the Heart of a Beast

Chapter 3. Anya.

Voices bubbled like the streams of the forest. Neighbours and not-so-neighbours, together for the last Market Day before the snows of winter blocked the roads and made travel nigh-impossible.

Most had already set up their wares as Anya untethered the mare from the cart, using the cart itself to display the jars and baskets.

She pursed her lips as her sisters strolled past, arms linked, with barely a glance her way. They had left her on the side of the rode to get the cart out of the ditch herself when the mare had startled at Siri’s laughter. And she couldn't even say that she had been surprised when she had watched them walk away from her, bidding her a cheery good day; for selling the fruits and preserves was too tedious work for her elder sisters.

They had never intended to spend the day with her.

She knew that.

It wasn't even shock that bubbled within her, not exactly. It was something akin to bafflement or maybe closer to annoyance – they were only weeks away from winter, there were things they needed to buy.

Perhaps they were going to charm some cinnamon rolls off the miller, whose son was Anya's own age and very marriageable, or so her sisters told her incessantly. And the tragedy in his family made him so interesting.

Even if they were annoyed at her, she still needed one of them to watch the cart so she could barter for goods: salt and rye, and perhaps even some offcuts of meat to store. Siri had wanted to ride in the cart, so mud did not splatter up the back of her favourite woollen dress; but the mare had enough to bare pulling the rickety cart piled with jars and baskets of fruits.

She’d told them as they’d readied themselves that morn that they’d have to walk; but she did not doubt they’d even listened to her words as they’d done each other’s hair. Lina had nodded idly, but her thoughts were far from the words spoken to her, her leaf-green eyes focused on the small braids that would keep the unbound locks off Siri’s face.

At least they'd both had the sense to wear boots and not the delicate little slippers that they had been convinced to buy last spring, when the visiting merchants had said they were all the ladies of Court wore. Slippers they’d bought with the bronze coins she had been meaning on using to buy flour from the miller.

She would not have called either of her sisters stupid, far from it, but sometimes, they could be daft with their priorities.

Anya had not paid attention to their idle gossip on their way there, talking about this villager and that, exclamations followed by soft giggles and the occasional burst of laughter. She had resisted the urge to roll her eyes – she knew their words were harmless, they simply wished for more, to escape their dreary existence at the farm; and perhaps they would. For many a man would take a poor woman for her beauty alone, and both her sisters had beauty aplenty with their luscious auburn curls and bright eyes. But more than ever, she had wished they would cease their babbling.

The wildflowers that Siri had picked from the side of the road, petals the careless colour of the sky, she had threaded into the small braids that framed her face. Hair uncommon to the north, where dark locks were the norm; a colour betwixt the brightest copper and the softest of browns. Perhaps the only thing that all three sisters truly shared, even if Anya’s own locks were a touch or two darker.

Her sisters drew smiles and waves from the villagers as they passed, chatting idly. A word here, a praise or soft exclamation there. They were adored by all.

Everyone loved the two of them.

Both Siri and Lina had asked their father to return from the City with jewels and silks, so they could return to Court. For what more could they want? She could almost hear their thoughts...will father buy the beautiful silk that was is fashion before we left, the one that matched my skin so well? With sapphire ear bobs to match? Or perhaps gold thread to embroider new slippers?

Anya shook her head to clear it of thoughts that were not entirely her own.

She had been more realistic; she knew there was little chance that their wealth had returned, for it was but a single ship that had miraculously survived. So when their father had turned to her and asked her what she would like from the City, she had paused in tying the herbs together and looked out the window into the darkness of the forest that lay beyond their flimsy fence. A rune-sword, a beautiful creation of silverwork and powerful runes that would allow the blade to cut through anything; the picture had been so vivid in her mind's eye. The sword of one who could protect their family from anything.

Her hand had fallen to her precious dagger which she had owned since before their arrival, with its simple runes carved into it; runes that she had carved herself. Useless things that did little more than decorate the silver-tipped blade. The silver would burn wolf-skin, but the runes would do nothing.

But she had not asked her father for a sword. She'd asked him for a single rose; like the ones that had grown on the balcony of their old home. The kind that their mother had made crowns of when they had been children, or so her sisters had told her when they’d charmed flowers off the Master Healer to weave into their braids. She did not remember the garlands, but she did remember the beautiful white roses. Pristine in their perfection.

Like her sisters.

With a huff Anya spread out the small jars; the little preserves that allowed her cart-space in the market. Though her father always accompanied her, it was she who bartered more often than he, leaving him to speak with the other men of the village or to pray in the Temple. She set about stacking them with grim determination.

She would have to just manage her time a lot more effectively.

The sun was not yet high in the sky, and so it did not faze her that she'd had no one approach her. The villagers would not make their purchases until the evening, or perhaps even the next day. When coin was hard to come by, they would make sure they spent it wisely. They would continue to haggle prices until the day closed the following evening; those who had travelled would stay in the village-house, the great hall by the green. Like she, Siri and Lina would.

When the shadow fell over her, she glanced up into eyes of coal and her face broke into a grin. "My favourite blacksmith," she winked and jumped off the cart which she had perched atop. The mare whinnied at the intrusion, but Larsyn chuckled, teeth stark white against his swarthy complexion.

"Anya, I'm the only blacksmith you know," he picked up on of the citrus preserves.

"And that makes you my favourite," she unstacked some more fruit preserves and jams as he looked over them; Siri was excellent at making them, at picking the sweetest fruits. Their orchards bore fruit year-round, so they were never in want of fruit-stuff to make the jams from; a process Anya found exceedingly boring. Much like needlework. "Four bronze pieces for the jam."

"Two."

