Trial and Error

The heretic had chosen to hide beyond the north ridge, just as Father said he would. Relief flooded through the girl-hunter like a sudden release from pain. She flashed a grin at the boy-hunter and he returned it, feathering the pine-dark paint towards his prominent ears. No corner of this mountain, save perhaps the western cliffs, could make for an easier hunt. This time, no mistakes. 

“Father cradle us– I think we can do it this time!” The boy-hunter’s outburst made her wince. She clapped a hand to his mouth and shook her head, feeling the hint of stubble on his lip. He had always been slow to mature, every time. Too many words. 

A moment to redo the knot holding his moss-green cloak in place and she was off, picking her way around the last few shrinking piles of snow. The mud sucked at their soft leather boots, but no matter. Now that their quarry was hiding in the copse beyond the northern ridge it was no longer a game of speed. 

The girl-hunter skittered in among the branches of a sprawling spruce leaning over the edge of the ridge. The boy-hunter moved to follow but whipped his head sharply back the way they’d come. She shook her head and touched two fingers to her lips. “Who walks behind me in the frost?”

“My Father finds what would be lost.” He hesitated, then touched his lips and joined her. 

The teenaged pair surveyed the sea of needles spread before them. Tall granite cliffs ringed the snowy copse, sheer and uninviting, casting most of the land below the ridge into deep shadow. The thick vegetation and stony face provided protection from the chill wind and direct lines of sight, but no escape route. 

She nudged him and pointed straight down the slope towards the whispering trees. A patch of crunchy snow halfway down the hill, gleaming in the moonlight, had been shattered and scattered by clumsy feet. The boy-hunter nodded and started forward but her hand shot out and gripped him by the forearm, the two long, knotted scars across his wrist standing out rough against her palm. She pointed him towards the gentlest part of the slope. “Who waits for those who break and run?” 

In the silence, she could hear the creak of the leather as his grip on his sap tightened. She knew he wasn’t any happier carrying a weapon again than she was, but it had to be done. “My Father counts us, every one,” he said. 

The girl-hunter waited in the drooping arms of the spruce while his footsteps faded away down towards the treeline. Then she slipped out and followed the track straight down, skirting the crackling snow, eyes scanning for signs in the moon-shadows stretching between granite and pine. The mangled remnants of a branch wrestled off at chest height. A patch of bare earth where a palm-sized stone had once rested. Weapons which, in the heretic’s smooth, unscarred hands, might as well be snowdrop blossoms. 

She tilted her head in the boy-hunter’s direction, then took a deep breath. “Who knows my steps and where I’ve been?” she called out. 

The startled rustle of black wings from the trees above her couldn’t mask the jerk of a much larger form closer to the rock face as the heretic broke and ran. He stood a head taller than the boy-hunter, his dirty-blond hair flying free without his hood. She adjusted her path to follow, making sure her quarry stayed between her and the boy-hunter while his brittle voice gave the response. “My Father knows the track I’m in.” 

Deeper into the gently chittering grove they went, slowly driving the heretic on, tree by tree. By the time they reached the man-sized boulder at the end of the valley, the final hiding place, the moon had sunk so low that its light no longer penetrated the pines. More snow lingered down here, unavoidable.

“W-who calls me home through rain and pine?” The boy-hunter’s voice off to her left was high and breathy, but clear enough. Her chest tightened with pride. This time, no mistakes. 

“My Father says the trail is mine.” 

She listened to the scrabble of boots against stone. Waited. A pair of ravens nesting on a ledge high above them cawed down in protest at the noise. More scraping sounds. Pacing. Crunching. 

“You can’t do this!” The heretic’s shout echoed off the cliffs over and over as though he outnumbered them. One of the ravens took flight, showering them all with twigs and leaves they couldn’t see. She could hear the gentle crackling of dry snow in the dark; no running. 

The girl-hunter waited. Delaying until sunrise would only make it easier for the hunters. 

“You c-can’t refuse your Trial. You just can’t. You know what Father says,” the boy-hunter said from the darkness. “And if you don’t do exactly what Father says–”

“I will hunt no one!” 

The girl-hunter rubbed her face, staining her fingertips green. So many words. 

When he tried again, the heretic’s voice was quieter, even, tight with strain. “You don’t have to do this. Just– just listen to me. This can’t go on forever. I can’t do all this again. With all of us together, we–”

“Who walks alone; who goes astray?” Her call drowned him out. The second raven followed the first. She could just make out the outline of wings against the purpling sky. 

