

Queen of all the Knowing World

Jon Jacks

Other New Adult and Children's books by Jon Jacks

The Caught – The Rules – Chapter One – The Changes – Sleeping Ugly

The Barking Detective Agency – The Healing – The Lost Fairy Tale

A Horse for a Kingdom – Charity – The Most Beautiful Things (Now includes The Last Train)

The Dream Swallowers – Nyx; Granddaughter of the Night – Jonah and the Alligator

Glastonbury Sirens – Dr Jekyll's Maid – The 500-Year Circus – The Desire: Class of 666

P – The Endless Game – DoriaN A – Wyrd Girl – The Wicker Slippers

Heartache High (Vol I) – Heartache High: The Primer (Vol II) – Heartache High: The Wakening (Vol III)

Miss Terry Charm, Merry Kris Mouse & The Silver Egg – The Last Angel – Eve of the Serpent

Seecrets – The Cull – Dragonsapien – The Boy in White Linen – Porcelain Princess – Freaking Freak

Died Blondes

Coming Soon

The Truth About Fairies

Text copyright© 2015 Jon Jacks

All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. It remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes.

Thank you for your support.

# Chapter 1

Imp was worried: she could hear the roaring of the enraged buisoar, yet she couldn't detect even a trace of the cajoling cries of her father and brother anymore.

She stood up on the seat of the cart, notching an arrow in her bow.

It would be useless, of course: it wouldn't even bring down a _baby_ buisoar.

Besides, it would be her father who would be enraged if she did manage to kill it. All that dangerously, painstakingly prepared meat going to waste just like that – killed by surprise, rather than when fully incensed and fighting for its life.

Even from her raised position, Imp couldn't completely see over the top of the thick covering of bushes lying between the trees. She could, however, see the violent movement taking place amongst them. The sure signs of something both incredibly large and brutal pummelling its way through.

Small trunks snapped, bushes toppled. Branches were scattered high into the air, with a reverberating crack after crack.

The buisoar shouldn't be running so freely at this point, Imp realised.

Her father and brother had been stalking it, goading it, for hours. They should have strung enough thick nets amongst the bushes by now. Stealthily corralling it into an area where they could finally risk moving in to kill the great beast.

Cornered, a buisoar was more dangerous than ever: but that, as her father always boasted to his clients, also made for the best meat.

The blood rushed through to every part of its being, saturating its flesh, muscle and innards with its most nutritionally intuitional essences. A diet of joints from his slab was guaranteed to enhance anyone's Knowing abilities. It was a claim backed by his right to call himself the Official Supplier of Intuitionally-Rich Meats to the nearest of the Imperial Colleges of Knowing.

The wild headlong rush of the buisoar within the bushes was nosier, more obvious, nearer.

As Imp had originally feared, it was rushing towards her: no doubt having detected her scent.

Now she could clearly see that the toppling bushes were mostly falling her way. The trodden track in the undergrowth the buisoar was leaving in its wake was rapidly snaking her way.

She raised her bow in readiness, breathed in.

She tried to calm herself.

To think only, purely, of the flight of the arrow. Its target of the eye.

To become as one with the bow. As one with the arrow.

Even as it left her fingers.

It must remain a part of her mind. An element of life she will still be in control of. Still determine.

The buisoar's eye is incredibly small. Its massive surroundings are also ridiculously heavily armoured. The skin of a buisoar's extended skull is its most formidable defence – and that on a creature with skin a hand's width deep on its supposedly weak rear.

_Know_ your enemy.

_Know_ its weakness.

_Know_ that it is that weakness you are aiming for.

_Know_ that you are capable of this.

Know, she thinks, unwisely, that dad will kill you if you kill it for no other reason than it's going to kill you!

_Damn_!

Think _straight_ girl! _Quickly_!

This thing moves like a stallion!

_Know_ your-

'Yahayyyha!'

With a triumphant cry, Imp's brother Hoak suddenly leapt from a tree's leafy, overhanging branch. With another excited whoop, he dropped down onto the humped back of the oncoming buisoar.

Using the momentum of his fall, Hoak sharply dug the hook in his left hand into the beast's thick neck. With a stern grunt, he pulled his legs and knees in tightly, forcing the barbs on the inner parts of his shoes and trousers deep into the buisoar's hide.

The buisoar, while continuing its headlong charge, also bucked fiercely, an attempt to remove this abruptly imposed, unwanted burden.

Hoak clung on, his barbs and hook deeply embedded. Leaning forward, he reached out with the much larger hook he held in his right hand. He looped it down towards one of the buisoar's ears, tucked behind its armoured face-shield.

Wrenching back hard on the hook, he violently jerked it up, sinking it deeply into the entrance to the ear trumpet.

Feeling the hook begin to sink in, Hoak gleefully readied himself to click the handle's switch. Clicking the switch would release the heavy spring in the barbed end, firing it like a dart up into the beast's brains.

From deep within the forest, there came a sharp blast of a hunting horn. It wasn't just any horn, either; it was the vibrant wail reserved only for the queen's hunting party.

Hoak started a little in surprise; not much, but enough to cause him to slightly alter the angle of the hook. Just, too, as he fired the dart.

The beast shuddered. It gave a howl of surprised agony, the barbed dart tearing through the soft cells of its brain.

But the firing of the barb didn't, as it was supposed to do, as it would usually do, bring the buisoar down.

The beast continued on its thundering charge.

Hurtling directly towards Imp and the cart.

*

# Chapter 1

1,000 Years Later

Desri felt both incredibly proud and incredibly sad.

Mounted on his horse, his pennanted lance held high, his perfectly circular shield strapped to his back, Cranden looked every inch the warrior he'd always wanted to be.

His helmet sparkled in the sun, its long plume of dyed horse hair flowing out behind him like a blaze of fire.

Desri was thankful that she'd tied her expensive silk scarf to his horse's harness when they'd finally had to part. Otherwise, how would she recognise him amongst so many hundreds of almost identically dressed men?

Despite the closely surrounding, loudly cheering crowds, Desri tried to keep pace with Cranden's languidly trotting horse. Running around the back of everyone where it was possible, squirming apologetically through them wherever they stretched too far back.

Naturally, like all the other men in his troop, Cranden had to keep looking straight ahead. Whenever he managed a fleeting, strained sidelong glance, however, he caught Desri gaily waving to him; and he would smile warmly for her.

At least she wasn't crying, he thought.

Not like she had earlier, when they'd held each other for what might be the last time. It would, at least, be for months, maybe even years.

Maybe, even, for ever.

The chances were high that he would be one of the many unfortunate men who always failed to return from these missions to hold the pass to the Blue-table Plain, the only thing separating them from the aggressive Prenderean Empire.

There were innumerable weeping people amongst the crowd. Girlfriends, like Desri. Wives, mothers, children. And yes, even fathers.

But even most of these began to look up excitedly, to cheer, when they saw that the queen herself was riding deep within the procession.

Desri couldn't see the queen yet. Even so, she could hear the clarion call of the horns that would be following on behind her.

Besides, Desri wasn't interested. She was still trying to keep up with Cranden. Still trying to attract his attention with a wave, even the odd jump. Hoping this would raise her high enough above the rest of the crowd for him to see her.

Eventually, Desri could run no farther.

Not because she was exhausted – even though, yes, she was indeed exhausted from all the running, all the excitement, sadness, and fear – but because the milling crowd had at last formed a completely impenetrable barrier before her.

She tried to dodge around a number of the nearest people, but they refused to move. They irately protested that they couldn't move, because they too were constrained by everyone massing about them.

Desri screwed up her face in frustration. She craned her neck to peer over the rapidly increasing number of heads blocking her view of the disappearing Cranden.

She couldn't tell where he was anymore, her silk scarf hidden from sight by his own body. He was, finally, just one of many similarly dressed riders, one of the hundreds in the serpentine procession slowly winding its way out through the town's great gates.

A trembling blast of horns alerted Desri to the nearby presence of the queen, whose part of the procession was now passing her section of the crowd. Now that the queen was so close, Desri suddenly couldn't take her eyes off her: she was unbelievably magnificent, truly inspirational in her whole appearance.

She wore a snowstorm-white armour, sparkling with both silver and the pure, bright light of thousands of stars. She carried her white helmet in the crook of an arm. With her other hand, she held her own lance as perfectly upright as any warrior. Its large red banner flickered like a fire in the light breeze flowing across the square.

The same breeze caressed the queen's long hair, hair almost as red as the banner. It drifted behind her in an even more flame-like fluttering, for it sparked as it caught the sun.

The queen's mount was as white as her armour. Its neck was elegantly, imperiously arced. Its hooves rose high in the air, coming down with a light clop.

The horse trotted along with an air of complete confidence and pride. It was only lightly armoured, being draped instead with flowing white veils and decorative blooms.

Suddenly, the queen's head whirled in Desri's direction. Across all those many people, that great distance, Desri sensed their eyes briefly locking.

_Know_ this; you are destined for greatness!

As quickly as that arrogant thought had entered Desri's head, it vanished.

It could only, after all, have been her foolish imagination. The queen wasn't even looking her way, let alone picking her out from amongst the vast crowd to grace her with particular attention and flattery.

The queen rode on, waving gaily at the crowd as a whole, not as individuals.

Despite how admirable the queen looked, however, at that moment Desri couldn't help but hate her.

It was for her that Cranden was heading off to war.

And it was for her that he might die.

*

# Chapter 2

1,000 Years Earlier

_Know_ what you want to achieve.

Imp steadied her splayed feet. Steadied her bow. Steadied her _mind_.

She had to sense, rather than see, where the buisoar's eye might be. Going by how high Hoak was, how swiftly he was coming towards her.

Continually smoothly shifting her bow, she kept the arrow aimed at that highly-probable point in space.

As the buisoar broke through the edge of the thick undergrowth, revealing the massive beast in all its magnificent, fearsome bulk, she didn't stop to think that her guess was slightly off.

All that was in her mind was the beast's eye, her arrow point reaching out to it across a short space of time and distance.

She instinctively – not with any thought, any reason, which would only get in the way, spoil her aim, spoil the _naturalness_ of it all – shifted the aim slightly. _Sensing_ that this was right.

She let the arrow fly.

_Know_ that you _will_ die, buisoar!

The arrow slid home with a joyful hiss into the beast's eye.

*

# Chapter 2

1,000 Years Later

The way Desri told it, Cranden was easily the most handsome man in the whole procession.

That, of course, was exactly what his parents wanted to hear.

He'd had no doubts about the mission when they'd talked before he'd left, she added brightly. She excused herself for the lie.

The Frendens had already lost a daughter, Cranden's elder sister.

To lose Cranden too would be too much. Even for a couple who had become as hardened as anybody could be to the vagaries and unfairness of life.

What made his leaving even worse for them, of course, was that even if Desri's father had given them permission to say goodbye to their son, Cranden wouldn't have wanted them there. He was too angry with them, too ashamed.

'What's this?' Desri's father flung the door open angrily. 'We've got customers out here! Customers who're dying for a drink!'

There was no point in Desri accusing her father of being drunk again. He was always drunk. Naturally, owning a tavern didn't help. Neither did losing a wife to the Disappearance.

Offering humble apologies, the Frendens bowed and nodded their heads subserviently. They jumped up from their seats. As Desri's father half stumbled aside, the Frendens rushed for the door that would lead them to the area behind the tavern's bar.

With an irate frown, Desri made to follow them. But her father held a hand hard against her chest, stopping her.

'You, you stay!' he growled. 'I think I've seen enough consorting with slaves for today!'

'You don't have to _look_!' Desri snapped back disrespectfully.

She vainly tried to step aside, step around his restraining hand.

'I can't _help_ seeing you cavorting with their _slave_ son!'

'He bought his freedom, remember?'

'And we all know how his mother raised the money to buy his freedom!' her father snarled in reply. 'Entertaining my customers after hours! Every hour she could too, going by the money she raised!'

'She did it for _him_! For Cranden!'

'And does he appreciate that? Being the son of a whore? Rather than a slave?'

'Thanks to her – and Jaben for allowing it, even though it was tearing him apart – Cranden's a warrior now! Protecting our borders from the Prendereans!'

'Hah, well at least I can thank our glorious queen for _that_ , can't I now? Or are you really fooling yourself he's going to return from this fool's mission, girl? Hardly anyone else ever does!'

