Kassandra

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“Kassandra Antigone!”

I wince. My mother sounds frustrated. She usually does, when she uses my second name. It was her idea to give me two for some reason, but not even Olga bothers calling me Antigone most of the time if she’s not upset. It sounds a lot stranger than Kassandra.

I set aside my tack and tools, and go to see what she’s upset about. She’s standing at the door of the stables, and if I make her shout it at me from there, that will be added to the list.

As it is, she’s already glowering at me. “What did I tell you about this?” She waves a hand, as though to take in the stables and horses and hounds around us.

“The work needs done,” I say, trying to sound submissive and calm. It’s the best approach with her. “And I’m working on stitching, so it’s practice for my embroidery.”

She continues to glare, but seems at least slightly mollified. “Yes, well, all the same. That’s what there are servants for.”

I manage not to sigh. Not by much, but I do. “I know, Mother,” I say. “But they’re all busy getting ready for the hunt, and I didn’t want to bother them. And Father will be furious if his saddle is falling apart in the morning.”

Olga seemed just as unhappy at first. But when I get to the last part, she stops glaring at me quite as much. “You’re working on your father’s saddle?” she asks me.

I nod. “Yes, Mother.”

She clearly wants to keep arguing with me. But Father doesn’t trust almost anyone to handle his tack, especially the day before a big hunt. Only a handful of servants are allowed, people he trusts to do the job right, and all of them have a lot of things to do right now. For me to do this part makes life easier for everyone.

And, more importantly, Father has never agreed with Mother about this. He says that if I know how to maintain leather and arms, it will make my husband happy when I’m grown. He also says that it’s good for me to learn to hunt, myself. Mother doesn’t like either one, saying they’re inappropriate for a girl, but she doesn’t outright argue with Father, ever.

And so now, knowing this is what I’m doing, she isn’t willing to keep arguing with me, either. “Well, see to it that you’re cleaned up in time for dinner,” she snaps at me instead. “Your uncle and cousins will be there. It’s important that you look proper for them.”

I nod. “I’ll make sure of it, Mother.”

She sniffs and says, “Good.” Then she leaves without another word.

I’ll probably pay for this within the week; my mother holds grudges more closely than she would ever admit to. But at least for the moment I’m free, and I go back to what I was doing. This was, in fact, maintaining Father’s tack, and it needs maintenance. The leather is dry and stiff, the stitching not holding together as well as it should be.

The flaws are small. Just the result of ordinary wear and the passage of time, since this will be the first time he goes hunting this spring. But he says even the smallest of problems can become a very big one, very fast, in the field. He’ll be glad for this, and there’s something satisfying about that, even if he’ll probably never know I was the one who did it.

But while I’m working on his tack, I’m not in the part of the stable where that normally happens, around the horses. I’m sitting in the kennel instead, surrounded by hounds. I like it more there. It feels…peaceful. Serene.

I don’t feel that way very many places.

Brand, Ashen, and Michaelson all come over to greet me, as close as they can at least; their kennel is securely closed, so they can’t spill out to actually tackle me. But they ease up to the bars and I stick my hand through, stroking their fur and laughing at how enthusiastic they are. Those three are the hounds I know the best, along with Raven, but Raven is sound asleep.

All four are bigger than I am, and most people would be nervous to put their hand in the kennel like that. This is not without some cause; they’re all hunting hounds, and while they hunt game rather than men, the truth remains that these dogs are all accustomed to ripping into living things. But they know me and they like me, and I’m not worried at all.

I like the dogs. They’re…clean, somehow, and simple. No lies, no schemes. There’s no complicated history making everything tangled. If you treat them right they’ll treat you right, and it’s that simple.

Humans are a lot harder to talk to than dogs, I find.

The saddle doesn’t take long, once I sit down and resume working. I was already half-done, and the rest of Father’s tack doesn’t take long at all.

Once I finish, I set the tack on its stand in the corner of the room, then go to a chest and take out the hunting collars, heavy bands of leather meant to take a lead and hold it steady, no matter how hard the hounds pull against it. They rarely pull at all, being well-trained and experienced hunters, but it is better to err towards too much caution than too little.

These, too, need repaired. Not much, but the leather is stiff, and the buckles too. Oil and a rag will do a lot for that, and it will make the collars a lot more comfortable for the hounds.

