Free The Sacred Hunt Duology by Michelle West Page B

“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.”
    Elsabet put an arm around her shoulders and drew her close, saying nothing.
    â€œI’m sorry, Elsa. I’ve—I know you lost your brother. You must know what it’s like. But I—the Hunter God has passed over my family until now.” She struggled with words, lost them for a moment, and then lifted her chin. “I hate Him,” she whispered, her eyes wide and red. “And I see all the people gathered here, all the villagers, my farmers—and I hate them, too.”
    Again, Elsabet said nothing. The words, she knew, were like water in a vessel that had fallen. They needed to run their course.
    â€œBryan died for them. And I don’t know if William will recover.” She shivered, and turned her gaze upon her companion. “He won’t see the Priestess of the Mother, and I know he was injured. He doesn’t want to live.”
    Quietly, Elsabet prayed that neither of her two would ever know a day such as this one. Prayed that she would not be there to see it, if they did.
    â€œHe was young. He was . . . he had so much to offer us. And it’s gone now. So that we can eat.
    â€œHe won’t eat, Elsa.”
    She waited with Corwinna, offering her silence and the strength of her presence when both could never be enough.
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    In the morning, the rites were called. Three Hunter Lords and their Ladies joined the procession to the green. Elseth was there, as was Samarin and Cormarin. The sun cut between the henges to shine its light upon the altar that would not remain empty for long.
    Everyone wore black, except for the Hunter Priest; he wore his colors and his crest grimly as he said the final words above the stone.
    The circle of villagers, dark and still, had no children within it. There was no laughter, no anticipation, no joy—and not many eyes remained dry. They had come to witness, these people; to see the cost of their lands and lives in the blood that was paid to keep it. To honor, one last time, the sacrifice. It was hardest forthe older people; each of them had also witnessed the ceremony that had joined Bryan and William to the mysteries of the Hunt.
    Stephen and Gilliam were not the only young Hunters present, and like the others, they stood to the side of Lord Elseth, waiting and watching. They did not yet know what to expect; neither Soredon nor Norn would speak of it.
    They had not yet reached their full height, so they did not see William until he was already within the confines of the circle. At first, they did not recognize him; he wore only black, and no horn or sword adorned his robes. His hood covered his fair hair, and his head was bent so that cloth hid his face. But two dogs followed behind him, and they knew him then.
    Beside William walked another man; one old, judging by the length of his beard and the stoop of his shoulders. He also wore black, but not comfortably, and he did not bother to hide his face with a hood. Although it wasn’t hot, he was sweating.
    â€œStephen, there.” Gil pointed, even though it wasn’t necessary; Stephen knew at once what held his Hunter’s attention.
    Five feet from the old man, suspended in midair at shoulder height, lay Bryan of Valentin. He was gray and stiff, wrapped round in a long, white cloth that was his only accoutrement in his final journey home. No hands touched him at all; the old man was one of the mage-born. How long he had held Bryan thus suspended no one knew, but all understood the strain he showed; Bryan had not been a small man.
    The Priest, aware of this, moved immediately from his place by the altar, bowing low to Lord William. The mage-born stopped at center circle, and managed a bow of almost equal grace. From here on,