“Let it out.” Marion’s voice just behind him, soothing, and Marion’s hands in the small of his back, curling comfort about his ribs. “Let it pass through. It’s strong, so you canna hold it long.”
As if her voice had been his gaze upon a jittery, spooked horse, calm feathered down his spine and he exhaled, letting it go.
“WHAT WAS it?” Rob mumbled around a thick bite of venison.
The ritual had unnerved Rob, that much was obvious. But now that the circle was finished and opened, he was even more perturbed by how people kept passing close to him, just for the chance to touch fingertips to his hair or sleeve.
He’d finally retreated to a small stand of gorse, put it to his back, and begged Marion to sit beside him. It didn’t stop them from looking, probably wouldn’t keep them from coming over by and by, but for now?
For now they’d let their young Hunter eat, and Marion could steer away the ones who were thoughtless. She had brought a manchet heaped with enough meat for both of them—there were several deer roasting on the cook-fires, taken under Adam’s rights. After all, Rob hadn’t eaten in… three days, was it?
“What was it?” he repeated. “Why won’t you tell me?”
“I was letting you eat. If you talk with your gob crammed like that, you waint have to worry at giving blessing luck to anyone. You’ll choke.”
He scowled at her, purposefully biting off a hunk of the manchet bread. “’M hungry.”
She slid gray eyes at him, then chuckled and handed him another slab of meat.
“I love you, you know,” he said, fervent, as he chewed.
“As long as I keep food in front of you,” she smirked, then sobered. “I’ve never seen it so strong as it took you. Are you all right?”
The question obviously made him uncomfortable, even coming from her. He stopped chewing, swallowed, and took a hefty swallow of the mead she’d brought. “Then you did feel it. Aye?” It was a plea more than question.
“I did. But it’s….” Marion paused, trying to come up with the proper words. “My tynged breathes diff—”
“What did you say?” It was a sharp gasp.
She blinked. “I meant the making, the spun threads of fate. Tynged. You’ve heard it before, surely—”
“He said that.” Rob lowered his voice to a bare murmur. “But it sounded different.” His eyes grew dim, then lit, and he uttered his next words, curling all sibilant and soft, “Anadlu eich tyn—”
Marion felt the power of it behind her ears even as she clapped her fingers against his mouth.
It was not so much that he’d said it, but how.
Neither did she have to tell him why he shouldn’t; his eyes had dimmed, and no doubt he’d felt the same thing she had, rising.
His eyes flitted over to the south dolman; Marion followed his gaze, saw Cernun there, watching them.
“Do you see him?” Rob breathed, and it was clear that he wasn’t just talking about Cernun.
Marion peered closer. Half shutting her eyes, she tilted her head, thought for a moment she could see something. A shadow behind the old hermit, black as starless night, with gleaming eyes. It was more a sensation, heat that flushed her cheeks and dropped down into her loins.
Taking in a deep breath, she turned away.
“Marion?”
She nodded, hazarded a glance at Rob. There was sweat on his upper lip and his breath was shallow, quick.
“He means us no harm,” Rob whispered. “But he could. He’s dangerous, I think.”
Dangerous. Aye, that and more.
“What does it mean, Marion? What I said. Tried to say?”
“It means, ‘breathe your destiny’. Somewhat. But… more.”
He bit his lip, peered at her. Marion didn’t like the trepidation in his face.
“So, Hob-Robyn! Are y’ all too jumped up to share a mead sack with the likes of me?”
Surely the mere sound of a friendly voice shouldn’t send Rob nearly to jumping out of his boots. He covered it well, however, and the familiar cheek had returned to his expression as he greeted Will Scathelock.
“That I am. So piss off.”
Will—being Will—of course did the exact opposite. He flashed a heart-stopping smile at Marion, who just as adamantly refused to stop her heart or even move over and give him room. It gave her great satisfaction to see Will’s charming façade falter, even if slightly.
Served him right, the wanker. He had every other girl falling over him and managed to scoop up what ones who were first intrigued then disappointed by Rob’s aloof indifference.
