By Winter's Light: A Cynster Novel (Cynster Special Book 2) (29 page)

Called on to confirm direction, Marcus again took the lead with Michael, and they led the pack of would-be hunters on through the forests.

Keeping together, they explored various rocky valleys, gradually descending through the swath of forest. On the lower slopes, the trees were a mixture of the very old—towering giants that stretched toward the sky—interspersed with lots of younger trees replacing those that had been logged. The dense growth made for poor visibility. It was sometimes difficult to see the sky, or even the mountains, despite them being so close. And as the foothills were undulating, it wasn’t always easy to tell direction; just because they were pacing uphill didn’t mean they were heading west toward the mountains—they might just as easily be heading east and away.

Trudging along at the rear of the pack, Lucilla decided she might as well get something from the day; opening her mind, she
reached
for the Lady and felt Her. She’d never thought to do that simple test before, but it confirmed that, as Algaria had said, they were still beneath the Lady’s mantle, still on land She considered her own.

That was comforting.

It was also a little confusing. Lucilla had always been able to sense the manor like a beacon, likewise the sacred grove where she and her mother prayed. But now…glancing around, she confirmed that she was also sensing a tug from a different direction. “Must be Carrick Manor,” she muttered to herself.

That realization washed through her and brought her mind alive to the possibility that they might be approaching Carrick lands. She assumed that the Carricks’ western boundary lay along the edges of the forest, but exactly where the edge lay wasn’t clear, not in the foothills they were presently traversing.

The boys ahead of her stopped abruptly. Lucilla nearly plowed into them. She grabbed hold of Nicholas’s arm—with his help, she kept her feet.

“Sssh!” Nicholas held a finger to his lips. His admonition had been barely more than a breath.

Lucilla followed his and everyone else’s gazes to the sight of a buck—or at least the beast’s antlers—slowly moving down the slope opposite the one they were presently descending.

They’d just come over a heavily wooded crest; between them and the opposite slope the land fell sharply into a narrow valley along which one of the thousands of burns in the area ran. The tinkling of the water sounded like distant bells, distracting the senses and masking other sounds.

No one moved; slowly, in response to Sebastian’s signal, all the boys sank to their haunches.

Lucilla remained standing, her eyes trained on the buck. Nicholas reached up and tugged her sleeve, but she gently, absentmindedly disengaged. They were standing deep in forest shadow. The wind was blowing off the peaks. Unless they made some abrupt movement, the chances of the buck seeing them and taking flight were negligible.

The bushes between them and the buck concealed its body completely; only the antlers showed, moving with the telltale gait as the animal paced, presumably along a path just below the opposite crest.

Lucilla stared, and something very strange started rising inside her.

Something akin to the most god-awful fear.

Silently, soundlessly, her gaze locked on the buck, she started moving forward, stepping around her younger cousins, ignoring their frowns.

Drawing closer to the group in the lead—Sebastian, Marcus, Michael, and Christopher—she heard Sebastian whisper to Marcus, “Is it a legal kill?”

Narrow-eyed, Marcus was studying the enormous antlers.

Lucilla knew her brother’s eyes were as sharp as hers. As she halted a few steps behind him, she wasn’t surprised to hear her twin answer, “He has to be ancient. It’s doe season at present, but in this area, bucks that old are always legal kills.”

“Excellent,” Sebastian breathed.

He already had his shotgun in his hands. He brought the barrel up, sighting along it—aiming, no doubt, for where the buck’s head would be; the position of the body was too hard to guess. Lucilla knew her cousin was an excellent shot, and at this distance, he could hardly miss.

The buck would be dead—his life cut off cleanly—in seconds.

She told herself it was a better end for the animal that way. Tried desperately to calm her sudden panic—this was
normal
. They culled bucks this old all the time.

Clenching her fists, she tried to suppress the sudden, swirling, intensely black fear that rose up—choking her.

What is wrong?

Her senses were sharp, her perception acute.

At the edge of her vision, she saw Sebastian’s shoulders fall almost imperceptibly as he exhaled to take the shot—

“
No
!” Lucilla dived forward, over Sebastian’s shoulder.

