The Sacred Hunt Duology (32 page)

Buildings, grand and recessed from the streets, loomed like hard shadow with hearts of orange flame where lamps were lit at entranceways. Guardhouses also contained a hint of light and movement all along the wide, cobbled streets. No one stopped him or attempted to challenge his passage; he strode the thoroughfare like a man with angry purpose.

But as he passed the last of the Lord's circle and left it at his back, the lights grew dim and intermittent. The buildings crowded in on the streets, as if no longer held back by gates or fences; they rubbed shoulders in a compacted, awkward way, and only garbage and refuse took up residence in the open air between them.

The scent—the awful, dank smell of the place—told him, more clearly than his limited vision, where he had come: the lower city. He slid his hand down to his sword belt, and smiled with just a hint of vindication. The Lords were allowed swords—not spears or axes or any other useful weapon—and daggers, but many of the older men chose to leave this formality in the comfort of their quarters. Or rather, many of the older men chose to let their Ladies direct them. Gilliam didn't have this problem, and as he refused to dance at all, the sword had been no hindrance.

He was glad to have it now. Out of habit, he checked his stride and glanced warily about. The wind rattled shutters and sent a hint of spoiled food from the mouth of an alley. He squinted, and the darkness settled in around his eyes.

He should go back. He knew it, but the moment he thought about returning,
tail between his legs like any sorry dog, to the Maubreche estate—and to Stephen—the hairs on his neck stood on end. Stephen had no bloody time for anyone but Cynthia of Maubreche—and Gilliam had no time for Stephen.

He felt the raspy tickle at his throat before he realized that the sound he heard was himself. He was growling. He wanted a hunt. He began to breathe more deliberately. He knew of one way to make his vision clearer.

With moon full and at quarter height, Gilliam, Lord Elseth, called Hunter's trance in the lower city.

• • •

Stephen felt it.

He had spent fifteen minutes asking guards if they had seen his Lord's passage, and another five following their directions as he kept his horse on a tight rein. At least the streets had been empty; no steady stream of people, no farmers' wagons or merchants' train had slowed his passage with their right-of-way.

He was thankful. He forgot it. For the odd tingle, the strange and terrifying warmth that had been riding just above his shoulder, descended with a lurch. His fingers curled around the reins as if for support; Greysprint's mouth took the brunt of the shock.

The hand of God. But not God's alone; he felt something familiar, something raw and impatient and angry. Gilliam.

The Hunter's gift
, he thought, as he urged Greysprint forward.
Gil, where are you?

As if in answer, the feeling grew stronger as he rode. He concentrated on it, and on the horse, trying desperately to ignore the fact that they'd left both the Hunter's and the Priest's city circles.
I
don't have my sword.
His shoulders stiffened. This one eve, Gilliam had probably been right to be stubborn and graceless.

The dagger would have to do—but the dagger seemed small and insignificant compared to the menace the lower city contained as Greysprint crossed its lip.

• • •

The world grew more distinct; the breeze slowed from a wispy brush to a gentle billow; the smell of the streets assailed his flared nostrils. Here and there, cedar burned in the fireplaces of those who had money to waste on that sort of warmth. These were few in the lower city.

There were shadows everywhere; deep and darker than the night. But they were still, and when Gilliam moved in near silence to confront them, he found them empty as well. The faces of houses and squat, tired buildings became so much scenery; he wanted to find something that moved.

The stories he'd been told of life in the lower city had made every dark alley a danger. Gilliam had half expected to see roving bands of thieves and cutpurses, each of whom carried glinting daggers as a substitute for fangs. He was to be bitterly disappointed as he stalked the city streets. Even the breeze seemed to die into stiff, unnatural silence.

• • •

The darkness brought back the dreams. Six years of quiet and relative peace had all but buried the wyrd. Although he walked in no faceless stone halls and heard no tortured screams or splintering of wood and stone, the three returned to him sharply. He shivered; Greysprint pulled at the reins in an attempt to turn around and head back.

“It's all right,” he whispered, but his hands were shaking. Above his head, perched like vultures, the second stories of the street's buildings crowded out the sky. The road was narrow and poorly kept; weeds made new by spring were already claiming their territory.

