The Sacred Hunt Duology

by Michelle West

  “Come,” she said again. “There is no fire here, and no food. I shall see that you have rooms set aside for you, but dinner is already served.” She made her voice softer still, and lowered her hand gently, capturing the blue of his eyes with the hazel of hers. “Don’t you want to eat?”

  She saw him struggle with hunger and fear, and was thankful that hunger won out; it was a near thing. He stepped forward and she began to move toward the dining room, taking great care not to crowd him.

  • • •

  He didn’t know what to think of the Lady. He was certain he had never seen anyone so lovely—she looked as if she’d stepped out of a story just to meet him. Her dress was so fine and so long, the skirts full and rustling, the sleeves soft and draped. Her hair was darker than his, and pulled back from her face to fall in curls at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were hazel, not as cold as blue or gray. She seemed friendly.

  He looked away from her, disgusted at himself. Stories. At his age.

  “Come and sit here. Boredan, this is . . .”

  “Stephen.”

  “Stephen. I’m Elsabet, and this is my daughter, Maribelle.”

  Maribelle looked up and sniffed, but Stephen couldn’t be angry; she was almost a baby. Her face was still sort of fat and chubby, and her hair, like her mother’s, fell long at the back, but in finer, softer ringlets.

  “This is Gilliam, my son.”

  Gilliam made to rise, and no one stopped him. He looked Stephen up and down and then shrugged, his young lips turning up in a curl that reminded everyone of his father.

  “Gilliam!”

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  Stephen didn’t bother to answer. This Lord’s son was his own age at least, and probably thought too much of himself, given the way he’d answered. Well, fine clothes didn’t make a person—his mother used to tell him that—and this Gilliam wasn’t so much bigger than he.

  “Why don’t you take that seat, Stephen. The servants will bring dinner in a moment, and I shall join you when they arrive. I have a few things to attend to first, but I hope you won’t hold that against our hospitality.” Lady Elseth smiled, nodded, and turned almost in one motion. She was used to being obeyed, and even though her voice was friendly and warm, Stephen heard the command in it.

  He paused to watch her retreating back. She couldn’t be real, but just the same, she reminded him of old words and voices that he could barely put faces to.

  “Are you going to stare, or are you going to eat?”

  “Master Gilliam.”

  “I was just asking.” Gilliam picked up his fork and began to cut away at the meat on his plate.

  Meat. Something white nestled underneath a blanket of gravy, and something green sat beside it, untouched. Stephen looked self-consciously at his clothing and then straightened out. He’d be damned if that boy would make him feel uncomfortable. “I’m going to eat,” he replied curtly, pulling the chair out.

  “Aintcha gonna change?”

  “Maribelle.”

  “Well,” the child said, tilting her head to one side and looking seriously at Boredan. “Ma always makes me change.”

  “Yes, and your Lady mother also tells you that you mustn’t question guests.”

  She shrugged and faced Stephen. “Want my peas?”

  “No, he doesn’t,” Boredan said, quite severely. “You do. Please, Master Stephen.”

  Master?

  Servants came into the hall carrying trays and plates and an endless amount of food. They began to serve Stephen at Boredan’s curt nod as Stephen stared. Still, it was obvious that the food was meant for him, so he didn’t bother to ask. He was hungry.

  Into his third mouthful of meat, he froze at the sound of Gilliam’s unwelcome snicker.

  “Don’t you even know how to use a fork?”

  The fork, curled in his left hand, stopped moving as Stephen stared down at it, embarrassed in spite of his best intentions.

  “Master Gilliam, it isn’t an art that you are a master of yourself. Your manners, if you please.” The last three words were as pointed and cold as any that Stephen had ever heard.

  Gilliam’s cheeks purpled in a flush, but he doggedly continued. “Well, why don’t you tell him how to eat?”

  “Because he is a guest. You are a rude little boy.”

