The Sacred Hunt Duology (7 page)

She no longer prayed for her father or her brother; the one had been lost through age, and the other the God had already claimed. But she knew the time was coming soon when two more names would be added to her small ritual. Why was it that all of the men she loved would always face this risk?

Duty. Responsibility.

She shook herself and rose, bending at the knee to lift the mat she'd brought with her. The sky told the time, and the sun's shadows beyond the henges bid her return to the manor.

“Mother?”

She froze at the sound of the familiar voice and lifted her head, her lips already straightening. Stephen stood, just outside of the green, as if aware that he should
not disturb her here. His hands were behind his back, and his chin was close to his neck; it lent him that peculiar air of vulnerability that her blood-born son never showed. She was glad to see he'd worn his jacket; it was chilly without the full light of sun. She hoped one day that his common sense would rub off on Gilliam, but it was a small hope; Norn had never managed to have that effect on Soredon.

Norn. Soredon. “What are you doing out here so early?”

Stephen looked down at his feet. “I—I'm taking a walk.”

“On the Hunter's green?” Elsabet left the altar. Stephen's shrug told her more than his words. “Are you going back to the house?”

He nodded.

“Walk with me, then. Is Gilliam awake?”

“No. And Maribelle's with Maria.” He fell silent, matching the stride of her step. In a few years, it would not be he who needed to stretch.

They walked quietly until the altar was at a safe distance. Then Elsabet stopped and turned to Stephen, thinking him very like Norn at this moment. She couldn't explain her prayer, but felt that it wasn't necessary; she could see his worry, and a little of his understanding, at play around his eyes.

Stephen faced her squarely. “They're late this time, aren't they?” He held out a hand; it was still fine and slim. Growth wouldn't change this.

She wondered if he did so because he had seen Norn make a similar offer on many occasions. And she didn't care. Holding the heavy mat awkwardly in one hand, she accepted his solace with the other, gripping just a little too tightly.

“Not very late. The roads are poor.”

Stephen nodded encouragingly, and she didn't speak again. They both knew that she was lying. But he held her hand as she walked. He understood fear and loss very well.

• • •

The Hunter God was kind, this season, to Lady Elseth.

Norn and Soredon returned in a ten-day, worn by the rigors of the Hunt and the journey by road. They came by horse toward the darkness of the turning, and the manor house flared to life at their approach.

Soredon dismounted and barely had time to place his feet upon the ground before he was nearly swept off them by his Lady's embrace. He returned it, hugging her tightly and burying the length of his face in her neck. Not even Maribelle sought to disturb their reunion—although it was more due to Boredan's heavy glare than her own consideration.

“Gil, the dogs,” Soredon said, glancing up over his wife's shoulder. Gilliam nodded immediately and went to Corwel's leash; the care of the dogs after the Hunt was something not lightly entrusted to anyone. That the dogs were not his father's very first consideration worried him.

“You were late,” Elsabet said, when she at last drew back.

He nodded heavily. “I'm sorry to worry you, Elsa. But we had the duty to perform.” He watched her grow still.

“Who?”

“Bryan.” He shook himself. “We're called to Valentin in haste. We must leave in the morning.”

Norn joined them, looking just as weary as his Lord. This was only the second time in their long years of hunting that they had been called upon to guard the dead on the road with full honors.

“How is Lord William?”

“Shattered.” Norn hadn't the strength to be diplomatic, nor, surrounded only by his Lady and her Lord, the need for it. He rested his head against the side of Soredon's horse before the servants came to stable it.

Soredon gripped his shoulder tightly. “Norn?”

“Fine.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Some. Not much.”

It was always this way—the joy of a safe return was marred by the shadow of another woman's loss. Lady Elseth nodded quietly to Boredan, who disappeared back into the house. “When the boys return from the kennels, I'll tell them.”

All of the Hunter-sworn within a four-day's travel were honor-bound to make the trek to the Valentin estates. Lady Elseth, well aware of her own responsibilities at such a time, oversaw the wardrobe for all four of her men, although Norn was quite capable of dressing for ceremony on his own.

