The Sacred Hunt Duology (17 page)

Evayne had no time to draw breath. The tentacles wrapped themselves around her body and lifted her above the ground. Kallandras was likewise taken, but he was silent.

She screamed as the darkness pierced her flesh. It left no mark, but it burrowed, searching her body for the spirit it contained—for the shard of immortality that only the gods themselves could touch. She wanted to fight, but she couldn't; she couldn't concentrate. She was a mage, but the center of her power had been distorted and shifted; it was unreachable.

Only the reaving was real.

Somebody uttered a piteous cry in the distance. It wasn't Kallandras, but she didn't know the voice—she had never heard herself scream so. She reached out with one hand, then with both, trying to touch something that was not darkness or torture.

Her right hand found Kallandras again. Their fingers locked tight, their hands became rigid. Her left hand brushed against cobwebs, or dust; something light, but definitely real.

The cries that continued piteously in the background were distant, the whisper that touched her left ear was not.

Daughter of destiny, you have been long in coming.
It was a quiet, strong voice, the whisper of an older man who had lived his life assured of his power. It was Myrddion's voice; having heard it once before, she would know it anywhere.
I have been waiting for you, and now that you are arrived, my travail is at an end.

I was, as you are, a seer-born. The future came in dream and vision, and I saw the end of the world—but so far ahead of my time that only by becoming fell or dark could I hope to survive to fight it. I could not chance it, for once the Winter road is walked, who can say what will become of the walker? Yet I could not turn away.

I went to Fabril, and to the houses of the Unknown lord called guardian of man.
Guardian of Man. It was not a name that Evayne had heard before, but she would remember it later.
And between us, we forged the five. Some part of our power is in them, and in this way, we give our legacy to those who must be mankind's warriors.

I give into your keeping that which you seek. They are not yours, but they are your responsibility. You are their guardian, and I trust you to know when your guardianship is at an end. Do not attempt to remove them, or once they are removed, to retain them.

I give you earth, air, fire, and water; the elements that you know. But I give you a fifth ring as well. It is not meant for this world. It is haven on the darkest of roads, comfort in the most evil of places.

And now, I have kept my vow; I have fulfilled my responsibility. May you one day know the peace that I will now know. For I do not think I could have traveled your road.

I have one last gift to offer: Be free!

Evayne lurched forward at the force of the words—and the magic inherent in them. She looked down at the darkspell around her and saw the shadow streaked with fissures of light. The screaming stopped as the fingers of Allasakar lost purchase. Suspended in air by the crumbling remnants of the dark lord's spell, Evayne could see again.

The marble just below her feet was buckling and heaving. The solitary ward above it was a green, mottled glow. It twisted, resisting the movement beneath it.

“NO!” The voice was Sor na Shannen's and the demon lord's combined. “My Lord!”

But it was too late. A fissure cut across the glow, darkening and lengthening as the rock struggled to cast off the ward's magic. Another crack joined it, and another, and another.

Evayne watched. Everything moved slowly. Even the shadow that bloomed once again like a flower of darkness from the arch grew sluggishly as it crept toward her. She watched, and as the last of the pain receded, she saw a glint of silver light. The mists.

The path was opening beneath her feet.

She could not turn quickly enough to see Kallandras. She didn't have to; her hand still clutched his.
Mother
, she thought,
have mercy; we are all your children, no matter to whom we make our pledge.

The marble shattered, but its shards turned to vapor before they touched her unprotected legs. A small, sharply edged pit opened up beneath her, and it was filled with light.

Five stars rose, and behind each, a trail of magic seared itself into her vision; Myrddion's brand. Two were blue, one green, one red, and one a silver that stung the eyes. They came, across the shadow itself, to rest upon the fingers of her outstretched hand. Warmth tingled against her skin.

She did not look. Instead, she called upon her magic, upon the core of the power that she had used little of this eve. She could not take Kallandras with her; the path opened only for her, and no other living being, be they god or mortal. But she could see him to safety if he was not already consumed. That much power, she had.

Lowering her chin, she focused her will. Rings of gray light rippled down her right arm in a wave. They grew in number, in speed, in intensity, and as they touched Kallandras, they began to converge. Unlike all else, they moved quickly. Time's gift.

