“It was at the Battle of Ithtine. The satyr tribes along the River Hapyx rebelled, their forces swelled by tribes far north beyond our kingdom. They were led by the traitorous Rickett Tyr, the king’s own advisor, who had also kidnapped Princess Dawn.”
“You’re one of the Guardians who saved her,” someone whispered.
I nodded in affirmation. I was impressed they knew the story.
“The King himself sent me on a quest to find her. If you haven’t noticed, I had been Shamed not long before,” I continued, gesturing to my antlers.
They were only just beginning to grow back, not nearly approaching their past majesty.
“King Aral offered me my freedom in exchange for my aide in the search, and should I be the one to find her, he would give me back Plin Oèn and restore my princedom.”
A spate of excited whispers rustled through the listeners.
“You knew King Aral personally, then? And the royal family?” asked the old faun who had first invited me to stay.
“I did. Princess Dawn in particular.”
“Then perhaps you know Majira? She was once part of the king’s court. She should be coming for tonight’s celebration.”
“Majira? I’ve never heard of a Majira. Was she a servant? A handmaiden?” I asked.
The old faun shook his head slowly and smiled.
“No, my lord. She was one of the Etala Chamber’s last court sorceresses.”
I took a sip of my clay bowl to mask my surprise. King Aral had largely abandoned court wizardry, dismissing all but a few personal healers and wise folk. It was a strange thing to do, breaking such a long-standing tradition. Every court in the Untouched wood had kept a retinue of magicians. That change was not long before I arrived in court, maybe a year or so before I left for Safon.
“Stop distracting him, grandfather. Let us hear his tale,” someone groaned.
The others mumbled their agreement.
So I continued my story, and they continued to drink, and so did I. At some point we ate roasted wildfowl. I told them the whole story, right from my release to the sacking of the satyr camp. They loved it, cheering when I described Rickett Tyr’s death at the hand of Savar, cheering at Princess Dawn’s triumphal ride and our rally after the king’s death.
“Only thing I regret is not killing that goat-legged bastard myself,” I slurred, the drink then fully in control.
It was probably not the best thing to do, being so rascally drunk in front of a bunch of commoners who regarded me as a hero.
“That, and those damned mages… no wonder old Aral hated magicians so much. Musta known he would get killed by magick one day. Turned him and his horse to slime,” I said.
A few of the rougher characters laughed and slapped the table with their hands. One of the clay bowls broke, inducing a further fit of laughter. Folk were already passed out on the grass. The bonfire still burned bright, being fed a constant diet of brush and split wood.
“The king did not hate magick,” came a defiant voice, cutting through the mirthful air.
I looked up to its source, surprised that one would so boldly contradict me.
A red-haired dau stood sternly at the other end of the table. The riotous laughter fizzled out.
The dau strode elegantly forward, stopping in front of me. Her frizzy, auburn hair flowed over her shoulders, highlighting her piercing eyes. She kept her hands on her hips, looking cross, like a mother who had caught her child lying.
I stood up, steadying myself with the table’s edge. I waited for the world to stop swimming before I replied.
“Didn’t hate magick? Well, I knew King Aral pretty good, lady,” I retorted while simultaneously putting my foot in my mouth.
She smirked, clearly unimpressed by my swaying. I tried to gauge her age, finding her neither young nor old; I tried to assess her wealth, but found her countenance neither rich nor wanting. She was enigmatic and I was drunk, and those two things probably had a lot to do with each other.
“You must be Majira,” I finally said, putting two and two together. “The sorceress.”
She rolled her eyes and smiled.
“Not a sorceress. But close.”
“How close?” I asked.
“Let’s leave that a mystery, Herace the Redeemed,” she said, winking.
I was shocked that she knew my name. We had never met before, at least not that I could remember.
“How do you know my name? You really are magickal…”
“I know your name because I’ve been here for an hour and you’ve been telling stories about yourself the entire time. You’ve said your name, epithet and all, at least a dozen times,” she said.
“They’re not just about me. They’re about other folk too,” I stammered defensively.
“Oh, of course you mention other folk. You’re just always the hero, no?”
I shrugged innocently at her accusation. Maybe I was always the hero in my stories because that’s just the way it was.
Majira turned and walked toward the bonfire. There was dancing nearby, and the musicians had changed round. I followed her, clay bowl in hand.
“You were the last sorceress for the Etala Chamber?” I asked from behind, curiosity piqued.
She stood before the bonfire, offering a dark silhouette, her back to me.
“Like I said, I’m not a sorceress. And I was only one of the last, not the last.”
“Why’d King Aral get rid of all of you if he doesn’t hate magick? Seems a little backwards to me.”
Majira raised her hands to her sides, palms toward the warm fire. She pirouetted in place, dress flowing around her bare legs. She had no shoes on. She seemed a little strange, but not crazy.
“Why did he put you in prison, Herace? He didn’t hate you, did he?” she asked sagely, face skyward as she continued to spin slowly, gracefully.
I took another sip.
“Because I killed his nephew, obviously.”
She stopped pirouetting and cocked a doubtful eyebrow at me.
