by A Van Wyck
The exclusion might have bothered him more if he wasn’t so distracted. The horse he’d been provided seemed to enjoy the company of the other horses, which was just as well. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to change its mind if it decided to wander off on its own. He never thought he’d miss the plodding mare he’d ridden on the caravan. He was no horse expert but the bright chestnut they’d given him looked terribly sleek and muscled. Every time it impatiently tossed its head he halfway expected it to take off across the plain like a burning shot from a catapult. It had been no comfort at all to learn the stallion’s name was Firebrand.
He’d spent the better part of the ride so far frantically grabbing at the reins every time Firebrand’s ears twitched.
E’s a good ‘orse, is Firebrand, the groom had promised, choo won’t ‘ave any trouble wit ‘im, squire.
Grooms. What did they know?
He watched the horse carefully in case it was trying to lull him into a false sense of confidence but, as the morning progressed, he began to believe Firebrand might be without the homicidal tendencies of his species. At length, he sat a little straighter in the saddle, daring to loosen his death grip on the reins.
But that left his faculties free to consider other things and he quickly began to wonder why the princess had invited him along at all. The glances had stopped some time ago and now she hardly seemed to notice his presence, sandwiched as she was between her ladies. He watched her surreptitiously from the corner of his eye.
Even Father Justin would have trouble sorting out the mixed emotions churning in his chest. He was delighted to be in the princess’s presence and uncomfortable at being delighted. At the same time he was resentful of the princess’s inattention, just as he was jealous of the handmaidens who had her attention. He was beginning to wonder whether perhaps she had invited him along as some kind of curio and was hurt at the prospect right alongside feeling guilty for thinking the princess capable of such a thing. Added to which, he was self-conscious, believing that every single person there was in on the lark and laughing at him behind their hands. At any moment his heart might pop like a grape under the strain of the contrary convictions.
And despite it all, he was sifting his mind with a hot rake for something witty or interesting to say to her. He had centuries worth of history crammed into his head, rubbing shoulders with countless volumes on theology and scripture, speckled generously with exotic biographies and bestiaries and literature from within the Empire and without. He had read and understood the fundamentals of medicine, alchemy, rhetoric, logic and war.
And he was now faced with the stark realization that none of it – none of it! – was fit conversation for a princess.
He considered and discarded countless flawed verbal gambits while a bell slowly passed to the clop of hooves and the low conversation of the ladies. Until eventually his silence itself muzzled him.
Mired in his social conundrum, he didn’t notice the horse beneath him slowing along with the others, not until they drew up on a slight rise overlooking a grassy basin. He hurriedly and unnecessarily tugged on the reins as Firebrand came to a standstill. Servants rushed to fit the ladies with bird gloves, drawing the sturdy leather gauntlets all the way up to their elbow. The falconers, their feathery charges on hand, came forward to coax the birds onto the ladies’ glossy, tooled leather forearms.
“Highness,” the foremost said, tugging at his forelock as he unhooded the raptor on the princess’s arm and bowed himself away. The bird shook out its feathers, unfurling its wings partway. It was fierce looking thing, with a curved beak and sleek, dun and cream plumage. Its small eyes were an intense and intimidating gold.
With a bright smile and a deft flick, the princess launched the hunting bird. With its wings fully unfurled, it tripled in size, seeming to explode into a different, dangerous creature less than a pace from her outstretched arm. The blind birds perched on her ladies’ wrists ducked their heads, cocking their wings as if they, too, would take to the sky but settled after some nervous shifting.
The princess’s bird climbed effortlessly into the blue, dwindling until it was no more than a speck. Hands were raised to shade eyes as a dozen people, himself included, squinted upward to track it. It glided, turning lazy circles far above the clearing. He watched as it did two slow circuits. Apart from that, it wasn’t doing anything. He frowned. It was a trained hunting bird, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it supposed to, well, hunt?
He snuck a peek at the princess. She didn’t seem to object to the bird’s lax hunting methodology. She smiled excitedly. The morning ride had brought a flush to her otherwise pale cheeks and the upward tilt of her head exposed a creamy stretch of neck–
He shook his head hard to clear it of such thoughts.
“Looks like she’s seen sumfin’, highness,” one of the falconers opined.
He jerked his gaze guiltily skyward.
The bird had narrowed its circle. He caught sight of it just in time to see it plummet.
The ladies made excited noises as the hunter dove earthward. Despite himself, he found he was holding his breath, watching as the bird hurtled from the sky at breakneck speed. Down and down it streaked. He felt a stirring of panic. It wasn’t leveling out. Shouldn’t it be leveling out? He cast an uncertain glance at the falconers. The gruff men were silent, their shoulders tensed, standing perched on the balls of their feet. Was this normal? Or some kind of aberrant, avian suicide attempt the keeper had failed to mention…
Well past the last possible moment to do so, the great wings snapped open. There was a heart stopping instant when the bird disappeared in the tall grasses. And then it was winging its way upward, lumbering beneath the weight of the nameless patch of grey fur in its talons. Skimming above the clearing, it made its way back to the party atop the rise.