  Stephen waited until just the right moment. Boredan’s attention was still upon the Lord’s son, but the Lord’s son was glaring at him. He smiled, stuck out his tongue, and bent down to his food.

  He decided right there that he hated Gilliam. But not enough that he wouldn’t eat at the table with him.

  • • •

  “What do you mean, you didn’t even ask?”

  Soredon rolled his eyes, “Elsa, don’t you think we might—”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  He could tell by the familiar flash of her eyes that he wasn’t about to enter his domicile without satisfying her anger. He might be cold, hungry, and already bone-weary with arguing, but it wouldn’t likely budge her an inch from her place in front of the doors.

  And Norn, curse him, wasn’t being much help at all. He stood to the side, his arms crossing his broad chest, his mouth turned down in a frown that had only half the severity of hers.

  “I didn’t have time to ask.”

  “You had time to hunt him in the King’s own city and you didn’t have time to ask?”

  “Elsa, I—”

  “He thinks he’s here for some sort of punishment, no doubt. The boy’s positively terrified!”

  “Before you get carried away with motherly sentiment, do remember that he was trying to rob me.”

  If she’d had an ounce of common blood, she would have spit. Instead, the line of her usually full lips disappeared further into the white set of her mouth. The stone that framed her was less hard and cold than she. Certainly less dangerous.

  “Why wouldn’t he try? He’s cold, he’s probably starving, and you were dangling enough money to feed him for a few years.”

  “What does it matter? The boy’s here, he’ll have better clothing, enough food, and any education you can force on him. Let’s just drop it, shall we?”

  “The ‘boy,’ as you call him, is here, but he doesn’t have to stay if he doesn’t choose to. Don’t forget it.”

  “Elsa, the dogs have just been bedded down, and I’d like the chance to do the same. We’ve been traveling hard these last few days just to reach home.”

  “I should feel sorry for you, is that it? You’re used to hard travel. The boy isn’t.”

  “Elsabet,” Norn said quietly.

  She met his eyes, and he shook his head in response, mouthing a silent later that Soredon couldn’t see.

  Still she hesitated another moment before stepping out of the way. Soredon heaved a grateful sigh and inched past her.

  “If we have another son, Soredon, I will never trust you to find a huntbrother for him. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Good.”

  “Oh, Elsabet?”

  “What?”

  “I missed you, too.”

  She didn’t even bother to answer as he opened the door and walked through it. “And what are you smiling at?” But part of her anger was stemmed, and Norn didn’t feel any sting in the words.

  “You, Lady.” He shook his head. “If the boy makes the choice and the vow, he’ll be blessed in you. He couldn’t ask for a better mother.” He walked over and put an arm around her shoulders to shield her from the night’s chill. “I think it will be fine. I had a similar experience with Soredon’s father, after all.” He felt her shoulders relax slowly. “It’s the Elseth way. I don’t know why they choose among the young thieves in the King’s City; the Valentin custom of choosing local orphans seems much more intelligent.”
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  “They enjoy the challenge of catching a likely thief, I suppose,” Elsa answered as she walked with Norn to the door. “Or they like hunting in the King’s City.” She lowered her head, briefly, to his shoulder. “My husband has the best huntbrother in the kingdom of Breodanir, so I shouldn’t argue with Elseth custom.” Her lips grew thin as she raised her face. “Only with the execution of that custom.”

  “Elsa,” Norn said, pulling against her arm. “It’s cold. Shall we enter?”

  She linked an arm with his and shook her head again, struggling free of temper. “Sometimes I think huntbrothers are more of a blessing to us than the Hunters we marry. But next time, Norn, keep a better eye on him. I am trusting you, after all, with my family’s name.”

  • • •

  He had a bed. A real one, with tall, thick posts and a headboard that disappeared into curtains. Those curtains were deep green—Hunter colors—with tasseled edges of harvest gold.

  Better, he had pillows. Three, all thick and soft and fluffy. At the table by his bed, someone had left some sort of clothing, all neatly folded into a careful pile. He had enough food in his stomach to last days, he had a fire in the grate that was burning merrily, and the comforter that he sank into was at least as good as the pillows.