She whispered a benediction as the mage-rings connected and the spell's power fled her body in a cold rush. Shadow-magic collapsed in on itself and she heard the roar of an angry god as Kallandras vanished into Averalaan.

The otherwhen opened around her. Her feet touched the path and the silver mists shot up like impenetrable walls. Her legs began to tremble. As did her arms, her back, her lips. She couldn't control them.

You pushed too hard
, she told herself reprovingly.
Called too much.
Her knees and her palms struck the ground. Nausea hit as the shaking got stronger. She gave in to it—she hadn't the will left to do otherwise.

Slowly, and with great difficulty, Evayne began to crawl along the path. The road could only take her someplace if she journeyed along it. The distance didn't have to be great—it just had to be measurable. She threw up twice and gagged continuously, but concentrated on keeping her tongue flat against the roof of her mouth. The seizures were dangerous, otherwise. Her right hand moved. Her left. Her right leg. Her left.

The path delivered her slowly into the world. The mists cleared; day came, with a sun far too bright, and a season too cold. Her face was three inches above stone steps, and that distance grew less very suddenly.

WHY DID YOU HAVE TO
bring me to this particular house?
Evayne asked of the otherwhen in a tone of mild disgust. She received the usual answer: silence.

She was still in the year 402, although it was later as the seasons went. She didn't understand why she was in this particular time, but was certain that she would come to. When she had the strength.

The roof in the house of healing was adorned by only a single, fine crack in the plaster between the large, darkly stained cross beams above Evayne's bed. She knew it well. During the past week, between intermittent seizures, she had done little but stare at it. The walls were a shell-white, and the sill of the single window was the same dark stain as the cross beams.

“Lady, can I get you anything to drink or anything to eat?” The voice of the slender young woman contrasted with the severity of her starched, stiff uniform. Her smooth, uncallused hands and her pale skin identified her as an apprentice healer, and not just an orderly.

“No. But thank you.” She turned her head to the side to see a look of disappointment cross the young attendant's features.

“Will—will you be staying much longer?”

“That,” she replied dryly, “is probably a decision best made by Healer Levec. You could ask him.”

The girl's face told her just how useful that would be. She dropped an almost courtly bow, and then wandered out of the room, lingering a moment in the doorway as if hoping to be recalled.

The orderlies and the attendants of the house were, for the most part, young men and women with romantic notions. The idea of a mysterious, wealthy woman, who was no doubt a mage given her unusual form of dress, spoke to their imaginations.

Evayne smiled, wondering what the truth would do. She propped herself up gingerly and tried to look out the window. The curtains were drawn; it was probably dark. Her elbows began to shake, and she sank back. Ruefully, she looked at her wrists. They were thin and fragile to the eye. She had come rather close.

Lamplight played off her fingers, glinting over gold.

It's no wonder they think I'm wealthy
, she thought, as she turned her hand slowly in front of her face. On her forefinger was a thick, golden band. It wasn't plain, but rather delicately veined, as if a leaf had been pressed into the mold when the gold was being poured. At its heart was an emerald that flashed with the green of the first forest, cut in a rectangle with a flat, perfect face.

On her second finger was a band that seemed somehow orange in the light. Although it, too, was gold, it looked like liquid caught beneath crystal—molten precious metal. It held a ruby that was bright, not dark; the color of fire, not of blood.

Where fire stirred, water stirred also. The third ring, on her ring finger, was fashioned of white-gold. It almost looked as if the band were ice, for frost seemed to have covered the ring as if it were glass in a cold climate. The sapphire looked like the heart of the north wind, but no matter how long she stared at it, she could not see its depth. She stopped trying and turned her gaze to the last ring she had.

For some reason, it drew her attention away from the others, although it was a simple, rounded band, with no gems and no intricate design to mark it. She thought it made of white-gold, at first—but the weight was wrong. Later, she would have it properly identified. If she could find someone willing to do so when she couldn't take the ring off her finger.

This ring was the fifth that he had spoken of.

She was enough a member of the Order of Knowledge to feel a sharp curiosity. But she shook her head and let her hand fall back to rest against the simple, undyed woolen counterpane.

