by Ila Mercer
‘Then I will wait here, while you go,’ the Hunter said, reaching for the bottle of mead, topping his glass again.
Worrel nodded and then paced over to a cabinet in the wall. He fumbled with the latch and swung the doors wide open. Inside the cabinet, it was dark and appeared to contain nothing except for two thick wires at its centre running from apex to base. Senna Worrel hoisted a leg into the cabinet and then tucked his shoulders and torso around the wire. With a grunt, he hefted the rest of his bulk into the cabinet, followed at last by his other leg which he had to fold and twist to fit into the space. Once he had finished the contortion, he grabbed hold of a wire and began to pull. Meanwhile, the Hunter looked on with amusement as Senna Worrel disappeared up the shaft amidst the whining screech of unoiled mechanics.
The Hunter did not have to wait long. He had moved to the fire, glass in hand, staring into the licking flames, when he heard a commotion at the door. Voices: three of them. One loud and admonishing, the other two mumbling and apologetic in tone. Then there was the distinctive slide of a latch being drawn.
The Hunter turned to the door and met the dishevelled form of Senna Worrel.
‘How do you want to do this?’ Worrel said, striding into the room, rubbing his grease blackened hands against his mantle.
‘First you must shut the gates. And report back to me if anyone has left.’ And then as an afterthought he asked, ‘Are there other exits from the Keep?’
Senna Worrel shook his head and frowned in thought. With a start he said, ‘Yes. There is one. A tunnel that leads from the cellars out to the orchard. I have not thought of it in such a long time. I think it is overgrown with weeds now.’
‘Would your nephew know of it?’ the Hunter asked.
Worrel shrugged his shoulders. ‘Perhaps.’
‘Put a guard at the entrance and exit points anyway.’
Senna Worrel spun on his heel but at the door he turned back. ‘You’ll be here?’
‘I will be in the Keep. It is not so large you would have trouble finding me?’
‘No, I guess not,’ Senna Worrel said and then left.
The Hunter immediately set down his glass and slid out the same door. Though he did not distrust Senna Worrel, he knew that the Regent was motivated by a need to smooth over his nephew’s treachery. Reluctantly, the Hunter put his glass to one side and stood up, deciding he would do his own reconnaissance.
As he wound his way down the dim hallway, he paused to admire the tapestry above the library entrance and peered through open doorways. He slid his long, tapered fingers along the polished railing of a staircase, noting that there was a fine layer of dust over everything. When he heard the flurried approach of footsteps, he shrank into a darkened alcove and watched, with calculating eyes, as a young serving maiden launched up the stairs two steps at a time. His hunting instinct was roused, and he decided to follow. Could it be this was the young maiden he sought?
The Hunter felt his heartbeat quicken. The chase was always much more thrilling than any capture. Sometimes he would allow his quarry to elude him, so that he could draw out the pleasure. He did not hasten his step. Instead he allowed his hand to trail languidly up the smooth polished wood. He lifted his nose to catch her scent which was slightly floral but underscored by the slightly pungent aroma of lanolin. From the floor above, he heard a whine as door hinges opened and then the quiet click as it closed.
On the second floor landing he paused. To the left, the corridor revealed a number of black wooden doorways. He noted that untended cracks, like lightening bolts, making jagged paths from the corners of doorframes to ceiling. Cobwebs too clung to alcatraves in great dusty threads. He imagined there would be little in Senna Worrel’s coffers. It would be a paltry bribe in exchange for his silence. By rights he should hand the young nephew over to the Order. Yaron was dangerously sympathetic towards Beasts – just like his father. However, the Hunter decided that he would not hand over the young man. Not yet anyway. However, Yaron would have to be watched.
He turned to the right when he heard the faint murmurings of female voices. Slowly he advanced along the hall, straining his ears until finally he heard muted tones coming from a room halfway along. He pressed his ear to the door and listened.
‘I’m not leaving.’ He heard one of the voices say in irritation, while the other voice tried to hush its speaker.