  He was in the Heavens, he was certain of it. Either that, or he was about to embark on a journey to the Hells proper, and this was the price that they offered him. He didn’t much care.

  Not until the knock came at the door. He leaped to his feet and jumped away from the bed, glancing around the room for some place to hide. They must have realized that they’d made a mistake, sending him here. At least he hadn’t touched the clothing.

  “Hello?”

  He recognized the voice. It was the huntbrother’s. Norn’s.

  “Hello, Stephen. I’ve ordered a bath for you. Do you mind if I come in?”

  Yes. He thought it, but the wariness hadn’t left him at all, so he said, “No.”

  The door opened and Norn, carrying a small lamp, walked over the well-lit threshold. “Ah, I see you won’t be needing this.” The wick flickered and went out in the noisy gust of his breath. He stepped out of the way, and three people carrying a large tub entered in his wake. They put the tub down in the room’s center and disappeared, only to return with buckets that appeared to be steaming.

  Stephen didn’t much hold with bathing and water—especially not in the winter. He eyed the servants with a suspicion that bordered on fear.

  “It’s a bath, boy,” Norn chuckled. “You’re not afraid of it, are you?”

  “No,” Stephen answered. The word was far more resolute than his face. “It’s just water.”

  “And a good deal of soap, which you could use. Ah, Terril, that’s quite enough of the hot for the moment.”

  Terril, a dark-haired younger man, nodded briskly, although he seemed dubious. He stepped aside and looked at Stephen.

  Stephen stared back.

  Norn cleared his throat. “Stephen, you’re supposed to sit in the tub.”

  Stephen still hesitated.

  “And you’re to give your clothing to the servants. They’ll see to its cleaning.”

  “I’m supposed to get undressed in front of everybody?”

  “That’s the way it’s normally done. Come on, boy. There aren’t any women about.”

  Gritting his teeth, Stephen submitted himself to the first bath of the year. He was fine; he didn’t even yowl when his feet hit the water that he was certain would boil flesh.

  • • •

  The servants were gone, and Stephen sat on the side of his bed—his, as Norn had assured him—in the soft flannel of newly acquired nightclothes. He couldn’t stop touching them, and occasionally his hands would fall to the comforter as if to make sure it was real.

  Norn didn’t miss any of this as he sat in the room’s sole chair. Cleaned up, the boy looked much less like a street orphan—a little food and a little sleep, and no doubt the child would begin to look human.

  “Well, Stephen, what do you think of our home?”

  “You live here?”

  “Yes.

  “My apologies for the way you were found. We were overdue and Soredon was anxious to return home.” It was a lie, but a harmless one. “It’s Master Gilliam’s birthday in two short months, you see.”

  That didn’t mean much to Stephen, as was obvious by his lack of response, so Norn found another tack.

  “Do you enjoy living in the streets of the King’s City?”

  Stephen’s shrug was answer enough.

  “Would you like to return to them?”

  “Why’re you asking?”

  “Because you don’t have to.” Ah, now he could see the suspicion that had dogged the boy for the entirety of their journey. It was natural enough; hadn’t he been suspicious when he’d first come to the manor? “Do you know what a huntbrother is?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Because,” Norn continued, as if Stephen hadn’t replied, “if you so choose, you could be one.”

  “I ain’t Hunter-born.”

  “No. Neither am I.” Norn edged closer. “None of the huntbrothers are.”

  Stephen looked at Norn’s fine clothing with obvious skepticism. But he was interested, that was clear.

  “This would be your room. You would eat at the Lord’s table, wear clothing as good as this, and take lessons. No one would expect you to thieve just to have a place to stay in the winter. No dens would try to kill you or force you to join. You wouldn’t have to worry about running with, or from, a street pack.”