The shotgun thundered, but she’d pushed the muzzle down and the shot furrowed into the ground.

Sebastian had let go of the gun and shifted to catch and support her. “What the devil?” He wasn’t angry so much as shocked. Rattled.

But Lucilla had no attention to spare for him. Her gaze, her every sense, was locked on the body below the antlers…which slowly rose.

Finally fully upright, eyes narrowing to pierce the shadows, Thomas Carrick stared across the intervening ravine. The antlers were strapped to his head.

All of them stared back. Sebastian swallowed. Somewhat shakily, he said, “I repeat—what the
hell
?”

Lucilla finally managed to drag in a breath; the blackness that had threatened had vanished. Struggling upright—and through that attracting and fixing Thomas’s gaze—she explained, “He’s playing the part of the Horned God in the Chase—Herne, Herian, Herla, call him what you will. It’s a very old tradition in these parts. I didn’t know anyone still followed it.”

“God!” White-faced, Marcus rose. “I had no idea.” Holding his hands out to his sides, he mouthed across the ravine, “Sorry.”

Sebastian dragged in a breath and opened his mouth to call an apology—

Lucilla elbowed him. “No. We have to be quiet—the hunt will be near.”

On the words, they heard calls and thrashing and the sound of running feet rolling up and over the opposite crest, drawing nearer. They all looked to a spot above and behind Thomas.

So did Thomas, then he turned back and looked directly at the group—at Lucilla. Everyone else was nothing to him, but as the sounds of pursuit drew nearer, Thomas slowly inclined his head—dipping that wonderful rack of antlers—to her, then he turned and ran.

In seconds, he’d disappeared into the trees and bushes; less than a minute later, they glimpsed him leaping over the crest—running as Herne through the forests.

As his pursuers—mostly excited children with a smattering of youths—boiled in a rushing, tumbling wave over the crest, the Cynsters faded soundlessly back into the trees.

Once the hunt had passed in joyous obliviousness, the Cynsters turned and, in a loose group, trudged back through the foothills toward the bridle path.

No one said anything; they were all still deeply shocked over what had so nearly occurred.

Eventually, Sebastian, the shotgun broken and resting over his arm, fell in beside Lucilla. They walked side by side for a little way, then Sebastian exhaled. “Thank you. From the bottom of my heart. That was so nearly…horrific.”

Lucilla met his gaze. After a moment, she nodded and looked forward. “Yes. Horrific.”

Her voice sounded hollow, even to her.

Mistakenly killing Thomas Carrick might have been horrific for Sebastian.

It would have been as good as death for her.

EPILOGUE

January 1, 1838

Her arms wrapped around her knees, Louisa sat in the window seat of Annabelle’s room and looked out over the snow-smothered gardens to the snow-draped forest beyond.

Hoar frost had claimed the land. Icicles glinted and twinkled, and smaller ice crystals formed a diamond-studded lacework over every surface, winking in the winter sunshine.

Hogmanay was past; a new year had begun.

The festivities that had filled the previous day, that had rolled on through the night and into the morning—at least those she and her three peers had participated in before they’d stumbled up the stairs and fallen into their beds—had been filled with an almost frenetic sort of joy. A farewell to the delights and sorrows of the year past, and a heightened anticipation for what the new year would bring.

And now that new year was here.

Resting her chin on her knees, Louisa stared, unseeing, at the winter landscape. She’d been the one who had worked the hardest to persuade their parents that the Vale was where this season’s celebrations had needed to be held; looking back on the happenings of the past week, she considered the implied promise to have been more than met.

The room had been quiet, the other three girls still slumbering, but Therese had woken; wrapping her robe about her, she came to join Louisa in the window seat. Therese looked out, then, with one finger, traced the pattern of ice crystals frosting a portion of one windowpane. “So this will be our last day here—I wonder if it’s snowed at home?”

Annabelle and Juliet had been sharing Annabelle’s bed while Louisa and Therese had slept on truckle beds by the fire; at the sound of Therese’s voice, Annabelle opened her eyes, saw the pair by the window, and sat up.

Juliet grumbled, but when Annabelle slipped from beneath the covers, Juliet, too—still grumbling—followed.