'He's brave, strong. Well trained! He's got a better chance than most!'

'And just how many young men do you think go off to war thinking the same thing? That's why our queen always sends the young off to die – they're still stupid enough to think they have a charmed life! One that's always going to be free from the troubles besetting the rest of us poor mortals!'

'I _saw_ the queen! Despite how you've always described her, how you always loath her, I must say I was quite impressed! She's _magnificent_. There's no doubt about it!'

Grimacing furiously, Desri's father raised a hand high to slap her face hard.

Desri didn't flinch, apart from an unintentional blinking of her eyes.

Her father struggled to regain control, thought better of it.

He dropped his hand.

'Don't you understand yet that – somehow, I don't know how, but _somehow_ – that odious woman's the one who's responsible for your poor mother just vanishing like that?'

'Mother could have run away from _you_. Can't you accept _that_?'

She'd said it to hurt him. She knew it wasn't true.

She could remember that he hadn't always been this way; always drunk, always bitter and angry with life. It was only since they'd lost her mother that he'd turned into this monster she no longer recognised as her father.

He didn't look like a monster now. He wasn't angry anymore.

He looked as if he'd been broken once more. This time by his own daughter's cruel lie.

Desri immediately regretted her hurtful comment.

'Dad, I'm sorry.'

She reached out towards him, embraced him. She felt the hard, heavy sobs building in his body.

She cried too.

'We don't know why people just Disappear like that, Dad. No one does!'

It was a frighteningly common occurrence, the way a man or woman (it was, thankfully, rarely a child) would seem to simply vanish off the earth. Leaving no message behind, no clues as to where they might have disappeared to.

The authorities seemed equally baffled by these occurrences. Their only role appeared to be one of reassurance. No, they would proclaim defiantly: these people have _not_ being lost to the illegal activities of the Officer Training Academy, as many continue to suspect.

'Not Mum, not Clearen–'

Desri's dad furiously pulled back from her, cutting her short.

'Don't you _dare_ go sullying your mother's name! Linking her Disappearance with the _legitimate_ hunting of a slave!'

'Dad, Clearen vanished just like Mum did, not–'

'No no! Clearen was a _slave_! The young officers have every right to hunt a slave down! But not your _mum_!'

'You were never offered compensation! You never went _asking_ for it!'

'I...I...'

He was lost for words. He knew Desri was right.

If he really believed the Frendens' daughter had been lost to the Officer Training Academy, he could have notified their official body of Clearen's loss. He could have demanded a 'Triple E' – an 'Exercise Expedience Expenses' payment.

His confusion abruptly vanished, replaced by intense anger once more.

'This _witch_ , Desri! You see how she's even coming between you and me, father and daughter? The _power_ she has! Thousands of years she's ruled now, Desri! Never aging! It's her, don't you see? _She's_ responsible for the Disappearance. She bathes in their blood! _Feasts_ on their flesh, like they're some buisoar–'

'These are all just evil rumours, dad! Stupid myths!'

Desri knew from experience that it was useless to try and reason with her father over this. She'd decided she would have to try yet again anyway.

'It's not just young people who vanish! Not just women!'

To Desri's surprise, her father paused a while, as if considering this. Even more surprisingly, he nodded. The despondent agreement of a broken man.

'Yes, yes...you're probably right, Desri.'

He reached out to her once more, crying again as they held each other lovingly.

'It...it's just that I miss her _so_ much, Desri!'

'I know, Dad, I know. We _all_ miss her.'

The door behind them swung open as Jaben apologetically peered around it.

'Sorry, master; there's a lord, just returned from hunting. He says he has fresh buisoar meat you might wish to purchase.'

*

# Chapter 3

1,000 Years Earlier

As Imp's arrow sank deeply into the charging buisoar's eye, the beast instantly began to stumble.

It crumpled on rapidly sagging legs.

Hoak wrenched his trouser-barbs free of the flesh. He let go of the handles of the hooks.

They were all actions he'd been preparing for, had his own method of bringing down the beast worked as successfully as it was supposed to.

He leapt free of the falling beast as it began to topple forward.

Too many butchers had been lost to an already successfully killed buisoar that had simply crushed them in its own death throes.

Imp had presumed that Hoak would be fine. That he'd done this so many times he'd simply absorb most of the impact in a roll.

Jumping down from the cart, she darted towards the great beast as it slewed to an abrupt halt before her.

Focusing her entire mind on the strength she needed in her right arm, she firmly grasped the feathered end of the deeply embedded arrow. She wrenched back on it, with all the power she could bring to this one, single action.

Thankfully, the arrow slid free, bloodied and slippery. Quickly, she slid it back into the quiver strapped across her back, intending to clean it later.

'Thanks, Imp! Great shot!'

Desri turned around to face Hoak. He drew up alongside her, giving her a grateful pat on the back.

'Don't tell Dad–'

'Don't worry,' he grinned. 'I won't. Besides, I think it was angry enough, don't you?'

He chuckled elatedly as he patted the beast's ridiculously thick hide.

'Hoak, Hoak! You _did_ it! Well _done_ boy!'

Their father ran up alongside the massive bulk of the fallen buisoar.

'Imp, what're _you_ doing here without the equipment?' he continued excitedly.

He looked towards the nearby cart. Their heavily blinkered and nose covered horse thankfully remained oblivious to the nearby presence of the beast.

'Not that it looks like you've far to bring it today,' Imp's father added merrily.

He fluttered his hands before him, urging Imp into immediate action.

'Quick, quick girl: there's no time to lose! And we'd better tie Greny up somewhere farther away: or she'll end up sensing our butchering despite her food bag and blind!'

*

'What happened?' Imp asked curiously as she prepared the scales and its timer. 'Did it bypass the nets?'

It happened regularly in buisoar hunts: the short, metal nets were strewn across the wood only as a means of corralling the beast into an area where it could be controlled, enraged, and killed, preferably at close quarters. The netters employed to do this were generally highly skilled themselves, but there were always gaps the more intelligent beasts could work their way through.

Once an enraged beast had escaped, it had to be killed quickly: before it calmed down, losing all the most intuitional juices that had flowed through it; before it _didn't_ calm down, and killed someone.

As he swiftly, deftly, hacked away at the great bulk of meat lying before him, her father nodded sourly. There was no time to spend just chatting, or even congratulating oneself on the completion of a successful hunt. Every second counted.

The scales' timers would actually measure when a certain piece was cut off the freshly killed animal, the quicker it was done ensuring the higher prices, the best cuts of meat.

Even so, it wasn't a job that could be done by just anyone, even though it appeared to be a simple procedure of cutting away at dead flesh: in a sense, the meat was still regarded as alive, alive with its highest levels of intuitional essences. And so all this was regarded as being more of a surgical operation, cleaving the meat at just the right points that would ensure no undue loss of the knowledge-rich blood.

Getting dirt, even insects, on the meat didn't matter. All this could be washed off as you packed the joints into the large boxes of salted-hay they had on the back of the cart. 'Time is of the Essence' was the unofficial motto of the Guild of Intuitionally-Rich Meat Butchers.

'Dad and the netters delayed it while I rushed on ahead,' Hoak explained further, while continuing to sever the flesh every bit as efficiently and hurriedly as his father.

That explained, too, Imp thought, the earlier, noisy shuffling of what she'd mistakenly assumed to be a panicked deer running through the undergrowth.

'How did you know it would be heading this way?' Imp asked suspiciously.

As she breathed in the foul smell of the animal dung Hoax and her father had covered themselves in to hide their scent from their prey, she was already wondering if she knew the answer to her own question.

Hoak and her father swapped fleeting, embarrassed glances.

'Bait: you used me as bait, didn't you?' Imp answered for them irately. 'You knew it was close enough to pick up my scent!'

'You were never in any _real_ danger,' her father insisted, adding, as a means of changing the conversation, 'Look, Imp, take the money from the cart and go off and pay the netters, could you? Give them a bit extra, too, for endangering themselves helping me delay it.'

'And do _I_ get a bit extra for being endangered too?' Imp asked cheekily.

Her father rewarded her with a spray of blood from his flicked knife.

'You might get something for giving me extra lip, girl,' he chuckled.

Their laughing was brought to a sudden, anxious halt when they all heard the urgent blast of the queen's hunting horn.

They'd forgotten all about its earlier calling. Now it sounded like the hunting party was nearer and, worse by far, perhaps heading towards where their own hunting nets had been splayed out amongst the trees.

'Get to the netters, quick,' Imp's father nervously ordered her. 'Let's hope they're getting those nets down quickly; or we might end up catching ourselves an angry queen!'

*

# Chapter 3

1,000 Years Later

'Has it been expertly butchered?'

Desri's father looked uneasily at the bared piece of buisoar meat he'd partially uncovered. It was just one of a number of massive pieces he was being shown on the back of a large cart, each one wrapped in canvas, cloth or even silks – anything that the hunting party had been able to gather between them to protect the meat. It was expensive packaging, but prime, fresh buisoar meat would fetch an enviable price.

'It's only just been killed.'

The lord seemed more than a little annoyed that Desri's father was questioning him as if he were nothing but a common tradesman. Then again, as he was wanting to deal in buisoar meat, that was what he had indeed briefly become, no matter how distasteful he might find it.

'How "only"?' a young man confidently asked. 'Do you have a scale and timer?'

When passing through the bar, Desri's father had asked a regular customer if he'd mind casting an expert eye over the meat the lord was offering to sell him.

The lord recognised the small Guild insignia embroidered on the young man's jerkin. Ignoring the butcher's query, he spoke directly to Desri's father once more.

'Half price: to you, half what you'd normally pay for meat like this. Hunted and killed by lance and pack hounds, isn't that right, Barane?'

He turned to a much younger yet equally expensively dressed man.

'That's right, father,' the boy replied imperiously. 'Though why these people should be doubting your word in any way, I'm not entirely sure!'

He cast a scornful eye over everyone who had come out into the yard from the tavern, including Desri and Jaben.

Desri noticed that Jaben was trying hard to hide his loathing for the young boy. Little wonder – the boy proudly wore a cloak bearing the emblem of the Officer Training Academy.

Even if Clearen had suffered the Disappearance, rather than being abducted and killed by the boy's corps, as Desri's own father thought, the trainees were expected to make a night-time raid on a nearby town and murder a slave as an important part of their military education.

Of course, some of the more excitable and crueller young boys weren't satisfied by even this horrific right. They liked adding to their tally, as if it were a competitive game amongst them. Barane had the sneering look, a certain arrogant air about him, that gave Desri the distinct impression that he would be an avid player of this cruel, thoughtless game.

It didn't go unnoticed by Barane that Desri's father ignored him.

'A lance?' With a doubtful pursing of his lips, Desri's father looked to the young butcher for his opinion.

The butcher similarly appeared doubtful.

'It _can_ work, provided the beast's enraged enough, but...'

He shrugged his shoulders, his voice fading off, a sign of his lack of certainty that he could safely vouch for the meat's quality.

Desri's father looked to the lord once more.

'Perhaps not enraged; perhaps not fresh; _definitely_ not expertly butchered...'

The lord's eyes flared angrily.

Desri was surprised that she seemed to instinctively know what this angry flaring of the eyes implied.

The lord was tempted to use the Knowing, was fighting that temptation.

Using the Knowing as part of a transaction was a capital offence, one of many such punishments enforced by the empire. It was regarded as a particularly heinous offence to use such skills when conducting any trading involving something as important for the empire's survival as the preparation or sale of buisoar meat.

'We'll take it elsewhere,' the lord snapped furiously, throwing the cover back over the meat.

Desri's father answered his threat with nothing more than a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders.

Barane observed them all with a loathing surpassing even Jaben's hate for him.

He smiled, as if he had thought of the perfect way to avenge his father's humiliation.

*

# Chapter 4

1,000 Years Earlier

Imp ran as fast as she could towards the area where her father had said she would find the maze of nets strewn throughout the bushes.

She couldn't just hear the horn's harsh blare now. She could also hear the angry, excited howling of a pack of hounds closely pursuing their prey.

Glancing over towards where she could hear the noise coming from, Imp caught flashes of pure white amongst the thick, mainly green undergrowth. With a burst of breaking braches and twigs, a beautiful white hind broke through a clump of bushes.

Imp instinctively shouted out in warning, even though she realised it was useless.

The poor hind was heading towards an array of nets. She slammed into one, the net wrapping around her the more she frantically struggled to free herself.

