by Bec McMaster
And never return.
"Yes. You should not linger here, child." Her smile slowly vanished, leaving her face stern and serious, as if she’d made some sort of decision. "The forest has granted you a stay of execution. A life for a life—"
"I took no life."
"Precisely." She seemed to grow taller, circling into the shadows of the trees. "Your heart follows the Old Ways, child. Mind you keep to them, less my mercy be not so benevolent next time. And be ready. You have two more tests to pass yet."
And then she was gone.
"For what?" I demanded. I couldn't even make out a single footprint in the snow where she'd been standing.
In the tree behind me, a crow cawed. The only other sound was the echo my voice. And the feeling something was watching me again.
Witch or not, monster or not, it was more than time to get out of here.
"And then I'm never coming back," I muttered, feeling the eerie weight of her words upon me. Destiny could take its sweet self elsewhere.
I wasn't interested.
2
I didn't know how to tell my father and sisters I'd had no luck hunting—I always brought something home with me—and the failure sat rank upon my gut.
But it turned out I had no need.
Densby was in an uproar. An enormous bonfire burned merrily in the center of the village as I slipped from the woods, and laughter echoed. Shadows reared across the walls of nearby houses, far too many to count. There were men everywhere in the early twilight, bedecked in hunting leathers and wearing vambraces with steel inserts. Not the Twilight Company, the mercenaries who roamed out of nearby Marietta, by the look of them. These men were clean-shaven and every boot I laid eyes upon gleamed.
I stowed my bow and quiver in the house, finding it empty. Whatever excitement filled the village had also drawn the attention of my sisters, and presumably my father, so I went to find them. It was rare he left home these days.
Averill leaned against the wall of the inn, her long silky dark hair bound into a plait. She watched the newcomers with jaded eyes, though her gaze lingered on the one in the red brocade, with his shining gold hair.
"Who are they?" I asked, coalescing out of the shadows.
Averill started. "Vashta's tits, could you grant me a little warning?"
"But where would the fun be in that?" I grinned.
She punched me in the arm.
Normally this would be the start of a glorious wrestling match, but I couldn't contain my curiosity. "Flaxen hair, polished steel, and... is that a velvet cloak?" My gaze caressed the handsome stranger. "Clearly from the south, and wearing a sad attempt at court attire. Looks like he came straight from some bordello."
Averill snorted. "I daresay he did, though not in the way you mean it."
"He has gemstones on his sword," I mocked, waggling my eyebrows at her. "I won't believe he's any experience with actual fighting."
"That's because he's the prince," Averill said. "He doesn't have to fight. Everyone else does it for him."
"The prince?"
The prince of Cymberlon?
"Prince Evaron," Averill replied, and I couldn't stop my jaw from dropping open. "Clearly he's wearing actual court attire, you uncouth brat. You should go and kiss his boots, and beg his forgiveness."
"I'd rather roll in Tolbert's pigsty."
The king was not a name to be revered around here. Every year the taxes went up. Too many northerners had starved so the king could fight his precious wars down south. The recent treaty with the Varian Empire had brought an end to the fighting, but I daresay it wouldn't bring a lowering of the taxes.
We were far to the north of Caskill, the capital city. Evaron was the Crown Prince, and first in line to the throne; the older brother of Prince Rygil. Rumors came out of Caskill that neither prince was cold and ruthless like their father, King Euric, but he showed little sign of dying anytime soon. Indeed, Prince Evaron had gotten in a great deal of trouble the previous summer for offering a favor to the princessa of Lydes, which lined out borders, instead of the duchess he was supposed to be marrying.
I could believe that, staring now at his pretty face.
Vashta's fires, what was he doing here?
Densby and Marietta were the last hints of civilization before one hit the great forest. There was nothing but mountains on the other side of the Gravenwold Woods, though some said the ruins of the long-shattered Empire of Velide lingered high in the mountains. Great forts lingered there in unkempt piles. They'd been overrun centuries ago, when darkness crept out of Gravenwold and slowly overtook the Empire's borders.