These did not trouble him. But the shadows did. Even darker than he remembered, they seemed to have become a solid presence—one that absorbed both sound and light. And with every step that Greysprint took, each more grudging than the last, these living shadows grew substantial.

Stop it
, he told himself firmly.
You're just being nervous about the past.
But Marcus' voice did not return to him, and the days that he'd lived in the den were far, far behind. The wyrd was not.

Greysprint came to a halt, and Stephen realized that he'd reined the horse in. Taking a deep breath, he forced the horse forward again.
Gilliam, where are you?

He hated the answer.

• • •

He heard it before either his eyes or his nose could alert him. A loud, high-pitched keening threw off the silence of the city streets. Even the shadows seemed to shudder with the force of a wail that was either mournful or fearful. It was hard to tell; the voice was no human voice.

Gilliam froze, straining to hear as his eyes sought the shadows. Sound came before scent or sight did; the cry was either louder or closer. His hand dropped to his side; his fingers found the curved metal hilt of his sword. He drew it, and for a moment the ring of steel against the lip of the scabbard hid the sudden sound of running feet.

The Hunter's trance had set his heart to racing; he felt the pulse at his neck beat in time to steps that were many. Something was coming in his direction—and someone was following it. If he had heard the horns, he would have set his sword aside—the horn calls would have declared the hunt another Lord's preserve.

But blessed silence answered him; he had no reason not to interfere. His entire body tingled with the anticipation of action. All thoughts of Stephen vanished as a pale blur escaped the shadows. From an alley. Perhaps the stories had not all been lies.

It was a woman, or maybe a girl—it was hard to tell in the poor light, even in trance. She was wrapped in shadow, and her hair, from this distance, seemed knotted and dirty. Her face was long and thin, her jaw slender but angular, her
forehead short. Whether or not she was pale or dark was impossible to tell; her skin was made blotchy by dirt and sweat. She saw him, but instead of halting, swayed her course. It should have surprised him. It didn't.

In silence, he waited to see what would follow her; she was headed directly for him. But she was at least a minute ahead of her pursuers, and in trance a minute is a long time. He watched her lips as they stretched thin over her teeth, and saw the lids of her eyes flutter down over irises so black they seemed to be all pupil. He waited to hear what she had to say.

And the long, thin sound left her lips. There was no mistaking it: it rose in the air like a howl in a throat not built to utter one. But there was no mourning or fear in it any longer—in fact, her expression was one of recognition. His eyes met hers and pressed against them across the distance as he struggled to remember who she was and how he knew her. He felt a tingle, an odd lurch, and a dizzy, spinning warmth. The moon changed position.

Suddenly, he saw himself, standing with his sword at the ready, his feet planted slightly apart, his knees gently bent. He wore no jacket, and he could see the sweat of the Hunter's trance along the linen of his shirt. His face was set and grim, but that expression slowly changed into one of astonishment.

With a cry part curse and part fear, he pulled himself out from behind her eyes.

Not since his very first Hunt, with his father to supervise and guide his steps, had he felt so disoriented and out of control. He staggered as she knocked against him, butting him in the center of his chest. Righting himself, he reached down to place a hand on her shoulder; he missed—it was unnaturally high. Her lips parted; this close he could smell her stale breath and hear the low growl in her throat. She wore clothing, but it was poorly made, an ill fit, more remarkable for the fact that it covered her at all, it was so torn and frayed. He couldn't say what the color of the shift had originally been, but hoped it wasn't white. She looked at him, as if asking for guidance. No, not as if. She was.

Stand left side. Be ready.
The thought was automatic, but he shook slightly as she snapped to attention, just as Ashfel would have done, and turned her face to the shadows. Her lips drew up over her teeth; her eyes narrowed.

The shadows burst out of the alley's mouth.

• • •

Greysprint's mouth was flecked with foam; his eyes were wide and whitened. He stepped stiffly, his hooves so heavy against the ground Stephen thought they might take root in the cobbled stone and dirt. Still, he coaxed and gentled the horse as he tried to move forward. He knew, now, that the fear of the beast this eve was a natural and understandable fear, and he almost regretted his haste in cursing both the stable hands and Lady Maubreche's choice of riding beasts. For if Stephen, both rider and a huntbrother used to facing death, was terrified of the darkness in the lower city, could more be expected of a mount?

