The Sacred Hunt Duology (89 page)

As they approached the Arannan Halls, it became clear that the dogs were upset about something; Gilliam's mood shifted suddenly.

“Is there a problem, Master Stephen?”

He gave the mage a sidelong glance. “You mean besides the fact that we're being dogged by kin, assassins, and probably worse? I don't know.” He looked askance at his Hunter, and the Hunter's expression changed. He was smiling.

They paused a moment outside of the smooth, wide wall, that bore a plaque that named the wing—one that neither Stephen nor Gilliam could read. Gilliam reached for his sword and then shook his head. Instead, he entered into his chambers in the Arannan Halls before Meralonne could insist on taking the lead, which was just as well. The dogs were growling—no, snarling—loudly enough that they could be heard without being seen.

“Who is it?” Stephen said.

“The bard,” was Gilliam's reply.

Stephen's brows disappeared into the line of his hair. “Call them off!”

The Hunter Lord bristled slightly, but before he could answer, Meralonne did. “I wouldn't be so quick to forgive were I you. I would counsel against.”

Stephen kept his smile at the mage's mistake to himself, and even kept the feeling behind it from Gil; of the two, he was better at masking his feelings. The huntbrother always was.

Gilliam, bristling, turned to the mage. “I know how to handle my dogs, and I know a threat when I see it.”

Only a silver brow rose at the tone that Gilliam took. “I see,” he said quietly. “Very well. It is your decision and I, of course, bow to it. Shall I stay,” he added, in a much more biting tone, “to make certain that you don't suffer for it?”

Stephen intervened at once. “Master APhaniel,” he said gravely, “although you may not be aware of it, we have met the bard before, and he honored us by
honoring our dead. It is rare,” he added, “that anyone who is not Breodani understands so much of our custom.”

Meralonne did not appear to be impressed, but he kept his silence.

The dogs came to the entry hall at their master's unspoken command, growling and yipping almost at the same time. They were pleased with themselves; one didn't need a Hunter's bond to see that. Ashfel shouldered Marrat and Connel out of his way, and then bounded up to Gilliam, planting his ash-gray forepaws firmly in the center of his master's chest.

His master was unimpressed, and after a few seconds, Ashfel sighed and fell back to the ground to sit at the front of Gilliam's small pack. He did, however, nudge Gilliam's palm with the top of his broad head until Gilliam acceded to the unspoken demand and began to pat him.

“You can come out now,” Gilliam said, raising his voice.

A minute passed, but not more; the unruly golden curls of the bard Kallandras could be seen as he peered cautiously around the corner. Singer and Corfel—at the rear of the pack—turned suddenly and snapped; Kallandras disappeared as Gilliam roared.

The dogs, Stephen saw, were not in the best of form. It had been days since they were allowed their run, and longer since they were allowed their hunt; they were restive and not a little frisky. Gilliam understood it well—but it was no excuse for disobedience; Stephen could feel his Hunter's anger as clearly as if it had been directed at him. He was thankful—and not for the first time—that he was not one of Gilliam's pack.

“Is it
really
safe this time?”

“It was safe last time,” Stephen called back, his words carrying the tone of his smile. “They're playing a game; you happen to be the bone.”

“You'll pardon me if I don't find that comforting.” Kallandras appeared in the doorway. His jacket was askew and his hair somewhat wild, but his smile was genuine as he bowed, Breodanir style, to Stephen and Gilliam. “Meralonne,” he added, straightening out. “You appear in the strangest of places.” His lute was strapped across his chest, and it appeared to be unharmed.

“I should think,” the mage replied, “that it would be I who would say that to you. It's not often that welcome guests feel the need to sneak about in such a fashion.”

“Sneak? You wound me. I was told that Lord Elseth and his huntbrother would repair here, and I thought merely to wait until they did.” He threw a rueful glance at the pack of dogs. “And, in fact, I did wait. It's a good thing the armoire here is four feet shorter than the ceiling.”

“Kalliaris was smiling on you,” Stephen said, “if you could climb that before the dogs could reach you.”

