the Heart of a Beast

Chapter 2. Ulric.

He would soon be sick of the sight of green rolling hills, speckled with pines, and the barely wide enough road which they had been travelling upon for the better part of the day. The horse beneath him plodded along, following the caravans, needing little guidance from him, unfazed by the lack of attention from its rider.

Ulric uttered a small sigh, plucking idly at the strings of his lute as Merek sung.

No, he was definitely already sick of the unchanging landscape, of the clouds that rolled on and on, hiding the sky from his sight. Not even the tale of the great Robyn Hood and his troupe of men could lift his spirits or distract him from the monotony of the landscape.

He’d spent the first few hours casting his gaze about, watching for movement, tensing at each and every animal that scuttled across his eyeline. But nothing that jumped out at them. Nothing had attacked.

He was almost…disappointed.

For he'd heard nothing but tales of how wild the lands of the north were, riddled with wolf-folk and moon-cursed creatures of the night attacking people on the road. The wolf-hunters of the town had led him to believe the stories were true; that beyond the great Gates of Larian it was an untameable and dangerous place. The imposing gates, covered from top to bottom in rune-spells, that had slammed closed on their departure from the riverside town had certainly lent credence to the stories.

But if anything, the land he passed through was more peaceful than most of Albaa. For there were no bandits lying in wait over crests in the road, no competitive merchants hiring mercenaries to attack the caravan that he was certain would not withstand any such confrontation. Master Ceithan had said that to the stern-faced mercenaries he had hired from the Guild were to protect them along the Lesser Merchant Road, but they had deigned to stay in Larian until their return.

They would not go any further north.

We are not wolf-hunters. We cannot defend against what roams those lands.

Ulric had overheard the gruff voices, the tense conversation; he had heard Master Ceithan beg for them to escort them to the northern village.

But no words would persuade the men, who stayed inside the great gates of Larian, awaiting their return. For they would not risk their lives, nor their livelihood for a job not given to them by the Guild.

And so, the merchant caravan had left Larian with little fanfare and little in the way of protection.

Ulric supposed he and his companion could pass for wolf-hunters, or even mercenaries if one did not look quite so close. Merek had told him many times that he could never be a merchant for he had no control over the way his eyes changed shape, or the expressions his lips twisted into. And no one would suspect minstrels of travelling so far north. He supposed that the bandolier he used to hold his lute to his back could pass for a sword-holster at a distance. But once up close… their tunics and cloaks did nothing to hide their lack of armour, or their lack of weapons.

His gaze slid to his stern-faced companion; whose icy blue eyes remained focused on the road before them. Perhaps eight or ten years older than Ulric himself, the pipe-player did not look to be the songbird that he was. Barrel-chested and broad-shouldered, the man had a voice that would rival even the sirens of the seas. He looked as if he could hold his own in a fight, but his soft hands and his dancing eyes told a different story.

The same man who had found him playing his lute on the side of the canal and offered him a place to stay the night if he could earn his keep. Merek had offered him a hand and a smile that Ulric had accepted with no hesitation. That had been two years passed, and they’d been near-inseparable since.

“Quit staring. Or at least try to make it less obvious. The merchants already think you share my bed,” the gruff voice was barely more than a whisper, but pitched just so, so Ulric had no problem hearing him. But those blue eyes, the colour of Hurstmere silk, the colour of ice over water, danced merrily.

Of course they did, the stuffy merchants with their carts a little ahead of them. He'd met many people in their travels. From the dark-haired and dark-skinned people of Es-Aira near the Western Mountains, to the fair-haired and fair-skinned people of Dys, Ulric was yet to find someone he could not appreciate.

Merek was perhaps the only exception, for he was the closest thing to family that Ulric had. And the thought of sharing his bed…

He shuddered, his expression twisting into something he was sure wasn’t pleasant to look at. Something like a grimace, or something like he was trying to keep the contents of his stomach inside where it belonged.

“Maybe we'll earn some gold this trip and be able to buy that apartment above the canals,” Ulric said off-handedly, more to himself than to his companion, distracting himself from that line of thought. Forcing himself to think instead of towering buildings and crystal-blue canals, of bustling market lanes and

Merek glanced towards the sky, a small flick of his eyes. Asking the Sun God for guidance, for patience. “In a few hours you'll see that it isn't quite what will happen.”

