by Ila Mercer
As he put his hand to the stable door, Yaron could hear the muffled sighs and giggles of a couple. He did not disturb them, though he had every right to enter his own stable. He felt embarrassed by the thought of what might be occurring therein.
He’d never been with a girl. Though there had been plenty to press against him in the hallways of the Keep or linger with their touch. It wasn’t that he didn’t want their attentions. It was more the fact that it had never felt right to cross the threshold. None of the girls in the Keep had made his heart beat fast or taken possession of his thoughts. And while he thought Madea was pretty enough, he knew he could never love her in the way she wanted. He could just imagine what his uncle would say about that union too - unless Madea suddenly gained a talent for spinning straw into gold.
Yaron took his hand from the door and turned away. From beyond the gate a dark movement caught his eye. Then came a whuffling sound and the unmistakable clop of a restless hoof. Intrigued, Yaron wandered toward the gate. Where was Old Stac, the nightwatchman, he wondered? He should have been at his post. He glanced through the door of the night hut, but the old man was not there. Odd, he thought. And then he heard the restless dance of hooves on the drawbridge again. Why was the bridge down and who could be waiting outside the gate at this time of night, he asked himself, for surely the horse carried a rider in its seat. But no, when he lifted the lantern, he saw that the horse was alone. Unsaddled, unbridled, belonging to no one it seemed.
It was a beauty all right with a coat dark and lustrous and a spark of intelligence in its eye as it studied his approach. He took a lump of sugar from his trousers, meant for his usual steed, and offered it through the bars of the gate. He studied the curve of the horse’s belly and legs, noting that it was a filly. She took a step closer and bowed over his offering. Her breath, sweet like clover, fluttered against his skin. She lifted her eyes to his and waited.
‘It’s quite safe,’ Yaron laughed. ‘Have you never had a sugar before?’
In reply she pressed her muzzle to his palm in a velveteen embrace, sending a tingly ripple all the way up his arm. When she drew away, the sugar was gone.
‘There you are,’ he said as he caressed the side of her neck. ‘Nothing to fear. Where did you come from? Such a pretty filly must belong to someone.’
In reply she nudged his hand with the side of her head and lowered her neck as if to show that he should mount her.
‘You want a ride, pretty girl?’
The filly snorted and nudged him again.
‘Very well,’ Yaron said as he drew his arm back through the bars. The key to the gate, which he now had to find, was in the night watchman’s hut. He had to stoop on entry, for the door was only large enough to accommodate its keeper. At first glance there appeared to be little inside the quarters. A ginger cat lay curled in a basket by the brazier, and a piece of whittled wood and a knife lay abandoned beside a small stool. As he turned about, he noticed something he had missed on entering. On a ledge, near the doorway, stood an entire population of figurines. Just like Lita’s tale, he thought, and then he wondered if she had been into Old Stac’s quarters. But he could not think why she would visit the old night watchman. She had no need to leave the Keep, did she? Yaron picked up one of the figurines, noting that it possessed a likeness to Siggy the tallowmaker’s son and then he picked up another that looked like his uncle. Every single figurine, he realised, was a miniature version of every person who lived in the Keep. It surprised him, that he had not known of Old Stac’s talent. Indeed, folk were often more than they seemed. He had thought for years that Old Stac was merely a simpleton, because he was not clever with his head.
Yaron returned to his search for the key, all the while wondering why Old Stac had left his post. He would have to say something about it to the old night watchman. Though Yaron searched high and low, he could not find the large iron key to the gate.
He returned to the gate to see if the filly was still there and noted that the key he’d been searching for was already fitted into the lock. Someone, perhaps even Old Stac, had been through the gate. ‘Stac, Stac,’ he called, worried for the old man now.
‘You called, Senna,’ a voice came from behind him.
Yaron turned to see the old man shambling towards him. ‘Where have you been?’ Yaron said with a hint of a burr in his voice.
‘Sent on a fool’s errand, I think,’ the night watchman replied. ‘One of the maidens sent me to fetch you and bring you back to the gates. Said you was in the library. But you weren’t.’
