The Sacred Hunt Duology

by Michelle West

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 y
our 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.

  “But you are not the only mage that has come across Vexusa in the past several centuries. Perhaps, if you offer us your cooperation, you might be allowed to join their ranks, rather than join my lord.”

  It was hard to speak with talons embedded in the lower jaw. Evayne spoke. “I’ll cooperate. How?”

  “First, tell me about your companion.”

  “I met her on the road.” Evayne spoke quickly, as if aware that her time was very limited. “She—she’s strange; looks very unusual under a magical scan. I convinced her to return with me to the Order, where I could study her properly, but she would only do so if I accompanied her here.”

  “What did she hope to find here?” The demon spoke softly and slowly, but the tone made a mockery of gentleness.

  “I don’t know—I don’t know!” Blood fell faster. Evayne’s face was white.

  “It’s a pity that I don’t believe you. Come along. You will meet a better interrogator than I, and we will have answers.”

  Evayne slumped forward as Sor na Shannen released her jaw. “You are an attractive woman,” the demon said. “I hate the waste, but I fear we do not have the time.” Very gently, she planted a kiss on Evayne’s bloodied lips.

  “Do not move.” The words were command embodied.

  Sor na Shannen froze, her lips locked in a predatory smile. And then she cried out in pain, clawing at her back as she stumbled to the side. The shadows that held the seer began to unravel as their mistress lost focus and control.

  “You should learn to lie,” Kallandras said, as he stepped out of the shadows. “Or at least to negotiate with conviction.” He watched, arms crossed casually against his chest, as Evayne’s gesture burned the last of the darkness away.

  Evayne cradled her jaw in her palm for a moment. “Where have you been?” Kallandras was bard-born, but he rarely demonstrated his power, relying instead on what the Kovaschaii had given him: assassin’s skills. I’d almost forgotten that you were this strong, so young. Thank the Mother. Sioban must be anxious indeed to have you travel the empire in Senniel’s service.

  “I met—a demon. It brought me here.” He shrugged.

  She did not have to ask the demon’s fate. “Come on.”

  Kallandras seldom showed surprise. Even now, he raised an eyebrow, no more. It was enough. “Evayne—where are you going?”

  “To the coliseum—it’s here; it’s almost a courtyard, of sorts, to the cathedral proper.” />
  “The priests and the mages sat in the galleries or watched the entertainment from their rooms.”

  “Didn’t you hear anything she said? We can’t afford to—”

  “We don’t have a choice!” Her eyes were flashing violet; her cheeks were flushed. There was a pain in her eyes that had nothing to do with the injury Sor na Shannen had inflicted. She raised a hand to point. It was slick with blood. “Espere went there.”

  “Espere seems to be able to take care of herself.”

  But Evayne wasted no further time in argument. She ran down the grand hall of the empty cathedral. The vaulted ceilings echoed her hasty steps, but Kallandras made so little noise that the sound of one person, and one alone, filled the hall as they ran.

  • • •

  She wanted to tell him the truth. She wanted to tell him that it wasn’t Espere she was afraid for; that it wasn’t Espere that drove her, half-crazed, into the heart of a cathedral that had once served the Lord of the Hells. She wanted to tell him, simply, that yesterday—in her life, if no one else’s—she had seen Myrddion die the most hideous of deaths; that she had had to endure it, because to leave would have been to draw attention to herself; that she had had to pretend to enjoy the spectacle, for the same reason; that she had counted each second of each minute until, at last, he was granted peace. She could not let that experience mean nothing. The path of the otherwhen had taken her there for a reason.

  And she needed to see the coliseum again. To see it, empty and unused; dusty and cracked with the passage of time, locked away underground in the darkness. It would bring her a measure of peace.

  Or so she prayed.

  The halls were long and dark. She had sight enough to pierce the shadows. She slowed down for a moment to listen for signs of pursuit; there were none. Her robes retreated a little higher above the ground, giving her feet room to take longer strides.

  She pointed, Kallandras followed; words became secondary to breath, to breathing. The hall became a T, and she turned to the right, catching the wall as an anchor and pivoting lightly on one foot. She did not forget her way to the cloisters, and through the cloisters, the edge of the arena was visible.