Deception (Fabled Hunters Book 2) Page 9

  “Hmm,” King Ruald mused, stroking his beard. “I suppose it’s a pity you didn’t make the final round of the tournament, eh, Sir Reginald? I doubt you would have put us through such grief as a Hunter yourself.”

  The other man who’d been standing by the throne stirred, his lean form still swathed in shadow.

  Isabelle frowned, trying to recall the name. Sir Reginald was the son of Lord Brand, baron of the Western Province. She vaguely remembered the son as a man with long flowing black hair and a handsome smile. All the court ladies had simpered and fawned on him at his last visit. He’d tried to become a Hunter and was unsuccessful, though being the son of a baron still gave him immense prestige and power.

  The man stepped forward. “Yes, my king, I would have made a better Hunter. Most unfortunate this girl won. Ah, well. Perhaps she will do better after she’s been properly . . . what was the word? Disciplined.”

  Isabelle’s blood ran cold at the voice. It was familiar; usually warm and comforting, it was now crisp and steely. She knew that voice.

  The man stalked out of the shadows and smiled at her, his green eyes narrowed in icy amusement.

  Jack.

  19

  Isabelle stared at Jack, unable to tear her gaze away from him. “What in blazes are you doing here?”

  “Silence!” the king roared at her, his dark eyes hot with anger. “Tyro’s already given me a full account of your ridiculous behavior. Are you going to add to that list by disrespecting Lord Brand’s son as well?”

  Isabelle flinched as if the king had struck her. She glanced at him, and then back at Jack again. “But, he’s not . . .” She trailed off. Jack stood there motionless, a smug smile on his handsome face. He was clothed in black, a stark contrast to the paleness of his face. He looked . . . colder, than the last time she saw him.

  “Apologize,” Tyro said. He’d folded his arms across his chest, eyeing her with disapproval. Isabelle knew that look.

  “I’m sorry,” she muttered, unable to look Jack in the eye. The red headed man laughed softly, and Isabelle felt her face flush with shame.

  “To your quarters, then,” Tyro said. “Stay there until you’re called for.”

  It was worse than being a child. Isabelle wordlessly turned, blinking furiously. She would not cry. She could feel the gaze of everyone gathered in the room until she left, walking through the large doors.

  Leaving the palace, she walked to the women’s quarters, wiping away tears that threatened to spill from her eyes. She hadn’t even been allowed to explain herself.

  She didn’t see any sign of Aviina and was just as glad. They hadn’t parted on friendly terms. Throwing her rucksack and bow in the corner of her room, she sat on her bed, letting the tears finally fall. She was exhausted and worn out. She was an utter failure. She desperately hoped her parents wouldn’t hear of this. She felt she would die if they did.

  She already missed Silvan. He said he’d be close by, but where? When would she see him again?

  And what was Jack doing, and more disturbingly, why had the king and Tyro treat him like a guest? Sir Reginald? There had to be some kind of terrible mistake. Jack and Sir Reginald looked nothing alike.

  Isabelle lay crosswise on the bed, her legs dangling off the edge. What was going on?

  She lay there until dusk fell and a knock sounded on her door. She sat up. “Come in.”

  The door opened. It was Tyro. Isabelle scrambled out of bed, bowing hastily. “Sir.”

  “Why, Isabelle?” Tyro walked over to stand across from her, standing next to her small desk. “I don’t understand. You worked so hard. I thought becoming a Fabled Hunter was your dream. Yet your actions say otherwise.” He looked tired, but not angry. Disappointed. “I want to know what changed.”

  Isabelle stared at him, trying to come up with a response, but couldn’t. Her thoughts and emotions were a tangle and she couldn’t seem to sort through them.

  Tyro’s expression darkened at her silence. “Do you wish to stay a Hunter?”

  Isabelle nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  He watched her, eyes narrowed. “You remember the Hunter’s Creed?”

  “Yes, sir.” She knew it by heart.

  “‘Honesty in all things,’” Tyro recited watching her closely. “Where’s the demon?” he asked suddenly. He was testing her.

  Isabelle stared at him, her thoughts racing. No more lies. I wanted this. “In the forest, sir.”

