by Aldrea Alien
Sitting up, he rubbed at his arms. He’d vague memories of the place being lit by a fire at the far end. Just on the other side of the massive bench the woman must work at. He crawled a little ways, uncertain if his legs would hold him.
Rounding the end of the bench gave him an adequate view of the fireplace. Although the fire no longer burned, the coals still glowed. The air certainly shouldn’t feel like a winter’s day. Nor did his breath mist like it should if the air was truly as cold as his body believed.
He sat back on his heels and, tentatively, slid a finger along his neck. The icy grip of the collar greeted his fingertips. How had the metal felt the first time? Hot. And his head had hurt, although that was thankfully not the case here. He’d experienced this bone-gnawing coldness back then, too, except the infitialis had been warm to the touch.
His hand flopped onto his lap. No, it wasn’t coldness he felt at all. Emptiness. Like a spring gone dry. All the richness and warmth of the world was dammed along with his power. The only thing left to him was a dry, cracked existence.
Sighing, Dylan clambered to his feet. He couldn’t stay here but, thanks to his new collar, he was free to wander the castle grounds. His legs wobbled at the first few steps. By the time he reached the door, he was in proper control of all his limbs.
A slight, elven woman approached him as he exited the room. “A message for you, sir.” She handed over a small slip of sealed paper and, giving a brief curtsy, left before he could ask who it was from.
Dylan broke the seal, naught but a plain drip of wax, and read the brief missive.
Meet me in the gardens after nightfall. Come alone. — T.
Track. He’d never seen the man’s handwriting before—penmanship that was far more elegant than his own, often illegible, scribbles—but knew it was the hound. Who else would possibly ask this of him?
Apart from earlier, he hadn’t spoken civilly to the elf since first discovering what he’d omitted to tell him. Had that truly been almost a week ago? And whatever made the man think Dylan would wish to exchange more words now he was leashed? There was nothing Tracker could say that he’d believe. Not anymore.
And yet…
The distress he’d heard from the man earlier had sounded very real. He hadn’t been attempting to play a part there. Indeed, showing concern for Dylan in the presence of the very person responsible for the tower’s destruction would only throw suspicion on the hound.
Tracker had kept his word, getting Dylan here in one piece and it’d been no small feat. They’d spent a good part of two months in each other’s presence. Maybe he was giving one last attempt at convincing Dylan to leave. Or perhaps the man only wished to say farewell before Dylan returned to the battlefield.
Well, he was in no mood to reciprocate the gesture.
Dylan crumpled the note and focused, trying to ignite the paper. His fist clenched, tighter and tighter until his whole arm shook. Nothing came. It didn’t even try.
Screaming, and with tears pricking his eyes, he tore the note in half. He’d lost everything. All because he had trusted that blasted hound. Because he’d found himself enchanted by the idea that someone could…
Lies. The very same lies the guardians fed them—do this and you’ll be safe, listen and I’ll protect you, love me and I’ll be yours—just with a handsomer facade. Guardian or hound, he was done with listening to them all. He was on his own now. Just him against everything.
The rest of the afternoon went by unnoticed. Dylan spent much of it wandering the castle grounds aimlessly. Although he was now leashed and could, technically, leave for the army camp beyond the city walls, no one came to collect him.
That didn’t mean he’d been forgotten about. A messenger had informed him the army was moving out tomorrow morning and he was expected to be there. Barely leashed again and, already, they deemed him fit to return to the border with the troops.
Perhaps the general was content to leave Dylan here until then, under the cautious eye of the hounds. He didn’t care to speculate much on it.
There’d been no sign of either Authril or Katarina. Absence of the former was probably to be expected. She’d been eager to return to the army camp and had likely done so the moment Dylan was under the hounds’ control. But the hedgewitch? The general mentioned one wishing to vouch for him. That had to be her. So where was she?
Tracker would know. Dylan sighed, his fist tightening around the shredded message. He’d burnt his bridges there.
As the hours slipped by, it became harder to focus on anything beyond Tracker’s note. Join the man in the garden? A collection of ‘whys’ without answers was all that’d go through his mind. Why did Tracker send it? Why did the elf want to see him? Why couldn’t he let the thought of the damn hound go?
In the hollow numbness that had followed his blaze of anger, the answer to that last question was easy. Dylan had allowed himself to care for the man, and deeply at that. But he’d foolishly fallen into the trap of believing Tracker felt the same way. Knowing otherwise, realising he’d been wrong, had stung so much. However, Tracker wasn’t responsible for Dylan thoughts or his feelings. Certainly not for his actions.
Nor had it been fair to lump Tracker with the other hounds. The man had done everything to have Dylan listen to him, everything short of clubbing Dylan over the head and dragging him off, anyway. But Dylan had been too stubborn, too ready to wallow in resentment than heed the man.
There was only one person to blame and that was himself. Trusting Tracker might’ve gotten him halfway across Demarn, but acting like a child had got him where he was now.
Dylan found himself at the archway to the gardens as the velvety sheen of night finally reigned over the heavens. He’d passed this entrance earlier, when dusk had barely taken the sky, but hadn’t the courage to enter. It didn’t help that the gardens lay in the shadow of the castle, foreboding and devoid of torches.
