The Sacred Hunt Duology (15 page)

“He died.”

Evayne raised an eyebrow. It was hard to believe that Kallandras was so good a bard that he had already built a reputation for himself. She almost said as much, but she knew what his response would be, and she did not wish to hear it again. Instead, she said, “And the hand?”

“Myrddion's right hand had five rings. After his death, Carythas had the hand brought to him and attempted to claim the rings for his own use. He set them upon his hand, and they began to burn him.

“He died, as well.”

“He did not understand their nature,” Evayne said.

“No one did,” Kallandras replied. “Or do you?”

She shook her head, and pulled the curtains, briefly, away from the window again; the sky above was darkening. With Kallandras, she walked a tightrope; the spirit of the law of the otherwhen had been violated on a dozen occasions, but never the letter—the letter, through no choice of her own, was kept and would always be kept. She discussed “known” history, of course. She did not discuss whether or not she had been present at its unfolding. And Kallandras, so unlike
Meralonne, never cared to ask. “Not fully, no. They were a set, and they operated as a set, at a particular moment. Myrddion—he
knew
that he was going to be betrayed; I'm certain of it. He
knew
that those rings would be taken from his body by no less a mage than Carythas. It was a trap.”

Her voice broke on the last word. “It must have been a trap.” She closed her eyes, and prayed that it was so—because he had died such a hideous, demeaning death to lay it. In the end, although he had been a strong man, he had screamed and pleaded, and eventually, after the hours had whiled away and the crowds had their fill of their greatest enemy's torment, they granted him his death. And she had watched; all she had done was watch. Even prayer had been beyond her.

It was the third time that the otherwhen had taken her to so distant a past. She prayed that there would be no fourth visit. “What happened to the rings?”

Kallandras shrugged. “After Carythas' death, three mages attempted to touch the rings. They also perished, although less hideously and less slowly than Carythas. Carythas fought Myrddion's trap to the end.”

Evayne nodded. There was a grim satisfaction in both his death and the time it took him to surrender to it.

“The fourth mage attempted to lift them by spell, but they would not be coaxed by any magic he could cast. There was no fifth mage; no one was willing to touch them. The lays do not make clear what the eventual fate of the rings was, but it is believed, in legends associated with the lays and contemporary to them, that the rings remained a part of the coliseum—that they could not be moved, although they did not serve an active purpose after the death of Carythas.” He stopped. “You think they're still in the coliseum in Vexusa.”

“I don't know. But . . . yes, I do. If they could not be moved by the greatest of the mages of the League, the enchantment on them was one that defies description.” She would not look at Kallandras until she could school her face. “Therefore, the coliseum in Vexusa is important—and it still exists, although Vexusa does not.”

“Averalaan.” His voice was almost hushed, “You think it
here
somewhere, or you would not be here.”

“Yes,” she said, and this time, pale but steady, she turned away from the support of the window ledge. “It stands near the heart of Averalaan.” She was on safe ground again, for she could always speak of the here and the now.

He was silent a long time, absorbing her news. She thought him pale, and the arrogant ice of his expression was chilled for a moment by something other than his great anger toward her.

His lips moved over a single word as he bowed his fair head. “Where, Evayne?” he said at length. He knew the city better than any but another member of the brotherhood. “The coliseum for the King's Challenge was built after the founding. There is no other coliseum in Averalaan.”

She slid her hands into the sleeves of her robes. Kallandras frowned with mild distaste as the orb of the seer appeared between her palms.

She did not notice the grimace. Her attention was absorbed by the silver mist as she stared into the world that only the seer-born could see. “It exists, Kallan. It exists in darkness, but it is part of the here and now.” He did not ask her how she knew; he never did.

“You think our mission is to find these rings.”

“I don't know.”

“Assume it's so. What of her?” He pointed to the figure that slept, with her knees curled up to her chest, in the center of the crimson counterpane.

“It's important that she travel with us,” Evayne's voice was a study in neutrality. “Our road is the same road for the time being—and I believe that only she can set us upon that road.” The ball she held cast light against her face like a shimmering web.

Kallandras looked away. “Where is the coliseum?”

“I don't know. It's hidden.” She smiled grimly. “Even the seer-born would have trouble piercing the darkness that surrounds it.”

“And you?”