The minutes slip past as I work, occasionally going to the window and looking at the sky to make sure I’m not taking too long. I’ll want to be thoroughly washed up and better-dressed by sunset, and if I’m not I’ll have upset both my parents quite a lot.

I don’t want to get beaten. I’m careful about the time.

I get through almost all the collars before I judge that it’s getting late enough that I should move on. The collars go back in the chest, the oils and kit in their places, the rag back on the pile. Father and Stablemaster Bart will both be angry if I leave them sitting out.

This done, I go to the washroom, where servants have already drawn a bath for me. The water is still steaming hot, and it’s with a distinct sense of relief that I relax into the warmth. I like working in the stable, but I ache after spending a few hours throwing around heavy saddles.

The water is scented with lavender, and mint, and some other flower I don’t recognize. It’s enough to mostly mask the smells of sweat, hay, horse, and hound, especially once I scrub the sweat off. It takes a while to clean up enough to satisfy Mother, but I allowed plenty of time.

This done, I get out and dry off, then the servants help me get dressed. I don’t really need the help, which I’m glad for. My mother wears gowns that require assistance, and they seem deeply uncomfortable. As a child, I’m allowed to wear simpler clothing, just a tunic, leggings, and a skirt. It’s all good fabric, wool and linen, and it’s clean. Nicer than what the common folk wear, but not nearly as fancy as a gown.

My hair is, similarly, just pulled into a braid. It extends pretty far down my back even so, which I don’t like; it gets in the way, but Mother says cutting my hair short would look too boyish, and I can tolerate a braid.

I am lucky, I know. In the bigger towns, I would have to act much fancier, even as a young girl. But Father is a country noble whose lands are out in the marches, near the headwaters of the Weisse Elster, and I rarely go to Leipzig. Out here, things are easier.

This is, really, why I’m as tense as I am. And by the time I’m dressed, I’m very tense, indeed. But I’m practiced and disciplined enough that it doesn’t show, as I go downstairs and make my way to the feast hall.

I make my way to the high table, because there’s no ambiguity about that. The commoners eat at a handful of smaller tables, those of them who are permitted into this feast at all, but for the Count’s daughter to eat with the commoners would be unthinkable, particularly today.

I’m early, and I make my way to the table without any crowding. The servants direct me to my seat; position is strictly assigned, based on rules of etiquette and hierarchy so arcane they’re incomprehensible to me. I take the napkin, good linen rather than a rag, and move it to my lap, then sit and wait quietly.

The commoners filter in, but they don’t sit yet, just walk to their tables and stand there waiting. Then, several minutes after I entered, my parents come in, flanked by an entourage of servants and retainers, along with a handful of people I don’t recognize but instantly recognize as different. I stand, like everyone else, until my father is seated, then sit back down.

It makes recognition easier, that Uncle Magnus looks a lot like his brother, with much the same facial features, dressed in similar clothing. It’s dyed a dark shade of blue, because my family is so rich that we can afford good dye. He comes accompanied by his two sons, whose names are Reinhard and Fridulf.

I’m particularly attentive to the latter. He’s a tall young man, with a serious, sober demeanor. His eyes are dark, but his hair is paler than mine or our fathers’, taking more after his Nordic mother. At twenty-two years old, he is slightly over twice my age. I have never seen him before in my life.

It is very strange, watching him enter the room, to know that I’m expected to marry him in a few years. It seems like I should have at least seen Fridulf before now, given that. But such is life among the noble class; marriage for love, as I am well aware, is a thing for commoners.

He doesn’t immediately strike me as bad, though, as he comes over and takes the seat opposite mine, where it’s easy for us to see each other. Talking to each other is harder, but the room is still quiet as of yet. So, I can hear him clearly when he says, “You’re Kassandra, I take it.”

I nod. “I am,” I confirm. “And you’re Fridulf. Right?” The question is a formality; Fridulf is the only one of my uncle’s sons who’s fair rather than dark.

He nods back, and smiles. It looks a little forced, but I imagine mine looks forced too, so I can’t really blame him. This must, I think, be as strange for him as it is for me. What grown man could look at his cousin of ten years, knowing she’s his betrothed, and not feel a bit strange?

