by Sharon Rose
After a nap and some dried meat, Tristan climbed high through the branches and found the blue-peaked towers again. “’Tis due south,” he said, settling on the limb beside Cotrell, where they could scan the hilltops. “Let’s choose our route.”
James strapped a pouch to a saddle. “Why are we still chasing that castle, when we have discovered that the stories of the beasts are true?”
“’Tis still between us and the plain,” Tristan said. “Assuming it has at least some walls intact, we’ll be able to get a decent night’s sleep.”
“Is that the only reason?”
“Trust me, James, I am as put off by the neighbors as you are. Nonetheless, I would understand what is here. The route, Cotrell.”
They soon set out over the hills again, maintaining constant vigilance and taking note of the tracks and scat. Rabbits, foxes, deer, a few small lynx, and southward, some wild boar. Unfortunately, wolves seemed to infest the area, all oversized. And the bear tracks…Tristan did not want to meet one. They came close once, almost stumbling on a gaping hole in a hillside, with scored tree trunks on the slope below it. At least that was the only time they needed to alter their route, for the hills rolled more gently with wider valleys and less strenuous climbs.
James said little, making it all the more startling when he halted and declared, “That’s a walnut tree.”
Tristan blinked and followed the direction of his pointing finger. They spent hours watching for dangerous beasts…and he pointed out a tree?
Cotrell drawled, “’That’s not in attack posture. No need to worry.”
James turned a scornful look on Cotrell, while Tristan leaned over his horse’s neck, shaking in silent laughter. He curtailed it as quick as he could, for James always had a reason. “A walnut, you say. How do you know?”
“’Tis the sort of thing I learned when I trained with your father’s steward. They are useful for food.”
Did such a tree occur naturally, or did this mean something more? Tristan scanned amidst the treetops, but too many still clung to their golden canopy. He touched a heel to his horse’s flank and picked up the pace.
Cresting the hill, he drew rein, his pulse quickening at the sight that met his eyes.
Chapter 4
Lavaycia
Four cousins gathered at the back of Maerton Castle’s hall, each from a different house of Lavaycia.
Beth motioned the other three near and whispered, “This is our chance. Let’s escape to the woods.”
“Just us,” Ivan said, somewhere between question and demand.
She knew he meant just her and him, but said, “Aye, the four of us.” She took Sareen’s hand and turned for the rear doors.
Servants reached them first and opened the double doors. Ivan and Layton followed the ladies down the terrace steps and across the formal gardens.
Ivan took the place at her side. His brown hair smelled of the pomade he used to hold it in place. Always sensitive that one of his eyes sat slightly higher than the other, he masked the flaw with a fixed sweep of hair across his brow. A shame that he was touchy. Oddities were common enough.
Beth followed the shortest route to the hunting gate. Until they were beyond that barrier, it was all too likely that they would be summoned to return. As though there was any purpose in watching Lavaycia’s elder nobility strut their dignified selves about Maerton’s grand hall.
Her mother’s words came to mind. You are old enough to participate. ’Twas true only if participate meant to be seen. Certain, no one wanted to hear Beth’s voice!
Ivan took the lead and hailed the gatekeeper. “Open!”
Doubtless, he would be good at strutting when he inherited his father’s title and lands.
The gatekeeper complied with the imperious demand, and they soon passed the gate.
Behind her, Layton spoke to a guard. “Should any inquire, we are…”
She hurried on, not wanting to hear him tell their whereabouts, even though his forethought might lessen the reprimand she’d endure later. If her father knew where she was, and that she had proper escort, he would perhaps tolerate her slipping away.
The trampled earth gave way to forest floor. A cool breeze swept around her neck, and she wished she could let her hair down. At least the sleeves of her mint-green gown were long. Fallen leaves rustled beneath their feet. Paths meandered between the bare trunks. Unnecessary, for the woods were groomed for hunting. Plenty of room to run horses between trees and thickets.
A falling red leaf settled into Sareen’s black curls as she turned onto a path. ’Twas her way to take the prescribed course.