“I have trouble. If I did not know exactly what to look for, I would see nothing out of the ordinary.” She lifted the soul-crystal high; the web across her face pulsed suddenly, a lightning mask. She walked over to the bed. “Child.” She took a deeper breath. “Espere. Come. It is time to find the legacy that your father's people have long forgotten. Can you feel it? We are close.”

The girl's eyes flickered open. She lifted her head and rested her chin upon the backs of her wrists as she gazed quizzically up at Evayne.

Evayne lowered one hand to touch the girl's upturned forehead. The girl flinched, and the seeress paled. The orb spun; the clouds within it grew murky and dark for a moment. “Let me lend you what you do not have, child. We cannot wait for your proper time. Tonight we must hunt in the city streets.” Silver sparkled in a web of mist and light. It covered them both, melting like snow against skin.

The girl's eyes began to change color; the alteration gradual enough that an observer might miss the transformation completely. She frowned and then looked up at Evayne, meeting violet eyes with golden ones. She looked around at her surroundings: the bed, the curtained window, the empty desk, and the unused grate. Then she nodded almost gravely and rose, sliding her legs toward the carpets beneath her bare feet. Those feet were callused and padded; the stones and pebbles of the city streets made no impression upon them.

“We will follow as we are able,” Evayne said, as the wild girl approached the door and reached for the handle.

Kallandras rose from the chair he occupied. He was tense, the line of his jaw hard and sharp. “Evayne—what did you do?”

“It's an old healing spell,” she said quietly.

He met her weary gaze with narrowed eyes before nodding grimly. They both knew he knew she was lying.

• • •

Averalaan at night was the shadow-twin of its daylight self. The moon's light across the open bay was high and full, but it shone on an empty stage; the city's streets were almost deserted. In isolated wells of light and noise, people gathered for entertainment and company.

Evayne, Kallandras, and Espere avoided them. They each used the shadows in their own way. Evayne drew them up like a cloak, with a touch of magic to seal them; Kallandras used them as a wall to hide in and behind; Espere used them as a guide.

They did not speak. They felt no need of words, and indeed, words would have been more of a barrier than a bridge. Here, with night come and darkness a friend, silence was a shield and a weapon, and the better armed they were, the more confident they felt in their companions.

Espere moved with a purpose that was singular and new; her steps were lighter and her eyes quicker than they had yet been. She paid attention to the buildings that she passed in and around, staring at them in wonderment. Children gazed at the new and the unfamiliar in just such a way. She did not linger, though; her hunt drew her on.

Kallandras watched her dart back and forth. He saw her stop once or twice in the long stretches of cobbled road, turning her face to the breeze as if it bore a scent she could follow. He could make no sense out of what she was doing, and that annoyed him, but he knew better than to interrupt or break the silence with questions.

The hotel that Evayne had chosen was in the most sensible part of Averalaan; merchants patronized it, and many foreign to Essalieyan were also quartered there, with their followers or their companions. Among them, three people of any description were unlikely to stand out, and any business that had to be done could be done almost freely. Espere led them out of the quarter, which was unfortunate.

What was worse was where she led them. The roads narrowed; the buildings began to close in on the street. Here, the moon's light was blocked by the height of narrow, closely spaced buildings that housed whole families. Averalaan was as safe as any city could be—but it was a city, still, and even at its heart there were darknesses that wise men did not trespass upon.

He watched as the wild girl began to lead them to the most dangerous of the hundred holdings.

“What's wrong?” Evayne said softly, her voice coming out of silence and leaving no echo in its wake. Magery.

He had a like way of answering her, and wrapped his own reply in bardic tones, precise and cool. “She's leading us to the thirty-fifth.”

“Thirty-fifth?”

“There are two holdings in the hundred that are dangerous. The thirty-fifth is the worst.” If he thought it odd that she did not understand the shorter reference, he kept his own counsel.

“Why?” Again, the word carried in an unnatural stillness.

His shrug was answer enough. “It is known,” he said.

“Not to the Kings.” She lifted her head as Espere caught the shadows and came sliding between them to stand before her.

Above them, the bowers of trees older than the city let the moonlight through in a dappled, dark pattern. The freestanding circles were planted throughout the old city in a pattern that not even the wise understood. They were tended by the Mother's children, and hidden behind the bases of their broad, dark trunks, one could often find those who made of the night a private affair.

Beneath the height of their highest branches, the rooftops sheltered—and these roofs were three stories and more above the ground.

“If it were winter,” the seeress said gravely to the young girl, “I would not have been able to pull you this far back.”