The pack of furiously yapping dogs immediately followed her into the net's iron clutches, barging into the wire, into the soft flesh of the hind, into each other. They tore and rived at their captive victim, transforming white skin into increasingly bloodied meat.

Although horrified and sickened, Imp hung back, terrified that the frenziedly attacking dogs might set on her if she drew too close.

With a frightened whinnying, the surprised shout of a man, a richly garbed rider and his horse plunged headlong into another net, sending him toppling to the floor. Nearby, another net pinged metallically as a second rider and his mount thudded into it. A rider following close behind careered into them, also instantly becoming entangled.

As more charging riders from the hunt slammed into the nets, the panicked netters ran urgently around trying to rip down the remaining nets strung between the trees, or help those already caught untangle themselves. Imp dashed towards the nearest net containing its wriggling catch of a wealthily dressed lord, only to receive a furious curse from him for ruining the queen's hunt.

Imp glanced worriedly about her, looking for any sign of an entrapped queen.

If the queen was humiliated in the same way as this lord, her father would be in very serious trouble. Leaving the entrapped lord to be rescued by a pair of swiftly approaching netters, Imp broke into a run once more, searching for the queen, wondering how she would be able to apologise enough for what had happened to her.

The whole scene was one of chaos, with riders everywhere trapped within the strong nets, like wildly coloured insects frantically squirming in a great many spiders' webs.

Imp sighed with relief when she at last caught sight of the queen, for her majesty was still mounted. She had obviously drawn her mount to a halt before plunging into any net.

'You girl! You're in charge here, yes?'

Amongst all these relatively poor netters, only Imp would have a highly tangible aura of Knowing about her. Even amongst all this panic and shock, the queen had sensed that.

On her massively powerful white steed, with her mass of fiery red hair blowing about her, the queen was a terrifying, imposing figure.

'Yes, yes your majesty.'

Imp fell to her knees before the queen, bowing her head low, ashamedly.

'Is _she_ the one responsible for all this mess?'

This was a man's voice, angry but also surprised.

Imp glanced up. The queen had been joined by another impressively mounted rider, this one a lord wearing expensively embroidered clothes. Even so, his dress paled in comparison to the pure white riding clothes being worn by the queen. Her cloak flowed in the wind like a foaming sea.

'Not her specifically, I guess, Lord Krag. You're butchers, yes?' the queen demanded of Imp sternly. 'Have you got your licence with you?'

'Yes, yes, your majesty.'

Reaching into the inner pocket of her work jerkin, Imp nervously extracted the signed documents proving their right to hunt the buisoar.

Rising to her feet at last, Imp reached up to hand the documents to the queen, thanking the great good reason of the Knowing that her father had had the sense to leave them with her while he and Hoak went hunting.

'Bow to your queen when–'

'Lord Krag, she can hardly bow when I've asked her to hand them to me, can she now?'

Imp was both thankful and a little shocked to hear a slight chuckle in the queen's admonishment of the lord.

'If the documents are in order – which yes, they seem to be – then all this must be put down to being nothing but an unfortunate event.'

Having quickly scanned the documents, the queen neatly folded them. Leaning low in her saddle, she handed them back to a grateful Imp.

Imp thought she had never seen a more stunningly beautiful lady.

No wonder her emblem was the All Knowing White Swan. Her eyes alone where remarkable in their gorgeousness, their hues of kingfisher green and blu–

Too late, Imp realised she had allowed the queen to Know her.

She sensed the queen's Knowing rapidly flowing into her, like water into an empty vessel, spilling everywhere, reaching into every corner of her being.

She was dazed, frozen.

The queen could, if she wished, fool her now into doing anything she wanted her to do; and she would believe it was her very own intention all along.

At least, Imp thought, I've learnt enough to know that. Learnt enough to know how to remember that fact even as the Knowing swirls through me, to fight it if–

The contact broke.

Damn!

Did the queen read what she was just thinking?

Probably!

The queen was observing with a wry smile. A _Knowing_ smile.

Imp felt herself blush.

This was dangerous, very very dangerous.

If the queen suspected that – or worse, had even found out, while whirling through her very being – that Imp had been reading about the Knowing: well, as her father had warned her so many times, she would be regarded as being guilty of making plans to rise above her station.

She had hoped she had learnt enough to block any inquisitive flood of Knowing: but, against the queen, she had been no better than a rabbit petrified by an attacking fox.

She had even let the queen lock eyes with her, a sure invite to anyone with even the most minimal Knowing ability to slip inside you.

'You seem to have achieved a surprisingly high level of Knowing for someone of your station,' the queen stated, keeping her voice free of any tone or emotion demonstrating how she felt about this.

'I do my lady?'

Imp tried to sound as innocent as she could. But she was deeply worried; how much had the queen managed to learn about her in that brief moment her Knowing had flowed around inside her?

Probably a ridiculous amount, if the queen's ability was everything she'd heard people claiming it to be.

'Do I detect that you're getting above your station, girl?'

The lord eyed her suspiciously. Once again, Imp couldn't be sure just how much such a high ranking lord would be able to sense her ability at Knowing just by observing her.

Those of a high ability were supposed to be capable of detecting even the very lowest Knowing skills in a person, for it surrounded the entire body in a faded aura. This, indeed, was given as a reason why the young trainee officers could ensure they only ever killed slaves on their night-time missions – for slaves, of course, were denied the otherwise universal right to eat buisoar meat.

Imp had flattered herself that, in her reading of the texts forbidden to people of her level – texts she'd purchased secretly, using whatever money she could put aside, spending it on nothing else – she had begun to master the talent of hiding her admittedly relatively limited Knowing abilities.

What use was such a talent against the Knowing possessed by the high-born, however? Their natural abilities, ensured through years of breeding, had also been enhanced by perfect diets and the best training.

'Of course not, my lord!'

Imp congratulated herself on managing to say this as if she were affronted by such a dreadful suggestion.

'She _is_ a butcher's girl, remember, Lord Krag.'

Imp was glad to detect a faint hint of amusement in the queen's lightly-handled admonishment of the lord.

'And just how good is this butcher, your majesty, to produce a girl of such obvious impudence?'

The lord, of course, was far from amused.

'My lord, my father supplies the local Imperial Colleges of Knowing...'

Imp realised that in defending herself she was probably only irritating the lord even more.

'Hah, well there you have it, Lord Krag!' As the queen chuckled, her great white stallion stirred impatiently from side to side, eager to be off galloping once more. 'He _is_ a fine butcher after all!'

'Hah, some fine butcher, your majesty!' With a wave of his hand, Lord Krag drew the queen's attention back to the members of the hunt still being helped to untangle themselves from the nets by the netters. 'All he's caught for himself today are the most enraged lords and ladies in the county!'

'And yet our little butcher's girl is covered in blood...' the queen observed.

'This is true, you majesty,' Imp replied, 'for my father _has_ caught a large buis–'

'Then why weren't the nets taken down earlier?' the lord snapped, his fury increasing the longer the conversation went on.

'It has only just been caught, my lo–'

'Only _just_ caught?'

No one required the Knowing to instinctively know what the lord was thinking.

Freshly butchered buisoar meat was worth a fortune to anyone who could lay even a partial claim to the beast's capture or killing.

Although general hunts were accepted as a right and privilege of the highborn, the hunts by the lords for buisoar meat – driven as they were by the extra impetus of greed – were almost universally frowned upon.

It was rumoured that the people who suffered the Disappearance had just been unfortunate enough to become an unwitting victim of one of these raucous, chaotically brutal hunts. Only these high lords would have the resources and connections to ensure someone seemed to have just simply vanished off the face of the earth.

'So,' the lord added with an air of certainty, 'it was _our_ hunt that chased it your father's way? Is _that_ what you're saying girl?'

Imp could see that he was tempted to use the Knowing on her to make sure she gave the answer he was seeking. The laws thankfully prevented its use on anyone involved in a buisoar's recent killing and butchering.

Besides, their huge difference in positions within the empire's hierarchy was more than enough in itself to persuade Imp that there was only one answer Lord Krag was expecting. Not to give him that answer would be foolish beyond belief.

'No, my lord,' Imp answered foolishly. 'My father caught it purely with the help of my brother.'

*

# Chapter 4

1,000 Years Later

Desri had hoped that her father had also noticed Barane's mischievous smirk at the end of their angry exchange regarding the sale of the meat.

She had felt sure that Barane intended to use his position as a cadet within the Officer Training Academy to take his fury out on Jaben; to legally kill him, as a supposedly essential part of his training.

It seemed ridiculous, of course, to accuse the boy of such incredibly evil thoughts – and when Desri had voiced her concerns to her father, he had indeed said it was ridiculous to presume someone would take such malicious revenge over such a minor argument.

Desri had to admit it was highly unlikely that even someone as obviously disreputable as the arrogant Barane would seek someone's death to avenge his humiliation. Even so, when her father sent Jaben and Maven out one night later that week – with the aim of collecting a large set of fresh blooms for a wedding party the tavern would be hosting in the morning – Desri made an excuse to walk with them.

'I need to drop something off at my friends out that way too,' she'd lied.

As her aura as a Knowing citizen would be obvious to the cadets, her presence with Jaben and Maven would protect them from any attack orchestrated by Barane. Only unaccompanied slaves could be attacked.

When they reached the florists without experiencing any unusual incident, Desri could have flattered herself that her presence had indeed scared the cadets off from attacking. However, another, more logical part of her mind admonished her for giving in to the ridiculous fears of an obviously overactive imagination.

It wasn't, after all, as if her father was so uncaring that he would send his slaves out on a possibly dangerous task.

Despite his drinking, despite the horrid things he had said about Jaben and Maven's daughter, Clearen, he wouldn't wish any ill on them. It wasn't just because of the financial loss, either. (The Officer Training Academy's 'Triple E' payments were notoriously paltry, and only obtained anyway after lengthy discussions proving that a slave's vanishing was indeed down to a training exercise.)

Desri's father Granem had in fact delighted in the way Clearen's beauty and charm had drawn people to his tavern; just as, at one time, her mother Maven's own entrancing looks had drawn them in.

Granem had grown to accept Maven's nocturnal activities (provided it didn't leave her too tired to complete her other tasks) as an extra draw for the men populating his bar, as well as a perfectly acceptable way for the Frendens to earn the money that might eventually buy their freedom. Yet before she had eventually Disappeared, Granem had worried for a while that Clearen would follow her mother into this after-hours entertaining of his clients, having seen her grow up from being little more than a child.

Desri, of course, knew that this was never going to happen. Clearen, like Cranden, was regard as being far too precious by Jaben and Maven. Besides, also like Cranden, Clearen had for a long time being thoroughly ashamed of her mother's sordid activities.

But Clearen, unlike Cranden, had eventually come to understand that their mother wasn't an unthinking whore, their father wasn't an unfeeling fool. Far from it; Maben was hurt immensely by what she had to do, while Jaben anguished endlessly about what she was having to put herself through.

This, after all, was the only way they had a hope of purchasing freedom for their children.

Maven was, in her way, the perfect mother.

Jaben was similarly the perfect father.

They loved their children, loved each other.

Yet they had been prepared to sacrifice that second love for the benefit of the first.

While the Frendens were inside the nursery, collecting the specially prepared blooms, Desri pretended to visit her 'nearby friend's house'. There being no 'nearby friend's house', of course, she had simply walked on a little farther for a while, turning back towards the nursery with the intention of waiting outside until the Frendens appeared once more – whereupon she would appear by their side, remarking on the coincidence that they'd both finished their tasks at more or less the same time.

She was waiting far longer than she had expected. Eventually, she decided she would enter the nursery after all, if only to see if there were any problems with either the blooms being provided or the terms of their purchase.

The most beautiful, most precious flowers were scattered everywhere across the floor.

And, lying beneath a particularly gorgeous clump, were the lifeless bodies of both Jaben and Maven.

*

# Chapter 5

1,000 Years Earlier

Safely removing all the nets strewn throughout the wood, together with the butchering of the buisoar and the loading up of its boxed parts onto the cart, took quite a while to accomplish.

By the time Imp, Hoak and their father were at last on their way home, the sun had begun to set. The dim light of early evening was already spreading its grey cloak over everything around them.