"If he's here, then he's bringing trouble with him," I said.
"Tolbert’s pigsty might be the only safe place," Averill said, eyeing the prince with a considering eye. "They say he’s a liking for the lasses."
"It sounds like you want to kiss something other than his boots," I suggested.
"I’d rather—"
"Aye, he's the prince," said a cold voice behind me, "and the pair of you should be showing him some respect."
A flinch of surprise ran through me. I hadn't heard anyone moving behind us, which was rare indeed. The same gifts that made the forest my home, and my body come alive there, also granted me exceptional sight and hearing.
Averill gasped, and we both spun around.
"My apologies." I bobbed a quick curtsy, grabbing Averill by the hand. "We're just a pair of wood-cutter's daughters who know no different."
The newcomer loomed over both of us, wearing a polished steel breastplate, and a red cloak rimmed with wolf’s fur. His thick brows and moustache were black, and his head shaved. He reminded me of the mercenaries who rode out of Marietta; or his eyes did, at least. There was a coldness there that made me swallow.
The man spat. "Ignorant, backwater savages." He stepped closer, one hand resting on his belt. "Perhaps one of you ought to take me round back and apologize properly. If you do a good job, then I might not tell the prince what you were saying about him."
My mouth dropped open. Did he just—?
He did.
"Now see here," I said sharply, putting both hands on my hips. I still had my knife behind my belt, and there was another one in my boot. "My sister and I shouldn’t have been speaking that way, but you cannot just… expect to blackmail either of us like that. Who do you think you are?"
"Royal Huntmaster," he said, and looked me up and down. "You think you’re some sort of boy, eh? Running around in trousers all day…."
"I was hunting," I ground out. "I can hardly wear a gown."
He stepped toward me, grinning an evil smile. "All the better to—"
A hand grabbed him and wrenched him away from me, a stranger melting out of the shadows. "Hussar, that’s enough."
The newcomer wore the scarlet cloak of the royal guard, though the hunting leathers beneath them were different to the polished breastplates the other guards wore. There was a golden laurel of thorns embossed on his right breast; a sign he belonged to the prince. His voice was a shock of roughness, something that made me shiver to hear it.
Predator, that voice said. I'd heard the same velvety growl come from a wolf's throat once.
"Get your bleedin’ hand off me, Hound," Hussar growled.
The stranger had interspersed his body between us. He was almost as tall as Hussar, with dark hair that had been cut roughly, and some sort of… gold chain around his throat. "Or you'll what?"
They stared at each for long moments.
"We're not here to cause trouble," the newcomer rasped. "And the prince will keep a tighter leash upon you than the king allows."
Hussar spat to the side, and cut me and Averill a filthy glare. "The sluts aren't worth it anyway."
With that he was gone, and I realized I was trembling a little.
In rage, perhaps.
But a little bit of that tremor belonged to fear. Here in Densby, the only time I ever worried for my safety was when the mercenaries rode through. A
clever girl made sure she was accompanied at all times, or had something sharp in her hand when they were in the village.
I hated that feeling.
"Thank you," Averill said.
The stranger turned in a flash. I stared into a shocking pair of amber eyes, the color sharply conflicting with the olive skin that surrounded them.
Both of us gasped.
He wasn't human.
"You're wolvren," I blurted.
"Clearly you have eyes," he snapped. "And for a pair of ignorant village lasses, you’ve certainly got a keen ear for court gossip."
One of my father’s trader friends kept us abreast of the goings-on of the kingdom. I’m sure the prince’s scandals were the last thing my father was interested in, but my sisters and I were far more interested in that than the latest war news.
I bristled. "I wasn’t aware it was a crime to mention his Highness."