She, too, was well prepared for such an emergency, and left Boredan in charge of the house and Maribelle, who was very much put out at being left behind.

One day
, Elsabet thought, as she hugged her stiff, rebellious child,
you will be glad of the times you were spared this.
She bade her daughter be good, which didn't help, and then mounted to her seat in the carriage she would share with Stephen and Gilliam.

They knew well why they were going, and all of their arguments or enthusiasms were as subdued as their clothing. Bryan of Valentin had been huntbrother to Lord William, heir to the Valentin Duty. It was he, this year, who had faced the Hunter's Death, and paid the Hunter's Price. No Hunter, or aspiring Hunter, could do anything else but honor that sacrifice.

Still, the days were long, and after the first, Gilliam and Stephen grew undaunted by the shadows that haunted their elders. In the evenings, they shared a room, and during the day, a coach. Corwel and Maritt also traveled with them by wagon, and they spent each evening kenneling them properly, as was their duty. They argued, they spoke of their future as Hunters, and they played their learning games.

Until they arrived at the Valentin estates.

Black was the color of death in Breodanir, and it was everywhere in abundance. When they approached the manor road, the post that held the family crest was swathed in long ebony panels that bore only the crossed spear and sword of the Hunter God's dominion. The villager who met them at the fork in the road was also dressed in black. He directed the two carriages and accompanying wagon without so much as a word.

The guest houses were in readiness for the nobles who had come; the Elseth family was the last, waited for by three others.

Lord Valentin met Lord Elseth as they approached the manor house. He gave a low bow, his black cape skirting the ground.

“You honor my son.” He was pale, his eyes darkened by rings that spoke of care and sleeplessness. His face, always long and thin, looked near-skeletal now.

“Your son has done all honor to us.” Lord Elseth also bowed, but when he rose, he reached out and gripped the older man's forearm. “Eadward.”

“William would be here to greet you,” Lord Valentin said, “but he has his duties upon the green. Please, feel free in the use of the House. Ah, Lady Elseth. Corwinna is also at the green, if you wish to greet her.”

Lady Elseth curtsied, lifting her skirts with the ease of long practice. She looked long at Lord Valentin's strained face, seeing that the age in it had suddenly come to rest. She wondered if he would shake it later, or if, like a scar, its mark would always be seen. “Yes,” she answered, taking his hand, “I would dearly love to speak with Corwinna. If it isn't too rude, I'll leave you now.”

He nodded, working at a smile. Elsabet shook her head slightly, acknowledging much she knew must be left unsaid by him. She knew the path to the green, and took it, leaving her own two sons—her living, breathing sons—behind in her husband's care.

• • •

As promised, Corwinna was at the altars. So was her blood-son, and the Priest they had called for the last rites. No servant lingered there, and the three nobles who had gathered were conspicuous by their stillness.

Corwinna wore the black as well, a long old robe that had been passed from grandmother to granddaughter for years. Her hair was bound back in a knot of graying brown, and around her neck she wore the medallion of the Death. It caught the light and flashed in the high sun like the fall of a sword.

Elsabet approached her quietly, sparing a glance for the Priest. She paused before she reached Corwinna and looked at Lord William. He, too, wore the blacks, but they seemed to cover all of him in the heaviness of their shadows; his normally active, friendly face was sunken and pale. He heard her approach, she was sure of it, but did not stop to acknowledge it in any way. He had eyes only for the altar, which was empty.

“Corwinna?”

Lady Valentin turned at the sound of the voice “Elsabet.”

Between the women, there was no formality at a time of such loss. Grief took too much of a toll to be pushed aside for social niceties, and although the women were separated by twenty years of age and experience, in this there was understanding and common ground.

They moved away from the green in silent mutual consent, walking arm in arm. When they were far enough away that words would not carry on the wind, Corwinna looked back.

“He doesn't eat,” she said softly. “He doesn't sleep. He doesn't cry.” Her own eyes were pink and wet. “He won't even speak of it to Eadward.” She looked down at her hands. “I don't know what I can do to help him.”

