by Ila Mercer
I am a fool, Ari thought to himself. Why hadn’t he told her what was really in his heart. That was what she really wanted to hear. ‘I should have kissed her,’ he thought, throwing the scatterings, cogs and tiny little nightingale rods onto his desk.
The Hunter
He pushed his seat back from the gambling table and called for his manservant to bring him his hat and his cape. In the last round, he had been over confident, and the woman had played him well. It was a weakness of his, to underestimate women, and he should have been warier of Madam Grist.
She raked in the coins and gave him a lopsided smile. The cunning vixen, even now she pretended it was beginner’s luck. Still, it was not a complete loss, he thought, for he might have need of her soon. She owned the most prestigious painted house in Yawmouth, and if that grizzled old hooch from the Downs backcounties had told the truth, he might have a prize to trade in the near future.
After the Hunter bowed to Madam Grist and the three other noblemen who sat at the table, he left through the secret passage.
The Hunter flinched as sunlight hit his eyes. He had not come up for light in three days and his eyes had grown accustomed to dim and smoky dens. He tugged at his hat until it was low on his brow and shaded his eyes with his hand. Beside him a young boy hopped along, skipping over vegetable slops and dog turds while on his shoulder, a monkey crouched, bracing itself whenever the boy zigged or zagged too rapidly for its liking.
In the marketplace, the Hunter bought a bag of shiny red apples for the boy. For the monkey, he haggled too long for a speckled brown banana – which the monkey refused to eat anyway. The Hunter could not blame the monkey, he could not stomach foreign fruit at all – let alone when it was over-ripe.
‘Tell the Bailiff I’ll need a horse,’ the Hunter said to the boy. ‘I’ll be at the Whistling Duck.’ The boy nodded and was gone in a flash.
The Hunter continued on, noting that half the crew for the Flying Fox were greenhorns. The sea trade was a treacherous business. Even if you survived the difficult task of bagging Beasts there was a good chance the squitters or a sudden squall would get you on your return home. In his youth, the Hunter had sailed three times to Baaran, bagging the best Beasts for the King’s mine. But each time the passage home had been a hairy, gut churning ordeal, and not worth the pay. It was soon after his third passage that the King called on the Hunter to round up a trio of escaped Beasts. Scrawny, half dead things they were, but desperate as hell to flee the hands of their captors. For five days, he had tracked them across the quarries of Wugmire and then another two when they slipped past him and made their way back to the stony hills above Kipping.
It was only when one of them slipped and broke an ankle that he was able to catch up. If not for that he might never have caught them. The two who were uninjured could have left the other, but they didn’t. Instead they submitted as meekly as calves being led to the slaughterhouse. When the Hunter returned with three shackled Beasts in tow, his fate was sealed. Since that day he had lost his given name and was known only as the Hunter.
*
Halfway through his second pint, the boy returned. The Hunter had been reflecting quietly about the last time he hunted in the Downs, many, many years ago. It was one of the most challenging hunts of his life and, had it not been for the maiden, he would have lost the Beast within the first day.
‘The horse is tied at the stables,’ the boy said, shoving his palm under the Hunter’s nose.
‘Go on then,’ the Hunter said, handing over a silver coin and swiping the boy with the back of his hand. The boy dodged though, ready for the cuffing and took his coin to the bar. He ordered himself a pint of ale and a handful of peanuts for the monkey.
The Hunter left shortly afterwards. All night he galloped down the dusty highway. He was not afraid of bandits. His name struck terror into the worst of thieves, for he had sent more than three score to the dungeons of Lacnor City. Above him the moon shone clear and bright, spilling its silver light across the land. A bad night for hunting but a good one for riding, he thought.
By morning he arrived at the County Downs. There were no nearby villages, and the farm land had shrunk from neglect. Though he suspected the old hooch who came to him was a back- country poacher-come-liquor trader, he knew the maiden would not be with her. No, somehow, she had lost the maiden. And the girl had probably wandered off to the nearest landmark – the Keep in the centre of County Downs. In a way, it was a little disappointing – that the chase had been made so easy. It hardly seemed fair to swoop down on the unsuspecting maiden without giving her some chance of escape.
