About her, Eluned circled deosil, almost gliding with bare feet and skirts brushing the grass. “Close your eyes, now. Feel the breath of Her seeping in—”
“Right now all I feel seeping is the damp,” Marion answered, unable to halt a grin.
“That too is part of Her,” Eluned chided. “Discomfort can bring connection.”
Marion nodded and closed her eyes. But the more she tried to disregard the cool, heavy soak against her shins, the more it seemed to prey upon her attention. Her right knee, in particular, was not only wet but had a small stone lodged against the outside of it, a tiny edge of irritation. And the damp was wicking its way up the thick weave of her skirts, encroaching where thigh met calf….
Cool, dry hands cupped her cheeks, gave her skull a tiny shake. “Lass, lass. Where is your concentration lately?”
Marion spoke before she thought. “It seems the more I try, the less it comes.”
“Does it, then?” The firm grip softened, Eluned’s strong fingers stroking gentle at her temples. Her voice dropped to a murmur. “As a bairn must learn the walking, from creep to crawl to careful steps, so must we learn the ways of the Wise, handed down since the first woman squatted to birth a girl child.”
“Rob never crawled,” Marion said. “He rolled everywhere. And watched us like a hawk in a meadow. Then he grabbed my skirts and pulled himself up to walk.”
“Aye. That one,” Eluned said, “has been a riddle his entire existence. Even as the Horned Lord rides a reckless Hunt, snarling His horns in the weavings of tynged, your brother’s arrow looses itself into the chaos and darkness, and he will follow.”
“Then what does that make me?” Marion protested.
“An answer. You bear the arrow’s gift and put it to string. The Lady measures tynged’s tangled weaving and plaits it. A rebirth, bringing future from chaos.”
Marion laughed suddenly. “Even here, we clean up a man’s messes.”
Eluned chuckled, then gave a lock of Marion’s red hair a tug, sudden and sharp. “Enough of men and boys. You spend enough time on that now as it is.”
Marion felt a flush crawl over her cheek, but refused to duck her head. Her mother’s hands softened, once more stroked through Marion’s curls and put light pressure at her temples. “Yours is the rite of making, changing. Already you counsel your brother in the ways of our path, so what has changed, there? Look into the water, think upon the tangled weft. Surely ’twill unravel before you.”
Marion leaned forward, peering into the bowl. Her mother’s fingers trailed through her hair and down her back, a soft touch, grounding. The water within the bowl was still, reflecting back only wide-open gray eyes, freckles dusted over fair skin, auburn curls frizzled from the damp still lying upon the ground. Her lips tightened in frustration, echoed in the bowl.
“Breathe upon the water,” Eluned murmured, rising, moving away to begin pacing her circle once more. “Anadlu y tân dy enaid.”
Marion repeated the words, twisting her tongue about the ancient syllables. A chant. A charm.
Breathe the fire of your soul.
A charm of making, as she breathed across the water’s surface and it rippled. Shivered.
It started low, almost beyond true hearing but nevertheless there. The sound pressed behind her ears, escalating, one note leading into another. She frowned, angled her head to one side then the other, but the feeling… sound… did not abate. If anything, it grew in intensity, and when she pulled her hands from about the bowl to press fingers behind her ears, the bowl began to shudder.
The image reflected in the water—gray eyes, crimson hair—bled and ran in rivulets, gray turning to smut-dark, and crimson to bright licks of flame.
Breathe the fire….
Marion angled forward, bending closer. The silver of the bowl was bright, so bright as to burn the backs of her eyes, yet she did not turn away. She merely brought her hands forward once more and held them, fingers splayed, out and over the sudden brilliance. Spoke, no murmur but a command, soft and dangerous.
“Anadlu y tân dy enaid.”
And the brilliance opened up beneath her.
Soul-fire, burning bright, hot and deadly-vengeful: the hunter watches—burns—as his prey walks before him. Helmless, joking with his fellow soldiers, identity no longer a cipher or a question burned long ago into a tiny boy’s brain. Walking the waning moonlight untrammeled….
He should not be free.
