‘Ottilie?’ said a quiet voice.
She jumped. She’d been in a daze, forgotten to move. Gully was standing beside her.
‘Morning,’ she muttered, hardly knowing she said it.
His eyes darkened. ‘I heard about last night. We came back when we heard the bells, then Ned let me stay and look for it with him, but we didn’t find it.’
Ottilie just shook her head. She couldn’t talk about it.
Gully nudged her shoulder with his head. ‘Come on.’ He steered her towards Preddy and Scoot.
She didn’t eat. If it was possible to feel numb, fearful and achy all at once, that was what she felt.
At lunchtime they were called to the Moon Court. Captain Lyre spoke. He used words like ‘tragedy’ and ‘heroic’ but Ottilie hardly heard him. What reassurance could he offer? It had already happened.
The day was empty before her. Their training was cancelled to give them a bit of breathing space, but watches, hunts and patrols still had to go on. There were still dredretches out there and the Hunt could not ignore them, even though, as Captain Lyre put it, they were a fort in mourning.
She had seen this before, and the next day, as Ottilie watched the scattered feathers and bundles of moongrass light up the funeral pyres, her heart hardened and slowed. How had the wyler got in? Captain Lyre didn’t address it. Was it because he didn’t know? Bayo said the directorate was investigating it – had they not figured it out yet? Was Captain Lyre trying to avoid arousing suspicion and fear? Ottilie wanted to do something. This was wrong. Everything about it was wrong.
A rumour spread that the directorate was conducting private interviews with the huntsmen who had been on wall watch the night of the wyler attack. The news troubled Ottilie. Why all the secrecy? Why private interviews? Did they really believe that someone knew something about how the wyler got in and had not come forward? That someone inside Fiory was responsible for the attack? She thought again of the hooded witch in the shadows. Could it be someone she knew?
Tomorrow would be their first day back at training and Ottilie welcomed it. The prospect of her schedule filling up again made her feel steadier, and with that steadiness came the return of her appetite.
Ottilie was just about to join Gully and Ned at their table for dinner when something caught her eye. In the corner by the drinks station Gracie and Maeve were arguing. It was the first time Ottilie had seen Gracie since she had left the infirmary. She looked sallow and frail. Gracie had always seemed weightless, as if she could lift her feet and drift on a breeze, but she had changed somehow, as if a light wind would not pick her up but knock her down.
Opposite Gracie, Maeve was muttering furiously, gesturing at Gracie’s bandaged arm. Gracie reached to pluck something small from Maeve’s dark mane. Maeve swatted her hand away and Ottilie thought she saw something float to the ground. Maeve snapped at Gracie and marched away. After a moment, Gracie glided after her.
Ottilie waited for a breath or two, and then walked casually over to the drinks station. Reaching for a pitcher of water, she glanced at the floor. Resting on the stone was a single pale grey feather, about the length of her little toe. So Maeve Moth had a feather in her hair? It was strange, she supposed, but it didn’t seem particularly important. She could have picked it up anywhere.
‘Can I help you?’
Gracie appeared at her side. Her pale eyes found Ottilie’s and a small, perfect smile appeared on her face. It was false – a slice of lemon stitched onto a scarecrow.
‘I’m just getting some water,’ said Ottilie, her neck stiffening.
‘Here, let me help.’ Gracie reached for the jug and Ottilie eyed her bandaged forearm. ‘Nasty,’ said Gracie.
‘Sorry?’
‘Teeth,’ Gracie said, flashing her own again. She held out a cup. Ottilie took it, her fingers brushing Gracie’s. She nearly flinched. Gracie’s skin was hot, like stone under the midday sun.
‘Enjoy,’ Gracie sang, wandering away.
Ottilie looked at the water. It seemed fine, and Gracie surely couldn’t have done anything to it with her standing right there. All the same, she wouldn’t drink it. Every instinct told her to keep her distance from Gracie Moravec. Drinking from a cup she’d offered seemed downright stupid.
7
Hooves
Ottilie, Gully and Scoot strode across the dewy field in the direction of the stables. Having reached the second half of their fledgling year, they were to begin their next phase of training. To prepare for the order trials, they would be advancing their training on foot, and learning to ride and fly. They were divided according to their experience levels, so Preddy was exempt from horseback training and Ottilie, Gully and Scoot entered the stables without him.
