The Sacred Hunt Duology (88 page)

Shoulders hunching inward, Kallandras pulled the flask to his lips and tilted it up. He drank soundlessly but quickly and then set the small, pale ceramic bottle aside. It was done; there was little but waiting left before the potion took hold. Stephen came in quickly and kicked the shears aside; they went skittering loudly across the floor to where Miri stood. The bard said nothing; did not move to react to the intrusion or the possible danger. His fine jaw clenched and his hands slowly crept up his face, but he did not speak and he made no move to attack.

“Leave me,” he whispered, although his lips hardly moved.

Stephen nodded, his fair face pale as he stood and began to edge, cautiously and deliberately, away. His movements were sure and slow, and he made no sound that was not soothing, even, quiet.

“Stephen of Elseth,” Miri said, voice cold as steel in winter. “Stand by your Hunter and do not interfere again.”

Stephen bowed, his stiffness his only display of irritation. He took his place beside Gilliam, and the Kings' Swords closed in around him like a wall.

They waited, watching Kallandras carefully and neutrally. Stephen was reminded of those days in his youth, when the storm clouds were almost black in their density, and he stood, with Gilliam, beneath the cover of the kennel's outroof, watching in silence and awe as the rain came thundering down.

Miri's tunic clung to her back, but her hair was still secure. Squaring her shoulders, she sheathed her unblooded sword, and walked toward Kallandras, taking measured, cautious steps. He made no move toward her; indeed his head remained so bowed that the edge of his hair touched the floor.

She did not speak, but rather, at a yard from his crouched body, knelt herself, resting her elbows across her knees. Kallandras stiffened; his neck jerked up, but his hair hid his face from all but Miri's view, and what she saw she did not speak of.

Fifteen minutes passed, and then, at last, he slowly raised his face. He rose, as if movement were unnatural, and waited until Miri also gained her feet. Then he bowed.

“ACormaris,” he said softly. “I beg your forgiveness for my intrusion upon the peace of Avantari.” His eyes narrowed, and then widened, as his glance strayed to the reddened edges of a tunic that was no longer white.

“Kallandras of Senniel,” she replied. “The Queen Marieyan an'Cormalyn conveys both her concern and her wish for your speedy recovery.”

He looked down at the empty flask in his hands; they were steady now, the hands of a bard and not the hands of a madman. “Where is she?”

“I believe,” Miri replied gravely, understanding him at once, where Stephen did not, “that she is in the keeping of the healer. Dantallon?”

At the sound of the name, motion returned to the room, lending it the color of surcoat, the sound of speech and question. The healer appeared immediately, his robes brushing the ground as he approached Kallandras. The bard suffered his attention in silence, and almost, it seemed, in shame.

Cadrey handed Miri an old, perfectly waxed and polished lute. Across a perfect bridge, strings were tautly pulled; as his sleeve brushed them, they sang. Miri took the lute quietly, and held it as if it were a newborn babe.

“Dantallon?”

“As before,” the healer replied quietly. “Kallandras, these fits—this episode—when did they start?”

“Three days ago. Four. I'm not certain.”

“Who prescribed
niscea
?”

“Hallorn, the physician at Senniel.” The bard's blue eyes vanished beneath the heavy, gray pallor of his lids. At once, Cadrey and Lorrison were at his side, following Dantallon's silent directive to lower him into a bed. This time, however, the healer did not bother with restraining straps.

“I know of the danger,” Kallandras continued, without opening his eyes. Cadrey jumped back, like a startled child. “But
niscea
has properties which make it valuable to my current state.” He swallowed. “The bardmaster of the college has requested aid from the Order, but it is not yet forthcoming.”

“From the Order?” It was Meralonne APhaniel who spoke. Miri raised a hand, silencing him. The gesture did not appear to surprise him.

“I—I am not used to dealing with such potions. I did not realize that I had not taken the appropriate dosage.”

Dantallon shook his head. “You probably had—but it was the right dosage for four days ago. How much have you consumed, and how often do you require it?”