Marion heard the thoughts as if they were her own, yet they were ones she had never guessed at, never let herself feel: I remember. I know who you are. What you did.
Instead of sleeping in a borrowed bed, a hunt is joined. Solitary. This must be done alone, and the hunter’s hand must be the one to mete the justice left undone. His tools are simple but precise: a flying rowan found and witch-wood gathered, a fire kindled, a branch split and carved and spoken over. Then signed with blood and cast in fire, fletched with goose and the cerulean tufts that mark his own, his covenant. The hunter is but a fledgling witch, but the right—the rites—of vengeance give his fingers skill, give his tynged a final, fateful potency….
Marion shuddered, tried to close her eyes.
She could not.
The weapon forged, now it is human prey the hunter stalks….
Human? Not likely. Scum. Spawn of a damned and Motherless race that should never have been allowed to step foot on Her green, fecund soil. Bow strung and ready, hunter teases game, pulls it from guard post to forest fingers, sets it to follow him in a merry chase that will lead to but one thing.
Hunter crouches, sets spell-wood to string, sights. Whispers Death along the shaft, sets peacock tufts a-dance. “Marwolaeth.”
“Death,” she echoed, a whimper, a heated breath across contained water, and the scene rippled, danced in silver fire. “Nay, you canna, you must not—”
Death. Death finds you now.
The hunter clicks his tongue against his teeth, mocking. Prey halts mid-step, not a pace away as Hunter casts off his shadows, uncloaks his being.
She knows the one who steps from the tree, takes aim with his witched arrow, calls the spell:
“Marwolaeth yn canfod chi nawr!”
“Will!” Marion’s cry shrilled into the morning. “Will, nay!”
… as the man who raped and killed his mother falls, an arrow in his throat.
“N—!” ROB bolted up from his pallet before he’d fully woken, a hoarse gasp truncating whatever protest he thought to make. He sat there, shuddering with panic and unsure where he was for the longest moments of his life, his own breath thumping deep in his chest, held hostage by whatever it was.
Then the tight band of panic/fear/horror behind his eyes popped, and his breath released, and he fell forward, clutching at a thin woolsey blanket and thick-bedded straw. Dust motes danced up about him and his eyes followed them, up into the early-morning sunlight coming in from the east-most stable entry. The motes rather abruptly staggered, whirling in new dervishes as they collided with a figure leaning on the front partition of the stall where Rob had slept.
And memory returned to him, further displacing any panic, banishing dreams back where they belonged.
Rob blinked, started to thank the stable lad for letting him sleep here, then realized it wasn’t the lad standing there. This figure was broader, taller, with a nimbus of ginger-gilt hair.
And there was absolutely no hay in that hair, combed all sleek and smooth.
Unlike Rob, who realized abruptly that he was all over straw, even to a long, thin strand of it caught in the fine line of fur along his breastbone. His tunic was hanging unlaced off one shoulder, it sidled somewhat back in place as he raised a hand to his head and encountered even more straw.
Of course. It figured that His Lordship would show up looking like a well-groomed warhorse when the peasant had been sleeping in that horse’s stall and looked like something from the rubbish tip.
And Rob was doubly daft, he was, to start along tha
t line of thought this early in the morning, and before even a chance at breakfast….
“Did you sleep well?” Gamelyn’s voice had a strange undercurrent to it, almost hoarse, and he gave a cough, clearing his throat.
Rob considered the question, gave a fond smile as he remembered what had sent him to sleep, indeed well, at that. “I did. And yourself?”
Gamelyn shrugged, backlit shoulders betraying a maroon color to his tunic as they moved. Then he inexplicably ducked down behind the partition. There was a clank, then a slow rattle of something metallic, but he didn’t rise right away.
With a puzzled shrug, Rob rolled to his feet, gave a shiver and shudder that set the blood moving in sluggish veins, then stretched to set his back a-creaking and scratched at his belly. Setting fingers to his tunic edges, looking for and thankfully finding the lacing hanging there, he started to tie it together, raising his eye to perhaps find where Gamelyn had disappeared.
Only he hadn’t. Gamelyn was standing at the little cot’s entrance, profile to the bright sun, a tray in his hands. “I… um. I thought you might be hungry.”