When the Hunter saw the tattered flags of the Keep, he slowed his horse to a gentle clop. It was many years since he had passed through those gates, and on his last return he had been met with hateful reproach by some of its nobles and distressed vindication by the others. He knew that Senna Worrel was the current Regent of the Keep and that the young boy – Yaron – was nearly of an age to take up his reign. He wondered what sort of being the mute child had become.
He noted that the Keep had grown shabby over the years. Weeds grew through cracks in the Keep’s mortar, the outlying cottages were silent and the usual bustling activity one expected outside a Keep was absent.
The Hunter’s horse plodded loudly over the drawbridge and a wizened old head peered from behind the bars. The Hunter alighted from his horse and drew back his cloak, revealing the Kings symbol blazoned on his tunic. ‘I am here to see Senna Worrel,’ he said.
The old man scuttled away, and the Hunter waited, aware that his presence had been noted by others in the Keep. A curtain quivered on the top floor of the Eastern wing, the tack boys stopped brushing the horses and a maid flurried by with a basket of washing on her hip. The Hunter took off his riding gloves and waited.
Before long, Senna Worrel appeared, and the Hunter appraised him as he approached the gate. Senna Worrel bore the small and expected signs of age. Lines creased his forehead, brackets were carved around his mouth, silver framed his temples, and his waistline had thickened. Indeed, the Hunter sported these signs as well but there were other changes in the Downs Regent too. The man who stood before the Hunter had gone soft about the jaw and had a slight stoop to his shoulders, as though he had buckled with resignation. How circumstance could shape a man, the Hunter thought. Long ago, through wedlock, Senna Worrel had been in line to inherit half the kingdom’s merchant fleet and now here he was, minding a declining Keep.
Worrel greeted the Hunter with consternation. ‘Hunter! It’s been many years. What brings you to the Downs?’ As he opened the gate he added, ‘I’ve had no recent news of escape from the mines.’
‘A local matter,’ the Hunter said, aware there were many ears straining to hear their conversation. ‘It may be better if we speak in private.’
‘Jim,’ Worrel called to a middle-aged man in hunting garb. ‘Take this horse to the stables and get the tack boys to give it a good brush down.’
Once the horse was led away, Worrel guided the Hunter towards the ground floor chambers.
Again, the Hunter noted the decay of the once glorious Keep. In the windows curtains, faded by age and nibbled by moths, drooped miserably and mould stained the shadowed walls. Inside it was no better. Long ago, the Keep had boasted the finest collection of artwork but now there were only dark patches where they had hung and the rugs on which they walked were threadbare. The Hunter knew about the embargo placed on the Downs many years previous but wondered why the King still punished them.
Once they were seated with a glass of mead in their hands, Worrel asked the Hunter about his business.
‘I believe there may be a Beast in your midst.’
Worrel paled. ‘I think you must be mistaken,’ he said. ‘I’ll not be accused of harbouring a Beast. Who sent you?’
The Hunter leaned back in his chair and took another sip of mead. Clearly Senna Worrel knew nothing about the she-Beast, he thought. The nobleman would certainly do no good at a
gambling table. His thoughts were scribed plainly on his face, just as they had been so many years ago. Worrel had no love for the Beasts and it was little wonder. It wounded a man’s pride to be bested by a Beast, especially in the arena of love. ‘Your Beast would be very cunning at hiding its identity,’ the Hunter said. ‘But it is most likely new to the Keep.’
‘I can vouch for every single man in this Keep,’ Worrel replied.
‘And your women?’
At this, a change came over Senna Worrel’s features, a dawning realisation. ‘There are a number of women folk new to our Keep in the last few years. But none bear the branding of the Beast. I never thought…’
‘That it could happen more than once?’ The Hunter pinned Senna Worrel with a meaningful gaze. Over the years he had tracked down at least a dozen Beast mongrels.
Senna Worrel shook his head. ‘No.’ Senna Worrel’s lips were held in a grim line and a small vein pulsed in his forehead. ‘Who else knows of this?’
The Hunter suddenly saw an opportunity opening before him. ‘Nobody yet. And I can be discreet, but it will come at a price.’