Kallandras, eyes still closed, sank further into the mattress beneath his back. He seemed heavier, and without the animation of motion, almost cadaverlike. “Less than the contents of the flask that you gave me.”

“How much less?”

“I do not know the full measure.”

“How often?”

“Three times a day. Maybe four, if I am not to sleep.”

“Miara's curse,”
Dantallon whispered. “And how often did you intend to continue with this?” A high note had crept into his otherwise calm voice.

“I do not know,” Kallandras replied, his words faint. It was almost as if the bard-born voice had deserted him utterly, and he was just another exhausted man, with no strength, no talent, and no hope. It was wrong.

Stephen started to speak, but his words were lost as the door to the healerie burst open.

• • •

The Kings' Swords turned almost as a man as the doors swung wide. Two more of the Kings' Swords stood abreast in the doorway; they stared straight ahead, and entered the room without once looking to either side. Behind them was a man in slightly different dress; he wore the markings of the guards, but not their surcoats. A sword, sheathed, hung by his side, but he wore no helm, no gauntlets, no real armor. Instead, he wore a deep blue jacket, with the crest of the Kings' Swords emblazoned over his left breast. There were markings above and beneath it: four golden quarter circles, lined up across invisible diagonals.

He was tall, this man, and older; streaks of gray mingled with his brown-black hair. That hair was long, although exactly how long was hard to say; it was pulled tightly back, and twisted in a single knot before it spilled down the folds of the cape he also wore. He was beardless; indeed, he was unadorned by any marking, scar or otherwise. He had the bearing of a man who was accustomed to power.

The healerie was filled with the sudden, single noise of two actions repeated by thirty men at once: mailed hands striking mailed breasts, and soles of heavy feet being planted an exact distance apart.

It didn't matter; Stephen would have stared anyway. In the easy light of the healerie's sparse confines, the man in uniform surveyed those that stood before him. His eyes did not stop or come to rest on any but the mage, but in the single quick and almost dismissive pass that he made, Stephen saw his eyes.

They were the color of trapped fire.

• • •

Miri tensed slightly and rose, leaving both Kallandras and Stephen as she turned to see who had entered the healerie. Stephen lost sight of her face but could see the line of her shoulders tighten further.

“Verrus Allamar,” she said softly.

“Princess Mirialyn.” He bowed respectfully. “You are far from your duties at court.”

“Not today,” she replied. “One of Queen Marieyan's courtiers was injured in a fall. He struck his head, and suffered some slight delirium after the fact. Dantallon was not certain of the protocol involved in treating a respected visitor; he sent for the Kings' Swords, and I, upon hearing of the difficulty, took charge.”

“I see.” He turned to one of the Kings' Swords. “Report.”

The man rapped his chest crisply. “It is as the ACormaris states, sir.”

“And the mage?”

Meralonne raised a silver brow. “It appears I am to be the lord of afterthought,” he said wryly. “I am not here in an official capacity, either for the Order or for the Crowns. I was in the courtyard where the bard had his fall. I tended him until the healer arrived, and then chose to accompany him to the healerie. I trust this does not break any of the rules the Kings' Swords enforce?”

Verrus Allamar tilted his head slightly; his eyes met the mage's. He did not reply, but he was clearly not happy to see Master APhaniel within his jurisdiction. “I did not ask that question of you,” he said coldly. “Sentrus, report.”

“The mage was here when we arrived. He has done nothing, sir.”

“Nothing?”

“He is under the command of Mirialyn ACormaris, sir.”

“I see. Continue.”

The man who had been called Sentrus—and from the sound of the word, it was a title, not a name—fell silent a moment. He glanced at Miri, and Stephen saw Miri's hands slide behind her back, where they became solid fists. But she said nothing.

“The courtier was delirious when we arrived, sir. He injured ACormaris in his thrashings before the delirium broke.”

“I see. And the gash across Princess Mirialyn's abdomen?”

“He was—he was holding bandage shears, sir.”

“Holding them?”

“Yes, sir.”

