Chapter 3
If Balar didn’t know better, he might’ve thought the strange maiden from the forest was trying to avoid him. He’d never seen goats jog before, but that’s most certainly what they did as the little herd passed over the boundary onto Brádaigh land.
Balar hustled to catch them up—valiantly ignoring how his head and stomach sloshed. He’d already had to retch back in the forest; he didn’t need to do it again in front of the mysterious maiden. Kud, he needed to get another good look at her. To be sure.
True, he clutched his own feather in his hand, crumpling the speckled golden barbs, which would normally be sign enough for a manticore. But last night’s alcohol still burned in his belly, and his head was still sluggishly trying to catch all of them up.
After all this time—to finally find her—like that.
Ugh, his amat had raised a better son.
What must his mysterious maiden think of him?
If he wasn’t mistaken, every time he neared her, the herd’s pace picked up. Balar would’ve put on a little more speed—he couldn’t have her thinking he was unfit—had his stomach not revolted. Before a turn in the lane, he had to concede and empty his stomach of its final contents.
Hacking and spitting, Balar cursed. Not another drop of alcohol would pass his lips—at least not until he knew everything about her.
When the nausea abated, he resumed at a more moderate pace.
Rounding the bend, he could just spot her and the herd closing in on the outbuildings that made up the rather vast complex of the Brádaigh estate.
The great house, several other homes, cottages, barracks, silos, paddocks, pens, outhouses, sheds, and barns all congregated around enormous stables.
Did she know the Brádaighs? Why hadn’t he ever seen her before if so?
Balar trudged on in search of answers.
There was a burbling stream that led into the vast irrigation network of the apple orchards, and he stopped to scoop a handful of water to rinse his mouth. Catching a glimpse of his reflection, he winced. Mane flattened and askew, feathers crooked, shirt rumpled.
He was at least in his finest tunic and leather kilt, having worn them to meet with Liege Darrow yesterday, but by now they were creased and sweat-stained. Balar’s nose wrinkled when he lifted his arm to catch a whiff of himself.
Kud, maybe she had been running from him.
Verging on grumpy now that the shock had worn off and the headache had settled in, Balar made his way into the hive of buildings.
His ears flattened to his head to muffle the noise. It seemed it was another busy day here, grooms walking horses, knights training cadets, and workers bringing in the autumn harvest. He spotted a few faces he knew, including the older Brádaigh son and younger daughters.
Heart kicking in his chest, Balar realized he’d lost sight of his mystery maiden.
Ibás, how could he lose a woman with a dozen goats? Even amongst the activity of the estate, she should stick out.
Balar tried not to pout. Now he really was starting to think she was avoiding him.
Coming to a stop in the middle of the busy central courtyard of the estate, Balar planted his fists on his hips and took his time looking about.
Squinting past his pounding head, he gulped great pulls of air to try scenting her.
It’d be too much to hope to pick her scent out of the myriad here, but goats were a pungent lot.
He was just starting to tease something promising out of the scents to the south when a hand clapped his shoulder.
“What brings you to our door with such a frown?”
Balar turned to behold Orek, the half-orc who’d first come to the Darrowlands, his fat raccoon perched on his shoulder.
Orek also wore a mild grin, although it didn’t reach his eyes.
Ever wary of possible threats to his soft human mate and her family, the man always made sure to greet otherly guests first, even years on.
Orek had said before that it wasn’t that he didn’t trust Balar and the others—it was his own inner protectiveness; a jealous beast, he called it. That instinctive need to covet and guard one’s mate.
More than once, Balar had teased Orek for it. Only the dragons and perhaps the fae coveted their mates more than orcs, and although Orek was a halfling, his orcish instincts were strong when it came to Sorcha.
Balar sometimes wondered if there’d been a time when manticores were as ferocious about their life mates.
To be sure, they could get fearsome and jealous over kigara, and there was still a sort of mysticism about the falling of a feather.
But after generations of hard living, with not enough partners to go around, mantii couldn’t become too possessive. Not if they were to survive.
His own pulsing need to catch sight of her again, though, had Balar wondering all these things again. Had necessity dulled the mate pull that so many others felt?
Balar turned his considering gaze on Orek. The unassuming halfling might pretend disinterest, but Balar knew him to be a font of information on those who lived on the estate and nearby. He might let his vivacious mate do most of the talking most of the time, but Orek was always paying attention.
“Have you seen a woman pass this way? About this tall—” Balar raised his hand to about the middle of his chest “—dark hair?”
Orek blinked, bemused, as the raccoon kneaded his hair. “That describes most of the women here, friend.”
Balar rumbled unhappily. Kud.
Grin falling away, Orek asked, “Are you all right?”
Scrubbing a paw over his face, Balar admitted, “No. It’s been…an eventful morning.” As quickly as he could, he described the previous night of merrymaking, only to fall asleep in the forest and wake up to a strange, beautiful face. He left out all the vomiting.
“Not a very good start,” Orek agreed.
Balar scowled. “I need to find her. I know she’s here. Somewhere. She and all her goats.”
“Oh, she’s the goatherd?”
His ears perked. “Yes, she was driving a herd of about a dozen goats—with a dog and a donkey.”
Orek regained his grin, nodding, and for some reason, Balar wanted to wipe it off again with his fist.
“That would be Imogen. She’s Sorcha’s friend—does work around here sometimes. I believe she and her goats are clearing the south field before seeding.”
Imogen. His heart, his soul, his smile lit up at the sound of her name. Clapping Orek’s free shoulder so hard, Darrah the raccoon chittered in alarm, Balar squeezed the other man tight.
“You know her! Excellent! Take me to her.”
Orek squinted, and Balar didn’t like that one bit.
“Why?”
Balar squinted back, resisting the urge to lift his lip to show fang. Instead, he raised his hand to show the mussed feather. “Saba em pash-ket,” he declared. “The feather has fallen.”
“Mm.” Looking between Balar and the feather, Orek said, “And this is Imogen’s fault?”
“Entirely. At least, I believe so. I must speak with her.”
“Sorcha would want me to tell you that Imogen doesn’t like people,” Orek sighed. “And I would want to tell you that she’s rather…prickly.”
“She’ll like me,” Balar said.
Orek remained unconvinced.
Growing impatient, Balar flapped his wings in agitation. “Will you show me to her or not?”
“I’m not sure I should. You chased her here, yes? Smelling like the inside of a tavern?”
Balar opened his mouth to protest but found he hadn’t a genuine rebuttal. What Orek said was true. Stepping back with a groan, Balar conceded the point.
“Very well. I’ll return home and change.”
“And bathe,” Orek coughed.
“And then I shall return.”
“She’ll probably return home by then herself. Imogen never stays the night.”
Ears pinned back, Balar felt his right eye twitch. “Then I shall present myself on her threshold. Where does she live? In Granach?”
The halfling shrugged. Shrugged. “No one knows. She has a cottage on her own bit of land, apparently, but not even Sorcha has been invited there.”
Scowling, Balar accused, “I don’t know whether you’re lying, but I do know you’re being obtuse.”
Orek raised his hands in nonconfrontation. “That’s all I know. Like I said, she doesn’t like people. She keeps to herself.”
Balar huffed. I am not people, I am mantii.
“I must know, one way or another. I will find Imogen and present her with my feather.”
Orek nodded gravely, thankfully not mocking his declaration. “I wish you luck, then, friend. I think you’ll need it.”