The Great Hunt Page 2

  Paxton’s ears perked. “Is she in labor?”

  “Already?” asked the barkeep.

  “Aye, she is, and it’s too early. Mum was running to their cottage to help when I left.”

  Paxton’s stomach soured. The barkeep shook his head and looked away. It was never a surprise when pregnancies failed, yet each time felt like a blow to the village. The birthrates in Lochlanach were at an all-time low—only four children under the age of five in their entire village. It was said to be that way through all of the lands of Eurona, having declined drastically in the past hundred years, though nobody could say why. Many blamed the Lashed Ones, as if it were some sort of magical curse. Paxton knew the truth, but he could not voice his theory without being seen as a Lashed sympathizer.

  At that moment the oak door to the pub flew open with a bang and Mallory’s husband ran in, his face ashen and his eyes red. People made a quick path for him as he moved to the bar, peering around frantically as if lost.

  “Mr. Sandbar,” the barkeep said. “What do you need?”

  “I . . . alcohol. To stave off infection.” He looked about wildly, shoulders stooping. “There were two. Twins . . . boys. Both gone.” The entire bar gasped as a wave of sorrow passed through the room. Mr. Sandbar lifted a shaking hand to his disheveled hair. “Mallory’s bleeding too much.”

  “Okay, man. Stay calm for her.” The barkeep filled a cup with clear liquid and thrust it forward.

  “I can’t pay you right now. I—”

  “Don’t worry about that. I know you’re good for it.”

  Before Mr. Sandbar could take the cup the door opened again and everyone went still. In the doorway stood Mr. Riverton, an ordinary-looking man in his early thirties. But to the village he wasn’t ordinary at all—he was their one and only registered Lashed. He rarely came out except to pick up a bottle of mead from the bar now and again. Paxton felt himself go tense all over as his fellow villagers glared at the man. Mr. Riverton hadn’t fared well in the last few years, but Lashed never did. They seemed to age faster than normal people, dying decades sooner than they should. It didn’t help that most couldn’t find jobs and had to support themselves on the land or starve.

  Paxton had caught his own mother sneaking food to Mr. Riverton’s lean-to porch early one morning, but he’d never told her he saw.

  Mallory’s husband began breathing fast and ragged as he took in the sight of the Lashed man.

  Mr. Riverton looked about at the staring faces, landing on Mr. Sandbar’s. “S-sorry, I was only picking something up to go . . . I’ll just . . .” His hand fumbled for the door handle to exit, but Mr. Sandbar flew across the room in a rage, brandishing a knife from his pocket that he shoved to the Lashed man’s throat, pressing him against the wall. Everyone crushed forward to see. Paxton and Tiern leaped from their stools, pushing through the crowd.

  “What did you do to her?!” Mr. Sandbar shouted.

  Mr. Riverton kept his hands up, his eyes closed. “I didn’t do anything, I swear!”

  “I saw you look at her two days ago. You stared at her stomach! What did you do?”

  “I was glad to see how well she was progressing—that’s all!”

  “Lies!” Mr. Sandbar pressed forward, denting the Lashed man’s throat, causing a trickle of blood to flow. “You’re a filthy murderer! Just like your hero, Rocato!”

  Mr. Riverton’s panicked eyes shot open. “Rocato was a madman! I’m nothing like him—”

  “More lies!” Mr. Sandbar’s shout came out a sob as tears began to seep from his angry eyes. “You took my boys, just by looking at her!”

  “Mr. Sandbar!” Paxton shouted. He grabbed the mourning man by the shoulder. “He can’t hurt her with his eyes, you know this. He has to touch with his hands to work magic, and I’m certain he’s never gotten that close. Am I right?”

  Paxton looked at Mr. Riverton, who whispered hoarsely, “I never touched her.”

  “Come on,” Paxton said. “Let’s get you back to Mallory.” He gave the man a gentle tug to pry him away from the frightened, cornered Lashed.

  Tiern, who’d had the good foresight to grab the cup of alcohol, took the hand of Mallory’s husband and pressed the cup into it. His knife arm dropped and his eyes cleared, seeming to remember why he’d come.

  “I’ll go with you,” Tiern said. He led the stricken man out of the bar.

