To Carry the Horn

by Karen Myers

  “What?” George said.

  “On that night, the hounds can follow wherever they wish. Sometimes the quarry attempts to escape using a way, but that’s no barrier. Sometimes he’s already distant and a way must be used to reach him. We don’t know how it will go, but the hounds know.”

  George made a note to himself to find out more later, in detail.

  Changing the subject, he said, “I’ve asked Rhian to join us for hound walking and hunting as a junior huntsman. I want her to ride in my pocket, as we say, and learn everything she can.” Turning to her, “I’ll want to hear a quiet running commentary from you naming the hounds to me and telling me whatever else you think is useful. I’ll explain what I’m doing, and why. We don’t have time to do this the traditional way, with silent observation and long apprenticeship.”

  She nodded.

  “Do you have enough horses to use them every day for this? And that reminds me, Ives. Ifor Moel told me to use Iolo’s horses, three of them. Could someone show them to me?”

  “I’ll have Isolda do that. The gray won’t be up to your weight. Rhian, you could use that one.”

  She said, “That would give me enough.”

  “Alright, I’ll use Mosby today and tomorrow. Please ask Isolda to show me the horses as soon as she can.”

  He continued, “Now for this morning’s tasks. Where do you walk the hounds? Who comes along?”

  “We typically walk them out, on horseback, about three miles each way. We stay to the roads as much as possible and then find a field where we can take them for a drink or otherwise exercise them as a pack, before returning. We should start soon—shall I have Owen the Leash get his men together?”

  “Ah. Please explain to me what their role is. What Owen said led me to think that he’s there to protect the followers, not keep the pack together. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “What exactly is everyone afraid of with this pack? Do they actually threaten the followers?”

  “They only hunt man at the great hunt but, you know, they’re not friendly to everyone and no one wants to take a chance. There are stories…”

  “If we had more staff like Rhian and Rhys, would we be able to handle them like any other pack of hounds?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then why don’t we try to do that? Do you know anyone else who could start learning to whip-in?”

  “Would he have to be part of Gwyn’s family?”

  “I don’t care who they are, if they can handle hounds without fearing them.”

  Another knock on the open door, and Rhys stepped in.

  “Alright then, looks like everyone’s here,” George said. “Shall we get started? Wait—what will I do for a horn?”

  Ives told him, “Iolo’s horn went with him, but there’s another on the mantle.” George stuffed the small straight silver horn between the buttons of his vest until just the slightly flared bell protruded. “And there’s the horn for the great hunt,” pointing to a locked cupboard.

  “We’ll look at that later. Let’s go.”

  They went out to the yard, leaving Alun and Olwen sorting through clothing, and found that Mosby as well as the horses for Rhys and Rhian were already tacked up and waiting for them. George checked his girth and mounted up.

  Ives called to him, “Do you want the whole pack?”

  “What the hell, bring ’em all. May as well find out the worst right at the start.”

  The hounds were collected into the holding pens on either side before release into the kennel yard. George told them to pack up and Rhys helped hold them in a concentrated group along one side away from the main gate. All this took a few minutes.

  Owen’s men were visible waiting beyond the gate. Ives opened it just enough to let in a lutin mounted on a small roan horse. The two of them walked over to meet George.

  “This is Benitoe,” Ives said. “Isolda suggested him, and I sent him a message to join us. I’d like to give him this opportunity to whip-in with the hounds, if you agree.”

  “I’ll be glad to give it a try. See if you can find anyone else for me, so we can have some spares.”

  Benitoe looked to be in his late twenties. He gave a serious nod to George, then moved into place to be ready to control the pack on the side opposite Rhys.

  “All set, everyone?” He looked around. “Alright then, open the gates.”

  They walked slowly into the main yard of the manor, and Owen’s men took up position behind them. George put himself at the head of the pack with Rhian directly behind him, and Rhys and Benitoe covered the left and right flanks toward the rear. The younger hounds looked around curiously, but the hunt staff held them all together in a pack.

  They went through the gates in the curtain wall in tight order, with George muttering, “Pack up,” insistently, conscious of the many eyes upon them. So far, so good. His attention lagged for an instant, and suddenly the younger members of the pack broke free into the front grounds within the palisade to go exploring.

  “Hold up!” he roared at the hounds that remained, while the two whippers-in tore off after the miscreants. He stayed with the obedient hounds thinking dark thoughts, Rhian quiet behind him. Knowing the sinners couldn’t hear him, he tried reaching for them anyway, with his will. He found he could feel them faintly, and he called to them silently, “Pack up.” Astonished, he saw heads raise and look back at him. He did it again, and this time added the horn call. They turned and loped back, with Rhys and Benitoe behind encouraging them all the way.

  George brought his half of the pack along to meet them, and held the reunited hounds to let everyone settle back into place.

  “Let’s try this again, shall we?”

  George led them down to the main gate without further incident and Rhys directed them down the road to the right, and then up a small lane to a farm with an open field surrounded by woods, fenced for cattle. Rhys cantered ahead and opened the gate, closing it behind after everyone had passed through.

