Cyril felt tired to his very bones. “What do you make of it, Menard?” he asked quietly. “Is our princess some kind of enchantress? Is this a phantom cat or a real one?”
Menard rubbed his brow and paused, not wanting to rush to conclusions. Something caught his eye and his expression brightened. He pulled a small tuft of fur off of a branch. “Oh, the cat’s real enough. This here is real fur.” He brought the fur closer to the torchlight and whistled long and low. “Look at this, sire, and see what you think.”
Cyril dismounted and tied up the reins of his horse on a branch. He took the fur and looked at it under the torchlight. The long strands of black and white hair were very soft. Black and white.
He locked eyes with Menard. Could it be? He knew the princess had Tabrekian blood. The ancient stories of Tabrek had been told often enough by traveling minstrels. People riding fairrier cats, the old Crystal queen in allegiance with one.
His father, Cedric, had always believed the stories. He had taught his son the importance of fairrier cats to Lackanay, how they were not to be killed for any reason. And then there was Kallik.
If the whispers were to be believed, Kallik had once killed a fairrier cat and now drew his strength from its pelt. Cyril’s jaw tightened just thinking about Kallik. Blasphemous traitor. He reached down and put his hand into one of the cat prints left in the soft forest earth. It was huge.
Menard glanced past Cyril to the rest of the men, who waited some distance back. It was a small search party, only a dozen soldiers, a packhorse, and the extra mount. Menard said in a low voice, “What should we do, sire? Do you wish to tell the men what we’re up against?”
Cyril opened his mouth, as if to say something, and then paused. “What do you advise, Menard?” he whispered.
“If it hasn’t hurt the princess then it is not like a normal wildcat. In fact, it seems to be helping them. Best not to tell the men until daylight. It wouldn’t do them any good to know. Besides—” he gestured at the forest around them, “—they’re leading us back toward Candlewax Wood.” Menard lowered his voice even more. “In fact, this fairrier cat has been heading straight for the castle by my reckoning. Not as easy as the trail or the road but he will get us there by noon day after tomorrow at this pace. It’s just that there is something you should know...”
“What is it Menard?”
“Fairrier cats are usually hard to track in spite of the size of the prints. They don’t leave so many easy tracks to follow. I’ve even heard that they have ways of obscuring their trails. It is almost as if... as if the cat wants us to follow it.”
“Strange indeed, Menard,” said Cyril. He tucked the bit of fur into his pocket. “We will continue tracking them until dawn.” Cyril mounted his horse and held up the torch once more.
He thought of the extra horse and laughed bitterly to himself. He had chosen a fine palomino to give to the princess if he found her, thinking it would look well with her blonde hair. At least she is supposed to be pretty, if the rumors are true. Ungrateful girl.
After three more hours of riding, Cyril dismounted and thrust his torch into the damp earth and sodden leaves. It hissed in protest as the last bit of flame was snuffed out. Menard and the others followed his lead. The gray dawn slipped over them.
“One hour,” he commanded. He took the saddle off his horse’s back, its dark brown coat glistening with sweat. Speaking softly to it, he worked patiently with the animal, rubbing down its back and legs. The horses quickly found grass that was still green and began to graze while the men cut up smoked sausages, sliced thick hunks of moist, sweet, black bread, and cut wedges of cheese.
When it was time to ride, he refolded the saddle blanket so that the dry side was down and then cinched on the saddle. The mounts of the Candlewax Kingdom wore no chest armor on this mission. They were traveling fast and light. Speed was an advantage that his father had taught him to use. Speed and patience. A powerful combination. Speed he had, in abundance.
Cyril led his horse toward where his men were gathered. Menard had already taken up the tracks again. The men followed behind, talking quietly. By now all of them had had a chance to see the large cat tracks they were following. As the king approached they fell silent.
“You all have eyes in your heads. Now I ask for your ears. Our princess is traveling with one other person and”—he paused—“a fairrier cat.” Cyril’s voice carried in the crisp morning air, and he felt the apprehension of his men keenly. Now was the time to bring them to heel. “No one is to so much as raise a weapon unless his life is threatened. If you can’t obey my command, I ask that you give up your weapon now. There will be no dishonor in this, I promise you.”