“Not quite. He did it because it was safer for everyone; safer for you, and safer for the court. He punished you so his family wouldn’t.”
“Well what’s that got to do with him abolishing court wizardry at the capital?”
She seemed to contemplate this a moment, then shrugged and went back to dancing. Her spinning was making me slightly nauseous so I instead stared into the glowing coals at the bonfire’s base. Her figure passed back and forth in my vision.
“Not everything needs to make sense, Herace.”
A log split in the inferno, sending a shower of sparks skyward. I watched them float into the starlit night.
Majira was sweating now, her dancing and the proximity to the fire taking a toll. Even I was warm, being this close. She put her hands on either side of my neck, holding my jaw with her thumbs.
“Magick is dangerous. It is mysterious. And when your daughter is ill from it, when your brother is killed by it, you will lash out at anything you don’t quite understand,” she whispered, her burning eyes gazing into mine.
She slid her hands away and continued to dance, now more slowly, more trancelike.
I had no idea what she meant.
“Who are you?” I asked. “Are you a noble? I mean, you must come from somewhere.”
Majira smiled toothily, eyes shut.
“I’m from the Untouched Wood, sire. Just like you.”
“Then where do you live? How do you know all these commoners, way out here, if you used to live in court?”
“Sometimes not knowing is more pleasant than knowing,” she replied wistfully, and I realized I would never get a straight answer out of her and it was utterly futile to use reason. I also realized that I didn’t really care.
She reached out and took my arm in hers. Other folk were dancing around us, the music simple and melodious. A single drum reverberated rhythmically. I drained the last of my drink and tos
sed the clay bowl into the grass.
I’m not sure how long we danced, or if I danced at all. I remember the stars spinning above me and the fire’s heat upon my face, and Majira’s hands upon my neck, her eyes glassy and huge, her red hair an extension of the flames before us.
Somewhere in that midsummer night I was lost in a dreamy haze, lost in a deep sleep in the tall grass and it felt like I was swimming, half-weightless and half-drowned.
***
I woke up groggy and sore. Bright sunlight lanced through the foliage above.
When I sat up I was uncertain where I was, and I had to screw my eyes shut to ward off a sharp headache. I wasn’t in the clearing; there was no sign of the tables, of the bonfire, of the other folk. I was surrounded by trees and brush.
I staggered to my feet and leaned against a broad maple trunk, gathering my strength. My mouth was dry as old leather.
I looked around and found a trail of crushed grass and bent foliage, and decided this was probably my own trail. Why I came over here was a mystery. Maybe I just wanted to be alone.
As I prepared to follow my tracks back to the clearing something dark caught my eye, lying on the ground where I had slept. I bent over and pushed the tall grass aside to find one of my gloves. I must have dropped it last night - but it was dry in an otherwise dewy landscape.
I picked it up and found another surprise; cradled in the glove’s palm was a lock of bright, auburn hair, tied with a woolen thread.
Majira?
I looked around. There was nothing else here.
Thoroughly confused but much less concerned, I followed my trail back to the clearing. It wasn’t very far. There were others still sleeping, all in various postures of repose. Some looked comfortable, others looked regretful. The bonfire still glowed hot, though the flames had died down hours ago.
I found my horse hitched nearby and led him to the clearing’s edge where he grazed on verdant grass.
There was no sign of Majira. I was torn over whether I wanted to say goodbye. I wasn’t quite sure she was who she said she was, and I had an odd feeling that meeting her all the way out here hadn’t been a coincidence.
After a short rest on a bench and a drink from my water-skin I mounted up, taking one last survey of the clearing. There were a few folk awake. They waved at me as I trotted away.
“Goodbye Prince Herace!” someone cried as I passed through the thin veil of trees.
I turned my horse back onto the roadway, headed westward toward Naraya. The sun was warm upon my back and the air humid and I tried absent-mindedly to recollect last night through an encroaching migraine.
I really do wish I remembered. I hope the headache was worth it.
I slipped the lock of hair into my saddlebag.
It was probably worth it.
7
Dawn
I hurried back to the keep, waving to the willow tree under which I knew Ortham still lingered. Above me the stars twinkled brightly, spreading out endlessly into the satin black firmament. The moons hung like huge baubles, their cracked faces crisp and clear.
I felt lighter somehow; it was easier to breathe. I couldn’t help but hum a tune as I closed the heavy oak door behind me.
I walked quietly through an atrium and headed up the stone steps, my hooves clacking upon the hard stone. A dark shape moved out of the corner of my eye from down another hallway.
“Princess!” came a high voice. It was one of my handmaidens. “Queen Boralia requests your presence in the Etala Chamber.”
I groaned inwardly. Could I ever have peace?
I walked back down the stairs and my handmaiden accompanied me as we headed to the throne. She seemed a little frazzled. She must have been new.
“When did she ask for me?” I asked, trying to gauge the urgency.
“Almost an hour ago, my lady. We couldn’t find you anywhere,” she replied, a slight tremor quavering her alto voice.
