Chapter 26
“But I never fled from danger . . . ! my sword lightened through the darkness of war. The stranger melted before me; the mighty were blasted in my presence.”
As Isabeau walks toward me, I let my gaze rake over her. Once the mere glimpse of her made me lose my words. Now, it sets fires burning in my body, especially after our intimate encounter. “Too noble to fence with me?”
“Fencing isn’t what I want most to do with you.” Isabeau prowls toward me. “I’ve been doing this since childhood. You may have bested a monster in the park and a few soldiers, but I am a duke. Trained to the sword since I could walk.”
“Same, Maudite. Same.” I let my sword point aim at the ground and wait. “You simply didn’t know.”
“Are there other things about you that I ought to know?” Isabeau unfastens her houppelande, tossing the fur-trimmed robe aside and revealing a gambeson that covers her from shoulder to the middle of her upper leg.
I swallow a wholly inappropriate thought at the glimpse of the duke’s muscular legs. I touched those, my libido murmurs appreciatively.
“Intimidated, Lady Fleuriste?”
“Assessing you.”
Isabeau pauses, sword half raised, and asks, “Share your thoughts?”
That vulnerability that leaks out sometimes makes my stomach twist oddly. “Nothing ladylike to share, Your Grace. Of that you can be certain.”
A flash of something hard comes over Isabeau’s expression. She’s clearly misunderstood. Her chin is set as she pronounces, “I assure you, Gabrielle, that I am more than adequate . . . at fencing. I did not boast untruths when last I asserted my prowess. Did I?”
“You were honest.”
Then the Duke of Maudite sets about proving her skill with a blade, attacking as if we are enemies.
After several minutes, I can say without hesitation that Isabeau is the best human fighter I’ve met.
There’s a viciousness to her, a sense that she can see my next moves before they are fully present.
Only the Hunter before me was this much of a challenge.
I find that I must focus in a way I only did when fighting Father or faeries.
Isabeau has the same look of concentration that I know I wear.
She blocks even the series of oberhau, mittelhau, mittelhau, unterhau that typically stalls casual fighters.
That’s the series I drill each day for my starting and ending stretch, so my speed with that series of cuts—from above, side, side, below—tends to be harder to block.
Not for Isabeau.
I am the first to reach a draw.
Isabeau is the next.
The more we fight, the more it’s obvious that we are well matched.
She fights as well as I did before Father’s death.
My competitive side slips then, and I let go of the restraint I use when sparring with humans.
My sword slices through the air audibly, and I let myself move at a speed that reveals that I am no longer merely human.
With the Hunter’s gifts, I am unparalleled. That truth is not arrogance; it’s simply a necessity for the Hunter. No monster is as slow as humans. So to be the one who fights them requires that there is something inside me that is not, in fact, merely human.
And she can almost keep up, a warning insists.
My Hunter’s urge wants to defeat Isabeau.
The Duke of Maudite stares at me as I step in and disarm her.
We stand chest to chest, and with a press of the blade, I force Maudite to relinquish her weapon.
“You were not disappointing, Your Grace,” I assure her, gazes locked and breaths mingling.
“Again, I find myself more than satisfied by your talents.”
I brace for the rude words about my inhuman speed, but Isabeau isn’t looking upon me as if I am an aberration. Respect glimmers in her gaze.
“You are magnificent,” Isabeau pronounces. Then, she steps back. “Still having unladylike thoughts about my ability to—”
“Your Grace. Isabeau. My thoughts were not ones of doubt.” I keep my voice pitched low as I make my confession: “It was not uncharitable thoughts that stilled my lips. I find you beautiful and talented, and I’ve wanted to spar with you since we were children.”
“Oh . . .”
“Anyone who is fool enough to look upon you with anything less than praise should hope not to meet me in the dark,” I add, hoping a lighter tone will make her smile because right now the duke looks completely dumbfounded by my words.
“You are worth more than one look, Your Grace. I was enjoying looking.”
“I thought—”
“You fight well, especially for a noble,” I add.