It wasn’t until after Gamelyn had led him out to a small table at the stable’s stone frontage that Rob wondered how Gamelyn had known to find him in the stable lad’s cot instead of the guardsman’s quarters with Adam. But the odd, almost wary looks that Gamelyn kept darting his way were daunting, as was the curl of heat in his gut that would have made the words stutter and tangle on his tongue anyway, had he uttered more than a few of them together.
So he concentrated on eating. And most abjectly did not notice Gamelyn’s hands, deft and economical with the knife as he trimmed the rind from the cheese and cut pieces of apple to dole out between them. Or the way his lashes brushed his cheeks, tipped with bronze not unlike the freckles scattered beneath them as he looked down at what he was doing.
Or how Rob found himself thinking of what had been gifted him the previous night, bedding and breath… only it wasn’t the stable lad’s mouth upon him Rob was imagining as, across the table, Gamelyn sucked an apple slice off his knife like his mouth was made for….
Rob bit his tongue. Intentional, and sharp. Because the inseam of his leather breeks was tight enough to geld him by sheer pressure alone. Were he sitting across the table from that stable lad there would be no question what they would do, and merely an exchange of touch or eyes meeting to ask, aye or nay. But this wasn’t the stable lad. Or Simon.
He’d already given a wrong look to his “betters” on this trip—two, counting the glare he’d given that bloody-minded sadist of a soldier and the Motherless clot had deserved it—but all it had gotten Rob in return was an aching head and a reminder of just how bloody powerless they truly were.
“I….” Gamelyn also seemed to be struggling for words, for some reason. “I wish you could stay.”
Nay, you really don’t.
“There you are!” Adam came striding over, and the relief in his voice tickled a thin worry in Rob, hearkening back to waking, panicked, from a dream too dread to remember straight away. “I looked for you when they brought breakfast to the guard.” He slowed, seeing who was with Rob—and their repast.
“Hullo,” Gamelyn said, smiling. “I brought enough for you, as well.”
“Hullo, lad,” Adam replied, soft. “Thank you kindly, but I’ve already broken my fast.” He turned to Rob, blue eyes strangely muted, dark. “Son. It’s time we headed home.”
Rob started to question, then saw the set to his father’s jaw, the disquiet in his stance, and fell silent. Worry once again began to chew at him, an instinctive reaction that he couldn’t halt, or truly define. Without another word he turned, went to saddle the horses.
Midway through, the stable lad came, gave silent assistance. He handed the rein to Adam’s horse over to Rob, dark eyes shining and a shy smile on his lips, then touched reverent fingertips to the stag amulet on Rob’s chest and started to back away.
Rob held up a hand, dropped the reins to ground-tie the horses. Setting his own fingers to the leather amulet strap, he tugged it over his head. The stable lad’s eyes went from shining to apprehensive; he shook his head tightly, backed another step.
“Nay.” Rob said softly. “I know it was a gift. But now, I’m gifting it back to you. Please, accept it.”
The stable lad smiled, then, and bent his head, allowing Rob to thread the amulet over his brown hair. Rob pulled a bit of chaff from it; the lad nuzzled his hand then reached out and took a bit of straw from Rob’s own curls. Eyes meeting Rob’s, he let it flutter to the ground. “M’name’s John, lord. My people are of Hathersage.”
“I’m no lord. I’m of Loxley, not far from there. My name’s Rob—”
“I know, lord.” And the lad vanished into the stable’s shadows.
Bemused, Rob took up the reins again, gave first Arawn then his father’s gelding a pat, then looked over to the entry.
Stopped.
Gamelyn was there, his brows furrowed; when he saw Rob turn to him, his eyes flitted aside. There was a flush to his cheek that, had he been one of Rob’s own people, would have been telling. As it was, Rob could not even guess at what it told.
Instead, he walked back out into the sun, a horse at each shoulder.
Adam came over, took his horse. “I’ve already made our thanks to Sir Ian,” he said and tipped his chin to Gamelyn. “Good day, young master.” It was unaccountably terse.