The girl cocked her head a moment, as if listening to the wind. Then she lifted a slender arm and pointed. To the ground.

“Where, wild one?” Evayne said softly.

Again, the wild girl lifted her arm, but this time, in the shadows of buildings that blocked the full moon, it was clear that she pointed not to the door of the tall building, in, at best, a questionable state of repair. No, she pointed instead to the trapdoor in the street beside it, where wood was placed by cutters' wagons, for the course of the cooler season. In Averalaan, winter was mild nine seasons out of ten.

Kallandras stepped forward. Dressed for the street and the night, he wore no lute—and the lute was the only thing that softened him in Evayne's eyes. His hair was pulled back so tightly it showed no evidence of the curl and bounce that was the envy of many a young court lady.

He raised a pale brow at Evayne, and she a dark one in return. If the stuff of dark legends stood here—in any age—it was in an age so long forgotten that nothing at all remembered it. Shrugging, he began to walk toward the closed trap.

Evayne watched as he unlocked and unlatched the banded, wooden door. It creaked on heavy hinges, but he lifted it as if it weighed nothing. Opening the slender, slight pouch strapped to his hip as part of his clothing, he pulled something out and held it for a moment in the flat of his palms. By it, the underside of his jaw was illuminated.

Curling his fingers around it, he let the darkness obscure him again. “I'll be back,” he said softly.

He did not return.

A
N HOUR PASSED.

Evayne could feel it as clearly as she could see it; the moon moving across the sky, changing by slow degree the texture of the shadows the buildings cast against the dark road. The wait was difficult, and not only for her.

Espere looked up at the seer, and then away again. She had repeated this motion every few minutes since Kallandras had gone down into the darkness that the trapdoor covered.

“He's gone,” Evayne said softly. The wild girl edged forward toward the trap itself, sniffing at the air before turning to face the seer.

It had gone on for too long already.

Sliding her hands into fabric that moved obligingly out of her way, she brought the round orb into the darkness, where she might better see its depths for the light it cast. The line of her hood fell forward, obscuring her eyes and her expression. Her palms cradled the sphere to either side, as gently as if they held another's upturned face.
Kallandras. I have searched for you before, and you are never easy to find, curse your training.

To push the silver mists away was, after these many years, a trivial matter. To hide behind them, to see glimpses without revealing one's self to the vision of another seer who might be searching—that was a challenge, and one that a seer almost never faced. It took skill, but more than that, it took power. She spent that power; instinct alone made her cautious, and a seer never ignored her instincts.

Kallandras, trained and nurtured by those schooled in the arts of the hidden ways, was never an easy presence to find—not even with seer's vision. Unlike Stephen of Elseth, or Gilliam, or any of the other people whom Evayne had had cause to seek in the otherwhen, Kallandras was a shadow, someone who conformed to the mists instead of standing apart from them.

Her jaw tensed; it always did when she exerted herself in silent concentration. She did not tell the wild one to guard their backs because she knew it to be unnecessary.

Already, Espere tested the scent the breeze carried and watched the flicker of
light and dark—an interplay of shadow and moonlight. The stars were there as pale companions to the moon's pensive face; the evening was clear, the breeze gentle. None of the Essalieyanese walked along these streets; nor did a walking patrol of the magisterial guards come by to disturb the silence, which was in itself unusual.

They stood, two lone women in the folds of magic-imbued shadow, in safety—the safety of the tightrope, or the razor's edge.

Time passed.

Espere looked up, but Evayne was still draped in silence and shadow; she had not moved. The girl hesitated, and then she reached out and grabbed the seer's arm.

Evayne cried out in shock as one palm fell away from the seer's ball. She fumbled and the crystal teetered precariously in the air before she caught it again and pulled it close. “What are you doing?” she said, eyes blazing silver. There was majesty to her anger, and power, and danger.

It faded as she met the gaze of the wild girl. The urgency and fear she read there made Evayne's anger seem as unreasonable as it was. She slid the crystal into the folds of her robes. “He is hidden,” she told her companion.

“Yes. By us.”

Evayne looked up, and up again as the moon cast a shadow across her face. Feet planted apart against the roof edge of the tenement, a tall, slender creature looked down upon them. His lips were turned in a smile, his arms were crossed. At his elbows and along the line of his shoulder blades, twin spikes jutted out to either side, and two long horns adorned his forehead. He wore no clothing and no armor—and he needed neither.