  The people continued to glare at Mr. Riverton, who lifted a shaking hand to his bloodied neck. He took one last glance around at the hostile faces before turning and rushing out, not bothering to get what he’d come for.

  “Good riddance,” a woman whispered. “Their kind shouldn’t be allowed in here.”

  Paxton clenched his teeth as a roar of familiar anger sounded inside him. He pushed his way back through the people and slid two copper coins across the bar. “This should cover Mr. Sandbar’s bill and my drink. Keep the rest.” The barkeep nodded, pale faced, and took the payment.

  When Paxton turned to leave, the two lasses stood in his path, pretty in long braids and cotton skirts. He knew them to be sixteen, a year younger than Tiern.

  “That was generous of you to pay his debt,” one of them said, tilting her head demurely up at him. “The poor man.”

  When he looked at the girl, all he saw was future heartache and loss—the same fate that awaited all who wished to start families—not the kind of future he wanted for himself. Paxton didn’t plan to remain in Cape Creek forever.

  “Get yourselves home before nightfall,” Paxton said.

  He sidled past the girls and left the suffocating pub behind him.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

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  ..................................................................

  Chapter

  3

  Princess Aerity could not sleep past daybreak. She woke and stared from her vast arched windows at the sea and the far creek that split through thick woods at the northwest end of the gray stone castle.

  In all of her seventeen years, Aerity had never seen her father, King Charles, so focused on a foe. The entire castle was on edge. And for good reason.

  The great beast was real.

  Her cousin and dearest friend, Lady Wyneth, had seen it with her own eyes mere days ago, and the kingdom had lost one of its best and brightest naval officers. Breckon had been the pride and future of Lochlanach.

  Since that attack, the entire castle seemed to be covered in a suffocating blanket of mourning and fear.

  Her maid knocked once gently, and entered her chambers with an armful of clean laundry. The girl set Aerity’s pale dresses, petticoats, chemises, and corsets across the dressing table and began putting the items in their proper places.

  Staring back out the window, Aerity asked her maid, “Are you well this morning, Caitrin?”

  “Aye, Princess. Thank you.”

  “Any happenings during the night?” Aerity’s stomach clenched in anticipation of bad news.

  “No beast sightings, Your Highness.” Her maid hung up the last dress of light green silk, and then ran her hands down her apron. The girl’s cheeks were pink from exertion. “But there are rumors. . . .”

  Aerity raised her eyebrows. She wasn’t allowed to wander the grounds on her own since Breckon’s death, so she relied on her maid to carry news to her from the royal market, where citizens from local towns came to sell and trade their wares.

  “What sort of rumors?”

  Caitrin glanced around the room, as if making certain they were alone, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “People are saying the great beast is a monster created by the Lashed.”

  Aerity felt her brow tighten. “That’s preposterous. They can do many things, but not something of this magnitude.”

  Caitrin gave a small shrug. “Would you like a fire in the hearth, Princess?”

  “No, thank you.” It was chilly, but not cold. Her shawl was enough for now.

  “Breakfast is nearly r
eady in the informal dining room.” Her maid gave a curtsy and turned to leave.

  “Caitrin,” Aerity called, and the girl stopped. “Please don’t pay any mind to the Lashed rumors. They’re unfounded.”

  The maid gave a smile and nod before leaving her.

  Aerity sighed and leaned against the window. The Lashed were always blamed when something went awry in Lochlanach, even though it’d been more than a century since they were permitted to openly use their magic. Lashed had once been revered like royalty for the amazing things they could do with their hands. They could cure illness and heal minor wounds, even cause a living being to sleep and plants to grow or die. But Lashed Ones also had the ability to kill by paralyzing the heart.

  All it took was one wayward Lashed, the now infamous Rodolpho Rocato of the hotlands, to change all that. He’d killed the king of Kalor over a hundred years ago in an attempt to take over the kingdom. And he hadn’t been alone. A handful of power-hungry Lashed from each kingdom followed his lead, rising up and attempting to overthrow the thrones throughout Eurona.

  Aerity shivered when she thought of the old tales. It must have been a horrid time to have lived. So much war and death. Lashed from all five kingdoms, innocent or not, were rounded up and killed—men, women, and children—anyone who bore the telltale signs of magical use under their fingernails. Each time a Lashed One used their power, the magic manifested as a horizontal purple line under their nail. Like a bruise. A lashing.

