The Sacred Hunt Duology (75 page)

The demon's body was gone; nothing short of summoning one of the Magi using the emergency protocols could prevent it from disintegrating—and Devon had no desire to summon any more of the Magi than were already involved in this affair.

The demon's ally had been badly savaged by the dogs. Devon had seen many different deaths before, but few quite so unpleasant. He wondered at these Western lords—for Lord Elseth not only seemed unconcerned, but even satisfied, at the man's grisly death. It was a type of savagery that Devon identified with the worst of the Southerners; he had not thought to see it in the heart of Essalieyan, so close to the court of the Kings.

But it was not just that that bothered him, for he was a pragmatic man; any of the Kings' Swords and any of the Astari would have thought first of capturing and containing the man for future questioning, regardless of where their personal preferences lay. Questioning a corpse offered very little in the way of satisfaction. For most men, it offered nothing.

But Devon knew from the markings around the man's wrists—faint and pale with time—that he was from the South. In and of itself that wasn't surprising; the Arannan Halls were used to house visitors—even those on extended stay—from the Dominion of Annagar, and where possible, it was staffed with Annagarians or those of Annagarian descent. He also knew that the man was not one of those servants.

But there was no telltale mark to give Devon proof of what he suspected, or if there had been, the dogs had savaged it into nonexistence. And without proof, he did not wish to raise the specter of the Allasakari among the Astari until he knew for certain that the Astari had not been infiltrated. Information was valuable; why give warning, where warning might serve an enemy?

Oh, he cursed, but silently, as he muttered a very real prayer to the fathers of the kingdom for the life of a lone Breodanir huntbrother. He sat back in his chair, surrounded by the trappings of a normal day, and began to formulate his report.

• • •

Stephen woke with a start to see an old man leaning against his chest. His mouth was dry and an odd, bitter taste lingered along his tongue.

“I told you,” Gilliam said softly, and the old man's eyes opened slowly.

Stephen had never met one healer-born who did not wear the vestments of the Mother; he blinked at the lamp that the old man seemed to pull from nowhere as
light shone off the golden emblem of twin palms. “Open your eyes, Stephen,” the man said gruffly. “We're both tired, even exhausted—but I can't leave until I'm satisfied that you're safe.”

Stephen nodded absently. He tried to remember how he'd arrived in this bed, but the memories were fuzzy and distant. He began to sit up and then stopped as a sharp pain in his shoulder buckled the length of his arm.

“Take his care,” Alowan said softly to the Lord Elseth.

“I will.” The Hunter Lord offered his arm to the old healer, and the old healer took it, unaware of the import of the gesture to Gilliam. “I owe you a debt,” Gilliam said. “And if you call upon it, I will repay it.”

Alowan's smile was tired. “I know,” he said.

But once he'd left the room, he let his curiosity begin to really bubble beneath the placid surface of his expression. He had feared another near-death—and he was still recovering from the shock of the last call to life; Stephen had, in fact, presented no such dilemma. Rather, he seemed victim of both drug and magics in a very dangerous and unique combination—at least unique in Alowan's experience.

He was not dead so much as suspended, and in the end, that suspension was not proof against the healer's skill. Using a poison, for want of a better word, that was so easily dispelled by a healer's touch made no sense at all. There were no healers within immediate reach—but there were three that worked very closely with the Kings, the Queens, and the Princes, and not a single one of them would have mistaken that state for death once they'd begun the full examination.

And why magic?

Ah, too many questions for an old man.

He was troubled as he hurried down the long halls. It was dark; the carriage was waiting for the end of his task, and he would report to the Terafin upon his arrival at her estates. He had but to reach it, and he would be safe from political turmoil and the tensions that occasionally reared their heads in even the most stable of The Ten families.

Devon ATerafin was waiting for him in the shadowed open-air alcove that was the last hurdle. “Alowan,” he said, as he stepped forward, blocking the way in such a genial fashion that it was impossible to see a threat in the motion. “I hear that I have much to thank you for.”

“To thank The Terafin for,” was the gruff reply. “And she's waiting for me.”

“I don't mean to keep you from your carriage,” Devon replied. “Let me walk with you.” He fell gracefully into step beside Alowan; really, the comparison between their strides made the older man feel almost a mountebank. “You did well for a healer not schooled in poison arts.”