“You fight better than any man in the Royal Guard,” Isabeau says, sounding awed. “You . . . you are good enough to guard the queen herself. Is that your secret? Do you plan to choose a life of service? I would still want to court you.”
“No.” I stare at her, wishing briefly for another destiny, and in a guilty flicker, even wishing that this obligation fell to my sister, anything but be the Hunter. I know that I will never have the life of a normal noblewoman, but for a heartbeat, I dream.
I reach into one of my pockets. The weight of the letter I clutch in my hand seems more than mere parchment and ink should ever be able to contain. All my childhood dreams are about to die.
I hold it so Isabeau can see her own seal.
“Why do you have that?” Isabeau asks, eyes wide in panic. “Did the Hunter—”
“The village of Fleuriste is where missives are sent for the Hunter,” I say softly, my voice as gentle as if I were facing a wolf in the forest. “The Hunter is why you came to the village, was it not?”
“Yes, but—”
“It seems like such a thin ruse, one no one ought to believe . . . There is magic at play, of course, keeping mortal minds from realizing the truth.” I hold Maudite’s gaze. “The letters to the Hunter come here.”
“The Hunter is a man,” Isabeau protests. “You said he trained you, not that you—”
“He did. My father trained me because being the Hunter is a hereditary obligation, Your Grace. He did train me, not to guard the queen or to join the W?chter. He trained me to kill monsters after he died.”
“You said you knew his daughter,” she mutters.
“I do know his daughter. My sister is his daughter . . . as I am.” I fight to keep my voice steady, to not cry out that I want her to still love me.
I keep my gaze fixed solidly on Isabeau’s.
“When one Hunter dies, the gifts pass to the next. My father had no sons. He died, Isa. He died at the hand of the Beast of Brimmond, and I changed. Much like titles in the peerage, this duty is inherited. I am the H—”
“No! You cannot be.” Isabeau shakes her head, as if she rejects reality. She takes a step toward me. Her eyes are wide as she snatches the letter and starts to shred it into fine pieces that drift to our feet.
Her actions change nothing. The magic is in accepting the task, not in the parchment. Softly, I remind her, “I accepted your request, Isabeau. I am bound now by magic to hunt the beast or die trying.”
“No. No . . . you cannot . . . This cannot be.” She looks around us as if there is some escape, but this is not a physical threat, not right now. “You cannot be in danger because of my actions.”
“I am not.” I capture her hand and squeeze. “I am in danger because I was born for this duty.”
“I withdraw my request. There must be magic to stop—”
“There isn’t. There’s nothing save death that breaks a geas.
” I let her pull me into an embrace, even as I hold a sword at my side still.
“If it comforts you, know that I was already hunting the Beast of Brimmond. It killed my father. I met the creature for the third time last night. Spoke to it. It stood there with a dead deer in hand; maybe it was satisfied with its prey and so didn’t bother to take me, too.
But I saw it and spoke to it. I have been hunting it, and I have accepted your request, Your Grace. ”
“The queen can surely absolve you of this request,” Isabeau says hurriedly, still looking ill. “I don’t know why you think you are the H—”
“Hunter. That’s my secret, Isa, the one I had to tell you.
” I step out of her arms and drop my sword to the ground.
“Because I trained for this the last decade, Isabeau. Because when my father passed, I whispered the words that call the Hunter’s magic, and they worked.
I woke shivering in the night. My body has .
. . changed. The gifts that come with the title and task have come to me.
I am not this fast with the sword only because of the reasons most are.
I did not disarm the soldiers in the park idly.
I am preternaturally fast now because I am the Hunter. ”
Isabeau takes several stumbling steps away from me, staring at me in horror.
Her expression breaks my heart into tiny, sharp pieces.
The pain of her rejection drives those pieces into my chest, making each breath hurt.
But in the middle of it, I want to ease her pain.
I step forward, reaching out to her, not sure what to do with the dismay in Isabeau’s gaze.
“I refused your interest because I am the—”
“I absolve you.” Isabeau repeats frantically, “I absolve you.”
Her gaze falls upon the countess and Rylan where they now wait at the door to the house. “Lady Fleuriste! Your daughter thinks she’s the Hunter.”
