Huntress (8 page)
“I brought her back with me. She inside. She’s—she’s had a shock.” When Kaede only stared morosely at the arrow clutched in her hand, he said, “Come inside and eat some breakfast.”
She nodded. There was an emptiness inside her, but she did not think it was due to hunger.
E
veryone told Kaede that she had done the right thing, but she felt hollow inside. When Fin had given her that dagger, it had been like a toy to her. Now she knew what a weapon was.
Two days after leaving Ento, the road narrowed and became packed dirt instead of paving stones. They had reached the end of most of the farmland, and now low hills began to rise in the distance. They were far from Cathair, and yet they still had more than a week of travel before they would reach Jilin and the Great Wood. Kaede felt the lack of sun with a brutal sense of futility: The whole world was gray, colorless. Her fingers were cold where they gripped the reins, and though she rode beside Con, who had been trying all morning to engage her in conversation, she felt alone. She knew he meant well, but he had no idea what she was going through. In the distance the road curved around a hill, and she was overcome by the desire to run, to leave them all behind.
She leaned over the neck of her horse and urged her into a gallop, pushing past Shae and Pol. She heard them calling after her, but she didn’t answer. On the left the road sloped down toward the river Nir; on the right it curved up a brown hillside. She caught sight of a lone tree at the top, stripped bare of its leaves, and then she was rounding the hill and there was only more road.
She loved the whip of the wind in her face. It was cool and faintly wet. She remembered the first time she had ridden a galloping horse: She had been a child, barely eight or nine, trying to keep up with her older brothers. They were at a family friend’s country home, and her brothers had taken their host’s horses out for a run in the morning. Her mother had told her she was too young to go with them, but she hated being left behind. She had sneaked down to the stables and taken out a fat little pony and somehow forced him into a gallop, chasing those boys down to the riverbank. When she arrived, flushed and proud of herself, only their host’s son was surprised; her brothers laughed and chided her for taking so long.
Now she let her horse gallop at full speed until she felt her begin to tire, and then she gently slowed her down to a walk. When the road curved close to the river, she turned Maila toward the water, leaning back in the saddle as they went downhill the short distance. She dismounted at the riverbank and watched as Maila lowered her head to the water. The Nir was wide and deep here, sliding with a dim roar south toward Cathair. At this time of year, it should have been full of fishing vessels and ships carrying goods from the north—woolens, lumber, stone from mountain quarries. But the river was empty. Not even a waterbird floated on its surface. Trade had halted last fall when the storms began, and business had not returned to normal. The empty river should have been a peaceful sight, but instead it drove home something that Kaede hadn’t fully understood until now: The Kingdom would die if the seasons did not change.
She sucked her breath in sharply. This was why she was here, standing on the banks of the Nir so far from the protection of the Academy walls and her family’s influence. She was here because the Council of Sages believed the Fairy Queen knew something about why their kingdom was turning into a wasteland—a place where crops spoiled overnight, where farmers couldn’t replant because there was no sunlight. Where monsters crawled out of their dark places and were found dead in northern villages, or were somehow reborn in the soft little bodies of human babies. She was here because the oracle stones said she was part of this journey to discover what the Fairy Queen knew. Did that mean that what she had done in Ento was meant to be?
Behind her she heard a horse on the road. When it began to descend the hillside to join her, she turned to see that the rider was Shae.
“Did they send you to bring me back?” Kaede asked.
“No.” Shae dismounted and came to stand beside her. “To keep you safe.”
“Safe. I don’t think we’ve been safe for a long time.”
“Does that worry you?”
“Should it?”
Shae shrugged. “I don’t believe in worrying. It’s a waste of energy.”
They stood for a while in silence, gazing out over the river. Dried grasses rustled as a wind gusted down the barren slope, raising several strands of Kaede’s hair. She tucked the ends behind her ears and looked at Shae, whose face was open, waiting. “Shae,” Kaede said, and she felt the words come tumbling out of her: “When I chose to come on this journey, I thought—I thought it was going to be an adventure.” Kaede grimaced at her own foolishness, but Shae gave her an encouraging smile.
“I like a good adventure myself,” Shae said. “Why else do you think I wanted to join the King’s Guard? I needed a living, yes, but I could have done something less… life-threatening. Some of us need adventures.”
“But in Ento—” Kaede stopped, rubbed her hands over her face as though she could wipe the memory away. “It’s not an adventure anymore. If it ever was.”
