Wicked Hunt

Chapter Six, Part I

Rafe: Warring Hearts

From his position on the balcony of the castle, the Commander watched the princess being led into the Shadow Wood by Bruce Palisade. She hesitated as he dragged her into the depths of the twisted branches. Then, they vanished into the trees.

She won't last five minutes, Rafe thought as he brought a goblet to his mouth. He didn't sip the wine, merely touched his lips to the cool liquid. He did not drink for fear of being out of control, but the other guests would make a spectacle of his sobriety. The king would see it as an insult, like Rafe was not celebrating his marriage. So, the Commander carried a little cup around with him for events like this. Most people were too drunk to notice that his wine glass was never empty.

"I'm guessing the wine's a gift from Rodantha," said a rough voice behind him. "Everyone knows the liquor in Verlic tastes like horse piss."

Rafe glanced over his shoulder. "I'll have to take your word for it," he remarked. "I can't say I've ever tasted horse piss before."

A low chuckle resonated from the person as they approached the railing of the balcony. "You're not missing much."

Finally, Rafe turned to face the person who had intruded upon his silence. He wasn't surprised to find Perry Gritt, a lord from one of the western cities, leaning against the stones. Keeping with his ridiculous image as a rugged adventurer, Gritt wore a tattered bearskin cloak with muddy boots. Hair the color of dank manure clung to a windburned forehead. The rest of his face was a worn crag that had been weathered by the elements for nearly fifty years. A pair of emerald eyes rested deeply within the mountainside, and his mouth resided crookedly at the base.

Relations with Gritt had been strained for years. Clive had long been suspicious that he'd been nursing a secret alliance with the Drake family, enemies of the crown. There was no proof that such an alliance existed, but Rafe knew that Perry Gritt was just the type of man that would be clever enough to cover his tracks. He was no fool, and the Commander hoped the man didn't attempt any political chit chat with him. Playing the part of courtier had never been Rafe's strong suit.

"Did you enjoy the ceremony?" he asked casually.

Gritt rubbed at his stubbled covered chin. "It seemed sufficient enough to serve its religious purpose," he said cryptically.

"I must confess," the Commander shifted his weight, "I'm not overly religious myself."

"Neither am I." Gritt favored him with a smirk. "No," he shifted his gaze to the forest, "men like us prefer to handle disputes with swords rather than ask some god for favor. You make your own luck, that's what I always say."

Rafe's lips tightened into a thin line, and he raised his goblet up as a toast. He was hoping Gritt would take the hint and leave, but the man remained firmly tethered to the balcony railing, his eyes still fixed on the forest. Since the conversation was not going anywhere, Rafe turned to make his exit.

"Do you suppose he's really out there?" Gritt asked absently. "The Black Stag I mean." He glanced back at Rafe and inclined his head in the direction of the forest.

Mulling over the thousands of answers he could give, Rafe followed his gaze to allow for some more time to think. "That depends," he said carefully, "on what exactly you believe in."

Gritt smirked and pointed a finger at him. "You're trying to catch me in something."

"I assure you; I'm not," Rafe said, although in all honesty, he was vaguely attempting to get a feel for Gritt's religious preference. It was rumored that some of the western lords still clung to the ancient ways, the ones that spoke of the Black Stag's malice rather than goodness. For years, Rafe had suspected that Gritt was one of these lords.

"Everyone knows the old ways are dead," Gritt said with a little too much force. Rafe didn't know if he was trying to suggest that he did not believe in the old ways or if he was wanting Rafe to know that he did.

"Does something like that ever really die, though?" Rafe asked harmlessly. "For example, in winter many trees appear to be dead, but really they are not. Then, come spring, they are born again, new and strong."

"A tree is not the only thing that can be reborn after the frost," Gritt said, a fierceness seeping into his voice. "Doesn't the stag shed its antler's every year to reveal new, unblemished horns underneath?"

"He does," Rafe agreed. Then, his eyes narrowed. "Doesn't a serpent do the same thing when it sheds its skin?"

Gritt let out a loud laugh. "You've got me there."

The noise made Rafe flinch, so caught up was he in their little cat and mouse word play. He leaned back, forcing himself to relax. Had he said too much? Was Gritt playing him? What would Christopher do in this situation? He was always so calm and easygoing. What would he say next? Luckily, Rafe was saved from attempting to speak again.

Another man made his way to Gritt's side, his bald head glimmering off the flames in the outside lanterns. He was decidedly better dressed than Gritt with black silken pants, spotless riding boots, and a grey jerkin. His neatly trimmed beard had gone grey long ago, but his face was a smooth marble floor made up of blotchy skin puckering in the cold air. Piercing gold eyes regarded Rafe curiously.

"Commander Walsh," he said as a hand was thrust forward. The other held a long-stemmed wine glass. "How different it is to see you here at the king's castle rather than atop your horse barking out orders." Hesitantly, Rafe took Donal's free hand and shook. He was another western lord, one that Clive usually had Rafe check in on when he was out patrolling with his men.

"The king's marriage isn't really something you can miss."

"No, I suppose not," Donal said thinly, "especially when you're his favorite lackey."

"Donal," Perry intervened, "is that your third glass of wine?"

"Fourth," Donal answered as he brought the cup up to his lips. Gritt shot him a barely perceptible glare. Donal swallowed thickly and licked his lips.

"The princess seemed like a lovely little creature," Gritt observed as if the exchange had not occurred. "Very spritely."

Rafe wanted to comment on Donal's foolish temperament but thought better of it at the last second. "Yes," was all he could muster to Perry's observation.

"We'll never see her again," Donal said seriously. "The Black Stag will-"

"She'll probably get lost," Gritt spoke over his companion. "The forest is so dark on a good day, and the girl seems desperately fragile."