Greymarten let his hands slide from the shoulders of the two who were no longer mere children. He lifted his arms, bringing his palms to touch either of the henges at his side.
The circle on the green closed at his gesture.
“It is done,” he said softly. He reached forward and grasped the two young hands that remained locked.
Both boys turned to stare at him, a shadow of doubt in their eyes. He knew well why. Although his own huntbrother had long since perished, he had never forgotten his oaths and their special meaning: the bond that had been forged.
“It is real,” he said quietly.
As always, he wanted to tell them of the risks; of the emptiness that waited in the hands of death. “Stephen,” he said gently, as he touched the boy’s hard fingers, “Gilliam, nothing but death will take from you what you have been granted. Do not fear to let go.” The words were the truth, but the simple message, so slight and so soft, was almost a lie compared to the pain of the loss that Greymarten—and many a Hunter—had experienced in his life. More, he would not offer.
Gilliam relaxed his grip immediately; he had lived with the Hunter’s Priests all his life, and knew the value of their word.
Stephen hesitated.
“Stephen, trust me. The oath has been accepted by God. No simple unfasting of hands can expunge it.”
Clenching his jaw, he followed Gilliam’s lead. Best to start now what would have to be continued. His hand slackened and he let it fall to his side, waiting for the loss to come, fearing it.
Minutes passed in his silence, and then tears came instead.
What his oath—his choice—had given, did not fall away. It remained securely inside him, a warmth and a wholeness upon which a new life would be built.
He wanted to stop the tears, but they wouldn’t be caught, not even by his will. Gilliam reached out and grabbed his shoulders gently. He understood Stephen now, and he knew what fears Stephen had faced in those minutes.
“Let him be, Gilliam of Elseth. It has been hard for him to trust his choice; it is not pain that moves him now.”
If Stephen had been afraid of laughter, none came. In turn, each of the villagers that was old enough to know how came to offer their thanks and best wishes. They did all in silence, at the foot of the altar that signified the Hunter’s Death.
Then the Master Hunters brought their previous day’s kill. They placed it upon the altar with the help of the villagers, and Greymarten set about portioning it with the silver knife; the heart for the God, the hides for the Hunter, and the meat for everyone present. For this one special Hunt alone, the dogs were not allowed their portion of the felled beast; this stag was given in celebration of the coming-of-age of a new Hunter. A fire was already sparking to life in the pits to the south of the manor, and ale and wine were now brought in heavy, earthen mugs by manor servants.
Corinna was given an old harp, and she played it with both gusto and warmth. Several of the villagers, emboldened by wine, began to dance at her feet, and the blacksmith even approached the Lady Elseth, who was kind enough to join him in his jig. Truly, tonight, they were all the Hunter’s people, and they lived in the moment of his blessing. The cost and the Price was a shadow made distant by merriment and celebration. Even Soredon, the most dour and grim of men, chose to catch a young girl in the circle of his arms and spin her about on the green. His son was Hunter-born, and by God accepted; this made a magic of the evening, and brought his past momentarily to light in the fires of his eyes and the warmth of a smile that was so seldom given it was truly special.
Stephen, too, was caught in the play of the rough country music, although not by any maiden; Norn grabbed him from behind and placed him deftly upon broad shoulders. Their robes blended together, becoming one moving tapestry of times past and times present. Of all the burdens this huntbrother had carried, this slight, small boy was among the most precious.
“Welcome,” Norn roared above the laughter and out of tune singing of the crowd, “to Elseth!”
• • •
The following week, Gilliam was inducted into the Hunter ranks, albeit at the very lowest station: He was made a Page of the Running Hounds to the kennels of Lord Elseth. He was full of pride and happy pomposity until he discovered that he would fail at the first of his duties unless he paid more mind to the lessonsmaster.
Soredon was both amused and sympathetic to the young boy’s reaction, but, as he said, it was important to take the roll of the dogs. Which meant, of course, writing and spelling, as well as better reading.
There were two things that made this onerous chore bearable. The first was that Hunter Maradanne of Corinth would board at Elseth and begin the rudiments of weapon lore, and the second was that Gilliam would have every reason and excuse to be in the kennels with the dogs that he loved.
Stephen was at his side for every moment of the lessons, although he took better to reading and writing than Gilliam would ever do. They learned to spar together, and although Gilliam was the stronger of the two, he was also more quick of temper, and bore the bruises of it more often than his huntbrother did.
They walked the dogs, tended them, and learned to write the letters of their names, but as promised at the binding, only Gilliam could feel their presence and know their minds. He shared this with Stephen, as he did all that he was given.
But they rarely stopped their fighting. Indeed, it became as much of an annoyance to Lady Elseth as Norn and Soredon often were.
• • •
Four months after Gilliam’s birthday, he became a Page of the Scent Hounds, and he was given his first horn. It was not so fine or grand as his father’s, being simple silver, but he wore it proudly, and even in sleep would not be parted from it.