Evayne used a word that she hadn't spoken since a childhood she barely remembered had passed. She threw her hands up and light leaped from her fingertips, sparking and dancing in the shape of a translucent, orange dome.

The demon laughed and launched himself into the air, drawing his hands into fists above his head so that the elbow-spikes pointed down toward Evayne. His laughter died abruptly as they struck the barrier. Where they had broken through, they burned. Lightning ran up and down their length, snapping and arcing.

Snarling, the creature pulled himself away. Evayne staggered backward as her spell buckled. Underestimating one of the demon-kin usually had only one result.

Evayne was not the only person who could use the shadows to her advantage. Moonlight dimmed; starlight vanished completely. The demon sprang up, twisting in the air as if parts of it were solid to his touch. He was
fast.
Evayne had battled the kin before, but she didn't remember this speed.

At twenty-eight, she would have died.

At forty, she barely managed to resurrect her mage-shield before the demon was upon her again. She was no fool. There was no comparison between them on
a purely physical level, and she had no intention of allowing the creature to prove it. Her shield crackled as he forced it; he snarled, she grunted.

It was Evayne who was pushed back.

He saw her eyes widen and laughed. “This night, mage, you face a lord, and not a lackey. You will serve us well.”

Demon lord.
Evayne met his eyes without flinching. “I face one of the kin, no more, no less.” But she paled, and he saw it clearly. From a demon, the darkness hid nothing.

“The Priests call me Lord Caraxas. You may call me master.” Almost casually, he reached up and tore a branch from one of the freestanding trees. It was old, and the branch itself was the width of his arm. “I do hope you won't consider surrendering.”

Lightning struck the branch. Wood cracked and shivered; splinters drove themselves into the demon's hands. He laughed and threw the branch away. “Ah, little human—you remind me of days long gone. The world was ours, and we had time to enjoy our distractions.” He gestured suddenly, and the ground around Evayne's feet erupted into stony spikes.

Not one of them struck her. “Morrel rode,” she replied.

“Morrel died.” But he spat; the amusement gone to anger. “And Morrel had what you do not—strength and power. I am bored.”

“And I.” She threw her arms wide and spoke a single word. Pale fire roared up around him in a golden, glowing circle. Reflected off his teeth and his almost metallic skin, it grew stronger and brighter.

“I
am
impressed,” the demon replied. “You are stronger than you appear. You will make our lord a fitting sacrifice.”

She smiled, and for the first time, the hood of her robes fell away from her face, although she did not lift her hand to move them. “I think your lord would find me most unpalatable.”

“You will have a chance to be proved wrong,” the demon replied. “We've been searching for you.” He smiled. It was the most threatening thing he had yet done.

Evayne looked at the fires, and at the demon. He was contained within her circle, and it burned brightly. “What—”

The wild one howled.

Evayne turned to see the young girl's dark, strained features. They were pale with fear, raised toward the open sky in near panic.

The moon was slowly fading from sight.

“I am contained,” Caraxas said, and his smile darkened. “But I'm not alone.”

She looked up. Espere was right, but wrong; the moon stayed where it was.
They
were the ones in transition. The shadows above grew darker and more solid; the moon became a ghost, and then an afterimage against her eyes.

She knew what the spell was, and as the sky above her grew completely solid
and shadowed, she turned white. There were perhaps five mages in existence who could cast this spell—and only one of them could cast it on more than one person without paying the ultimate price.

She looked up. There was rock above her head—something dark and convex. There was no sky, no open air, no breeze. To either side of her, shadows slowly thinned as her eyes adjusted to darkness. She stood upon the steps of a building that took shape and form as she stared.

It was black and seemed to rise forever, gleaming in the light of her spell of containment. The steps went up to doors that were thrice her height. Towers stood astride the door, and a circular window above it. Only the building's face was visible in the poor light, but she recognized the style of architecture. It was a cathedral to rival that of Cormaris in the High City. And she knew it well. Having seen it once, she would never forget its dark face.

“Welcome,” Caraxas said, his voice the purr of a demonic feline, “to Vexusa.”

“Vexusa—Vexusa was destroyed in the cataclysm.” Her voice was tense and strained; she could barely speak at all.

Caraxas laughed, the sound low and rich with pleasure. “So your histories have said—but the lords of the Hells know the truth of the matter. What was built here could not be destroyed by mere humanity.” He threw his arms wide; light shone off skin. “No, when Vexusa fell to the Legion, the Dark League turned its hand to the city's heart—and they buried it, mage.