‘Who sent you?’
Old Stac frowned and shifted from foot to foot. ‘She was wearing a hood and spoke muffled. Said it was a matter of great importance.’
‘And you can’t say who it was?’
Old Stac shrank deeper into his coat, if such a thing were possible for he was already a stooped and shrivelled version of his younger self. In the days of Yaron’s grandpapa, Stac had first been given his posting, for he was too twisted and bent to work in the orchard, too clumsy to serve at table, and supposed to be too dim-witted to hunt or work in the saddlery.
‘Did anyone leave this evening?’
‘No, Senna.’
‘The key to the gate is in the lock.’
‘No,’ Old Stac said, shaking his head. ‘I never let nobody through the gate.’
‘Well somebody’s playing a prank on you, I think.’
‘Sorry Senna,’ he muttered. ‘I won’t let it happen again.’
‘Just don’t leave your post,’ Yaron sighed. ‘That is what your bell is for. So you can call for another to take your place if ever there’s a need.’
‘Yes, Senna.’
‘Was the filly here before you left?’ Yaron asked, pointing through the gates.
‘Not Tilly or Vicca. It were someone else who sent me to fetch you.’
‘The horse!’ Yaron said, lifting the lamp high.
‘Oh,’ Old Stac said shuffling closer to the gate. ‘There’s a horse outside the gate! How’d that get there?’
Yaron shook his head and laughed. Suddenly it all seemed ridiculous. He knew he would not gain any further sense by questioning Old Stac. ‘Never mind.’ Yaron said. ‘I am here now, whether someone called me or not, and I think I’ll take this filly for a ride. Just be here on my return to let me in, or there truly will be trouble.’
‘Oh yes, Senna. I’ll have my eyes open all the way to the back of my skull, and my ear all the way to the cobbles.’
Yaron slipped through the small side gate and passed the key back to Old Stac.
The filly snorted and shook her head as if to say, ‘you took your time.’ Again, she lowered her neck and Yaron hoisted himself onto her back. He had only once before ridden bare back, and it had ended with an unexpected swim in the moat. But this time he sensed the stray filly would do him no harm.
Through the cloth of his trousers he felt the ridge of her back, felt the swell of power and strength in her body, the roundness of belly and rump. He leant forward and nuzzled her ears. Soft they were, with a musky sweetness. In response she lifted her head, pressing her ears against his mouth and cheeks. ‘You like that,’ he said, smoothing her mane. For a moment he had a sudden feeling that the filly was not a filly at all. That she was perhaps a creature from an enchantment. He shook his head, realising that he was letting himself become fanciful. If anyone heard his thoughts, they would think their Senna had gone mad.
He whisked her rump and they set off through the muted darkness. Her mane flowed like long tresses around his arms and the rhythm of her pounding hooves became a song in his ears. It was much colder than he had anticipated making his nose and the tips of his ears go numb. But he did not mind, for it was good to be away from the Keep.
Down in the dell they startled a mountain cat from its thicket prowling, leapt over a small stream and galloped up a slope on the eastern ridge. The stray filly dodged rocks and leapt over logs unbidden. She was a joy to ride and it was as effortless as
if he had ridden under a clear blue sky. She anticipated Yaron’s wishes with the subtle shifting of his weight so that not once did he need to steer with his hands and feet.
They stopped at the highest point on the ridge. Together they cast their eyes over the Downs. And though he saw with his eyes, Yaron’s gaze had gone inward, so that the scene below was merely a canvas to his thoughts. He could not remember the last time he had felt so free. The stone Keep, made to protect, was nothing more than a shield between him and the world. Behind those walls, the world narrowed, it drew his focus inward, fooling him into thinking that living was about keeping everything safe. Hoarding enough food, enough clothes, enough shelter to last you not only this season, but also the next and the next and the next. If this was the best that he could offer his folk he was little more than a shepherd fattening his sheep. Life would pass comfortably and unremarkably. But he wanted more. There was an ache in him of the wanting – but what he wanted he could not quite grasp. Oh, what a thing it would be - to be sure of one’s mission - and to act on it without fear just as Sia Fraya had done when she freed the she-Beasts. Even though her actions had been misguided and ended in tragedy.
