright, long blade with a cry that was wordless and defiant. There was no room in his heart for fear—excepting only the space that Stephen claimed and crossed.

He stopped a moment, and then looked at Evayne, saw her as Espere saw her. Friend. Pup. There was nothing of a rival in her fine, porcelain chin, her high cheekbones, her fragile expression. Nothing of Cynthia, nothing of Maubreche. He owed her a debt for the saving of Stephen's life. He owed it, and if possible, tonight would be the night that she was repaid in full.

He closed his eyes a moment, denying the darkness as he slid back into his self, his full self. The dogs were there, at the edge of his awareness, and Espere, like them to the very core. Only Stephen was closer, and Stephen knew better than to interfere with a full Hunter who chose, in haste and need, to call the Hunter's trance.

Time changed, slowing; he could hear and identify the timbre of Evayne's unfamiliar breath, the shuffling of his wild girl from foot to foot as she stared intently into the shadows, the growling of his pack. He could smell their sweat, each scent resolving into something distinct.

His hand found his horn, trembling with a type of excitement, but although he could not have said why, he stopped himself from winding it. There was a hunt, yes—but who the hunter and who the hunted had not yet been defined enough.

“Come,” he said, his the voice of command. The stillness shattered as the dogs
pulled into a loose formation in front of Evayne and Stephen. Ashfel at their head looked a fifth again his size as his fur rose along neck and back. There was no thought that was not obedient. They were at war, they were in danger, they were hunted—and Gilliam was their unquestioned leader.

And he ordered them quickly away from the alcove in which shadow pooled—but not so quickly that they did not hear the shattering of stone that was older than the city itself; nor so quickly that they did not see the outer wall fall, crushing the fountain's delicate structure, and making of its tinkling water's fall a final gurgle.

Dust rose, a cloud shunted this way and that by the downward rush of the fallen wall. Gilliam did not give the dust time to clear; he forced his people away from the enemy as fast as he could.

But Stephen knew what had destroyed the wall; Gilliam felt the tension of that knowledge, the welter of the fear that Stephen could almost—but not quite—conceal from him.

I'll protect you
, he thought, and the thought was so forceful, the intent so true, that Stephen's fear ebbed a little.

• • •

From the grand foyer, at the foot of the stairs, The Terafin felt the building shake. Ornaments—vases and plaques, framed paintings and free-standing sculptures—shuddered; some fell, and some held their ground. A silence more profound than panicked cries and shouts descended upon them.

Then Alayra spoke, and her voice was a quiet, gravelly sound that didn't quite fit in. “It's got to be the western wing.”

No one gainsaid her; they all had ears.

Silence again, and in it, the questions were gathering. The Terafin watched her Chosen; in some ways, each of them, woman or man,
were
Terafin to her. She had handpicked them from a number of supplicants almost too great to remember, had added to them over the years as a candidate proved himself or herself worthy of the honor. There was no better place to make a stand, surrounded by these, and honored by them.

And silence, she knew, was an unacceptable offering to their loyalty. “Where is the mage?” she asked.

“The mage,” came the silver-toned response, “is here.”

He was, standing in the glow of a light so bright it was hard to gaze upon. His raiment was almost practical—a dark cloth tunic, laced with silver or platinum, but collarless; leggings, not the fancy dress of the Order, in the same material.

“Where is Torvan?” The Terafin said sharply, perhaps too sharply.

“He could not travel in haste,” was the grave reply. “Not armored and burdened as he was. I chose to travel ahead to the rendezvous. If,” he added, “that is acceptable to The Terafin?”

“It is acceptable,” was the brittle reply.

“Good. What, by the Dark Court, is happening?”

“Torvan didn't brief you?”

“He said it was urgent that I meet you in the foyer as it was where you would be directing affairs. Or something similar; I confess that I don't remember his exact wording. When I attempted to discover what, exactly, it is that you intend to be”—and here he stopped to take in the full, and functional, armor and armaments that the Chosen and their leader wore—“fighting, he didn't have a satisfactory answer.”

“No,” she replied. “But I hope you do. If I'm not mistaken, our enemies—and I believe they are at the very least Allasakari—have just attacked our walls.”

“Walls?” he said sharply. “The manse doesn't have walls—it barely has gates.”

“Ah. I meant, of course, the walls of the mansion itself.”

“Interesting,” was the soft reply.

The Terafin looked at his suddenly neutral expression more carefully. She had known Meralonne—in a manner of speaking—for years. But she had never seen him look quite so . . . luminous. Or, for that matter, so anticipatory. Or was it just her imagination? His face, as usual, gave nothing important away. Oh, he played with emotion, blustered, made the right sort of noise—but it was a mask as much as perfect composure could be said to be one. Perhaps, tonight, she might get a glimpse of the real man beneath the mage's face.

