Magic Rises (17 page)

My horse was a bay, sturdy and wide-bodied, with short shoulders and a clean head. She stepped with calm surety, picking her way up the old paved road, untroubled by smells of shapeshifters on all sides. I had a feeling I could ride her straight into the lake and she wouldn’t twitch an ear.

Shapeshifters walked and rode all around me. Desandra had her own horse. At first she wanted to walk, so I argued against her walking, and then I argued against the horse, but she dug her heels in at any suggestion of a cart. She would not be riding in a cart, and she was the daughter of an alpha, and if she didn’t get her way, she would rip out some throats. I ended up going through all of the horses available to us and picking the oldest, most docile creature I could find. Now I had a heavily pregnant woman on a horse that kept flaring her nostrils. Clearly the mare had a serious suspicion that the human riding her was really a wolf and was considering bolting for her life. Werewolf wombs had to be made of steel, because not only did Desandra not show any signs of distress, but she looked fresh as a daisy.

Andrea had chosen to ride a horse as well. Being in a saddle gave us a good field of vision, and in a pinch we could use the horses to block an incoming threat. Derek had decided to walk and some others did as well, including Curran, who was convinced that all horses secretly plotted against him. Since Andrea and I kept Desandra between us, he ended up walking on my left and slightly in front, and Lorelei chose to walk next to him.

I still couldn’t figure out how she was involved in this entire affair. As far as I could tell, she didn’t appear to have any ties to the three packs involved.

Lorelei wore a light blue blouse and jeans that hugged her butt. Her hair was down, blowing in the wind. If we were back home, someone would be nudging me by this point, because by Pack standards they were walking too close and I would be required to snarl, but we weren’t at home, and Barabas, riding on a white horse directly behind me, was quiet.

Lorelei chatted on, something about squishing grapes and making candy out of wine. Curran nodded. I caught a glimpse of his face. He was smiling. He seemed to be enjoying himself. They were walking together and I was stuck here. On my horse.

It should’ve taken more than a pretty twenty-one-year-old to unsettle me. This was a new and unwelcome development. It had to be this place. Everyone was waiting to stab us in the back, so I was probably making too much out of this. Lorelei was a kid. Legally she might have been twenty-one, but when he’d met her, he was twenty-two and she was twelve. That alone should’ve guaranteed that nothing was happening.

She was the daughter of a man Curran knew, stuck out here likely against her will, and he was being nice to her, because few people were. He and I had been through so much shit together. He loved me, I loved him, and I needed to stop measuring the distance between them and pay attention to my environment. I had a job to do.

Nobody demanded that I wear a dress for the hunt, so I wore jeans, a T-shirt, and a green men’s shirt, which I left unbuttoned and rolled up at the sleeves. I wore my belt with an array of herbs in small pouches, my leather wrist guards were full of silver needles, and I had taken both Slayer, which was on my back, and my second saber, which I wore on my hip. Anybody who had a problem with my extra hardware was welcome to make my day.

Hugh dropped back through the procession. He was riding a monster of a horse, a massive stallion, a darker bay than mine, with a white blaze on his forehead and white feathered stockings. There were shades of Shire horse there, and Clydesdale, but the lines were cleaner and the chest was more developed. It was the kind of stallion a knight would ride into war.

Hugh drew even with us. He wore a long black coat, the same as Hibla’s werejackals. Belted and tapered at the sides, with bandoliers filled with bullets across the chest, the coat made his shoulders wider, his waist slimmer, and his body taller. He seemed to loom rather than ride. Since he pretended to be the lord of the castle, he’d probably decided to dress the part. No dagger, though. Instead he had a full-length sword in a scabbard. I could only see the hilt, simple functional leather with a cross-guard.

Andrea moved aside to let him ride next to Desandra.

Hugh bent forward, concern on his face. “How are you feeling today?”

Desandra sat straighter. It was like she couldn’t help herself. Anything male instantly made her come to attention. And Hugh was handsome, in an aggressive masculine way: blue eyes, dark hair, and a clean-shaven square jaw so solid that thinking about punching it made me wince. He was surrounded by people who turned into nature’s best equivalent of intelligent spree killers, but he was completely undisturbed by it, as if he knew with one hundred percent certainty that if all of us ganged up on him, he could handle it.