He stepped into that realm illuminated only by dim stars. As his vision adjusted to the lack of light, he spied the dull outline of a lattice against a wall. Flowering ivy crawled up the framework, the small lilac petals wane in the gloom. He made his way to them, slowly after his first stumble on the uneven stones marking the edges of garden beds. At least they were crafted from a light grey stone, enabling him to pick his way without disturbing the plants.
His path took him by a series of small alcoves jutting from the castle wall. The tower had a few of similar style. Lovers’ nests, the older spellsters used to call them. Places built almost as if to entice an infatuated duo to spend time canoodling in. Little more than traps.
“You came.”
Dylan swung about at the sound of Tracker’s voice. Paltry light leaked down from the windows and torches high above. Their light showed nothing but more vine-laden trellises. He squinted, searching the shadows for the elf and found the man perched on the ledge within one of the alcoves, his armour all but making him disappear into the darkness.
“For a while there, I thought you had chosen to ignore my message.” The hound jumped down from the ledge and beckoned Dylan closer.
“I almost did.” He still wasn’t sure why he’d come. Perhaps a part of him needed to see the hound before he left to become one of the last spellsters the kingdom had at their disposal, to fight off the Udyneans and hope it would be the last. Maybe he heeded some inner command to make sure their tie was completely severed. Or the prideful part that insisted he apologise.
Dylan cleared his throat. “I…” The words died on his tongue as Tracker ran a hand up the robe—the same travel-worn garb Dylan had arrived in. The touch knotted Dylan’s insides.
“I never thought I would hate seeing a spellster leashed.” Tracker sighed. “You should have gone with the others, fled across the border rather than subject yourself to this.” Those long fingers brushed the collar. The metal hummed. “I could take it off. Every hound is taught how in the event a spellster dies on the battlefield.”
Dylan stepped back out of th
e alcove. “I’m part of the king’s army. One of its weapons.” Although much of the light came from over his shoulder, illuminating the hound’s face and shadowing his own, Dylan tried to keep his expression neutral. “The whole point of coming to Wintervale was to be leashed.”
Tracker closed his eyes, eliminating the light shimmering across their surfaces. “You were free. There was no reason to become a thing again.”
How he wished that was true. “Why did you ask to see me?” he grated, struggling to keep any emotion from his voice. He couldn’t risk giving in to it now. “Your job is done. I’m leashed. You can go back to your pack. Isn’t that what your master said to do?” He shook his head, recalling how the other hounds had greeted them at the gate. They already knew what Tracker had done to get Dylan here. “I’m just another stupid little spellster you coerced into your arms.”
Anguish moulded Tracker’s features. Briefly, but so sharp that Dylan wanted to bridge the gap between them and take back every harsh word he’d spoken.
No. Dylan squared his shoulders. Physical contact would be best avoided lest he caved. He’d been just another nameless spellster the hound once had a meaningless fling with. This was no different than back in the tower.
Dylan took a deep breath, steadying himself. “Why did you summon me? If you’re looking for sex, then I’m afraid you won’t be getting any of my tricks. I can’t use my magic on a whim with this.” He waved a hand at his collar. Dylan had been very generous with the use of his power. If it meant that the man couldn’t sleep with another without thinking of Dylan, then he was fine leaving it that way. Why shouldn’t both of them be haunted by their memories together?
Tracker stepped closer, the light from a low window illuminating his face and the cocked brow. “That is not…” He shook his head and waggled a cautioning finger at him. “Do not go putting words in my mouth. Whether magic is involved or not, sleeping with you is not—”
Cold laughter bubbled in Dylan’s chest and erupted from his lips. “Why don’t we simply call it what it was? Your desire was only to rut with me.” He spread his arms wide, offering himself. “If that’s what you’re after, then don’t bother trying to couch it in pretty words.”
Tracker’s brows drew together. “From the first moment we were intimate, I have never rutted with you. And sex is not the reason why I sent you the message.”
Dylan lowered his arms, silently waiting for the man to continue.
“I should have told you about what I learnt of the tower’s fate, I know, and I accept the blame for that. I simply did not wish to upset you when I was not entirely certain of the truth.”
Dylan clenched his hands, a little chilled to find only his warm flesh in his grasp. It was so much easier to stay calm when he didn’t have to worry about his magic flaring. “You knew after Whitemeadow.”
Tracker nodded, his head drooping and throwing his face into shadows. But it couldn’t hide the fact his breathing had turned ragged. “And you can hate me for that if you think it justified, but before we part ways, I need to tell you I…” He gnawed on his lip. It was hard to be certain, but his jaw seemed to tremble. “What we were discussing in the forest. How I feel about you. I cannot let you leave without you knowing.”
Dylan stepped back, shaking his head. “Don’t lie to me again. Please.” Just how much of what the man said to him had been untrue? All that Tracker had been trying to confess before Nestria made herself known? Except, he felt nothing… Didn’t he?
Then why did the hound seem to be on the brink of panic?
Tracker’s head snapped up. His eyes were huge and glittered in the light. “I have spoken very few untruths. Almost none at all.”