Cyril looked at each of the men in turn, searching their eyes. At six feet he made an imposing figure, and he used this to his advantage. His hazel eyes burned into theirs. The men stood as still as tree stumps.
“Aye, sire. We can see that the cat has done those two no harm,” said Sebastian, a stalwart soldier among Cyril’s men, who had come from a long line of stalwart soldiers. Sebastian’s black hair shone in the growing light, and his burly arm gestured toward the footprints, then to the crowd around him. “We won’t harm the cat, will we, men?”
“That’s right, Sebastian. Candlewax men have nerve enough. Fairrier cats have no arguments with us!” That was young Seth, and Cyril hid a smile at the sound of his piping voice. There were nods and serious faces all around. “I’d like to see a fairrier cat, I would,” continued Seth with enthusiasm. “Never saw one in my whole life.” The men looked at Cyril as if he might tell them what to expect.
“Keep your eyes open and pay attention to your mounts,” ordered Cyril as he took to his horse. “They are likely to sense the cat before we do. If the stories are to be trusted, the cat itself might be hard to see. They move fast, and can fool the senses of men.” With wary glances at one another, his men mounted their horses. Cyril rode to the front of the column, next to Menard.
“Not exactly comforting words, sire,” mumbled Menard under his breath. Behind him the men touched the handles of their sheathed swords and rode on in edgy silence, peering through the foliage around them.
The search party crept forward. Even the birds seemed oddly skittish as the horses and men picked their way around trees and logs. Early morning sunlight flickered through the branches and played tricks on the men’s weary eyes.
Cyril rode silently next to Menard. Every now and then Menard would dismount and inspect the ground, occasionally finding bent twigs or scraped tree bark. A few strands of cat fur clung to a tree branch and he tucked them in his pocket after he showed them to Cyril.
Half a mile farther Menard held up his hand and the company stopped. He dismounted and motioned for Cyril to follow him.
“See here?” he whispered. “The cat has crossed his own tracks, doubled back. Hunting. Here he jumped and there is where he took down the deer. You can see there was no chase. The cat killed it right here.” There were a few smears of blood on the forest undergrowth, which was still bent slightly toward the direction the cat had dragged the carcass.
“Now we follow where he took the deer. Those tracks are more recent,” said Menard.
“At least he’s not hungry,” said Cyril.
“The same thought crossed my mind, sire.” Menard chuckled as he swung himself back on his mount. Hearing Menard laugh eased the tension of the men. A few of them began to talk as they pushed forward through the forest.
Cyril scowled and motioned for them to be silent. “Do you smell what I smell?” he asked, his eyes gleaming with triumph. “Someone has been foolish enough to light a fire in broad daylight!”
Menard caught the smell of smoke on the morning air. “Yes, sire. Perhaps we’ve caught them unawares. We should try to reach them before they break camp.”
Cyril bade his men approach. “Half of you go with Menard and half of you come with me. Surround them before they can flee! Menard, move the men in when you see me advance. Re
member!” He raised his voice and looked again into the faces of his men. “No harm comes to the girl or the cat!”
Cyril nudged the sides of his horse and his mount moved forward. The strong scent of fairrier cat filled its flared nostrils, but it did not neigh.
Ahead in the sky he could make out a grayish white tendril of smoke rising from the trees. We are so close! His heart pounded in his chest. He was finally about to set eyes on Princess Catherine. He was also about to see an animal that lived mostly in legend and song. He motioned for his men to spread out as they approached the campfire.
There was the cat! Lying, as pretty as you please, next to the fire. Cyril was amazed by its size. The coat was as he expected, long and thick, changing to black as it reached the tail. Still, to see it! The tip of the cat’s tail flicked every so often. A boy and a girl sat next to the cat, the boy stroking its massive neck. The princess had a scarf over her head and was turned toward the boy.
He coaxed his nervous horse forward. Through the trees he could see Menard and the others on the other side of the camp.