Alowan nodded.

“What was the poison, or what was its family?”

“Simple enough,” Alowan said, between pursed lips. “A heart medicine, common and of some beneficence when taken in the right time and the right season.”

“I see. The name?”

“I don't remember it,” Alowan said, and this at least was true. “But he'll be up and around by tomorrow; possibly by this evening if you've need of him. He will not be good for strenuous physical activity; his shoulder's stiff and will take more time to recover. Given the nature of the current difficulties, I did not think it wise to spend myself when I do not know how soon the next emergency will be.”

Devon nodded; it made sense. But Alowan did not like the slight narrowing of eyes and subtle shift of lips that Devon displayed. Devon started to speak, and then fell silent. “Give The Terafin my personal thanks for the service you have rendered to the Crowns.”

“I will, Patris.” Alowan sighed inwardly. “And I will return in two days' time to see my patient once more.”

4th Corvil, 410 A.A.

Breodanir, King's City

Z
ARETH KAHN WAS
a pale and unbecoming shade of green when he stepped out of the golden circle onto the hard, polished wood. He saw his reflection, saw it waver, and saw—although it took him time to comprehend exactly why—its sudden approach.

Elodra Carlsenn caught his shoulders with the flats of two braced palms, easing his rapid descent. “You'd have to be face forward,” he grunted.

Jareme Margon laughed, stepping into the range of Zareth Kahn's peripheral vision; he was dowdily dressed but handsome as always. He was a member of the mages' school because his curiosity, when it caught him, drove him hard. Unfortunately, he was adept at not being so caught; Jareme defined the word lazy. “He couldn't be guaranteed that you'd try to catch him if the only thing at risk was his thick skull.”

Their voices were comforting, familiar, and slightly distant, the aftereffects of a spell woven by the combined powers of four members of Averalaan's Order. Four members, and the power of circles that had been carved into stone and wood by an Artisan whose name was history.

“Zar?” Sela stepped forward last as Elodra propped him up and skillfully wound an arm beneath his arms and behind his back. “You look awful.”

“And you, Sela Mattson, look wonderful.” He would have kissed her hand at the very least—although she hated the gesture—but he didn't have the energy to lift his own.

“We'd word that you were coming. It came half an hour ago through the crystal relays; nearly scorched the mirrored surfaces. I'd guess some first circle mage condescended to pass it on, with more thought to speed and less to power level. What's going on in the capital?”

“I'm not sure how much I'm allowed to tell you,” he said stiffly. His lips felt numb. “But Matteos has sent the fire-mages out after Krysanthos.”

Sela and Jareme exchanged a wary glance.

“What?”

“We've a missive from the Queen's representative.”

“A message?”

“A missive. You'll want to read it yourself.”

He doubted it. “Well, it won't be my problem for the foreseeable future.” Straightening out as much as he could, while still leaning against Elodra, he pulled a creased scroll out of the length of his sleeve. “Elodra.”

The slender lines of Elodra's brow drew up in suspicion. Suspicion which, quite frankly, was well-deserved.

“You're going to have to take it,” Zareth Kahn said. “It's council writ.”

“Elodra?” Jareme said, his voice rising on the last syllable as the member of the Order stared uneasily at Zareth Kahn's offering.

“Leave him be,” Sela said. “He knows what it is, and if you'd half a brain, you'd know it as well.”

Elodra Carlsenn straightened out a shoulder—the one against which Zareth Kahn wasn't leaning—and accepted the weight of the Magi's writ. “They've made me Master, haven't they?”

“Of the college in Breodanir, yes.”

“But I'm not—but you're—”

“Zoraban wasn't either. Apparently, second circle mages of my age and dignity have a very good chance of achieving first circle if not bothered by the day-to-day travail of keeping an Order in one piece.” He smiled grimly. “And look what happened to the only other second circle mage that Breodanir boasted.”

Elodra swallowed. “But I
hate
speaking to the Queen,” he said softly, to no one in particular.

“She won't bite,” Sela said, smiling broadly. “Well, all right. She might a bit—but she's reason for it. Elodra, you
know
this is perfect, both for you and for the Order here. There isn't another man who could pull us out of this mess. Or any other mess, for that matter.”