Greysprint didn't throw him and didn't flee in panic, but his breathing grew more labored and his sides began to heave. Stephen knew that more time would be lost trying to ride forward—he'd be faster if he dismounted and walked. But then he'd have feet in the shadows and no sense of motion and life beneath him.

What choice did he have? He felt Gilliam's trance, like a delicate pulse, unseen but still a light in the shadows. Gripping the saddle, he relinquished the bridle and slid down the left side of the horse. The buildings, with their second and third stories overhanging the street, closed in like a poorly made roof; he felt them keenly although he was now closer to the ground.

Greysprint nickered softly, and Stephen gripped the reins once more. He led the horse in a half-circle, and then gave him a forceful slap on the rear. “Home,” he said softly, although the word wasn't necessary.

The moon, where it breached the top of densely packed buildings, cut a path in the darkness. Alone in the twilight world of sleeping dens and hidden bars, Stephen of Elseth began his search. He moved slowly at first, but whatever power rode him became less kind and more demanding. Without realizing it, he began to stretch his stride into a near-silent run.

• • •

Three men came out of the shadows. They were in clothing that was dark—near-black—in color, but light of weight. No dress jackets or odd robes impeded their progress. They wore masks that darkened their faces and left only their eyes visible. They carried long, slim knives, but no swords, no obvious scabbards. And they ran, in step, like a single man.

The wind blew at their backs, a soft huff of night's breath. It carried a scent back to Gilliam and his companion—one unlike any he had ever encountered. It was faint, pungent, and repulsive. He was reminded, although he couldn't say why, of the perfumes and heavy oils that were applied to a corpse to hide the stench of death. They were never completely successful.

He felt the heat of her anger flare up and mingle with anxiety. He felt, rather than saw, her gaze turn to his profile.
Not now.

The three stopped in a web of shadows as they saw Gilliam Lord Elseth, and the woman who stood a foot behind and to his left. In silence, they gazed at one another, but the mouths beneath their taut cloth masks didn't move.

Kovaschaii.
Who else could speak without speaking; which others could move so precisely and so perfectly? He knew a moment of fear, then; against even one of the Kovaschaii, he would have had difficulty. But the breeze blew their scent to his nose, stronger and less cloying, in denial of his fear. These were not Kovaschaii.

The Kovaschaii were human.

Fear—what fear a Hunter Lord allowed himself to know—gave the shadows form and substance; they roiled up, thicker than mist in the season before the snows came, and lapped at the knees of Gilliam's newfound enemies. He blinked
his eyes and saw that the darkness had moved, did move. Four enemies then, and he wasn't sure which was most dangerous.

Until the man in the middle lunged forward, knife held flat and to the side in his left hand. Gilliam brought his sword up to deflect the long knife's passage. He missed, or rather, the knife stayed on its unaimed course. But the man's right hand, black as the shirt he wore, shot out, fingers forming a v. The edge of Gilliam's blade met the fold of skin between the second and third fingers—and the sound of metal against metal rang out. The man twisted his hand, and Gilliam's grip faltered. The sword spun out into shadow, and all sight of it was lost, although Gilliam could hear it skitter to stillness against the uneven stone. The man had worn no mailed glove—in fact, no glove at all; his skin was ebony.

Gilliam didn't pause to wonder or gape; instead he spun low, into a roll that carried him away from both knife and attacker. He felt the whistle of air as something cut into the ground a fraction of an inch from his back. They were fast, these creatures.

By the time he gained his feet, he had his dagger in hand. He could see two of the enemy and their shadow; the third was beyond him. Without thinking, he slid behind the girl's eyes, and saw what she saw; an arm, disappearing into shadow near the ground, biceps and shoulder blades taut. She was close; too close for the details of the cloth-covered face to be made clear. He felt, through their connection, the rough, hard skin between her teeth—and heard, with his own ears, the low, pained grunt that his attacker made. If there was blood, he tasted none. Which was probably for the better; he needed his wits about him, and even that would have been a distraction.