"If you get a cold this winter, it will help heal you," she picked up a smaller one, near half the size of the one he held in his large hands. "Two pieces for this one."

Velvet coal eyes widened, almost comically and he pressed a hand to his heart. "I feel my heart growing ill already."

She held up two oranges, both fitting into her hand as she twirled them around each other. "Four pieces and I throw in some fresh oranges."

"Three and you have yourself a deal."

A small grin. She would have gone down to two if he had insisted. "Enjoy your jam, Master Blacksmith." He tossed her the small bronze coins, which she caught deftly, slipping them into the pouch she wore at her belt.

"Will you visit the smith later?"

A longing tugged at her heart, as her eyes sought out the smoke that drifted from where she knew his forge lay, beyond the village green. His blades were beautiful. Expertly crafted, more was the shame that they were display only, for none of the folk of Rhaerynn had the need for such weapons. They would be sold when he visited Larian the following spring. The farming-folk of the north would go to him for commissions: new horseshoes, for nails and tools for their gardens. But his blades... They were works of art that only the wolf-hunters could afford. "If I get some time," her voice was somewhat wistful, and she did not try to hide it.

"Then I hope I see you later, Mistress Silvertongue," he said with a laugh, tossing the recently-brought orange in the air and catching it deftly.

She cast her gaze about the small square, her lips pursed. The Merchant Caravan had set up on the other side of the marketplace. They would sell bauble and trinkets; little things that none of the villagers of Rhaerynn would have made for themselves. Woollen coats and winter wares far more finely made than the village tanner could produce. She would visit them later; she would see if Master Ceithan had any interest in her produce, which he surely would when she showed him.

The two minstrels that had accompanied them were absent, though not entirely suspiciously so – she could not imagine anything in the Rhaerynn Markets that could entertain them. Most likely they had sought out accommodation, or even company, for the night. And she did not doubt that either of the men, the larger one with his piercing blue eyes, nor the younger one with the laughing blue-grey eyes and that smile tucked into the corner of his mouth, would have any trouble finding either.

She made a mental note to visit the Master Healer before they left. A regular buyer of hers, he always had need for the fruits they grew and the plants she collected from the forests. And She had something extra special for him that day.

"Well, well, what have we here?"

Each and every part of Anya’s body froze, telling her to flee. To run. The same feeling that prickled along her spine occasionally when she entered the forests.

She didn't need to look up to know it was Nuvian's shadow that had fallen across the array of jars. But she looked up anyway, to see the insufferable grin, and the longsword that was resting easily on his shoulder, the muscles beneath his fine woollen shirt conveniently flexed and straining against the material.

"Expecting trouble?" She did not pause in her work, stacking the fruits with a few leaves to decorate the display. Her father had taught her early on that appearances were important in selling something. The leaves did not change the product, but they made it look far more appealing.

Just like Nuvian’s shirt and how he wore a cut slightly too small.

The wolf-hunter leaned closer, lips curling up into a twisted mockery of a smile, one she was sure looked absolutely charming to others. And as his breath fanned across her face, Anya froze, her hand dropping to her belt where the sheath hang. But her dagger was resting on the cart beside a lemon curd, lemon juice shimmering on the blade, the silver tip glinting up at her almost mockingly.

“It pays to be prepared, you know,” he gave her a slow wink, a single eyelid covering eyes the colour of the rolling clouds overhead; and she felt the bile rise in her throat. He cast his glance around them quickly, as if they were discussing the forbidden secrets of the world. "Any one of these travelling folk, or even any one of these villagers could be moon-cursed creatures and we would never know until their blood spilt on the ground." He laughed, standing upright once more.

Anya's breath left her, and she let a small, breathy laugh escape her. Though even to her own ears it sounded somewhat forced. As if the thought of seeing silver blood dripping across the ground did not make her stomach churn. No one would ever accuse her of being lily-livered, but angel's-t**s, even she was not comfortable with the idea of walking side by side with a wolf shifter.

She rocked back on her heels, putting a little more distance between the two of them. Objectively, she could easily see why Siri was so drawn to the wolf-hunter; he was quite different from anyone else in the village, more so than even her sisters and herself. He stood well over six feet, dwarfing her own frame, and she was not short for a woman. In black cloth and dark leathers, he looked ominous, dark, and brooding: as if one of the hunters had stepped straight out of a child's storybook.

The hood of his deep blue cloak had been thrown back despite the threat of rain, to reveal hair the silver-blonde of starlight and his strong profile, sharp jaw and straight nose. But his eyes, those silvery, stormy eyes, drew her gaze. Every inch of him bespoke a classical Dys beauty.

Handsome indeed, and didn't he know it.

She found she did not care so much for exterior, for she knew exactly why she disliked him so much. Of course, she could appreciate he was skilled, for one had to be an excellent fighter to be a recognised wolf-hunter – and that he was, for the pin that fastened his cloak was evidence. A pin of silver and sapphire, with the rune for master carved into it. Trained by the Temple and the Wolf Hunter Academy, and permitted to work alongside the priests.

Blessed by the One God.

And she knew his runes were exquisite, there was a beauty in being able to create something like the rune-spells he had carved into the doors and window-frames of her home; runes that protected her family where she could not.

Those things she could appreciate. Those things she could handle. It was those magnificent eyes she could not handle, those mysterious orbs that felt like they were undressing her piece by piece. Under his gaze she wished the ground would swallow her whole, if only to hide her.

“And someone needs to protect the uncommonly beautiful women of Rhaerynn from the creatures that prowl the forest.” And he winked again, departing in a swirl of sapphire cloak and arrogant swagger.

"Wolf-f*****g prick," she snorted under her breath, wishing the ground would swallow him whole. And wanting, more than anything, for the courage to say her thoughts aloud.