The Sacred Hunt Duology (16 page)

“But you are not the only mage that has come across Vexusa in the past several centuries. Perhaps, if you offer us your cooperation, you might be allowed to join their ranks, rather than join my lord.”

It was hard to speak with talons embedded in the lower jaw. Evayne spoke. “I'll cooperate. How?”

“First, tell me about your companion.”

“I met her on the road.” Evayne spoke quickly, as if aware that her time was very limited. “She—she's strange; looks very unusual under a magical scan. I convinced her to return with me to the Order, where I could study her properly, but she would only do so if I accompanied her here.”

“What did she hope to find here?” The demon spoke softly and slowly, but the tone made a mockery of gentleness.

“I don't know—
I
don't know!
” Blood fell faster. Evayne's face was white.

“It's a pity that I don't believe you. Come along. You will meet a better interrogator than I, and we will have answers.”

Evayne slumped forward as Sor na Shannen released her jaw. “You are an attractive woman,” the demon said. “I hate the waste, but I fear we do not have the time.” Very gently, she planted a kiss on Evayne's bloodied lips.

“
Do not move.
” The words were command embodied.

Sor na Shannen froze, her lips locked in a predatory smile. And then she cried out in pain, clawing at her back as she stumbled to the side. The shadows that held the seer began to unravel as their mistress lost focus and control.

“You should learn to lie,” Kallandras said, as he stepped out of the shadows. “Or at least to negotiate with conviction.” He watched, arms crossed casually against his chest, as Evayne's gesture burned the last of the darkness away.

Evayne cradled her jaw in her palm for a moment. “Where have you been?” Kallandras was bard-born, but he rarely demonstrated his power, relying instead on what the Kovaschaii had given him: assassin's skills.
I'd almost forgotten that you were this strong, so young. Thank the Mother. Sioban must be anxious indeed to have you travel the empire in Senniel's service.

“I met—a demon. It brought me here.” He shrugged.

She did not have to ask the demon's fate. “Come on.”

Kallandras seldom showed surprise. Even now, he raised an eyebrow, no more. It was enough. “Evayne—where are you going?”

“To the coliseum—it's here; it's almost a courtyard, of sorts, to the cathedral proper.”

“The priests and the mages sat in the galleries or watched the entertainment from their rooms.”

“Didn't you hear anything she said? We can't afford to—”

“We don't have a choice!” Her eyes were flashing violet; her cheeks were flushed. There was a pain in her eyes that had nothing to do with the injury Sor na Shannen had inflicted. She raised a hand to point. It was slick with blood. “Espere went there.”

“Espere seems to be able to take care of herself.”

But Evayne wasted no further time in argument. She ran down the grand hall of the empty cathedral. The vaulted ceilings echoed her hasty steps, but Kallandras made so little noise that the sound of one person, and one alone, filled the hall as they ran.

• • •

She wanted to tell him the truth. She wanted to tell him that it wasn't Espere she was afraid for; that it wasn't Espere that drove her, half-crazed, into the heart of a cathedral that had once served the Lord of the Hells. She wanted to tell him, simply, that yesterday—in her life, if no one else's—she had seen Myrddion die the most hideous of deaths; that she had had to endure it, because to leave would have been to draw attention to herself; that she had had to pretend to enjoy the spectacle, for the same reason; that she had counted each second of each minute until, at last, he was granted peace. She could not let that experience mean nothing. The path of the otherwhen had taken her there for a reason.

And she needed to see the coliseum again. To see it, empty and unused; dusty and cracked with the passage of time, locked away underground in the darkness. It would bring her a measure of peace.

Or so she prayed.

The halls were long and dark. She had sight enough to pierce the shadows. She slowed down for a moment to listen for signs of pursuit; there were none. Her
robes retreated a little higher above the ground, giving her feet room to take longer strides.