  “Does he have plans to enter the city?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “And you’re the one who freed him in the shadowhold in Erum.” His tone was icy displeasure.

  Isabelle nodded, feeling miserable. “Yes.”

  Tyro tilted his head, a thought coming to him. “The unseen watchers didn’t stop him?”

  “No.” Isabelle’s mood lifted a little, remembering. She didn’t know anything about the unseen watchers of the shadowhold; only that they kept evil from escaping. They were there, she’d felt them watching, but they’d made no move to halt her after she’d aided Silvan. She didn’t know if they had tried to halt Silvan’s departure, but if they had, they were obviously unsuccessful.

  “Yet you knew what he was, and freed him, despite the fact that Fabled Hunters had put them there.” Tyro’s jaw clenched. “Why?”

  “Because he’s not evil, sir,” Isabelle said. “He saved me before that. From a siren.”

  Tyro’s lips thinned, eyeing her with his signature look of disapproval.

  “I promise, he did,” Isabelle said. “That’s why I freed him. I owed him.”

  “That makes no sense,” Tyro said. “He has to be evil. It took me, Aviina, and two other Hunters to contain him. He was in a savage rage, torching the land and tearing down the city wall.” He snorted. “With his bare hands, no less.”

  Isabelle shrugged helplessly. She didn’t feel like it was her place to explain about the curse.

  Tyro was still watching her. “If you recall, I called you a traitor the last time we were together.”

  “Yes, sir.” It came out a strangled whisper. She definitely remembered.

  “I spoke too hastily. I was angry. Your actions were idiotic and unwarranted, but the king is right. You’re young and inexperienced. I think that, with time, you have the potential to become a Hunter. A good one.”

  Isabelle gave a sigh of relief right before he added, “But you still have to be disciplined. You have to be made an example of, to ensure the other Hunters aren’t tempted to follow your example.”

  “How will you do that?”

  “Your position as a Fabled Hunter is temporarily suspended,” Tyro said. “For a month at the very least. Customarily, a Hunter who’s done what you have would be thrown in prison or sent home.”

  Isabelle was unable to suppress a sharp intake of breath. Tyro noticed and his face softened. He placed a hand on the desk. “You won’t be sent home. Normally, we don’t give the females in our group special treatment, but even I have every confidence you will do better. Am I correct in this assumption?” He pinned her with his brown-eyed gaze.

  “Yes, you are, sir,” Isabelle said, nodding hastily. What a relief. “I swear, I’m not trying to be a traitor.”

  “I believe you,” Tyro said. “But I also think you need to be trying a lot harder to fit in.”

  “I will, sir, thank you.” A thought crossed her mind. “I’m not allowed to use the training halls, sir?” She’d need to stay fit during her suspension.

  “You may use the halls when the Hunters are not,” he said. “And if you have the time for it.”

  A tendril of foreboding ran up her spine. “Sir?”

  Tyro sighed, looking away. He was still wearing the full uniform of a Fabled Hunter, and he scrubbed a gloved hand through his hair. “It’s the punishment given to a Fabled Hunter who doesn’t perform their duties, those who walk the fine line of treason. You’re to work as a servant through your suspension.” He saw the expression on her face and shrugged
. “It’s not so bad.” He smiled ruefully. “It happened to me in my first year of being a Hunter, too.”

  Isabelle’s heart lurched painfully against her chest. “Who am I going to be working for?”

  “A noble. The Lady Ilysa. She personally made the request that you serve her, and the king granted it. If you perform your duties satisfactorily, you will be reinstated as a Fabled Hunter.”

  Oh no. Isabelle remembered berating the Seabound woman publicly in the royal gardens. That was the woman watching her so intently in the king’s court. This was not going to be pleasant. “What if she doesn’t find my service to her satisfaction?”

  Tyro looked at her hard. “You’d better make sure it’s satisfactory.” He glanced toward her window, checking the time of the evening. “I have to go. Sir Reginald is going to go through our weapons and select some for his personal use.” He frowned. “Strange, he lost his entire entourage. That had to be quite the bandit attack. We’ll have to secure the roads.”