‘Welcome, come through, come through,’ said a lively voice beyond the gate.
The horse mistress was the only female wrangler at Fort Fiory. She was fairly tall, with wild fiery hair and a small black eyepatch covering her right eye.
‘I’m Wrangler Ritgrivvian,’ she said, ushering them into a muddy yard at the centre of the stables. Her tone was gentle, reassuring, but it was like a swaying snake or a stretching cat: Ottilie could sense her strength. ‘I like to get to know everyone by name and face.’
Her accent suggested an eastern origin. Leo’s was similar and Ottilie wondered if she was from All Kings’ Hill, like him.
Wrangler Ritgrivvian pulled a roll of parchment from her pocket. ‘When I call your name, please raise your hand.’
Calling Ottilie’s name, she paused for just a moment, her expression unreadable. Ottilie wasn’t sure she would ever get used to this sort of thing. For months she had done everything possible to avoid being noticed, and now everyone knew her name – from their elusive Cardinal Conductor down to the most reclusive of shovelies. Ottilie Colter: the unwelcome huntsman.
Wrangler Ritgrivvian didn’t waste any time. She and three stablehands moved through the group, sizing everyone up and pairing them with an appropriate steed. She chose Ottilie’s horse herself. Billow was a hulking roan stallion, so tall that their pairing seemed strange.
She approached him cautiously, remembering that horses and wingerslinks didn’t get on. Wingerslinks didn’t get on with dogs, either, and since she’d begun flying with Leo, Fiory’s shepherd pack had made their disdain for Maestro’s scent very clear. It didn’t seem to matter whether she had bathed, they could still smell him on her. Holding her hand out towards the stallion, Ottilie braced to withdraw. But if he could smell any hint of wingerslink, Billow didn’t seem to mind. His large, gentle eyes regarded Ottilie with intelligent interest as she pressed her palm to his velvety neck.
‘How many of you have been flying wingerslinks?’ said Wrangler Ritgrivvian.
Ottilie and several others raised their hands.
‘You will find that both an advantage and a disadvantage. While you have already prepared some of the muscles you will need to ride, wingerslinks and horses share little in common – your instincts may throw you off. But don’t get too frustrated. We’ll get there in the end. We always do,’ she said, bracingly.
Billow nudged Ottilie in the back with his nose. She reached around to pat him, thinking that, so far, this was at least going better than her first meeting with Maestro.
As the lesson progressed, they began to trot. Ottilie was finding it difficult to balance. This was a new sensation – wingerslinks were never bouncy. Scoot was struggling ahead of her. His bay mare kept lurching between a walk and a canter, and both rider and horse were obviously frustrated. Ottilie was just getting into the rhythm of Billow’s trot when Scoot’s horse kicked out in front of them, flinging Scoot clean off. Billow swung sideways and if Ottilie had not been so used to an animal pitching her about, she might have joined Scoot on the ground.
Wrangler Ritgrivvian hurried over, calming Scoot’s mare with a few soft words before pulling Scoot to his feet. ‘Are you all right? Branter, isn’t it?’
‘Scoot,’ he wheezed, clu
tching his side and eyeing the mare with bitter contempt. ‘I’m fine. Fit as a firedrake.’
‘You’re letting your nerves win,’ said Wrangler Ritgrivvian, looking him up and down. ‘She can feel it.’
‘I’m not nervous,’ he snapped, his eyes darting towards Ottilie.
‘You are, and with good reason,’ she snapped back. ‘She’s a big beast with a mind of her own. But you must conquer it. If you don’t relax, she won’t either.’
Scoot grumbled and wiped a glob of mud off his cheek.
‘And you, Ottilie?’ Wrangler Ritgrivvian turned to her. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ said Ottilie, her heart still beating fast.
‘You’re a natural,’ said Wrangler Ritgrivvian, with sunshine in her voice.
Ottilie glowed. She wasn’t used to compliments, certainly not from wranglers. Since her return to the Hunt, many of the wranglers passed over her in training – ignoring her completely unless her form was so poor that they could make an example of her in front of the group.
‘That’s enough for today,’ called Wrangler Ritgrivvian. She had a way of projecting her voice without raising it. Ottilie could understand why the horses liked her.