Instead, he knelt beside Rob and rallied with, “I’ll kick your arse between your ears if you’re too full of y’rself to make it to the pub tomorrow.”
“You and who else?”
Will snorted, then grinned evilly. “How about Simon?”
Rob actually flushed to the tips of his ears. Marion blinked, watched him duck his head, saw that his nape was just as red.
“M-hmm. Thought you might like that. You sure had nowt against Simon wrestling you up against the back wall last time we went to Loxley—”
“Will!” The protest was vehement, full of shut your bloody gob before I shut it for you! and a quick, panicked glance toward Marion. While Marion suddenly saw, with a twitch and a dropped-open mouth, what she surely should have seen before and somehow hadn’t.
Will’s mouth had also dropped open; his gaze flitted from Rob to Marion, then back to Rob again. “Um… sorry? I was sure she’d….” He trailed off, for the first in a long time seemed out of his depth. “Shall I wait for you, then? On the road to Loxley?”
“Aye!” Rob gritted out, slightly squeaky. “Go on!”
Will beat a hasty, subdued retreat.
Silence. Rob resumed eating, albeit with less gusto.
Marion decided, right then, to take the Hunter by His newfound horns. “Simon, is it? The fletcher’s son?”
Rob stiffened.
“He’s quite nice to look at. No wonder I couldna get him to look at me.”
Grabbing for another piece of venison, Rob took a small bite.
“He’d better be nice to you, or I’ll have his bits in my sights.”
Ah—at last. A tiny quirk was twitching at one corner of Rob’s mouth. “I’d—um—rather you leave his bits where they are.”
“All right, then. But if he breaks my little brother’s heart—”
“Honestly, Marion, it ent like that at all!” Rob protested. “I mean, I don’t love him, or anything like. He’s just—”
“Good at it?”
“Um.” The quirk became a rather goofy grin. “Very.”
Marion had to restrain herself from leaning forward and pinching his cheeks. “At least it ent Will.”
“Not likely.” A short laugh, purposefully casual. Instead it suggested that he might have hoped. Marion abruptly wanted—really, really wanted—to go hunt Charming William and give him an eyeful of her good right fist. “Anyway,” Rob continued, “Will fancies lasses.”
“I’ve noticed. Any lass, anytime, anywhere. I dinna see how you stand him for longer than you can hold your breath underwater.”
“Aw, Will ent that bad.” The sweet, slightly goofy smile was back. “I can hold my breath pretty well, y’know.”
“He’s insufferable,” she retorted.
“Not to me. Nor to you, if you’d let him. He quite fancies you, you must know.”
“He only fancies me because he’s not had me yet—”
“Yet?” Rob’s grin got bigger.
“And won’t ever, if I’ve anything—”
“Maiden. Hunter. Bendith y Mamau.” An old woman stopped by them and crouched, hands at her heart. Rob peered at her as though she might set him on fire. Marion was well used to what was expected at the rituals and reached out, returned the blessing by tracing the moon-horns on the old woman’s brow. The woman took her hand, kissed it, then gave a fleeting touch to Rob’s sleeve and departed.
“I always wondered,” Rob said, looking after her, a mix of wonder and dread in his voice, “what it would be like. To have someone look at you as though you’d hung the moon and stars. I figured that would be what it would be like to be in love. But this, it ent love—”
“Aye, ’tis,” Marion told him. “Not the same kind of love, I’ll wager, but love. It’s overwhelming, sometimes. But everyone needs something, or someone… well, to believe. To trust in.”
“So it is like, after all?”
She wished she knew, could say she’d grasped it for herself, if only to answer the troubled questions in his eyes. But she could only say what she’d seen, from others. From their parents, who loved each other so hard and fine. “I guess falling in love would mean you believed in something. And Mam and Da are worth that belief, surely; along with Cernun, they walk the Ceugant—”
“The trine of all worlds,” Rob whispered.
“Aye. And make it strong.”