“It had nothing to do with Kalliaris,” the mage replied darkly.

Kallandras stared at him, and the mage returned the gaze. Stephen knew it for the contest it was, although he found it less interesting than Gilliam did. Piercing gray met piercing blue and held fast. A minute passed, and they continued to glare unblinking. Another minute.

Espere whined and nudged Gilliam; he caught her by the arm and held her back.

They're not going to stop
, Stephen thought with wonder. Neither man had moved a muscle; it appeared that neither needed to draw breath; the conflict was enough, silent and still as it was, for either.

And then he realized where he had seen such behavior before, and it brought a quiet smile to his lips. Gilliam felt his amusement, and the flash of remembered emotions, the tangle of youth, that went with it. He smiled broadly as well.

“Kallandras,” Stephen said softly, “when you are ready to speak, we will be by the fountains in the smaller courtyard.”

The words did what pride would not; Kallandras immediately looked away, and even had the grace to flush slightly. “Your pardon, Stephen. And yours, Lord Elseth. I forget myself, even here. Might I accompany you?”

“Please do.”

“Your pardon, APhaniel, but I fear I must ask that this meeting be conducted in private.”

Meralonne smiled grimly. “Indeed, I thought as much. Let me just say that if you truly wish privacy, you will not dismiss my aid. Think of that what you will.” He paused, and then added, “Kallandras, whatever else you may know—or think you know—about me, you must know this: that in this conflict, we are not on opposite sides.”

“It is never just one conflict or one battle,” Kallandras replied, equally grave. “The knowledge that you have now, and that you may gain, will be carried forward.”

“And likewise for you,” was the reply.

They were silent again, regarding each other; Stephen was worried that it was about to degenerate into a staring contest. But it was Kallandras who at last nodded, all business. “Follow if you will.”

“I wouldn't miss the opportunity.”

• • •

Stephen sat, his back to the blindfolded, kneeling boy. The water that fell from the child's cupped hands made an instrument of liquid. Stephen half expected to see Kallandras take up his lute and begin to accompany the broken stillness.

Salla was in the bard's lap, but she was quiet; his fingers rested very gently against her strings to still them. “You understand that Meralonne's loyalties must lie with the Order of Knowledge?” he said softly.

Stephen glanced at the mage, who was as still as the fountain's statue. “I'm not
certain,” he replied at last. “Evayne led us to him before she vanished. She must trust him in some measure.” He paused and once again looked at Meralonne.

Kallandras closed his eyes at the name and bent his head. When he raised it minutes later, his face was shining slightly. Sweat.

“Are you ill?”

“If you mean, will I lose control as I did this morning, then no. But I am not well, and it is because of my . . . ailment that I've come to court to seek you out.”

“You said you had something to give me?” Gilliam interrupted.

“Aye,” was the soft answer, “I do. But it is not easily reached, Lord Elseth, and better not discussed until it is finally in your hands.” He turned to look at the girl who sat, alert but still, at Gilliam's feet. “The wild one must know of what I speak.”

“What can we do to aid you?” Stephen asked, speaking as if Gilliam had not interrupted them. He did it out of habit; many of the discussions between a Lady and a huntbrother were broken by the Lord. Norn had explained it thus: the conversation is a stream or a river that passes between the Lady and the huntbrother; the Hunter Lord is the large stone and small pebble over which it must pass, unimpeded.

“We must speak,” the bard said at last. “And we must have our words kept here.” Kallandras stared into his hands; they were cupped and empty. And then, as if deciding, he straightened his shoulders and looked up. The face of the bard—amused, bemused, or composed—was gone. In its place was something at once cold and desperate. He lifted his left hand and held it aloft; he spoke a single word and the breeze blew his hair from his face. It touched only Kallandras; in every other corner of the courtyard, had anyone thought to check, there were only shadows and stillness. But it was hard to see anything else; there was a light upon the third finger of Kallandras' raised hand that shone like sunlight encased in ice; it was bound by something that glittered palely. The breeze became wind, and the wind's roar was a song, wordless and primal.