“That is close enough, men of Candlewax. We don’t want your horses to run away with you,” said the cat in a rumbling voice.
“So it’s true! Fairrier cats can speak!” Cyril dismounted, transfixed, and absently tied his horse to a thick branch. The rest of the men stayed on their horses at a distance.
The princess turned and smiled at him. Cyril caught his breath. She had a beautiful smile. She wore a green skirt that accentuated her tiny waist. He stepped forward, keeping his eye on the cat.
“I am Cyril of Candlewax. I have come to take the princess home to her father and mother. It is not safe to be roaming the forest.” Cyril spoke to the fairrier cat.
“Cyril of Candlewax, I am Spelopokos. I am very pleased that you and your men have shown prudence. I did not want to harm you.” Pokos stood up and faced the king. He bowed his head, his eyes a bright green. “It is indeed a dangerous thing to be roaming the forest, even with a fairrier cat and a servant to protect you.”
Cyril took a good look at the boy for the first time. He was young, with ragged blond hair cut to his chin. His jaw was bruised. His build was slim and the king did not care for the way he was staring at him. He’s rude, especially for a servant.
“And who might you be?” he asked the boy.
“Kenneth of Gant, sire,” answered the boy in clear voice, “servant of Princess Catherine and the Crystal king.” The boy bowed to Cyril. Well, at least he knows something of proper behavior.
Cyril turned to the girl. “At last we meet, Princess Catherine.” He approached and held out his hand. Very cautiously, as if he might have some contagious disease, she reached out, her hand shaking, to touch his hand with hers.
He held her icy fingers and tried to meet her eyes, but the pale girl wouldn’t look at him. Instead she glanced furtively at the servant. He hadn’t expected her to be so cowed. Why, she hasn’t said a word.
“No need to fear, Catherine. I won’t bite you, and you can see I have only one head,” Cyril joked. A few of the Candlewax men laughed at the king’s remark. The girl smiled again, tentatively. She looked very pretty when she smiled.
“I invite you all to Candlewax Castle. There you will be comfortable while I send a courier to your father to tell him you are safe. I shall have our cooks prepare a fine feast!” The girl looked at him, suddenly alive and bright-eyed when he mentioned the feast. Of course, she must be famished! No wonder she’s pale and shaky.
Cyril continued, “We shall have goose and pheasant and apple tarts and candied squash! There shall be roast pork and potatoes and fresh black bread. Our bakers prepare the most wonderful hot rolls you have ever tasted.
“Of course your servant may eat with us if you like. It might be nice for you to have a familiar face for company while we get to know each other better. Yes. Your father would appreciate that.” The girl was positively fascinated. The mention of food had been a good strategy. Cyril congratulated himself.
“Spelopokos,” said Cyril, “you are welcome in the castle, if it pleases you. Our court would be most interested to meet you.”
“No thank you, king of Candlewax. The servant boy can fetch me meat from the kitchen, and I will sleep away from men and beasts. I have been living by myself for so long that I have grown wary of civilization. Perhaps another time.”
“As you wish.” Cyril made a slight bow to the cat. “And since you seem to know exactly how to get to the castle”—the servant boy looked up in surprise at the fairrier cat—“I ask that you and the princess lead the way. It will be easier for our horses to see you in front than to have you in their midst.”
“Wisely spoken, Cyril of Candlewax. Perhaps the boy could ride that extra horse you brought. It would make the journey quicker.” The green-eyed cat nodded in the direction of the palomino that was just visible through the trees. The boy looked at the horse, surprised again.
“If Princess Catherine agrees. It is a gift for her.” Cyril gestured to Menard to bring forward the palomino horse. He looked at it appraisingly as Menard led it closer. The palomino flattened its ears at the sight of Spelopokos and strained against the reins. It is a fine horse of rare breeding. Crystallia has never seen its like.
The princess looked at the palomino, then at the servant boy and nodded. Somehow Cyril had been expecting a bit more of a reaction. He had heard that Princess Catherine was a fine horsewoman. Surely she must see that this is an extraordinary horse! He felt his face glowing with anger. This girl seeks to humiliate me at every turn.