By a sharp curve of the muddy track they were following, they came across a carriage that – probably in too much haste – had slid into the shallow ditch that collected water running off the road. Despite constant urging by the drivers, the team of magnificent horses were struggling to pull the heavy carriage clear, the wheels refusing to gain any traction on the water-soaked soil.

The outriders' mounts had also been lashed to the carriage, beautiful horses that foamed at the mouth as they were whipped and whipped into making further exertions. Even so, the carriage constantly slid back into the ditch, at times threatening to topple onto its side.

'Perhaps we should show them what a couple of butchers can do for them, don't you think, Dad?' Hoak chuckled, giving a proud flex of undulating arm muscles.

Drawing up alongside the floundering carriage, Hoak and his father Jarek leapt down, crying out offers of help that were gratefully received by the team's frustrated drivers.

Imp remained seated on the cart, admiring the elaborately carved carriage, its beautifully and colourfully painted livery. Peering inside beyond the windows' crimson velvet curtains, she saw that the lord who owned this magnificent contraption hadn't deigned to lighten the load by stepping out, let alone offering his help.

As if abruptly Knowing that he was being observed, the lord suddenly glanced Imp's way.

It was Lord Krag, glowering at her every bit as furiously as he had when they'd finally parted in the woods earlier.

'I think this butcher's whelp doesn't understand she's treading on dangerous ground!' he had almost spat as he'd irately whirled his horse away.

Now rudely, stupidly, ignoring him, Imp hopefully searched the carriage's interior for any sign that the queen was still with him; but no, Lord Krag was the only passenger.

Hoak and Jarek's combination of strength and practical knowledge of where to give the carriage lift and help was already producing results. The wheels at last were beginning to rise up out of the lower, wetter parts of the ditch and grip the coarse grass growing nearer its lip.

Almost alongside one of the larger rear wheels, Hoak wasn't just straining with all his great strength to lift and push the carriage clear but also using a foot to uproot and kick stones beneath the wheel, giving the metalled rim something extra to bite into.

Thankfully gripping at the stones, the carriage violently lurched forwards. Taken a little by surprise, his hands slippery from the mud thrown up by the wheels along the carriage's side, Hoak uncontrollably tumbled forwards.

As Hoak fell, his head struck brutally against the step by the door – and he slipped beneath the carriage, falling before the great wheel eagerly searching for purchase.

*

# Chapter 5

1,000 Years Later

Desri's father received full payment for the loss of both Jaben and Maven, with no questions asked, no denials that the cadets of the Officer Training Academy were responsible for their deaths.

Far from it: the letter accompanying the payment apologised for any temporary inconvenience caused to Granem's business, but hoped he would also be 'gracious enough to celebrate the admirable aptitude and obvious potential' of the young officers involved: particularly as 'the exercise's success revolved around the leading cadet's elaborate planning and subterfuge'.

Of course, the letter didn't give any details as to who this 'leading cadet' might be.

Desri, of course, thought she could guess who it had been.

She wondered how she could tell Cranden what had happened to his mother and father. He might be ashamed of them – unfairly, Desri believed – but she was sure he still loved them.

She tried to write a letter explaining the circumstance a number of times. Yet each time, despite the great expense of the paper involved, she screwed up her efforts and cast them aside.

Would he, as the payment letter enthused, 'appreciate the military expertise displayed in the way a key to the nursery had been obtained'? Even as a military man himself, would he think, like the writer of the letter, that the 'masterstroke' had been 'the ploy of sending a false message purporting to be from the nurseries, stipulating that an evening collection of the blooms was essential to ensure freshness.'

Desri realised that the many attempts to write her own letter were becoming too increasingly painful for her. How much more painful, she wondered, would it be for Cranden to receive and read it?

She wasn't even sure that any correspondence she sent would reach him.

She hadn't received any letter from him, after all.

In fact, there had been no news at all of the expedition to the pass leading to the Blue-table Plain. The whole regiment appeared to have simply vanished off the face of the Earth, much as the people suffering the Disappearance seemed to leave no trace or clues as to why they had simply ceased to be.

Strangely, Desri's father took the loss of Jaben and Maven far harder than she would have expected, especially in his present condition of being almost permanently drunk. At first, she couldn't understand why this would be the case: then it dawned on her that their murder simply confirmed to him his suspicion that her mother had disappeared under similar conditions – only ones the Academy weren't prepared to admit to, the killing of a Knowing citizen being illegal.

And that, of course, made his wife's disappearance even worse. For no one would ever tell him the truth.

There would be no apology, no explanation, offered for his wife's vanishing. That was only given when the victims were slaves: and you even received compensation for _their_ loss! _That's_ how important _their_ removal was regarded!

If Granem had kept his complaints for Desri's ears alone, it would have been bad enough. His drinking was rapidly becoming even worse. He felt so embittered by life, so unfairly treated by it, that he could hardly drag himself out of bed on a morning: and when he did, the first thing he reached for was another drink. He couldn't find either the energy or the will to even start any of the many tasks that needed completing around the tavern. Business was suffering badly.

The more Granem drank, of course, the more he voiced his complaints, his beliefs of the corruption of the Academy and the state, haranguing anyone foolish enough to stay and listen to his mix of almost unintelligible rambling and furious accusations.

Thankfully, most of his increasingly few regulars simply warned him to keep his thoughts to himself; it was dangerous, they nervously hissed, to claim a respected body like the Academy would knowingly murder people.

The only person surprised when the soldiers eventually came to take him away was Granem himself.

Of course, the soldiers claimed, he was not being taken because of his wild accusations, as many might presume; he was being taken for his own wellbeing, as the poor man was clearly mentally unbalanced and required treatment before he could be allowed back into society. Indeed, a doctor accompanied the small band of soldiers sent to take Granem away. He sadly pronounced that there was no choice but to commit Granem to an asylum, where his condition would be both more understood and tolerated.

Unfortunately, Granem, as usual, was drunk.

He fought back, resisting what he saw as his arrest, fearing it was all just a ploy to eventually remove him completely. Just as they had his wife.

In the chaotic squabble that followed, there was a flash of what some thought might be a knife, others a deliberately broken bottle – but whatever it was, it led to the same result.

As the men sought to protect themselves from this unexpected attack, a sword was unsheathed. A sword that was only intended to be used as a threat. But, rather, accidently cut deeply into a lunging Granem.

It took Granem a week to die from the painfully festering wound. Days in which his crazed ramblings simply became worse until, in his last, dying breath, and clutching Desri's hand tightly, he warned her 'to beware the queen; she can _never_ be trusted!'

Ironically, in view of Granem's accusation that the state refused to admit liability for his wife's death, the authorities took full responsibility for his own death. The state offered Desri 'the most highly regarded and sought after recompense that can be awarded from amongst the full range of compensation available for those orphaned by unfavourable circumstances'.

They expected her to present herself to the admissions board of the Officer Training Academy within the next two months, her place within the corps now effectively guaranteed.

*

# Chapter 6

1,000 Years Earlier

Imp instinctively leapt down from the cart, running towards her fallen brother.

'Stop, stop the carriage!' she screamed out. 'It's going to crush Hoak!'

Lord Krag saw her, she was sure. He couldn't mistake, either, her alarm at what was happening.

He ignored her.

' _Don't_ stop, _don't_ stop!' he ordered loudly, drowning out Imp's own cries. 'We can't afford to slip back!'

Suddenly, Hoak was no longer unconscious – he cried out in fear and warning when he saw the danger he was in. He screamed in agony as the carriage's great wheel bit into his waist, his stomach, effortlessly crushing him beneath its terrible weight.

'It's moving, it's moving!' Lord Krag cried out joyously. 'Keep it going, keep it rolling!'

'No, no! Stop, stop!' Imp pleaded, grabbing hold of Hoak's feet and frantically trying to drag him clear.

Using Hoak's crumbling body as the traction it had been seeking, the carriage at last leapt forward, clearing the ditch's lip with a satisfied groan.

'Well done, at last!' Lord Krag cheered from inside the carriage. 'Keep going: don't let it slip back!'

It was only as the carriage finally jerked free of the confining ditch that Hoak's father, who had been pushing hard on the other side, saw his son crushed and dying in the mud. Horrified, disbelieving, he threw himself into the dirt alongside Hoak and a weeping Imp.

'No, no! I didn't know! What happened, how–'

He couldn't speak anymore, his voice choked, his body wracked with sobs.

His son was now just a bloodied mess, as hacked and misshapen as any butchered flesh.

Hoak's eyes were wide, almost white, with shock and agony. When he tried to speak, a frothing stream of hot blood burbled from his opened mouth.

He looked towards Imp, seemed to try to smile. He glanced towards his father, managed to reach out and grip his hand tightly.

A leather pouch of jangling coins landed on Hoak's bloodied jerkin.

'For your troubles,' the outrider looming over them on his horse stated blankly. 'Courtesy of Lord Krag.'

*

# Chapter 6

1,000 Years Later

Despite Desri's heartfelt intention to fail her interview with the Officer Training Academy's admissions board, she passed. Supposedly with flying colours.

Why? How?

Of course, she had originally thought she could simply refuse to attend the appointment. But the letter of compensation had made clear that this wasn't an option. Admission to the Academy was an incredibly well-sought after prize. An offer of admission couldn't be treated lightly, let alone with disdain.

And so she had decided that, if she were just herself, if she answered all the questions honestly, how could anyone on the board be foolish enough to accept her?

She earnestly believed, she had answered in response to one question, that the Academy was 'an outmoded and corrupt administration allowing a form of supposedly legal killing that, in all other ways, was murder, pure and simple.' For this, she had received a commendation praising her 'original, concise and brave dissection of the Academy's ethos.'

Surely, she'd fumed after being told of her successful application, the Academy could pick and choose from far more worthy candidates? Why accept someone who not only didn't want to be a cadet, but also actually hated just about everything the Academy stood for?

It wasn't just the death of her father and the murders of Jaben and Maven that caused her to hate the Academy so: the longer she was left with no news of Cranden or the military expedition he'd taken part in, the more she hated it too.

Wherever the military was involved, it also seemed to involve an unnecessary waste of life. There was no way she could be persuaded to play even a minor role in such an organisation.

She screwed up the congratulatory letter of acceptance, threw it expertly into a waste bin she knew lay behind the bar.

The bar was empty. The tavern had been closed, as she wasn't old enough to run it.

Old enough to kill people, obviously; but not old enough to look after a business she'd been more or less running anyway while her father had gone through his long period of deterioration. The tavern had been placed in the hands of a solicitor by the authorities, with all proceeds going to help pay for what would be an expensive education and training.

By the window, there was a sound like the heavy groaning of an old, wind-warped tree.

There was no such tree by that window: it opened up onto an already darkened side street.

Desri's head whirled, hoping to catch the eavesdropper before he could slink away. She was almost fast enough to catch him, despite his own amazingly swift reactions.

There was a sudden passing of dark shadows beyond the cheap, semi-opaque glass. Someone had been listening, watching; for how long, she didn't know.

Was it that odious son of that lord again? Was he still looking for extra ways to punish her?

She leapt up from her stool, dashed towards the door, flung it open.

'I know who you are!' she screamed irately into the night. 'You don't scare me!'

It was true; Desri didn't feel any fear as she stepped out into the almost pitch-black street, lit by little more than the odd candle or lamp burning in the windows of the nearby houses. The door opened up onto the main street, but she instantly broke into a run, slipping around the corner leading into the side street where she'd spotted the stalker.

Of course, there was no one there. Whoever it had been staring in through the window, he'd gone.

She sensed, however, that she was still being watched. Sensed that, somewhere at the end of the side street, where the darkness was even more complete, someone was standing there: watching, listening – waiting.

'Who's there?'

She felt more nervous now. She tried to hide the uneasiness she thought might be edging into her voice.

From around the back of the tavern, there came a shuffling, that odd groaning once more.

Something _was_ there? But what? Yes, not _who_ , but _what_?

Once again, she was going by what she _sensed_ , rather than what she _saw_ – or even who or what she _believed_ must be there. It _was_ human – wasn't it? What _else_ could it be?

And yet, that wasn't fully what she _sensed_.

She sensed something incredibly, unbelievably dangerous. Something she had never encountered before: and yet, also, at one and the very same time, something incredibly familiar to her.

It didn't make _any_ sense. Did it?

She felt drawn to it, whatever it was. If only because she was intensely curious to find out what it could be.