  Stephen’s hands drummed the side of his bed as he stared past Norn’s shoulders. Reflected firelight flickered in his eyes as if trapped there. It was warm here, and the food, like the Lady, had been something out of story or dream. It was almost too good to be true, and anything like that had its price.

  “What do I have to do?”

  “Perform the duties of a huntbrother.”

  It was a trick. Stephen was certain of it; Norn was a huntbrother. “Why me? Why not a real brother?”

  “Stephen, no huntbrother is Hunter-born. No huntbrother is noble-born. Don’t you know any of your stories?”

  “Stories are for kids,” Stephen replied, sullen at the implication that he was stupid.

  “Not all stories are,” Norn said softly, remembering another time, a different boy. He shook himself as the silence lengthened, and then continued. “Hunter Lords are like Lord Elseth—closer to their dogs and their hunts than they are to their people. Huntbrothers are supposed to balance that; to remind them of the rest of humanity.”

  Stephen nodded in quick agreement. “Why do we need ’em anyway?” he asked, warming to the subject. “Why’re they worth more than the rest of us?”

  “You don’t know your history,” was Norn’s quiet reply. “And I don’t have the time to teach you everything you’d need to know. But let me tell you quickly about the Betrayer, the Doomed King.”

  In spite of himself, Stephen leaned forward intently.

  “You know that to kill your parents is a crime against the Mother,” Norn said softly.

  Stephen nodded. Everyone knew that.

  “Over fifty years ago, the King of that time—the current King’s grandfather—was challenged by his son, Prince Aered, to a duel in the Hunter’s see. The King’s Queen, Leofwyn, stood by her son, and the King’s Priest stood by the Prince as well.

  “Under the eyes of the Hunter God, Prince Aered killed his father, and saved all of Breodanir in the doing. But the Prince had still committed a crime in the eyes of the Mother, and he died after only a short reign.”

  “What do you mean saved Breodanir?”

  Stories are for children, Norn wanted to say—but he knew that the time for teasing Stephen, if there ever was one, would come
much later. “The King whom we do not name was a weak-willed man who wanted to please too many people. He made his court of foreign men and women, not the Breodani, and he belittled his Hunters.

  “These foreign lords and ladies felt our customs barbaric and foolish, and over the years they convinced the King that they were right. Do you know what the Sacred Hunt is?”

  Stephen flushed. “Everyone knows that!”

  “And?”

  “Once a year the King and all of the nobles go into the royal forests and call a hunt. And once a year, one of the nobles dies. Always.”

  “Yes,” Norn said quietly, seeing the question in Stephen’s eyes. “It’s true. Always. The Hunter Lord, or huntbrother, is taken by the Hunter’s Death—the Hunter God made flesh. It’s a gruesome death, Stephen. The death we all fear.” He shivered even as he spoke, and then shook himself again. “Where was I? Ah, yes.

  “The Doomed King did not call the Sacred Hunt as it had always been called. The Hunter Lords pleaded with him, as did their Ladies, the Priests, and even the Queen—but to no avail. He was tired, he told them, of being laughed at by greater men than they, and the foolish custom of the Hunt would end with him.

  “But the Sacred Hunt is called for a reason, Stephen, even if you do not believe in it. The Hunter God made his covenant with the Hunter-born: that he would help them hunt and feed his people every day of the year; that crops would be bountiful and game plentiful; that the forests and fields would be green and grow well. But in return for this, the Hunter Lords and their huntbrothers must, one day a year, allow the God His Hunt.

  “After the first year with no Hunt, the crops failed, and the game became scarce. The King’s fine foreigners said that this was coincidence, but the Breodani knew better and they redoubled their efforts to reach their King.

  “He was a weak man, as I’ve said, and having made a mistake, he would not acknowledge it for fear of seeming weak. So the next year, he again refused to call the Hunt.”

  “Why didn’t another noble call it?”

  “Because,” Norn said quietly, “only the King can call the Sacred Hunt; it is part of our covenant with God. Now, save your questions and let me finish.