Her eyes are clouding with tears. “I am sorry, Hunter. I and mine will serve you well, as we did his lordship.” After another pause, she asks, “Was it ...”
“The Beast of Brimmond that killed him? Yes. Was Father’s death fast? No. Not at all. He lingered for almost a full night. The magic called to me, his magic, and I came to him.” My throat feels tighter than I want, but I have not spoken fully or truly about the horror of seeing him that way—or of knowing that the beast that did it had toyed with me that night as well.
Maria takes a salted, heated knife and slices open the skin where the beast clawed my back. I could blame the pain for the tears that join the words that continue to pour out of me.
“The creature tossed me atop my lantern, held me there, and left,” I say. “Either right before or right after that, it slaughtered my father. His stomach was rent open. His eye ... was gone.” I choke a little as Itell her. “He held his organs inside his body. Told me it was the beast. And died. Hedied.”
She makes her prayer gesture. “I am sorry.”
“I am afraid I will soon follow if I cannot devise a plan to stop it,” I whisper.
With a wet voice, she says, “Your father said the same in the past, you know. He said it here just this past week when he was in for his knees. His body was slowing. You will not fail, Gabrielle. I know this here.” She pats her chest and then her head. “I am certain of this.”
“I hope you are right.” I pause, not even sure of the question. The words I settle on are not quite right, but they are the best I have. “Tell me what you know of curses.”
“The duke.” She presses salt into my wounds. “Gossips talk. Curses are rarely laid on any family these days. There was one young man, back when your father was not yet deep voiced. He’d tried to capture a selchie, one of the sea girls?”
I nod. Selchies are rarely seen these days, either choosing to stay far from the shores of Alveus or returning to the other side of the gate to Faerie. “They curse?”
“No. He had caught a disease from the fish scales.” Maria chortles. “Thought he was cursed, but ... he had a sickness. No curses in my lifetime, not a one.”
She pats a bandage onto my back with a sticky sap that will hold it fast.
“You don’t think she’s cursed.”
“I do not.” As Maria finishes treating my belly with a salve that cleans and cools the burns there, she adds, “I will tell the rest of the healers, but if you want the village to know that he has died ...”
“The tavern.” I nod as she helps me redress. “I go there next. Some of the soldiers are likely patrolling, but I doubt they will have spoken. I will tell those villagers who are here and tell Girard, and he will spread the word.”
“He’ll be a good soldier, Girard will. He’ll merely be serving the will of the Hunter in a new way,” Maria notes.
“I am having guards stationed in Brimmond Wood, now that I ...” I shake my head. “Father made good choices. My father was a good Hunter. Doing things in a different way is not a slight on his path.”
“No one will suggest it is.” Maria walks me out. “It will be good to have some of our own men as soldiers. They’ll be more likely to join if they are still able to live near home. The garrison here has been empty too long.”
I pause to take in the village. Being here always eases a weight I carry in Regina Centrum. Pretending to be other than who I am rests like heavy stones upon my shoulders. Here, I release those stones and stand taller. There is something pure in not hiding my identity, in being accepted as I am.
I walk into the tavern, even lighter than I usually feel here in the village due to a few hours in Isabeau’s arms. I stroll past several tables where people sit with pints or bowls of soup. The bowls are bread, so there are fewer dishes for the kitchen. Nolan sits with Girard and Henry, and my heart smiles at the sight.
“Here’s a den of chatty gossips if ever there was one,” I tease as I come to stand beside them.
All three men come to their feet with a clatter of hastily shoved chairs. Henry still holds his soup spoon in hand. “Huntress! What are you doing?”
“Hoping for a room and some soup.” I glance at Girard, who nods. “A bit of conversation wouldn’t go amiss either.”
A few more villagers join us. Maria starts to drag a chair toward us, although Girard snatches it from her and carries the chair with one hand, offering Maria an elbow with the other arm. James and his wife pull up seats as well, and soon after, Anders and Cranshaw are there. Within a few moments, I have assembled an unexpectedly robust group of soldiers and villagers.
My soup bowl is delivered, and I take a deep sniff of the mouthwatering scent of roasted root vegetables and broth. Girard shoots me a curious look, but the general response is a warm feeling of acceptance. I may not come here to dine regularly, but no one seems to object.
“My condolences.” Girard stares at my wrist; a scar used to rest there. “Hunter.”
I shouldn’t be surprised he noticed. Girard has seen me naked more than once, and he knows well what it means that the map of lines from monsters has vanished from my skin.
He stares at me. “I will be sure the village knows. He was a good man, the earl.”
“He kept the village safe,” James says, lifting his pint. His wife, Polly, takes it.
Maria toasts with a gray stone mug of hot mead; the spices make me wish for a mug. As if I spoke, she pushes it toward me. “Only needed enough to toast his memory, Huntress.”