Slowly, tentatively, she made her way farther down the street, her eyes only on that area of darkness where she could sense this strange presence. This area of shadows that breathed harder, heavier, the closer she drew towards it.

Behind her, there was another, much more familiar noise; the shuffling of feet on loose stones.

Desri spun around.

At the end of the alley where she'd entered, a group of boys were almost silently gathering in the darkness.

Uniformed boys.

Boys led by a mischievously grinning Barane.

'Well, well, look who we have here,' he sneered bitterly. 'Little miss I'm good enough to be an army officer; or should that be, I'm _too_ good to be an army officer?'

*

# Chapter 7

1,000 Years Earlier

Without Hoak to help in both the hunt and the butchering, Imp's father had to settle for the smaller, less full grown beasts: the meat of which was deemed inferior when it came to its essential qualities of being able to help instil and enhance a person's Knowing abilities.

The contracts regarding supplying the Colleges and other official bodies were cancelled immediately. The prices of the meat he sold had to fall dramatically; Jarek had to accept that only a much lower tier of cliental would now do business with him or frequent his shop.

All this, however, seemed a minor worry compared to the great hole in their lives left by the loss of Hoak. Hoak was the one who had always filled the shop with his booming laughter, his highly confident, amusing patter. His ready offers to help carry the great joints of meat to waiting carts of carriages. The way, too, he would do all this with a complete ease of manner, as if nothing ever really troubled him.

Imp, in particular, recalled the days when she was smaller, and how he used to hoist her on his shoulders as effortlessly as he did those huge, butchered slabs. Even on those days when he was tired after a hunt, he would charge around with her on his back, pretending she was a great lord hunting the beast with her gaily painted lance.

If only they hadn't stopped that day to help free the carriage from the ditch.

If only they'd finished their hunt a little earlier, so that they would have completely missed seeing the stricken carriage.

If only, if only...

'If only I could help,' Imp nervously suggested one day to her father, 'with the hunt and the butchering, I mean.'

He glanced up at her from delicately preparing some of the finer slivers of liver, testicles, and snout. He smiled gratefully yet sadly, giving her black bob of hair a playful rub.

"It's too dangerous, Imp; let's be honest, even taking into account you're a girl, you don't have the build for such strenuous work.'

At first glance, Imp appeared scrawny, even a little underfed (particularly for a butcher's child). Yet she was wirily muscled, as well as being both tenacious and strangely virtually tireless. Despite this, even she knew she was crazy to suggest she could in anyway replace someone as incredibly powerfully built, talented, and enthusiastic as Hoak.

'I can build myself up, lifting all those–'

Jarek chuckled. His wife frowned.

'Impersia, you _cannot_ go hunting!' Imp's mother Venia declared adamantly. 'Losing Hoak: well, _that's_ bad enough. But I cannot let _both_ of my children go!'

Her voice was choked with barely-held back tears, even though she was obviously trying to retain some degree of control.

'Your mother's right.' Jarek nodded in agreement with his wife. 'Any hunting's dangerous, especially larger beasts like the buisoar: but even worse, I could sometimes swear they have an almost human intelligence.'

Imp knew what her father meant; there had been many times when a carefully set trap had proved useless when a buisoar had avoided it. It was almost as if it had been thinking ahead, too, rather than just reacting instinctively to the present circumstances, as you would expect of any other animal.

'You and your buisoars!' It could have been nothing more than a light-hearted comment, yet Venia seemed to lace it with a bitter venom. 'Yes, and when kissed by a princess, they transform back into a handsome prince once more!'

Before Jarek could even notice his wife's embittered barbs, let alone respond to them, there was a heavy knocking at the door.

The knock at the door took everyone by surprise, it being past sundown when – candles and oil lamps being expensive, especially the sweet-scented, calming variety made from the buisoar – most people took to their beds.

'Whoever could be calling at this time?' Venia wondered out loud, rising from her seat and heading towards the window.

She was so curious to see who it might be, she hadn't noticed Jarek turn pale with anxiety. Imp had noticed, however; and she understood his concern.

When out hunting, he had increasingly called upon some of the more trusted men amongst the netters to help him cut up, pack and load the larger beasts, being unable to manage the heavy lifting required – and within a short space of time too – on his own. Although it wasn't specifically illegal for anyone but a licensed butcher to do this, it was a major offence to claim such sorely treated meat was of the required quality. Even if a trained butcher had overseen everything.

At the very least, Jarek could lose his license if a commissionaire found him guilty of being involved in such blatant fraud.

And a time when most people were in bed was the perfect time for a suspicious or alerted commissionaire to call.

'It's Fegran: and in his commissionaire's robes too,' Venia observed innocently as she peered out of the window towards the door, where the knocking had become more urgent. 'It's so long since he saw fit to call on us officially too!'

She sensed the eerie silence in the room behind her. She turned around slowly, looked Jarek directly, suspiciously, in the eye.

'Jarek? Is there something you think you should have told me?'

*

# Chapter 7

1,000 Years Later

'Where are your faithful slaves to protect you now?'

Barane relished Desri's look of discomfort. She didn't want to let him know that she was scared, naturally. Yet she was on her own, in a dark alley. Confronted by a number of boys who had mercilessly killed before.

'I thought you were waiting for me out here.' She managed at last to gather her thoughts together, to speak confidently and disrespectfully to him. 'Where's your other friend?' she asked, looking over her shoulder towards where she had seen the first boy run. 'He can come out of hiding now, you know.'

She spoke louder, letting the boy still hiding around the corner know that she knew he was there: that he might as well reveal himself now.

No one appeared at the other end of the alley.

Barane frowned at her in amused puzzlement.

'Crazed too, are we?' He looked towards the other boys for support. 'See what I mean about her? Is she really the type we want at the Academy?'

Even in the dim light of the alley, Desri could tell by the way that some of the boys were edgily shuffling on their feet that they would prefer to be somewhere else. Unlike Barane, they obviously didn't think a girl out on her own was a fair or legitimate target.

'She's done us no harm,' one of them growled. 'You should go on home: we won't hurt you,' he added, now looking more towards Desri.

'Who's in charge here?' Barane snapped. 'Who's made sure you've all received commendations for intuition, for bravery?'

There were a few mumbles of agreement from the boys. There were far less grumbles that he was over-claiming his role in their advancement.

The boy who had spoken out remained quiet, subdued by the more compliant attitude of his peers.

'Is this how our brave officers are chosen? Picking on one person?'

Desri refused to say 'girl'. She didn't want to give them the pleasure, or further opportunity to mock her.

'She's just a girl, Barane!' The boy who had defended her earlier tried once again to persuade his friends to call off their attack on her. 'Not a tomboy either, even: just some pretty girl who's probably got through life using her beauty rather than her wits!'

'You choose an odd way to defend me!' Desri complained assuredly. 'Mocking me! Insulting me!'

'Better that than what Barane has in mind for you,' the boy retorted harshly.

It was true that Desri's girlish prettiness was blooming into an enviable beauty. Even so, it would be hard for this boy to discern that in the poor light. Even her long, flowing blonde hair couldn't shine and display its lustrously wonderful colours in these dim shadows. The boys must have been watching her earlier, Desri realised, with hardly any sense of surprise.

'If any of you don't have the _courage_ , the _determination_ , to ensure we only accept those _worthy_ of the Academy,' Barane snarled, emphasising certain words as if to highlight what he believed were the high ideals they were representing here, 'then go _now_!'

Although he must have been at a similar level to all the other cadets there, Barane addressed them sternly and rudely, as if he were in command. Desri couldn't see the expressions on any of the boys' faces, but she could make out the sheepish, uncertain scuffling of feet, the subserviently slightly-bowed postures.

Only a few of the boys decided that they weren't following Barane's orders any more. They stepped back, turned, then walked away.

They weren't going to go through with the attack on her, Desri realised with a sickening lurch in her stomach; but neither were they going to do anything to stop it. Even the boy who had originally tried to halt the attack was one of those dejectedly shuffling away.

'The cowards amongst us have finally left,' Barane sneered triumphantly, drawing his dagger as he strode towards Desri. 'I'm sure the Academy has the sense to refuse _anyone_ marked with the cheek scars of an irredeemable thief!'

*

# Chapter 8

1,000 Years Earlier

Fegran nodded in greeting to Jarek, his dour expression strained with a sad, perhaps apologetic frown.

'Sorry to call at such a time, old friend,' he said miserably, 'but I've heard rumours – statements, in fact, _statements_ – that give me no choice but to inspect your produce.'

Jarek grinned weakly, hoping to hide any signs of his guilt.

His mind spun: who could have told the authorities what he'd being doing? He'd paid the netters involved extremely well: they wouldn't want to risk missing out on further payments. Had they got drunk on the extra money, boasting of their rewarding little ploy? Could it be the netters whom he _hadn't_ conscripted into his scheme, listening in with envy to these drunken fools?

No matter whom it had been, he was in trouble; serious trouble, which could see them all impoverished, his reputation destroyed forever.

'Oh, we both know how embittered certain people can be, Fegran.' He forced himself to put on an air of jollity, of complete nonchalance. 'Come, let us get you a drink and–'

'No, no: not on serious business such as this, Jarek!'

The way his old friend had cut him short worried Jarek all the more.

He had hoped to draw on their long-running friendship to ease any problems highlighted in the weights and timings recorded by his equipment, putting it all down, perhaps, to relatively minor discrepancies: a margin of error to be expected of tools that have seen such prolonged and otherwise highly faithful use.

Fegran the officially appointed commissionaire, as opposed to Fegran the old friend, didn't waste any more time with niceties. He didn't ask for the scales to be brought out to him but, rather, strode over to the household's iron locker, where all butchers had to keep all measuring equipment safe from tampering. Using his own large band of individually coded keys, Fegran unlocked the door, opened it, and swiftly extracted the scales and their attached timer.

With another, smaller key, Fegran unlocked the scales' compartment where the punched-hole recordings were kept.

The recordings were stacked quite compactly within the base, Jarek's reputation for quality and honesty being such that his scales were normally checked only once a year. And then only so that the compartment wouldn't get too full.

With nothing much more than a glance, Fegran spotted that the more recent weights and timings he was concentrating on would be impossible to achieve for a man working on his own. Imp couldn't miss the way his anguished grimace etched ever deeper into his face as he uncovered more and more evidence of his friend's wrongdoing.

'Do you know why there's been a delay in receiving my licence?' she asked forthrightly.

'Impersia!' Her mother was appalled by Imp's rudeness.

Jarek was even more surprised by Imp's rudeness than his wife was: he hadn't applied for a licence for Imp, believing her to be too weak, too vulnerable, to become involved in butchering.

Far from Fegran snapping irately at Imp for her impertinence, however, he looked up, studying her closely.

'A licence, you say?'

Imp _Knew_ what he was thinking: how could such a whippersnapper of a young girl like this possibly help slice and weigh buisoar meat.

But she also _Knew_ – which was why she had blurted out her ridiculous lie – that Fegran wanted to help his old friend: he just needed a reasonable excuse to allow him a bit of leeway in the decision he would soon have to make.

It was illegal to Know a commissionaire while he was conducting business. Yet he hadn't prepared any defence against such an action, primarily because no one within the household – despite their heavy intake of intuitional meat – should be capable of Knowing him without their attempts being incredibly obvious to even the most inexperienced person.

He hadn't detected her Knowing of his thoughts. She was developing her powers far more rapidly than she had realised or hoped for. She didn't dare, of course, attempt using those powers to make him forgive her father's indiscretion: that would be going too far, a definite capital offence. And one that Fegran would probably be almost instantly aware of.

'We applied for it a few weeks back: that's why I've been helping my father.'

Imp spoke with far more confidence than she felt. If she were only flattering herself that she Knew what the commissionaire was thinking, then...then it didn't really bare thinking about, as she would just have made everything far worse.

'Hmn, I suppose that _if_ you've suffered from some _unfortunate_ mix up of forms...'

He looked towards Jarek with an easy yet definitely conspiratorial narrowing of his eyes.

'Yes, yes: it does happen, doesn't it?'

Jarek's relief was obvious, despite the way he tried to grimace as if irritated by the unacceptable delay.

'Quite obviously, Jarek, you've been suffering from malicious rumours in relation to your business.'

Stacking the punched recordings within his own secure carrying case, Fegran locked the scale's base once more. Placing the case under an arm, he made to leave, but not before regarding Imp's parents with a sorrowful face.