Scoot stomped his feet all the way back across the field. Ottilie knew he hated being the only one who had been unseated. She, on the other hand, was feeling brighter than she had in days. There was something about spending time with animals that made the world feel like a nicer place, if only for a little while.
She was just about to try to cheer Scoot up when Leo appeared.
‘Ott – ugh, you stink of horse!’
Ottilie elbowed him. ‘I do not.’
He sniffed in their direction. ‘You all do.’ He waved his hand at her. ‘Maestro’s going to hate that.’
‘You can’t smell anything,’ she said, rolling her eyes. ‘What do you want?’
He shrugged. ‘I just wanted to know how it went.’
‘It was good,’ said Ottilie, feeling light.
Leo narrowed his eyes. ‘Good?’
‘She was great,’ said Gully. ‘Wrangler Ritgrivvian said she’s a natural.’
‘Don’t be an idiot, Ott,’ said Leo.
She laughed. ‘What?’
‘Don’t let them see you performing in other disciplines. Do you want to be a flyer or not? Make sure you fall off a few times.’ His eyes roved over Scoot’s muddy uniform. ‘He’s got the right idea.’
Scoot looked like he was ready to hit Leo. Ottilie was surprised – that sort of comment would normally make Scoot laugh. She could imagine him claiming that he had fallen on purpose, that it was a clever ploy to ensure he stayed with the footmen.
Leo didn’t seem to care. ‘Come on,’ he said, jerking his head towards the lower grounds. ‘Let’s go see Maestro. He can show you how he feels about you riding horses.’ He marched off in the direction of the cliff stairs.
Ottilie made to farewell Gully and Scoot, but the expression on Scoot’s face locked her tongue behind her teeth.
‘You’re not going with him?’ said Scoot, his whole face taut with angry disbelief.
‘I … yes? Why not?’
‘We said we’d meet Preddy for lunch,’ said Scoot accusingly.
Gully looked uncomfortable. His eyes flicked from Scoot to Ottilie to the back of Leo’s head.
‘I’ll see him later,’ said Ottilie, feeling annoyed. Gully and Scoot were still going. Preddy wouldn’t be alone. Why shouldn’t she go and see Maestro? If truth be told, bonding with another beast had made her feel a little guilty.
There was a long, awkward pause, which was broken by Leo’s distant bark: ‘Come on, Ott!’
In that moment Ottilie wanted nothing more than to get away from Scoot. Without a word, she turned her back and jogged up to Leo. Levelling with him, she increased her pace, her jog becoming a sprint. Leo charged after her, and they raced all the way to the gate at the edge of the cliff.
8
The Pack
As the days rolled by, Scoot seemed to forget his anger. Ottilie was so glad he was behaving normally again that she didn’t raise the issue. In any event, she’d had little opportunity. With their new training arrangements, Ottilie was seeing far less of her friends. The only session they had all together was warding – and they spent the majority of that hour sitting silently with their eyes closed.
That afternoon, Gully, Preddy and Scoot were in the lower grounds for their beginners flying with Wrangler Kinney. Leo and Ned were using one of their rare afternoons off together to do some spear practice and Ottilie decided to tag along.
All three took turns sparring. Fighting each other wasn’t the point of their training, but it was fun all the same. Ottilie particularly enjoyed watching Ned beat Leo. Ned, being a footman, had much more practice with fancy spear-work than Leo did. Spears could be a bit of a nuisance on the back of a wingerslink.
Ned’s footwork was like a dance. He coiled and leapt, twirling his spear, tripping Leo off his feet and hovering the point over his heart. Leo glared at the blade. Ned laughed and flipped the spear, offering Leo the blunt end. Leo grasped it and Ned pulled him up.
‘Stop smiling, Ott. You know he went easier on you?’ said Leo, wiping the sweat from his brow.
Ottilie jumped down from her seat on the training-yard fence. ‘But I’m just learning. You’re supposed to be a champion,’ she said with a grin.
‘An injured champion,’ he muttered, playing up his limp as he moved to stand beside her. ‘Besides, Ned’s been spearing things since he was old enough to grip – if he’d started the same time as me, it’d be a different story.’
