The Hallowed Hunt

seneschal, Earl Badgerbank, Wencel kin Horseriver, Lord Alca kin Otterbine, the kin Boarford brothers... We spoke but briefly, as Lord Hetwar gave me the news and my instructions.'

'Which were?'

'Retrieve Boleso’s body, transport his killer... ' Ingrey hesitated. 'Make his death discreet.'

'What did that mean?' asked Ijada, sounding genuinely puzzled.

'Make all evidence of Boleso’s indiscretions vanish.' Including his principal victim?

'What? But aren’t you an officer of the king’s justice?' she said indignantly.

'Strictly speaking, I serve Sealmaster Hetwar.' He added after a cautious moment, 'It is Sealmaster Hetwar’s steadfast purpose to serve the closest needs of the Weald and its royal house.'

Ijada fell silent, dismayed, her brows drawing down.

The Temple sorceress tapped her lips with one finger. She, at least, did not look shocked. But when she spoke again, her swift thoughts had plainly darted down yet another road. 'Nothing of spirit can exist in the world of matter without a being of matter to support it. Spells are sustained by sorcerers through their demons, which are necessary but not sufficient; the demon’s sustenance must come from the sorcerer’s body, ultimately. But your spell was being sustained by you. I suspect... hm. To use your word, Ijada, a parasite magic? The spell was somehow induced in you, and your life maintained it thereafter. If this strange sorcery has any resemblance to my own, it flows most readily, like water, downhill. It does not create, but steals its capabilities from its host.'

This made a visceral sense to Ingrey, but it was not really something he wanted Lady Ijada to hear of him. All sorts of men had the capacity to kill for the convenience of their betters; though usually, the only spell required could be fitted in a clinking purse. He had ridden guard, ready to draw steel in his lord’s defense, any number of times, and wasn’t that much the same thing?

Wasn’t it?

'But... ' Ijada’s lovely lips thinned with thought. 'Sealmaster Hetwar must have a hundred swordsmen, soldiers, bravos. A half dozen of his guardsmen rode out with you. The... the person, whoever—might have laid the geas on any of them just as well. Why should the only man in Easthome who is known to bear an animal spirit be sent to me?'

A flash of expression—insight, satisfaction?—flew across Learned Hallana’s face and vanished. But she did not speak, only sat back more intently, presumably because leaning forward more intently was not feasible. 'Is it widely known, your spiritual affliction?' she asked.

Ingrey shrugged. 'It is general gossip, yes. Variously garbled. My reputation is useful to Hetwar. I’m not someone most men want to cross.' Or have around them for very long, or invite to their tables, or, above all, introduce to their female kin. But I’m well accustomed to that, by now.

Ijada’s eyes widened. 'You were chosen because your wolf could be blamed! Hetwar chose you. Therefore, he must be the source of the geas!'

Ingrey did not care for that thought. 'Not necessarily. Lord Hetwar was in consultation for some time before I came. Any man in the room might have suggested me for the task.' The wolf part, however, seemed all too plausible. Ingrey himself had been ready to blame his prisoner’s death on his wolf-within. He’d have stood self- accused, incapable of his own defense. Presuming he’d even survived his attempt on Lady Ijada’s life... he remembered yesterday’s near-fatal swim. One way or another, victim and tool would both have been silenced.

Two extremely unpleasant realizations crept over Ingrey. One was that he was still bearing Lady Ijada toward her potential death. Her drowning in the river yesterday could have been no worse than some later poisoning or strangling in her cell, and a hundred times more merciful than the horrors of a dubious trial and subsequent hanging.

And the other was that an enemy of great and secret power was going to be seriously upset when they both arrived at Easthome alive.

CHAPTER SIX

INGREY WOKE FEVERISH FROM DIMLY REMEMBERED NIGHTMARES. He blinked in the level light coming through the dormer window in the tiny, but private, chamber high up in the eaves of his inn. Dawn. Time to move.

Movement unleashed pain in every strained and sprained muscle he possessed, which seemed to be most of them, and he hastily abandoned his attempt to sit up. But lying back did not bring relief. He gingerly turned his head, his neck on fire, and eyed the trap of crockery he’d set on the floor by his door. The teetering pile appeared undisturbed. Good sign.

The wraps on his wrists and right hand were holding, although stained with brown blood. He stretched and clenched his fingers. So. Last evening had been no dream, for all its hallucinatory terrors. His stomach tightened in anxiety—painfully—as the memories mounted.

Groaning, he forced himself up again, lurched out of bed, and staggered to his washstand. A left-handed splash of cold water on his face helped nothing. He pulled on his trousers, sat on the edge of his bed, and attempted his boots. They would not slide over his swollen ankles. Defeated, he let them fall to the floor. He lowered his body carefully into his rumpled bed linens. Reason, in his head, seemed replaced by a kind of buzz. He lay for what was probably half the turning of a glass, judging by the creep of the sunlit squares across his wall, with no more useful thought than a surly resentment of his hopeless boots.

Hinges squeaked; a clatter of crockery was overridden by Rider Gesca’s startled swearing. Ingrey squinted at the door. Gesca, grimacing in bewilderment, picked his way across the dislodged barrier of tumbling beakers and plates. The lieutenant was dressed for the road in boots and leathers and Hetwar’s slate-blue tabard, and tidied for the solemnity of the duty: drab blond hair combed, amiable face new-shaved. He stared down at Ingrey in dismay. 'My lord?'

'Ah. Gesca.' When the noise of rolling saucers died away, Ingrey managed, 'How is pig-boy this morning?'

Gesca shook his head, seeming caught between wariness and exasperation. 'His delusions passed off about midnight. We put him to bed.'

'See that he does not approach or annoy Learned Hallana again.'

'I don’t think that will be a problem.' Gesca’s worried eyes summed the bruises and bandages. 'Lord Ingrey—what happened to you last night?'

Ingrey hesitated. 'What do they say happened?'

'They say you were locked in with that sorceress for a couple of hours when suddenly a racket rose from the room—howling, and thumping to bring down the plaster from the ceiling below, and yelling. Sounded like someone being murdered.'

Almost...

'The sorceress and her servants went out later as though nothing had happened, and you left limping, not talking to anyone.'

Ingrey reviewed the excuses Hallana had called through the door, as well as he could remember them. 'Yes. I was carrying a... ham, and a carving knife, and I tripped over a chair.' No, she hadn’t said a chair. 'Upended the table. Cut my hand going down.'

Gesca’s face screwed up, as he no doubt tried to picture how this event could result in Ingrey’s peculiar array of bandages and bruises. 'We’re almost ready to load up, out there. The Red Dike divine is waiting to bless Prince Boleso’s coffin. Are you going to be able to ride? After your accident.' He added after a reflective moment, 'Accidents.'

Do I look that bad? 'Did you deliver my message for Lord Hetwar to the Temple