They'd had this conversation before.

In fact, they’d had the conversation many times before.

The two minstrels were travelling north with the Merchant Caravan for the markets. Markets that Merek had told him were smaller than the daily markets in the Floating City. A small village on the edge of the Wolf Forests was their destination – where they would stay but a week before the breath of winter blew across the Land. It would be the last trip possible before the snows fell, and the roads became impassable for anything more than a single horse. Never before had he been farther north than Caerlyn, a full two days ride along the Lesser Merchant Road south of Larian.

Merek had chuckled at his excitement when they'd left the Floating City – saying that his expectations were far too high. The merchants had voiced similar opinions, laughing at him far more openly for his ‘foolish thoughts’. The northerners had little use for minstrels, that they did not appreciate the finer arts. Fiddles and drums were their music. Foot stamping and swaying was their dancing.

Ulric had said that maybe that meant they were needed in the north.

The northern folk are a different bunch.

Those had been Merek's exact words, explaining that living as close to the wolves as they did, they had to be. Did he mean them wild and uncouth? A little bit more free perhaps?

"Maybe we'll brighten their dreary lives before the winter falls then," Ulric flashed him a grin, picking at the strings once more.

And it was not an hour later that they came across the cart stuck in a ditch at the side of the road, the horse pulling it prancing nervously at their approach. A skittish creature, it seemed, eyeing them off like no animal had the right to.

The merchants had halted their carts a stones-throw away, the Master Merchant dismounting. Interesting. He did not know a merchant who would help another without benefit. Ulric put his lute on his back once more, tugging lightly on the reins, his old horse stopping, his seat slipping slightly.

“Sun God’s flying f*****g t**s!”

What?

At first, he would have taken the slender figure for a young boy until a head crowned with dark auburn braids appeared from behind the cart, turning to reveal a face that would have put the angels she had cursed to shame. The delicate features of the south – a heart-shaped face and pert nose, a small dusting of freckles over creamy white, flushed skin. Brows which had surely been painted by artists in the Floating City, were drawn over impossibly dark eyes, framed by even darker lashes.

Ulric blinked.

Who was this creature?

What was she?

She wore breeches like a man, her woollen shirt was secured to her slim frame by a thick belt, where a dagger almost the length of her forearm was securely sheathed. And over it all was a cape with slits to allow the movement of her arms, the kind of cape that had not been in fashion in nearly two-score years.

Why was a woman alone? Was she one of the moon-cursed creatures?

A trap to lure in unsuspecting travellers?

Surely not, for the dusting of freckles across her delicate note and cheekbones marked her mortal blood. Be-spelled then? Was she caught in fervour of the moon?

Wait.

Dagger?

He blinked.

The dagger didn’t disappear.

And it definitely was no simple kitchen knife that he knew some women were wont to carry; she held it blade backwards, as if she would s***h it across their throats if they moved wrong.

He blinked again.

Was she a wolf-hunter? Was that why she was bold enough to travel alone? He had always been told that the Academy accepted males into their ranks only…

"You told me the women of the north were strange," he whispered to Merek as the merchants approached her, perhaps to assist her with her laden cart. “But this...”

But his side-long glance to his companion revealed his eyes had widened slightly too.

An oddity, then.

"Mistress Lavanya, this is not quite how I expected to see you this day," the Master Merchant was chuckling as he gestured for his comrades to pull the wheel out of the ditch.

The young woman, Lavanya, grinned, a little lopsided and a little wild, her dark eyes twinkling. “Ah, but you did expect to see me.”

He would sing ballads for her. For her beauty. For that smile. For that fire-kissed hair, bound by braids. Perhaps she hailed from Amarys, with those beautiful copper-tinted locks. Had she been high born she would have been the jewel of the Court, she would have graced the ballrooms of the elite, with that proud squaring of her shoulders.

"Is your father not accompanying you?"

A small wrinkle of her nose. "He has gone to the Floating City."