'Hoak was a remarkable boy, Jarek, Venia: we all miss him greatly. I'm so sorry for your sad loss. I only wish I could do more.'

'Fegran, you've done so much for us,' Venia declared, tearfully reaching out for and caressing his free hand.

'Just make sure, Jarek,' Fegran said with a hard-edged sternness, 'that you make sure the girl's licence comes through as soon as possible!'

As Fegran reached the door, he turned towards Imp with an irritated frown.

'It's good to _Know_ you girl,' he said, making sure she realised how close she had come to making things far, far worse.

*

# Chapter 8

1,000 Years Later

Desri began to back away from the unhurriedly approaching Barane.

She was tempted to run. She realised, however, that she'd only be running into the hands of the boy waiting down the other end of the alley. The boy she had first caught spying on her.

He was waiting around the corner for her. Just as Barane had probably planned all along.

'She's not running, like you said she would Barane!'

One of the boys sounded disgruntled that the plan wasn't working out the way it was supposed to.

'Perhaps she wants to be permanently scarred.'

Barane grinned maliciously, drawing ever closer, a glint in his eyes that seemed to say to Desri that he was pleased she wasn't running. He was going to go ahead with scarring her, his expression said, if only for her impudence and stupidity.

Far down the other end of the alley, Desri heard the hidden boy's shuffling feet. No doubt he was preparing to come up behind her, to make sure there was no escape.

There was an angry, bestial growl.

The shuffling of feet became a hard, heavy scrabbling, more like a team of horses being forced into an abrupt gallop. Suddenly, that thunderous beat of charging horses was rushing up behind her, rapidly getting louder with every passing split second.

Before her, Barane's mouth dropped open into a terrified gawping. The boys ranged just beyond him similarly quaked in terror, their eye's visibly white and globular in fright.

Desri didn't have time to whirl around and see what had terrified them so. She didn't need to.

With the speed and force of a fierce gust of wind, something as dark and massive as coagulated shadows slammed into Barane. It sent him flying into the air, striking the ground awkwardly. He sprawled across the floor, the knife spinning uselessly from his hand.

'He's dead, he's dead!'

'Let's go, go!'

With screams of fright, every boy there but the unconscious Barane spun on their feet, setting off at a hurried, terrified run.

Desri was instinctively prepared to run too. This huge, dark, rampaging form that seemed to have almost instantaneously appeared alongside her had an air of nightmares, of every human fear, about it.

Fortunately, the buisoar wasn't interested in her, or the fleeing boys.

Continuing its ferocious charge, it hurtled across the ground towards where Barane had been so brutally flung. It straddled the fallen boy, ready to finish him off with a swipe and smash of a powerful foreleg, or a brutal goring of its armoured snout – but it froze, its breathing loud and laboured, a pained groan emanating from its otherwise hungrily slavering maw.

Desri should run; most of her whole mind was relentlessly screaming this out to her. And yet, it was 'most', not 'all'. A sliver of her mind, a mere sense as opposed to a definite, reasoned thought, was also calmly telling her she had nothing to fear. Despite all the signs to the contrary.

The massive beast still straddled the fallen Barane, still remained still. It was as if, Desri sensed rather than reasoned once more, he were fighting his urge to kill, to eat. As if he were going through a painful internal struggle to fight his instinctive needs. Just as she had had to go against her instinctive impulse to run away.

With an anguished growl, a frustrated smashing of a great paw, balled up like a fist, into the ground, the buisoar turned to glare furiously at Desri.

Desri didn't flinch; rather, she curiously stared back into those light-absorbing eyes, wondering what had caused this nightmarish beast to spare Barane's life. Could there really be an intelligent, even reasoning mind lying somewhere behind eyes that could be mistaken for unfathomably deep pits?

The buisoar stirred, swung more towards her; still she didn't turn and flee. With an irritated snort, the beast began to rise up and up, lifting itself up from its normal four-legged stance to an even more intimidating two-legged pose. Its looming height was now even more apparent and terrifying.

'Stu...pid pri...de!'

Its voice was as gnarled as if a tree had made its first attempts at speaking.

It spat out every syllable as if they'd had to be conjured up somewhere deep within its being. Caught and brought up through its body in a vortex of whirling flesh and bone, each word was at last thrown away through the mouth like unwanted garbage.

He snarled, a strange mix of both intense fury and deep anguish.

Then he dropped on all fours again with a growl of relief, a sad shake of his head.

He spun around on his massive paws and, with a final pained, gravelly sigh, loped away into the alley's darkness.

*

# Chapter 9

1,000 Years Earlier

Jarek should have been angry with Imp for stupidly attempting to use the Knowing on his old friend Fegran.

He had to admit, however, that she had given him a chance to avoid losing his licence; and if her reward for that was that she also received a licence, then so be it!

She would also have to accompany him on any further hunts too, of course. Venia had complained, naturally. Yet as he had calmly pointed out to her, they now had little choice about this matter. To restrain her from attending would now also endanger Fegran, who had risked a great deal to give them this opportunity.

Even so, he insisted that Imp dressed as a boy. He also insisted that she continued to stay as long as possible with the horse and cart, until their prey was weakened to such an extent that it was no longer quite so dangerous. Venia had asked why Imp couldn't stay with the cart until they were ready to start butchering their catch, only for Jarek to point out that the awarding of a licence depended upon the recipient being capable of taking on a full role in the hunt. He was already taking a risk, he added, with the restrictions he'd imposed on her.

However, without Hoak to aid him in his hunting and killing of the beast, without the strength of the netters to help him butcher it afterwards, Imp's presence did nothing to lessen Jarek's increasingly exhausting struggles to bring in any meat of quality. The catches were still necessarily small. Moreover, the slowness of his butchering resulted in a waste of what could have been higher quality meat if only he'd managed to process it quicker.

Both high-level customers and, with them, their money continued to leach away from Jarek's business. Increasingly desperate, he knew he had to find some way of bringing in the big kills once more, no matter how much more dangerous hunting such beasts would be.

He saw a chance to begin the long climb to restoring his reputation one day when, quite by good fortune rather than any particular expertise, a huge beast became trapped and panicked within the maze strung up by his netters. Rushing back to the cart, he pleaded with Imp to simply act as a distraction, allowing him to gradually ram home hook after barbed hook. He would use drags and anchors that would both increasingly slow the beast down while also fully enraging it.

Imp eagerly agreed.

She was taking part, at last, in her first true hunt.

*

# Chapter 9

1,000 Years Later

Naturally, it was loftily declared by Barane's father in the market square, he would lead the hunt for the buisoar.

Equally naturally, in recognition of his display of unparalleled bravery in defending a poor girl from being attacked by the beast, Barane himself would be accorded the honour of being second in command.

No one could blame the cadets for fleeing from such a ferocious, unpredictable beast the previous night. They were only lightly armed, with daggers. A buisoar prepared to enter a town, however, was obviously a danger even to fully armed gangs of men, unless they knew how to deal with such a formidable foe.

Even Barane modestly admitted to the assembled, terrified crowd that, he too, would have been far wiser to run away. He had been armed with nothing more than a small dagger himself, after all. Yet he'd found himself with no choice but to intervene, for the beast had been set upon taking away a poor, defenceless girl to be its midnight feast.

The girl, he added sadly, was supposedly Academy material; in light of the fear she'd understandably displayed when faced with the beast, however, he had little choice but to suggest that the admissions board should rethink her acceptance. It would surely be intolerable to force such an obviously unprepared girl to regularly accept the similar torments faced on a daily basis by cadets and officers.

Of course, Desri hadn't been invited to stand anywhere near the centre of the square, from where all these pronouncements were being delivered. She was far back in the crowd, fuming over false allegations she had no way of refuting.

She was tempted to storm through the crowds, barge past the people saddling up and preparing for the hunt.

She realised, however, that by the time she'd forced her way through everyone blocking her way she'd be too late to accuse Barane of lying now that the declarations had moved on to the free meat the hunters would make available once the beast had been successfully brought down. Besides, she would be dismissed once again as a silly, frightened girl trying to salvage some residue of pride.

('Stupid pride': isn't that what the beast had snarled at her? What had he meant? That Barane was stupidly proud? Or that she was? That her pride had almost got her killed, or at least scarred for life?)

Barane's ridiculous lies had persuaded her that, after all, she would be attending the Academy. She wanted to show hum that she was a better person than he could ever hope to be: she would make sure she beat him at everything he attempted, humiliating him as often as she could.

And the very first of his attempts that she was going to thwart would be this damned hunt. There was no way she was going to let them hunt down a beast that had saved her.

A beast that could talk.

A beast she wanted to talk to.

*

# Chapter 10

1,000 Years Earlier

All Imp had to do, her father declared, was wave a red piece of cloth in front of the trapped beast. While making sure, of course, that she was always on the other side of a barrier of netting.

The beast was caught in the maze. It wasn't going anywhere, unless it had the wit about it to find and spot the gaps between the many layers of nets. But they had to kill it before it tired itself out, making its meat drop precipitously in value.

Imp waved the blood-red cloth, as directed by Jarek. Amongst the multitude of greens and browns of the forest, the red shone as brightly as a setting sun. To draw the beast out from wherever it was at the moment, somewhere deeper within the extensive maze, she also used a doe-call – a whistle-type device that made a wailing similar that of a wounded doe.

The doe's cry rang out as an invitingly easy kill, an effortless feast. Amongst the noises of the woodland, there now came a heavy snorting, a relentlessly thunderous crushing of undergrowth, the toppling of small trees.

Imp was excited. She was also terrified.

She quaked, her arm feeling limp, dead. She had to force herself to wave the cloth with more vigour, to blow harder on the doe-call.

The blistering cracks, the growling of the oncoming storm, grew louder, drew nearer. A dark shape, like a patch of night thrown into the day, appeared amongst the trees, expanding, devouring everything in its path. Nothing resisted it. Everything subserviently crumpled before it.

It could have been an unstoppable avalanche, an unforgiving flood.

But it was worse; it was an oncoming buisoar.

At least, Imp thought, she was on the other side of the net. Yet her father was out there somewhere, somewhere hidden between her and the charging beast. Even if the beast failed to spot him, it could trample and kill him purely by accident.

On that score, at least, she needn't have worried. As the beast hurtled seemingly relentlessly towards her, swallowing up the forest lying before it as if it were nothing but so much fodder, her father suddenly leapt up from the thick undergrowth along its side. As he rose swiftly to his feet, he brought up with him a huge metal hook, with the sharpest point it was possible to hone.

Combining the movement of his rising with an expert flexing of his powerful muscles, Jarek swung the massive hook about his head, directing its barb towards the beast's relatively softer, more supple flesh lying between leg and body. He drove the point home as deeply as he could, utilising the power of the beast's own momentum to drive that barbed point deeper and deeper into the flesh.

Letting go of the hook before he was jerked off his feet, he flung himself aside, falling back into the veiling undergrowth, his body clothed in the colours and scents of the forest he now wished to instantly become an indistinguishable part of.

The beast whirled around as swiftly as it could, but it was too late to see the cause of this abrupt, penetrating pain. It charged around anyway, hoping to catch sight of its tormentor, its agony strangely increasing with every move it made as the hook's many ropes and anchors snagged and fouled on branches and rocks.

The hurtling beast snapped branch after branch, pulled up rock after rock, but each time the hook dug ever deeper into its flesh. Meanwhile, the anchors and coiling ropes searched endlessly for more solid obstacles to catch onto.

While the beast had been distracted by her father's attack, Imp had sprinted towards another net, judging as quickly as she could the best position to be in to attract its attention once again. She had to draw it away from her father, but not so far that he'd be left too far behind to make another attack on the beast.

She waved the cloth again, blew as loudly as she could on the doe-call.

Failing to spot its assailant, the beast settled once more on seeking its easy prey. It swung around, responding to the alluring call of the ailing doe.

It rushed yet again towards the excitedly waving Imp. And, yet again, her father leapt up from his hiding place amongst the green foliage.

He'd positioned a number of the huge hooks around the area, ready for him to grab and utilise. They were there too to help trip and foul the beast, should it run into their path. Picking up the great hook he'd left here, he swung it with all his might. Curling it around his head, he aimed it once again for that temptingly softer spot lying between leg and body.