We make small conversation, as the last few people file in. He asks me about the terrain here, and seems impressed when I know how to answer. As Father puts it, war is the business of a lord, but his lady still has eyes, and there’s no sense in her putting them to waste. I’m glad that Fridulf agrees.

“Do you know anything about the hunt tomorrow?” he asks me, as the servants begin carrying dishes from the sideboard to the table.

I nod. “I do,” I confirm. “I normally go along for hunts like this.”

Fridulf raises an eyebrow. “Really? I’d not guessed that you would be invited.” His tone isn’t dubious, but it’s definitely surprised.

I shrug. “I can’t handle a boar spear or anything,” I say. “But I can go hawking or manage hounds well enough. Father says that it’s best for a lady to know her husband’s business, and that there’s no better way to learn a thing than from the inside.”

He makes a thoughtful noise, then says, “That makes decent enough sense, I suppose. So, what do you know?”

“We’re hunting deer,” I say instantly. “And possibly wolf. One has been taking sheep from the villages lately, and it would be good if we can track it down.”

“How long has this wolf been preying on the villagers?” He sounds genuinely interested.

“Two and a half months,” I say. “Father would have done something about it sooner, but the snow has only just melted. Hunting is hard in the winter, here; the ground gets very slick, and the wind has a bite to it.”

“I don’t doubt it. Your family’s lands are quite northerly.”

“I’ve never gone further from home than Leipzig,” I admit. “So I don’t know how it compares.”

“It’s colder here than in the south, and the ground doesn’t take crops as well,” Fridulf tells me. “But the forests, I am told, have better hunting than most of the Empire.”

I nod. “We hunt often. The game is plentiful most years; I expect we’ll come home bloodied, tomorrow.”

He looks at me for a moment, and then says, “Yes. I expect we will.” His tone is odd, but I don’t have time to ask any questions about it; the meal just started, and making weighty conversation over a feast would make a poor impression on my husband-to-be.

By the time the feast is over, I’m tired enough to go to bed right away. We’re going to be up early, tomorrow, so that we’re ready to head out hunting by shortly after sunrise.

My sleep is haunted by nightmares, but the details fade as soon as I wake, leaving me with no sense of what the dreams were. Just that they were bad.

---

It’s a chilly morning. I’m glad for that, on the whole. It means that wearing hunting leathers and wool is comfortable, instead of being too warm. The sunlight feels good, too, and the wind isn’t biting today.

The horses are restive, though they’ll calm soon enough; the animals are just high-strung, and eager to get moving. I find my usual horse, a sorrel gelding named Rusty. The servants already saddled him, but I go over their work in fine detail, checking every single buckle twice. Father says that only a fool mounts a horse without checking the tack for himself.

I imagine it’s more important for him. Father rides a destrier much more temperamental than my gelding, like stallions usually are, and keeping his seat takes more work as a result. But I tend to agree with him on this all the same, and I’m meticulous about it.

I mentioned hawking last night, but there are no hawks today; they aren’t much good for deer, and Father doesn’t care to chase smaller game today. I’m not strong enough to use a shortbow or spear, so I probably won’t be doing much but ride today. I’m content with that; it’s not as good as actually hunting, but I like to be there for it, if nothing else.

It helps that I’m allowed to ride the horse normally. I’ve heard that many noblewomen don’t. They wear skirts every day, and skirts don’t work astride a horse, so they have to sit sidesaddle. The idea is upsetting to me, and I take a moment to be grateful once again for living out in the frontier marches rather than the Empire’s heartlands.

I’m in the center of the hunting troupe even though I’m not armed for hunting. This is obviously for social reasons; that’s where my father, uncle, and cousins are riding. I would prefer to ride at the edge with the houndmaster, but it would be improper.

Not much is said, though. Father takes hunting much too seriously to be having a conversation at the same time. My uncle and cousins are less intense, but they don’t seem to be in the mood for talking, and it might annoy Father, anyway. It’s enough, I suppose, that Fridulf can see I wasn’t joking about knowing what I’m doing here.

The game is plentiful today, but elusive. The hounds lose the first two trails they take, and there are no obvious tracks by which the hunters could pick the trail up for them. Still, the abundance of prey is good, and it doesn’t take long for the hounds to find a third.

This one, they don’t lose. They bring the buck to bay, howling and barking at it. It’s backed against a big rock, too big to jump over, with dogs blocking everywhere that it might think to run.

