Chapter 25
“The Far Darrig (fear dearg), which means the Red Man, for he wears a red cap and coat, busies himself with practical joking, especially with gruesome joking.”
I ride toward the house and walk into the stable next to Imp. My sister waits there. Her gaze halts me like a weapon. “You’re alive. No blood. Mother said you went out in the night and—”
“Hush.” I hug her. “You worry like an old man, Ry.”
Her arms wrap around me like she would take my burdens. “I’m glad you didn’t die last night.”
“I need to think,” I confess to her. “Spar with me?”
Rylan is already dressed for it, arms and legs wrapped in the thick leather straps that we wear when we spar. It’s not blade proof, but with a half-dull blade, it’s enough. I wonder if I ought to reconsider. I will heal whatever injury she inflicts, but the same is not true for her.
“Wraps,” Rylan orders when she sees me hesitate. “I cannot attack you if you are unprotected.”
“Compared to me, you will be. I’m faster now,” I remind her.
“If speed was the only factor, you’d have never landed a blow on Father,” she reminds me right before she tosses leather wraps at me.
They’re odd things, looking like long, winding bandages.
As girls, we once wore them and pretended to be mummies.
Father frowned. “Mummies are dead, though. Not walking.” At the time, it seemed the silliest response in the world.
Rylan started giggling, and then Mother and I followed. Father smiled and left us to it.
Now, the memory makes me smile. “Mummies are dead,” I say lightly, catching Rylan’s eye. These are the real reasons I must succeed.
I should’ve attacked the beast, my guilt insists.
Next time. Next time I will not let fear or hope stay my sword. The geas should’ve insisted, and I cannot understand why it didn’t.
Rylan and I walk to the courtyard. Our sparring isn’t the same as polite dueling etiquette. There is no bowing, no rule other than winning. Monsters don’t follow manners, so neither the Hunter nor the Hunter-in-Training trains for polite duels.
My sister lunges at me with her sword extended just as I realize that Mother is taking coffee with Isabeau outside the manor.
The Countess of Fleuriste sits in a chair someone has carried outside, and Isabeau stands beside her.
I glance at them, seeing that Isabeau is wrapped in her houppelande.
I know she thinks it’s a ridiculous garment, but it’s one she has always liked because she hates the cold weather.
The heavy, fur-trimmed robe makes her look regal.
I pull my gaze away and try not to stare at her. I tell myself not to listen to their conversation, but I have no doubt that my mother intends for me to hear. The sound of crossed steel does little to hide their words.
“Of late, they greet the sun with weapons in hand,” the Countess of Fleuriste says mildly. “It calms Gabrielle’s moods.”
“They’re unusual ladies,” Isabeau murmurs.
“Not so different from you.” Mother pauses before adding, “You’ve grown, Your Grace. No longer the gangly child rhapsodizing over my daughter.”
“I may be less awkward, but I am still mooning, I fear,” Isabeau says softly.
I can see Mother sip her coffee silently for several moments, glancing at me with a smile that makes it clear to me that she knows I am eavesdropping.
Hunter hearing is a useful thing.
“I saw you declare interest in my daughter at the palace. I see your interest in your eyes even now,” Mother says baldly.
When Isabeau doesn’t answer, Mother continues, “I do not disapprove of you courting my child. I never did. I did not know until years later that my husband sent you away with lies when you came to court her.”
Rylan catches my shoulder with her next strike. “Eavesdropping?”
“Mother just gave Isa her blessing to court me,” I say, barely concentrating on the sword that slashes toward me. Instinct guides my body. We’ve sparred so often I think I could do it without seeing my sister. Fortunately, my father never asked me to do so.
My mother carelessly tells Isabeau, “The earl wanted her to marry a man, to bear a child, to carry on his legacy.”
“Does Rylan not have a womb for that?” Isabeau bites back.
“Both my daughters will choose their spouses,” the countess stresses.
“My apologies.” Isabeau’s voice is heavy with shame. “I simply have longed for her since . . . since I first remember. Her temper and her mind, her heart and her spirit, everything about Gabrielle is perfection.”
“Spoken like a woman in love,” the countess says plainly. “Yet I know why you come to our village, Maudite, and it was not to see my daughter. Violence brings you here.”
“Call me Isabeau, please. Not even my mother uses my title that way,” Isabeau interjects. “I would have come to see Gabrielle after I met with the Hunter.”