  George moved a ways into the field, gesturing to Owen to take his men off in one group along the fence. Holding the pack together, he praised them in a calm, low voice, “That’s my good hounds.” As he pointed to individuals, Rhian named them to him and he used their names as he talked to them. He tried to touch them with his mind at the same time, as he had done in the manor yard, starting to get a sense of them as individuals.

  Dando, the lead hound, was like a captain: dignified, responsible, sensible. One active larger hound, with red-tipped ears and no other markings, caught his eye. He was constantly on the move, pushing the limits. He asked Rhian to name him. “That’s Cythraul.”

  Rhys grimaced. “Watch out for Cythraul. He’s well-named ‘demon.’ Great strike hound, but not easy to work with.”

  He recognized the head bitch Rhymi, from his experiment in the kennel yard the day before. To his newly sensitive mental touch she seemed like a determined, no nonsense leader. Other personalities were starting to solidify for him as he watched the hounds interact and Rhian supplied names for him.

  “Alright, we managed to get here without losing any, which I consider an excellent first step. Let’s find out how biddable they’re going to be.”

  He told them to pack up, then led them partway down the field. He tried to keep an awareness of them behind him so that he could feel if any strayed, and that seemed to work. He felt one hound drifting before Benitoe moved his horse in to remind him to return to the pack.

  “Alright, hold up.” George came to a halt, and the pack stopped with him.

  “Pack up.” This time he moved out at a trot, and the hounds kept up. He brought them in a tight curve then stopped again, giving them more warning. They stayed together without urging from the whippers-in.

  “This is delightful,” he said to Rhian. “I could get used to this.”

  “They’re cooperating now, but it’ll be harder when they’re hunting and excited,” she said.

  “Can you sense them as i
ndividuals without looking?”

  “Yes, but then I already know them all.”

  George called out to Rhys and Benitoe, and pointed at a small spring-fed stream running down the field. “I’m going to take them for a drink.”

  This time he started at a canter, and the hounds stayed together behind him. He held them a few yards from the stream, before releasing them to drink.

  He waved Rhys and Benitoe in. “Any difficulties?”

  “Not after that first break,” Rhys said.

  George looked at Benitoe directly. “How is it for you?”

  “They treat me as a regular whipper-in, as I hoped they would.”

  “Rhys, I gather that they’re used for buck but also sometimes doe, yes? The hounds I’ve hunted have only one target, or one group of accepted targets, such as fox and coyote. All else is forbidden. I wouldn’t be able to tell them ‘fox today, coyote tomorrow’ except by bringing them someplace where there’s only fox or only coyote. How do these hounds know which game is wanted?”

  “That’s part of the huntsman’s job. I’m not sure how it’s done.”

  Rhian spoke up. “Iolo would show them what he wanted, here,” tapping her head. “I’ve felt him do it. It’s not the sight of a stag that he showed them, nor even the scent, but the feel of it. They remember buck differently from doe: different scent, different location, different excitement.”

  “And the great hunt’s quarry is more different yet?”

  “I imagine so, though I was never close enough to feel him do that.”

  “I don’t know how a deer hunt feels. How will I show the hounds what I want?”

  “I suppose you’ll have to learn like the young hounds, from example and experience.” She grinned.

  “We hunt deer tomorrow. Think you can show the hounds what’s wanted?”

  “I think so.”

  “Have you held the pack before?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Then now’s a good time to start. Try packing them up and taking them partway down the field like I did.”

  Rhian turned serious. “Pack up,” she called. The hounds who were still drinking lifted their dripping heads, and joined the others on the bank headed back to her. Rhys and Benitoe drifted back into their proper places to support her.

  She looked about to make sure she had them all. “Move out,” she told them and started at a walk, the pack following behind her.

  Next to her, George tried to sense what she was telling the pack and found he could pick up most of it. Her style was different from his own beginning fumbles, more assured and more detailed.

  When Cythraul started to follow a scent, Rhian spoke, “Cythraul, pack up.” George felt the reinforcement of a mental rebuke as well as the verbal one, directed at just the one hound and marked by his own signature, distinct from all the others.

  “Hold up,” she cried, and they stopped.

  “Alright, then,” George said. “You know, I think we may actually be able to hunt them tomorrow, as long as we’re doing it in private like this. Benitoe, I assume you don’t know the names of these hounds?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then you and I both need some quick lessons. Let’s start tonight after dinner and work through one pen per evening with Ives or one of these two,” gesturing at Rhys and Rhian. “I want us to be reasonably accurate by the end of the week. The rest of you, don’t hesitate to correct us if we get it wrong.”

  He set a test for the staff. “Rhian, take the pack to the gate and hold them there while Benitoe rides ahead to open it. I’ll take over and bring them back. Rhys, you and I will ride behind.”

  Rhian was startled. Hold the pack herself, already, and move it out?

  She nodded at the request and assumed an air of confidence. Ignoring the butterflies in her stomach, she walked her horse to the head of the pack. It would be just like a few minutes ago, and that had worked out fine.

  “Pack up,” she said, bringing them with her and away from the huntsman. When they looked back at George, she bespoke them and drew their attention back to her.