I hadn’t been gone for an hour; that much I was certain of. At least, I was pretty sure it hadn’t been an hour. I wondered what my mother could possibly want of me at this late hour. It must have been close to midnight.
“Did the queen say what she wanted? Did it seem important?”
The faun handmaiden shook her head fervently. Her cheeks were rosy.
“Her highness only requested your presence, my lady. Any task she gives is treated as important.”
We rounded a corner and came into the Etala Chamber. High pillars flanked the great open space. Soft light pulsated gently from the living ceiling, reflecting off the smooth, polished floor. The Chamber was always beautiful at night, when the far-up windows were portals of shadow and the knotted thrones sparkled with amber and silver.
Queen Boralia sat idly upon her throne, legs crossed and leaning to one side. She was not dressed in all her finery, nor even half of it. Her garb was simple yet elegant tonight.
She turned her head as we entered from the right side gallery, the sound of our hooves echoing through the emptiness. My handmaiden curtsied as she approached, and my mother waved her off. She scurried away and out of sight.
The queen straightened up, leaning deeply into her seat. The nearer I came, the more tired I saw she was. Fatigue darkened her eyes and paled her cheeks. Her crown was absent, and instead a thin chain circlet was nestled beneath her antlers.
“I’m sorry if I roused you from sleep…” she said, looking me up and down. “Although it seems you weren’t sleeping, hm? But no matter…”
“I was just in the garden. Enjoying the summer night,” I half-lied.
She shifted in her seat.
“Not with that ur-man, were you? Are you under some sort of spell?”
Her accusation surprised me with its accuracy.
“Are you spying on me? Who told you I was with him?” I asked, voice rising.
My mother sighed and looked down at her clasped hands. She let her head hang a moment before responding.
“They are only precautions, Dawn. You understand, you must understand.”
I opened my mouth to speak again but stopped myself. She was right. The High King was dead, betrayed by his own Adjutant, and I had just recently been kidnapped. It was only natural that my mother was tightening security in Naraya.
Although, there was always the question of who the spy was, and how they could keep such close watch over me without my knowledge… and I wasn’t comfortable with that thought.
I sat down on the steps, facing away from her.
“Well, he’s harmless. If that’s what you’re wondering,” I said.
“I wouldn’t say ‘harmless’, my dear. ‘Harmless’ is not a word I would use for an ex-mercenary. For a battle-mage. For someone who abducted you right from that very garden.”
I turned to face her.
“You don’t understand. He’s not like that. He hated being in the Black Cohort! And father forgave him. He fought on the king’s behalf and it nearly killed him. He’s been living with the servants ever since, minding his own business.”
“I know, I know. I am aware, Dawn. It is in regards to the king’s memory that he has been allowed to stay here. There are many at court who see him as a bad omen, you know. Someone imprudent to keep around.”
“But he’s harmless, mother. Harmless. If only you knew him the way I know him,” I said pleadingly, then turned around fully, kneeling at the stair’s edge. “But imagine if we gave him a post here, here at court. Folks pay real money for the service of the Black Cohort! But with Ortham, we have a battle-mage of that class all our own!”
My mother seemed unmoved, but her face betrayed a genuine, if brief, consideration of my proposal.
“We have no need of battle-mages. Perhaps in an age of war. But this is not that age. ”
I sighed. It was worth a try. Maybe with persistence I could change her mind.
It dawned on me that leaving for Glenn Mereillon might not be possible after al
l. I would have to explain everything to my mother; the dreams, Lyrèlie, and Ortham’s role in it all.
I took a deep breath and prepared to unfold the whole story when my mother spoke again.
“I called you here for other matters, Dawn. Of a very similar sort, in fact.”
I looked to her, signalling she had my full attention. She was ghostly in the ambient light, a welcome if distant spectre from my childhood.
“As you might understand, your father was… wary of things magickal. He resented magick for its corruptive power, blaming it for the death of his brother.”
“I thought he died at Onn-Droc,” I said, remembering the stories of that battle.
My mother nodded, eyes closed as if in slumber.
“He did die at Onn-Droc, but not in battle. Your uncle’s blade, the one your father carried with him until the day of his own death, hadn’t even been wetted that day. Your uncle died of magickal exposure.”
I had never heard this before; a piece of my youth crumbled to dust as the truth was revealed. I had always been under the impression he died fighting at the battle of Onn-Droc.
“He was killed by magick? Just like father? Almost ironic…”
“No, no. Not at all like your father,” my mother smiled, features heavy with soft sadness. “Your uncle died because he was using magick. He died as he attempted to cast a spell far too powerful, a spell so vast his soul was torn in the act. A healing spell, in fact. To protect his weary soldiers.”
We sat in silence for a time as I tried to digest all that my mother had told me.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because, my dear. It’s time for you to understand your own soul. One day you will be High Queen. And unfortunately, your father’s disdain for magick has left you all but untrained.”
“I do remember being taught about magick, though. My tutors used to tell me about it.”
“They taught you about magick, but never how to use it. Do you see this?” she asked, and waved her hand in a sweeping motion to the whole Chamber.
Day of the Hunt (The Faun Quartet Book 2) Page 5