“Because?”
“I love her. She has my heart, and I want to make her my wife if she’ll allow me.” Isabeau’s words are so low that even with my hearing I almost miss them.
“Good. Now, let us speak of your reason for coming to Fleuriste. You seek the Hunter. Why?”
“Do you know who—”
“Of my daughters, Gabrielle is more understandable to me than Rylan. Her heart is large, and she wants to fulfill the duties that frighten her, though she denies it,” Mother continues as if the aside on Isabeau’s real reason for being in the village was never uttered.
“Gabrielle is the worst of both her parents, and the best of what Rylan pretends to be.”
Awkwardly, Isabeau says, “Could we speak more of the Hunter?”
I can hear the laughter in Mother’s voice, as if an indelicate guffaw is bubbling up. She says, “We could.”
Mother stands, and with their attention on us, I focus on the fight. Rylan laughs as I land a strike on her side. She counters, sword tip almost grazing my throat, but I step to the side. “Show-off.”
“Back at you.” Rylan lunges, bringing her pommel upward as if to strike my face.
“As if!” I move out of range.
Isabeau’s words fill me with joy as she says, “They’re both good. Gabrielle says the Hunter trained her to fight. Did he train Rylan too?”
“Gabrielle trained her sister. The Hunter endangered Rylan by refusing to teach her.”
I preen at my mother’s words. I never wanted a rift between my parents, so I kept my arguments with him to myself.
However, I argued bitterly that he was failing Rylan; he would not hear me.
The thought of not keeping his second daughter safe filled him with grief—even as training her would make her safer.
So I did it. I taught her the drills he made me do, made her read the journals, insisted she learn weapons and poisons. I wasn’t as harsh as he was with me, but she will not be defenseless if I die.
“Please understand, Your Grace. My daughters will marry whom and when they choose. They will—as you well know—choose whose beds they enter. Or which libraries they frequent with cursed dukes.”
“She chose to join me,” Isa says awkwardly. “To be clear.”
“And I hope you left her with no regrets, Your Grace. There will be no one taking their choices from them on marriage. Not on anything I can command or influence.”
Rylan and I lower our swords as Mother lifts the end of her cane and thumps it against a metal disk that hangs over the steps to the house.
The thunk of her cane against the metal makes a loud chiming noise that means all sparring comes to an instant stop.
Then the countess waves us to her before returning to the interior of the manor.
I trail behind my sister, my eyes drinking in the sight of the woman who has just announced to my mother that she loves me. Although Isabeau doesn’t realize I was listening, I know Mother. She wanted me to hear that before I make my confession.
“Lady Rylan. Lady Gabrielle.” Isabeau bows to us as we approach.
“Your Grace.” Rylan curtsies, sword still in hand. She’s glistening with a thin layer of perspiration, and I make a mental reminder to ensure we do this more often so Rylan’s tolerance for battles grows longer.
“I had no idea you were so skilled in sword, too,” Isabeau says to my sister.
“My skill is minor, Your Grace. Gab is the better swordswoman. She has to be.” Rylan points toward me, forcing Isabeau to look at me finally.
“You are remarkable,” Isabeau manages to say steadily, although her voice sounds raspy.
Rylan lowers her voice as if sharing secrets. “If you want to fight, Gab favors undercuts and middle cuts.”
Isabeau laughs.
“Few men can best her,” Rylan adds before Isabeau can refuse. “Perhaps a woman might stand a chance, and if you’re going to convince her to like you, that’s your best recourse.”
I walk away as my sister flutters her lashes and declares, “She needs someone who will stand up to her, Isabeau. The weight she carries is more than is fair. It always has been.”
I begin rotating through cuts and parries as if invisible foes are about to attack from multiple directions.
“She needs a worthy partner,” Rylan stresses. “I hope you are worthy.”
I can feel Isabeau’s gaze on me as she swears, “I would treat her well if she allowed me to marry her.”
“Interesting, Your Grace. I merely meant a partner for fencing,” Rylan says in a voice that is more laughter than words.
Then, before Isabeau can defend herself, Rylan hands over her sword.
“We use blunt blades for practice, but steel is still deadly even without sharp edges, so don’t fence like Gabri is a lady.
She’ll still break a bone or two of yours if you aren’t fast enough . . .”