Curran had a feral edge. You sensed instinctively that he was never too far from violence. It simmered under his skin, and when he wanted to intimidate you, he looked at you like you were prey. But Hugh was steady as a rock. He would laugh, in a good-natured easy way, and lop your head off.

“I’m fine,” Desandra said. “Thank you for asking.”

“Let me know if the ride gets too rough. One word and I’ll turn this parade around.” He winked at her.

Desandra giggled.

What are you planning, Hugh? What’s the deal?

“I’m very sorry about yesterday,” Hugh said. “My people are investigating the matter. We will find whoever sent that sonovabitch.”

“I’m sure you will.” Desandra smiled.

I’m sure he won’t.

“We’ll do our best to guarantee your safety.”

I think I just threw up a little in my mouth.
“According to the pack contract, we are the ones guaranteeing her safety. You are”—
dragging
—“encouraging her to exert herself on this hunt.”

“I love hunts,” Desandra squeezed through her teeth, and gave me a pointed look.

“There is very little risk,” Hugh said. “Nobody would try anything with all of us out here.”

“She’s eight months pregnant.” What the hell was the rationale behind pulling her out of the castle anyway?

Hugh grinned at me, displaying even, white teeth. “You have to stop measuring a shapeshifter by human standards.”

“I’m perfectly fine,” Desandra said.

Oh, you idiot.
“If the mare throws you . . .”

“That’s why you’ve brought a medmage,” Hugh said, nodding toward the back, where Doolittle rode on a chestnut. “He seems very capable.”

Curran turned and was looking at us with that stonewall Beast Lord expression of his.

“Well, I shall leave you to the skilled hands of your guards,” Hugh said. “Someone has to lead this expedition, or we may end up in some wilderness and have to steal sheep for dinner.”

Desandra giggled again.

Hugh clicked his tongue, and the stallion smoothly carried him to the front of our parade.

“What’s your problem?” Desandra stared at me.

I leaned to her and kept my voice quiet. “That man is dangerous.” And if someone had asked me six months ago what would happen if the two of us met, I would’ve said that Hugh would attack me on sight. Instead we were now riding on a hunt, exchanging barbed pleasantries.

“He’s a human,” Desandra sneered. “I can rip out his throat with one bite.”

And we were back to ripping throats. I thought of telling her that I was a human and in a throat-ripping contest between us, she’d come in dead last, but people were listening to us. Besides, threatening the body you were guarding was never a good idea. She would resent me, and without her cooperation keeping her breathing would be much harder.

“Not all humans are the same,” Andrea said.

If Desandra thought she could fight off the preceptor of the Iron Dogs, she would be in for a rude awakening. Hugh would end her with one cut, carve his way through all of her relatives and husbands, and then celebrate with a nice bottle of local wine.

* * *

The road climbed higher and higher until we finally came to a clearing lined with huge slabs of gray stone. Tucked against the sheer cliff of a mountain, the clearing fanned out in a rough trapezoid shape, with the narrow side facing the mountain. A corral built with rough timbers was set directly against the mountain. Below us woods stretched, green and lush, climbing up and down mountain curves as far as we could see.

Three stone thrones stood at the edge of the clearing, chiseled from rock with rough strokes smoothed by centuries of rains. The middle throne towered, huge, as if made for a giant, and the other two were smaller. They felt ancient, just like the stone slabs under our feet. This was an old place, permeated with age. Centuries ago some kind of king must’ve sat here, on the stone throne, surveying the mountains.

Hibla’s djigits dismounted and came for our horses. They led them to the enclosure by the mountain and tethered their feet.

Hugh sat on the throne.
Oh, spare me . . .

“Ladies and gentlemen. The forests you see before you are rich with game. They’re teeming with red deer, tur—the king of mountain antelopes—gazelles, mouflon or wild sheep, and wild goats.”

He clearly had experience with public speaking. His voice resonated through the clearing, loud enough to be heard by everyone but still friendly and perfectly understandable. He must’ve given speeches to his troops.
“Tonight we rape, kill, and plunder . . .”