This time, unfortunately – perhaps because his timing was a little off, perhaps because the beast wasn't quite as witless as Jarek had presumed, and it had deftly sidestepped the expected blow – the hook swung clear of the buisoar's flanks. Caught in the unstoppable momentum of his own violent swing, Jarek continued to spin around on his increasingly unsteady feet.

Completely unbalanced, he fell, legs crossed and ungainly, back into the grasses and bushes.

The beast whirled on its hind legs. With a triumphant snort, it lowered its head, readying itself for goring and trampling the helpless Jarek, seeking revenge for all its torments.

And Imp was too far away to do anything about it.

*

# Chapter 10

1,000 Years Later

It was a festive atmosphere in the square. Everyone was excited by and wanted to be involved in some way with the elaborate preparations for such a large hunt.

The lords involved were dressed in much finery, their horses decked with gorgeously colourful if somewhat impractical trappings. The brightly painted lances were topped with long, fluttering pennants, many graced with the lords' particular emblems of swans, bears, nightingales and other creatures, or weapons such as maces, hammers and swords.

Food sellers and entertainers were out in force, moving amongst the crowds, shouting out cries hailing the tastiness of their wares, the amazing feats they were about to perform.

Desri's thoughts, however, were purely upon how she would fulfil her intentions to sabotage the hunt. Or, rather, upon the problems she faced in fulfilling them: such as the unfortunate fact she owned neither horse nor hunting dog to ensure she could get ahead of everyone else. So how was she supposed to warn the beast that he had to flee the neighbourhood?

At first, she didn't notice that a far section of the crowd was gradually becoming even more excited than before. She looked up at last, however, when she began to pick out evermore repeated cries of 'Thank the great good reason of Her Most Knowing Majesty!'

As others picked up on this, adding to the spreading of the excitement with their own elated cries, the whole crowd rippled. Everyone stretched up on their toes, or craned necks, to get a better view of the queen's entourage slowly weaving its way towards the square's centre.

The colours and pennants of the newcomers outshone even those of the lords preparing to hunt. Gold, silver and amber glittered everywhere. Peacock and leaping trout emblems didn't just grace banners and shields but also rose up high on elaborately decorated helmets.

Most resplendent of all, of course, was the queen herself. Seated astride a towering, great white stallion, she herself was strewn with white veils that streamed out behind her, as if she were a stretch of flowing water come to life, a lake-sprite made real. Her red hair was the sunset, the sun ablaze as it lashed out with scarlet rays, lighting everything up as if threatening to set it all aflame.

The crowd rippled again as it parted to allow free passage for the queen and her caravan. The crowd's wave-like movement was now unmissable, even to those busy harnessing horses and controlling wayward dogs. Both Barane and his father looked up as one, their momentary frowns of dismay – the queen would doubtlessly wish to take charge of their hunt – immediately replaced with more politically expedient warm, pleasantly-surprised smiles.

Desri grinned – then instantly frowned in dismay.

If she sabotaged the hunt now, it would be treason.

*

# Chapter 11

1,000 Years Earlier

Stop!

Don't kill my father!

So horror-struck she was unable to speak, Imp could only scream out in her mind.

Everything happening around her suddenly seemed to slow down.

Everything seemed to freeze.

The beast had stopped just an arm's length from her father. Its head was still down, ready to gore him.

The dust around its hooves was moving however, swirling about its legs in a vast, rapidly expanding cloud. Time hadn't stopped; it hadn't even really slowed down, except in her swiftly whirling mind.

Yet the buisoar had really come to a sudden halt in its charge.

It was confused. It didn't know why it had stopped. It just _Knew_ it had to.

He still wanted to kill this creature that had caused him harm. This sad, little animal that was cowering before him, thinking its time was near.

A man; that's what they called themselves – man.

This man was staggering, disbelievingly, to his feet. Wondering, no doubt, why he was still alive.

Imp could see the surprise on her father's face. She could see it clearly, because he was looking straight at her.

Because she was seeing him through the eyes of the buisoar.

*

# Chapter 11

1,000 Years Later

As she rode through the forest, the queen looked more magnificent than ever.

She rode her stallion as if she were a part of it, or it a part of her; it was hard to tell exactly which.

It was as if, in fact, their minds were one, rather than separate. They moved together, flowed together, each movement effortless and ultimately satisfyingly graceful. They – or should that just be a simple _she_? – could have easily outrun everyone else there if she had put her mind to it.

Instead, the queen simply kept to the head of the main pack of hunters, looking for all the world as if she were performing the easiest of canters rather than a fierce charge through a tangled wood of hanging branches, fallen stumps, and rocky, uneven ground.

Desri rode with her, virtually alongside her for most of the hunt so far.

Her horse wasn't anywhere near as gorgeous as the queen's, naturally. Yet it was still an expensive, incredibly beautiful and powerful mount, having come from the royal stables.

The queen herself had loaned it to her; indeed, insisted she take it. To prove to everyone crowded into that square that day that Desri wasn't scared of any buisoar: even one with the arrogance to come walking into town on a night.

The queen, as expected by every person there, had announced that she would be taking charge of the hunt. Far stranger, though, had been the way she had referred to the previous night's attack by the beast. Choosing her words carefully, she had virtually challenged Barane to contradict her when she said the girl involved was obviously no more scared than the boys who had fled. Therefore, the queen had added, she had little doubt that the girl was probably as eager as anyone to take part in the hunt.

At this point, the queen's eyes had sought Desri out from amongst all the others there. Locking those glittering eyes onto hers, the queen had old Desri to come forward, to prove her bravery.

What choice had Desri had?

She'd announced that, Yes, she'd help them hunt the beast down!

She had hardly ever ridden a horse before; something else she hadn't considered when she'd first put together her simple, ill-thought out plan to sabotage the hunt. Yet the horse the queen had given her was so well trained, it flowed with her every move. Her intelligent mount made up for her own inexperience, her own ill-considered moves.

The dogs were equally well trained, running ahead through the undergrowth, picking out a trail through scents alone. They moved swiftly, a river of browns and blacks coursing through the greens of leaves and tall grasses.

At this rate, Desri feared, they would soon track the beast down.

Yet she couldn't see any way of preventing it. Or avoiding having to watch the hounds tear the poor beast apart.

*

# Chapter 12

1,000 Years Earlier

Jarek's joints and choice cuts of meat were once again famed and desired throughout the town.

He had even won back some of the contracts for supplying some of the town's official bodies, though the local Council of Knowing still eluded him.

His meat was of prime quality, taken from mature, thoroughly enraged buisoar. It had all obviously been butchered deftly and expertly, and well within those crucial time periods.

The producers of related products also sought him out once more: the tanners, for a leather that emanated a strange air of confidence around its wearer: the candle and lamp makers, for tallow and oils that gave of calming, thought-inducing perfumes; furriers, for skins that were both incredibly warming and soothing; farmers for a grounded-bone fertiliser that produced amazing results; even jailers, for guts that, stretched into a binding, eased a convict's struggles.

Helping butcher, box and carry the huge buisoar joints had created an impressive array of muscles throughout Imp's previously scrawny body. She wasn't in anyway as muscular as Hoak had been, yet she more than made up for this with an easy flow to her every action that both created and utilised its own momentum. She was lithe, incredibly supple. She could run smoothly, effortlessly, amazingly swiftly. She could leap up high from a stationary position; she could back-flip in mid-air.

She could plunge home a blade or knife as if it were a part of her, rather than a separate instrument.

It wasn't Imp's growing strength and hunting prowess that had brought Jarek's business back to life, however.

It was the talent she had discovered that day when she had prevented her father from being killed.

The beast had frustratedly pawed the ground, watching the man nervously backing away from it with curiosity; Why wasn't he chasing this man? he wondered.

Imp had sensed – no, she had _experienced_ – the beast's bewilderment with its own strange inaction. Although calm and stilled on the outside, inside the beast's mind was a raging turmoil of conflicting emotions; confusing thoughts, all fighting to be heard, many contradicting each other.

It was like, Imp realised, being in the middle of an angry, protesting crowd, but a crowd with no common purpose. A crowd consisting of people protesting only about the views of their nearest neighbours, each one seeking to be the one whose own view was the one adopted by everyone else there.

Stranger still, the thoughts were perplexingly human, rather than the more bestial, immediate concerns she would have expected.

How was that possible?

Is that what made the buisoar's meat so uniquely potent?

Or was this particular buisoar unusually intelligent, perhaps because it had indulged in cannibalism, eating one of its own and thereby assuming a higher if greatly confused level of reasoning?

Imp had directed the beast to walk off, to leave her shocked father to run towards her, where they hugged each other in relief. Separating a little from her, he had eyed her suspiciously, yet smiled. He realised that he had just witnessed some use of the Knowing; far from being angry, however, he was both grateful and intrigued, seeing here a possible solution to his problems.

The problem, of course, was ensuring that the buisoar was killed while it was enraged, not in a stupor. But Imp had already seen the frustrating confusion of their minds; so she made sure she continually added to this confusion, sending them careering around the maze of strewn nets, adding to their anger with her own – and thereby _their_ own – wails of growing anxiety.

She always took care, of course, to never completely slip inside their minds again. She couldn't face the idea that they were killing a highly intelligent animal, one that could master a limited ability at reasoning things through.

It would be unbearable to think, of course, that they were killing a fully thinking creature.

*

# Chapter 12

1,000 Years Later

The hounds were barking wildly, excitedly. They streamed through the bushes, picking up pace, seemingly unstoppably surging on.

'They must have the scent!' the cry went up.

Urging their mounts into bursts of extra speed, the riders followed the pack, leaping over hedges, ducking low beneath sweeping branches.

'We'll have it soon!' a lord shouted, already readying his lance to strike it home, to split flesh and bone.

The queen smiled at Desri as, riding alongside each other, they smoothly took the obstacles lying before them. In avoiding these fallen trunks, these hollows, the wider, deeper parts of the streams, they were both drifting towards the edges of the hunt.

They ducked in their saddles as they wildly careered through a copse of tightly packed if small trees, the narrowness of the track they were following forcing them closer towards each other. The thunder of the hooves, the cracking of the branches, the jangling of the harnesses, all added to Desri's sense of danger and exhilaration.

She wondered – no, she _Knew_ – it would be safer to slow down, that they should slow down before either of them suffered a serious injury. Yet it was as if they were taking part in an unofficial race, one in which great stakes were dependent on the outcome.

The pace increased, the blaring of the hunting horns spurring them on. They briefly crashed against each other, their mounts snorting in shock and irritation, only to painfully rub alongside each other once more.

Letting go of the reins with one hand, the queen reached out towards Desri – and abruptly pushed hard and brutally against her shoulder, sending her spinning out of her saddle.

Desri seemed to briefly whirl around confusedly in the air. She crashed to the ground amongst a clump of tangled ferns and heather that fortunately broke her fall. She rolled off to one side, where she lay dazed and shocked as the queen and even her own horse hurriedly rode on through the trees.

Everything that a moment ago had been rushing past her, everything that had been so noisy – galloping horses, baying dogs, shrieking horns – was suddenly stilled, almost silent. The sounds of the hunt were rapidly fading, replaced by a twittering of birds, the buzz of busy insects.

Desri slammed a hand down hard amongst the grasses, angered and frustrated by her own naivety.

'Damn! Idiot, idiot!' she exclaimed, admonishing herself for her own stupidity.

The queen _Knew_ , of course!

Naturally, the queen would have Known of Desri's plans.

Hadn't the queen looked deep into her eyes when she'd been a part of the crowd?

How much had she revealed to 'Her Most Knowing Majesty' in that brief interchange?

Absolutely _everything_ , probably!

The queen now probably Knew more about her life than even _she_ could accurately remember–

What's that noise?

Not far from her, coming from just below the earth's surface, there was a scratching. The sounds of moving soil, lightly tumbling rocks, a shaking of the covering of undergrowth.

A badger, maybe? Or possibly a fox? Digging their way up from out of their den.

The earth shifted, rose in a mound.

There was also an incongruous, hinge-like creaking. The hollow slap of something like a hand smacking against the smoothed wood of a door.

More of the earth rose and shifted, falling back as a trapdoor was flung open.

The head of the beast appeared at the opening.

He chuckled richly as he stared in the direction the hunt had taken. The sounds were now little more than irritating blares of a horn, and even those were swiftly fading.

Desri gasped.

The buisoar's head whirled. His eyes opened wide in surprise.