Again, the image of the fallen fawn returned to him. If only he could redeem himself, undo some of that night’s mischief, perhaps then, he could see his way clear.
He turned back to the Keep. The filly reluctant to leave the open fields, dallied now. She pretended to shy away at a moving shadow; she pricked her ears at the short, sharp yips of a far-away vixen. It was only when a heavy cloud settled over the moon that she quickened her pace. As it darkened there seemed to be a flickering to her form, an uncertainty in her step. It unsettled Yaron and it put him in mind of the fawn for the second time that evening, but he knew it was a foolish notion. Just the same he reached down and brushed each of her cheeks with his fingers, only to find that she was unbranded. And he wondered what he had been thinking.
*
The following morning, Yaron returned to the stables, and though he searched every stall, and questioned the tack boys, nobody could recall seeing the mysterious black filly. ‘But she should be here,’ Yaron said shaking his head. ‘Unless I dreamed it.’
One of the tack boys sniggered, and said under his breath, ‘Maybe it was a nightmare.’ His companion slapped the back of his head.
Yaron laughed too, but underneath it all, he felt a prickle of wonder and alarm. He knew he had not dreamed the black filly and if she was gone, perhaps his notion about the she-Beast had been right.
Broken Pact
Yaron was not the only one unsettled by presence of the black filly. The previous evening, Lita had paced Madea’s room all evening. The moon had spread a thick light over everything so that trees, cobble and courtyard glowed silvery-blue. Madea had not come in and Lita was left wondering if her friend had been caught outdoors after moonrise.
At midnight, Madea returned.
‘Where’ve you been?’ Lita said rushing to the door.
Madea smiled and shrugged her shoulders. ‘Out.’
‘Out where?’ Lita demanded, determined that she would not allow Madea to fob her off after so many hours of fretting. ‘We made a pact. Remember?’
Madea’s gaze fell to the floor. ‘I know. But I’m not like you. The feeling comes over me and I just have to bust out. Besides, there’s no other way. When I sing or play the lute, he just hears a pretty tune. It’s only his horses that he really loves, and it got me thinking.’
‘No,’ Lita said. ‘You didn’t use the Change, did you? It’s too dangerous, you said so yourself.’
‘But you told me Senna Yaron was different. That he has sympathies for Beasts.’
‘I guess so. But what about Senna Worrel? I’ve heard he killed a Beast once, and he often rides with Yaron. What if you Change back to a maiden while you’re out there? It could happen.’
‘Senna Worrel didn’t come. He doesn’t return from Fallengrove til today. Anyway, it was worth it.’
‘But they might mistake you for a Beast. You could be sent away to the mines. Nothing’s worth that,’ Lita said. The thought of living in that deep darkness sent a stab of fear through her. Like being buried alive. Why would Madea risk that? It was not a game.
‘You’re too young to understand,’ Madea said, as she began sorting through her basket of thread. ‘When his hand was on my neck and we rode the silver meadows, it was as if nothing else mattered.’
‘Please promise you won’t do it again. Find a different way to win his heart.’
‘I’ll try,’ Madea said.
Worrel’s Return
Senna Worrel returned from Fallengrove at midday and went straight to his chambers. Yaron, expecting a summons, slipped off to the woods for some hunting with the Jims, but when he returned later that afternoon, he learned that his uncle had remained in his chambers, neither sending summons or requests for dinner. It was most uncharacteristic, Yaron thought. Still, he didn’t care to hear his uncle’s news, so decided to take his supper in his own chambers that evening.
By bedtime though, Yaron began to worry.
What if his uncle was ailing? He wondered if he should send one of the maids to see and then decided against this. His uncle didn’t like the servants of the Keep to see him in a weakened state – said a Senna should always appear strong and in full possession of their faculties.
