The Sacred Hunt Duology by Michelle West Page A

held long. Elsabet recognized Corinna with a quiet tilt of the head; more would disturb the ceremony.
    â€œI do.” And she came to stand to the left of the Priest.
    Greymarten nodded, satisfied. “Let them come through.”
    A pathway appeared on the green; the circle broke into a passage that Stephen and Gilliam could walk along. It did not close behind them.
    Gilliam came first, and knelt at the feet of the Priest. Stephen started to follow, and one of the villagers gently placed his hand upon Stephen’s shoulder. It was not yet time.
    â€œYou have chosen to walk the Hunter’s path,” Greymarten said to the young supplicant.
    â€œI have.”
    â€œDo you understand what that path is, and where it might lead?”
    â€œI do.”
    â€œYou are young yet to know it.” The words were ritual, but Gilliam bristled anyway. “Tell me.”
    The young boy looked up into the old man’s face; torches held aloft revealed only shadows and lines.
    â€œIn the time of hunger,” Gilliam began, “we followed our God. But few children were born, and many died too young. There was no game, and we did not know the ways of the growers.” He took a breath, and then his brow wrinkled.
    Greymarten looked down benignly, waiting. After a few minutes, he whispered something.
    Gilliam blushed and continued, knowing he should have studied his lines harder. “Near death, we called out for aid to any who would hear us. God in the Heavens answered our plea. He came to us and showed us all of the ways of the Hunter, and promised that we would know the full—uh, um—use of it. Them.”
    It came as no surprise to the Priest that the boy knew the lines so poorly. Very few Hunters had the patience for scholarly work, so it was not a bad sign.
    â€œHe showed us this gift and more, for the dogs at his side came to stand before us in silence. He fed us from the fruits of his labor.” This line, Gilliam didn’t understand at all. It sounded stupid. “Grateful, we accepted what he offered.
    â€œFor these gifts, we swore to become his people and follow all of his ways.” And if he could just remember the rest, Gilliam would happily do that. “Ummm . . .”
    â€œThe Price?”
    â€œBut the Hunter demanded of us the one Price that those who accepted his gifts must face: the Hunter’s Death. For to give us his skills, he must use them, hone them. Once a year, before the harvest, he asked that we call the Sacred Hunt in his name.”
    â€œVery good, Gilliam of Elseth.” Greymarten placed a hand on either arm, and raised the boy to his feet. He had said enough, and besides, it was painful to hear all of the awkward pauses of ritual poorly understood, but it was warming as well. Year after year, such mangled words were offered as the young entered into the beginning of their full promise. “The people of Breodanir agreed, and the Hunters swore their oaths. And once a year, the Hunter Lords must gather, to be Hunted in turn by the God who has given us our lands. One of these Lords must face the Hunter’s Death, or the lands will die around us, and the game will flee.”
    There was silence; all eyes were upon Greymarten. But only the oldest remembered the famines of the King’s folly. Only the oldest knew that when the Sacred Hunt was finally called three years after its promised time, the Hunter God had been angry indeed. Fully two-thirds of the Hunters had died that grisly death. But the lands and the game had returned, paid for by noble blood.
    â€œThen, Gilliam, do you swear by the Hunter’s Oath?”
    â€œI do.”
    â€œWill you promise to hunt in the people’s stead, and to feed them your kills?”
    â€œI will.”
    â€œWill you protect them from outsiders, defending them by force of hounds and weapons if necessary?”
    â€œI will.”
    The Priest turned to Corinna. “Do you accept his