Allamar's expression sucked the warmth out of the room. It was clear that he did not believe the Sentrus—but equally clear that he did not wish to openly challenge the Princess.
Princess.
“Very well. Has the courtier been confined?”

It was Dantallon who replied. “The bard is my patient. He is being tended and is not fit for travel.”

“ACormaris?”

“I am only superficially injured, and will be tended to here.”

“I see.” He paused. “And these three?”

“These are visitors to Queen Marieyan's court. This is Stephen of Elseth, and that, his Lord—Gilliam, Lord Elseth. They hail from a great distance, and seek to visit the court of the Queens for reasons of trade.”

“They were present for the incident?”

“Yes.”

“And they cannot speak for themselves?”

“Verrus Allamar, I realize that—”

“ACormaris, your business is the court. My business is the protection of the Crowns. I must ask you to step aside.”

“Verrus Allamar,” Miri replied, “might I remind
you
that visitors to this court are considered diplomats and therefore the priority of the
court
and not the Swords?”

“You may,” he replied coldly. “But I will see it for myself. I do not believe that this has been the only incident involving these two foreign lords.” He turned to Gilliam; Gilliam met his eyes without flinching. But Stephen saw the hardening of his Hunter's jaw, and the squaring of his shoulders; preparation for combat.

No, Gil
, he thought—but he did not say it. There were times when he had to trust his Hunter. He hated every one of them, of course; but he was huntbrother.

“You are Lord Elseth?”

“I am.”

“And this woman?”

“She is my servant.”

“I see.” Pause. “Her name?” He reached out for Espere's chin, and she snapped at his hand, growling suddenly in a voice that could be heard down the length of the room.

Stephen turned white as chalk; he scrambled to his feet as six men suddenly surrounded Verrus Allamar, swords bristling like spines at Espere and her Lord.

He doesn't know
, he told himself, as he walked briskly toward the Kings' Swords.
He doesn't know that we know what he is.

And how the Hells do you know that?

Miri was at his side like a pale shadow. “HOLD!” she cried, and the Swords ceased their movement as if frozen in place by bardic voice. “Verrus Allamar, this is not a matter for Swords.”

“You are trying my patience, little Princess,” he said, without looking back.

Her eyes grew round and then, quickly, very narrow. This was not a new fight or a new confrontation, and Stephen did not want to be the terrain over which it was fought yet again. He fell to one knee in a Breodanir bow, exposing the back of his neck.

“Verrus Allamar,” he said softly, “you must forgive the servant. She is simple and does not speak.”

“And the Lord?” was the icy reply.

“In Breodanir, the Hunter Lords are above question,” Stephen replied gravely. It was truth.

“This is not Breodanir.”

“No, Lord,” he replied, equally grave. “And we have come to realize that it is a very different world. But we ask your pardon. We are not used to so many strange and different ways.”

“I had heard that the Breodani men stayed at home; I have never seen a Hunter Lord travel. Why are you here?”

Stephen swallowed. “We are from the eastern edge of the kingdom, and we have done some trading with the border towns and the empire itself. My Lady was injured in a riding accident this autumn, and she is not yet recovered enough to travel. But we came in her stead to seek the grant of—of trade route through our demesne.” He looked up. It was a mistake.

Fire caught and pinned him, kneeling and helpless, to the ground, casting a shadow that was very dark indeed.

“And have you found what you seek?”

He swallowed or tried to; his lips were moving, and not of his accord. The room had become a well of darkness, through which only the light in the eyes of Verrus Allamar shone. He tried not to answer, but the words were burning his throat; he needed to speak them.

They were not words about diplomacy—of which he knew little—or trade routes. They were words about the Hunter, the Horn, the wild girl, the darkness.

And he knew them for his death.

T
HEN, AS IF FROM
great distance, he felt Gilliam's concern and solidarity; Gilliam, Hunter Lord, who wished only Stephen's unspoken permission to intervene.

