The Sacred Hunt Duology (64 page)

He walked into the library without stopping to stare at the multiple shelves, the second story of which had been shadowed by the coming evening. He did not glance upward at the oval window, as Jewel Markess had done; he was an older man, and one used to power and finery.

Neither ever impressed him.

“Terafin,” Meralonne said, bowing low.

“Master APhaniel.” She gestured, and he took a seat quietly, rummaging in his sleeves a moment before looking up.

“Do you mind?”

“Not at all.” It was a lie, of course; she hated the particularly acrid smell of pipe smoke. But she liked the look of the light in front of his lips when he gestured and the leaves, curled and dried, became slow-burning embers. And she liked the way that smoke, in a thin, gray-blue line, contoured his face and made of it an almost ethereal vision.

“I have taken the liberty of speaking with Morretz,” Meralonne said. “Or rather,” he added wryly, “Morretz has taken the liberty of speaking
to
me.”

She smiled, but Morretz did not.

“As you suspected, the creature did not use illusion. He literally wore Ararath's flesh.”

She nodded, and the smile was gone, consumed in flames darker and hotter than that which consumed the tobacco.

“Let me call it possession. I have done what research I can—and that research is severely limited for reasons which I will explain in a moment—and the most that I can tell you is this: Ararath was possessed and consumed by something that we know as demon.”

She did not flinch, did not even feel the desire to do so. These were answers, and answers were all that was left. “How do you know this?”

“Because he was affected by a primitive branch of magic that is hardly practiced now. Historically, such a magic was used against the Allasakari and their allies.”

Allasakari
. The Terafin did not flinch, but she felt a chill wind take the room and make it a colder place. There were no priests of the Dark God in Averalaan, but history's lessons were dearly remembered by all who lived on the Holy Isle. “I see.”

“Demon,” he added, “is an old pre-Weston word; it means kin of darkness. Weston usage often called them ‘the Kin' or ‘demon-kin,' the latter of which is, as you can see, inaccurate.”

This is why she usually stayed away from members of the Order. Bored lesson masters were less prone to odd—and inappropriate—conversational drifts than half of the Order's members. “It is quite clear that this creature was not a natural one. Very well, call it demon. What can you tell me of it?”

“Very little, I'm afraid. The knowledge and study of the kin, and their summoning, was lost centuries past in the great cataclysm. Research into this branch—and a few of the other branches—of magic is strictly forbidden to the Order's members, and the council of the magi also keep watch for the mage-born unbeholden to the Order who might stumble across its usage. You can understand why.”

“Yes,” The Terafin replied tersely.

“With that caveat, let me tell you what little I have been able to glean. The demons have their own phyla, and within those, a range of abilities. But from the old texts it is clear that there were a very few who were able to—absorb, I think, is the word we want here—the memories or thoughts of their victims.

“From Morretz's terse debriefing, I believe that that is the case here.”

“You think he knew everything that Ararath knew?”

“Not everything, no. But much. Those memories that were long and grim, formative if you will, would be the easiest to reach.” He stopped speaking for a moment, and then looked up. “I am sorry,” he added softly, “for your loss.”

“Don't be. He was lost to my family long before today.” Her face was an ice queen's face; she rose and turned her back to him. “But you have answered my questions for the moment, and I wish to retire. I will call upon you tomorrow.”

He left, led by Morretz, and she remained.

22nd Scaral, 410 A.A.

Free Towns

S
HE WAS KILLING HIM,
of course.

Evayne had sent Stephen, unprotected, into the darkness of High Winter. That darkness was the shadow of her soul, given strength and freedom. What it sought was the sacrifice that, invoked, it had been promised.

Once before—once before, when she had walked the Winter road unknowing, she had paid that price. The darkness gloried, and the brightness cowered, still.

You will not have again what I granted once. You will not have him.

But it was a struggle to contain the hunger. Darkness masked her vision; pain tried to cripple her. It grew worse as the time passed, and she could think of only one thing that would assuage it.

Not that
, she thought, but felt herself sliding.

Stephen was screaming in the darkness of Winter, and only she could hear his voice.

• • •

“Lady,” Zareth Kahn said, his voice the only sound to break the dark, pale chill of winter stillness, “where are we?” The Ariani and the demon-kin were gone, but the red of elemental fire was seared into the vision, held as it was in the hands of two who ruled in darkness. Although he had spent his entire life enshrouded in the study of ancient mysteries, he never expected to see them walk, who were so powerful and so cold they were truly beyond his understanding.

And the seeress—the magi—in her robes of midnight blue was the only bridge between the world he understood and the world, or worlds, he could not.

Evayne, bent and circled with thin wreaths of darkness, looked up, as if seeing the landscape—the exterior world—for the first time. The Winter held her, and held fast, but by the thin twist of her lips, by the shaking curl of fingers and fists, Zareth Kahn could see that she was fighting its hold. Possibly winning. She opened her mouth soundlessly.

Gilliam pushed Zareth Kahn aside. “Never mind that,” he said, his voice cold but shaky. “Where in the Hells is Stephen?”