As a lady should, echoed within Beth. Why must she always hear her mother’s voice even when she was a day’s journey away?
Beth pushed the thought away and spread her hands to the breeze. “Ah, we used to run all through these woods,” she said. “Let this be our day of remembrance.”
Sareen wrinkle her child-like nose. “What mean you?”
“No titles between us four today.” Beth spun to give her smile to each of them. “Just our simple names.”
“How unkind you are to Layton,” Ivan said. “He just got his bestowed title of sir, and now you want to take it away from him.”
True to form, Ivan uttered sir with a faint hiss, turning her companionable words to a barb. Even when she asked it of him, he couldn’t resist pointing out the obvious fact that he outranked Layton. ’Twas on the tip of her tongue to state another obvious fact, for Ivan hated it. Nay, the lady within her could no longer stoop to that bickering. Ugh!
“Speak not of any titles,” Sareen said. “We are cousin-friends, as we have always been.”
Dear Sareen. Ever willing to follow Beth’s lead. The closest thing Beth had to a sister. Sareen launched into a dramatized, childhood anecdote as they strolled, and she soon had them all laughing.
Ivan’s laughter rang loudest. He told tales of his own, often of his exploits when they were not present.
Bragging still! Would he never outgrow this? He was a year younger than her and Sareen, but what did a year matter now? Ten years younger than Layton, but Ivan cared nothing for him. Her mother used to say that the youngest were often jealous—to pay it no heed, and he would stop. Indeed, ’twas easier to ignore than to challenge his stories, for he was prone to petty rages. Beth doubted he would ever outgrow his braggart tendencies. Which shouldn’t be her concern, but their names were coupled. A shiver coursed through her.
“Are you chilled,” Layton asked.
“Nay.”
He probably knew something was wrong—Layton noticed things—but he didn’t inquire. Instead, he mentioned one of their pretend hunts from years ago and got the conversation back on track. Her smile flickered. Had his years of diffusing squabbles aided him in achieving his diplomatic position?
He had always been the practical one. Older, certain, but even now, his doublet was of sober hue, unlike Ivan’s flashy garb. Odd that the practical one had the most exciting life.
How she envied him! Not the onerous task of contending with foreigners. No one could envy that! But he got to travel through all the duchies of Lavaycia. She was lucky to get to Selta Castle twice a year to visit Sareen. Here, a little more often, but that was not pure pleasure. The other four duchies, she rarely saw. And north—never.
Her gaze reached toward that forbidden compass point, but the groomed woods were all her eyes could grasp. Would she ever see the tower trees she’d heard tell of? Or the treacherous River Thane on the northern border of Lavaycia? Faint chance. Her father wouldn’t even take her to see the majestic falls of the River Vale. And that was just a couple hours’ ride.
A cry startled Beth.
Sareen gasped. “Is that a babe?” She rose on tiptoe, anxious eyes searching the wood.
“More likely a rabbit,” Layton said.
Ivan’s eyes blazed. Beth hated that strange smile of his. Lips stretched, revealing his teeth, and turning downward at the corners. Even mor
e, she hated the excitement that always accompanied it.
“A rabbit, certain,” Ivan declared, “and I know where. Come.”
He grabbed her hand and dragged her with him, his grip so tight, Beth feared her bones would snap. At least Layton kept pace, and Sareen tagged along behind.
Then she saw it.
Beth jerked her hand from Ivan’s, only possible because he had forgotten her.
Sareen shrieked in her ear.
The poor rabbit! Its leg caught in an iron trap. Tormented and crying still.
“Ah!” Ivan exhaled his words with relish. “Perfect!” He circled the terrified little creature.
“Why must you trap rabbits?” Layton demanded. “Can you not handle a bow?”
“I can. Better than you, I would wager. But arrows spoil the pelt.”
The rabbit’s pitiful cry sent quivers through Beth’s nerves.
Layton drew his dagger. “If you will not put it out of its misery, I shall.”
