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Alia raced up the stairwell, her bare feet slapping the stone stairs hard, an unwanted breeze surging up and under her only covering, a cotton blanket. Her hair was still wet, making the material cling to her clammily. Ugh. Yes, having a bathhouse located next to the stables was a stellar idea, more so on warmer nights than this though. Pity she couldn’t have lingered in the bath. But by the time she’d finished brushing down Dominio, her horse, the moon was dipping low in the sky. And all she wanted was to seek out her bed and rest her sore and weary bones.

Happily, she didn’t bump into anyone as she rounded the last bend, sprinting for her room. It had been a long night. Actually, it had been a long eight days of hunting. Keymoats were dumb creatures, but swift of foot and when spooked, had a tendency to either try to ram you with their impressive horns, scramble to the nearest high ground, or disappear into the depths of a dank cave.

Even with several of their group sprayed in musk extracted from a female keymoat, it had been a mad undignified scrabble to corner and slay nine of the creatures. One short of their goal.

But after eight days of non-stop rain, Alia had directed the hunt to head for home. They all longed to be clean, dry, and sleep in a comfortable bed. Typical of Baron Gloomenthrall to rip away that fantasy. They’d be lucky to snatch five hours of rest now that a suitor hunt had been declared.

Thankfully the support teams would already be preparing the horses and supplies. And there were many fresh riders to choose from those who had remained behind, rather than join the hunt for keymoats.

Although probably the rider most in danger of falling asleep and off their horse during tomorrow’s hunt would be her. And Grebbs and Poulth, her two diligent lieutenants, who would never dream of letting Alia hunt with a bunch of fortune seeking amateurs alone. Thank the Deities above.

Slamming into her brightly lit, warm and cosy chambers, Alia was heading for her bed at a run when a voice stopped her cold in her tracks.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Crud. “Um.”

“Come here, now. You know if you go to bed with that wet mess, it will take that much longer to deal with the snarls in the morning than it would be if you allowed me to tend to it now.”

Observing her sister’s ramrod straight back, and impatiently tapping toe, Alia considered refusing. She was just so weary. But the sight of Perri wearing an almost opaque scarf that completely covered her face had Alia obeying without protest. The veil pinned to the cap that covered the crown of Perri’s head and to the high collar of her dress (so there was no chance a stray breeze could lift the material). The dress and matching dark grey veil making Perri look like a wraith. The only colour in evidence the thick rope of plaited dark red hair that fell past her shoulder blades.

Alia had already heard from Larch in the stables that newcomers had arrived a few short hours ago, a family of five. Perri would not want to scare any small children. Yet they were alone now in Alia’s chambers and still Perri hid her face. Something must be worrying her sister.

Obediently sitting on a low stool before the fireplace, Alia allowed Perri to busy herself with the process of using a dry cloth to blot away excess moisture from her long locks.

“How were things in my absence?”

“Busy. I farewelled the Frado brothers, they found work on a cargo ship. They left with the cloth tinker. And we’ve had seven pilgrims arrive. I think we shall find places for all but one.”

“Tell me about the one.”

Alia instructed, perhaps the misfit had Perri worried.

“Wilton, though I doubt that’s his real name. He lost a hand last year, in a fight he claims. Big man. A few inches shy of your height and burly with it. He talks down to everyone, especially women. With a tendency of bullying others into completing the tasks assigned to him. He admired Otho’s hook, and frequently asks where he might get one for himself. And he’s been hanging about the combat arena, watching with avid interest. Dropping constant hints that his skills would be better used elsewhere than the kitchen or stables, if only we would grant him some combat training.”

Alia winced as Perri began to pull a comb through her now merely damp locks. This Wilton didn’t sound any different from several others who’d arrived looking for easy, and instead been set to work and told to earn their keep first. To prove that they were worthy of being here before the trainers would expend time and energy teaching them a trade or how to fight.

“What do you know about the King’s man who arrived with a retinue today?”

Ah, now they were getting to it.

“Only what Deacon was able to summarise, before his Lordship demanded my presence in the great hall to play at being the man who holds the reins of the Beast of Gloomenthrall.”

“The Great Beast of Gloomenthrall. Don’t sell yourself short.”

Perri patted her sister’s shoulder, amusement in her tone.

“And I think you tug at those reins just as much as he does. But that’s not my point. According to all the correspondence I’ve received via Magda this evening, the King’s man is here to invite one young lady to meet the Prince at the end of summer festivities held at the Golden Palace with a view to matrimony.”

“The Prince of the Realm wants to marry one of our kin?”