Elsabet put an arm around her shoulders and drew her close, saying nothing.

“I'm sorry, Elsa. I've—I know you lost your brother. You must know what it's like. But I—the Hunter God has passed over my family until now.” She struggled with words, lost them for a moment, and then lifted her chin. “I hate Him,” she whispered, her eyes wide and red. “And I see all the people gathered here, all the villagers, my farmers—and I hate them, too.”

Again, Elsabet said nothing. The words, she knew, were like water in a vessel that had fallen. They needed to run their course.

“Bryan died for them. And I don't know if William will recover.” She shivered, and turned her gaze upon her companion. “He won't see the Priestess of the Mother, and I know he was injured. He doesn't want to live.”

Quietly, Elsabet prayed that neither of her two would ever know a day such as this one. Prayed that she would not be there to see it, if they did.

“He was young. He was . . . he had so much to offer us. And it's gone now. So that we can eat.

“He won't eat, Elsa.”

She waited with Corwinna, offering her silence and the strength of her presence when both could never be enough.

• • •

In the morning, the rites were called. Three Hunter Lords and their Ladies joined the procession to the green. Elseth was there, as was Samarin and Cormarin. The sun cut between the henges to shine its light upon the altar that would not remain empty for long.

Everyone wore black, except for the Hunter Priest; he wore his colors and his crest grimly as he said the final words above the stone.

The circle of villagers, dark and still, had no children within it. There was no laughter, no anticipation, no joy—and not many eyes remained dry. They had come to witness, these people; to see the cost of their lands and lives in the blood that was paid to keep it. To honor, one last time, the sacrifice. It was hardest for
the older people; each of them had also witnessed the ceremony that had joined Bryan and William to the mysteries of the Hunt.

Stephen and Gilliam were not the only young Hunters present, and like the others, they stood to the side of Lord Elseth, waiting and watching. They did not yet know what to expect; neither Soredon nor Norn would speak of it.

They had not yet reached their full height, so they did not see William until he was already within the confines of the circle. At first, they did not recognize him; he wore only black, and no horn or sword adorned his robes. His hood covered his fair hair, and his head was bent so that cloth hid his face. But two dogs followed behind him, and they knew him then.

Beside William walked another man; one old, judging by the length of his beard and the stoop of his shoulders. He also wore black, but not comfortably, and he did not bother to hide his face with a hood. Although it wasn't hot, he was sweating.

“Stephen, there.” Gil pointed, even though it wasn't necessary; Stephen knew at once what held his Hunter's attention.

Five feet from the old man, suspended in midair at shoulder height, lay Bryan of Valentin. He was gray and stiff, wrapped round in a long, white cloth that was his only accoutrement in his final journey home. No hands touched him at all; the old man was one of the mage-born. How long he had held Bryan thus suspended no one knew, but all understood the strain he showed; Bryan had not been a small man.

The Priest, aware of this, moved immediately from his place by the altar, bowing low to Lord William. The mage-born stopped at center circle, and managed a bow of almost equal grace. From here on, Lord William, Cadfel, and Sorrel would walk by Bryan's side alone, as they had often done while he lived.

William stepped into place and held out his arms, bracing his legs against the ground. Bryan's body floated toward him, untouched by breeze, and was lowered slowly and carefully into the two arms that awaited his burden. The Hunter staggered under the sudden weight as the mage released his care. The body went slack.

William drew strength from the Hunter's trance, and the trembling of his arms left as he cradled Bryan's head against his chest. His hood dipped, brushing what remained of Bryan's cheek. For a moment, he gripped the body tightly to his chest, and all watching wondered if he would have the strength to let go. No one moved.

“Hunter William,” the Priest said softly, “it is time for his rest. Come.”

Still William hesitated, and his grip grew even tighter. The Hunter Lords, almost as one, turned away; they did not need to see his face to know what was writ
large upon it. Lady Valentin started forward, and her husband's huntbrother, Michaele, caught her shoulder firmly, shaking his head.