The Hallowed Hunt

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  The principal mourners followed next. Prince-marshal Biast, resplendent of dress and weary of face, was attended by Symark, holding the prince-marshal’s standard with its pennant wrapped and bound to its staff as a sign of grief. Behind them, Earl Horseriver supported his wife, Princess Fara. Her dark garb was plain to severity, her brown hair drawn back and without jewels or ribbons, and her face deathly white by contrast. She had not her brothers’ height, and the long Stagthorne jaw was softened in her; she was not a beauty, but she was a princess, and her proud carriage and presence normally made up for any shortfall. Today she just looked haggard and ill.

  Horseriver’s spirit horse seemed stopped down so tight as to be mistakable for a mere blackness of mood. I must find out from Wencel how he does that. Ingrey began to see how Wencel might long evade the lesser among the Sighted, but he wondered at the cost.

  Ingrey was relieved to see that the hallow king had not been dragged from his sickbed and propped in some sedan chair or litter to attend his son’s funeral. It would have been too much like one bier following another.

  Ingrey trailed Lady Hetwar as she took her place in the procession entering the high-vaulted Son of Autumn’s court. The wide, paved space filled; lesser hangers-on crowded up and peeked through the archway from the central court. The high lords set down the bier before the Son’s altar, the choir chanted another hymn, and Archdivine Fritine stepped forth to conduct the ceremonies of Boleso’s send-off. Ingrey widened his stance, clasped his hands behind his back, and prepared to endure the obsequies. On the whole, and fortunately in his view, the speakers kept their words brief and formal, with no references to the embarrassing manner of the prince’s death. Even Hetwar restricted himself to a few platitudes about young lives cut tragically short.

  A rustling sounded from the central court as the crowd parted to allow the procession of the sacred animals to pass. Three of the stiff-looking groom-acolytes who led them were not the ones Ingrey had seen the other day. Fafa the impressive ice bear had been replaced by a notably small long-haired white cat curled tamely in the arms of a new woman groom in the Bastard’s whites. The boy who led the copper colt was the same as before, though; while he kept his attention on his animal and the archdivine, his glance did cross Ingrey’s once, above Lady Hetwar’s head, and his eyes widened in alarmed recognition.

  With extreme circumspection, each animal was led to the bier to sign the acceptance, if any, of Boleso’s soul by its god. No one much expected a blessing from the Daughter of Spring’s blue hen nor the Mother of Summer’s green bird, but nerves stretched as the copper colt was led forth. The horse’s response was ambiguous to nonexistent, as were those of the gray dog and the white cat. The grooms looked worried. Biast appeared grim indeed, and Fara seemed ready to faint.

  Was Boleso’s soul sundered and damned, then, rejected by the Son of Autumn Who was his best hope, unclaimed even by the Bastard, doomed to drift as a fading ghost? Or defiled by the spirits of the animals he had sacrificed and consumed, caught between the world of matter and the world of spirit in chill and perpetual torment, as Ingrey had once envisioned to Ijada?

  The archdivine motioned Biast, Hetwar, and Learned Lewko—who had been lurking in the background so unobtrusively even Ingrey had not seen him before—to his side for a low-voiced conference, and the grooms began to lead up the animals one by one and present them again to the bier.

  The heat and the tension were suddenly too much for Ingrey. The chamber wavered and lurched before his eyes. His right hand throbbed. As quietly as he could, he stepped back to the wall to brace his shoulders against the cool stone. It wasn’t enough. As the copper colt clopped forth once more, his eyes rolled back and he crumpled to the pavement in a boneless heap, the only sound a faint clank from his scabbard.

  AND THEN, ABRUPTLY, HE WAS STANDING IN THAT OTHER PLACE, that unbounded space he had entered once before to do battle. Only it seemed not to be a battle to which he was called now. He still wore his court garb, his jaw was still human…

  Out of an avenue of autumn-scented trees a red-haired young man appeared. He was tall, clothed as for a hunt in leggings and leathers, his bow and quiver strapped across his back. His eyes were bright, sparkling like a woodland stream; freckles dusted across his nose, and his generous mouth laughed. His head was crowned with autumn leaves, brown oak, red maple, yellow birch, and his stride was wide. He pursed his lips and whistled, and the sharp sweet sound pierced Ingrey’s spirit like an arrow.