Shae reached out and squeezed Kaede’s shoulder. Several heartbeats later, she bent down, pulled up a dry stalk of grass, and began to shred it with her fingers. “I killed someone once,” she said in a low voice.
“As a guard?”
“Yes. It was in one of the southern provinces, my first year as a member of the King’s Guard. There was trouble at a border village, and I was sent with a contingent of guards to… to quell the resistance.” Though her tone was calm, there was an undercurrent of tension in her words. It was clear that the memory was not an easy one. “At first it seemed as though the villagers would comply with our orders. Everyone was obeying. But then several men attacked us just as we were preparing to depart, and there was a—a scuffle. It turned out later they were sent by a neighboring lord to protect his stores, and they had been given the order to keep us out of the village for fear that we would take his grain.” She paused, and plucked another long brown blade of grass from the ground. “Grain was never on our list.”
“What were you sent to do?”
“We were supposed to make sure that the people of that village accepted the lord whom King Cai had instated as governor of that province. Because they were complying, there was no need to use force.”
“But you did.”
“Ultimately, yes. The men who attacked us were well armed and strong, and they took one of our guards quickly. I saw him beheaded not a foot in front of me. That’s not a sight I’ll ever forget.” Shae let go of the torn shreds of grass. They fluttered out over the hillside like dandelion blossoms on the wind. “After that, the men who attacked us smelled a potential victory, and they—they charged us. I reacted before I could think.” Her eyes were fixed on the distance as though she were seeing that day again. “One of them came at me, and all I knew was that if I did not kill him first, he was going to kill me. So I did.”
“You were defending yourself.”
“Does that make it all right?” They looked at each other, and the guard’s dark brown eyes were troubled. “I knew that to be one of the King’s Guard meant that I might have to kill. But I wasn’t prepared for it when it happened. I wasn’t prepared for the way it changed me. It was weeks before I could talk about it, though all my fellow guards praised me for what I had done. On the battlefield, they said, there is no time for anything but instinct. And yet, I can’t help but wonder if perhaps our instincts are sometimes wrong.”
“Do you regret it?”
Shae sighed and looked away. “How can I regret what I did, when it kept me alive?”
T
hat night, they camped on the side of the road for the first time. There would be no hostel for another two days’ journey. Taisin and Shae tended to the horses as usual, rubbing them down and feeding them. Taisin enjoyed the work; it reminded her of home. When she was a little girl, her father had given her the task of brushing down the farm horses at the end of the day, and she had loved being in the barn at twilight, the smell of hay and horses all around her. Those were things she had truly missed at the Academy: the warmth of animals, and the simple honesty of their energies.
Focused on the horses, the feel of their muscles beneath her hands, she was startled when Kaede appeared by her side, a cup of tea in her hand. “Tali says supper will be ready soon,” Kaede said, offering her the warm drink. Kaede seemed more relaxed now than she had been earlier in the day; Taisin wondered what had soothed her.
“Thank you,” Taisin said. She began to tuck the brush under her arm, but then Kaede held out her hand.
“I’ll trade you,” Kaede said, smiling.
The smile made Taisin’s cheeks burn. She was glad it was dark. “All right.” She handed the brush over in exchange for the tea. It smelled of barley, nutty and hot, and it tasted wonderful.
“It’s the last of it. I didn’t want you to miss out.” Kaede tilted her head briefly at the campfire, where Con and Pol were sitting on their bedrolls, joking with Tali as he prepared whatever concoction they would be eating tonight.
“What about Shae?” Taisin looked at the guard, who was working on the wagon horses several feet away.
“I already brought her a cup.”
“Oh.” Taisin raised the tea to her lips again, the steam wafting into her eyes. It reminded her of wintry nights at the Academy, curled up in her tiny room with her bed strewn with books. She felt a deep tug of homesickness inside her.
“I wanted to tell you something.”
“You did?” Taisin’s stomach fluttered. She often felt nervous around Kaede. It frustrated her, but she didn’t know what to do about it. She was doing everything she could, she told herself, to avoid the fate in her vision—but she was afraid she was losing that battle.
“Yes.” Kaede took a deep breath, steeling herself. “I didn’t really understand, until today, even, what was at stake on this journey. Now I do. You were right, in Ento—we need to know what we’re dealing with, or as much as we can know. So I have to ask you: What did you see in your vision, Taisin? You haven’t told me—not exactly. But the way you look at me sometimes, I have to know: What did you see me doing?”