There were scattered cheers and some clapping from the servants and falconers.
“Breathtaking, isn’t it?”
He started. He’d been so immersed in watching the bird of prey, he hadn’t noticed the princess sidle her horse up to his. Her color was up and her eyes sparkled with reined excitement. Shapely lips struggled to contain her thrilled smile.
“Definitely,” he answered in earnest.
At the pleased dip of her head, he wondered if perhaps it had been too obvious that he hadn’t been talking about the bird. He looked away hurriedly.
“If I could have my way,” she enthused quietly, watching the bird make a bee-line toward her, “I’d just watch them fly.” The last word encapsulated all the freedom and majesty of the spectacle they’d just witnessed. “But they’re trained to hunt,” she sighed in muted apprehension. “This next part is my least favorite,” she added, visibly steeling herself as she held out her arm. He followed her gaze only to jerk back in surprise. Virtually on top of them, the bird let go of its prize, letting the lifeless bundle of fur drop to roll in the dust. The large hunter angled its wings, beating at the air. It settled heavily on the perch the princess offered. Up close, he could see its vicious talons biting into the heavy leather.
A falconer stooped to gather up the fallen prey, holding the limp, blood streaked hare up by its hind legs.
“A clean kill, highness,” he called, proud as if he’d caught the thing himself.
Another appeared at the princess’s side, proffering a stained leather pouch. Wrinkling her delicate nose, she reached inside, pinching a sliver of raw, glistening meat. She held it up to the giant bird. The curved beak snapped up the morsel, the bird throwing its head back to devour it in a gulp. The third falconer was ready with the bird’s hood and slipped it on, hiding those piercing eyes. Two servants rushed to the princess’s side. One held a silver bowl of water, the other used a soft cloth to gently wipe and dry her hand. The scent of lavender laved the hilltop.
“Would you like to stroke her?”
He started again, casting the princess a shocked glance, having never heard the word “stroke” ascribed to anything other than a cat.
“Go on,” she spurred, expertly turning her horse so the bird bearing arm was nearest him.
So close, the feathered hunter looked enormous and exceedingly vicious. He could swear the blind head had turned to fix on him the moment the princess uttered her invitation. He looked to her for reassurance. She gave him an encouraging nod. She was absolutely glowing. Swallowing his trepidation, he extended a hand.
The cruel beak seemed to track the progress of his fragile fingers as they neared. The haughty raptor lifted higher on its talons, halfway spreading its wings. He froze, hesitating, a hairsbreadth away from touching it. With a last, bracing breath, he trailed one knuckle carefully down the bird’s breast, surprised at the softness of the elegant plumage. It was difficult to reconcile this downy creature, radiating gentle heat and a sense of weightlessness, with the sleek killer he’d just seen in action. He stroked it again, with a little more confidence, marveling at its majesty.
“Magnificent, isn’t she?”
Nodding, he smiled his agreement. He became abruptly aware he was awfully close to the princess. He hadn’t realized their intimate proximity, with him leaning out of his saddle to reach the bird. Her gentle perfume wafted to him. Subdued and sweet, a single summer flower in a sunlit room. Her smile had changed, though he couldn’t say how and she was studying him in turn. His breath caught, his heart taking off at a gallop. Out of nowhere, his befuddled thoughts flashed a question.
“He’s a she?” he blurted in surprise. He’d automatically assumed the bird was male.
“Oh, yes,” the princess nodded, indicating the crouched predator with her free hand, “see? She’s a red woad hawk. The males have twin red stripes down their backs and at their wingtips. But I much prefer Princess Clariona here. Elegant. Not so flashy. And a better hunter than many males in the mews.”
That took him by surprise. “Princess?” He looked at the bird with new eyes and realized he was stroking its breast… He yanked his hand away as though burned. His horse chose then to shudder, shaking out its tail and tossing its head. He grabbed desperately for the saddle horn but Firebrand’s great head merely drooped to crop some grass. He sighed in relief.
The princess was biting her lip and refused to meet his eye.
Embarrassed, he regarded the bird instead.
“She’s very pretty,” he offered stupidly, trying to distract from his humiliation. But he could feel the heat creep up the back of his neck and lick at his ears.
“She’s my favorite,” the princess confided, generously choosing to ignore his show of poor horsemanship. She raised the bird bearing arm proudly and the raptor fanned its wings, effectively tripling in size again.
“Father always says my sister and I should be as hawks,” the princess continued. “Proud. Beautiful. Prepared to perch on the arm of the man able to bear the weight of our rule… and ready to go for the throat if not.” Sighing, she passed Princess Clariona off to a waiting falconer. “And then, when I was six, I had to choose the bird that was to front my crest.”
She turned to him expectantly, inviting him to reason it out. He recalled the seal on yesterday’s invitation.
“The swan?”
“Yes!” She giggled delightedly. “How surprised Father was! None of the Stentoric line has had the swan since the time of the Greenwall! It’s not much of a bird of prey. He tried to get me to change my mind but of course I wouldn’t.”