A scan of the road ahead revealed nothing out of the ordinary to Ulric, though his mind went round and round in circles. Master Ceithan knew her by name, so she was surely no danger to them. But why, then, was she alone? With nothing but that dagger for protection? The braided leather maiden-band across her forehead revealed she was unmarried. An old tradition that he'd not known was still practiced outside of New Porthbrynn. And her father had left her to go to the Floating City? What would be so pressing a man would leave his daughter?

"And your sisters?"

Sisters?

There were more of her?

He was not sure his heart could handle more creatures as beautiful as the vision before him. He was not sure his eyes were ready to behold such beauty. Were he a devout Follower he would have named her an angel, sent from the Sun God to grace the Land.

"They've gone ahead," she shrugged, stroking the horse's neck, calming the old creature until it stilled, its flanks no longer quivering.

How did the Master Merchant know her?

He tensed as her eyes roamed over them all. Assessing. Like a merchant assessing potentially wares. He would have all paid the silver he had ever owned to know what thoughts lay behind those dark eyes. They were a deep, dark brown - the colour of the earth after rain. But there was something in them, something that made them beyond a mere 'brown' in his mind. They held a mischievous glint, a lighter ring of umber that danced around her pupil. They glowed with humour, with playfulness and with something cloaked deeply inside. Something that burned into his very being, something that made him shift his gaze, unable to hold them for any longer.

"Perhaps we could be of assistance?" Merek gestured towards the carts-wheels as her eyes snapped to the minstrel.

And she grinned but a moment later. "That would be splendid. As you can see, I've done a piss-poor job of getting it out myself."

Ulric snorted, chocking back laughter. Her vocabulary would have put the sailors of the Floating City to shame.

It was Merek's muscle that finally got the cart out of the ditch, the young woman thanking him profusely. The minstrel shook his head when she tried to offer him the bronze pieces in her belt-pouch. Instead, she passed him a small pouch, angling her body so it was shielded from the view of the merchants. And it seemed, from the fire that flared in her eyes, that she was not going to take no for an answer. Ulric frowned and glanced at their travelling companions, but they had noticed nothing amiss. She mounted the mare, astride like any man, with one leg swung over each side.

As if he should have expected any less from the strange woman.

And then with a merry wave she was on her way, the rickety cart looking as if it might fall apart at any moment. But he couldn’t help but notice that she sat with a perfect seat, completely at ease where he was not.

And he was no closer to finding out who she was.

“Alas, often children pay for the greed of their parents,” he could not quite detect the note Master Ceithan's voice as he watched her pull away slightly, out of earshot. "She was always a strange thing, hanging onto the coattails of her father during trade agreements. The north seems to agree with her greatly."

Ulric stopped listening as Merek mounted, opening the small leather pouch. A sharp intake of breath had Ulric leaning over to see what it was. Small dried purple flowers. Barely a thimble-full; surely nothing that could garner such a reaction from the infallible Merek.

What was it?

Merek simply stuffed it into his breast pocket, inside his thick coat, with a small shake of his head.

Do not ask, those icy eyes said.

Interesting.

He found it somewhat strange the young woman did not ask to accompany them. Perhaps she thought herself safe from the moon-cursed creatures. But he'd seen no rune-spells on her dark cloak, nor on the cart; he'd felt no tingle of magik from her.

A strange girl.

Had he not feared for her prosecution he would have called her almost wolf-like. But there’d been no teeth, no talons that would otherwise mark her; and those freckles had been decidedly mortal. And he knew far better than to accuse anyone of being a wolf-shifter.

"Let's go." Merek's voice was gruff and Ulric did naught but nod as he urged his horse forward into a trot once more.

The town, Master Ceithan said, was but an hour away if they kept up their pace.

The rolling hills gave way to flatter land. Farmland. Dotted with low houses, each surrounded (as far as he could see) by a low stone wall, covered in moss and lichen. And the further north they went, the more his skin prickled, the back of his neck tingled.

It was as if the very air was alive with magik.

And no longer could he blame the mercenaries for staying in Larian. The deceptively peaceful lands felt different, as if they were leaving the lands of Albaa behind.

He thought back to the girl, Lavanya. No, not a girl, for she was possibly the same age as himself. Merek often accused him for his flights of fancy, but he could not help thinking back on her wicked grin and hoping that he would see her once more before leaving the north.