“She is the Hunter, as was her father, and his father before him. My daughters do not lie, Your Grace.” Mother’s expression is gleaming with pride that warms my chilling sorrow.
“Nor do they back away from challenges. This creature will fall to her, and so will the next. So it will be until she dies as her father, and his father, and so forth have done.”
“And if she has no child to take up the task, I will take on this duty when she dies,” Rylan adds. “We are Fleuristes. We serve Alveus by safeguarding it with our blades and blood.”
“You are noblewomen,” Isabeau gasps out, as if she herself is not. She looks between us as if we are all unwell, and then without a word, she pivots and storms toward the stable.
A cry slips from my lips. Tears roll unimpeded from my eyes. All my fears about loving her came true. She has rejected me.
“She’ll come around,” Mother says, giving me the same iron-spined glance that she once gave me when Rylan and I crept into the kitchen and ate all the desserts in the middle of the night. She pronounces the words like she can bend the world to her demands. I wish I still thought she could.
“Mother . . .” I feel as if my heart is in my throat, choking me.
I thought I was ready for Isabeau’s rejection, but I feel like my heart has been cleaved in half.
Hunts before hearts. Father’s voice ripples in my memory.
Hunts before health, home, and happiness.
I try to convince myself that I can live that way, but the taste of heaven I have had was not enough.
I want more. I want Isabeau in my life forever.
Mother continues, “And whether Maudite likes it, she’s hired you to hunt this beast. You’ll hunt. You’ll succeed. And she’ll pay.” The countess shakes her head. “Your oath is sacred. You accepted the request. There’s no way to stop now. You’re oath bound. You can’t stop—even at her request.”
“I know.” I watched my father try to resist it once. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t stop pacing, couldn’t keep the mission from his lips or sword hand. “I felt it when I opened her letter and decided.”
“Whether or not Maudite agrees, you will hunt now. Magic will compel you. She sent the summons, and you accepted. There are no other choices for either of you.” Mother sighs softly and glances toward the stable. “Foolish duke, invoking a geas and then thinking a person can ignore that geas.”
I’m not sure what to say to that. I stand there, unsure whether I ought to try to comfort Isabeau or carry on with my life. I look at my mother, who taps her cane on the ground.
In a gentle voice she says, “I cried when your father told me what he was.” Mother shakes her head. “Of course, he also offered to make me his mistress to spare our children this burden, as if they would be exempt because he had a wife before me.”
I’ve never heard this story until today. “What did you do?”
“I slapped him and told him if he so much as considered looking at another woman, I’d carve his heart out with my soup spoon.” Mother preens. “We were married soon after.”
“Father was a lucky man to be loved by you,” I whisper.
“He was.” The Countess of Fleuriste nods.
“I understand your fears and hers, but perhaps you should speak to Her Grace about her fears, rather than simply speak of beasts and slaying. Sometimes loving a Hunter means accepting an inevitable fate that . . .” Her voice wavers.
“I married the man knowing he’d die before me, knowing I was sentencing a child to die—my child.
I still would not change that decision. I would not surrender one day as his wife or your mother.
This was the cost of my joy, and maybe I am selfish to have destined you to this fate, Gabrielle, but I feel no repentance for the choices I made. ”
“Nor should you.”
“Tell her that. Tell her that she can love you while you live,” Mother orders.
I glance in the direction Isabeau has gone. “I cannot be other than the Hunter. I refused to agree to court her until she knew my secret. I never meant to cause her sorrow.”
“Well, of course you didn’t.” Mother gives me an indulgent smile.
“Go talk to her, Gabrielle. You owe her that much. I will not say you must accept her as a spouse or a lover, but after you speak, if she can accept you? Why would you not? I know your heart. You look at her as I looked at your father.”
“She hasn’t departed,” Rylan adds. “She fled to the stable in worry or shock. That’s not abandoning you, so don’t give up on her. Go talk to her.”
As I stare in the direction Isabeau fled, I try to quash the flare of hope in my heart. To have a spouse who wants me, who accepts me, who loves me . . . is that possible?