“In these mountains we have a fine tradition of the summer hunt. The rules are simple: Teams of hunters depart in the morning and return by the end of the day. Their game is examined and judged. Only mature animals may be hunted. Those who kill juveniles or females with young will find themselves and their team disqualified. The team that wins the hunt wins the prize from the lord of the castle.”

Oh boy, oh boy.

Two djigits brought out a rectangular frame covered with indigo fabric.

“We are standing within the boundaries of ancient Colchis,” Hugh continued. “This is the cradle of Georgia itself. Long before the Common Era, a kingdom of warriors and poets flourished here. While inhabitants of Europe still struggled with crude implements of bronze, the sorcerer-smiths of Colchis mastered iron and gold. Today we pay tribute to their past glory.”

Hibla stepped to the fabric and pulled it off with a flick of her hand.

Gold shone, glowing in the bright sunlight. People around me sucked in a breath. The pelt of a ram was stretched on the frame. Each individual six-inch-long hair of its dense wool shimmered with radiant yellow gold. Wow.

“I give you the Golden Fleece!” Hugh proclaimed.

Applause rippled through the clearing. Someone howled, excited.

“Like Jason’s Argonauts, who came here seeking Colchis riches, all of you traveled here. But the riches you sought are of a different kind, the riches of wisdom and friendship. This is our gift to you. It is twelve o’clock now. You have three hours. Prove that you are the superior hunters. Prove your bravery and your skill. Hunt now and the pack that brings the best game for our feast tonight will earn bragging rights and the Golden Fleece.”

The clearing shook as a hundred people cheered in unison. Excitement charged the air. They were a hair away from going furry. The prospect of a hunt after being cooped up in the castle pushed the shapeshifters into overdrive.

“And there is a second, more humble, but perhaps more useful prize.”

Hibla raised a glass container. It held a plastic bag with a quart of the brownish paste in it. Panacea.

“It will be awarded to the shapeshifter who brings in the best kill.”

Andrea’s eyes lit up. She elbowed Raphael.

“Before I forget!” Hugh boomed. “Look to your left. You see that narrow pass between two mountains. Stay away from the pass. The creatures who live there do not welcome intruders. My people will go with yours as observers to ensure that you obey the rules of the hunt. Good luck to all!”

“The Golden Fleece will belong to Obluda!” Jarek Kral roared.

Desandra yanked her dress over her head.

“No!” I barked.

“I’m hunting,” Desandra said.

“What will happen to the children when you change shape?”

“They will change shape as well,” Lorelei told me with a small smile. “It’s very common for shapeshifter women to change shape while pregnant. It relieves the stress on the spine. I’m surprised you don’t know this.”

I turned, looking for Doolittle. “Is this true?”

Doolittle nodded. “As long as she doesn’t stay in the animal shape longer than a few hours and doesn’t attempt a half-form, she shouldn’t have an issue.”

There was no way in hell I could keep up with a wolf. I turned to Curran.

“It will be fine,” he said. “We’ll take care of her.”

What?
“I thought you’d have my back on this.”

“I do.”

“The human is too scared to stay behind alone.” Renok, Jarek Kral’s second-in-command, grinned at me. “Do you want some company?”

Curran turned and looked at him. I had to give Renok credit. He didn’t flinch. Either very brave or very stupid. Possibly both.

“Surely the Beast Lord won’t stay behind,” Hugh said. “The alphas of all other packs are participating.”

And now if he stayed behind, it would be a giant insult. The pieces clicked together in my head. Hugh was eager to chat, and he really wanted to have me all to himself. He couldn’t segregate me in the castle, so he’d taken everyone out of it.

Curran looked back at me. “I know you’re concerned for Desandra. That’s why we’ll all go and make sure nothing will happen to her.” He paused, making sure our stares connected. His gray eyes were clear and calm. “We’ll be back before you know it.”

I was still looking at Curran’s eyes when the face around them grew and changed. Gray fur sheathed him. An enormous gray lion stood in his place.

People froze. Some stared, slack-jawed. Some blinked. Curran in lion form was shocking.

“Consort?” he said, human words coming out perfectly from a lion’s maw.

I had to say something. “Good luck.”

He raised his head and roared, the sound of his voice scattering through the mountain. Shapeshifters cringed.