Rob had to look away. “Will you come to the Chase anon?” he asked of Gamelyn, and immediately wanted to thwack himself upside his own head. Was he just looking to suffer?
“As I can.” Gamelyn wasn’t looking at him, any more than Rob could meet his father’s gaze.
“All right, then,” Rob said, and swung up on his horse.
IT WAS the hardest thing he’d ever had to do, go down to the stable as if nothing had happened. The tray had helped. Having something to do with his hands had helped. Because more than once Gamelyn had wanted to reach out and comb the straw from Rob’s black curls—just like that stable lad had done!—and if that wasn’t more than foolish.
It seemed almost… dangerous. For some reason. Like he should go to confessional—and right this moment—kneel down and let it spill from his lips, be taken from him and absolved….
As if he’d not knelt down enough during the night, begging forgiveness for something he wasn’t sure he even understood. He couldn’t even take it to the confessional. How could he ask for absolution from something he couldn’t even put a name to?
He wasn’t sure what was more disturbing: that Rob had let another lad touch him like that, or Gamelyn’s own reaction to it, all tangled and unholy and….
“Gamelyn!”
Oh, God in Heaven. One thing he did not at the moment feel up to facing was Johan.
“Gamelyn, the lad said you were here; show yourself! Papa wants you!” Johan rounded the corner, boots thudding on the entry stones of the stable walk, trailed off as he saw Gamelyn bent over the little table, putting mugs and leftover scraps onto the tray.
“Leave that, lad, I’ll have someone fetch it. Papa has sent for you.” A pause. “What are you doing breaking your fast in the stable, of all things?”
Gamelyn straightened, leaving the tray and turning to his brother. “I brought down some food for R—for the forester’s son.”
“Which he could have gotten in the guardsman’s cot like his father. Are you courting the lass’s brother, now?”
“Good God, no!” Gamelyn retorted, furious for how his voice canted up, tight and high.
Johan merely blinked. He smirked and made a show of crossing his arms. Gamelyn abruptly wished he could wipe that smirk off in the dung heap. “It just shows that you might have some common sense after all, to make an effort to disarm and charm the brother of the girl you’re fucking—”
With a growl, Gamelyn swung. His fist landed, an uppercut to Johan’s chin, and sent him flying back, skidding backward over the entry stones.
/> Neither one of them could, for long moments, believe what had just happened. Green eyes met green, both wide.
Then Johan, inexplicably, laughed. “Well, well, Brother. I guess that’s payback for that lovely scratch on your jaw.”
Nay, but I guess it might be a fair start. Brother.
“Fair play to you, then.” Johan put out a hand. “Help me up.”
“Help yourself up,” Gamelyn gritted out and, turning on one heel, he quit the stable.
IX
“NO QUESTION it was murder. Foul and treasonous. I saw the results myself.” Otho gave a small, muttered curse, kneed several of the whining, milling hounds from underfoot and continued shrugging out of his cloak. He gave a smile to his wife, Alais, as she took it from him, tsking over the muddied state. A servant promptly relieved Alais of the cloak; she motioned to another, who rushed over with a bowl of water and a cloth over one arm.
Otho nodded thanks, cupping the water in his big hands and splashing it over his grimed face, his words coming in small bursts. “Who would expect it? One of the king’s own foresters! The villein is long gone. We didn’t find the dead man until after sunup. Of course I headed home straight away.” He finished his ablutions, mopped the proffered cloth over this face and neck.
All the scions of Blyth and their honored visitor were listening, shocked and absorbed. They had just sat down to luncheon as Otho had arrived in the great hall, agitated and still filthy from the road.
“Your haste at returning is warranted, son,” Sir Ian approved. “You can tell us more during the meal… Sire! Lass! That’s enough!” The hounds so named retreated, one with a yelp—not necessarily at Sir Ian’s order, but because Johan threw a cup at them.
It took everything in Gamelyn’s control to not leap up and start asking questions. Cheeks burning, he kept his eyes upon the hunk of bread in his hand. At least he was sure of this much: Rob and Adam were well on their way home, and far away from what their companions had seemingly done. It had nothing to do with Rob.
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