Day of the Hunt (The Faun Quartet Book 2)

by Chris J Edwards

  All three of us? The day was becoming more and more surprising.

  “All three? What have they to do with one another?” asked my mother, thoroughly perplexed and making no attempt to mask it.

  Majira opened up her hands, gesturing to us all.

  “Because we are all here. Just as it should be.”

  “I knew it wasn’t a coincidence,” Herace suddenly blurted out. “I knew it. You arranged for us to meet, didn’t you? I knew it.”

  “No, dear prince. I arranged nothing. Though you are right; it was no coincidence. All happened just as it should. We are all aligned with fate. There was no other way, like a leaf drifting on a twisting river - the course is set, the destination final, and only the smallest deviations are allowed.”

  Herace furrowed his brow, clearly discontent with Majira’s answer.

  “Fate? The course set? Bah, this is practically heresy,” he said dismissively. “The Maker created us for our free will. We choose our fate, just as we choose which path to take when lost in the woods.”

  “Ah, you believe that fate and free will oppose one another. This is not so, Herace. Every step we take simply narrows our options for the next step. When one walks, does one step twice with the same foot? When one knows the way home, does one go in the other direction?” she asked, approaching him until they were only inches apart.

  The air was tense. Herace was a Guardian of the Amber Bower, and though he didn’t act like it, he was supposed to be a paragon of spiritual virtue. The thought of that almost made me laugh. Although it was interesting to see him actually stand up for what he believed was right. As for myself, I didn’t know who was right in this argument.

  “No, of course not. We make decisions based on where we want to go, what we want to do. I’m just curious how you knew we would all be here today.”

  “As I said. There are indeed deviations to this course; our free will allows it. But we all aim for the ocean, just as any river, even when the river doesn’t know that’s where it is headed,” she said wistfully, looking up at Herace. “I only knew we would be here today because I know the direction of our souls.”

  Herace didn’t move. His face was stone. I could feel his mind wrestling with the thought, the idea of free will and fate, trying to reconcile the two.

  “Well, don’t mind me, but that’s an immense relief. For a moment I thought you could see the future and I was pretty concerned,” Ortham piped up.

  “The future is shrouded from me, just as it is shrouded from all folk. None may divine the future. Not even the greatest seers from the strangest lands can see beyond today,” she said, smiling coyly.

  We left the Etala Chamber and headed to the garden, with Majira leading and Herace close behind. Evidently she was very familiar with the keep, having lived here for years. Now that I had laid eyes on her, very old memories began to reappear; nothing special, nothing specific. I only remember being very little and seeing her around Naraya. She gave me the feeling that she was like an aunt, a very peculiar aunt.

  As we walked down the hill Herace started asking more questions. He had only relaxed momentarily, it seemed.

  “Look, Majira. I have to ask you; why did we meet first? Why last night?”

  “What you mean to ask is, ‘what happened last night’, no?” she purred.

  Ortham nudged me. He was enjoying Majira’s toying just as much as me.

  “That’s a story for later. Seems like they had a little fun at a party together,” he whispered.

  Majira cast a glance back at us, having overheard.

  “Fun? Yes, fun. We danced, Herace drank, and I left for Naraya before the music even stopped,” she said.

  “Wait, so you mean… we didn’t…” Herace began.

  “Have sex? No, Prince Herace, we did not. Not every encounter with a lady must be a conquest,” she said.

  Herace visibly relaxed and exhaled deeply.

  “What a relief. I thought you had enchanted me or something. You know, being a sorceress and all. Had I known I wouldn’t have got so friendly…”

  Majira stopped at the garden’s gate and gave Herace an irritated look.

  “There’s nothing wrong with dancing, Herace. Like I said, not every moment must be a conquest.”

  “Of course, of course… but, if we didn’t, you know, then why did you leave me this?” he asked, and presented her with a lock of red hair from his pocket.

  Majira rolled her eyes and took it from him daintily.