He fell silent, went back to eating. He looked, suddenly, so… lost. Not that his stillness was odd. As surely as he would fling himself about with too much energy, he also could be very quiet, and patient.
Of course, he’d just gone into the Seeking. He would be floundering, surely, for the while until he had a chance to sort it out. She had done, herself.
Still, she hated to see him so somber. “Gamelyn came while you were gone.”
He looked over to her, eyebrows raised.
“He was much put out that you weren’t here, I think.”
“More like he was glad I was out of his way,” Rob snorted. “That one also fancies you.” Then, black eyes sliding her way, “D’you fancy him?”
It was Marion’s turn to smirk. “You and Mam are convinced, aren’t you?”
“Mam?”
“She’s got it in her head that I do fancy him. No question that Gamelyn’s a sweet lad, but he’s… well, he’s a lord’s son. There’d be no good future for such as me with one like that.”
“Such as you?”
“We are what we are, little brother. Mam’s right. You’ve said it yourself—he’s a noble’s son, and one day he’ll tire of us, no doubt.”
Rob frowned, looked as if he was going to speak, then took another bite of the dwindling mound of food on his manchet.
“We’re all getting to an age where we have to start making things happen,” Marion went on. “As opposed to things happening to us. If Gamelyn has to make a choice? Well, we’ve had our fun.”
Rob gave her a thoughtful look, then waved his hand, encompassing… well… everything around them. Then said, very quiet, “And what d’you think he’d make of all this, then?”
“AGAIN.”
Perhaps it was indeed true that he learned best in anger, or from pain, because Jesus wept but he felt both in full measure when his elder brother instructed him in swordplay.
Gamelyn brought up the sword—a plain learner’s instrument of black-pitted steel—and rocked, back and forth, on the balls of his feet. He and Johan were alone in the practice lobby of the weapons hall, sweating and stripped to braies. The air was torpid, heavy with the damp rain falling outside. What light there was came from the two narrow windows along the outside wall, as well as pitch torches set into sconces three strides apart, some on the wall and some free-standing. The earthen floor was smooth-swept, hard as any stone beneath their feet. Gamelyn spread his toes within the confines of his boots, trying to further read the chancy footing. It was slimy, almost, thick as the air they labored to breathe.
He hadn’t been sleeping well, either.
Not that any of that mattered. Every other day, after the chapel bell rang the end of Matins and the opening of the courtyard markets, he was to be here, learning.
“Parry forward, step and step, dedans, dehors, right-left-right, de côté,” Johan repeated, outlining their drill in broad shapes.
Gamelyn nodded.
Johan twirled his blade in a thick, noisy sculpt of air, then attacked. Sidestep, five monstrous-quick slashes, disengage. Then again: repeat steps, slashes and release, again and again like steps in a dance. Soon there was hardly a pause between, drill lengthening into a long, never-ending combination of like motions.
Gamelyn parried every blow, moves practiced, nigh effortless.
“Papa is watching, from the upper gallery,” Johan murmured. Gamelyn snuck a glance upward, saw the familiar silhouette. “Shall we show him what you have learned, petit lapin?”
It was not the worst thing Johan had ever dared to call him, but nevertheless Gamelyn felt every nerve ending on his body draw up, angry. Johan smirked as if he sensed it, and lunged forward. To the inside, to the outside, right then left and right, one to the flank.
Then one to his head, a heavy swing from Johan’s right. Gamelyn sucked in a quick, surprised breath, managed to parry the move by sheer luck.
Drill was, obviously, over.
Steel clanked, locked and slid. Johan lunged forward, raining blow after blow. Gamelyn blocked each one—it was not pretty, nor practiced, but it was effective. Unfortunately, it was also merely a defense. He couldn’t so much as gather a single blow, and Johan kept advancing, driving him backward with every third step.
Then the wall appeared, somehow, behind Gamelyn, and he had nowhere left to go. So Gamelyn lunged sideways.
Johan merely blocked him with the flat of his blade, pressed him harder against the wall. “How many times must I tell you to watch where you’re going?”