She pointed, Kallandras followed; words became secondary to breath, to breathing. The hall became a T, and she turned to the right, catching the wall as an anchor and pivoting lightly on one foot. She did not forget her way to the cloisters, and through the cloisters, the edge of the arena was visible.

She ran, her feet pounding stone, her throat growing drier. Her right hand kept touching the wall at her side. It provided her with sensation, with direction. Here and there, her fingers ran over large cracks, places where the walls had settled poorly after the cataclysm.

Evayne
, she thought,
stop. You've got to be rational. You can't
—

Thought stopped as the slaves' and combatants' entrance to the coliseum came fully into view.

Kallandras pulled up at her back; she sensed him stop. He made little noise as he turned, scanning the darkness at her back as she gazed at Darkness in front of her.

The floor of the arena was no longer dirt; it was marble, of the same texture and consistency as the stairs to the cathedral had been. Gold and silver runes were writ large across the marble's face. The letters were almost as tall as she, and there was a pattern to them, and a magic, that defied her immediate understanding. Nor was this the only change.

In the center of the arena, there was an arch, a single, solitary structure. It was, at first sight, simple stone, but glints of iridescent light shot through it, concentrated at the arch's keystone. To either side, there was a pillar, each the width and height of three large men.

She froze in place, her hand gripping the edge of the wall.

“Evayne?”

She could not speak, her attention absorbed by the runes on the floor. They encircled the pillared arch in a permanent ring, radiating darkness; Winter power. She did not know the full arts of demonology, but she knew enough to be certain of two things. It was a summoning, and the kin were not its target.

In the center of the arch, suspended as if in air, was a growing darkness that curled in on itself in hunger. It was large; easily the size of two grown men.

“What—what is it?” Kallandras' question was hushed. For the first time in her life, Evayne heard a trace of fear and nervousness in his question. And her life encompassed many more ages of Kallandras than a mere youth of nineteen.

“It's—” But she could not speak the name. Because the name had power now. Because the saying of it could attract attention that they both desperately wished to avoid. She swallowed and very gingerly began to back out of the opening to the arena.

No.
She stopped.
I am not done here, not yet. The path has not opened; the way is not
clear.
Her jaw ached. She bunched up midnight-blue cloth and folded her sticky hands into fists around it. This she hadn't done since she was a youth not fully Kallandras' age.

She drew herself up to her full height, lifted her chin, and stared into the darkness. Her skin was white, her jaw clenched. Kallandras came in behind her, still watching their backs.

Very slowly, they made their way along the outer periphery of the arena. Evayne took care not to touch any of the symbols and wards that covered the marble floor. She swallowed. She never forgot anything important, but it was hard to remember in the face of the arched gate.

No. I was sitting . . . there. Carythas sat on his throne . . . there.
The throne was gone; at another time she would have been grateful for it.
Myrddion died . . . there.
It was the very spot over which the gate had been erected. A sudden anger displaced some part of her fear.

Kallandras sensed the shift in her mood. She could almost feel him relax.
Don't
, she thought, but did not say it aloud. She kept her concentration, forced herself to remember every detail of Myrddion's death—because she knew, if she remembered it well enough now, she would never have to think about it again.

Myrddion lost his hand there. And Carythas came to the pit itself and burned
—there. There. She pulled down the hood of her robe—when it had risen to cover her face, to protect her expression, she couldn't say—and walked, with purpose, to the spot.

There, an orange, glowing ward pulsed in the shadows. It was not the same type or of the same magical texture as the runes surrounding the gate; it was older, and its power was not of darkness, but of a magery so strong she had only twice seen its like.

She could almost hear Meralonne's voice.
The knowledge here, the history, Evayne! Think of all that we could discover about the past!
She did not spit, but only because of the noise it might make.

Touching Kallandras very slowly on the shoulder, she pulled him to her right side. She lifted her finger to her lips and then lowered it toward the ground. He raised a brow, pointed to his feet, and then pointed a little distance off. She shook her head, no. He nodded.