It doesn’t take long after that. Father takes the first shot, and the arrow sinks into its flank, deeply.

This startles it, and the buck runs. But another two arrows from other hunters strike it, and it has to pass by one of the hounds to reach freedom. The hound sinks teeth into its haunch, and the buck falters, then falls.

Father dismounts, and goes to kneel down next to it. It’s still thrashing, but he takes a heavy knife in hand, waits for an opening, and then moves in to slit its throat.

The thrashing stops. The servants take the carcass to be cleaned and sent to the kitchens. The hunters mount up again, and after a brief break, the hunt resumes.

So abundant is the game that we take another three deer by midday. Fridulf makes the killing shot on one, striking it in the heart rather than require anyone to go and cut its throat once it’s down. I feel strangely proud of my betrothed for that, as though I know him in any but the most superficial way.

At midday, we take a longer break. Father takes hunting very seriously, which means we aren’t going home yet, but it also means that he refuses to hunt when he’s too tired to do it right. So, we spend an hour or so resting, drinking from wineskins; mine is watered, but I don’t think Father’s is, or uncle’s for that matter. They both seem more relaxed after that break.

Which is good, because by mid-afternoon, something changes. I hear it right away, a different tone in the baying of the hounds.

Father notices, too. I don’t think most rest of the other hunters hear it, but he’s turning in that direction with a very different air about him. Already intense, now his focus is so tight it’s unnerving.

“Wolf sign,” a houndmaster says for the benefit of everyone else.

I’m not entirely sure of that. I’ve never hunted wolves, or even seen one in person, but there’s something about Brand’s howling that doesn’t track. He’s a wolfhound, and he’s hunted wolves before, several times. He shouldn’t sound so…uncertain in himself, even if I’m the only one who spends so much time listening to the dogs that I can tell.

I don’t say anything. I’d have to explain, and in any case, it might be nothing. I’ve never heard him on a wolf’s trail, after all, and this might just be what he sounds like when he is.

Wolf is a harder quarry than deer, though. Not faster, but with greater endurance, and paws don’t leave prints as easily as hooves. The wolf ducked through a stream, too, which throws the hounds off, and it takes a while to find the trail again. The whole time, my father has that intensity about him, and he’s pushing for more speed than I think is really a good idea. His destrier and my gelding can handle running through this forest, but I don’t trust strangers’ horses not to trip and hock themselves.

The dogs are excited, but I hear that uncertainty in Brand’s voice, and Greyfoot doesn’t sound quite right, either. Her voice seems scared, just a little bit.

But, again, nothing worth mentioning. Even if I’m right about what she’s feeling and could convince others, it wouldn’t be worth mentioning. Being afraid while hunting a wolf isn’t unreasonable, after all.

Really, I probably shouldn’t be here. An unarmed child along for hunting deer is one thing, and I’ve kept my distance well. But wolves are more dangerous prey, and my presence isn’t a good idea. But I’m hardly about to tell Father that right now; he’d be furious at the interruption, and he’s a little drunk, so he might act on it before taking the time to think and realize I’m right.

And so I just ride along with the others on the wolf’s trail for at least an hour. The other horses are starting to lag. The trees are thick in this part of the forest, and the underbrush; it isn’t good terrain for horses. We’re all starting to get tired, I think, and really, it might be better to go home entirely, and content ourselves with knowing where to return for the wolf.

No one is going to tell my father that, though, so we keep going.

Eventually, I see the hounds suddenly turning, facing southwest instead of north. Facing directly towards the direction we’re coming from, in fact.

I turn with them, because I’m not stupid. And as a result, I get to be watching when we learn that the wolf isn’t stupid either. It comes running out of the trees, out of the sunset so it’s hard to see, moving with a speed and agility I would have thought impossible. It’s bigger than I would have thought possible, too; it seems, at least to me, that it’s almost as big as the horses, and wolves just…aren’t.

But this is clearly an exceptional wolf, and it’s coming up from directly behind us. It lunges for one of the horses, and it doesn’t go for a hamstring the way I’d expect. It aims higher, biting at the hip and ripping meat away without even slowing. The horse shrieks, overbalances, and starts to topple.