Both he and Stephen learned the use of it; the different calls that comprised the Hunter’s canon were intricate and necessary. Winding the horn was easier for Gilliam than for Stephen. The music came naturally to his lips, and he rarely forgot the use of a single note. He willingly prompted his huntbrother in the rote of the huntbrother’s calls, which were different, but harmonious, with his own. Another source of conflict and companionship.
He learned the use and making of nets, as well as the coupling and uncoupling of the dogs. But he was still not yet old enough, at eleven, to be allowed out on the hunts. He did not bide his time with patience.
• • •
When they were twelve years old, just before they gained the rank of Varlet of the Running Hounds, they were called to the Valentin estates.
Lady Elseth was always quiet at this time of year, although there was enough to occupy her. It was the week that preceded the planting season, when the farmers were at their busiest and their requests had to be attended to immediately.
It was also the time of the Sacred Hunt.
Winter’s chill was almost gone from the air; it lingered only in the face of the Lady and her most senior of staff. She counted the days in busy silence, watching the turnings and visiting the solitary altar on the green in the morning before her children rose. What had looked mysterious and almost forbidding on the night of the Hunter’s Oath now looked like a thing of mourning and silence. And why should it not? It served to bind boys on the verge of manhood, and it served to lay them to their last rest.
It served the women differently.
This morning prayer was a custom of the women of Breodanir during the time of the Sacred Hunt. The Lords did not see it; how could they? They served their King and their country in the great forests that were reserved for the God’s purpose. They found their prey, they loosed their dogs, they gave in to the wildness of the Hunter’s trance.
A pained smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she waited at the stones for a response that never came. Next year Gilliam would begin his real training; he would come to know the Hunter’s trance, and the greatest of all of the God’s gifts. He
was already growing into the role that the God decreed; the dogs, even though they were not his own, loved him and obeyed him; his use of weapons, if not words, had progressed immeasurably, if one were to listen to Norn. He talked of nothing but the Hunt, yearned for nothing but the ability to join his father.
To join his father. . . .
The smile dimmed and was lost for the day. Here, now, the price to be paid for the gift was writ large.
Where are you, Soredon? Is Norn still with you?
She no longer prayed for her father or her brother; the one had been lost through age, and the other the God had already claimed. But she knew the time was coming soon when two more names would be added to her small ritual. Why was it that all of the men she loved would always face this risk?
Duty. Responsibility.
She shook herself and rose, bending at the knee to lift the mat she’d brought with her. The sky told the time, and the sun’s shadows beyond the henges bid her return to the manor.
“Mother?”
She froze at the sound of the familiar voice and lifted her head, her lips already straightening. Stephen stood, just outside of the green, as if aware that he should not disturb her here. His hands were behind his back, and his chin was close to his neck; it lent him that peculiar air of vulnerability that her blood-born son never showed. She was glad to see he’d worn his jacket; it was chilly without the full light of sun. She hoped one day that his common sense would rub off on Gilliam, but it was a small hope; Norn had never managed to have that effect on Soredon.
Norn. Soredon. “What are you doing out here so early?”
Stephen looked down at his feet. “I—I’m taking a walk.”
“On the Hunter’s green?” Elsabet left the altar. Stephen’s shrug told her more than his words. “Are you going back to the house?”
He nodded.
“Walk with me, then. Is Gilliam awake?”
“No. And Maribelle’s with Maria.” He fell silent, matching the stride of her step. In a few years, it would not be he who needed to stretch.
They walked quietly until the altar was at a safe distance. Then Elsabet stopped and turned to Stephen, thinking him very like Norn at this moment. She couldn’t explain her prayer, but felt that it wasn’t necessary; she could see his worry, and a little of his understanding, at play around his eyes.
Stephen faced her squarely. “They’re late this time, aren’t they?” He held out a hand; it was still fine and slim. Growth wouldn’t change this.
She wondered if he did so because he had seen Norn make a similar offer on many occasions. And she didn’t care. Holding the heavy mat awkwardly in one hand, she accepted his solace with the other, gripping just a little too tightly.
“Not very late. The roads are poor.”
Stephen nodded encouragingly, and she didn’t speak again. They both knew that she was lying. But he held her hand as she walked. He understood fear and loss very well.
• • •
The Hunter God was kind, this season, to Lady Elseth.
Norn and Soredon returned in a ten-day, worn by the rigors of the Hunt and the journey by road. They came by horse toward the darkness of the turning, and the manor house flared to life at their approach.
Soredon dismounted and barely had time to place his feet upon the ground before he was nearly swept off them by his Lady’s embrace. He returned it, hugging her tightly and burying the length of his face in her neck. Not even Maribelle sought to disturb their reunion—although it was more due to Boredan’s heavy glare than her own consideration.
“Gil, the dogs,” Soredon said, glancing up over his wife’s shoulder. Gilliam nodded immediately and went to Corwel’s leash; the care of the dogs after the Hunt was something not lightly entrusted to anyone. That the dogs were not his father’s very first consideration worried him.
“You were late,” Elsabet said, when she at last drew back.
He nodded heavily. “I’m sorry to worry you, Elsa. But we had the duty to perform.” He watched her grow still.
“Who?”
