Chapter 22
“As ‘spell, taboo, charm’ the word is geas, E. Irish geis, derived from the root in the verb guidh, ‘entreat’ (Old Irish guidiu, gude, guide), cognate with Gothic bidjan ‘ask,’ and English bidding, surviving in ‘the bidding prayer.’”
By afternoon, the press of the wax seal on the letter in my pocket feels like a weight that grows heavier the longer I ignore it.
The note is to The Hunter, not to me by name, not to my father.
I know what the letter means, of course.
I heard Isabeau talk to the queen, and I know her.
She wants to help. She wants the Hunter to find the monster.
As if I am not already trying, my irritation grumbles.
I need to speak to Isabeau. I am past the time when such things are needed, and as much as I dread it, I see no other option.
She is owed that much, and even if she were not, I was summoned.
There are rules about what must happen when a request is delivered to the Hunter, rules I wish I could ignore.
I walk into Rylan’s room. The room is as chaotic as Rylan can be at her worst; clothes are draped everywhere as if the wardrobe has belched a cloud of silk and linen. In the center of the fabric storm is my not-quite-mirror image.
“I’ve been summoned,” I blurt out.
“You just returned.” Rylan tosses her scarf over her shoulder, flinging the long length of blue into my face in the process. “I don’t like this! Everything feels wrong, Gab. Father’s dead. There’s a monster. I am . . . at odds.”
“I will fight the beast. You simply keep yourself and Mother safe. Promise you will not follow where I go. I didn’t say it in the woods, but if I were to lose you . . . you are half of me, Ry. Half my heart.”
“And all your reasonableness,” Rylan mutters.
“Father trained me for this. He ordered that you be spared.”
“And now we are obeying all Father’s rules? He dies, and he’s suddenly the keeper of the law?” Rylan sounds so much like Mother that I repress a smile. “I can fight. I’m almost as good with the short sword and—”
“I know. I’m the one who made sure of it. And if something were to come to the door of the Fleuriste Manor? If monster or man appears as a threat, I fully believe that you will bloody your sword and slay it.” I catch her arm before Rylan can leave. “I trust you, and I need you to protect our home.”
“Tell me who sent the summons.”
“The Duke of Maudite. She would like to speak to the Hunter about the slayings in Brimmond Wood.”
“The summons is from Isabeau? I know you were with her at the palace, but I thought it was romance. Was it this? She came to see you in the city after that, and I thought . . .”
My cheeks burn as I think about kissing the duke. “I didn’t say I was with Isa.”
Rylan gives me a look that she typically reserves for absurd statements. “I watched you leave with her. I saw her confront you after her vow. Everyone saw it.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“And everyone knew she’d seduced someone before vows,” Rylan continues, speaking over me. “She practically proposed to you at the ceremony.”
“She didn’t!” I sound shrill, perhaps because Isabeau has been blunt with me about that very thing. I don’t want to tell Rylan how much of my romance I’ve rekindled, but it’s clear I don’t need the words. “She . . . we . . . I don’t know what to do.”
Rylan stares at me, but my reflection is stern. “She still loves you.”
“I know.” My shoulders drop. “What if she thinks I’m loathsome when she learns my secret?”
“Fear is normal,” Rylan reminds me, seeing the soft parts of my heart with the sort of clarity that no one else ever has.
“Fear leads to mistakes, and mistakes lead to death,” I quote one of the many mantras Father insisted I learn and recite.
“You never could think clearly when Isabeau was involved. Some things obviously don’t change.” Rylan flounces out of the room.
My heart coils in on itself with pain for what is to come, and I wish I could speak of it.
I am grateful for the one afternoon I had with Isabeau, and I will treasure that memory when she turns me away.
In a somber mood, I walk to my room and into the dressing chamber that ought to be filled with gowns.
Those are present, too, but the far back wall of my closet slides inward when I press on a particular stone.
I open the secret doorway. I tug on trousers and soft-soled boots.
Tonight I will dress as the Hunter, not as a lady.
I will ride to see Isabeau, and she will at last know what my secret is.
I will tell her that the Hunter is a solitary fighter, aside from the soldiers I command now.
I will tell her that I understand if our trysts must end.
Blue thoughts in mind, I slip through a gap in the wall. The space is wider than I need, the original opening intended for the wider shoulders of a young man. For my father. My grandfather. My great-grandfather. His father before him.
And for a son that died.
Once, this was Father’s room. He thought this room would be for his own son, but the Countess of Fleuriste lay in a bed near death several times after the births of her twin daughters. We knew that there was a brother arriving. Several brothers.
Then he was gone.
Every time.
Mother risked death repeatedly, losing children, trying to give the Hunter the son he required.
I was what Father made do with, not the child he wanted. That thought still haunts me sometimes. I was never enough. Even in the last months, he was trying to replace me. And now I’m all that’s left.
Inside the opening in the wall, a worn stone staircase leads me in a spiraling path to my laboratory and the burning chamber.
The twisting stairs have the same worn marks as older castle staircases.
Many years of footsteps have left an impression, and as I descend, I think about the Fleuriste men who have descended these steps to reach the wide room at the base.
Swords. Poleaxes. Shields. Myriad weapons.
Some are honed, and others are broken. A few are bloodstained.
In an inset space, carved into the stone, are oak shelves.
And on those shelves are delicate glass vessels filled with poisons—or antidotes.
I gather supplies, filling a bag with several vials and adding assorted knives into the satchel that I will wear.
The next time I face the beast I will not lose. I add a bow and quiver. These weapons will not make facing Isabeau easier, but perhaps they will help her see me as I truly am—a weapon for the queen to aim.
First, I will go to Maudite Castle. I will ask questions of the dowager duchess and Isabeau. This curse of Isabeau’s leaves me with questions, and whether the revelations exonerate her mother of duplicity or confirm Isabeau’s curse as real, I will have answers.
Then I will give Isabeau my secret: I am the Hunter, and I will answer her summons. However, she is merely a duke, and she cannot join my hunt. My duty must come before all else, and worrying about the woman I love will make my work immeasurably more challenging.