The wind in his hair and the rhythm of the hooves beating the ground exhilarated Monta as he chased Mishi, who in turn chased the mischievous fox around the grounds. Though it was cold, he had worked himself into such a heat that he abandoned his coat who knows where. Letting something go, acknowledging it to be ultimately worthless, or only of worth in his own mind, felt so freeing.

  What does it matter if my coat falls and is swallowed up by the grasses? Now I am warm, now I am calm, now I am having fun!

  While they engaged in the chase, Firth split off to round out some potential exit, but the fox eluded them darting around the hounds and horses. This mother fox astounded him. Just when Monta’s or Firth’s dogs would reach their claws around her, she dashed away at blistering speeds, coy and beckoning but never expressing the confidence which would make them give up the chase.

  “Halloa, Monta!” Firth called out, galloping along a strait. “This tiebreaker may actually break us! Have you ever seen a fox so fast?”

  He didn’t turn around or respond. Eyes intent on the fox, spear raised and poised, the horse ran side by side keeping good pace and Mishi on her tail, wagging his tongue at her. He stood on his horse and thrust downward. The trajectory was perfect, but somehow the fox still ran.

  Monta’s eyes played tricks on him, seeing the fox in an airy blur swirling around his spear, now buried up to the shaft in the soil. Not losing his rhythm for a second, he redoubled his efforts with a grunt and a whistle, and out of a patch of grass a brilliant white Borzoi sprang up to give renewed chase. Mishi fell back to rest, but kept a quiet watch and stayed within earshot. The poor dog panted and coughed, foam oozing from the mouth from his own exertion. The horse fared little better. Bug eyed and losing focus the chestnut felt for his masters commands and followed them like his life depended on it.

  This adrenaline must be the fruit of motherly love instinctual in all animals, even ourselves. How can I achieve it now, how can I surpass it now?

  Seeing the emergence of this new dog, and the resurgence of a few other enemies, the mama fox made a snap decision to hide and ease the tension for a moment. Instead of running toward the opening where they had expected her to run, she dashed toward the Borzoi and dove under him just before he cut her off. Then she leapt across the small strait flowing east. The chase took a new direction and both parties were equal once again. By the time Firth-arm and Monta had crossed, she had lost them in the underbrush.

  Both men on their horses scanned the landscape for any movement or trail, but the wind masked any potentially helpful signs. No footprints, indentations in the leaves, snapped twigs, nothing. In the quiet, Monta holstered a bolt in his crossbow and levied it to shoulder height gazing down the sights. A chill ran through him, and his shoulders shook for an instant.

  “You know what she’s doing?” Firth-arm said. “She’s leading us away from her den. If we want to catch her, we need to go after them.”

  The words of that strange chaplain girl rang in Monta’s ears. He didn’t like her at all, but what she said about killing a family stuck with him. He looked deeper into the forest, ignoring what his cousin had to say. Something pulled him toward it in his head, but not in his body, a pull like he had felt last night staring into the hole under the carpet. Perhaps the horse felt it too, for it stepped forward without his command.

  “Monta, we have to go back.” But Monta didn’t move. The fox had led them far outside the whole of the Obrivae estate. “Your friends might be here, mother might wonder what’s wrong. The fox will come with us when she sees us going in the direction of her den.”

  A fluttering in the forest brought out a zinging bolt from Monta’s bow. He still did not answer. Firth left him with a huff and a whistle, the sound of galloping faded as the young master continued to peer into the brush, his horse almost on top of it. His ears tuned themselves to the whispering, the calling from a deep longing to a deep longing of his own.

  What is in there? Who is calling to me? All I need to do is step forward.

  A loud chittering stopped his horse and broke his concentration. When he turned to see, it was the fox, sprinting off in a red and white blur. He loaded another bolt, it happened to be his last, and reared his steed way back to turn it. The whispering long gone, wind licked his cheeks and his borzoi barked heartily alongside him.

  Meanwhile, Firth had crossed the strait, upped the downs and passed the cliff where Marienna watched the hunt and fell off her horse. He transitioned to a canter and allowed his dogs time to breath and recover as the old man’s circle came into view. The more conservative cousin loaded one of four bolts into its chamber, then hooked his spear into the saddle as he donned his coat once more, for the wind chilled him now.