Before it’s even really listing, before the rest of the hunting party is reacting, the wolf lunges higher yet, and it gets its teeth on the rider’s arm. Its weight pulls the man towards the wounded leg, and the horse collapses instantly, screaming like only a dying horse can.

The rider’s boot is caught in the stirrup, which means he can’t get his own leg out in time. The horse lands on it, and breaks his leg in the process. He’s screaming too, but not for long: Once he’s within reach, the wolf’s teeth close on his throat, ripping it out.

And then it runs, so fast that only my father even manages a shot at it. He’s a good shot, but it’s so fast that he still misses.

The man on the ground is dying, and we all know it. But having just seen the wolf, we’ve also seen that this is more than just a sheep-biter. It’s a man-eater, and that means killing it is a lot more urgent. That’s probably not why Father sets off into the forest on its trail, but it’s a lot of why I follow him. I pause just long enough to commandeer a shortbow and quiver; I’m not able to hurt it, most likely, but I can distract it while better weapons are brought to bear on it.

It’s a frantic run. Rusty is pushed to his limit trying to keep up with Father’s stallion, and I’m breathing hard just from the effort of staying in the saddle. The image of that man’s throat, now a wet red ruin, is enough to keep me going, but only just. One or two other people are following, but they’re slower off the mark and their horses aren’t able to keep up.

Eventually, after I don’t know how long, we burst out into a small clearing, and find the wolf there. It looks like it’s been denning here, nestled in a hollow next to one of the bigger trees. It’s not surprising that it’s evaded notice until now; this is far from the villages it preys on, and tucked well out of sight.

But now it’s very much in sight, standing there watching Father and I approach. It doesn’t seem frightened of us, and if it’s tired at all, it could fool me. It bares teeth at us, ears laid back in a clear threat display.

Father doesn’t hesitate in drawing an arrow and loosing it. I do, but mostly just because I don’t know what I’m doing. My shot goes wide. So does his, though, because the wolf sidesteps around it effortlessly.

It doesn’t approach us, just stands there watching as we move closer. Father draws and looses again and again, but not one of those arrows hits it. It actually bites one of mine out of the air, which seems like it should be impossible even with my weak draw. We’re as close now as we can go without being in lunging distance of it, and still, it seems to have no difficulty dodging every shot Father takes.

Roaring in anger, he sets the bow aside, grabs his spear, and holds that up instead. I’m not sure whether he’s planning to throw it or dismount; neither seems like a good idea, so either makes as much sense as the other.

Before he can do either one, there’s another arrow in the air, and this one didn’t come from me. It came from the trees behind us, while we’re both paying all our attention to the wolf.

It’s not a good idea to pay all your attention to one thing. It really, really isn’t. Father has taught me that, but if I feel embarrassed about not putting the lesson it into practice this time, it’s smothered by how he forgot too.

And that’s a problem, because the arrow was not aimed at the wolf. It strikes my father in the neck, far too precise to be an innocent miss.

He freezes, head lowering to look at the arrow. The spear drops from his fingers, and he lists to the side. There’s so much blood. I scream, but before I can even turn to look for the archer, a second arrow lands home next to the first, and he collapses, body hanging from the saddle by the stirrups.

I’m turning by this point. It’s stupid to turn my back on the wolf, but it’s the lesser threat right now, I’m pretty sure.

And so, I can see my uncle ride forward out of the trees with a bow in hand. He looks at his brother’s body, as he gets closer, and I don’t know what to call the feeling in his eyes, no more than I know what to call the sick feeling in my stomach.

Fridulf is moving out behind him. My other cousins aren’t there, either not part of this or just not able to keep up. But the two of them are both carrying better bows than mine, and they know how to use them.

“Easier than I expected,” my uncle comments, not seemingly talking to anyone in particular. “Shouldn’t have drunk so much, I suppose.”

I reach for the quiver, but Fridulf is looking at me, and his bow is pointed at me. I know I won’t finish the draw in time, and my hand falls back to my side, trembling.

“I do regret this, Kassandra,” he tells me, sounding like he means it. “I would much rather you not have seen this.”

I am not stupid. I know what it means when someone says they regret something in that tone. It means he regrets what he’s about to do, and it’s not hard to guess what that is.

Before he can shoot me, I dig my heels into Rusty’s flanks, simultaneously dropping down as low to his back as I can to present a smaller silhouette. The first arrow misses me, as a result, high and wide. I’m running for the nearest edge of the clearing, because I think that if I get out into the trees I might be able to outride them.