She had four rings, but she was not concerned; she knew where the fifth was. She had seen it many, many times throughout the years. She had even asked about it once, although Kallandras, at thirty-eight, hadn't provided her, at twenty, with much of an answer.

No, not true
, she thought. A rare and genuine smile of pleasure touched her face in the privacy of her room. He had said,
It was the gift of a friend, and you will come to know her well in time.

You would never have said that that eve. What changed you?

“Ah, I see rumors of your alertness aren't exaggerated this time.” A dark-haired, dark-skinned man entered the room. It was obvious that he was the healer on duty, and equally obvious that he was the senior member of the house. He wore around his neck the open-palmed symbol of the healer-born. Upon his face, he wore an expression of distinct disapproval.

The healer-born could not affect someone suffering from mage-fever. Nothing—be it herb, spell, or potion—could. But there wasn't a healer alive who could accept that gracefully, or if there was, Evayne hadn't met her.

“You weren't terribly careful, this time.”

“No, Levec,” she replied meekly.

“You're never careful. Never.”

“No, Levec.”

“What's the excuse? Years ago, you could at least blame it on youth—but you aren't a child, or even a wayward, serious young woman, anymore—and it seems to me that you are often more severely injured or at risk than you ever were.

“If the young do not gain in wisdom as they age, what sort of example are they?” His fingers rapped the bedpost as he spoke, and his brows, which were lovely and thick, drew down into a single, fierce line. Levec was not a man who appeared, at first glimpse, to be of the healing persuasion. Nor, for that matter, at any glimpse.

The path had a cruel sense of humor at times; Evayne, exhausted but recovering, could do nothing to stem the flow of the healer's pointed tirade.

• • •

She knew that Espere survived, because she had seen her, years ago, in the otherwhen—an older woman, if no less dangerous. She didn't know how she had managed to escape the cathedral in Vexusa; “how” was often the single question that she hadn't the luxury of asking.

Well, forest sister, I hope you found what you hunted; with your aid, I found what haunted me.
Light bubbled in the ball she held between her palms. The room itself was dark; the curtains drawn, the door closed. It was a pity that it couldn't be locked, because she desired no interruption. The use of the ball often made her more vulnerable.

And if Healer Levec saw it, he would almost certainly feel compelled to attempt to remove it from her keeping—a task which would see them both involved in . . . too severe a disagreement.

Don't push, Evayne. You've been here for a week already
—
you can't afford more time.

But ignoring her own advice was a habit of youth—one that she had not entirely lost with wisdom and experience. She searched the mists again and again, but they gave her no answers.

They did give her another glimpse of Stephen of Elseth. He was fighting with his huntbrother—did they do nothing but argue?—over the apportioning of a hunt's kill. Youth robbed his features of their ability to sting. He was fair-haired, slender of build, and graceful in carriage—but he was not yet adult, even if he hovered on the brink.

She watched him for a while before sleep took her away from the vision.

And it was in sleep that her answer came.

The ball was a deliberate use of her birthright. She summoned the mists and the strands of her soul's history, her soul's light, and they came. They bore her examination, if not willingly. Not all seers were gifted with the creation of such a ball. Evayne thought she might be the only living seer to walk the Oracle's path,
although in the distant past, those seer-born had made the trek to the Oracle's hidden testing ground as a matter of course. If one could survive the Oracle's path, the Oracle would create the soul-crystal. If one died, it was no longer necessary. Many had died.

But before they walked the Oracle's path, they knew themselves seer-born because of their dreams and their visions. The dreams of the seer had a texture and a reality that a return to the waking world could not force one to surrender.

She had such a dream now.

It was brief, but unmistakable. In it, two men she did not recognize met in a well appointed room. One appeared to be a messenger; he handed the older gentleman a scroll. Their conversation had no bearing on the information it contained.

It wasn't important to hear their words; they were obvious. For one of these men wore a symbol of the Order of Knowledge—a bad sign, but not, unfortunately, a unique deviation. The other man wore, seared into his left ear, the mark of the chalice.

The mark of the Kovaschaii.

Their discussion was irrelevant; the name of the target was
never
spoken. But in the seer's vision, warped and guided by an unknown twist of fate, a face was superimposed, like a ghost, over the two men.