Espere, had she been a dog in fact and not just spirit, would have been running in anxious circles at his feet; as it was, she tried to butt his chest with her head while she uttered her soft keening whine. He pushed her aside, but unlike Zareth Kahn, she was unwise enough to return.

“Evayne, I asked you a question. Where is Stephen?”

But Evayne covered her mouth with her hands and turned away. Gilliam reached out to grab her shoulders, and Espere was there, in his way. It was too much.

Get back!
His mental voice was a furious shout.
Get-out-of-my-way.

Espere recoiled, and then, growling every inch of the way, she began to obey him. Her lips came up off her teeth as she met his eyes. She backed away, and he followed her with the force of his command.

How dare she interfere with his search for his huntbrother? How dare she try to stop him when Stephen needed him—must need him?

Stephen . . .

Gilliam stopped his sending; Espere lunged forward, free more quickly and more completely than either expected. She ran in circles around him, frenzied, as he covered his eyes with his hands. He stood because he was not a man to kneel to any but his leige.

He knew how Stephen would have felt had he seen Espere forced back so. He was not certain that he did not feel a trace of revulsion himself.

“Do you trust her?” he asked aloud. Espere quieted, hearing more than just the tone of his voice. “Then I will wait.” But gnawing at his determination was the emptiness that seemed to be growing. He understood William of Valentin now—and he wished to understand no more.

Evayne seemed unaware of his struggle. She raised her head and looked beyond him to where Zareth Kahn stood in silence. “A hundred yards from here, no more, is a cabin that was once used as a way station for messengers from a lord who no longer rules. He had it crafted—as were all the stations, by Artisans of the maker's guild.”

“By
Artisans
? It must have beggared him!”

Her smile was weak. “Indeed, it nearly did. But his wife was the daughter of the Artisan who ruled the guild at that time.” She grimaced; a wave of pain—or something near it—transformed her features. “He was amenable to some of the Lord's plans. In the end, the stations were built before the beginning of the Baronial Wars. This one, and three others like it, survive unnoticed. The others have been destroyed, or have became, over time, inns or homes of particular note.” She began to walk, and stumbled. Zareth Kahn stepped forward to offer her aid, and she shook her head. “Come no closer.” The darkness made of her voice a cool and sensual threat.

“Why have you brought us here?” Zareth Kahn asked, as Evayne righted herself. “Why not deliver us to Averalaan? Why not Breodanir?”

“Because,” she said softly, “this is where the road has taken us. Would you have walked another step in the Winter?” Her answer silenced him. It would not have, had he a better understanding of High Winter.

• • •

The title of Artisan was granted to very few of the maker-born. There were no Artisans in Breodanir, nor, in Gilliam's living memory, had there ever been. But according to Zareth Kahn, an Artisan ruled the maker's guild in the city of Averalaan. He was a rich and powerful man, and given to the odd comings and goings of one steeped in mystery or The Mysteries.

Gilliam shrugged. Stephen would have been impressed, but Stephen was not here.

“There,” Evayne said. “Between the hillocks. It is not easily found, but once found, not easily lost. Come.”

They followed her, Zareth Kahn with open curiosity, and Gilliam with growing unease. The snow was knee-deep except where the ground beneath made an unexpected rise or dip. Twice, Zareth Kahn had to be pulled up and dusted off. Gilliam and Espere had an uncanny ability to keep their feet. Evayne did not seem to need it; weightless, she brushed the snow's surface with the edge of her robes.

When at last she stopped it was in front of a modestly sized, wooden cottage. There was a door, and as she lifted a hand to knock at it, it swung open.

No normal building, without the care and attention of generations of owners, would have survived in this wilderness. But the Artisans made no normal things when called upon to use their craft.

“Come,” Evayne said. “Here, we may shelter.” She paused. “There are no rules save two: Enemies of the Baron may not shelter here and those who seek shelter may not raise a hand in violence against each other. The Baron is long dead, but the second rule is enforced in a particularly unpleasant fashion. Do not breach it.”

They crossed the threshold, stepping into history. Above their heads, the ceiling was high and beamed in several places. The beams were stained, the ceiling around them a pale blue. There was a fire burning in the fireplace along the opposite wall; before it, in blues and browns that matched the ceiling, was a large oval carpet and four large chairs. Upon the carpet stood a squat, thick table, and upon it, glasses filled with amber liquid that reflected the flames.

To the right of the hearth was a hall.

Gilliam walked toward the fire, slowly removing his jacket. Espere followed behind him. “This place—it didn't look as big from the outside.”

“It isn't,” Evayne replied gravely. “There are rooms down the hall. Find one that suits you; it will be ready. I believe that after you have had a chance to bathe and sleep, food will be provided.” She walked past them toward the hall.

“Where are you going?”

“To find Stephen,” she said, without looking back.

“Let me come with you.”

“No.”

“Let me come with you,” Gilliam said again, tossing his jacket aside.

“Lord Elseth, what I do, you cannot do. There is no help you can render me. Leave me be.”

His cheeks flushed. He started to speak and then bit back his retort. Swallowed. “I can help you,” he said. “I can help you call him back.” Hard, to say those words to her. He didn't ask her where Stephen was; she didn't volunteer the information.

