The Hallowed Hunt

'You would have us choose the fate of another?' she asked breathlessly. 'Not just his life, but his eternity?'

The Son of Autumn tilted his wreathed head a trifle. 'You chose for him once, did you not?'

Her lips parted, closed, set a little, in fear or awe.

He ought to feel that awe, too, Ingrey supposed. Ought to be falling to his knees. Instead he was dizzy and angry. With a piercing regret, he envied Ijada her exaltation even as he resented it. As though Ingrey saw the sun through a pinhole in a piece of canvas, while Ijada saw the orb entire. But if my eyes were wider, would this Light blind me?

'You would—you would take him into Your heaven, my lord?' asked Ingrey in astonishment and outrage. 'He slew, not in defense of his own life, but in malice and madness. He tried to steal powers not rightly given to him. If I guess right, he plotted the death of his own brother. He would have raped Ijada, if he could, and killed again for his sport!'

The Son held up his hands. Luminescent, they seemed, as if dappled by autumn sun reflecting off a stream into shade. 'My grace flows from these as a river, wolf-lord. Would you have me dole it out in the exact measure that men earn, as from an apothecary’s dropper? Would you stand in pure water to your waist, and administer it by the scant spoon to men dying of thirst on a parched shore?'

Ingrey stood silent, abashed, but Ijada lifted her face, and said steadily, 'No, my lord, for my part. Give him to the river. Tumble him down in the thunder of Your cataract. His loss is no gain of mine, nor his dark deserving any joy to me.'

The god smiled brilliantly at her. Tears slid down her face like silver threads: like benedictions.

'It is unjust,' whispered Ingrey. 'Unfair to all who—who would try to do rightly... .'

'Ah, but I am not the god for justice,' murmured the Son. 'Would you both stand before My Father instead?'

Ingrey swallowed nervously, not at all sure the question was rhetorical, or what might happen if he said yes. 'Let Ijada’s be the choosing, then. I will abide.'

'Alas, more shall be required of you than to stand aside and act not, wolf-lord.' The god gestured to Boleso. 'He cannot enter in my gates so burdened with these mutilated spirits. This is not their proper door. Hunt them from him, Ingrey.'

Ingrey stared through the bars of Boleso’s ribs. 'Clean this cage?'

'If you prefer that metaphor, yes.' The god’s copper eyebrows twitched, but his eyes, beneath them, glinted with a certain dark humor. Wolf and leopard now sat on their haunches on either side of those slim booted legs, staring silently at Ingrey with deep, unblinking eyes.

Ingrey swallowed. 'How?'

'Call them forth.'

'I... do not understand.'

'Do as your ancestors did for each other, in the purifying last rites of the Old Weald. Did you not know? Even as they washed and wrapped each body for burial, the kin shamans looked after the souls of their own. Each helped his comrade, whether simple spirit warrior or great mage, through Our gates, at the end of their lives, and looked to be helped so in turn. A chain of hand to hand, of voice to voice, cleansed souls flowing in an unending stream.' The god’s voice softened. 'Call my unhappy creatures out, Ingrey kin Wolfcliff. Sing them to their rest.'

Ingrey stood facing Boleso. The prince’s eyes were wide and pleading. I imagine Ijada’s eyes were wide and pleading that night, too. What mercy did she get from you, my graceless prince?

Besides, I cannot sing worth a damn.

Ijada’s eyes were on him, now, Ingrey realized. Confident with hope.

I have no mercy in me, lady. So I shall borrow some from you.

He took a breath, and reached down into himself farther than he’d yet done before. Keep it simple. Picked out one swirl by eye, held out his hand, and commanded, 'Come.'

The first beast’s spirit spun out through his fingers, wild and distraught, and fled away. He glanced at the god. 'Where—?'

A wave of those radiant fingers reassured him. 'It is well. Go on.'

'Come... '

One by one, the dark streams flowed out of Boleso and melted into the night. Morning. Whatever this was. They all floated in a now somewhere outside of time, Ingrey thought. At last Boleso stood before him, still silent, but freed of the dark smears.

The red-haired god appeared riding the copper colt, and extended a hand to the prince. Boleso flinched, staring up in doubt and fear, and Ijada’s breath caught. But then he climbed quietly up behind. His face held much wonder, if little joy.

'I think he is still soul-wounded, my lord,' said Ingrey, watching in bare comprehension.

'Ah, but I know an excellent Physician for him, where we are going.' The god laughed, dazzlingly.

'My lord—' Ingrey began, as the god made to turn the unbridled horse.

'Yes?'

'If each kin shaman delivered the next, and him the next... ' He swallowed harder. 'What happens to the last shaman left?'

The Lord of Autumn stared enigmatically down at him. He extended one lucent finger, stopping just short of brushing Ingrey’s forehead. For a moment, Ingrey thought he was not going to answer at all, but then he murmured, 'We shall have to find out.'

He clapped his heels to the copper colt’s sides, and was gone.

INGREY BLINKED.

He was lying on hard pavement, his body half-straightened, staring up at the curve of the dome of the Son’s court. Staring up at a ring of startled faces staring down at him: Gesca, a concerned Lady Hetwar, a couple of men he did not know.

'What happened?' whispered Ingrey.

'You fainted,' said Gesca, frowning.

'No—what happened at the bier? Just now?'

'The Lord of Autumn took Prince Boleso,' said Lady Hetwar, glancing over her shoulder. 'That pretty red colt nuzzled him all over—it was very clear. To everyone’s relief.'

'Yes. Half the men I know were betting he’d go to the Bastard.' A twisted grin flitted over Gesca’s face.

Lady Hetwar cast him a quelling frown. 'That is not a fit subject for wagering, Gesca.'

'No, my lady,' Gesca agreed, dutifully erasing his smirk.

Ingrey hitched up to sit leaning against the wall. The motion made the chamber spin in slow jerks, and he squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. He had felt numb and bodiless during his vision, but now he was shuddering in waves radiating out from the pit of his belly, though he did not feel cold. As though his body had experienced some shock that his mind was denied.

Lady Hetwar leaned forward and pressed a stern maternal hand to his damp brow. 'Are you ill, Lord Ingrey? You do feel rather warm.'