It was Stephen's face. He wore a green cape, Hunter's green, with gold, gray, and brown edges, and a cap that covered his hair and shadowed his face. The cap itself was embroidered with a crest: against a field of green, a sword, crossed over a spear, beneath the horns of a stag in full season.

He was fourteen.

She woke with a start; the ball was already clasped between her palms. She didn't remember falling asleep, but sleep had provided her with the answer that had proved so elusive during her waking hours.

You never take me anywhere without a reason.
Her hands were shaking. With determination, she began to search the mists of the now for sight of Kallandras.
Think, Evayne. What did the crest mean? When is it?

• • •

The ring was made of gilded crystal. On his hand, it seemed to fade into nothing but a diamond's flash in the right movement of light. It was a marvel of craftsmanship, with a history that rivaled that of his—of the Kovaschaii. It was the only piece of jewelry that he had ever worn outside of the ceremonies of the brotherhood.

It would not come off of his finger. He had only tried to remove it once, and even then only for curiosity's sake. It was not small—indeed, it fit him as if crafted for his use—but it would not budge. It remained on the thumb of his right hand.

And that was of significance to the brotherhood's ceremonies. On that finger, he had worn, for the minutes of the calling, the ring of the Lady. By it bound, he made his oaths.

His right hand became a fist. He stared at his thumb, seeing, through the crystal, another ring, donned in a smoke-wreathed, darkened hall. His eyes grew opaque in the seeing. It was the one memory that any of the Kovaschaii could call at will—for it was the ceremony that made them one with the brotherhood, and no longer separate from it.

Light flashed; he stiffened and raised his left hand to shield his eyes. The diamond, large and well-mounted, had obviously caught a flicker of sunlight.

Eyes watering, he shook his head and relaxed both hands. Evayne waited for him in the house of healing in the northwestern quarter on Lowell Street near the boardwalk. He didn't know who she would be, this time. He had seen her very young and very old; she was never quite the same person as the woman who had forced him from the Kovaschaii almost four years ago.

He looked at the ring, swallowed, and started to whistle as he walked in a jaunty, purposeful way. The whole of his body was a mask right up to his calm, still eyes.

• • •

“I'm sorry, sir,” Kallandras said, for perhaps the hundredth time.

“Her brother, are you?” Levec's raised brow bordered on open disbelief, but he shook his head. “Well, I guess you'd have to be.”

“Have to be?”

“If I weren't of the same family,
I'd
never claim her as blood-kin.” He led the young man down the hall to the steps, and then began to climb them. “But I don't recall Evayne ever giving a family name.”

Kallandras shrugged. “She's the boss.” It was as close to truth as he'd yet come.

Levec raised a brow again. “Not,” he said darkly, “in
this
house, she isn't. She's not well enough to travel—so if you've got any intention of taking her with you, I'd strongly advise you to think again.”

“Yes, Healer Levec,” Kallandras replied. He opened the door. “Evvie—you
are
here!”

“Evvie” raised a brow in a fashion that made her look quite similar, for a passing moment, to Healer Levec. “You took your time,” she finally said dryly. “Are you going to stand there warming the door?”

“You've got an hour, because I'm feeling generous. Don't abuse it. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, Levec.”

“Good.” He was not a rude man, and left them to their discussion, drawing the door firmly shut behind him.

Kallandras half-expected to hear the door lock at their backs. He tensed, and
then relaxed when Levec's heavy tread took him away from the door. “I don't think I've ever seen Healer Levec quite so . . .”

“He doesn't approve of my condition,” Evayne replied. Then she sat up in bed, straightening her shoulders and raising her chin.
It's good to see you
, she wanted to say. But she didn't. Kallandras was still young and still very angry.

She watched as all show of friendliness slowly fell away from his face. It took a few seconds, but she always found it disconcerting. One instant he was alive with the gestures and habits of life, be it rural, urban, courtly—and the next, he was one of the Kovaschaii, cold and distant in his disdain for the lives that he could so effortlessly mimic—and take. “You summoned me.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I have to ask you a few questions.”

“Ask.”

“Why don't you take that chair and pull it up.”

He did as she asked; he often did. He could follow a command to the letter, yet still radiate an aura of hostility. Or contempt. “Ask,” he repeated, as he sat, placing his hands casually in his lap.