‘It’s not safe,’ the cautionary voice said. ‘What if the Hunter-’
‘There’s no reason to suspect me. Not unless you say.’
The other maiden’s voice rose slightly. ‘Please. We haven’t got time to argue. He told Yaron that there is a Beast amongst us.’
The Hunter, having heard enough to realise that his quarry was trapped behind the door, twisted the handle. It wasn’t locked and with a little sigh of regret, he pushed the door open. It had been far too easy.
‘Excuse me,’ a pretty maiden with sleek black hair reproached, as she placed her stained hands on her hips. ‘Who do you think you are, barging into my private chambers?’ Her whole body quivered slightly. The other girl, who had her back to him, turned slowly and faced the Hunter. As he gazed on her face, he had the notion he had met her before. Yet, he could not recall where, and he was usually so good at remembering that sort of thing. She stepped forward slightly, as though to shield the girl who had reproached him. But which of them was the Beast?
He bowed slightly as though in deference and said, ‘I think you know why I am here.’
‘No, we do not,’ the black-haired maiden said, peering at him from behind the other.
‘Ah, now. I think one of you does,’ he replied. The black-haired, maiden became very still and there was a shrewd look in her eye. ‘So, which of you is it?’ the Hunter asked.
The black-haired girl glanced fleetingly at the other one. ‘This one then?’ he said, pulling the shackles from his pocket. The betrayed maiden did not flinch when he stepped forward, and she continued to hold his gaze, but when he drew closer still and traced a finger down the side of her face, she shivered ever so slightly. He leaned in and inhaled her floral scent. ‘If it is she, you had better say now,’ he murmured in her ear.
However, the girl held her tongue.
‘Perhaps I should take both of you. Aiders and abetters are not looked upon kindly by the Order.’
The betrayed maiden blinked rapidly and croaked out a reply. ‘Take me. I am the Beast you seek.’
‘Very well, we shall say it is you,’ he told her and then glanced at the dark-haired maiden for confirmation. She nodded almost imperceptibly, careful lest the gesture be seen by the other. It was always the way, the threads of loyalty between Dracodian and Beast severed so readily when a little pressure was applied. And with that, he slipped the shackles onto the brown-haired maiden’s slender wrists, snapped them tight, and led her from the room.
‘What will happen to her?’ The dark-haired maiden asked, her features reflecting the beginnings of guilt.
He paused, wondered for a moment if he should tell a soothing lie, but decided against it. He did not respect traitors, even though they made his job easier. ‘A rarity, such as your friend, will fetch a very high price. Especially if she is unspoiled.’ He glanced then at the she-Beast, whose features were schooled into an expression of blankness. ‘Have you known the touch of a man?’ He asked. And a slight flutter of her eyelids confirmed what he suspected.
The traitorous girl twisted her skirt between her fingers.
‘She’ll be treated like a princess,’ the Hunter continued. ‘Pretty clothes of silk and finely spun wool, a maid to fix her hair and paint her face, and a life without toil. If she plays her cards right, there’ll be plenty of suitors - all vying for her attention with gifts to rouse a Queen’s envy.’ There was more he did not add, for he did not want to completely scare the little she-Beast.
In a few years when her beauty faded, her purity was stained, and she was no longer the exotic new toy of the courtesan set, she would be sent to t
he carding pits of Fallengrove. And there she would labour for the rest of her years.
Beauty
Brother Be returned from his sabbatical one bright summer day. He had been gone for a couple of months – leaving not long after Ari first arrived at the Keep.
Ari had forgotten about the old man in the plain brown robes who had addressed Lars so fondly. At the time, it was the other plain robe, Brother Sneet who had made the greater impression. Sneet, who had set the challenge and would determine whether Ari was to be freed.
Ari was in the library bent over the pages of the Cartal when the withered old man knocked gently at the door. ‘May I come in?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ Ari replied, unused to being asked permission for anything by the Dracodians. Brother Be shuffled into the room and eased himself into a chair beside Ari’s desk. His eyes, a deep blue that sparkled with intelligence, rested easily on Ari.