She reached into her robes, found the cool, hard surface of the seer's ball, and then froze in place.

The lights went out.

“Welcome,” a velvet voice said. “Welcome to the dominion of Allasakar.”

• • •

There were ways to sense that did not involve the light. Hearing: the change of a voice's tenor and volume; its direction; and its strength. Touch: the movement of air as a door swings open and then shut. Smell: the nearness of bodies; of sweat. Of death.

Kallandras had trained in the arts of the night. Darkness was an efficient
tool—not a weapon in and of itself, but an augmentation, an advantage. He was not a master of the night kill, but he was an able student.

With ease, he pivoted, crouching, toward the sound of the voice. He recognized it, of course. It belonged to the demoness. Somehow, he had failed in his mark. Shame warred with fear. Fear won. Caution moved him now. He recognized the name.

Allasakar.

Lord of the Hells. God of the Darkness. Reaver of the Chosen road.

“Yes, you were clever, boy. And foolish; you might have bought yourself time, had you run in any direction but this one.”

He rolled at once. The ground erupted in a spray of shards and splinters. They bit into his neck, his back, and his arms, but not very deeply. He steadied himself as he rocked back to his feet.

“You missed. Have care.” Another voice; male. Not Caraxas.

“I know what I do,” Sor na Shannen replied, the velvet gone from her voice. “Do you think inconsequential magics like this could break the gate?” Kallandras rolled again, but this time the spell that struck ground was not dark; it was a sizzle of angry red lightning. Instead of shards, there was a spatter of molten rock.

“No—but the mage is the danger here; you waste time on the boy.”

“Then, my lord,” the sneer belied the title, “deal with the mage as you see fit.”

• • •

She didn't understand why they chose not to use the darkness; Sor na Shannen's ability to weave it was greater than Evayne's ability to weave spellfire. But she did not suggest, and she did not complain.

In the stands, at the exact spot Carythas had once occupied, Sor na Shannen and a demon of more formidable stature stood side by side. Sor na Shannen was naked; all pretense of clothing and civility were gone. Her skin, like the light around the arch, was vaguely iridescent to Evayne's eyes; her body was distinctly nonhuman. The demon at her side was taller. At seven feet, he towered over his companion. His hair was almost white, and his eyes an unnatural black; he had no horns, no spikes, no fangs—indeed, he seemed to be a tall, very forbidding man.

Which was ill indeed.

There was an old Weston adage.
The more human evil's face, the more dangerous the threat.
It was, more often than not, true.

She was already prepared with a countersign when he leaped into the arena, a combatant assured of victory. It was a long drop, but he made no more noise than a cat would have when he landed.

“Greetings, mage.”

She waited, ready for combat, but he did not try to approach her, and in a moment she understood the error of her assumption. He walked quickly, his arrogant demeanor melting into near subservience. He crossed the border of runes and
wards, taking care to step between the golden lines, not across them. Then, in front of the pillared arch, he knelt.

“My lord,” he said, his words the loudest that had yet been uttered in the arena. “We bring you two more.” He bowed his head; Evayne could see, in the shimmering light of the keystone, the reflection of his face in black marble.

“Kallandras!” Evayne shouted. It was a command.

• • •

He heard the demon's words as he rolled, once again avoiding Sor na Shannen's strike. The hair on the nape of his neck stood on end as she readied herself for another.

It faded.

“Kallandras!”

He could not see Evayne, not clearly, but he could hear the command in her words. Taking care to avoid the arch, he began to make his way back to her. His feet made no sound; he held his breath as he moved, and stopped only to renew it.

But there was no further attack.

She reached out for him as he approached; he heard the familiar rustle of her sleeves. He hated to touch her. He took her hand.

Together, they stood in silence.

The darkness confined by the pillars began to convulse. The demon remained as he was, head bowed to floor, shoulders curved to ground. Shadow shot over his head, a living bloom of writhing tentacles—the twisted version of a giant human hand.