“Not necessarily. I understand this retinue have been travelling for several years seeking out suitable bridal candidates. They choose ten or so women each year, inviting them to attend the festivities to vie for the chance to marry the Prince. So far, no offer has been made.”

“Hah! I bet that set the feral cat amongst the Gloomenthrall furdoves.”

“You have no idea. The instructions Magda received this evening are mostly our kin withdrawing suitor names. Except for a few of the widows and older kin, who don’t believe they would be in the running.”

“Let me get this straight. Our Father has demanded a suitor hunt because he is sick and tired of feeding and housing all these mead skolling fortune hunters. Meanwhile, our female relatives are demanding that we exclude all the fortune seekers, because they would rather throw their cap into the ring in order to marry a Prince.”

Alia laughed, and then she laughed even harder, a husky grating sound that she rarely allowed herself to indulge in. Not stopping until Perri yanked the comb perhaps a little harder than necessary through another knot of curls.

“The Aunts and Great-Aunts are frantic. Weeks of their plotting and planning will be for naught. Their instructions are to ignore all the withdrawals and go ahead as planned.”

Alia’s head was beginning to ache, perhaps more so than could be contributed to Perri’s sudden not so tender ministrations. Turning on the stool, she presented her back to the low banked fire so the heat could finish drying her hair.

“You have the list of names?”

“I do. I’ve already crossed off a few, thanks to missives from Deacon and Carys, who have advised which gentleman’s conversation and actions in private have proven far from gentlemanly. And yes, I have made a second list featuring their names.”

“Then I don’t see what the problem is. There’s always high drama and tears of recrimination no matter what names are called and what the outcome of the hunt is. Tomorrow will be no different than any other suitor hunt.”

“I suspect you’re right. Did… did Deacon mention if there has been any other news?”

The tension in Perri’s normally serene tones sharp suddenly.

Ah, now Alia understood. Every fresh wave of suitors arriving brought with them new gossip and rumours. It was Deacon’s job to eavesdrop and communicate anything of interest to Alia. Standing, shaking her head, noting with satisfaction her dark golden long knot free locks were now dry, Alia could concede Perri had been correct. She would have been much more grumpy come morning if she’d had to deal with a snarled nest of knots before the sun rose.

“There hasn’t been time for a report. And now there’s the hunt first thing tomorrow. But I’ll meet with him immediately upon my return and discover if there’s anything noteworthy amongst his recent learnings.”

Perri’s shoulders visibly drooped and then tightened once more. Alia fighting the urge to touch or hug her sister in sympathy. Poor Perri, so much anger… sadness and loss. Her older sister both longed for and loathed the idea of hearing news about… him.

Unconsciously, Perri checked to ensure the edges of her veil were securely pinned before bidding Alia a goodnight. Exiting to seek out her own room and soft bed. Though given the distressed moans that often issued from Perri’s room and the almost permanent dark circles that had settled under her sister’s eyes, Alia doubted Perri’s nights were ever restful, or nightmare free.

Scars were funny things. Constant visible reminders of past events, lessons learned or failed, and people lost. Moving over to the armoire, Alia dropped the cotton wrap, pulling out a long flowing nightgown, white, simple, nothing fancy for her, given her height and the fact she might be yanked from her bed at a moment’s notice. Her reflection in the mirror catching her eye for a moment. As if by its own accord, her left hand reached up to trace the thick pink ridged scar deeply gouged into her skin. Starting at her right upper arm, arching up high across Alia’s chest, dipping higher still for a moment across her throat before dropping off abruptly to score across her left clavicle, ending finally some six inches later. It was a nasty jagged raised scar, looking like someone or something had attempted to cleave Alia’s shoulders and head from her body.

Huffing out a resigned breath, Alia tied the strings of the nightgown’s neckline tightly. Only the scar cutting across her throat visible now. Hah, visible or invisible, she reminded herself as she did almost every day, everyone had scars they were burdened with.

But it was whether you allowed those scars to burrow deeper still that was the important point. Filling your heart with rage, regret, or never ending grief. It would inevitably end up poisoning you. As was the case for Perri, who lived half a life; tending Alia and working in the Lair infirmary. Hiding behind her veils. Hardening her heart. Unwilling to move on. Forever longing and loathing the idea that in the next moment she might hear word of… him.

Then she would know, one way or the other, Perri would know finally whether he still walked this earthly plane or had gone on to the mountains of the Gods.

Heaving out a sigh, Alia punched her pillow twice and turned over, willing her restless thoughts to calm and her poor tired body to relax. Morning was coming fast. And the Beast of Gloomenthrall had a hunt to lead. It would be chaotic. The impoverished gentlemen, even those who thought they had some experience, would be greatly out of their depth in the wild woods.

There would be blood, possibly death.