‘Lars tells me that you have made fine progress since I left.’
‘I had some help.’
The old man cocked his head to the side and smiled. With one brow raised quizzically he said, ‘But rumour has it Lars spends all his daylight hours hunting. And here you are alone.’
Ari guessed that the old man already knew from which quarter the help had come. ‘For a time Sia Katarin tutored me,’ he replied. Since that night several days ago he had seen little of her. She had not returned to the dungeons and though he wished he could take back his words there had been no opportunity to do so. At dinner, they were always in the company of Worrel, Lars, Mika, Yaron and Jogan, not to mention any other guest who happened to be visiting. And on the couple of occasions where they bumped into each other in a hallway, Mika was hovering nearby. Their exchanges on those few occasions had been tense though not unfriendly.
‘Did she? The girl is bright, much brighter than Lars.’ He turned his eyes to the Cartal and pursing his lips said, ‘Why don’t you read me a passage or two. Show me what you have learned.’
Ari’s eyes returned to the page before him. It contained bland rhetoric about the rights of property holders – something that Ari could not quite get his head around. In his village there was little that people claimed for themselves. Everything belonged to everyone – and even then, there was an understanding that their homes, their garments and tools, even the food they ate, were borrowed from the cycle of life itself.
He flipped to a dog-eared section of the Cartal. And ran his finger down the page until he found the passage he had pondered over time and time again. He cleared his throat and began to recite:
‘A free man, under law of the Cartal, can not be taken by force, imprisoned, or have his rights removed unless he has broken the law of the land. Even then, all men, no matter what station in life, shall be entitled to fair trial before guilt or innocence can be determined.’
Brother Be nodded sagely and leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands in his lap. ‘It is perhaps the most famous tenet of the Cartal. I see you have studied this passage well.’ He glanced at the feathered edges of the page. ‘Tell me then, what does this passage mean to you?’
Ari felt the heat rise in his cheeks. Should he say what was really in his heart? To do so was a risk. What if the old man did not like what he had to say? What if he held influence with that other Brother, the one who had offered the possibility of freedom. And yet, Ari knew he had little to lose. If he could not sway the opinion of an older provincial Brother, what chance did he have of convincing Brother Sneet? Brother Be looked upon him kindly, just as Ari’s granddam had done when they spoke about important matters.
‘I think,’ Ari said and then paused. ‘I think this passage can be used to deny or support the rights and freedoms of my kin.’ He quickly gauged the reaction of the old Brother and, finding no opposition, continued. ‘It all hangs on who you believe to be a free man. But is a Beast a man? Or is he an animal? That is the question your people ask. And yet where I come from we do not make these distinctions. To us a Beast or a man has no greater or lesser value than an animal. And when we die, we do not believe there is a heaven set aside for men. My people believe that our bodies return to the soil but our spirit lives on in the spirits of all living creatures. That is why we do not kill to eat. But in Dracodia, I notice this is not so. Men place themselves above all living creatures. They think they are separate to other creatures and they believe they have the right to use all those beneath them as they will.’
The older brother nodded and regarded Ari with an air of disquiet. ‘Your ideas would not sit well with most Dracodians.’
Ari knew, he had shared this very idea with Katarin some weeks previous and she had recoiled with distaste. ‘How can you say that you are the same as an animal?’ She had cried in protest.
‘I did not say the same,’ Ari had replied. ‘I only meant that our lives have no more worth than that of an animal.’
In the end he had to abandon the argument, fearing they would never see eye to eye. It had been the only time they’d had a true clashing of ideals. And yet on the following evening, when she joined him in the study after dinner, she had told him that she had decided to suspend her opinions. ‘To appreciate the unfamiliar ideas of others, you must live amongst them, don’t you think?’ she had said, and Ari had to agree. Many of his convictions had been challenged since living at the Keep.
‘I will give you some advice, if you are willing to hear it,’ the old man said, turning his hands over, studying the lines on his palms momentarily before looking up at Ari again.