  Bounding out of the mists, a great dark wolf with silver-tipped fur ran to the youth’s side, jaws agape, tongue lolling foolishly; the huge beast crouched at his feet, licked his leg, rolled to one side and let the red-haired youth crouch and thump and rub its belly. A collar of autumn leaves much like the youth’s crown circled the thick fur of its neck. The wolf seemed to laugh, too, as the youth stood once more, legs braced.

  Pacing in a more dignified manner, but still eagerly, the spotted leopard appeared. Ijada, looking bewildered, walked beside it. The leopard’s neck was bound with a garland of autumn flowers, all purple and deep yellow, and a plaited chain of them ran up to circle Ijada’s wrist like a leash, but which was leader and which was led was not clear. Ijada wore the spotted yellow dress in which Ingrey had first seen her, the one she’d been wearing during the nightmare of Boleso’s death, but the bloodstains were fresh and red, shimmering like rubies embroidered across her breast. Her expression, as she saw the youth’s bright face, changed from bewildered to wide-eyed, exalted, and terrified. The leopard rubbed against the youth’s legs on the other side from the wolf, nearly knocking him over, and its rumbling purr sawed through the air like some serrated song.

  The youth gestured; Ingrey’s and Ijada’s heads turned.

  Prince Boleso stood before them in an agonized paralysis. He, too, wore what he’d been found in the night he’d died: a short coat and daubs of paint and powder across his waxy skin. The muted colors made Ingrey’s head ache; they clashed, not rightly composed. They reminded Ingrey of an ignorant man, hearing another language, responding with mouthed gibberish, or of a child, not yet able to write, scribbling eager senseless scrawls across a page in imitation of an older brother’s hand.

  Boleso’s skin seemed translucent to Ingrey’s eyes. Beneath his ribs, a swirling darkness barked and yammered, grunted and whined. Boar there was, and dog, wolf, stag, badger, fox, hawk, even a terrified housecat. An early experiment? Power there was, yes; but chaos even greater, an unholy din. He remembered Ijada’s description: His very mind seemed a menagerie, howling.

  The god said softly, “He cannot enter My gates bearing these.”

  Ijada stepped forward, her hands held out in tentative supplication. “What would You have of us, my lord?”

  The god’s eye took in them both. “Free him, if it be your will, that he may enter in.”

  “You would have us choose the fate of another?” she asked breathlessly. “Not just his life, but his eternity?”

  The Son of Autumn tilted his wreathed head a trifle. “You chose for him once, did you not?”

  Her lips parted, closed, set a little, in fear or awe.

  He ought to feel that awe, too, Ingrey supposed. Ought to be falling to his knees. Instead he was dizzy and angry. With a piercing regret, he envied Ijada her exaltation even as he resented it. As though Ingrey saw the sun through a pinhole in a piece of canvas, while Ijada saw the orb entire. But if my eyes were wider, would this Light blind me?

  “You would—you would take him into Your heaven, my lord?” asked Ingrey in astonishment and outrage. “He slew, not in defense of his own life, but in malice and madness. He tried to steal powers not rightly given to him. If I guess right, he plotted the death of his own brother. He would have raped Ijada, if he could, and killed again for his sport!”

  The Son held up his hands. Luminescent, they seemed, as if dappled by autumn sun reflecting off a stream into shade. “My grace flows from these as a river, wolf-lord. Would you have me dole
it out in the exact measure that men earn, as from an apothecary’s dropper? Would you stand in pure water to your waist, and administer it by the scant spoon to men dying of thirst on a parched shore?”

  Ingrey stood silent, abashed, but Ijada lifted her face, and said steadily, “No, my lord, for my part. Give him to the river. Tumble him down in the thunder of Your cataract. His loss is no gain of mine, nor his dark deserving any joy to me.”

  The god smiled brilliantly at her. Tears slid down her face like silver threads: like benedictions.

  “It is unjust,” whispered Ingrey. “Unfair to all who—who would try to do rightly….”

  “Ah, but I am not the god for justice,” murmured the Son. “Would you both stand before My Father instead?”