Just then a tall young man with hair like ripened wheat strode into the room. On his features there was a welcoming smile as he glanced at their guest and then a flash of puzzlement. ‘Uncle? Old Stac told me we had a guest. Why did you not call for me?’ He turned to the Hunter.
The Hunter rose from his seat and bowed. ‘Senna Yaron, I presume.’
‘Yaron, the Hunter,’ Senna Worrel said stiffly.
The smile fled from Yaron’s features and was replaced with instant hostility. ‘What is he doing here?’ he asked his uncle.
‘I have come for the she-Beast who hides here,’ the Hunter answered, gauging Yaron’s reaction, finding to his pleasure that Yaron was a better player than his uncle. There was nothing, not even a glimmer of shock, fear or collusion in the young man’s features.
‘There are no Beasts in our Keep,’ Yaron said.
‘I have heard otherwise,’ the Hunter countered. ‘A woman who goes by the name of Tipple, came to see me in Yawmouth.’
‘I think you can leave,’ Yaron said.
‘I will return with the King’s soldiers whereupon I will take your Beast and the Keep will be supplanted with a more cooperative Regent. You, Senna Yaron, will find yourself detained by the Order. I’ve heard they hold a considerable collection of Beast conspirators in their dungeons.’ The Hunter rose from his chair, making as though to leave.
‘Wait!’ Senna Worrel said, rising from his chair, his eyes wide with panic. ‘I am Regent here. I will do as you ask. You must excuse my nephew for his youthful outburst.’
The Hunter paused and turned to Senna Worrel. ‘I’m pleased to see that one of you has some sense.’
‘Do what you must,’ Yaron said turning away. ‘But so will I.’ And with that he strode briskly from the room, bolting the door from the other side.
‘What a pity,’ the Hunter said, picking up his wine glass, ‘that he showed his hand so soon.’
*
Lita was tying off a knot when Yaron burst through Sal’s door.
At once, Lita could tell that something was wrong. His eyes were wide, and his body was taut like a bow. He marched over to her, picked up the sewing in her lap and caste it aside. ‘We have to leave now,’ he barked.
‘Why?’ Lita asked, feeling frightened. She had never seen Yaron behave in this manner before.
‘What the devil’s got into you, Senna?’ Sal said, hustling her way between Lita and Yaron.
‘I don’t have time to explain.’
‘Oh yes you will,’ Sal said, butting him with a stubby finger. ‘You can’t barge in here with no good reason, demanding that Lita follow.’
‘The Hunter’s here,’ Yaron snapped.
Lita felt a quiver of fear race down her spine. Her hands fluttered to her throat and she found it hard to breathe.
‘I think he’s after Lita,’ Yaron added.
‘What?’ Sal asked, clearly stunned.
‘Like I said, there’s no time to explain. I’ve locked the Hunter in my uncle’s chambers but it’s only a matter of time before somebody lets them out.’
Sal marched to the door and whistled loudly. Within moments the Jims were at her door. ‘Go see nobody disturbs Senna Worrel’s chambers. Yaron’s just locked a troublemaker in there – and on no account is he to be let out – no matter what sort of fuss he makes or who he says he is.’
‘Whatever you say, Sal,’ the Jims replied in unison.
Sal closed the door and pushed Yaron onto a seat. ‘Now, tell me what you know and maybe I can help.’
‘Surely MaKiki didn’t tell him,’ Lita said, buckling at the knees. She felt ill with the thought. Could MaKiki really have betrayed her?
‘It was a woman by the name of Tipple,’ Yaron said.
Lita laughed once but then her face crumpled, and tears began rolling down her cheeks. The combination of relief and terror roiled inside her like a turbulent sea. Oh, why had she thought it might be safe at the Downs? She should have known that Tipple would come after her.
‘Will somebody, in blazes name, tell me what’s going on?’ Sal said, planting her hands on her hips.
‘You’re a Beast, aren’t you Lita?’ Yaron said.
‘I don’t like that word,’ Lita said, sniffing and wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘But it’s what others might call it.’
‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ Yaron said softly. ‘The filly at the gates.’