  “You should consider sobriety, Herace. Do you really not remember why you have this?” she said, holding it up to his face.

  His grimace told her ‘no.’

  She let out a sigh.

  “It was to find me. You said you were the best tracker in the kingdom. I would have believed you, too,” she said, opening the gate, causing the overhanging vines to sway from the arch. “I left it just in case you needed some motivation to come to Naraya.”

  The four of us walked through the snaking paths of the garden, Majira and Herace in front and Ortham and I in the rear. The air was thick with flowery perfume. Honeybees plodded gracelessly through the air, landing heavily upon bright petals of drooping blossoms. Butterflies, too, fluttered here and there, each wing a masterful canvas of colour. It was a perfect midsummer afternoon.

  We stopped to sit in a small clearing. Grass grew thick and green and an ancient cherry tree provided us with shade. The clearing was walled by vined hedges, creating a small, verdant sanctum.

  It was wonderful to feel the grass upon my bare legs, the warm sun upon my shoulders. Even Ortham tossed his hat to the side and pulled off his weathered black boots.

  We sat in silence for a while. I was lulled into a dozy half-sleep and struggled against the urge to lay down for a while.

  “You mentioned we were being watched. By who?” Ortham asked Majira.

  Majira waved her hands in a pattern above the grass. Very, very slowly a single stalk rose up, growing at an incredible pace. A small bud appeared at the tip, swelling in size, then opened to reveal a violet daisy.

  “Not all of you were being watched. Only the princess,” she replied. “That is why she stumbled when I broke her connection to the wells of magick, her connection to the Void, her connection to all but her own soul.”

  Ortham leaned back.

  “That’s a lot to take in. Not quite sure where to begin. Didn’t even know that was possible,” he said.

  “There are many mysteries of which you are unaware. Don’t think I am ignorant to who you are, battle-mage. I know all about Auvale, and all about the Black Cohort,” she smiled.

  Ortham looked down. I could feel his shame.

  “Don’t be afraid of it, ur-child. Now that you have it, use it. Use the knowledge wisely. Be thankful your soul, your hands have been trained for wizardry. Few get such a chance,” she soothed.

  “Thankful? For what, being tortured? Stretching my soul to the point of tearing? Being reviled?” Ortham shot back, placing an unthinking hand upon the scars that striped the side of his face. “It’s hard to be thankful for all that, even if now I can shoot pretty sparks out of my fingertips.”

  Majira shook her head sadly.

  “You will understand one day. For now, I can only help relieve your anguish by teaching you new ways of magick. Perhaps help you along the path to your soul’s ultimate goal,” she said.

  “My soul’s ultimate goal?” he repeated, looking up.

  Majira leaned forward.

  “Redemption,” she whispered, lips barely moving.

  Ortham held her gaze. He didn’t look puzzled, or confused, or even surprised. I could feel a distant warmth inside him, like a flickering torch in a wide, misty vale.

  “You are all capable of magick,” she said, turning to each of us. “Either through training, like Ortham, or noble sylfolk birth, like Herace. All of you must expand your talents. It is nothing I can force you to do; it is something
you must take upon yourselves. I will teach you what I can in the little time we have.”

  “’What little time we have?’ What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

  “Why, before heading to Glenn Mereillon,” she said matter-of-factly.

  Ortham straightened up.

  “She can even read minds!” he said to me.

  “I cannot read minds. I simply know where this river runs,” Majira replied. “And I know we must depart within the next week.”

  “Are you going to convince the queen?” I asked.

  “I won’t need to convince her. She will come to that conclusion herself once I explain.”

  I pondered everything for a while. If Majira knew about Glenn Mereillon, then she must know Lyrèlie, and she must already know about my nightmares. She used to be at court; she would have been present for the panic when I was young. Cool relief washed through me. I wasn’t as alone in this as I thought. There would be answers.

  Majira moved over next to me.