  He recalled the hunt for Yenfrid. They pulled Mishi into it, because his nose had the most experience with this fox, even to the point of playing together in their youth. When they had met in that moment, Mishi tried to play again, out of habit and fondness of memory, ducking his head and jumping with all the false starts and faints that come with a light-hearted confrontation between dogs, but Yenfrid knew what was to come, and he fought hard, striking and biting anywhere he could get. Firth had never seen Mishi get as angry as when he realized that Yenfrid had drawn blood. The clamp of his teeth, the red in his eyes, Firth didn’t want to see it, and he didn’t want Monta to see it either. After he had been killed, both the mate and Mishi howled every night for a week. Thenceforth, Firth-arm vowed never again to name an animal that was destined to be hunted, nor let a pup play with what one day may be an enemy.

  He sent his dogs into the copse one after another and stationed himself at the edge of the wood, keeping watch for Yenfrid’s mate. Surprised that she had not come out and chirped or geckered at him, he wondered if Monta had indeed finished the job and would be returning soon with a triumphant pelt. At least it will have taken him out of that fog that he gets himself into on the occasion of a significant exertion. It wouldn’t change what he had to do here though.

  In a moment, his spaniel yapped a proud yap and Firth gave chase again. But tromping through the forest, Firth discovered not a den, but another fox trail. His spaniel must've caught an old scent. Next, his borzoi called him over and yielded yet another trail that this dog was set on following. Three more times his dogs found and followed false scents, unable to discover the location of the fox pups. These signs pointed to an entirely new fox defending the den which was impossible because the only known foxes were either dead or currently being hunted. Confounded and entirely flummoxed, Firth quit the woods again to ponder this mystery.

  Monta and his borzoi pursued the mother fox backwards along the trail they had just come, which should have been strange to him because the trail led right to her children, but single-minded Monta kept riding. His horse had been strained so much its eyes rolled around wildly. The borzoi grew tired as well, but matched his master’s unwavering spirit. Seeing Firth by the old man’s wood, he knew the hunt drew ever closer to an end.

  Breathless, he hollered a greeting and pushed his horse onward, then brought his whistle up to his mouth to summon Mishi. Here in the clearing they gathered to surround the poor fox and steal its pelt as a trophy. Firth covered her northward escape and his dogs covered the flanks. Monta’s Borzoi ran to his left flank, and Mishi prepared to cover his right. Suddenly Monta saw the ground getting closer to him and the earth tilted on a new axis. The chestnut stallion in its frantic exhaustion had stepped on a stone the wrong way and tumbled over itself, throwing Monta forward in the process.

  Roll.

  A strange sort of instinctual vision activated within him as he fell, like he could fully relax, but move with fluidity. He tucked his head to protect his neck, and rolled over himself spinning in odd directions. He landed hard on his right heel with a grunt. Mishi ran without the command of the whistle, to ensure the safety of his master. He licked Monta’s palm as he struggled to get up.

  Stand, aim.

  The circle was broken, and the fox about faced, running at a dead sprint to Monta. He leveled his crossbow as the rest of the crew crowded in. The fox weaved right, and Mishi cut right, she bobbed left and he lurched left. Monta balancing stoically on his right leg, followed her with his crosshairs, as she wound around like a cobra, finger pressuring the trigger gently. It appeared as if she would get away, but brave Mishi tackled her and they wrestled ferociously. Monta could not find a clear shot and hesitated, afraid to hit his beloved pet.

  The fox strove to get away, but Mishi had his teeth in her hind quarters and would not let go. Before his very eyes, the fox’s rear legs dissipated into ribbons and grass leaving a confused Mishi tearing through fabric in an attempt to find blood.

  That can’t be real. Come on Monta, see the right thing. The fox threw off Mishi and it’s limping toward me to escape.

  The fox left a trail of wind behind her, clawing her way through the grass. Monta waited for the perfect shot as she came closer and closer, but something about her bizarre appearance gave him pause. Not a she-fox, but an it, an object with superimposed animation. No personhood, just mechanical movement. He didn’t fully understand until it reached him and bit down hard on his leg.