Silence. She tilted her head in the boy-hunter’s direction and frowned. Tried again. “Who walks alone; who goes astray?”

“Shut up! Shut up!” A fist slamming against the boulder; a curse. “This is all your fault and you know it! If you hadn’t told… if you hadn’t told… if…” The heretic stifled a sob. 

The girl-hunter closed her eyes and touched two fingers to her lips. She felt the hand on her shoulder, squeezing sharply for just a moment. One last chance. “Who walks alone; who goes astray?” 

A flash of movement from the wrong direction and suddenly she was on her back, breaking through the crust into the loose powder beneath. The breath rushed out of her as a twice-scarred hand pressed down on her neck. The boy was shouting for the heretic to run. The weighted end of her sap whipped up into the boy’s ribs once, twice, but she couldn’t put enough force into it from this angle. And the heretic’s footsteps were fading away. 

“He’s right,” the boy-heretic panted. “Why s-should we go back again? When is it enough? Father c-can’t… c…” 

What little the girl-hunter could make out of the pre-dawn sky was blotted out by a darker shape that dwarfed them both. The boy-heretic’s hand was still against her neck but no longer gripping it. The fingers uncurled, growing shorter and thicker, softer. The weight on her chest lessened rapidly. She drew in a deep breath, watching his head vanish from view into the folds of his cloak. 

The girl-hunter sat up very carefully. With practiced motions, she swaddled the bundle in the boy-heretic’s cloak until nothing but his helpless, cherubic little face was visible. She used a corner of the swaddle to wipe the green-black paint from his cheeks. A long sigh left her. Had she truly believed he was ready this time, or merely hoped? 

The squirming burden lifted from her arms and she was off again, a reddening sky speeding her along. The heretic never had learned to cover his tracks, nor to navigate the woods properly. His trail took him due west. 

The girl-hunter’s hand closed on the heretic’s smooth wrist only steps from the edge of the cliff. He was staring down into the valley far below, at the crowns of the pines stained pink and gold. The calls and cries and laughter of the earliest risers already floated up the cliff to where the girl-hunter and the heretic stood locked hand in hand. Life carrying on. 

He swallowed hard and tried a few times before the words clawed their way up his throat. “Why… why did you have to tell?” 

The girl-hunter blinked to clear the burning from her eyes. Hand still clamped around his smooth wrist, she let her forehead rest against the folds of his cloak on his broad shoulder. Her head shook slowly back and forth. 

The heretic ran his thumb along her wrist, counting aloud as his nail crossed the ridge of each scar. Seven in all. “How can you stand to do all this again and again?

There was only one proper response for a dutiful child. “My Father always finds my way.” 

A shiver ran up his back and twisted through her. He could hear the click of heavy steps on stone as well as she. His shaking hand tightened in hers. 

“Don’t you have any words of your own left?” he whispered. 

The girl-hunter opened her mouth just as Father’s hand settled on her shoulder once more. All she had to do was hold the heretic fast for Father and say nothing. Nothing at all. Father would finally allow her to grow into the True Hunt with blades of steel, where not a word was spoken that had not first come from Father’s own maw. She would leave her disobedient brothers behind to start anew. 

Without her. 

“Only two,” she replied, knowing the cost. And she knew she would never again be so bold. 

There was a long, long sigh from behind them. The girl-heretic squeezed her eyes shut and waited until she felt the hand slip from hers and heard the whimper at her feet. She leaned over and lifted him easily from his too-big leathers and furs; folded his cloak around him; and turned to hold him out. 

The once-heretic settled into the crook of Father’s arm, chin trembling ominously. Threat turned to earsplitting wail as a claw raked slowly down his perfect little wrist. The thrice-heretic in another arm startled from his half-doze at the noise and his bloody thumb popped from his mouth. His third scar had already started to scab. 

The girl-heretic resisted the urge to shield her eyes at the golden sheen of dawn reflected in Father’s glorious carapace. She held out her wrist and clamped her mouth shut as she received her eighth mark. Long arms encircled her as the reborn stared, uncomprehending. How lost they looked now. In time, they would learn to look to her again. 

Father’s rumbling voice was patient as always, gentle, with only a touch of reproach that she knew she deserved. “Who knows me when I’m not the same?”

“My Father will return my name.” She smiled as her world grew, the hood and cloak now vast and comforting around her. The same claw that had marked her failure moved oh so gently to enclose her in a warm cocoon once more. 

Next time, no mistakes.