“Bryan.” He shook himself. “We’re called to Valentin in haste. We must leave in the morning.”
Norn joined them, looking just as weary as his Lord. This was only the second time in their long years of hunting that they had been called upon to guard the dead on the road with full honors.
“How is Lord William?”
“Shattered.” Norn hadn’t the strength to be diplomatic, nor, surrounded only by his Lady and her Lord, the need for it. He rested his head against the side of Soredon’s horse before the servants came to stable it.
Soredon gripped his shoulder tightly. “Norn?”
“Fine.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Some. Not much.”
It was always this way—the joy of a safe return was marred by the shadow of another woman’s loss. Lady Elseth nodded quietly to Boredan, who disappeared back into the house. “When the boys return from the kennels, I’ll tell them.”
All of the Hunter-sworn within a four-day’s travel were honor-bound to make the trek to the Valentin estates. Lady Elseth, well aware of her own responsibilities at such a time, oversaw the wardrobe for all four of her men, although Norn was quite capable of dressing for ceremony on his own.
She, too, was well prepared for such an emergency, and left Boredan in charge of the house and Maribelle, who was very much put out at being left behind.
One day, Elsabet thought, as she hugged her stiff, rebellious child, you will be glad of the times you were spared this. She bade her daughter be good, which didn’t help, and then mounted to her seat in the carriage she would share with Stephen and Gilliam.
They knew well why they were going, and all of their arguments or enthusiasms were as subdued as their clothing. Bryan of Valentin had been huntbrother to Lord William, heir to the Valentin Duty. It was he, this year, who had faced the Hunter’s Death, and paid the Hunter’s Price. No Hunter, or aspiring Hunter, could do anything else but honor that sacrifice.
Still, the days were long, and after the first, Gilliam and Stephen grew undaunted by the shadows that haunted their elders. In the evenings, they shared a room, and during the day, a coach. Corwel and Maritt also traveled with them by wagon, and they spent each evening kenneling them properly, as was their duty. They argued, they spoke of their future as Hunters, and they played their learning games.
Until they arrived at the Valentin estates.
Black was the color of death in Breodanir, and it was everywhere in abundance. When they approached the manor road, the post that held the family crest was swathed in long ebony panels that bore only the crossed spear and sword of the Hunter God’s dominion. The villager who met them at the fork in the road was also dressed in black. He directed the two carriages and accompanying wagon without so much as a word.
The guest houses were in readiness for the nobles who had come; the Elseth family was the last, waited for by three others.
Lord Valentin met Lord Elseth as they approached the manor house. He gave a low bow, his black cape skirting the ground.
“You honor my son.” He was pale, his eyes darkened by rings that spoke of care and sleeplessness. His face, always long and thin, looked near-skeletal now.
“Your son has done all honor to us.” Lord Elseth also bowed, but when he rose, he reached out and gripped the older man’s forearm. “Eadward.”
“William would be here to greet you,” Lord Valentin said, “but he has his duties upon the green. Please, feel free in the use of the House. Ah, Lady Elseth. Corwinna is also at the green, if you wish to greet her.”
Lady Elseth curtsied, lifting her skirts with the ease of long practice. She looked long at Lord Valentin’s strained face, seeing that the age in it had suddenly come to rest. She wondered if he would shake it later, or if, like a scar, its mark would
always be seen. “Yes,” she answered, taking his hand, “I would dearly love to speak with Corwinna. If it isn’t too rude, I’ll leave you now.”
He nodded, working at a smile. Elsabet shook her head slightly, acknowledging much she knew must be left unsaid by him. She knew the path to the green, and took it, leaving her own two sons—her living, breathing sons—behind in her husband’s care.
• • •
As promised, Corwinna was at the altars. So was her blood-son, and the Priest they had called for the last rites. No servant lingered there, and the three nobles who had gathered were conspicuous by their stillness.
Corwinna wore the black as well, a long old robe that had been passed from grandmother to granddaughter for years. Her hair was bound back in a knot of graying brown, and around her neck she wore the medallion of the Death. It caught the light and flashed in the high sun like the fall of a sword.
Elsabet approached her quietly, sparing a glance for the Priest. She paused before she reached Corwinna and looked at Lord William. He, too, wore the blacks, but they seemed to cover all of him in the heaviness of their shadows; his normally active, friendly face was sunken and pale. He heard her approach, she was sure of it, but did not stop to acknowledge it in any way. He had eyes only for the altar, which was empty.
“Corwinna?”
Lady Valentin turned at the sound of the voice “Elsabet.”
Between the women, there was no formality at a time of such loss. Grief took too much of a toll to be pushed aside for social niceties, and although the women were separated by twenty years of age and experience, in this there was understanding and common ground.
They moved away from the green in silent mutual consent, walking arm in arm. When they were far enough away that words would not carry on the wind, Corwinna looked back.
“He doesn’t eat,” she said softly. “He doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t cry.” Her own eyes were pink and wet. “He won’t even speak of it to Eadward.” She looked down at her hands. “I don’t know what I can do to help him.”
The Sacred Hunt Duology Page 6