  Instinct came before pain, the bolt flew through what should have been a fox skull. It burst like a pi?ata, throwing ribbons and literal glitter and confetti into the air and on the ground. But the arrow had pierced someone’s skin, lacerated someone’s muscle tissue and cracked a bone or two in his own left foot. The fact of the arrow lodged in his foot wrestled with what his own mind expected and wanted. Like the coat, the spear, his lack of bolts and his horse’s tiredness he strove to ignore it, to will it out of existence.

  No. No, no, no. This is not happening. I am not seeing this. I am okay. I. Am. Fine!

  An overwhelming pain gripped his lower leg. He clutched it and fell to the ground. Mishi came to lick the wound, but he struck him deftly on the nose. Not enough to hurt him, but to tell him firmly to stay back. He whimpered and tucked his head low and his tail between his legs. Monta grunted and yelled out, covering the wound with his hands and squeezing his eyes shut. Firth set down his arms and ran over to him.

  I will not let this happen, I will not let him see me, I need my blue carpet… where did that come from? I need my blue carpet.

  He hated that his thoughts went there so quickly. He opened his eyes with a new determination. Breathing rapidly he gripped the arrow and pulled it all the way through. The blood oozed from the newly created hole about the diameter of a pencil. He lifted his left leg, and with an agonizing groan wrenched his foot out of the boot. Mishi growled and barked, and Firth, seejng his injury could be serious, ran faster.

  You don’t have much time, Monta. Cover it, hide it so it doesn’t affect you/mean anything.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  He scanned the ground, or even his own clothes for anything he could wrap around his foot, and a bright red ribbon from the fox jumped out at him. He snatched it, circled his foot twice and yanked, vibrations of pain travelling all the way up to his fingertips. It was a shoestring knot, nothing like a tourniquet, and doing very little to slow the blood flow, but the ribbon did precisely what he wished it would do: camouflage his injury.

  Easy now, easy does it. Physician, heal yourself.

  He placed both hands on the ribbon which covered the hole and concentrated hard. He felt his own heartbeat, and he felt the flow of blood coursing down his arteries, and saturating the ribbon in that sticky iron liquid. His brain entered a thick fog, and all he could hear was the primordial rhythm of his heartbeat, and all he could see was the hole in his foot. All he could feel was little black hairs sprouting all over, clogging up the emptiness, catching the blood and holding it until it coagulated into a thick scab. Self-preservation. Everything but self-preservation disappeared.

  As the pain dulled, he became vaguely aware of a barking, and a part of him saw it as a threat, something to strike at, or something to flee from. But the barking spoke to another part of him like a faint memory. The conflict between those parts shook him, his muscles spasming and stirring violently. The barking faded, and he felt a weight on his chest, then a rough moist sensation on his cheek.

  He opened his eyes and Mishi licked his face all over even as Monta cheerfully told him to get down. He shielded his face with his hands, but Mishi’s tongue wagged relentlessly. They had experienced the fear of loss, Monta losing himself, and Mishi, his master. And having faced that fear and returned from that strange devouring place, they celebrated together, with licking and laughter.

  “Monta! Are you alright? Did you get her?” As Firth-arm arrived, he knelt beside him to help him stand.

  “Careful, I sprained my ankle when I rolled off of Chestnut.” Monta threw his arm over Firth’s shoulder and leaned heavily on him. “I think I won the hunt.”

  Firth took a survey of the evidence before him, the bloody boot, the bloody bolt, the strange bits of shiny paper festooning the grass and dirt, and the complete lack of a fox pelt, and he began to make assumptions.

  “I wouldn’t be so quick to say you won. You may have nicked the fox a good deal, but it seems she got away. I saw her lunge at you, were you bitten?” He noticed the fox’s odd behavior and wondered if it may have had rabies.

  Monta thought briefly of telling Firth what he had actually seen, to see how he would rationalize it. No, it would just start an argument. I bet he believes things like this can happen any day. I need to find an excuse or make up a story. Bolstering Firth’s own assumptions seemed to be the strongest option to him.