She took a little comfort from the thought—because beyond it, there was only cost. To the House, at the very least.

• • •

There. In the foyer, of course, where just about anyone could sneak around her and get a good shot. Jewel snorted, ground her teeth in frustration, and then stopped. No point in it, not now; if someone could sneak in, then so could the den; if someone could hide in the shadows, unseen, then so could her own.

She flinched as she stared at the mage; he was bright and pale and tall—and his hair was unfettered by anything smart. Like a braid. What did these people think a fight was?

“Jay?”

Of course, there wasn't much in the way of shadow here.

Yet.

• • •

The clangor of armor—light armor—came in from the east. A guard, wearing the surcoat of Terafin. Messenger, from his dress, although he wore two swords and a shield slung over his back. He fell at once to his knee in front of The Terafin, slid an inch or two, and hit his breastplate hard and fast.

“Report.”

“The gate's being attacked. It won't last long. I think there's at least one mage out there. Probably two.”

“Who?”

He looked up, his eyes seeing new death, sudden death, before they saw her. Who was he? Kevin, she thought, or perhaps Kalvin—he was a newer guard. A young one. He swallowed. “It's—it's Darias.”

“Darias?”
She could not keep the surprise and the anger out of her voice.

“Darias colors,” he said, holding his ground even as he averted his gaze. “Captain Jed'ra confirmed it.”

“But that's
insane
!” Alayra said, speaking for every member of the Chosen who knew better. Alayra had never been selected for occasions of pomp and rarely stood on ceremony. “They—they must be fighting under false colors.”

“They aren't our friends, and never have been,” the young man shot back. He paled as he remembered where he was, and with whom. “Captain Jed'ra—Captain Jed'ra recognized some of the guards. The officers. Three of them. He says they're Darias all right. There are a hundred and fifty men, maybe two hundred. And that's only at the gate.”

“Go back to the captain,” The Terafin said softly. “Resume your post. Alayra.”

Alayra saluted, her face etched into dark and angry lines. “Terafin.”

“It's not just two hundred,” a new voice—a tired one—said. Torvan ATerafin came, from the small hall to the south, into the foyer. “They've about forty men in the back. None of them are wearing any colors; they're in dark clothing. We spotted them early, and the archers were keeping them at bay.”

“Were?”

He swallowed, raising a mailed hand to wipe the sweat from his brow before he realized how futile that was. “There's some sort of magery at work out back. Shadows,” he added, his eyes wide. “Darkness.”

And then, the last blow: the sound of the bells in the gardens; the sounds of metal alloy being struck and struck again. Fire.

• • •

Stephen ran down the hall. At his side was the young Evayne, not nearly as frightened as he; at his back, taking the rear line of defense—the only important line—were Gilliam, Ashfel, and Singer. Gilliam had taken the lead for as long as their absolute safety required it; he took the back when it was clear that the worst of the threat lay behind, on their trail. Espere and the rest of the dogs were ahead, the vanguard of the small group. He should have felt safer, to have them all there.

But he felt alone. The darkness had pulled from his waking mind the memory of nightmare; he could see, more clearly than the lovely Imperial architecture, the rough-hewn stone of an old Breodanir church with its empty, shadowed passages. Death was behind him; the screams had just faded. Only his bond with Gilliam touched him at all, and he clung to it while at the same time trying to hide from it.

“To the left!” Evayne shouted, and Stephen shifted down the hall that opened to his side instead of continuing down the straight path.

“Where are we going?” Gilliam shouted back, although he shifted his pack to accede to her sudden command.

“Deeper in!” was her response. “There were guards—I saw them—many—maybe they were—ready for this!”

Stephen felt Gilliam's momentary territoriality give way to practicality as he ceded command to Evayne, but kept the responsibility of their protection for himself.

• • •

Jewel knew, before she started, that there was no good ground position to occupy. Problem was that there didn't seem to be much of a mediocre one either, and poor didn't cut it. The foyer, while it seemed a stupid place to make a stand—it was far too exposed—was, in fact, very hard to launch a sneak attack from. There were no alcoves, no little halls, no servants' supply closets—there was barely any furniture. There were long, slender ovals and one mirror that trailed the length of the staircase from the door to the lower hall; there were plants, of a tall and thin variety, that were good at hiding nothing.

“Jay?”

She shook her head and Angel subsided. “It's either here on the landing or there.”

Carver looked at the “there”: the stairs themselves, wide and grand, with cold, polished marble beneath a fixed layer of woven and hand-knotted carpeting. “You're crazy,” he said flatly.