He laughed with her, marveling at the ease of it. He could just imagine the little girl she’d been: lace frock, bow in the hair, stamping her little foot as she argued earnestly with the king. He sympathized with his majesty. He couldn’t imagine anyone saying no to her, even now.
“That’s when he started calling me his little persuading swan,” she said fondly. They laughed again.
It was so easy talking to her – so effortless – he spoke without thinking.
“I’m glad you’re talking to me after all. I thought–” realizing too late what he was saying and snapped his teeth shut. “Apologies, highness,” he stammered, “I spoke out of turn–”
“Oh, that,” she waved him into silence, cutting her eyes toward where the two ladies sat their horses. One of them was being fanned by a frantic servant with a lace handkerchief.
“Janelle is my sister’s eyes and ears,” she explained. “There is little that I do or say that my sister doesn’t know by sundown.” Her lips pulled down in weary resignation. “She’s always looking for an excuse to criticize.”
“But,” she turned a mischievous smile on him, “Janelle has a tendency to faint at the sight of blood.” She jerked her chin to where a falconer was tying the downed hare to a brace. “It’s forever a problem when we’re embroidering something and someone pricks their finger. I sometimes think to do it, just to see her swoon!”
Catching on, he looked again at the ladies. The one being fanned, Janelle, was white as a sheet, her eyes unfocused. A falconer, trying without much success to coax the hooded bird from her wobbling arm, supported her with a hand against her back. The other lady was leaning from her saddle, fanning the swooned Janelle with a hand.
The princess contained another delighted laugh, pleased with herself and they shared a conspiratorial grin. Aloud, the princess graciously decreed the premature end of the hawking expedition, cancelled in favor of the delicate lady getting some rest. The unfortunate woman was helped down from her horse, her companion chafing at her wrists. It was some time before she was recovered enough to ride and even then she sat swaying in her saddle, green tinged and staring at the back of her horse’s head, as they made their way back.
Freed from Janelle’s scrutiny, the princess plagued him with pleasant conversation all the way back to the palace. They spoke of too many things to clearly recall. Books and music, history, customs and culture. She described a complex-sounding twelve stringed strumming instrument and promised she’d show him how to play. He told her of the Temple, its subterranean libraries and rearing orchards. She told him of her childhood and all the trouble she’d caused. In turn, he told her of the keeper, carefully leaving out any mention of streaming or empaths. They spent the return trip easily swapping stories. He found himself forgetting that she was a princess.
As they at long last entered the palace stable yard, he saw her stiffen in the saddle and their easy flowing conversation stumbled to an abrupt halt. He followed her gaze. Fifty paces beyond the yard, a woman stood in an open doorway, carefully out of the sun’s reach. He recognized the erect posture, austere brow and severe mouth. The princess’s face fell.
Her sister stood waiting for her.
“I’d better go see what she wants,” she said, but made no move to spur her horse in that direction.
Something tickled his memory. “Your sister’s crest,” he said. “It’s a hawk?”
“The winterhold hawk.”
“Isn’t that…”
“The only hawk known to hunt others of its kind? Yes, it is.”
When she turned back to him, she was the princess again, top to toes. “Master Dei Toriam,” she said formally, “we thank you for accompanying us on our morning excursion.”
It tore at him to hear the lifelessness in her voice. Unsure whether he’d be able to match her decorum if he opened his mouth, he bowed low from the saddle. Visibly steeling herself, she gently heeled her horse in her sister’s direction. Straightening, he watched her go. He couldn’t help feeling that he was somehow abandoning her.
Aware of eyes on him, he looked past her and accidentally met her sister’s cold gaze. His heart broke into a gallop for a completely different reason. Ducking his head, he clambered stiffly off his horse so he could lead it rather than try to turn it. And so he’d have a screen of horseflesh between him and the elder princess Villet.
* * *
Ships. If he’d known what he was in for, he’d have gladly stayed where people wanted to kill him. He didn’t know exactly how long they’d been at sea. His concept of time was limited to the occasions he’
d snuck from the little hidey hole he’d crafted for himself in the cargo hold to steal food, as he was doing now. He’d been up on deck, once or twice, during the night, careful not to be seen. To gasp a few lung-fulls of fresh air and to empty his bucket. That had been a chore the first couple of days. He’d chosen the biggest ship he could find, figuring the larger the ship, the more places to hide. As it turned out, that also meant there was always someone awake and, likely as not, sitting in the galley. It was much too risky to pilfer food from there, so he’d had to content himself with the dried meat and weeviled rusks he’d found in the supply hold. And they hadn’t agreed with him at all.
He’d thought himself a desert lad, well used to wide open spaces. The vastness of the ocean was just a little intimidating. He was glad that he didn’t get to see it during the day. The hidden space he’d created for himself by shifting cargo was very small. Just big enough to sit or lie curled up in. And the daylight turns dragged by slowly. He was afraid he might never be able to stand fully upright again. But for all the discomfort, boredom and fear of discovery, he felt a more at ease with every league he put between himself and Oaragh.