  “That’s why I took off my boot, to check for bitemarks. Looks like I’m clean!” He tried tapping his foot on the ground, but the pain brought him to his knee again. Mishi shoved his nose underneath Monta’s hand panting and demanding his praise. Firth helped him up again, and walked him to his own dapple gray horse.

  “What’s that ribbon around your foot then?” Firth inquired. “It looks like a ribbon for the tumbler festival?”

  “That’s it, you got it!” Said Monta, relieved that he didn’t need to come up with an excuse for that. “I kept a little something fun hidden inside my shoe for the right time. I think winning the hunt is the perfect time for colored celebration paper.”

  Firth smirked as he helped lift Monta into the saddle with a one, two, three, hup! “You’re telling me you were so excited for the festival that you hid decorations inside your riding boot? You really have changed! Did you have it in there all day? It must reek to the spire and back! Do you have anything in that other shoe of yours?” He ribbed him.

  Taking hold of the reins, and whistling to Mishi, Monta offered a distant shrug in reply. “My friends wanted to know what it was like. Thanks for the help. Are you sure you can handle all this on your own?”

  He looked at the wreckage, his crossbow, his boot, his missing coat and spear. The chestnut horse had placed his front feet on the ground and needed a hand standing up. He’d be able to walk, but Firth sure couldn’t ride him. He sighed and tild Monta that it would be no different than their last hunting party. A smile cracked on his face, then he couldn't control his laughter. Monta felt slightly offended at first, but soon they were both wrapped up in an uproarious cackle. They laughed at the mess they made, at the scrapes and bruises they acquired, at all the miscellaneous trouble they had gotten themselves into for so many years. They laughed at how they had missed this, and the tragedy that destiny demanded these moments of careless, childish bliss to dwindle and recede ever into the past.

  Monta, laughed himself even to tears, then, fully shaken by all that had occured, fell onto his cousin in an uncharacteristically tender embrace. They held each other in the full strength of their arms, both meaning to overcome the other with his familial love.

  “I have missed you, my brother!”

  They paused at that word. Like it cut the electricity, or doused the fire. Brother? Why would you say that! The word brought thoughts of the tender subjects of succession and birthright.

  “And I to you, cousin,” Firth replied after a short silence. “There now, you must away, and see the duchess, for she has missed you dearly as well, and will want to dress your wound.”

  A twinge of guilt mixed with anxiety hit him as he mentioned the duchess. He nodded, but avoided saying anything committal as he reared his cousin’s horse and headed it to the lodge. Judging by the position of the sun, he expected his caravan to have arrived, and he hastened to see them and make proper introductions to his family.

  He sighed as he thought of all the things his aunt didn’t know. She had assumed that he chose his field of study based on what he thought would most benefit the family, and she assumed that he intended to return to her more permanently after he completed his education. She wanted to marry him into a wealthy family close by, keep tabs on him often, assure he dressed the right way, befriended the right people, believed the right things. But he didn’t believe in what she believed in, and though she might have guessed as much, she never really acted like it was true.

  The thought of her caring for his foot, attaching a stint, praying over it, calling the nearest minister for a healing, it should have been comforting. It should be a pleasant idea to be loved by a family member in the way they wish most to love you. But knowing that it wouldn’t work, and knowing what she would see if she really did dress the wound, it terrified him.

  He lifted his eyes and saw the mansion in a flurry of activity, all the interesting and beautiful people that traveled with him, those he agreed with and those he did not. All the beautiful colors of celebration, and he smiled, riding up closer to hear everything. The familiar scents of his childhood home mingled with those of the long miles he had crossed, to arrive here. He was well behind the crowd, but had just come within earshot and he listened to the conversations, hoping to catch some happy comments on the kindnesses his family had offered them.

  “Professor Higgins!” Aunt Ange’s voice echoed angrily over the others. Monta halted his steed, shocked by her strong reaction and wondering at what the commotion could be. The next words he caught were “Marienna Bar-Alacosta,” and his mind began to churn.

  That’s my last name. Aunt Ange is defending her against my professor. Putting her above my professor | above me.