‘What do you mean, spearing things?’ said Ottilie. She didn’t know much about Ned’s history. The huntsmen didn’t tend to talk about their pasts, either because they came from unpleasant beginnings or quite the opposite. In both cases it seemed easier to choose to forget.
‘Fish,’ said Ned. ‘I’m from Sunken Sweep, in the south. My aunt taught me to spearfish when I was young.’
Ottilie couldn’t picture it. It was hard to imagine any of the huntsmen living somewhere else. ‘Can we go again, Ned? I want to try that spin thing you did.’
Ned tossed her a spear. ‘Here, I’ll show you how –’ He was interrupted by the bells. ‘Is it five already?’
‘We better hurry.’ Leo grabbed the spear out of Ottilie’s hand and jogged over to the weapons shed, his limp now magically improved.
She didn’t know what they were talking about. ‘Why? What’s happening?’
‘The meeting,’ said Ned. ‘Didn’t you get the note? They were under our doors this morning.’
Ottilie felt a familiar sinking in her chest. She knew why she hadn’t been given a note. Whoever was in charge of leaving them had undoubtedly skipped her door on purpose.
What could the meeting be about? Were they finally going to find out how the wyler had got past the walls?
They were only a few minutes late to the Moon Court. The directors, wranglers and bone singers were already there, waiting patiently as the huntsmen filed in, in varying states of grubbiness.
Ottilie hurried in with Leo and Ned. She could see Gully already seated with Preddy and Scoot. Scoot had an empty seat beside him, which she assumed was being saved for her. She moved towards it, but Dimitri Vosvolder dropped into it. Scoot glanced at Dimitri, and Ottilie was sure he would ask him to move. But Scoot looked back at her, his eyes flicking to Leo and Ned, and turned his gaze forwards.
Ottilie felt a pinch of hurt. Leo and Ned took their seats in the elite rows, and she found an empty spot nearby. Was Scoot in a bad mood again? Why did he always seem to be directing his ire at her? She blinked, clearing her head. It was probably nothing.
‘Good evening,’ said an astonishingly deep voice from the centre of the courtyard.
Ottilie looked up to see Conductor Edderfed, his flyaway white hair combed unsuccessfully over his bald crown. This was a surprise: the cardinal conductor rare
ly addressed them. Captain Lyre always did the talking.
Tension thickened the air. Ottilie was sure that none of the other fledges had ever heard him speak. He usually just sat mutely on his throne – an ornamental figure looking down his large nose. But it seemed this meeting was serious enough to warrant his address, which made Ottilie very uneasy.
‘We have called you here to discuss the worsening situation in the Narroway,’ he said, every line on his face drawing into a frown.
She thought back to when the yickers had entered the grounds. Captain Lyre had done his utmost to convince the flighty fledges that this was not usual. It had been just before their fledgling trials, in the middle of the Hunt’s attempt to bend them to the cause. Ottilie got the sense there would be none of that today.
‘Since its inception,’ continued Conductor Edderfed, ‘the Narroway Hunt has seen a steady increase in dredretch numbers. You know, also, of the damaged land in the heart of our territory, the Withering Wood. This began with a single sick philowood tree, but the sickness has been creeping out in all directions, conquering new ground.’
Ottilie hadn’t been near the Withering Wood since the day she and Leo had felled the kappabak. She liked to forget it when she could – but the thought of the sickness leaking out, ever nearer, crept into her thoughts in the night hours. They could destroy dredretches one at a time, but the withering sickness … She needed to find out more about it. Leo had suggested once that felling dredretches was the key to stopping it, but it seemed that no matter how many they dispatched, there were always more, slinking out of caves, lurking behind trees … it was endless. Someone was responsible for it – but who?
‘However,’ said Conductor Edderfed, ‘our recent tragedy, along with unfavourable reports over these past months, has led us to believe that the danger is mounting at a greater pace than we were aware.
‘We’ve had reports of stingers and spike-mites gathering in larger groups than ever recorded. A knopo troop was discovered hunting natural beasts and residing comfortably in a coastal region. Little over a month ago, a kappabak, a previously unknown dredretch of immense size, appeared for the first time, and in the last week we have had reports of wylers gathering in a large pack near the Red Canyon.’
Ottilie Colter and the Master of Monsters Page 4