“Blood of the forebears,” Meralonne whispered, as he stared.

Stephen knew that what he saw was a Work, some artifact of the maker-born, something ancient and possibly dangerous. It
felt
old; older than the palace and the Isle, older than the city and the reign of Kings.

He had never seen such an artifact before, although Averalaan was rumored to be alive with them—but he had read about them, even dreamed about them, in his youth, yearning for their power and their mystique to somehow elevate him from the ordinariness that plagued a huntbrother.

What he had never read, or perhaps what words could not convey at a distance of time and remove, was that these Works were beautiful; that they could, with no context, pierce the heart and move it. He said something, and the words were swept up like so much dust, and cast aside without being heard.

Light limned the arm of the bard; light contoured the gaunt edges of his upturned face. And that was a strange thing, for the light itself was unnerving in its beauty, but it did not bring beauty to what it touched; it was harsh and rendered all visible.

“Enough! Enough, Kallandras!” Meralonne's voice was tinny and small compared to the wailing of the wind—but it was heard.

Kallandras, bard of Senniel, slowly lowered his arm. He was sweating, and his eyes were dark; he cradled his ring hand a moment with his free hand as Salla lay unsupported in his lap. He breathed in, as if to catch and hold the last whisper of dying breeze in his body. And then, quietly, he began to strum the strings of his lute, filling the silence with a music dark and somber, but gentle nonetheless. A dirge. “We can speak,” he said quietly. “The words, the wind keeps.”

The mage was as pale as his hair; he moved stiffly, like a very old man, and then took a seat beside Stephen at the foot of the blindfolded, kneeling child. “Do you know,” he said quietly to the huntbrother, “what the statue behind you is named?”

The wind had taken Stephen's voice for the moment; he shook his head dumbly.

“Justice,” Meralonne replied. “It was created by an Artisan who managed to flee Annagar during the forty-year Clan Wars. You will see its like in many of the homes of those of Annagarian descent. A bitter testimony to a dark time and a merciless rule.”

“An Artisan? But isn't an Artisan a—”

“Maker-born, yes. But of the highest skill; they are rare.”

“Was it an Artisan who made—”

“Don't speak of it, Stephen,” Meralonne said softly, and Stephen found it easy to lapse into silence. The mage began to fill his pipe in the newly still air. “No Artisan made what you saw,” he said at last, lighting the leaves with a flicker of his fingers. “But three hands lingered over it. It is almost time,” he added softly, as if he could not believe what he was saying. “So much is explained. So much.”

“Time for what?” It was Gilliam who spoke; Gilliam, who had the soul of a rock and the romantic notion of a dog. But Meralonne merely shook his head and looked to where Kallandras sat, telling a wordless tale with Salla's song.

“You found Vexusa,” Meralonne whispered, and the words, although quiet, held a mixture of horror, awe—and pity. There was no question in them. “You've found the cenotaph of the Dark League.”

“I was there,” the bard answered in a hushed voice that hardly carried. “But I did not find it, and I could not find it again, no matter how much I desired to do so.”

Silence. Then, “
She
took you there.” There was envy, even anger, in the statement, but there was no surprise.

“I
am
transparent today,” Kallandras replied. “But no, in the end, although she was with me, she did not take us; I do not know that she could find it either.”

“Then how?”

“The wild one began to lead us,” he said softly, nodding to Espere, who sat composed and watchful at Gilliam's feet, as if the light and the bard that held it were of little interest.

Both Gilliam and Stephen turned to stare at her, and she smiled; there was the curious air of a comfortable cat about her.

“Began?” Meralonne said.

“Yes—we encountered the kin, or rather, they encountered us. Magic was used, and of a power that I have not personally encountered before; we were taken from the streets of Averalaan to the foot of an ancient cathedral.”

“Taken?”

“Yes. Evayne, the wild one and I—as well as the caster.”

“Was it—”

“Yes,” Kallandras replied quietly. “The shadows came, and the skies faded; light did not return.”

“And there?”

“There, we were captured by two of the kin, using magics that not even Evayne could counter.”