“Wonderful. So instead of finally forcing the lot of you to become independent, responsible human beings, I'm forced to give in and take over.”

“It's not,” Zareth Kahn said politely, “as if you don't already pursue that course. Can we move? My legs are about to collapse.”

• • •

It was not just as messenger, or even diplomat, that Zareth Kahn was returned in such haste to Breodanir's lesser Order. He was a second circle mage, and his specialty was in the gathering of information. In a month—if, he thought grimly, they had a month—his brethren from Averalaan would join him in greater numbers. Krysanthos had dwelled a decade and more in the Western Kingdom of Breodanir. Evidence of his life, his dual life, lay waiting to be uncovered.

Or so Zareth would have said. But Krysanthos was a man who had hidden his arts and his practice for a long time against the admittedly poor vigilance of the
Order. Had he time to prepare? Had he known that he might fail in his assassination attempt at the Elseth preserve? Zareth Kahn thought it unlikely, for Krysanthos had always been an arrogant man. But he'd always been a cunning one as well.

The evening of his arrival in Breodanir, Sela quietly led him to the chambers of the Order which Krysanthos habitually occupied. Her demeanor was the only warning she gave of what he would find within; charred stone, ashes, shards of broken glass. Of his books and papers, very little remained, although evidence of ruined leather bindings that had been spell-protected lay fragmented among the ashes.

He hoped the Order's mages were up to the task of reconstructing.

4th Corvil, 410 A.A.
Averalaan, Senniel College

“Kallandras, are you all right?”

“I—y-yes,” the golden-haired bard replied, with about as little conviction as Sioban had ever heard him use. His face was twisted in a momentary grimace, as if a spasm of extreme pain had unexpectedly come upon him; he used his long, golden curls as a curtain.

Sioban, her own hair peppered with time and drawn back in an unruly bundle, shook her head slowly to indicate her lack of belief. “What happened?” She straightened up, pulling her elbows from their perch on the sea-facing wall of Senniel College. The wind was heavy with the tang of salt; it was a brisk day, if a warm one. “Kallandras?”

Kallandras shook his head; his face was the white-gray of ash. He bowed, low and stiff, and then leaned onto the stone tops of the wall as if by doing so he could avoid her scrutiny. Sioban Glassen was a stern woman, the Master of Senniel, but also a very patrician mother figure for at least half the college. It was rumored—although she denied the rumors strenuously and severely when some youngling had the temerity to ask about them to her face—that she had served in the Kings' army during the skirmishes with the Dominion of Annagar; if she had, Kallandras was certain that it was as the representative of the magisterial courts. She had the voice and the demeanor for it.

He took a breath, and then another one, filling his lungs with the wet air and his mouth with the aftertaste of salt. Many argued that Senniel was not ideally positioned for the training and care of young vocal cords, but few indeed were those who, when offered a post or position at Senniel, refused it.

Senniel had been his home for the last ten years, and Sioban had been bardmaster for all of them. He doubted that there would ever be another Master of Senniel; she seemed part of the pillars and foundations that stretched from the vaults to the heights.

“Kallandras, I asked you a question.”

“I—had a momentary cramp,” he replied.

She snorted. “I've seen you break your arm without grunting, young man. I don't appreciate a lie, and I've half a mind to speak the truth out of you.”

He didn't even stiffen; he knew it for the hollow threat it was. Not that she couldn't do it had she the mind to, for although not all bards were talent-born, Sioban was. She had the voice—he had heard her use it precisely once—but he wasn't certain how strong the gift was.

At the moment, he didn't care.

The sea shifted along the horizon like murky water in the grand aquariums of the Royal zoo. He tried to grip the stone beneath his hands and felt it, hard and cold, refuse his hold.

“Kallandras!”

Her voice was in his ear, beside his face; her arms were around his chest. He felt them, but they were distant.

The screams were not.

She could not hear them; no one who had not been trained by and bound to the Kovaschaii could. But the dead were calling in pain and isolation, and somehow, for reasons that he did not understand, his brothers were not responding.

“Kallandras, go to the healerie. No, never mind. Amerin! Come, bring Tallos with you!”

The echoes of the screaming died; he took a deep breath and pulled himself away from the Master's awkward embrace.

“Stay where you are, Kallandras.”

