The Sacred Hunt Duology by Michelle West

offered, she grasped his hand and held it tightly as she had once held her dead brother’s. They followed in the wake of the two young boys, stepping cautiously into the unknown future.
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    Outside, the ground was wet and soft; new shoots of green leafed out over damp earth that threatened to turn muddy. The stars were out, and the moon as well; clouds had fled the sky. Torchlight glowed on the faces of those who waited, chief among them the Lord of Elseth.
    He, too, wore only a simple robe. It seemed almost black in the scant light, but Lady Elseth knew it for the dark green that the Master Hunters were entitled to wear. At his left stood Lord Samarin, at his right, Lord Stenfal. They were olderthan he by at least ten years, but each had attained the rank of Master Hunter; Lord Samarin had even been named Huntsman of the Chamber two Hunts ago.
    As witnesses, none could be found finer or stauncher than these two. Lady Elseth felt a warm glow of pride, and smiled at her husband from across the green. He saw her and smiled back, the expression no less warm than the torch he carried aloft.
    The villagers, holding torches and wearing their normal clothing, also stood on the green in an uneven circle. These, too, were witnesses that the ceremonies decreed. They were of the land; they were the Hunter’s responsibility and support.
    It was late, but even so, Elsabet was heartened to see small children standing at their parents’ sides. The youngest were held in arms, although one or two of the most precocious were being chased down by very embarrassed villagers.
    Perhaps the children knew best. Their understanding of life gave no pause to the solemnity of ceremony and oath—they laughed or cried as if all of life were encompassed moment by moment.
    She had long since lost the ability to do so, but tonight she would not begrudge it to others, only envy it a little.
    The circle opened to allow her to pass; she walked to its center, where the twin pillars stood flanking the simple altar of rough-hewn stone. It was weathered with time, and had stood here long before the borders of Elseth existed. She paused to bow low. Her hands came to her lips, held together in a solitary private prayer. When she rose, she looked to the east and west, at each of the stone pillars. Words were written there in row upon row; none could now read them, they were so old.
    Will you take my only son?
    Her lashes pressed against her cheeks, and she bowed again, unable to ask for mercy in the face of so much history. She was Elsabet of Elseth; she would be as the pillars—solid, strong, a testament to this moment.
    She took her place in the foreground in front of her husband, and waited for Norn. Norn walked to the altars and drew a silver knife from his belt. This he laid before him, bowing as Lady Elseth had done.
    He joined his Hunter, nodding quietly.
    The priest came next. He knelt on the wet ground, unmindful of the robes that would bear the dirt’s soft traces; in the darkness they would not be seen. He lifted the knife that had been left for him and pressed its cold length to his lined lips. He was old, the Priest, and by his colors, a Hunter also.
    Greymarten
, Elsabet thought. She was reminded again of how well-respected her husband’s family was. It was no small matter to journey from the King’s side to the Elseth village, but even aged as he was, he had chosen to make the trek.
    The Priest rose, knife still in hand.
    Only Gilliam and Stephen still stood outside of the circle.
    â€œBreodani, we are gathered here to witness and to receive. We are the people of the Hunter. Who stands for the Hunters?”
    Lord Samarin stepped forward and bowed, his robes flapping in the chill breeze. “I do.”
    The Priest nodded and gestured; Lord Samarin came to stand at his side.
    â€œWho stands for the people?”
    An older woman, the village head, walked forward. She bowed, and her bow was