  Were they capable of creating something like this? She shook her head against the notion and went to her wardrobe to retrieve a drab, gray gown. She would mourn the loss of her cousin’s fiancé until Wyneth was up and about again. Only then would Aerity don dresses in soft colors.

  Before the great beast, breakfasts in the informal dining room were warm and filled with laughter. Now, even the bright tapestries and colorful foreign rugs seemed as dull as the wooden tables. Her father sat next to her mother, Queen Leighlane, and absently stroked her hand with his thumb. Aerity recognized their lost-in-thought expressions, their plates still full. Even under duress their love was palpable.

  Aerity adored the story of her parents. As a young king, Charles ignored his adviser’s warnings and married the commoner girl he’d fallen in love with. Leighlane was the daughter of traveling acrobats who’d come to entertain the Lochlan royalty. After only a week at the castle, at the young king’s urging, Leighlane stayed behind while her parents took to the road again. Three months later they were married. The often-repeated tale of their love was a steadfast comfort.

  Since the death of Breckon, the king’s face was lined with the pain of guilt, robbing some of the confident light from his eyes. As much as her father respected his queen, he still scoffed at commoners’ superstitions. Many of them were silly, meant to frighten children into good behavior. But these recent mysterious attacks had left mutilated bodies in their wake.

  Before Breckon was killed, her father and his advisers had tried to reason these away as the attacks of a madman, or a resurgence of wild wolves that had once roamed the waterlands before being chased into the ridgelands by floods decades ago. Their explanations weren’t perfect, but the holes in their reasoning were easier to deal with than the existence of a monstrous predator.

  They’d been wrong on this one, and they had chosen to do nothing. All of the royals had had their doubts about the tales, though deep down Aerity had known something strange was happening in Lochlanach. Something that couldn’t be so easily explained away. Caitrin had appeared more shaken each morning as she relayed information to Aerity about the great beast’s attacks.

  Now there was no denying its existence.

  Soldiers and castle commanders were running about, shouting orders of a massive hunt, and a royal decree had been issued for people to remain inside with doors bolted at night.

  The princess hoped they caught and killed the great beast soon, because this was no way for anyone to live. Since Breckon had been killed three days ago, they hadn’t been allowed out of the castle, day or night, and she hadn’t seen her cousin Wyneth or her dear friend Harrison. Breckon had been buried at sea, a sailor’s ritual, with his family aboard the mourning ship.

  Aerity’s father stood and silently left the dining room with her mother at his side. Aerity shared an awkward moment of quiet glances with her aunts and uncles before they all stood to retreat to their quarters of the castle as well. It was strange not to receive a good-bye or well wish for the day from the king and queen.

  Aerity didn’t want to return to her chambers. She decided instead to visit someone in the castle she hadn’t seen in a while. Heading toward the east halls, she spun around when she heard light footsteps on the stone behind her.

  Vixie stood there, holding up her navy blue skirts, and watching her older sister with wide, hopeful eyes. Aerity sighed. Vixie’s hair was a wild state of dark-red curls. It was a sign of their mother’s preoccupied thoughts that she hadn’t insisted Vixie have her hair tamed. In Aerity’s opinion it would do well for her sister to start acting like more of a young woman and less of a child.

  “Where are you going, Aer? May I join you?” The fifteen-year-old lass sidled up to Aerity.

  “I’m visiting Mrs. Rathbrook. You’ll be bored to tears.”

  “Do you think she’ll work a bit of magic for us?”

  Aerity started forward again, and Vixie rushed to keep up. “Mrs. Rathbrook’s magic is not for your entertainment. How long has it been since you had your hair brushed?”

  Vixie frowned. “It hurts when Valora does it.” Valora was their mother’s maid, who had no patience for anyone other than the queen.

  “It’s probably time you had your own maid. Until then, you need to learn to do it yourself. I’ll send Caitrin over to teach you. She’s gentle, and she works wonders with a warm comb and touch of oil.”

  Vixie scoffed. “As if you need it.”