Averill grabbed my hand and squeezed it, but the way the stranger was glaring at me…
"And for good measure," I continued, "the Crown Prince is currently in my village, so he—and his men—should expect to be the topic of conversation for the next five years at least, let alone today. I daresay we’ll be tired of hearing about him within a week."
"You’ve quite the mouth on you too, haven’t you?" He crossed his arms over his broad chest, giving me an insolent look.
Averill smiled sweetly, "I didn't know the prince needed a man like you to protect his delicate reputation. What else do you do for him?"
Attack one Bane sister, and you faced them all.
A muscle in his jaw ticked. "I serve as the prince’s personal hunting companion."
Wolvren. I was still getting over the shock of it. Wolvren were an ancient species that had been in these lands long before man fled through the northern forests from the long-dead Empire of Velides, and began to clear the lands. Somewhat akin to selkies, they could change into a wolf form when they slipped inside their wolf skin.
Capture a wolvren's skin, and you crippled him, cursing him to human form forever.
Let him get his hands on it again though, and he'd rip out your throat with his teeth.
"You’re from the west?" I asked, for the only clans I knew of who still existed freely lived in the great forests along our borders.
"South," he snapped, and it was clear he didn’t wish to discuss his heritage any further.
No wonder, with one of the king’s first acts over twenty years ago being a law that granted the right to own land to humankind only.
"Just what are you and your prince doing here?" I burst out, trying to rescue the conversation. "Are you hunting?"
If so, then why come to Densby? When the king cast his Humans Only law, he’d confiscated the forest holdings in the south where some of the wolvren clans once lived, and created a royal hunting preserve. As for the wolvren there, when they resisted, they'd ended up in chains. There was more than enough game there for any bloodthirsty royal.
"You could say that."
"But most of the game has turned deeper into the woods," I said. "The winter’s are harsher up here than in the south. You won’t find much larger game left unless you venture miles into the woods. I came home empty-handed today myself."
"You did?" Averill couldn’t quite hide her dismay.
"I’m sure we’ll find what we’re hunting for," the stranger replied. "I can track anything."
"So can I." The words were out before I could stop them.
"You?" He looked me up and down. "All those years of experience, no doubt?"
"You can’t be much older than I am," I snapped.
"I wasn’t speaking of age."
We stood toe-to-toe, and to my disappointment, he was a good four inches taller than I was. And twice as wide.
I was not going to think about those shoulders. And how well he filled out his hunting leathers.
"Casimir!"
It was the prince, his voice as finely pitched as one would expect. That voice could summon a lord to his knees, or a lady to the prince's bed. It shivered through me, and even Averill—who actually preferred women to men—blinked as if she felt it too.
"Causing trouble, are we?" The prince clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder, his manner considerably warmer than one would expect toward his wolvren servant.
Or slave.
I knew what the gold chain around his throat meant now.
"We were speaking of the hunting hereabouts," my stranger—Casimir—said, in a far milder rasp. "The girl thinks she can outhunt me."
The prince turned a considering look upon me. And smiled.
It was as though the sun suddenly rose.
A sun that thought the very idea of my expertise ludicrous.
"Cas has the finest nose I’ve ever seen," the prince said, in the sort of voice that said I should be charmed to be found lacking. "There’s nothing he can’t track."
"He’s not used to my forests," I growled. "And you’re not the predators here in Gravenwold. You have no idea what you’re facing."
"And you do?" asked the prince mildly.
"My father’s spent years teaching me the woods. I know them as well as I know my own reflection."
"Neva," Averill whispered.
"Your father’s a hunter?"
"The best." Or he had been.
"What sorts of predators reside in the woods?" Casimir broke in.
"It’s said there are monsters and witches in the woods." I faltered a little. "If you go too far inside its boundaries, then you don’t come out, so no one truly knows for certain."
"The monsters of old?" the prince asked. "Chimeras? Unicorns? Dragons and whatnot? In Caskill, there are rumors of a firebird deep in Gravenwold. Of course, we’re certain they’re just that. Rumors."