Ari nodded.
‘I think I understand what you mean, though I don’t necessarily agree with it. Despite that, I do believe that Beasts are equal in every regard to Dracodians. But – and here is my warning – you will not find Brother Sneet to be so liberal minded. When it comes time for you to stand before him, you will need to frame your argument in line with his beliefs. That is, if you want any chance of gaining your freedom.’
Ari felt a small sense of defeat. The Brother was telling him he would have to lie about his beliefs if he wanted to win his appeal. Where was the justice in that? But he could see the sense of it. His people’s ideas were too foreign to Dracodia. There were subtleties in meaning that could not be conveyed unless, as Katarin had said, one was to live amongst them.
‘I will help you on that score,’ the old man said. ‘Tomorrow I will come again and we can discuss matters further. It is only a couple of weeks until Midsummer Fair. And you will need to be prepared. I don’t think the Order will grant your freedom easily.’ He pushed himself up from the chair, wobbling slightly as he steadied himself.
Ari offered a stabilising hand, and the old man patted him on the shoulder, almost fondly, Ari thought.
‘Why are you helping me?’ Ari asked.
The old man, leaning against the frame of the door now, frowned lightly and his eyes held a faraway look. ‘Long ago,’ he said, ‘I felt nothing for the lives of those I ferried across the sea. And then one day, while I was inspecting the decks, I was quite moved when I heard a young one singing to her baby sister. Why we captured children I can no longer remember. But anyway… the smaller child lay still in the arms of her sister, gravely ill. I fetched an extra crust and some water from the urn which I then offered to the sister. She returned my meagre gesture with a look of such gratitude, despite all the suffering she’d been made to bear, that I could never think of them the same again. In that moment I knew they were no different to me, perhaps even superior in their common decency. At the end of that voyage I gave up my captaincy and took up the cloth in the hope that I might undo some of the wickedness of my early years.’
‘Then you know first hand the evil of those ships.’
The old man nodded sadly. ‘Yes, and despite my endeavours, I have made no difference to the ending of that trade.’
Ari felt a knot tighten in his throat. The implications were extremely unsettling. If a Dracodian man of the cloth, well versed in the study of the Cartal, had been
unable to sway opinion, then what chance did he have?
The old man shuffled through the doorway but turned to address Ari one last time. ‘I am curious,’ he said, a small smile playing at the corners of is mouth. ‘Why have you not stolen away at the first opportunity? The door is unlocked, and it would be no great difficulty to slip through the gates unnoticed.’
‘It is a matter of honour,’ Ari replied.
The old man shook his head. ‘Has nobody told you? There is no honour amongst thieves.’ And with that he disappeared out the door.
*
That evening, as Ari lay on his cot, he heard the soft tapping of leather soles on the stairs. It was well after midnight and the guards had long gone. He sat up with hope and was rewarded when he saw her familiar figure on the bottom step. She drew back her hood and, in the faint glow of the wall lantern, her hair lit up – framing her face in a halo of fire. She dipped her eyes when she caught his gaze and, lifting the hem of her skirts, traversed the short distance to his cell. She stood at the gate, silent, threading her slender white fingers through the bars of the cell.
He wondered why she did not speak. Was she still angry? His heart hammered in his chest. He had missed her but until that moment he had not admitted to himself how much her absence had affected him. ‘Katarin?’ His voice broke slightly as he called her name.
She lifted her troubled eyes to meet his.
He joined her at the gate, placing his fingers over the top of hers. ‘I’m sorry for what I said the other night. It caught me by surprise.’
She bit her lip slightly. ‘I know,’ she replied. ‘I thought it meant you did not feel the same.’
He shook his head and opened his mouth to speak, but she held up her hand to stop him. ‘No, let me ask you something first.’
Ari nodded slowly and let his fingers fall to his side, suddenly fearing what she might say, wondering if he had destroyed any small feeling she might have had for him.
‘Do you have a sweetheart waiting at home?’