Hunted(13)

The sky was beginning to lighten in the east as she crossed the snow-covered yard toward the run-down shed that butted up against the edge of the property. Albe had taken the borrowed horse back to town, but the wagon was theirs, and some of what they had brought had yet to be unpacked. Yeva hoisted herself up into the back of the wagon and threw aside the heavy canvas that covered its contents, tossing up wayward snow as she did so.

There—a long wooden chest, one of the few things of value that her father had not parted with. It was carven with intricate depictions of ash and oak, rowan and hickory. Amid the tangle of leaves and branches there were eyes peeking out, a flash of a tail there, a glimpse of a paw. Yeva ran a hand along the box and then opened it.

Her father had taken his heavy bow with him and his ax, but the lighter bow was there, unstrung, and a quiver of fine goose-feathered arrows. These were hers, had been since she was young. Her father’s bow had always been much too heavy for Yeva to draw, and anyway, she’d never needed the power the strong bow offered. He was a large-game hunter, while Yeva was quick and resourceful, with good aim and well-hidden traps.

Yeva pulled out the bow, testing the wood with her thumb. She had neglected it these past years. When was the last time she had oiled the wood? And yet it was smooth to the touch, and when she bent it across her shin it curved gracefully. Someone had been caring for the bow. And who other than her father would know what it needed?

She strung the bow with some difficulty, bracing the wood against her leg and discovering that the muscles she’d had when she was twelve had atrophied over the years. Her arms shook as she slipped the string into its groove at the bow’s tip. After retrieving her knife and her spool of wire from the bottom of the chest and tucking them into the band of her skirt, she hopped down from the wagon. She slung the bow and the quiver of arrows over her shoulder and slipped back out of the shed, shutting the door behind her.

Yeva glanced to the east, where the rosy violet sky over the trees had grown several shades lighter. Albe would be rising soon, and he would find the hearth cold and the kettle empty. But if Albe woke to find her there, she would be drawn into the daily life of the cabin, and she could not bear to face her sisters, not yet.

And her father had not forbidden her to hunt—only to accompany him.

She set off through the silent, snowy forest, blood coursing past her ears. Though she’d slept little, energy flowed through her and drove her onward. She stopped now and then to set a wire snare in the snow. Her fingers fumbled with the task at first, but they soon remembered the trick of it, growing more sure as she went. Her skirt hampered her more than she’d expected; she would have to make herself a pair of trousers out of one of her dresses, if she was to do this regularly. And now that she’d tasted again the fresh air, felt the snow-covered world enclose her, smelled the crisp brightness of the ice underlain with spicy fir, she knew she would do it every day she could.

She saw little sign of anything nearby in the forest, coming across only old tracks: deer and fox, and occasionally the strange hopping troughs in the snow that told of rabbits. The day passed quickly, the morning turning to noon almost without her noticing. Just after noon she stopped to rest, wishing she’d been thinking clearly enough to bring food for lunch.

She would have to turn back soon, retracing her route to see if any of her snares had borne fruit. And at the end of her trail: the house, with Albe and Lena—and Asenka.

Yeva breathed deep, despite the way the cold air stung her nose and lungs. She thought of Asenka, the tiny sting of a smile on her face when Yeva had reentered the cabin after Solmir left. Her voice, without recrimination, as she congratulated her little sister on a match well made. That same voice, lost in a single sob in the darkness.

Yeva would have to turn back—but not yet. She stalked off, deeper into the forest, heels kicking up snow as she moved. This was not a hunter’s gait, but she was too angry, too unsettled, to care.

How could Solmir have come, with no warning and no announcement, to ask Yeva such a thing? And when she had scarcely ever spoken three words together to him. And yet, he’d been watching her. Listening to her chat so easily with the lowly huntsmen. Envying them—because they were the ones to whom she chose to speak.

And wasn’t Yeva always criticizing the townsfolk for their skittish indecisiveness? Hadn’t she wished for them to be more certain about their decisions, to act quickly and with strength and confidence?

She stopped, placing a hand against the tree trunk at her side. Speaking of wishes, whispered her thoughts, who wished for a man who would love her for her skill?

Marriage. To Solmir.

It would mean that she, her father, her sisters—all would be taken care of, no matter what might come. She would be baronessa, and her family secure on the baron’s estates. They would be safe. Happy. Solmir would take her hunting, would love her for her abilities. It was what she wanted. More than anything she’d dared to hope for.

So why did it feel as though a hollowness was crouched inside her? Why did she feel as though the bindings of a cage were closing in around her?

She tore the bow from her shoulder, nocking an arrow to its string with ease. She’d had no opportunity to test the bow that morning, but found that her body still remembered the motion. Her shoulders would ache later, but she could still draw it. She sighted along the arrow’s shaft, wrist straight and strong, elbow level.

A cascade of sound exploded from the right, and she nearly sent the arrow whistling off into the forest in shock. She managed to lower the bow instead, instinct preventing her from loosing an arrow she could not afford to lose. She whirled to face the sound, only to see something burst out of the brush toward her.