  Ingrey swallowed nervously, not at all sure the question was rhetorical, or what might happen if he said yes. “Let Ijada’s be the choosing, then. I will abide.”

  “Alas, more shall be required of you than to stand aside and act not, wolf-lord.” The god gestured to Boleso. “He cannot enter in my gates so burdened with these mutilated spirits. This is not their proper door. Hunt them from him, Ingrey.”

  Ingrey stared through the bars of Boleso’s ribs. “Clean this cage?”

  “If you prefer that metaphor, yes.” The god’s copper eyebrows twitched, but his eyes, beneath them, glinted with a certain dark humor. Wolf and leopard now sat on their haunches on either side of those slim booted legs, staring silently at Ingrey with deep, unblinking eyes.

  Ingrey swallowed. “How?”

  “Call them forth.”

  “I…do not understand.”

  “Do as your ancestors did for each other, in the purifying last rites of the Old Weald. Did you not know? Even as they washed and wrapped each body for burial, the kin shamans looked after the souls of their own. Each helped his comrade, whether simple spirit warrior or great mage, through Our gates, at the end of their lives, and looked to be helped so in turn. A chain of hand to hand, of voice to voice, cleansed souls flowing in an unending stream.” The god’s voice softened. “Call my unhappy creatures out, Ingrey kin Wolfcliff. Sing them to their rest.”

  Ingrey stood facing Boleso. The prince’s eyes were wide and pleading. I imagine Ijada’s eyes were wide and pleading that night, too. What mercy did she get from you, my graceless prince?

  Besides, I cannot sing worth a damn.

  Ijada’s eyes were on him, now, Ingrey realized. Confident with hope.

  I have no mercy in me, lady. So I shall borrow some from you.

  He took a breath, and reached down into himself farther than he’d yet done before. Keep it simple. Picked out one swirl by eye, held out his hand, and commanded, “Come.”

  The first beast’s spirit spun out through his fingers, wild and distraught, and fled away. He glanced at the god. “Where—?”

  A wave of those radiant fingers reassured him. “It is well. Go on.”

  “Come…”

  One by one, the dark streams flowed out of Boleso and melted into the night. Morning. Whatever this was. They all floated in a now somewhere outside of time, Ingrey thought. At last Boleso stood before him, still silent, but freed of the dark smears.

  The red-haired god appeared riding the copper colt, and extended a hand to the prince. Boleso flinched, staring up in doubt and fear, and Ijada’s breath caught. But then he climbed quietly up behind. His face held much wonder, if little joy.

  “I think he is still soul-wounded, my lord,” said Ingrey, watching in bare comprehension.

  “Ah, but I know an excellent Physician for him, where we are going.” The god laughed, dazzlingly.

  “My lord—” Ingrey began, as the god made to turn the unbridled horse.

  “Yes?”

  “If each kin shaman delivered the next, and him the next…” He swallowed harder. “What happens to the last shaman left?”

  The Lord of Autumn stared enigmatically down at him. He extended one lucent finger, stopping just short of brushing Ingrey’s forehead. For a moment, Ingrey thought he was not going to answer at all, but then he murmured, “We shall have to find out.”

  He clapped his heels to the copper colt’s sides, and was gone.

  INGREY BLINKED.

  He was lying on hard pavement, his body half-straightened, staring up at the curve of the dome of the Son’s court. Staring up at a ring of startled faces staring down at him: Gesca, a concerned Lady Hetwar, a couple of men he did not know.

  “What happened?” whispered Ingrey.

  “You fainted,” said Gesca, frowning.

  “No—what happened at the bier? Just now?”

  “The Lord of Autumn took Prince Boleso,” said Lady Hetwar, glancing over her shoulder. “That pretty red colt nuzzled him all over—it was very clear. To everyone’s relief.”

  “Yes. Half the men I know were betting he’d go to the Bastard.” A twisted grin flitted over Gesca’s face.

  Lady Hetwar cast him a quelling frown. “That is not a fit subject for wagering, Gesca.”

  “No, my lady,” Gesca agreed, dutifully erasing his smirk.