“Put away your blade.” Ivan’s voice dripped scorn as he dropped to one knee. He grabbed the rabbit’s head and shoulders, then twisted sharply. “There, you see. Not a mark on it, save that little foot, which we don’t need anyway.” He opened the trap and reset it, gathering up leaves and sprinkling them upon it.
Sareen drew her flounced skirt close and uttered a frightened squeak. “Where else do you have traps?”
“Fear not, little Sareen. Shall I not lead you safely from the woods?” He stood, the dead rabbit dangling from his right hand, and offered his other arm to Beth. “And you, my fair lady.”
“Nay!” She clutched Layton’s arm, which he promptly bent for her. “You are cruel! I will not walk with you.”
“So squeamish.” Ivan’s tone mocked. “Do you not know where your meat comes from? Will you revile me because I prefer a bloodless kill?”
“Nay, ’tis your perverse enjoyment that revolts me!”
His head jerked back, nostrils flaring. Ere his rage burst forth, he seemed to recollect. His heavy breath quieted. “Favor whom you will. I hope he can lead you safely past the traps. If so, don’t fear I will hold offense when we sit at dinner tonight. Be assured that I will share this morsel with you.” He lifted his kill like a trophy. “Now, pray excuse me. I must get this to the chef.” He set off at a run through the trees.
Sareen uttered a little gasp, and Layton breathed a soft sh.
Nausea turned Beth’s stomach. She would not eat that!
When Ivan was beyond their voices, Sareen squeaked, “How will we find our way out?”
“Fear nothing,” Layton said. “We need only retrace our steps.”
Sareen’s glance darted about as though the ground would attack her. “But I don’t know where—”
“I do know.” Layton took her hand. “All is well.”
“But what if—”
“You will follow behind me, your hand on my shoulder. Should I make a mistake, my boots will bear the harm.” He turned as he spoke, positioning her. “You will only tread where I have safely walked.” He looked down at Beth. “Will you stay at my side or follow?”
He gave no hint that fears may be absurd. Only calm certainty. She released a tight breath. “At your side.”
He guided them safely back to the path, and Sareen settled herself enough to take his other arm.
Beth worked the joints of the hand Ivan had nigh crushed. How could a walk in the woods turn so vile? Their day of remembrance would never be fondly recalled. A quiver ran through her. Would she remember this day as his wife? Her stomach roiled.
They were not yet espoused. She neared her eighteenth birthday—old enough to wed— but her father had declared he would wait longer to choose her husband. And everyone knew why. Because Ivan—the obvious choice—was a year younger than she.
They walked in silence at first, but Sareen couldn’t manage it any longer. “I’ve never seen anyone kill an animal like that. I ride with my father and brothers on hunts. They never do that. Gloating and chattering while the poor beast suffers!” She leaned forward to look at Beth. “Does your father allow such a thing?”
Revolting thought. “My father has never let me ride with the hunt. I—I cannot answer.”
“I’ve hunted with him,” Layton said. “Your father and his men seek a quick kill, as does any gentlemen of Lavaycia.”
“Disgusting!” Sareen hissed. “Those traps! Do you realize the one we saw was lucky? I daresay others lie in a trap for hours. Or days!”
Beth looked away. There were whispers…stories that her parents declared must not be spoken. Did they think she would follow blindly? She glowered. Of course, they did. ’Twas her duty.
Sareen broke off her ranting as they passed through the hunting gate in the castle’s north wall. Layton guided them into the garden, rather than through it, and found a curved bench.
Sareen was about to sit beside Beth, when her gaze seemed to catch on the second-floor balcony of the mansion. She sighed, “I must go. My mother beckons me.” She bestowed an impulsive hug on Beth.
“Thank you for walking with me, my dear,” Beth murmured into her curls.
As Sareen returned to the mansion, Layton sat on the opposite end of the bench, leaving appropriate distance between him and Beth. He never took advantage of any opportunities to draw near. He was too far removed in rank, and she never thought of him that way. He was the big cousin who had lifted her out of a bush, set her back on her pony, and untangled the sticks from her dusky curls.
“Layton…” She licked her lips. “What do you think of…of the way Ivan killed the rabbit. Truly think of it?”