“I'm—fine,” he forced out.

“The Hells you are.” She looked past his shoulder at the sound of running feet; there were two, one heavy tread and one light. “Good. Help me with him.”

“Amerin—”

“Shut up, Kal. Don't argue with the Master.” A red-haired man six years Kallandras' senior caught his left arm; a dark-haired older master caught his right.

“Well, he's not feverish,” Master Tallos said gruffly. “Out a little late last night, eh?” Then his eyes narrowed. “It's Kallandras, isn't it?”

“It is indeed Kallandras, as you well know,” Sioban said curtly. “I wish him taken to the infirmary. I will be down shortly to see what the physicians have to say.”

Both Amerin and Tallos nodded in unison at the commands of the Master of the college.

Kallandras did not argue further. Instead, he suffered himself to be steadied—to be almost lifted—and led away from the wall.

• • •

Kallandras was a mystery, and Sioban was too old to be attracted to the mysterious. She was, however, the bardmaster of Senniel, and it was her responsibility to
see that the college ran both safely and securely. It was Sioban who had first interviewed young Kallandras when he was brought to the college, and it was Sioban who decided that, past unknown, she would accept his word of honor that that past posed no threat to her or her Order and allow him to take one of Senniel's coveted positions as a student.

There was, of course, minor outrage, for Kallandras was considered young. That outrage was both calmed and further incited—depending on which master it was who had originally raised the uproar—when Kallandras proved an adept and able student with concentration enough for five students his age and an ability to remember that even Sioban found difficult to believe. Such focus, and in such a seemingly normal youth was unheard of, but it was his song, his voice, that truly made him special.

He was bard-born, there was no doubt of it.

He had graduated from the ranks of the applicant to the apprentice, and from there, in six short months, to journeyman. He had traveled for a year each with Amerin and Sorrel, and then, at the end of that second year, he had again outraged the masters of the college by taking the bardic challenge. He had emerged, if not unscathed, as a bard.

It had not come as a surprise to Sioban.

If Kallandras sang it right, she was certain that he could call down the wind and the rain from the heavens itself—that the Gods who were listening, who
must
listen to such a voice, would grant him their blessing and their boon.

She shook her head, wondering if she had ever had that effect on those with the ear to hear it. She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, thinking herself maudlin, but not particularly embarrassed to be so. Kallandras was all angry youth, and his song spoke to the heart, but there was little joy in it yet. She hoped that one day, that would change.

Ah, but that was a matter of song, and this a matter of the college.
What are your secrets, Kallandras?
She rose. As a bard, she knew how to listen, and in his voice, in the few words that he had spoken as he began his collapse, she could hear a horror so strong it had shaken her.

She was not a woman who liked to be shaken.

• • •

The screams returned, and in them, wordless, was the pain of a betrayal so vast that it made Kallandras feel—for perhaps the only time since his desertion—that his own crime had been paltry. He started to rise, and the glowering man beside the pallet caught his chest with the flats of both palms and pushed him back.

It was the physician Hallorn, a man with the right disposition for a cook in a very fine house. “This is the last warning you get, Kallandras. You
lie back
, or I'll have you strapped down. Do I make myself clear?” His face was ruddy, and seemed sweat-dampened; the lines in his brow were deeper and darker than usual.

Kallandras nodded, but the nod did not appear to placate Hallorn. He wasn't certain why; although Hallorn was known for his temperament, he was not often angry at the college's youngest bard.

He closed his eyes a moment, and then opened them again; he could hear them, distant now, although he was not certain they would stay that way. There were two voices; it was hard to identify them because they were so distorted in their despair and anger. But he knew why they were screaming.

They had died, but the dance was undanced; their bodies had failed, but their spirits, by compact, were trapped. The Lady could not come to them, come for them.

That will be me.
He shuddered and then turned away from the thought as the screaming grew louder and more pained, calling all of his attention.

“That's it!”

It was Hallorn, and the voice was a rumbling growl. He felt arms against his chest; he stiffened in preparation for defense before he remembered where he was. Who he was, now.

“What are you trying to do?” It was not the physician's voice.

Free them
, Kallandras almost replied. But he did not and would not. These were the rites of the brothers who had once been his, and whom he loved above all else, even dishonored as he was. He would not share them with any outsider.