Page 65 of The Great Hunt
The woman wiped her eyes and nodded, touching her throat. Then she clutched the door handle and left them.
Paxton was so confused. He felt as if he’d done something good. He’d never felt more alive. . . . Nothing had ever been so right. So why were tears streaming down his grandmother’s face?
“What have I done wrong, Grandmother? I didn’t mean to upset you. I . . . I couldn’t help myself.”
“I know, dear. I know all too well. That urge to mend what’s broken.” She sat on her wooden stool and pulled him to her knees, taking his face in her wizened hands. “Oh, Paxton. I had so hoped the lineage would die with me.”
Tiern rushed in at that moment, covered in sand with salt water in his hair. “Come see my best sand castle ever, Grandmama!”
“I’ll be right there, sweet boy. Run along.”
Tiern rushed out and she turned to Paxton again. She raised his small hands and looked at his fingertips. Paxton stared, confused. Strange purple lines ran along the bottom of his nails. “What is that?”He pulled his hands away and rubbed his thumbnail. “Why won’t it come off?” A sickening sensation filled his gut as his grandmother stared at him with pity.
“The mark will move up and disappear as your nails grow out. You shall stay with me until those lines go away. I have much to tell you and it must remain our secret. Not even your mum, your papa, or little Tiern can know. I’m sorry you must bear this curse, precious boy. So terribly sorry . . .”
As dawn finally broke, a fat squirrel poked its face out of the crevasse of a nearby tree, nose twitching at the silent morning. Paxton moved with slow patience, drawing his bow, watching the animal creep its way onto the slippery branch. Before it could retreat back into its warm hole, Paxton shot. The squirrel let out a small bark and fell to the ground.
Paxton leaped to his feet and retrieved their breakfast. Back at their makeshift shelter, he skinned the small creature, all the while silently thanking it for giving its life to sustain them, by choice or not. He made a crisscross of larger, slower burning sticks on top of the fire to cook their meal. At the sizzle of meat, Tiern gave a cough and Harrison moaned beside him. They’d both been restless the past couple hours, but never opened their eyes.
Tiern rubbed his face and looked down at his hands, slowly closing them and stretching them open again. He cracked his neck, then twisted side to side to crack his back.
“By the seas, Pax.” Tiern’s voice was brittle. “Did wetruly wander into the ridgelands last night?”
“Aye.” He gave the squirrel a quarter turn over the flames with a stick.
“You made a fire?” Harrison asked, coming to life at the end of their row. He leaned down to poke at his ankle, grimacing.
Paxton cleared his throat, hoping his brother couldn’t read his lies. “I had flint. Found some dry wood sheltered by a fallen log that way.” He jerked his head to the side, ignoring Tiern’s questioning eyes narrowed on him.
Paxton glanced down at his dirty hands, at the fingertips he’d muddied hours ago after building the fire. He crossed his arms, shoving his hands into hiding.
“I had the strangest imaginings. . . .” Tiern stared down at the fire.
“I’m sure you did,” Paxton said. “Only dreams. You were laughing to yourself like a nutter, completely frozen, and then you fell fast asleep.”
Harrison chuckled, giving his ankle a gingerly turn.
“How’s it feel now?” Tiern asked him.
“Better. Still tender, but I think the cold was actually good for it.” He stood carefully, and nodded. “I’ll make it back today, perhaps at the speed of a turtle.”
Slow suited Paxton. He was ill of mind that morning. First, it felt as though he’d let the beast slip through his fingers, simply handing it to the Ascomannians, and then . . . then he’d done the unthinkable—the thing he’d promised hisgrandmother he’d never do—the thing that could get him killed. But he’d kept his brother and the lieutenant alive. That was what mattered. The only thing he regretted was the fact that he lived in an age with ridiculous laws and prejudices.
Paxton stood, suddenly angry all over again. He could feel Tiern watching him as he paced over frosted leaves and icy twigs. He squatted to turn the squirrel on the fire, and looked out at the forest around them, dipping downward at a slope. As the sun rose, it made the ice glitter on the trees, and slowly the sounds of droplets hitting the forest floor began as melting temperatures set in.
He didn’t want to return to Lochlanach. He didn’t want to face the people who’d rather see his brother freeze to death than to be kept warm by the use of magic. He didn’t want to hear the land’s uproar of hysteria if they found out one of the hunters was Lashed, and they were bound to find out if he didn’t stay in hiding for as long as it would take his nails to grow out. Lochlans, even the fishermen and farmers, prided themselves on keeping clean hands in the off hours for that very reason.
To prove they weren’t like him.
“You all right?” Harrison asked. Paxton realized his hands were in his hair, grasping at the long strands that had fallen out of the tie.
“Fine,” he said, dropping his hands. He nodded at the squirrel, which was browned now. “It’s ready to eat.”
Tiern set to work on their breakfast, dividing the smallamount of meat and innards. He tried to hand some to Paxton, who shook his head.
“You’ve got to eat,” Tiern told him.
“I’m fine for now.” He couldn’t explain to his brother the buzz of clean energy that surged through him since he’d worked magic—as if years had been added to his life. He felt like a much younger lad, and it made him realize that he, too, would age quickly, just as his grandmother and other Lashed did when they didn’t use their powers.