The feel of the bond was rarely so strong or so solid—only at times like this, with the trappings of the real world peeled away by either force or unusual circumstance, was the Hunter-bond, the brother-bond, laid bare. Stephen understood, again, why the Hunter Lords found stark things beautiful.

He felt the bond as part of himself, and then
as
himself. He had no choice but to answer the question that Verrus Allamar had asked; the need was visceral, stronger than any hunger that he had ever felt.

But he did not have to speak to the Verrus. Instead, he spoke into the silence of the trust that ceremony had made solid; to Gilliam, Lord of Elseth. And he looked up, in the silent saying, to meet the eyes of Verrus Allamar.

“Ah, Verrus,” someone said. Stephen could not turn until Verrus Allamar did, but once the man's gaze was broken, its power was gone. The green-clad huntbrother rose as Meralonne APhaniel approached with an unlit, but well-stuffed, pipe in his left hand. “You really should know better than that. I'm almost shocked. Dantallon, you don't mind, do you?”

“Of course I mind,” Dantallon replied, but it was quite clear that he held the dangers of magery to be greater than the dangers of acrid pipe smoke, for he did not press the issue.

The tips of Meralonne's fingers shone with a pale orange light as they hovered above the bowl of the long-stemmed pipe. Embers caught and flared, and he nursed them along with the pull of his breath. Then, smoke trailing the corners of his mouth as if he were some ancient, wizened dragon, he looked up.

“Meralonne,” Dantallon said, voice heavy with warning, “you try my patience.”

“I did not bring a tinderbox; really, the manners of the court are far more . . . courtly. But we can apologize to each other at a later date.”

The healer snorted and tossed his long, pale hair. They were almost like brothers in seeming; fine-boned with pale, long hair, narrow faces, slender limbs. But
Stephen thought that Meralonne was like winter and Dantallon like spring; the end and the beginning.

“Do not interfere, APhaniel,” Verrus Allamar said. His lips were thin with annoyance.

“I merely wish to see the much-vaunted laws of the Crowns respected by the more powerful of their enforcers.”

On the verge of speech, Verrus Allamar lapsed into silence. “Very well,” he said at last, speaking quietly. “I would ask you, young man, to accompany me voluntarily.” He caught Stephen's gaze again, and fire burned. “
Come with me to your quarters.
”

“Nonsense,” Meralonne replied, gesturing indolently through a fine web of smoke.

“APhaniel, I warn you—your interference in this affair will not be tolerated. If I must, I will—”

“You will do nothing,” Mirialyn said quietly. “You are bound by the law you uphold, Verrus. Never forget that.”

He looked as if he might argue further, but thirty of the Kings' Swords stood between him and Mirialyn, and of the two, it was clear who they felt they owed their loyalties to. “Very well.” Verrus Allamar turned back to Stephen, the flames in his eyes burning coolly. “Where are you going, where will you be staying, and who will you be seeing while at court?”

“I believe that I might answer that,” someone said.

It was Devon ATerafin.

• • •

They were made to attract trouble. There was not a place they went for any length of time that danger and death did not dog their steps. Safeguarding the Kings themselves was a less difficult and less onerous task than watching over Lord Elseth and Stephen.

Devon was tired and not a little hot; he wore full court dress, with its many layers of fine fabric, dyed in shades of brilliant blues and greens. He had waited an hour for Stephen at the Queen's court before discovering what had happened, and when.

Opening the door to the healerie in silence, he saw the middle of a day that had already begun poorly. First, there were the Kings' Swords, in far too great a number to be an honor guard to lesser foreign dignitaries. Then, the hint of sparkling robe that signaled the presence of Meralonne APhaniel—although if the robes hadn't given him away, the stench would. Dantallon looked in fine fettle, which was to say, he looked angry, and at his side, the redoubtable Princess Mirialyn, who, were she not ACormaris, would have been known as the flighty royal. But she was ACormaris, and treated with the respect and the obedience that was due that title. She was not in court dress; she looked as if she were prepared to go riding anonymously. Except, of course, for the gash across her abdomen.