I have all my attention going to this, because I need all of it to keep myself in the saddle. Rusty is panicking, and keeping him under control is hard when I’m panicking myself.

I don’t see Fridulf notch the second arrow. I just feel a sudden impact on my side, like I got punched. It’s harder than I would have guessed, enough to knock me to the side.

And then there’s a blossom of pain in my side, and I scream. My bow falls from my fingers, and I realize I’m falling to the side. I manage to get one leg out of the stirrup in time, but not the other, and there’s another burst of pain when the knee breaks under my own weight.

I barely notice that, though. I’m falling, and I hit the ground hard, and I barely notice that, either. The arrow in me is all I can think about, all I can feel. The pain is…I’ve never felt anything like it.

I look at my side, scared of what I’ll find, and I see what I was scared of. The arrow is lodged in my gut, most of the way to the fletching. I’m bleeding heavily. My shirt is already soaked with it, and it’s spreading out in a pool under me.

I’m dying, I realize dimly, somewhere far away from myself. Not instantly, but inevitably. There’s so much blood. Breathing jostles the arrow around, and it hurts.

I don’t know how long I spend there before I feel a hand on my shoulder. I flinch, but I can barely move at all.

Fridulf rolls me onto my back, with a genuinely sad expression. But it’s a resolute one, and he has a knife in his hand. I know what it means.

I’m glad of it. I’m dying anyway; gut wounds are almost always fatal, but it takes a while, and it hurts a lot. Cutting my throat is a mercy, for me as much as the deer, and I raise my chin to make it easier.

I don’t cry, or try to talk him out of it. I have enough courage to face death with some dignity, at least. His hand descends to cup my cheek, the first time he’s ever touched me, and he gently pulls my head further out of the way, holding the skin steady so it will cut cleanly.

And then, very suddenly, we’re all reminded that there was a real hunt going on, to go with the staged hunting accident. We’re reminded, because the wolf hits Fridulf, moving so fast that it’s just a grey blur. It tackles him off me before he can cut my throat.

They land on the ground somewhere I can see. I can watch as Fridulf stabs the wolf, sinking the knife to the hilt into its flank. But it ignores this entirely, biting out his throat, just like it killed the hunter before.

I hear shouting, though it sounds strange like it’s echoing from the bottom of a well. There’s so much blood. My uncle, I think, is fleeing, but his horse is slower than the wolf, and it pulls the animal down within a few seconds, with a loud crashing sound.

The shouting ends a moment later.

My vision is starting to fade, by the time I see the wolf again. I guess the arrow hurt me worse than I thought, because I’m dying faster than I expected.

The animal looks at me from a few feet away, meeting my gaze. There’s something strange about its own, something other than an animal behind those eyes.

It comes closer, and I reach up to stroke its fur with shaky fingers. It’s softer than it looks, and the wolf is very warm. I hadn’t even realized I was feeling cold, but the warmth is nice. It moves close to me, and I feel its jaws resting lightly against my throat, the teeth barely denting the skin.

I smile at it, and keep stroking its fur. “Thank you,” I whisper. A whisper is about all my voice is good for, now. I don’t know whether I’m thanking it for killing my murderers, for coming back to finish the job cleanly, or for giving me the comfort of something warm and soft while I die.

It’s getting dark, I realize suddenly. The hunt went on longer than I thought until just now. The sun is done setting, and the moon is rising. It’s full or nearly so, bright enough to see by. The wolf hasn’t bitten my throat out, though it keeps its jaws there.

I have the strangest sense that it’s making a decision, when it pulls its mouth away. It moves to nuzzle at my belly, then grabs the arrow in its jaws and pulls it out.

I manage a scream at this, though it’s faint. The wolf whines in a way that feels like apology, and then it starts biting me, chewing at the meat of my belly. It hurts, but the pain is very distant, just another thing to feel in my last few moments.

And then the moonlight reaches us, and I feel it pouring into me to replace what the wolf took. It’s a very strange feeling, like something’s twisting inside of me, like my whole body is changing in a way I don’t understand. It hurts, a lot, but the wolf moves up to lie next to me, as though to embrace me comfortingly.

I black out like that, soaked in blood and moonlight.

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