  True. Aerity’s hair lacked the bright curls of Vixie’s. She’d inherited her father’s straight, strawberry blond strands. She often felt left out as the only royal child without the trait. Even their younger brother, Donubhan, had a mop of glorious dark-red waves. At least she shared the same hazel eyes as her siblings and father. Her mother’s were gray and striking against her cabernet curls.

  They rounded the corner at the end of the hall and took a set of stone steps that spiraled upward to the south tower. The girls paused before the oak door. It’d been too long since Aerity visited the royal Lashed One, and the woman rarely left her chambers. Mrs. Rathbrook had healed a cut on Aerity’s finger eighteen months ago after her arrow lodged too deeply in a tree’s trunk, and she’d yanked it out in earnest. She hadn’t seen her since.

  At the top of the stairs, a tall, older officer named Vest stood at attention before the large door. Officer Vest was a retired navy guard whose sole job now was to watch over Mrs. Rathbrook. He accompanied her everywhere.

  “Good morning,” Aerity said. “We’re here to see Mrs. Rathbrook, if she’s willing.”

  The officer nodded and rapped twice on the door.

  Mrs. Rathbrook opened the door, smiling, a long gray braid lying over her shoulder. “I thought I heard voices. These ears are still good after all. Please, come in, Princesses. Seas alive, how you’ve both grown!” The woman glanced up at the guard, who gave her a nod before closing the door behind them.

  The girls entered the dim chambers, breathing in the powdery-scented incense.

  “Hello, Mrs. Rathbrook,” Aerity said.

  “Yes, hello, Mistress,” Vixie added.

  The shorter woman looked them both over, clasping her hands together. “You appear well. Are you in need of healing?”

  “No,” Aerity told her. “We’ve come to visit. I hope that’s all right. But if you’re busy—”

  “Nonsense!” The woman smiled, seeming delighted at the idea of a visit, and Aerity felt a stab of guilt that she rarely gave the healer a passing thought these days.

  Mr
s. Rathbrook led them to her seating area of old chairs and offered tea.

  “No, thank you. We’ve just come from breakfast.”

  “What brings you?” She eyed the princesses with curiosity, resting her frail, wrinkled hands in the brown skirts at her lap. Her nails were trimmed neatly, and Aerity couldn’t help but stare at her nails, which were nearly all purple. She felt no fear, but was awed nonetheless at the knowledge that those hands could kill as easily as they could heal.

  Aerity shifted. “I heard this morning of rumors . . . ridiculous rumors. I suppose it just made me wonder how you were faring. I know father’s been keeping you busy with the injured men.”

  “Ah, yes.” Mrs. Rathbrook nodded. “I’ve saved a few who made it to me in time, but not all. And some refuse my help, of course.” A shadow cast across her face. “Their poor families. I imagine these rumors you’ve heard are about the Lashed Ones, aye? Folks saying we’re responsible for this beast?”

  “I know it’s not possible—” Aerity began.

  “Perhaps not, my dear,” Mrs. Rathbrook said in an ominous voice. “But the need to place blame is human nature.”

  “But the Lashed are not evil,” Vixie said, sitting forward. “Why are people such idiots? We know your grandson saved father’s life.”

  “Vixie!” Aerity gasped with embarrassment and leveled a glare at her sister. Under her breath she ground out, “A bit of tact, please.” Mrs. Rathbrook’s grandson was not something the royal family spoke of. Vixie stared back as if to say, “What?”

  But the old woman lifted a hand. “No, dear. I don’t mind. We are safe here.”

  “Will you tell us the story?” Vixie asked eagerly.

  “Vix…” Aerity hissed. She was regretting allowing her pushy sister to come, but Mrs. Rathbrook only smiled and settled back.

  “Really, I don’t mind. As you know, when your grandfather, King Leon reigned, his closest adviser was my son-in-law, General Marsh. The general did not know he’d married a woman with Lashed blood, because my daughter was not Lashed and I was careful to never use my power. My grandson, Sean, grew up with your father. They were best friends from the time they were wee lads.” Mrs. Rathbrook’s damp eyes shone as she remembered the boys. “Your father, a prince at the time, adored running with the royal hounds. He was often scolded for letting them out of their pens to wrestle and play.” She chuckled, remembering.