The Hallowed Hunt

He did not look to see if he was obeyed, for now he was within arm’s reach of Lady Ijada. He leaned toward her, she leaned toward him...

A dark red fog seemed to come up over his brain, clouding his vision. Gripping her arms, he toppled into the stream, pulling her from her perch. Down, if he held her down... water filled his mouth. He spat, gasped, and went under again. He was blinded and tumbling. Some distant part of his mind, far, far off, was screaming at him: What are you doing, you fool! He must hold her down–

The force of the water clubbed his head into something hard, and starry green sparks overflowed the red fog. All thought fled.

SENSATION RETURNED IN PANICKED CHOKING. COLD AIR SLAPPED his face, somehow held up out of the water, and he drew enough breath to cough out both air and water. His limbs flailed, feeling desperately weak and heavy, as though trapped in oil.

'Stop fighting me!' Lady Ijada’s voice snapped in his ear. Something circling his neck tightened; he realized after a dizzy moment that it must be her arm. He must save her, drown her, save her—

She can swim. The belated realization slowed his flailing, if only in shock. Well, he could swim, too, after a fashion. He’d stayed alive through a shipwreck, once, admittedly mostly by hanging on to things that floated. The only thing floating here seemed to be Lady Ijada. Surely the weight of his blades and boots must drag them both down—his feet struck something. The current spat them into a back eddy, the river bottom flattened out, then she was dragging him up onto some welcome, blessed shore.

He twisted around out of her arm’s grip, crawling up on hands and knees over the rocks onto the moss- covered bank. Pink water flowed from his hair, growing redder. He dashed it from his eyes and blinked around. The woods here were thick and tangled. He was not sure how far downstream they had come, but the ford, the wagon, and his men were nowhere in sight. He was shivering in shock from the head blow.

She stood up, water streaming from her clothes, and staggered out of the river toward him, her hand reaching. He cried out, a wordless bellow, and recoiled, wrapping his arms around a small tree, in part to hold himself upright, in part to hold... 'Don’t touch me!'

'What? Lord Ingrey, you’re bleeding—'

'Don’t come any nearer!'

'Lord Ingrey, if you will just—'

His voice cracked. 'My wolf is trying to kill you! It is coming unbound! Stay away!'

She stopped, stared. Her hair had come partly undone, and water trickled from it in sparkling drops, plashing silently into the moss at her feet, steady and fascinating as some strange water clock.

'Three times,' he gasped hoarsely. 'That was the third time. Don’t you realize, I tried to drown you just now? It’s tried twice before. The first time I saw you, when I drew my steel, I meant to run you through on the spot. Then when we were sitting, I almost tried to strangle you.'

She was pale, thoughtful, intent. Not running away screaming. He wanted her to run, whether screaming or not made no matter to him. As long as she could outrun him...

'Run!'

Instead, maddeningly, she leaned against a tree bole and began to remove her squelching boots. It wasn’t until she had tipped out the second one that she said, 'It wasn’t your wolf.'

His head was still ringing from the blow against the boulder. By the unpleasant rumbling in his gut, he was due to vomit some river water soon. He didn’t comprehend her. 'What?'

'It wasn’t your wolf.' She set the boot down next to its mate and added in a tight, even voice, 'I can smell your wolf, in a sense. Not smell really, but I don’t know any other way to describe it.'

'It—I tried to kill you!'

'It wasn’t your wolf. It wasn’t you, either. It was the other smell. All three times.'

Now he merely stared, all words deserting him.

'Lord Ingrey—you never asked where the ghost of Boleso’s leopard went.'

It wasn’t a stare anymore, he feared. It was a gape.

'It came to me.' Her hazel eyes met his for one level, intent moment.

'I... it... excuse me,' said Ingrey hoarsely. 'I have to throw up now.'

He retreated around his too-narrow tree, for what little privacy it could render him. He wished he could say the spasm gave him a moment to gather his wits, but they seemed scattered for a mile behind him up the river valley. Drowned, they were, without benefit of wine. All of the punishment, none of the reward.

He stumbled back around the tree to find her calmly wringing out her jacket. He gave up and sat down with a thump upon a mossy log. It was damp, but he was damper, his wet leathers sliding and squeaking unpleasantly.

She looked no different, to his eye. Well, wet, yes, sodden and wild, but still caressed by the slanting light as if the sun were her lover. He saw no cat shape in her shadow. He smelled nothing but himself, a sickly mix of wet leather, oil, sweat, and horse.

'I don’t know if it was Boleso’s intent that I should have it,' she continued in that same flat tone, undaunted by the repulsive interruption. 'It came to me when I touched his dying body, looking for the key. The other animals stayed bound, and went with him. He had held them longer, or perhaps the rite hadn’t been finished. The leopard’s spirit was very frightened and frantic. It hid itself in my mind, but I could feel it.

'I did not know what to do, or what it might do. Boleso’s men were fools. I said nothing about it, and no one asked.'

'Your defense—that could be your defense!' he said in sudden eagerness. 'The leopard spirit killed the prince, in its frenzy. Not you. You were possessed by it. It was an accident.'

She blinked at him. 'No,' she said in a voice of reason, 'I just told you. The leopard did not come to me till Boleso lay dying.'

'Yes, but you could say otherwise. There is none to gainsay you.'

Her stare grew offended.

We must return to this argument, I think. Ingrey waved a weak hand. 'Well. And then... ?'

'That night, in my cell, I had vivid dreams. Warm forests, cool glens. Tumbling in golden grasses with other young cats, spotted and soft, but with sharp bites. Strange men. Nets, cages, chains, collars. A ship journey, a cart journey. More men, cruel and kind. Loneliness. There were no words in these dreams. It was all feelings, and flashes of vision, and strong smells. A torrent of smells, a new continent of odors.

'I first thought that I was going mad, but then I decided not. That closet was just like a cage, in a way; cruel and kind men brought food and cleaned it out. It was familiar. Calming.

'On the second night, I dreamed the leopard’s dreams again. But this time... ' Her voice faltered. Steadied. 'This time, there came a Presence. There was nothing to see, in that black wood, but the smells were wonderful, beyond any perfume. Every good scent of the forest and field in the fall. Apples and wine, roast meat, crisp leaves and sharp blue air. I smelled the autumn stars, and cried out for their beauty. The leopard’s spirit leapt in ecstasy, like a dog greeting its master or a cat rubbing around the skirts of its mistress. It purred, and writhed, and made eager noises.

'After that, the leopard’s ghost seemed pacified. No longer frightened or wild. It just... lies there contentedly, waiting. No, more than contentedly. Joyfully. I don’t know what it waits for.'

'A presence,' echoed Ingrey. No—she said, a Presence. 'Did a—do you think— was it a god? That came to you, there in the dark?'

Did he doubt it? Luminous, Ingrey had called her, with a perception beyond sight, however denied. And