  “Of course, princess, you are the true reason I am here, just as you are the rope that binds your friends together. You are a crux of fate,” she whispered, her warm breath tickling my ear.

  Her lack of personal space was actually rather endearing, even if very odd.

  “I don’t like the way that sounds,” I replied.

  “Magick flows around you, even through you, waiting to be used. Waiting to be awoken. Your soul is vast, as it should be; the mixture of your royal lineage, and now the kingdom soon to be yours, all adding to your reservoir. You must learn, above all else, to use this power.”

  Pride in a strength I didn’t even know I had conflicted with a growing fear of the unknown.

  “But be warned,” she purred, voice lowering darkly. “This power is no toy. As it slew your uncle, so may it slay you. And there are ever watchers in the dark, waiting, hunting. I may have broken their gaze for now, but they will return. Yours is a prize well worth every effort to capture.”

  A cold shiver ran through my body despite the warm air. Ortham and Herace listened intently, entranced.

  “Can you not feel it, even now? This power, your rightful talent? You can feel the emotions of those around you, just as your mother can. You can see the terrible beyond, the awful maw of the Nothing when you sleep. Your soul can sense the black visions of a most ruinous power, building its strength, hardening its resolve…” Majira said in a low voice, her eyes closed, face in rapture.

  As she spoke I could feel it. Like a cool breeze it washed not over me, but through me, and a thrill of terror lanced my mind.

  I jerked back and a squeal escaped my lips. Herace and Ortham leaped to their feet.

  Majira seemed to return to herself, and cooed to them to remain seated. Uneasily they sank back into the grass, concern creasing their features.

  I had so many questions… my head was spinning. I was overwhelmed.

  “Who… who is looking for me?” I asked, fighting to keep my voice from trembling.

  That sudden shock of terror had me unnerved.

  Majira’s face turned grim.

  “Dark powers and bleak powers, my dear. The Twin Pillars of Woe, ever set against the other. There are many who seek, and not just for you. They search for souls grand enough for their destructive ambitions. I simply fear, now that you are in a position to take the throne, that the sudden swell in your magickal reservoir has alerted such awful searchers…”

  “What can we do about it?” Ortham asked tentatively. “There must be something.”

  “Can’t just sit here…” muttered Herace in agreement.

  “Of course there is something we can do. Something we must do. But first, we need to hide,” She said.

  Herace scoffed.

  “Hide? We can’t do that forever. And I hope you have a better place in mind than the capital. That keep is a palace, not a fortress.”

  “Glenn Mereillon… you want to hide in Glenn Mereillon,” I whispered aloud.

  “Indeed I do,” Majira said. “Any fae enclave would have worked, but we are all at least somewhat familiar with Glenn Mereillon. They are friendly to the Untouched Wood. We won’t have to stay for long.”

  “Why? What’s the point of hiding?” Herace pressed.

  “We are really only hiding the princess. Her magickal presence will be masked so long as she is in a fae enclave. It’s how they hide themselves from the rest of the world, after all. Once there, I will guide her into the dreamscape, where she can see who it is we are hiding her from, and with any luck, we can also trace the source of her visions,” Majira replied patiently.

  It was obvious she seldom had to explain herself to such an extent, but she was doing an admirable job. I wondered how she would be as a teacher.

  Herace must have been satisfied with the answer because he held his peace.

  Majira rose. The three of us followed. She took my hands in hers.

  “Your strength is not only in yourself, or in your power, but in those around you,” she said, taking my hands and placing them into Herace’s and Ortham’s.

  Then she put her hands atop ours. I felt the warmth of that firm embrace.

  Together we walked out of the garden. It was late afternoon, just on the cusp of evening, and the sky was a soft orange. Dragonflies zipped back and forth through the tall grass.

  Ortham put his arm around me and gave me a friendly squeeze.

  “Everything will be fine. Don’t worry,” he said gently.

  “I know… I know,” I replied.

  But I didn’t know.