  Isabelle shook her head, her uneasiness growing stronger. “Sir, that’s not Sir Reginald. I don’t know how any of you can’t tell, but it’s Jack, I swear, it’s Jack.”

  Tyro slammed his hand down on the desk, making Isabelle jump. She bit her tongue.

  “Enough with the lies, Isabelle!” His eyes shone with anger. “Enough!” He took a deep breath before continuing, his voice cold. “You’re to begin your time as a servant tomorrow. Report to Lady Ilysa in the morning.”

  Isabelle wilted under his anger, but this was too important to let go. “Then where is Jack?”

  “I don’t know,” Tyro admitted, his eyes still narrowed as he watched her. “We lost his trail a few miles before we reached the city. I have several Fabled Hunters searching the city and countryside.” He arched an eyebrow, reading her expression. “Honestly, Isabelle, I think I would know if Jack was masquerading as a noble. I’m not an official mage, but I trained under one for years before I became a Hunter. I can sense magic. That is Sir Reginald.”

  Isabelle took a shaky breath, closing her eyes. Jack was loose, in the palace, and no one knew. She was about to become the servant of a woman who hated her. Maybe going home would be better.

  “Hey.” She opened her eyes. Tyro had closed the distance, looking down at her, a gentleness in his eyes that wasn’t there earlier. He put out a hand, gently tilting her chin up. “It won’t be so bad. You’re a Hunter, Isabelle. Think of it as another test. ‘No task is too great.’” Another line from their creed.

  Isabelle gave him a watery smile. “Thanks, Tyro. I mean, sir.”

  Tyro laughed. “You can go back to calling me Hunter Tyro for now. Until you’re back with us.”

  He motioned to her stuff. “This room will be empty until your return, so if you want to keep some things here, that fine, but there’s a servant’s room already available for you for the next month or so.”

  He left a few moments later, closing the door behind him. Isabelle sat on the edge of her bed, trying to calm the waves of despair washing over her.

  20

  Isabelle stepped lightly through the halls, staying close to the wall, her head down. She didn’t want anyone to notice her. Did everyone know about her disgrace or had word not yet spread?

  A passing servant glanced at her, blue eyes curious, and Isabelle flinched, turning her head away.

  She got lost in the palace twice before finding the guest quarters, where Lady Ilysa and her daughter resided. Tyro had given her the location and Isabelle passed the great, blue painted door. Her apartment was the next door down.

  Standing before her own narrow, white painted door, Isabelle took a deep breath. Inhale, exhale. It would almost certainly be smaller than the Hunter’s quarters she was used to, but that was hardly a concern.

  Opening the door, she went in. The apartment was smaller, but not in a bad way. The bed looked nice enough, and there was a small table and chair, as well as a cramped looking wardrobe.

  Isabelle hardly noticed. Jack was lounging in the only chair, his tall frame leaning back in a casual manner, booted feet propped up on the table. He watched her silently, face expressionless, his green eyes glittering.

  They both looked at each other, neither speaking. Isabelle felt both angry and frightened at the same time. How had he done this? How could he fool everyone, including the king?

  Jack broke the silence first. “So, it looks like the noble Hunter has had a change in her fortunes.” Isabelle’s skin crawled at the cold amusement she heard in his voice.

  “How is it that no one can tell who you are?” she asked. She tilted her chin up, feigning pride, but her voice quavered. Jack heard it.

  “Call it magic. Are you frightened?”

  Isabelle shook her head. Jack snorted, and swinging his feet from the table, stood. He strode over to stand before her. She’d forgotten how tall he was, now that he was standing so near. Her head only came up to his chest.

  Jack sneered. “So you’re still a liar.” His face twisted in anger. From this close, it was easy to see his red hair, how it looked frosted on the tips. His eyes were a lighter green now as well, as if frost covered the irises. But the darkness Isabelle remembered was still there, flickering in his vision. “I intend to break you of that.”

  “Good luck.” Isabelle’s hands clenched into fists as she glared up at him.