But generally, not as a result of the creatures they hunted. No, the most dangerous element of the betrothal hunt were the amateur hunters. Their heads full of imagined riches. They would be fired up and scared in equal parts. Making rash decisions and gobsmackingly stupid mistakes.

If there was one thing Alia had learned from suitor hunts in the past, she, nor any of her riders, could foretell who would survive the hunt, let alone win the day. That’s why they cheated, sneaked, tricked and sabotaged every single moment from the start to the finish line.

For some reason the face of the gentleman who’d been standing in the shadows of the great hall came to mind. He’d been tall, and sturdy with it. Muscular, a man with training. Brimming with arrogance and self-confidence. His carelessly cut mane of hair burnished chestnut in colour. His face square, straight nose, and a penetrating gaze that made you feel like he knew your deepest darkest secrets. Idly, Alia wondered what colour his eyes were, it had been too dark to tell. Ruggedly handsome. A military man, given his stance and the way he observed everyone else in the great hall as if he were seeking out threats. Definitely an interesting man.

Interesting?

What a silly thought. If he was at the Keep, he was no doubt impoverished and romancing one of her half-sisters or cousins. No different from any other fortune hunter. Still, Alia couldn’t help but wonder which list his name would appear on. Would he be one of the men deemed acceptable by her Aunts, and the Great-Aunts? Or would he be on the second list? Amongst those that needed to be taught a lesson so they would leave and never darken Gloomenthrall again with their presence. Deemed unfit by her older kin or Alia’s spies.

Slumber finally beckoned, but even as Alia succumbed, that stray thought rose one more time, niggling at her. Just what colour of eyes would suit such a man? One who for some strange reason reminded her of the majestic sunlions that prowled the hills at the far west of the woods. They were arrestingly fast and deadly predators, beautiful in their own way, if one appreciated fangs and claws… which Alia did. But then she was the Beast of Gloomenthrall, she had fangs and claws of her own.

* * *

“Then his mother said that they couldn’t afford to feed four extra mouths. And with Geric only buried the day before.”

Swallowing a mouthful of warm fruit bread, Talac made a sound of what he considered to be clear disinterest. Yet that didn’t stop Petal Lerdon from continuing with her tale.

“Mother Lerdon personally supervised the packing of the girls things. Refusing them any toys. I heard her tell one of the servants to give them to her other grandchildren. And she kept anything Geric had gifted me that she deemed valuable, even taking his family ring back.”

Petal glanced down at her bare hand unconsciously for a brief moment.

Taking another big bite Talac finished off the fruit bread and started in on the beef rolls. The banquet breakfast spread was impressive, though Talac noted that not many of the suitors indulged heartily, most picking at the contents of their plates. Idiots. Hunting required stamina and fuel. Even Brandth was aware of that, Talac noting his friend shovelling down mouthfuls of egg casserole.

“Why are you telling me all this?”

Petal’s pretty blue eyes widened.

“Because Lord De’Luca mentioned how much he valued your opinion and how he thought my story displayed… fortitude and bravery, and that I was to share it with you at the soonest possible interval.”

Nodding, Talac kept eating, shooting his friend a hard look of promised retribution as Petal took up her tale once more, chronicling the trials of travelling across the Vallas Realm along with her three daughters, all under the age of five at the time. No belongings. With only a meagre stipend that barely covered their travel costs and didn’t extend to food or lodgings. Petal’s voice dropping to a mortified whisper as she confided that she’d been forced to steal leftovers from the refuse bins at the coach stops to feed her children.

“Lerdon? The shipping merchants?”

“Yes. That’s them. It was kept very hush hush, but about a decade ago the family lost three ships to pirates and two were so badly damaged by storms they had to be drydocked. They were desperate for money to fund repairs and purchase new ships. Enough so that they requested Geric, their fifth son, to travel here and win a Gloomenthrall bride and the accompanying dowry.”

“Which he did.”

Talac, despite himself, was interested now.

“Yes. He wasn’t the tallest, the strongest, or the bravest. But he was smart and surprisingly kind. We got to talking and… grew to be friends. No one was more astonished than Geric when he was amongst a group that blooded and killed a stag. He always claimed he was just in the right place at the right time.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“He’s been gone two years, it’s time to move on, for the sake of my girls if nothing else. We can’t remain dependent upon my father forever.”

“What about the annual widow’s dividend?”

Petal scoffed and then laughed merrily but not with any real amusement behind it. “Please.”

“They refuse to pay it? Perhaps they’re still suffering impoverished straits and did not wish to drag you down into their misery.”