  I looked up at him and forced a smile anyway.

  “Everything will be fine.”

  11

  Daz

  “Fight like your life depends on it! Stop going easy!”

  “Come on, use that reach, Daz! You’ve got him in the lurch!”

  “Get her when she’s withdrawing!”

  Shouts echoed in the hall. They rang through the hewn stone cavern, but I paid them no heed. They meant nothing. Their advice, their taunts; it was all chaff before me, weightless and useless.

  My opponent brought down his falchion in an overhead swing. I intercepted with my buckler, deflecting it, and stepped aside.

  Before he could correct his swing I scooped for his ribs with my shotel, its long, curved blade slashing forward.

  He was quick enough to pivot with his left foot and punch away my shotel with the edge of his shield. Just barely quick enough.

  “Stop pulling your thrusts! Drive it in!” someone shrieked from amongst the onlookers.

  No doubt there were bets going on, fruitless wagering on who would come out on top. Gambling was not strictly forbidden but it was looked down upon. If we had any money or possessions to gamble, there might have been a problem.

  My opponent was sweating heavily. His bare, dark torso was slick with perspiration. I didn’t know his name; he looked like an import. A special slave gifted to the Empress from some governor of the far south, across the sea.

  The only difference was his skin. The hairless head, the pointed teeth – he was still an unman, still part of the great plan.

  He lunged, and the blunted tip of his training weapon narrowly missed my waist as I leapt back in measured retreat. He reconsolidated, his falchion tucked in, closing up his shield to cover his neck and chest.

  My buckler, in comparison, seemed barely larger than my face. I preferred it to a shield; trading protection for light weight and mobility.

  That, and it made for a deadly punch.

  The onlookers shouted for us to reengage, urging us on with insults and cheers as we circled one another. I was breathing heavily and I felt like I was sweating far harder than my opponent. But I knew I could keep fighting for a long time. A battle of attrition was no stranger to me.

  We made two full circles around each other before he struck again.

  He lashed out with a series of well-timed cuts; a jab
low to put me off-balance, an upward slash aimed at my face. His attempts met with thin air.

  The crowd jeered at him. They thought I was toying with this newcomer. I wasn’t. I was just testing his boundaries, trying to understand his movements, looking for a decisive opportunity.

  After a few more minutes of him advancing on me, each time with increasing aggression and accuracy, I accepted that no decisive opportunity would come before he found an opportunity to get me.

  He lunged, I stepped back.

  He lunged again; I stepped back.

  I anticipated a feint and reacted by lowering both my shotel and buckler, showing I was unafraid. It was a provocative move, almost an insult. The onlookers were inflamed.

  My opponent was wise not to be aggravated by my mock display of bravery. He was measured; concise. All things I appreciated in a combatant, all things I tried to emulate.

  But now it was my time to strike.

  As he repositioned himself I lashed out with my shotel. Its sinister curve, ideal for reaching around shields, came within inches of his head. He avoided the strike just in time, ducking below his shield.

  I took advantage of his obscured vision. I raised my leg and kicked his shield, knocking it against his face and putting him onto his back foot. He reacted blindly with a wide sweep of his falchion in a desperate attempt to fend me off.

  His sword arm outstretched, I sidestepped and brought my shotel down on his forearm. Though there was no edge on these practice weapons, I relented at the last moment to save his arm from being broken.

  My strike was still powerful enough to knock his arm aside. The crowd cheered. It was the first real hit of the match.

  But it wasn’t the last.

  Stepping sideways again I used my buckler to deliver a rapid uppercut to his exposed flank. I likely broke his ribs with that punch; he stumbled away, almost caught his footing, then fell to his knees.

  He kept his shield up the whole time, at least. Too bad it was protecting him from nothing.

  The onlookers were in fits, shouting and cursing; pieces of paper were exchanged, worthless tokens to denote currency in a place where wealth was imaginary and personal belongings meant nothing.