He hoped that it had nothing to do with Lord Elseth or his huntbrother, because if it did, there was little he could offer in the way of intervention.

Then, to make matters as difficult as they possibly could be, a Verrus. And not any Verrus, no; it had to be Allamar. Allamar had never had much of a sense of humor, and it had gone downhill as he struggled toward what Devon ill-humoredly hoped was a painful and tiresome dotage.

Unfortunately, it was a long hill, and Allamar was nowhere near the bottom of it. Devon pulled himself up to his full height and smiled pleasantly, showing nothing to the world but the relief that he felt at finding his charges.

“Verrus Allamar,” he said, inclining his head as formally as possible. “Let me apologize. These two young men were to appear at court for a short interview with members of the Queen's entourage, after which they were to be directed to Patris Larkasir's offices.”

“ATerafin,” Verrus replied.

“I was sent to meet them—the palace is large, and unfortunately difficult to navigate—but when I arrived at court, no one knew where they were; it took some time to find answers.”

“I see.”

“They will not be returning to the Queen's court after this day, and they will spend the rest of the day in the company of myself and Patris Larkasir. It is possible they will return to the palace on the morrow or the day after; we have some terms to negotiate that may prove to be delicate.

“Unfortunately, I am not permitted to discuss them further until accommodation can be reached.”

“I see. Very well. I will send a man down to your office if that proves the wisest course.” He turned a baleful eye on both Mirialyn ACormaris and Meralonne APhaniel, and then he stared at the kneeling huntbrother with a gaze that Devon could not interpret.

In silence, he turned sharply and left, followed swiftly by his two attendants. It was clear that he was in a foul mood.

“Miri,” Devon said, bowing like a man who is courting. “What in the hells was a Verrus doing here? Tell me it didn't have anything to do with the mage.”

The mage in question blew thick rings up into the beams of the ceiling. “Of course, it's
always
got to be something to do with a mage. Devon, your suspicion does your House no credit.”

“I'd like to know why a Verrus thought this relevant myself,” Miri replied coolly, ignoring Meralonne's interruption. “And I'd also like to know who informed him. If it was Cormeran, I'll have his hands.”

Stephen rose slowly, his face ashen. “ATerafin,” he said, lowering his chin and raising it again. “Please accept our apologies.

“ACormaris, our thanks.”

She smiled a little sadly. “ACormaris, is it? Very well. I accept your thanks, oh foreign dignitary. But I did not come for your sake. Kallandras is widely known and widely admired.” She walked back to the bedside and knelt against the cool, smooth stone.

“Princess Mirialyn,” Dantallon said, choosing to set aside the more formal ACormaris. “You
are
my patient.”

“Yes,” she replied quietly. She did not move, and Dantallon delicately raised a hand to massage his temple. Devon knew exactly how he felt; he had had, in the course of both of his duties, to deal with Mirialyn, and it was almost—but not quite—as much a difficulty as dealing with the Breodanir Lords was turning out to be.

“Stephen, Lord Elseth—come. We must depart here. I believe that what we planned we can no longer carry out.” Devon knew Allamar well enough; he would no doubt have his Sentrus' spread out across the grounds, taking reports to him to satisfy his pride and his curiosity.

What did you say?
he thought as he glanced at Stephen.
He rarely reacts this personally.
And then he fully took in the stillness of the Elseth huntbrother, the paleness of his face, the thin sheen of sweat across his brow.

Fatigue was burned away in an instant.

• • •

“So, this is
your
office?” Meralonne, pipe still trailing pale, acrid smoke, looked around the neatly kept and polished desk as if he knew it almost never looked like this. He wandered over to the rich spill of dark curtains that brushed the floor. “You don't mind, do you?” he asked, drawing them wide to reveal the full, arched window that overlooked both balcony and treed grounds below.

“No, of course not,” Devon said, sounding as if he meant it. “Our presence here is not a secret.”