Dylan folded his arms. He wanted to believe that was true. The yearning all but crushed his chest. He sniffed back the tears building in corner of his eyes and cleared his throat. “I’m sure you must realise I’d find it hard to believe a word you say.”
The hound was silent for a while, then nodded. “I cannot expect it of you,” he whispered. “Nor would I ask you to. All I want is the chance to speak. You can decide then.”
Dylan glanced at the garden entrance. Would anyone come if he raised his voice? Other hounds, perhaps. Maybe a few castle guards. Would anyone care once they realised it was a spellster cornered by a hound? Not bloody likely. If he attacked Tracker it would be a different story. No one would come to his aid. Still, if he could believe one thing, it was that Tracker had no intention of harming him.
On the other hand, it was probably best that they didn’t linger here. Who knew what precautions they’d made for his presence? He was not dragging anymore people down into his mess of a life with him. “Make it quick. I’m leaving on the count of ten.”
Naked alarm slackened the man’s jaw. “Th-that is not near enough time to say all I wish to, but if that is how you want to play this.” With one hand, Tracker grabbed the collar of Dylan’s robe before Dylan could react and dragged him down far enough to kiss.
There was something familiar swimming in that rush, a warm spark still slightly prickly with anger and pain. The call of home.
Despite himself, Dylan moaned. Against the screaming insistence ringing in his mind that he should push the hound away before they were caught, he grasped Tracker’s waist and pulled them together. Just four days and he’d forgotten how well the man fitted against him, as smooth and precise as a blacksmith’s puzzle.
They parted, reluctantly heeding the call for air, but they remained pressed against each other. “I have spoken at great lengths with the other hounds,” Tracker said, the admission coming between pants. “But not of us. It is as my master says, the king’s sister is—”
“Track,” Dylan rasped, silencing the elf with a finger. His head still spun, barely catching the man’s words, and he didn’t know why. Was it the lack of air? Had the hound poisoned him like the man claimed he could do?
The way he looks at you. Marin’s words came sharply to mind. No. It wasn’t that. What he felt—this fuzzy, fluttering warmth buzzing through him—wasn’t real. Just another trick. Or a dream. But he stood in the darkness, the chill nipping at his extremities. If it was some bitter dream, then surely his mind could conjure a far more pleasant place. “Wait.”
Tracker gently removed Dylan’s finger. “No, I need to speak. You said I needed to answer if I would have followed the order to attack the tower. You should know that before we discuss anything else.” His hand slid up Dylan’s chest as he talked, toying with the ties of his robe and making the collar hum as a fingertip brushed it. “I hope you understand I was only trying to protect you.”
“I know.” And coming to that sort of realisation only made him feel worse about how he’d treated the man. But still… “I don’t need that sort of protection.”
“No,” Tracker agreed. “You need the truth and that is the hounds were responsible for the attack on the tower.”
Dylan held his tongue. What did the hound expect him to say to that? They already both knew the truth of what had happened.
“But you only know part of it.”
He shook his head. That part was more than enough. “I can barely believe it as it stands. How many hounds did you say there were? A hundred?”
Tracker’s lips pressed together as if he planned to remain silent on the subject. “There were fifty-one fully-fledged hounds, including myself.”
“And every single one of them willingly obeyed the order to slaughter innocent people?” What sort of monsters was the crown raising?
Tracker hung his head. “Not all of them, no. When we were at Whitemeadow, when I spoke with Fetch, she… was not the woman I remember. She told me every hound who had refused was put down. I confirmed it with the pack this afternoon, before I tried to talk you out of being leashed. They believe you were the last spellster that wasn’t leashed or dead in the kingdom.”
No one had told them of the others? He sincerely hoped that was true. “If the hounds slew each other, then wh
y didn’t we see anyone in, or even near, the tower with armour like that?” He indicated the hound’s dark leather attire. True, he could’ve missed one where Tracker had searched alone or there could’ve been a hound or two on the pyres they’d started making in the garden.
“Because our own culling had already happened well beforehand. And it turns out I did get the command that sealed the fate of so many innocent people, just not the missive you or I were thinking of.”
“What?” Tracker had said many times that the hounds had to obey or risked being slain. He didn’t think the man had been serious.
“Thirty-three hounds left here for the tower.” The words slipped out the man’s mouth slowly with barely a parting of his lips. “Those who refused to be a part of the slaughter were slain and dumped into the sea.”
“Thirty-three?” Dylan echoed incredulously. “Are you telling me thirty-three hounds are responsible for what happened? There were thousands in that tower.”
Tracker nodded. “There were, which is why they had the Talfaltaners.”
“But the guardians in the tower alone—”
“We are very efficient killers,” Tracker said, his soft tone at odds with the words. “Most guardians are barely trained in using a sword.”
The man was right in that, as much as Dylan’s pride in his guardian’s abilities hated to admit it. “You want me to believe that, out of the hundreds of spellsters there, no one would’ve thought of an alternative way to attack?”
“People panic. You told me how only those who show promise are trained to fight. In an attack such as the tower sustained, instinct would have taken control and, for most spellsters, their first impulse is to reach for their magic. And you personally know how little effect that would have on us.”