"They’re not rumors." How typical of these city-folk to doubt everything they couldn’t see with their own eyes. "I’ve seen the White Hart myself. And my father once saw the firebird burst into flames and soar off through the trees."
"He did?" the prince asked, his gaze focusing sharply upon me.
I thought of the single burning feather my father kept in a magic-sealed glass container in our cabin. It was all the firebird left behind the day he saw it, and the feather burned day and night, though it surged a hot blistering white-flame in the presence of evil.
He’d given it to my mother on their wedding day, and though it surely could have been traded for a small fortune, not a single one of us would ever dare think such a thing. I knew I’d rather starve.
"He once found—"
"That’s all well and good," Averill burst in. "But not all of us are interested in tales of hunting and monsters." She fluttered her lashes at the prince, and held out her hand. "Surely you’d prefer to dance?"
The prince’s smile wasn’t quite as bright as it had been before. "Perhaps some other time."
What, by Vashta, had gotten into my sister? Averill didn’t even care for men.
"I insist," she said flirtatiously, taking his hand and practically dragging him toward the bonfire in the middle of the village green.
I lay in bed that night, tucked in against Averill while father snored in the next room. Eloya kept her cot at the foot his bed, just in case his health worsened during the night, and I waited until her breathing began to deepen before rolling toward Averill.
"You wanted to dance? With the prince?" I asked dryly, for I’d been chewing over the earlier encounter all night.
"You weren’t paying attention to his face," she murmured, rolling onto her side so we stared at each other in the faint glimmer of moonlight. "He was far too interested in the woods and the firebird. I didn’t think it a good idea for him to know of father’s feather."
"I was about to tell them."
"I know."
I frowned. "I lost my temper."
Avie rolled her eyes. "You? Lose your temper?" She clucked her tongue. "Whoever would have thought?"
I threatened to pinch her and she laug
hed softly.
We both subsided.
"Thank you. I have to admit I wasn’t paying attention."
"Of course you weren’t," she scoffed. "You saw a pretty pair of yellow eyes and all of a sudden you weren’t thinking about whether the prince was lying to you."
"The wolvren?" Heat flamed in my cheeks. "I wasn’t— I was curious, that was all. He’s the first wolvren I’ve ever seen. And utterly aggravating."
"He’s the first wolvren I’ve ever seen too," she replied. "You didn’t see me losing my wits over him."
I held up thumb and forefinger threateningly and pinched them together.
Averill laughed. "I forgive you. Even I have to admit he’s a very well put together creature. For a man."
I’d never hear the end of this. She was right. I should have been thinking. But the second they started talking about my woods, I’d bristled up like a hedgehog. "Let’s presume you’re correct. Why would they be interested in the firebird? It’s a creature of legend, and it’s made from pure flames. It’s not as though the Crown Prince can mount its head on his wall."
"Who knows," Averill drawled. "Perhaps his highness has got a flagging staff. Some fools believe if you grind a unicorn’s horn into powder and consume it, you can restore your, uh, vitality. Maybe he needs a little fire in the old pipe."
"Sweet Vashta," I groaned. "I don’t want to know about that. Where did you even…." I stopped there. Averill knew things. She could always sense a storm on the horizon, or knew when a man or woman was bound to drop dead during the night.
"Ellie told me about it. The healer had her helping search for some mandrake in the edges of the forest." Averill gave an evil grin. "You should hear what the mayor does every full moon with it."
Clapping my hands over my ears, I glared, until it became clear she wasn’t going to say anymore.
Slowly I took them away. "I think his highness’s conquest of the princessa proves he doesn’t have any problems of that nature. No. You’re right. They’re definitely interested in the firebird. I just can’t imagine why."
Averill shuddered. "Hopefully they’ll leave in the morning, and we won’t have to see them again. Perhaps something will eat that horrible Hussar."