So, even though he’d been hoping to avoid any further discussions of alliances and marriage, Yaron wove his way to his uncle’s chambers, taking a long and convoluted route to avoid going out into the cold night air.
His uncle’s room was on the third floor of the Keep, with windows overlooking the courtyard. It was the best suite for keeping an eye on all the comings and goings in the Keep.
On reaching his uncle’s door, Yaron knocked tentatively.
There was no answer, but Yaron decided to enter anyway.
At first, he could see little in the gloom. Embers from a dying fire lit only a portion of the room. It appeared that his uncle was not in bed, for the covers were undisturbed, and he was not at his desk. It was only when Yaron turned to one of the narrow windows that he spied his uncle, gazing onto the courtyard below.
‘Uncle?’
His uncle turned slowly toward him.
‘Is something the matter?’ Yaron asked.
His uncle replied, ‘I saw you with a string of rabbits over your shoulder this afternoon. It is as well, you hunt.’
‘Would you like some? Tilly could bring you some roast rabbit for supper.’
Senna Worrel shook his head and turned back to the window. Yaron had rarely seen his uncle so pensive. If he’d been madly pacing the room, ranting and raving, pushing his hand through his hair, it would have been far less alarming.
‘I’ll stoke the fire, shall I?’ Yaron said, as he felt a chill run through his body.
His uncle shrugged without turning.
Yaron fetched some twigs from a basket and set them over the glowing embers. He blew lightly, causing the embers to flare brightly. When the twigs caught alight, he added larger sticks and fanned the fire with his breath. Before long, he had revived the fire and its light spilled through the room, banishing the previous gloom. Then he dragged an armchair close and called for his uncle to come sit. To Yaron’s surprise, his uncle did as he was bid.
‘Something happened at Fallengrove,’ Yaron said, feeling slightly cheered now, for he realised things might have turned in his favour. ‘The alliance did not go as you’d hoped.’
‘Oh, they want an alliance,’ Senna Worrel replied, with a weary ring of humour in his voice.
Yaron’s heart skipped a beat. This meant he was still expected to marry one of Fallengrove’s daughters. ‘That’s what you wanted,’ Yaron said, thrusting another log into the fire, so that sparks showered the grate.
‘Not this way,’ his uncle replied. ‘They would have Fallengrove’s banner fly the Keep.’
Yaron failed to grasp the significance immediat
ely. He was still reeling from his uncle’s news about the alliance. Until now, it had all seemed a terrible notion – not something that might actually come to pass.
‘Your heirs will be Fallengroves. The Downs will no longer be, and its former regent will be granted a paltry annuity.’
Only now did Yaron understand the source of his uncle’s grievance. It was the prospect of a fortuneless future that had caused him such consternation. For the first time, Yaron realised his uncle had few prospects in his life. He wondered what sort of life his uncle had imagined for himself once Yaron was married off to a rich heiress and the Keep had received an injection of funds. Had he planned to grant himself a generous annuity? Of course, Yaron would have ensured this happened. After all, his uncle had served the Keep well in his role as regent, knowing the title would eventually pass into Yaron’s hands.
‘Then there should not be an alliance,’ Yaron said.
‘You are right,’ his uncle replied, wearily shaking his head.
For the first time in weeks, Yaron felt the burden of his future lift from his shoulders. There had to be another way, he told himself. He would involve himself more in the running of the Keep. For too long, he had let his uncle shoulder the full responsibility of that burden.
He would learn about animal husbandry and farming practices. He would bring the Keep back into a state of health and abundance again. Already, he had learned a number of useful things in his weeks of reading such as the best way to graft buds onto a tree with a sturdier pedigree. Did it matter whether the Downs ever established its former glory? From what he knew, their wealth had come from robbing the lives of Beasts. He needn’t ever be part of that problem again. In fact, he would turn his back on it altogether, show others that it was possible to make wealth by other means. Yaron’s mind raced with possibilities and he felt a surge of happiness. This was what he’d been seeking, the previous night. A mission for his life. Something he could pour himself into. And there would be no need to seek a wife with a bountiful dowry, as if she were some prize heifer.