  Ingrey hitched up to sit leaning against the wall. The motion made the chamber spin in slow jerks, and he squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. He had felt numb and bodiless during his vision, but now he was shuddering in waves radiating out from the pit of his belly, though he did not feel cold. As though his body had experienced some shock that his mind was denied.

  Lady Hetwar leaned forward and pressed a stern maternal hand to his damp brow. “Are you ill, Lord Ingrey? You do feel rather warm.”

  “I…” He was about to firmly deny any such weakness, then thought better of it. He wanted nothing more passionately than to remove himself from this fraught scene at once. “…fear so, my lady. Pray excuse me, and excuse me to your lord husband.” I must find Ijada. He clambered to his feet and began to feel his way along the wall. “I would rather not pitch up my breakfast on the temple floor in the middle of all this.”

  “Indeed not,” she agreed fervently. “Go on, quickly. Gesca, help him.” She waited just long enough to see Gesca grasp his arm, then turned back to her son.

  Over by the altar, the choir was again singing, forming up to lead the procession out, and people were beginning to shuffle themselves back into their positions. Ingrey was grateful for the covering noise. Across the crowd, he thought he saw Learned Lewko crane his neck toward his disruption, but he did not meet the divine’s eyes. Keeping to the walls, half for support and half to skim around the throng, he made his escape. By the time they exited the portico, he was towing Gesca.

  “Leave me,” he gasped, shaking off Gesca’s hand.

  “But Ingrey, Lady Hetwar said—”

  He didn’t even need the weirding voice; Gesca recoiled at his glower alone. He stood staring in bewilderment as Ingrey weaved away through the crowded square.

  By the time Ingrey reached the stairway down to Kingstown, he was nearly running. He bolted down the endless steps two and three at a time, at risk of tumbling head over tail. By the time he passed over the covered creek, he was running, his long coat flapping around his boot heels. By the time he pounded on the door of the narrow house, and stood a moment with his hands on his knees, wheezing for breath, he had nearly made his lie to Lady Hetwar true; his stomach was heaving almost as much as his lungs. He fell through the door as the astonished porter opened it.

  “Lady Ijada—where is she?”

  Before the porter could speak, a thumping on the stairs answered his question. Ijada flew down them, the warden in her train crying, “Lady, you should not, come back and lie down again—”

  Ingrey straightened, grasping her hands as she grasped his. “Did you—”

  “I saw—”

  “Come!” He yanked her into the parlor. “Leave us!” he shouted back over his shoulder. Porter, porter’s boy, warden, and housemaid all blew back like leaves in a storm gust. Ingrey slammed the door upon them.

  The handgrip turne
d into a shaken embrace, having in it very little romance but a great deal of terror. Ingrey was not sure which of them was trembling more. “What did you see?”

  “I saw Him, Ingrey, I heard Him. Not a dream this time, not a fragrance in the dark—a daylight vision, clear.” She pushed him back to stare into his face. “And I saw you.” Her look turned to disbelief, though not, apparently, of her vision. “You stood face-to-face with a god, and you could find nothing better to do than to argue with Him!” She gripped and shook his shoulders. “Ingrey!”

  “He took Boleso—”

  “I saw! Oh, grace of the Son, my transgression was lifted from me.” Tears were running down her real face, as they had her dream face. “By your grace, too, oh, Ingrey, such a deed…” She was kissing his face, cool lips slipping across hot sweat on his brow, his eyelids, his cheeks.

  He fell back a little, and said through gritted teeth, “I don’t do this sort of thing. These things do not happen to me.”

  She stared. “They happen to you rather a lot, I’d say.”

  “No! Yes…Gods! I feel as though I’ve become some unholy lightning rod in the middle of a thunderstorm. Miracles, I have to stay away from funeral miracles, they dodge aside from their targets and come at me. I don’t, I can’t…”

  Her left hand squeezed his right. She looked down. “Oh!”

  The wretched bandage was soaked again. Wordlessly, she turned to the sideboard, rooted briefly in a drawer, and found a length of linen. “Here, sit.” She drew him to the table, stripped off the red rag, and wrapped his hand more tightly. Their mutual wheezing was dying down at last. She had not run across half of Easthome, but he did not question her breathlessness.

  “A physician should look at that,” she said, knotting the cloth. “It’s not right.”