He took a moment to answer. “’Tis not so much a matter of whether it died by a broken neck or a dagger. The poorest folk of Lavaycia snare rabbits. ’Tis the only way they can get meat. But that—obviously—does not explain Ivan’s behavior. Truly…it is disturbing.”
“If we were to speak of this,” Beth said, “he would have plenty of excuses for the actual deed. His manner is hard to describe without sounding like…” Her breath hissed between set teeth. “Like a hysterical woman. You cannot imagine how I hate those words!”
“Then ’tis well they do not apply to you. I have seen you in difficulties, Beth, and seen you angry, but never hysterical.”
“Thank you!” Her quick smile faded. “Ivan’s father would call me hysterical in an instant.” She fidgeted. “In fairness, though, his wife gives him many such displays.” She bit her lip, remembering the whispers that had followed a particularly awful screaming fit.
She shook her head. “Layton, I fear to wed Ivan, and I fear to say why I would refuse him.” Ah, that was it. She raised her brows. “There, I have my answer, do I not? I must stop wavering between the two and decide. ’Tis not such a hard decision, after all. My dread of wedding him is far greater than my fear of the battle.”
Layton laughed. “And don’t I know the determination you can hide beneath ladylike airs.”
She straightened her posture. “Thus, I make my stand. I will not wed Ivan Maerton.”
“Hm. And now, the diplomat in me must speak. Be wise in how you state that and to whom.”
Chapter 5
Beyond the Border Lands
Tristan couldn’t tear his eyes from the castle. Though half obscured by trees, it held him spellbound. James and Cotrell lingered on either side of him, taking in the sight from this hilltop perch.
Twin towers rose from the largest structure within. More towers jutted from the curtain wall. It glowed a dusky white in the sunshine, a contrasting backdrop to stark limbs and branches fringed with gold and burgundy. Dauntless fidgeted under him, as though he too thrilled at the sight of the castle.
Cotrell’s gray tossed its head and neighed. “’Twould seem that our horses are thinking of a stable.”
“After last night,” James said, “I would sleep in a stable!”
For Tristan, no words were adequate. He started down the hill. More nut trees joined the woods. Soon,
their thick trunks marched in rows up a rising slope.
James pointed to the right. “Over there. The shorter trees.”
Tristan turned to parallel him down a row of gnarled, bare trunks with younger offspring scattered between.
“Fruit trees,” James said. “This was an orchard. A pity the fruit has fallen.”
Cotrell drew near a branch and stood in his stirrups to reach a forlorn apple overhead. “Perhaps there is one left for you,” he said, plucking it and handing it to James.
He inspected it and took a bite. “Mm. Tart, but not overmuch. Would you like a taste, my lord?”
“Nay. You deserve far more than an apple for following my escapades.”
James smiled on him and nodded toward the western border of the orchard. “Those bushes gone wild there—they may bear fruit in summer.” His teeth crunched into the apple again.
“There is nothing beyond them,” Cotrell said. “They must edge the cliff.”
“Aye,” Tristan murmured. The bushes formed a long border, reaching all the way to the castle’s northwest tower. A small gate was set in the north wall, perhaps useful at harvest time. By design, ’twas clear it could only be opened from within.
He raised his eyes to study the battlement atop the wall. The crenellation gaps were empty, but if a skilled archer hid behind a merlon—be that ever so unlikely—they would be within range. He twitched the reins. “Come up.” Dauntless lifted his head from the apple-strewn ground, and Tristan led them through the woods surrounding the castle.
The curtain wall formed an irregular pentagon, built from a fair stone that reminded him of Verenlia’s edifices.
“These woods are too close,” Cotrell said.
“Aye.” Tristan gestured as they progressed. “The nearest trees have the thinnest trunks. This area would have been cleared. Fields, perhaps, but the forest has encroached.”
They found an open stretch with a few cobblestones peeking through the dirt. To their left, the road must have headed northeasterly, and to the right, it curved around to the primary gate, set in the south wall. Another overgrown road ran south, swallowed up by the forest.