Spelopokos went to the princess and nudged her until she reached into his thick neck fur and pulled herself astride. The men of Candlewax murmured in awe. Of course, Catherine is now a rider of fairrier cats. Still, she might have at least said thank you! Cyril frowned and strode back to untie his horse.
The cat turned toward the boy. “Put out the fire, Kenneth, and get the pack.”
After scuffling dirt over the few remaining coals, the boy walked over to a curious-looking leather heap with straps and proceeded to attach it to his back. Cyril was impressed. For his slight build the boy seemed quite strong. Cyril wondered if he had had any training in the arts of war.
The boy approached the horse and stroked its neck. He ran his hand over its chest and withers, obviously pleased with the palomino’s stature. With ease the servant hoisted himself up. Menard handed him the reins. Cyril watched as the boy nudged the gelding with his heels, turning his head toward the direction they were traveling. Even with the pack on, he sat well in the saddle.
Spelopokos bounded off toward the Candlewax Kingdom with the girl upon his back, the servant following several yards behind. Menard got on his horse and rode up beside the boy. Cyril joined them, signaling to his men, and the rest followed.
The forest was cool and bright. A breeze had picked up as they rode, carrying the promise of winter with it. It will be a hard, cold season. Menard shifted in his saddle and observed the profile of the boy riding next to him. A master of detail, Menard was puzzled by the servant’s coarse hair and clothes, patrician features and horsemanship, and the hint of lofty vowels in his speech. A puzzle for certain, thought Menard. I don’t like it.
He cleared his throat. “So, Kenneth!” The boy jumped at Menard’s words. Well, well, well. Nervous too. “You have been helping the princess these last few days.”
“Yes.” The boy was not talkative, pretending instead to be fascinated by whatever allowed him to turn his face further from Menard’s scrutiny. Interesting.
Menard tried again. “Tough spot you’re in. On the one hand, you’ve been serving the princess. On the other, you’ve been helping her to disobey her father. I dare say the Crystal king will have a difficult time deciding whether to punish or reward you!”
“Yes.”
The awkward pause was interrupted by Cyril’s voice. “Wherever did you both learn to run so fast? It’s rare when Candlewax men can be outpaced at night,” he
said.
“It was the cat, sire. Special things happen around that cat.”
“I don’t doubt it. He’s remarkable isn’t he? Never knew they were that big. Makes you wonder how they keep from being seen and trapped. Allianan traders would pay a fortune for that pelt!” said Cyril.
“They’d be very sorry to try to get it!” The boy was suddenly angry. “Fools! They put money and power for themselves above the welfare of Lackanay!”
Menard and Cyril exchanged glances.
This time it was the boy who broke the quiet. “Forgive me, sire, if I spoke out of turn,” he mumbled, as if he had read their thoughts.
“Apparently servants are given leave to speak their minds in Crystallia,” said Cyril, somewhat amused.
The boy glared at him and then lowered his eyes.
* * *
They continued on, the silence among them now positively stony. Spelopokos and the princess led them out of the woods and through a grassy plain. Flocks of small birds flushed from the tall grass in front of them and then circled in the air before settling in different spots. The grass was golden and the sky was so blue that when Cyril looked straight up at it he could almost convince himself that it was beyond blue—an otherworldly, vague color that wouldn’t be pinned down.
In his mind he tried to anticipate what conversations would be suitable over dinner with the princess. Cyril was concerned about the meal. The supplies were adequate to meet their needs but there was only hard cheese and sausage and more of the sweet, black bread. Perhaps some fresh venison would please the princess. Menard, in addition to being a fine tracker and valued counselor, was an excellent field cook. Cyril thought of the many times he, Menard, and his father had gone hunting not far from where they were right now. It was good land.
Cyril wondered if he would have a chance to show Princess Catherine what a good shot he was with the crossbow. Not likely. Not with that huge fairrier cat leading our small parade.
“Do you hunt, boy?” Menard asked.
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