Meralonne's slender form was outlined by the high afternoon sun; his shadow, solid against the intricate work of lead bars and glass, was short but still graceful as he stood, staring out into the height and the distance. “This is such an unusual land,” he said softly. “Come, let us dispense with this foolishness.”

Before Devon could stop him—if Devon could have stopped him—he lifted his left arm in a broad, wide arc; it was a lower half-circle, centered just below the line of his brow. There was magery, unseen, unfelt, and unheard, but nonetheless present, in the offices of the Trade and Charter administrator.

Meralonne raised a sardonic brow. “If, of course, my interference is acceptable to you, ATerafin.”

“Master APhaniel—Meralonne—I have never criticized your use of magic. You are not one of the young hotheads who charge out of the Order filled with the zeal of The One Answer—that is, of course, whichever answer intellectual fashion considers popular at the moment. The Council of the Magi takes your counsel; you are considered one of the wise.”

“Well said,” Meralonne replied. “Do you mind if I sit?”

“No. Sit and be comfortable—but do what you came to see done.”

“I have.”

“Good. Lord Elseth, forgive me if I seem rude. I address your brother because he often speaks for both of you, but should you have anything relevant to add or to say, feel free to interrupt.” He turned to face Stephen, and the light, pleasant smile that had occupied his face fell away like a mask. “Tell me.”

It was not bardic; there was no compulsion in the voice. But Stephen did not wish to be the man who refused to follow the ATerafin's command. “Verrus Allamar,” Stephen said softly. “Verrus Allamar is one of the kin.”

Devon lifted a hand and glanced at Meralonne. “Did you notice this as well?”

The mage raised the stem of his ancient pipe. “I? No. But I was not looking for it, and had I been, I think the outcome would have been more devastating.”

Devon was silent, staring at the smoke wreaths above Meralonne's silver brow as if to wrest answers from their ethereal passage. Finally, he turned back to Stephen. “Does he know?”

“That I know? I tried not to show it. I don't know.”

Devon was happy, if such a feral satisfaction could be called happiness.

The Verrus was their link. Had to be. He had access to the information about each of the visitors' wings; who was staying, when they had arrived, what their servant detail—if any—was to be . . . the list went on. There was no need to employ spies further; Verrus Allamar had always been a very thorough man, and there wasn't a report that crossed his desk that he didn't eventually read. He was not now, nor had he ever been, a joy to work for or with—but that eye for detail served him well and furthered his career, where a lesser man might have been hampered by it.

“How long?” he said aloud; silence answered him. He rose swiftly and walked to the window; stepped out onto the balcony and stood beneath a crimson canopy, shadowed by and shaded from the sun. There, beneath the office, were two Sentries; in the grounds, in a formal marching pattern, another eight. There were, he thought, Sentries in the visitor's gallery as well.

He knew himself to be above suspicion—until now—but the mage and the visitors were obviously under the glare of Verrus Allamar's watchful eye. He shook himself; it was going to be hard to think of Allamar as a demon, even if demonic was an adjective that had often been applied. Hard or not, he would do that and more; he was Astari, and the safety of the Kings depended on it. Without a word, he returned to the office.

• • •

Stephen was exhausted. A day spent at the King's Court required all of the control that he had been trained to, but not born to, and he was often fatigued by the end of a day spent doing nothing more strenuous than merely speaking with the
Ladies of Breodanir. He had not, until now, considered a day of that nature to be easy.

But the Kings' courts, Queens' courts, the House of The Ten and the Civil Offices—although why they were called that, he didn't know, given the obvious tensions between the various nobles who worked there—plus the knowledge that he was being followed at every step by the eyes and ears of Verrus Allamar, were far, far worse than any Breodanir day could have been.

Still, he felt certain that Devon had shown him every quarter, every nook and cranny, of miles upon miles of palace ground; that he had viewed every living creature, with the possible exception of a few mice, who lived within the confines of the grounds—and that only Allamar, of all of them, had eyes of fire.

It would be good to get back to the halls that had become a substitute for home. A poor one, but better than nothing. Espere was whining softly; hunger, he thought, but he couldn't be certain.