There was only space for two on the window seat. Annabelle pulled up a narrow-backed chair, and Juliet dragged over the dressing stool.

Plopping down upon it, dragging the shawl she’d picked up over her shoulders, Juliet looked at Therese, then Louisa. “So it’s our last day here, but if the party downstairs continued long after we left—as it most likely did—then I can’t see anyone doing anything more than recovering today.”

Annabelle nodded. “Perhaps a walk at the most, just to clear heads, and then later there’ll be the cleansing of the fireplaces—the removal of the ashes of the year past and the ashes of the Cailleach logs.”

“Like a banishing of the spirit of winter?” Therese asked.

Annabelle nodded. “Exactly.”

“I have to admit,” Therese said, “that after the last day, I’m ready for a little quiet. I had no idea Hogmanay had so many elements to it—much more than our simple New Year celebrations.”

“It’s different up here,” Louisa said, “but, after all, that’s why we came.” Tipping her head, she regarded the other three. “And you have to admit, we’ve had more to enjoy than even we could have planned, what with our very own romance and the Christmas baby, even if we weren’t directly involved in the latter. Incidentally, Grandmama told me that our mistletoe worked for Mr. Crosbie and Mrs. Meadows—that it was very definitely helpful in bringing them together.”

Juliet wriggled deeper into her shawl. “Good. And it is good because Medy so deserves a happy life and a family of her own, and Mr. Crosbie is nice, too. Mama told me that Medy will be leaving us to go to Uncle Alasdair and Aunt Phyllida—lucky Lydia and Amarantha—but that means I’ll still see her when they come to visit or we visit them, which is often enough.”

“And,” Annabelle said, “Mama spoke to me last night. Apparently, all four of us are to have finishing governesses—it was one of the things our mamas discussed and decided while they were here.”

All four girls considered that prospect, then Louisa arched her brows. “That will be interesting.”

They all laughed, the camaraderie, the closeness, the four had always shared bubbling up. All Cynsters, all born within a single year to different branches of the ducal family tree, they’d been fated from the first to share life’s experiences; for each, it was hard to imagine any other who might share more completely the gamut of decisions that living their lives would entail.

“So,” Therese said, “we are, it seems, heading into the final stretch of preparing for our come-outs. Four more years, and then we’ll be launched—on the unsuspecting ton, as old Lady Osbaldestone would say.” The other three grinned, and Therese went on, “But what are our aims—for this year, for the next? What are we aiming for? What are our goals?”

She looked at Annabelle and Juliet, then all three looked at Louisa.

Louisa noted the implied invitation; she smiled one of her more enigmatic smiles. But it had faded and her tone was serious when she said, “Our goals… To define those, we need to know what we want. What we most want to see in our lives, what elements are most important to us.” She glanced at the others, meeting their gazes. “Do we know that yet?”

A second passed, then Therese caught Louisa’s eyes. “I don’t, but I will own to surprise if you don’t.”

Louisa shook her dark head, the rippling mass of her black hair shifting over her shoulders. “I know some, but not all.” She looked out, and her gaze settled once more on the landscape, although her focus had turned inward. After a moment, knowing the others were waiting and that they always shared such things, she said, “I know I want to be in control of my life—that I will never be happy being someone else’s pawn, a husband’s ornament, my importance dependent on his. I know that I want to make my own decisions in all those issues important to me. I want…to find a place in society, within society, in which I am of society but it does not rule me. I want a family, a home, children, a love of my own—all the things we, as Cynsters, all but take for granted and assume we will somehow find.” A small smile played over her lips in acknowledgment of their familial expectations. “And while there’s nothing wrong with that—and, indeed, I see those as goals very much to be desired—while I want all those things, above and beyond everything else, I want the freedom to be me.”

She paused, and the other three were silent, all following her thoughts, drawn by the power already resonant in her words, in the ideals they described. Then Louisa continued, “I know I will need to be determined, that I will need to remain focused and vigilant to achieve the outcome I want.” She glanced at the others. “That much I do know.”

She looked back at the landscape and the others followed her gaze, yet none of the four were seeing the present, but rather were looking ahead.