  Jack arched an eyebrow, arrogance rolling off him in waves. “Now, now, is that how you speak to a noble? Tyro or the king could have said ‘frog’ and you would have jumped. You will do the same for me.” He turned and stalked back to the chair, sitting. He shifted it so he was facing her bed, and motioned to it. “I brought you something.” His tone had changed, sounding almost conversational.

  Isabelle looked at the mattress, only now noticing a basket filled with . . . fabric? She couldn’t tell from the distance. She walked over hesitantly, the hair rising on the back of her neck.

  “Maybe you should have considered a different career choice than that of a Fabled Hunter,” he continued. “A seamstress, perhaps?”

  The basket was filled with shirts. When Isabelle looked at him, confused, he smirked. “They’re shirts that need mending. Your service to Lady Ilysa doesn’t begin until tomorrow. And as I’ve lost my entourage to bandits,” he snickered, “I have yet to be assigned servants. She’s graciously given me permission to employ your abilities as a seamstress.” The smile dropped from his face and his eyes glinted. “Fix them. Now.”

  Isabelle felt a tremor of anger run through her. She hated sewing, and Jack knew it. Isabelle looked at the tear on the first shirt, then checked a second to confirm her suspicions. “These rips are intentional.”

  Jack chuckled, sitting back in the chair like he was getting ready to watch a good show. “Yes, they are. I know you better than anyone, Isabelle.” He laced his long fingers behind his head. “Remember how you humiliated me in front of everyone? Well, now it’s my turn to humiliate you.”

  Jack left after the shirts were mended. It’d taken hours. When Isabelle crawled into bed, her fingers were stinging from countless pricks from the needle. She knew she should feel angry, sad, something, but all she could feel as she closed her eyes was overwhelming relief that she was going to serve Lady Ilysa instead of Jack.

  21

  The relief was very fleeting. When she arrived at Ilysa’s quarters, Lady Ilysa and a young woman were just sitting down to breakfast in their private sitting room.

  “Ah,” Lady Ilysa smiled smugly, eyeing Isabelle over the rim of her teacup. “I see the upstart commoner has been brought to task. It’s small wonder, really. You can’t expect a peasant to do the work of a noble.”

  The younger woman tittered in agreement, putting a biscuit in her mouth. She was probably closer to the Princess Charlotte’s age, sixteen or seventeen. She had sparkling black eyes, and her dark skin had a faint glow to it. Her black hair was curly like her mother’s. She wore a sea-green dress that flared at the waist in a mountain of silk and la
ce. “She’s not much to look at, is she?” she said around a mouthful of crumbs. Her face fell immediately. “Oh dear. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Don’t fret.” Lady Ilysa smiled at her daughter. “You are too kind by half, Jillian.” She waved an imperious hand toward a corner in the room, sneering at Isabelle. “Stand there until you’re called for. You will then take our breakfast trays down to the kitchens.”

  Ears burning, Isabelle curtseyed and moved to where she’d been sent. This would take some getting used to. She clenched her jaw. No. She refused to become used to it. She would bear it, and bear it well, but this was only temporary. She’d be a Fabled Hunter again.

  After taking the trays down, Isabelle returned only for Ilysa to announce she and her daughter were going to go shopping, and Isabelle would come with them. “We’ll need you to carry our things,” she said, fussing with her hair as she tied the ribbons of a ridiculously small hat under her chin. “I won’t have my Jillian overtaxing herself.”

  A few minutes later the three of them were hurrying out of the palace to where a white carriage gilded with gold stood.

  “My Lady Ilysa.” Isabelle knew it was Jack before she even turned around. The tall man stood a few feet away, his face a picture of perfect manners. He bowed politely to Ilysa. “I must thank you again for allowing me the use of your servant and her skills as a seamstress.” His green gaze slid to Isabelle and he smirked. Isabelle frowned back, fists clenched at her side.

  “Sir Reginald.” Lady Ilysa’s voice was breathy with nerves. She curtseyed deeply, her daughter mimicking her. “Isabelle!” The older woman’s tone was shocked, and belatedly Isabelle remembered everyone thought idiot-Jack was the son of a baron. She curtseyed hastily. Jack’s smile deepened, and Isabelle had to fight the urge to smack him upside the head.