Taisin clutched the battered metal teacup with both hands and swallowed. All she could think was that Kaede had caught her staring at her. She was mortified that she had been so obvious; she was terrified that she would have to tell her the whole truth.
Kaede saw Taisin’s distress. Even in the dark, the way her shoulders had stiffened betrayed her. “Is it so bad?” Kaede’s own anxiety began to rise. “What did you see me do?”
Taisin shook her head swiftly. “No—no, it’s not anything—you didn’t do anything awful. That’s not what I saw.”
“Please. Please just tell me.”
She knew she had to tell her something. “I saw you—and I—we were on a beach. An icy beach.” Her voice shook a little, remembering. “You stepped into a rowboat, and you rowed away. I saw you leaving.” She stopped, hoping that Kaede would ask for nothing more.
“A rowboat?” Kaede was puzzled. “And I was leaving? That’s all?”
“Yes,” Taisin said, and pressed her lips together.
As Kaede mulled over her words, Taisin saw that she didn’t seem to realize that anything had been held back. But why should she? Taisin knew she had done her best to keep her emotions hidden. She had even tried to keep them hidden from herself, though it was becoming increasingly difficult.
Kaede asked, “Where is this beach?”
Taisin was startled. It had never occurred to her to wonder about that at all. “I don’t know. I just saw it. It’s part of this journey—that’s all I know.”
They heard Tali calling to them; supper was ready.
“You go ahead,” Taisin said, taking the opportunity to change the subject. “I’ll be there in a minute. I just want to put away the brushes.” She held her hand out for the brush Kaede had taken from her, and for a moment Kaede didn’t seem to want to give it to her. She was looking at Taisin closely, searching her face. Taisin tried to school her expression into one of calm blankness; she had the irrational fear that Kaede could see right through her.
But Kaede only said, “All right,” and handed over the brush. “Don’t be long. The food will get cold.”
Taisin clutched the brush with one hand, the teacup with the other, and told herself that she shouldn’t be so silly. It was dark, and besides, Kaede couldn’t read her mind.
Around the campfire that night, they told stories. What had happened in Ento had left them all unsettled, and tale-telling was a welcome distraction. Con, it seemed, had heard every story ever told, and he regaled them with the legendary exploits of King Rin Tai, who traveled to the clouded mountain to face the sinuous green dragon who had terrorized the people of six provinces.
“And when he returned, I suppose he married the most beautiful highborn lady in the land and had a dozen children,” Shae said drily.
Con shrugged. “You object to a happy ending?”
Shae leaned forward, poking at the fire with a stick. The flames roared. “I’d like to hear a tale about an ordinary person for once. Not all of us are born princes.” She softened the sharpness of her words with a smile, but Con was chagrined.
Tali laughed. “She has a point. Do you have a story in your head for us common folk?”
“Is that a challenge?” Con asked.
“Yes,” Tali said. “A challenge.”
“All right, then.” Con flexed his fingers and thought for a moment. “Have you heard the tale of Farin and Anmin?”
Taisin smiled. “I have.”
“Good. Then you can correct me if I get it wrong. Farin was a blacksmith—a noble enough profession, to be sure, but one that kept him hard at work day and night. His village was located near the King’s Highway, and his smithy was adjacent to the town’s best inn, which was always busy with travelers. One autumn, a wealthy merchant and his family were passing through Farin’s village and boarded at the inn. The merchant had a daughter, whose name was Anmin. She, they say, was as beautiful as a spring morning.”
Tali whistled. “I haven’t seen one of those in a while.”
Con gave him a stern look. “Anmin, as I was saying, was a beautiful girl. Her father had aspirations for her. He was a merchant, but he hoped to marry her to a wealthy lord and thereby increase his standing in the court.”
“Here come the nobles,” Shae said.
“Wait until you hear the whole story,” Con objected. “Anmin was more than beautiful; she was also intelligent, and she knew what her father’s plans were. But she had other goals in life. She had heard from her father that there were other lands across the sea, and she wanted to explore them. She knew that to become an explorer she would have to learn how to ride and defend herself—talents that no lord’s wife needed—so every chance she had, she would practice swordplay or horsemanship. One afternoon while she was in the village, she discovered that her sword had a knick in it, and she decided to bring it to the blacksmith nearby. When she and Farin saw each other, they knew immediately that they had found their one true love.”
“How did they know?” Shae asked. “Sparks flew from the anvil?”