  Back and forth she led them, and then to the gate which Benitoe held for her.

  She wanted to shout—I can handle the hounds by myself. Something in the back of her mind added, well, in perfect conditions anyway.

  I don’t care, she insisted to herself. It’s a start.

  CHAPTER 14

  After the hounds returned to kennels from their walk, George joined Rhodri at the curtain wall.

  “Have they been gone long?”

  “They just left a few minutes ago. How’d it go with the hounds? I heard you provided some entertainment here, as you departed,” he said, gesturing to the grounds in front of the manor house.

  “Well, we’re learning. Other than that, it actually went much better than I expected,” George said.

  As they reached the road and turned left, they cantered to make up some of the ground, dropping back to a walk as the slope began to rise.

  “Time for my lesson,” George said. “Everyone says you’re the expert—tell me more about these ways. Who can see them?”

  Rhodri turned serious for a moment. “There are old ways that everyone knows about that many have enough skill to use. Those who can’t hire guides. Those are like public roads.”

  George nodded.

  “To use a way you must be able to ‘see’ one end, or be guided there, and you must be able to enter. Public ways, or unclaimed ones, can be entered by anyone. Private ways require permission, and that’s usually in the form of a way-token of some kind.”

  “Who makes the tokens? What can they do?”

  “A token’s made by someone who has power over the way, the lord of a place or his way-finders, if he isn’t one himself. It’s a spell tied to a small piece of wood, specific to a particular way, and it can be limited to a person, or limited to a number of uses, or limited to a period of time, or limited to just one direction, or any number of restrictions.”

  “So that’s why walking through the spot occupied by the way in the kennels didn’t cause it to open for me,” George said. “How was it I could chase that archer through the way he used? I didn’t have a token.”

  “He would have functioned as a guide, perhaps. But really I think from what Ceridwen says that you’re a way-finder yourself, like me, and it’s much harder to keep us out if we set our mind to it. It let in Gwyn, too. Maybe it recognizes more than one owner, since you penetrated it without a token. Normally a private way would be closed, and even a way-finder would need a token to penetrate an actively barred way, though he could probably detect it.”

  Rhodri raised a hand to contradict himself. “On the other hand, the way Gwyn opens for the start of the great hunt is always in the same place, but I can’t detect it the rest of the year. There’s something like that for the way Iolo uses at Nos Galan Mai for new whelps. Those ways seem to be stable but hidden, and many way-finders who don’t have our experience insist, from their books, that hidden ways can’t exist.”

  “How do you close a way?”

  “Its owner ties it to himself or to a few others and issues no other tokens.”

  “Can you shut a way held by someone else? Can you keep it from being reopened?”

  “That’s the interesting question Gwyn’s going to try to answer, I think.”

  Dozens of questions flooded into George’s mind, and he tried to sort out the most important ones.

  “Can you make a way or only find them? Is it ‘way-finder’ or ‘way-creator,’ or are they the same thing?”

  “There’s a lot of debate on this topic, complicated, as Ceridwen will tell you, by the fact that few of the adepts have been inclined to write about it in detail. There are people who claim to have created ways, but that’s hard to prove afterward and no one’s been able to demonstrate it at will before witnesses. I’ve never made one, myself, as far as I can tell, but only found existing ones that weren’t known or detected closed ones.”
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  Rhodri continued, “Now, the great hunt often uses ways that weren’t known, the hounds acting as guides, but were they there already or did something else make them? And in front of the hounds is their quarry, once he’s been identified. Can he also use ways without tokens and, if so, how does he make or find them? It’s unlikely that he just happens to stumble across them, they’re not common.”

  George’s head spun with the possibilities. “How does the great hunt get home, if they cross one or more ways? Presumably no one would have tokens.”

  “The hounds bring us all back to kennels and we must follow them. Stories are told of those left behind making their way home the long way, if at all. I’ve looked for the hounds’ ways, afterward, and not found them. I don’t know if they cease to exist, or if they’re just hidden. My personal belief is that they’re destroyed.”

  “If they’re hidden or destroyed, who are they hidden or destroyed by? Who owns them?”

  “Good question,” Rhodri said.

  Was this religious mystery or superior science? George itched to do some experiments.

  He asked, “Why was I able to detect two ways no one else knew about?”

  Deadpan, Rhodri said, “I hadn’t arrived yet.”

  George smiled. “So you can detect them, yes?”

  Rhodri closed his eyes for a moment. “I feel the one we’re approaching at Daear Llosg, but no other I didn’t already know. Show me where the other one is.”

  George repeated his mental sweep of yesterday. The small one in the woods west of the manor was still there. He pointed an arm in that direction. “There.”

  Rhodri looked again, inwardly. “I can’t feel it. How very disconcerting. Perhaps it’s another hidden way.”

  “How would the one from yesterday be different?”

  “Perhaps its use by you and Gwyn opened its ownership, in some way?”

  George stopped on the road.

  “I want to do an experiment. Come, stand with your horse along this line.” He lined up Rhodri to face the small west way. “Don’t move.”

  George walked several dozen yards up the slope along the road. He oriented Mosby on the same way.