  I knew it! That housemaid from nowhere, Khaluth Aurea, is stealing my position in the family! My aunt saw that she didn't like me | couldn't control me and so she got this crazy Khalumir to control instead. This impressionable | suppressible | so very confused maiden who thinks she is everything | better than me | kinder than everyone in the world | magical. She shouldn't be here, she shouldn't have that basement room, that should be mine. No, I don’t want it. No one should want it, no one should have it, it shouldn’t exist.

  His thoughts clustered and knocked each other over. They couldn’t stay still on one object or idea, but he emerged from them with a definitive plan of irrational revenge. He eased himself off of his horse, and hobbled quietly through the back door, down the stairs through the kitchen. He breathed heavily and moved slowly because of the pain. Ribald the cook saw him and almost fell over himself trying to talk to him.

  “I told you already, the pies will be ready in a – Monta? You’re back from the hunt! It’s been so long, Monta, let me grab you a bite, I have something prepared right around… somewhere… ah! A sweet bite of – Monta, you’re walking like a lame duck in a desert, I thought the hunt went well. Sit down, have a cup of – now that room's full there, you don’t want to go in there for your honor. You’re looking pale, young master, can I offer some cough syrup or ginger? Now I told you that room’s Marienna’s you can’t go in – Monta!” The poor baker got precious little attention from this strange visitation.

  Monta tore open the door to Marienna’s room, meaning to ransack it as much as possible. But he stopped when he saw her. She had slumped down against the wall, her knees tucked into her chest, and held her face in her hands.

  She didn’t look up as he limped in, leaving the door wide open. His anger melted into confusion and sympathy. He looked at the humble room, the stone furniture etched into the floor, the scant fabrics and dull clothing, and the mop of red hair on her head reminded him of who Gemia might grow to be. He did not want to hurt her, but he still felt hurt, just by her presence.

  “Marienna Bar-Alacosta.” He spoke in an authoritative voice. She only then noticed him, but could not fully calm herself to lift her face. “What does that name mean to you?”

  Still sitting against the wall, she lowered her hands. Her hair still covered her face, and it swayed forward as she spoke. “I serve under the Alacosta household.”

  “And what does that mean to you?” He pressed the point.

  Marienna did not understand what Monta wanted from her. And too upset to really care to find out, she kept talking in a dry, matter of fact voice. “I do what the duchess says, and what her children request, granted that it’s not contrary to her will.”

  She wondered if Monta meant to ask about himself. So she added, “And anyone the duchess tells me to follow, I must do as she says as well.” She paused for a moment. Monta remained silent. There was no polite way to go on.

  “I would tell you that I serve another before her,” She said. “Seeing as you don’t believe He exists, I won’t bother trying to convince you. But you should know that the duchess is not my god, and neither are you.” She paused again, expecting a response that did not come. In the silence, emotions welled up inside of her, and she could not hold her tongue. She trembled as she spoke, struggling to get the words out at the end.

  “I am here to learn and train, and when it is my time, I will leave to perform better services. One thing I wish to gain from my training here is experience of performing the daily prayers and duties that will be expected of me later, but another is the ability to discern and stand up for what is right. And it was not right to kill that fox. Sh-she was a mother, and she needed… she needed to care for her ch-children.”

  “I didn’t kill her.” He lied. “She got away.”

  He wasn’t actually sure what he believed, but saying this calmed his nerves, and he was sure it would calm Marienna’s nerves too. And saying what Firth’s conception of the story was seemed to make it a little more true in his mind. It allowed him to bypass frightening questions like: how did the fox move like that, how did she keep running with only her front legs, was that thing even a real fox?

  The innocent young girl looked up with a wide-eyed, hopeful expression. “And the babies?”

  “Firth definitely wants to do something about them, hopefully some attempt at domestication, but I’m not sure. We didn’t find them, but I suspect a search will be made within the week.”

  Marienna sighed long and deep, and shrank the rest of the way into the floor. She looked as though she had just learned how to unclench her fists for the first time.

  Then she made a face, sat up and asked. “Firth-arm is never one to leave something unfinished. Why did you cut the hunt short?”

  Monta shifted to his right and holding on to the door frame for balance, lifted his swollen pulsing foot. By the time he decided to lower it, Marienna had already broken into the kitchen shouting

  “Ribald! We’re gonna need some ice!”