Con grinned at her. “Don’t you have any faith in the power of love?”
“Do you, Prince Con?” she teased him, and the tone in her voice made a tingle run through him. She was watching him with her head half-cocked, and he noticed a sly smile turning up the corners of her mouth.
He responded, “You’re avoiding the question.” The expression on Shae’s face changed just slightly—he wondered if it was self-consciousness—and she ducked her head and poked at the fire again.
“Tell the story, Con,” she said lightly, but she avoided his gaze.
“As you wish,” he said, feeling a little surge of anticipation. Shae had always been friendly with him, never anything more or less, and for the first time Con became aware that he might like it if there was something more. While she prodded at the burning coals, he continued: “As I was saying, when Farin and Anmin first saw each other, they fell in love. They resolved to marry as soon as possible, but when Anmin told her father of her intentions, he flew into a rage and told her he had already arranged her marriage to the King’s nephew. When she saw that he had no intention of backing down, she decided to elope with the blacksmith. However, the following morning, she awoke to discover that her father had been robbed during the night. All of the goods he had been transporting to Cathair had been stolen, and because soot had been found in the room where the goods had been stored, her father believed that Farin was the thief.
“Farin was brought to the village magistrate, who listened to the merchant’s suspicions and found Farin guilty. But Farin insisted he was no thief, and he also knew that the magistrate could be easily bribed. With Anmin’s help, Farin appealed to the provincial magistrate, who also sided with the merchant. Farin was about to be thrown into prison when the King’s Magistrate agreed to hear his case—thanks to Anmin’s hard work—and Farin was so convincing that the King’s Magistrate told him that if he could face the judgment of the unicorn and survive, then he would be set free. Of course, if the unicorn found him guilty, he would be gored by the beast and die.”
“No one ever survives the judgment of the unicorn,” Pol said. “We are all guilty of something; the unicorn never finds anyone innocent.”
“In some of the tales they survive,” Taisin put in.
“Really? Which ones?” Pol asked.
“Hang on,” Con said. “Let me finish this tale first. So: Farin was taken into the Wood to seek out the unicorn.”
“In the version I heard, the unicorns were kept in a special enclosure at the palace,” Taisin said.
Con blinked. “An enclosure?”
“Yes. There was an enclosure, adjacent to the King’s Magistrate’s office,” she said. “The accused would be brought there and judged.”
“I can’t imagine the creatures would submit to being enclosed,” Pol said.
“Because you’ve seen them before?” Tali said skeptically.
“No, but they’re not horses to be trained. You might as well keep a phoenix as a songbird.”
“I’m sure that’s been attempted by some king or another,” Shae said. “Con, please continue.”
When she spoke his name her eyes flickered to him, and warmth spread over his skin. He swallowed. “All right. So, Farin was taken to the unicorn to face his judgment. Of course, Farin was innocent, but his heart was so pure and his love for Anmin so true that the unicorn not only let him live, he showed him who the real thief was: Anmin’s own father, who had sought to incriminate the blacksmith to prevent him from marrying his daughter. When Farin returned to his village, he immediately told the merchant that he knew his secret, and he threatened to tell Anmin as well. But the merchant knew that if his daughter found out, she would never again acknowledge him as her father. Faced with the loss of his only daughter, he agreed to drop his accusations, and Farin and Anmin were soon married. Afterward, they both became explorers and lived long and happy lives.”
Tali clapped, and the others laughed and joined in. Shae said, “That is a sweet tale, Con. But what’s the moral of the story?” She watched him, her face half in shadow.
“Magistrates are generally corrupt,” Pol quipped.
“Fathers shouldn’t attempt to marry their daughters off to noblemen when there’s a handsome blacksmith nearby,” Kaede said, pulling a face.
Con smiled. “Those are a couple of ways to think about it.” He looked at Shae as he said, “Or, perhaps the lesson is that true love will always prevail.”
“How romantic of you,” Shae said, and she might have meant for her words to sound wry, but Con heard a thread of wistfulness in her voice.
“I think it’s true,” he said. “Love knows no limits; it sees no distinctions based on birth or any other characteristic. A prince may love a seamstress as much as any princess.”
“But would the seamstress be allowed to love the prince?” Shae asked.
“Love will always prevail,” Con said. He thought he saw the hint of a blush on her face, though he couldn’t be sure, for she stirred the embers in the campfire again, and the light flared reddish-gold over her skin.