But she stood with her hand on the wall for long minutes before she at last nodded grudgingly.

• • •

Everything was wrong with her. Her scent was wrong, her shadow wrong, her gait, her voice, her movements. He needed no trance to sense it, although he was very close to calling Hunter's trance anyway. Her robe seemed to clutch at the ground as if it were a man clinging to the edge of a cliff.

She turned unexpectedly to the left, entering a room that, until the door swung wide, Gilliam had been unaware of. There was a small bed pressed against one wall, and one of the largest windows that Gilliam had ever seen made of real glass opposite it. There was no carpet, and no curtains; no chairs, no dresser, no desk. The only other thing in the room was a fireplace—but it took up the length of one wall; it was at least as large as the one in the great room. Dry wood was piled high and waited for the sparks that would start it burning.

“I am sorry, Lord Elseth,” Evayne said. “But I can no longer spare you the pain.”

Stephen came back to him, swept in like a leaf in a gale. There was no joy in the reunion, and almost no sentience.

Evayne's brief, cryptic comment had been warning enough; Gilliam, braced for it, managed not to scream.

• • •

Where is he? Where is he, Evayne?

In a place so dark, and held so close, that even Evayne could afford—while Ariane threatened—to ignore its existence.

And where is that?
She felt her fingers lance her palms, but it was a distant sensation and almost a pleasure compared to the shadows.

The shadows held every lie that she had ever spoken; they held every death that she had caused, knowing or unknowing; every injury that she had inflicted—and, against the will of intellect, enjoyed inflicting. They held every second of her life that she had used her power, had called it, had stood, contained by it and containing it, a giant astride her world.

They held every hatred, every bitterness, every moment of avarice and envy.
Even contempt and bigotry had taken root and blossomed here, although Evayne never showed them the light.

But they also held Stephen. And in the darkness, they grew darkness, in the shadows, shadow. What was not to their liking, they consumed.

Fear makes of us all cowards. And cowardice is universal, predictable, malleable.

She forgot where she had heard it, but remembered the tone and timbre of the speaker's voice. It was true. And Stephen's darkness was, measure for measure, so like her own it was hard to separate it.

She cried out. Pain, of the devoured and the devouring, cut through her like sharp, wire mesh.

• • •

Against the pain, Gilliam threw up what shield he had. He staggered toward the window, although the landscape was still the night's, seeking stars or starlight's reflections across the snow. He found them in the window's length.

Stephen had a voice, but it was so distorted it was almost still. He began to press the ties that bound them, speaking in the language of the Hunter and his brother, in the cadence of Gilliam and Stephen, for which there had never been, nor would ever be, any equal. He took Stephen's pain, and offered his comfort in return, shouting it, whispering it, pleading with it.

Stephen was deaf.

• • •

The darkness could not be separated from the darkness, nor the fear from the fear. What was worse was that this part of her soul was one that was unmapped by her, unremarked on; she did not know it well, because she had refused to learn it. Which part was hers and which his? Did it matter?

She snarled, and it was a real sound, not a shadow sound. She felt it tickle her throat; as a prelude to violence it was welcome.

What does it matter? What is one life? One life, when yours has been surrendered again and again to the cause? He could never have done what you do, never have learned what you learned. What is one life, when if not for you, it would have been lost anyway?

What is one life, when, if not for me, it would have been lost?

She knew then that had it been Zareth Kahn, or Gilliam, or Espere—even Espere—she would have given up and let the shadows feed. She was not proud of the fact, but accepted it for the truth that it was. Because
it wasn't
Zareth Kahn, Gilliam, or Espere. It was Stephen.

Stephen.

Her robes twisted around her calves like cold snakes. Her sleeves shuddered and convulsed. In one second, hands that had been empty and clenched clutched at a shard of her soul made manifest: the seer's ball. Her crystal.

Now it is time for truth
, she thought, as the blood from her hands smeared its surface.
Stephen.

He rose before her, revealed in all nuance, all fear, and all sorrow. The crystal had once pierced his heart, laid it bare to the eyes of the seer. Had she promised not to use it? Had she promised to guard and to hide what was found?

The past was murky, thankfully obscured; it was the present that consumed her, consumed them both. She called him and looked upon him as she had not done since her youth. And she wept.

Stephen
, she said, trying to rip her voice from the grip of the shadows,
come. It's safe. Come to me.
She pulled herself free of him, delineating carefully his beginnings and hers, his end—the end she knew—and hers.
Come quickly. Come while it is safe. Stephen
 . . . But there was no movement in response to her call.

• • •

He did not trust her now. He was afraid of her, of what she had done and what she had become. He heard her voice and it was part of the pain and the ugliness with which he was surrounded. A trap. He was certain of it.

It was cold here, and the cold had teeth and fangs; it cut further into him, twisting and biting. But the numbness that came with cold never followed. Instead, images: thieving on the streets, tripping a den mate so that he might fall and distract their pursuers while Stephen escaped, lying, pleading with his mother when yet another man had left in the late evening, knowing that if he were better, somehow, she wouldn't have to have them—the things in his life that Elseth had taken, thankfully, from him.