Song of the Huntress by Lucy Holland

Author:Lucy Holland [HOLLAND, LUCY]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Orbit
Published: 2024-03-20T00:00:00+00:00

20

HERLA

Glestingaburg, Somersæte

Kingdom of Wessex

“I am going alone.”

“No.” Arms outstretched, Corraidhín blocks her path to the door. Herla tries to duck around, but a spear appears in her friend’s hand and knocks her back.

“Corra.” It comes out as a growl. “This is ridiculous. Let me pass.”

“What is ridiculous is your desire to do everything yourself. We are your sisters-in-arms, your blood. We want to help.”

“I hardly need your help to face one wight.”

“It is not about the wight,” Senua says softly. “You walked amongst people, spoke to them. We want to do the same.”

“And look what nearly happened.” Herla shakes her head. “I have already said I cannot go back. None of us can.”

“But…”

She holds up a hand and Senua’s mouth snaps shut. It never used to. Her battle sisters would once have deafened her with indignation until she laughed and threw an arm around the nearest pair of shoulders. They would have gone together. Now they fall silent at the mere raising of her hand. Herla grimaces. She is Lord of the Hunt, and they are her hunters. Why should she be surprised?

Her time with Æthelburg has distracted her, upended her, made her think something could be again when it cannot. Herla stares at their faces. Only Orlaith’s still appears faintly outraged. “You came with me once,” she reminds them in a hard voice. “Are you so eager to do it again?”

It is Corraidhín who breaks the uncomfortable silence that follows. “A compromise, Herla. Take me. I will be your lookout.” But her voice has lost its fire.

They leave after dark, whispers in the larger blackness. Two handfuls of miles to Sceaptun, and the barrow in which she sealed the wight. They pass through the sleeping village, peaceful now, and Corraidhín drinks it in: everything from the squat square houses with their roofs that slope earthwards to the rutted road, beginning to soften under the rains. Her lips are parted, face pale, and Herla wonders whether she looked like that on her first morning in Wiltun. Finding the mundane profound, as if a fresh-baked loaf or stinking straw contained the deepest mysteries. Only now is she awakening to the truth that she has not put the hunter behind her. Watching Æthelburg as she bathed, raking her body with her eyes, touching her so boldly… Herla hunted the queen as she had hunted the spy, as if she had the right. As if Æthelburg were nothing more than prey to be seized.

Disgust at herself spreads through her like poison. Gwyn made me an animal, a mindless predator, and that is how I behaved. It is what I am.

“I sense the wight.”

Corraidhín’s words arrest her, but they do not chase away the disgust, or the pain of wanting Æthelburg despite everything. It is in Herla’s voice when she growls, “Stay here and keep watch.”

Her friend catches her arm. “If Gwyn is behind this, how will you avoid alerting him?”

“Gwyn is not here. He must have loaned his power to Alis.”

“The servant girl?”

Herla nods.

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