“And take my eyes off my opponent?” Gamelyn challenged. He brought his blade under and inside, locked guards with Johan’s sword and shoved. Johan gave, almost too easily, it seemed.
A blur of movement off to his right, and before Gamelyn could so much as duck, something smashed into the right side of his jaw with all the force of a charging destrier. Metal rang and flesh gave; there was the tang of copper-salt on his tongue and white-hot lanterns popped behind his eyes. Johan’s mailed fist sent Gamelyn spinning then staggering against the rough stones of the wall.
“Better still, petit lapin, to grow eyes in the back of your head.” Johan laughed, backed away with arms at his side, no more threat. Raised his voice. “Eh, Papa, this one is no goodly squire. He would do best to stay hunched over his books. Brother Gamelyn, anon, all properly draped with prayer and skirts.”
Gamelyn’s knees were wobbly; nevertheless he gave a small growl and lurched off the wall. He was stopped, not only by the shards that flared anew from his jaw and up against his temples, but the glare of flat warning that Johan leveled upon him.
Like it or not, the truth still remained: Johan was quite capable of wiping the floor with him.
The sudden movement also made Gamelyn’s stomach rebel. He bit down on his tongue, let one bloody ache sift through the other and, thankfully, overcame the sudden wish of his gorge to spill over. He hawked, felt a small, hard bit gather on his tongue, and spat. Likely part of a tooth.
Their father’s voice floated down from the window arch. “Well. He’s young yet.”
Johan reached out; Gamelyn almost flinched—almost—but kept iron about his being and let those mailed fingers brush his jaw. “Enough fuzz on this cheek to liken near a man. At his age, I’d already several sorties beneath my belt. And more than a few missing teeth.”
Gamelyn lifted his chin and glared at his brother. Johan smirked and tapped his fingers. They sent a dull throb, like the hotspot of a bee sting, up the side of Gamelyn’s face.
“You had Roberto teaching you.” Sir Ian’s voice was testy, but his next words proved it was not toward Gamelyn’s efforts. “Perhaps it is time Roberto took over Gamelyn’s education as well. You are excellent with that sword, Johan, but you are proving no teacher.”
Johan’s smirk soured, and an unbecoming flush lit him, neck to cheeks.
“See to it, Johan. And Gamelyn, you are quite ready for Roberto’s expertise. Heed him well and you’ll find yourself ready for much.”
“Yes, Papa,” Ga
melyn said, heartened by Sir Ian’s smile.
“Come to the hall later, boy. Read to me a bit.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“A storm is coming,” Sir Ian continued after a small pause. “The air is too heavy. There is a big bank of clouds gathering to the north. We need to close everything down, I think.”
“I’ll see to it, Papa.” Johan was still looking away.
“I’ve already sent Otho to do so. Finish up here, then go and make sure he’s on track. You know how he can be.”
“I know.” It was quiet.
As their father nodded and moved away, Gamelyn watched him go.
It was a mistake. Almost before he could draw another breath, Johan had grabbed him, spun him around, and slammed him back against the wall.
White-hot bits once again danced behind Gamelyn’s eyes. It was by sheer will and the dubious fortune of Johan’s grip upon him that Gamelyn kept his knees straight. When he could focus, Johan was close. Watching him.
“What did I tell you, ma petit lapin, about growing eyes in the back of your head?”
“I,” Gamelyn hissed back, “am not your ‘little rabbit’.”
“You are whatever I say you will be.” It was quiet, almost musing. “But yes, you are not so little anymore.”
Suddenly, inexplicably, Gamelyn was released. He wanted to cradle his aching jaw, but he wasn’t about to acknowledge any discomfort. Not under Johan’s critical gaze.
“Where have you been going as you ride, brother?”
Gamelyn frowned, felt a tiny thrill of apprehension beginning to nudge aside any pain. “What do you mean?”
“Brand says that you are putting wind-work on your mount. But what for? What use will you have for a horse’s endurance when you are buried in a monastery with all your books and papers?”
Apprehension was niggling its way into alarm. “I like to ride alone.”
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