“I am not a killer of men unless they threaten what’s mine, little wisp. You would do well to remember that should anything threatenyou.”
“Me?”
“MyHunter.Mywoods.” Then it turns its back on me, as if neither I nor my weapons are of any interest. It is not striking either me or Imp. The injured deer looks up as the life slowly drains from a gash in its throat, but the creature hefts it in one hand and pulls the animal into its arms as if it weighs no more than a fox.
Why is it not attacking me this time?
The Beast of Brimmond seems almost possessive, as if I am part of its territory. How is this the killer of men? My father’s murderer? The monster that punted me into the air and held me atop my lantern’s fire?
I want to charge after it, but I cannot bring myself to strike it from behind. Ishould. I know I should. It murdered myfather. Yet, I lower my sword as the sun rises slowly over Brimmond Wood, spilling watery light into the shadows. My vision shifts back to what has always been normal but now feels limiting. I crouch and gather the broken lamp, carefully collecting the glass shards and metal pieces.
Father would have attacked, not talked,guilt insists.
Instead, I tried to reason with the beast, asking it to leave our world. The next time, I will not let fear stop me; I will remember that although it speaks, it is a senseless killer. I’m grateful that mygeasdid not override my hesitancy.
I ride directly toward home, grateful to be done with patrolling, and hope for some long-delayed rest.
Chapter 25
“TheFar Darrig(fear dearg), which means the Red Man, for he wears a red cap and coat, busies himself with practical joking, especially with gruesome joking.”
—Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry, edited and selected by W. B. Yeats [1888]
I ride toward the house and walk into the stable next to Imp. My sister waits there. Her gaze halts me like a weapon. “You’re alive. No blood. Mother said you went out in the night and—”
“Hush.” I hug her. “You worry like an old man, Ry.”
Her arms wrap around me like she would take my burdens. “I’m glad you didn’t die last night.”
“I need to think,” I confess to her. “Spar with me?”
Rylan is already dressed for it, arms and legs wrapped in the thick leather straps that we wear when we spar. It’s not blade proof, but with a half-dull blade, it’s enough. I wonder if I ought to reconsider. I will heal whatever injury she inflicts, but the same is not true for her.
“Wraps,” Rylan orders when she sees me hesitate. “I cannot attack you if you are unprotected.”
“Compared to me, you will be. I’m faster now,” I remind her.
“If speed was the only factor, you’d have never landed a blow on Father,” she reminds me right before she tosses leather wraps at me.
They’re odd things, looking like long, winding bandages. As girls, we once wore them and pretended to be mummies. Father frowned. “Mummies are dead, though. Not walking.” At the time, it seemed the silliest response in the world. Rylan started giggling, and then Mother and I followed. Father smiled and left us to it.
Now, the memory makes me smile. “Mummies are dead,” I say lightly, catching Rylan’s eye. These are the real reasons I must succeed.
I should’ve attacked the beast,my guilt insists.
Next time. Next time I will not let fear or hope stay my sword. Thegeasshould’ve insisted, and I cannot understand why it didn’t.
Rylan and I walk to the courtyard. Our sparring isn’t the same as polite dueling etiquette. There is no bowing, no rule other than winning. Monsters don’t follow manners, so neither the Hunter nor the Hunter-in-Training trains for polite duels.
My sister lunges at me with her sword extended just as I realize that Mother is taking coffee with Isabeau outside the manor. The Countess of Fleuriste sits in a chair someone has carried outside, and Isabeau stands beside her. I glance at them, seeing that Isabeau is wrapped in her houppelande. I know she thinks it’s a ridiculous garment, but it’s one she has always liked because she hates the cold weather. The heavy, fur-trimmed robe makes her look regal.
I pull my gaze away and try not to stare at her. I tell myself not to listen to their conversation, but I have no doubt that my motherintendsfor me to hear. The sound of crossed steel does little to hide their words.
“Of late, they greet the sun with weapons in hand,” the Countess of Fleuriste says mildly. “It calms Gabrielle’s moods.”
“They’re unusual ladies,” Isabeau murmurs.
“Not so different from you.” Mother pauses before adding, “You’ve grown, Your Grace. No longer the gangly child rhapsodizing over my daughter.”