Lita had to look away. She did not want to betray Madea but neither did she want to tell a lie. Instead she said, ‘I can Change, if that’s what you mean.’
Sal pulled a kerchief from the mending basket and handed it to Lita. ‘Why didn’t you say, Lita? I woulda made the Jims go after that good for nothing harridan and send her to the back of beyond.’
Lita shrugged and shook her head. Would Sal even understand if she explained? When you had a secret such as hers, you dared trust no-one.
‘There’s a secret passage leading from the dungeons,’ Yaron said. ‘I used to hide there when I was younger, especially when Brother Sneet used to visit. From there I’ll take you to a little cottage. Remember the night you told me the peahen tale, and we stood by the window?’
Lita nodded.
‘The cottage is on the other side of Doom Mountain, the tallest peak through my window. But it’s nice, you’ll see. There’s a lake nearby filled with fish.’
Lita had the strangest feeling. Her hair prickled at the mention of Doom Mountain and something flickered at the edge of her memory. A refrain remembered from long ago. Doom, doom where bluebells bloom, wild dear roam and songbirds croon… Someone had once sung it to her and it had always made her laugh because it sounded so silly.
‘You’ve forgotten one thing,’ Sal sighed. ‘That Hunter’s not going to give up. How long before he finds the cottage?’
Yaron looked crestfallen. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘It’s not much of a plan.’
They were all silent for a moment and then Lita piped up. ‘I have a map.’
Both Sal and Yaron turned to her in astonishment.
‘And,’ Lita continued, ‘It shows the best shipping routes to Baaran, Wuthing, Fangrar and the Jambles. Maybe, if we got as far as Kipping, I could trade it for passage on a boat to the Jambles.’
‘How? No never mind now,’ Yaron said, grabbing her wrist. ‘We have to hurry. We’ll leave through the tunnel. Sal, you go tell the tack boys to saddle up two horses and we’ll meet you by the orchard.’
They hurried across the courtyard and Yaron let go of Lita’s wrist, when she commented that Tilly and Vicca were staring from the kitchen doorway. He was about to lead her down a small flight of steps, when she cried out, ‘Wait! I have to get the map.’
‘You don’t have it?’
‘No,’ Lita said. ‘I used to carry it on me all the time but yesterday I hid it in a book by my bed.’
; Yaron glanced nervously over his shoulder, his brow was furrowed with worry. ‘We’ll have to leave it.’
‘I’ll be quick,’ she said.
‘There’s no time.’
‘No. I have to get it,’ she said, already slipping away. ‘Wait here, I’ll only be a moment.’ And before he could protest further, she was dashing up the steps. She slid her hand into her tunic and patted the folded map. She would never have left it anywhere someone might find it. But she had to tell a little lie, how else was she to get away and warn Madea? Even though the Hunter had come looking for her, there was no saying what others had seen, and Madea had been careless of late.
*
Senna Worrel strode to the door and twisted the knob. Though he pitted his full weight against it, the door would not budge. He slapped the wood with an open palm, three times in quick succession. ‘Yaron, Yaron! Let us out, at once.’
He turned to face the Hunter, who was draining the last of his wine. ‘I don’t know what’s got into him,’ Senna Worrel said, shaking his head. ‘He’s not usually like that.’
‘I seem to remember he was sullen as a child. A mute, wasn’t he? Spoke to nobody and yet seemed to like the company of that Beast. What was its name?’
‘Ari,’ Senna Worrel said, diverting his gaze to another point in the room.
‘Yes, that’s it.’ He peered at Senna Worrel over the rim of his glass, gauging the effect of their interchange. He noticed that Worrel’s shoulders had tightened and that his mouth was drawn down into a bitter frown. He judged that the mention of that past business had yielded just the right effect. Worrel was clearly stricken, worrying how news of this latest recalcitrance would go down at court. Clearing his throat, the Hunter said, ‘It will be more than a nuisance if your nephew spirits the maiden out of the Keep. But I will track them down. I always do.’ He rolled the stem of his glass between his fingers and thumb.
‘There is another way out of the room,’ Worrel said, lifting his eyes to meet the Hunter’s. ‘But it makes for an indecorous exit.’