“Like a seed, it has bided its time, growing within the depths of the earth and waiting for its proper season. We tend it, we feed it.

“The City of Gold will rise again.” The amusement warmed his voice. He raised a finger to his chin and shook his head, a very human gesture. “But you will not be here to see it.” He lowered his hand and walked through the ring of fire without even flinching.

Evayne called light, and light came; a miniature sun burst into being in front of the demon lord's eyes. He cried out in shock and anger. “Espere—run!” she commanded.

“To where, little mage?” The voice was soft, feminine—and quite cold.

Of course
, Evayne thought.
He would not be alone here.
Standing beneath the arched stone frame of the cathedral doors, a figure in perfect stillness commanded the seeress' attention. Her hair was pale as platinum, her skin alabaster, and her eyes very red. Her nails were long and iridescent, and her clothing was . . . magical in nature. Beneath the walls and windows of halls hallowed by death, she looked every inch the High Priestess.

“To freedom,” Evayne replied.

“There is only one freedom in Vexusa for you or your companion,” the woman replied, stepping out from beneath the hard, curved arch. “And we call it Myrddion's escape.” She raised her arms and a black, coruscating light shimmered up them.

Evayne swore. She did not need the sight to know that this demon was more powerful than any she had ever encountered. She could feel the presence of darkness, could see it as a fog, not a mist.

“You will be staying with us for a short while, mage. And after we have spoken, you will have the privilege of meeting a God.”

“Thank you, but I fear I must decline. I have been in the half-world before and I don't find it very interesting.”

The demon smiled softly. Evayne had never seen so attractive, so sensual an expression. “You don't have the option, I'm afraid.”

“You can't force a person to the half-world.”

“No.”

Silence. The demon was patient enough to let Evayne figure it out for herself; it didn't take long. “By the Mother,” she whispered softly.
It started here. Father
—
why?

“Oh, yes. He's here, seeress. In this world. And the Shining City, when it rises and obliterates Averalaan above, will be his capital and the beginning of his dominion.”

Evayne saw the black-light billow out in five distinct tendrils. It closed round her like a fist. She had magic, yes—but against the trail of demon-magery that her enemy used, it would not last. She was not a fool; as bad as things were, they could get much, much worse before the end.

She knew it, having seen the coliseum of Vexusa in use once before.

“Very good. You will come with us now.”

The hand of darkness lifted Evayne off the ground.

“And you, silent one. You, too, will have the privilege of suffering for the company you keep. Come.”

Espere was surrounded by darkness, and by darkness lifted. Her arms were pinioned to her sides, but her head was free to move. She twisted it and stared at the seeress.

Evayne could think of no reply.

They began to move up the stairs of the cathedral as Caraxas joined his mistress. The doors swung open, creaking rather than gliding smoothly.

Evayne passed through them, head up, eyes focused.

As did Espere—but not in the manner the demons had intended. With a snarl that lengthened to a growl, she tore her arms free of the shadow that bound her. Her feet hit the ground, and she rolled along glistening black marble. The dark interior of the open cathedral swallowed her; she was gone.

Caraxas shouted in surprise. Fire leaped from his fingertips, leaving a molten trail in a thin, red stream in the wake of the fleeing girl.

“Sor na Shannen, you fool!” he cried, as Espere avoided flame and shards of rock. “Why didn't you warn me?”

“I had her!” The demoness snarled back. “There's no possible way she could escape that spell—she wasn't even a mage!” She scanned the darkness. “There!”

“She moves quickly,” Caraxas said. “Leave her to me.” He lifted his arm again. Fire flayed the darkness like a whip.

“No. If she could break that spell, she—” And then the demon called Sor na Shannen suddenly became quiet. “There is a way.” She turned to Evayne and grabbed her chin, piercing her flesh with the tips of her delicate claws. “Mage, where was she from?”

Evayne said nothing. The claws touched bone in three places, but the process was slow, like a caress gone awry. “You
will
tell me. Caraxas, go to the orbs. Get Ellekar's report, and get it quickly.”

“He's not due to report—”

“Send the message. We will use the power.
Now
.”

“But the girl—”

“I will deal with the girl, but I need that information.”

Caraxas nodded and vanished. Sor na Shannen turned her attention back to her hands. Blood ran down her fingers and dripped onto her wide skirts. “You are quite clever,” she said conversationally, “and skilled. It's a pity that you chose to interfere here.