“The Lerdons used my dowry to buy themselves four new ships. Reviving their business from near ruin. I connected them with a cousin, whose husband produces spices in the White Isles. And another sister’s husband who is located in the Halcyon Realm and owns thousands of acres of orange orchards. Within a year, both were in business with the Lerdons, profits from which enabled them to purchase five more ships over the next four years.”

“Their dismissal of you and your daughters, and failure to provide you with an annual widow’s dividend seems overly harsh then.”

Talac was forced to concede.

“Did you report the lack of dividend?”

“To whom? And who would force the Lerdon family to respect it? You know the most galling aspect? Mother Lerdon claimed that my birth, my heritage as a Gloomenthrall, lowered the tone of the family, and that she didn’t envisage ever being able to marry off any of my daughters, given their tainted blood.”

“I…”

Talac didn’t know what to say.

“Have you considered contacting your cousin in the White Isles and your sister in Halcyon to tell them of your situation, and perhaps request their husbands severe their connection? Shipping merchants are a dime a dozen, I expect they could easily shift their business to one of the Lerdon’s competitors.”

“No, I…”

A smile suddenly tilted up the edges of Petal’s pretty face, the first genuine one Talac had witnessed since she’d sat down beside him.

“It would be a petty act. Though I must admit I have gotten behind when it comes to my correspondence of late. Please excuse me. I have some letters to write.”

Talac watched Petal Lerdon hurry away, wiping his mouth, pushing his empty plate away before rising to his feet. Time to fetch his horse. The sun would be breaking the horizon within the next half hour and he was intent on being ready and waiting in the Keep’s entrance courtyard to witness the raising of the portcullis across the way and the arrival of the Beast.

Striding towards the stairs, a pretty brunette sidled up beside Talac, introducing herself as Lady Margen Dunphrey, niece of Baron Gloomenthrall, and discarded wife. Talac had barely given her a nod of acknowledgment before she launched into a story of how she came to be repudiated by her husband, and the circumstances that led her back to the Keep. The woman surprisingly fleet of foot as she kept pace with Talac down dark corridors, up stairs, and then down stairs, before they finally emerged in the Keep’s inner courtyard, where things were surprisingly quiet, only three or four servants in evidence.

“Why did you want to come out here?”

Margen interrupted her tale to enquire curiously.

“I’ll need my mount if I’m to join this morning’s hunt.”

Margen smiled, shaking her head.

“Haven’t you heard? Only Gloomenthrall hunt horses are considered suitable. You’d better pray you get a calm creature. Their bite can be quite nasty. Their kick even worse. More than one gentleman has ended up being sent to the healers before the hunt has even commenced.”

Damn. Talac headed towards the tower with the wide open arched doors, his boots sounding loud on the dry cobblestones. One small mercy, sometime during the night the rain had ceased. The sky above turning from black to a lighter grey as he emerged into the muddy front courtyard. Margen peeling off, muttering goodbye as she hurried to raise her skirts high off the ground to escape them getting dirty.

Here large numbers of servants and gentlemen loitered about in groups or singularly. The stone steps leading up to the Keep rapidly filling with Gloomenthrall females who didn’t want to get their shoes or dresses muddy. His Lordship stood amongst them, looking like a hairy bush amongst a sea of summertime flowers. The group parting for Brandth to make his way down to join Talac. His friend’s forest green hunting outfit of tunic, breeches, short cape and knee high boots both sensible and reeking of quality.

Yawning, rubbing at his eyes, Brandth surveyed Talac and then the assembled masses.

“You owe me. This is going to be nothing but a long, annoying, boring day of riding hither and yon chasing shadows.”

Brandth had no sooner finished speaking when a drum began to beat. The noise slow at first, booming, sounding loud. The beat slowly growing in speed, getting faster and faster. The portcullis across the way rolling upwards with astonishing ease as the drumbeat hit a frenzied pace and just as suddenly ceased. The silence broken by the thud of what sounded like a hundred horses racing out from the portcullis gates. The strange fortified structure spewing forth the thundering massive creatures as if they had ascended from the bowels of hell. Most of the suitors froze in place, their expressions a combination of awe and fear. More than one gentleman yelped in shock.

The spectacle not yet completed, as without warning the horses all stopped at once. Silent. Not a hoof shifting. Not a muzzle lifting. A massive wall of horseflesh now surrounding the gentlemen who had gathered for the hunt. All the servants having retreated to line the walls of the Keep at the sound of the first drumbeat.

“Well. Well.”

Brandth eyed the ring of massive animals surrounding them, whose teeth looked large and surprisingly sharp in the light of the new day as the sun finally clipped the horizon, beaming down upon them.

“Okay, I’ve changed my mind. I’m willing to concede that today will be anything but boring.”