'Desri!' he said.

*

# Chapter 13

1,000 Years Earlier

Imp woke, her mind throbbing. She had been confused by the intrusion of a dark, bizarre dream into her real world of a small bedroom, even smaller bed.

No, not a dream: this, too, was reality.

She hadn't heard them, naturally. They were too expert, too experienced, to make such an elemental mistake as making any sound.

They had even taken the precaution of suffusing the whole house in a Cloud of unKnowing, a means of ensuring no one would be aware of their presence.

And yet she _had_ detected them.

She _Knew_ they were there.

Six of them. Six assassins. Stalking through their shop, their house.

The cost of one assassin was expensive. Six was exorbitant, beyond the reach of any but the very richest people.

Obviously, her father's success had engendered bitter, wealthy rivals. Perhaps they'd combined resources, taking a loss now to ensure future profits.

Naturally, Imp wasn't wasting any time simply working out the possible reasons behind the presence of the assassins.

Her mind was split into compartments, each segment concentrating on the task she'd set it. Some, of course, remained in contact with the other sections of her thinking. Others were deliberately closed to all the others. One had already created its own Cloud of unKnowing, throwing out waves of reverberating thought, like the waves of a sea curling back on themselves, negating any sense of specific progress. Another was supposedly Imp still asleep, there to be sensed by any curious assassin, checking on her whereabouts, her state of mind.

Most of her thought was focused on rising quietly, moving stealthily to the door, heading out into the narrow hallway.

There was no point listening for any movement: there wouldn't be any noises. All she had to sense was the thought processes, the abrupt fluctuations in thought that occur when someone makes a change to their carefully arranged plan: the breaks and points of directional change in an otherwise invisible line.

She sought out the thoughts of her sleeping parents, wanting to alert them to the danger they were in. But there was nothing there for her to sense, perhaps because they had already fled.

She opened the door to their bedroom. They were still in their bed, an unrecognisable, crumpled mass beneath the sheets.

There was nothing there for her to sense because they were already dead.

How?

That was impossible!

The six assassins hadn't yet intruded this far into the house, she was sure. She had seen them too early for them to–

Seven!

There were _seven_ assassins, not _six_!

How had she missed the seventh? The one who had actually entered the house before any of the others?

Because, because – because she _had_ detected seven people, but had been fooled into thinking the seventh was _herself_!

The six assassins were setting fires around the shop and house. In the loft, the kitchen, every floor, including the basements and cold storage.

So where was this seventh, the one who had murdered her parents?

Quick; a process of elimination!

The seventh isn't with any of the six!

Isn't passing, or has passed, any of the six!

The window at the hall's end: it wasn't open. And they were three stories up, but–

Imp asked a fragment of her mind to swim out through the window, to search for any–

Found her!

Her!

She's hurriedly climbing down the side of the house. Ramming home spiked boots into the mortar between the stones, driving home daggers to act as handholds.

Not bothering with keeping silent anymore, Imp dashed towards the window. A dark-cloaked assassin was instantly there to block her off, appearing at the top of the stairs as if out of the darkness itself.

Imp considered making him slash his own throat.

Instead, she instils within him the impetus to leap out of the window, to dash himself to death on the pavement far below.

It clears the window frame for her. In a graceful dive, she leaps out after him, with no need to look out, to see where her target lies.

She can see her clearly in her mind; and that, ultimately, is the only place where you need to see anything.

She lands on and grabs at the descending assassin, intending to take her with her, dragging them both to their deaths.

The assassin is ridiculously strong, however. She clings on to her spiked holds. No doubt she had known Imp was about to land on her, had sensed her intentions; but it was still an impressive feat, nevertheless.

Imp made a grab for one of the daggers, intending to simply lash out wildly, hoping to use the fact that the other was still clinging to the wall as an advantage.

She was wrong.

Wrenching her spiked boots clear of the wall, letting go of the dagger handholds, the assassin let them both fall towards the ground.

They parted before striking the pavement. They each wanted to ensure that they weren't the one the other deliberately landed on.

Imp fell cat-like, absorbing most of the impact in a roll. The assassin landed equally smoothly, coming up from the roll in a run.

Imp launched herself at the assassin's back, slashing out with the dagger she'd brought down with her. She missed the body, but sliced deep into the cloak. She pulled aside a huge strip of black cloth that jerked the assassin to an abrupt halt, whirling her around on her feet.

As the cloak split, and the hood fell back, it released a blaze of long red hair.

It was the queen.

The Queen of All the Knowing World had just killed her parents.

*

# Chapter 13

1,000 Years Later

The buisoar's underground home was more like a small cottage rather than an animal's warren.

Ladders led down from the trapdoor, opening up into a small room with boarded walls. There were chairs, a table, a bed. They had all apparently been repaired in some way, as if previously discarded, allowing the beast to claim them as his own.

Light came from partially filled glass bottles, whose long necks (Desri would later learn) had been forced up through the earth, catching and directing the sunlight into this underworld home.

Most bizarre of all, though, was the way the beast politely, a little embarrassedly, offered her a chair.

'Will they return? The hounds, I mean?'

The beast shook his head to Desri's question.

'I've laid a number of false scents. It will lead them on a merry chase.'

Desri nodded in satisfaction.

She wasn't quite sure why she had asked the question, but she felt she had to say something. She wasn't quite sure what she was doing here. Wasn't quite sure this was a sensible thing to do, walking willingly into a beast's lair.

Then again, what an odd lair for a beast!

She accepted the proffered seat with a gracious smile.

'How did you know my name?' she asked at last, having told herself up until now that he must have overheard her being called this. That he must have been watching her for a long time.

She had to know.

'I've known your name for a long, long time, Desri.'

She expected a knowing smile from him. (Again, though, what would a smile on this beast look like?)

His shoulders sagged, a sign, surely, that he was ashamed?

'Why are you following me? How can you speak like this? Who are you? Is this some witch's enchantment?'

Suddenly, all the questions poured out of her.

His great mouth rose at either end.

Was _this_ a smile?

'Perhaps I can give you one answer to all these questions,' he replied sadly.

He knelt before her, his eyes on hers.

Tears appeared in his eyes, fell down his face, through his fur.

'It's _me_ , Desri. I'm _Cranden_ : the boy you once loved!'

*

# Chapter 14

1000 years earlier

Taking advantage of Imp's shock, the queen shrugged free of her black cloak, running off down the darkened streets.

Darkened, that is, but for the growing red glow of the reflected flames rapidly spreading throughout Imp's home and her father's shop.

Imp sensed a presence, a fool who thought his mission had been successfully completed. A fool who had let down his guard.

Imp appeared before him, but told him she wasn't really there. She slipped out his own knife, drew it across his throat.

She told him he was dying while being eaten alive by a pack of hunting dogs.

Another assassin was just inside the house, stepping aside from the fire he'd fanned into life. Imp froze him to the spot,

She let him watch as the flames spread towards him, licked at his cloak, gradually enveloped him.

Tell me; why did the queen want my parents killed?

He wouldn't answer. Even though his mind was now a shrieking cacophony of intense agony, he retained enough control to veil this from her.

There was another, perhaps too far away to exert any control over. She tried it anyway.

You failed, she told him.

You will die, when they hear how you let them down.

I know the queen ordered this. I know because I saw it in your mind, fool.

How will your masters repay you for disclosing such a secret?

He slashed his own throat.

The others had gone. As assassins, with their own high level of Knowing, they were out of range.

Either that or the energies of the swiftly spreading fire were causing problems with thought waves and patterns.

And that's when it dawned on her: the queen would have had more than enough ability to hide her presence from a relative amateur like Imp.

Why hadn't she? Why had she let herself be discovered escaping from the building?

Had it being carelessness, overconfidence?

She probably wouldn't have realised how much Imp's own abilities had increased recently, after all. Not unless she had deliberately set out to Know her before the attack.

Then again, perhaps the queen was always sure of being able to escape. Had it really just been the shock of seeing the queen beneath that cloak that had made Imp freeze so, letting her go? Or had Imp also been an unwitting, _unknowing_ victim of the Knowing?

The spreading fire had woken up those in the nearby houses and shops. They were rushing out onto the street.

Imp told them all that she wasn't there. She walked past them all unnoticed.

It was good, Imp thought, that an assassin had died within the fire.

His body, like those of her parents, would be burnt to an unrecognisable cinder. By morning, there would hardly be anything left of the shop or house.

Most people would believe that she had also perished in the fire.

Of course, the queen, and those who had wanted her and her parents dead, would know otherwise.

She had to disappear. To leave town as soon as possible.

But first she needed someone who could lead her to the Assassins' Assembly.

And to find him, she would have to hang around here for just a little longer.

*

# Chapter 14

1000 Years Later

The beast had obviously prepared himself for this moment.

He had realised Desri wouldn't believe him: how could she possibly believe that this monstrous creature was once _any_ boy, let alone the boy she had loved?

He swiftly reeled off a number of facts that only Cranden could know: the time of their first kiss, how it had all gone wrong (interrupted by his parents); her pledge to him when he had left for war, a promise that she would wait for three years of no information before even thinking of courting another man; a promise, too, that she would continue to love him if he came back horribly injured.

But this: this was far worse than any injury. And Cranden was aware of this.

'I don't – I _can't_ – expect you to keep that promise,' he added hurriedly.

The burrow he'd created, despite it's vast size, was too low for him to stand completely upright on two feet. He was obviously uncomfortable with the way that resting on all fours made even more beast-like, for he attempted to stand anyway, despite the way he had to bend low beneath the ceiling.

His voice was still the harsh growl Desri had heard the previous night, yet he seemed determined to speak as well and as clearly as possible, despite the way it appeared to be putting him under considerable, perhaps even painful, strain

'I mentioned it only to prove who I am: but I know I'm now a _monster_! I can't expect _anything_ of you Desri!'

Even so, he instinctively stepped towards her, as if briefly forgetting who he now was, as if ready to reach out for and grasp her trembling hands.

'Is...is it _witchcraft_?' Desri asked uncertainly.

'Hah! That, at least, would give me some hope of finding the witch who did this, and killing her.'

'But...but there must be _someway_ of reversing this change?'

She hesitantly moved a little closer, her head raised a little: the pose she'd taken before their first kiss. Cranden stepped back, away from her, his great head slumping across his chest.

'The true love of fairy tales, you mean?' Cranden whispered bitterly, as if he had once hopefully considered this himself. 'I've met others like me, who thought that same thing.'

He shook his head, a sign of the hopelessness of it all.

'There are others...?'

Desri couldn't prevent a hint of horror from underlying her voice.

'But how? How did this happen?' she asked quickly.

Cranden shrugged miserably.

'It was after a battle, a battle whose dead created a feast for the buisoar...'

He paused, breathed deeply: he was a buisoar now, of course.

'Then...then I'm not sure what happened. It was, possibly, _some_ form of witchcraft; but not, as in fairy tales, a curse on a single man. It was more like some great enchantment, where we woke up as these beasts after fighting only hours before.'

At first, he hadn't even realised that he had become one of the monsters: he simply thought he had woken up in the midst of the horrors of a lost battle. A lost battle even more terrify than normal because here the victors were ultimately the buisoar, hungrily devouring the dead of both sides.

Wondering why they weren't attacking him, he'd made to run; only to realise at last that his body wasn't responding in the way he had come to expect it to act. His arms failed to push him upright onto two legs, as he'd intended. Rather, they wanted to help propel him forward, being of course forelegs, not arms. Even worse, it dawned on him that his huge jaw was wet, sticky: dribbling with the blood and flesh of men he'd also been feasting on.

Sickened by what he had done, what he had become, and choking on his own vomit, he ran from the field. As he ran, he saw a few others doing the same thing, doubtlessly because they had also abruptly become aware of what they had become.

He could have stopped to talk to them, to try and work out how this could have happened. But he was too disgusted by his present state to allow anyone, even one who had suffered the same fate, to see him brought so low.

Besides, when he at last first tried to talk, all that had emanated form his mouth was a low, bestial growl. It had taken him a long time to train his vocal chords to create even the most basic forms of speech.

It was only later, when he was miserably wandering the forests – how could he head on home, revealing himself as this monster to those he'd once loved? – that he came across beasts who were like him, bitter at what they had been transformed into. Some had approached their homes, expecting understanding, but they had been chased away, only just escaping with their lives. Wives, parents, children; they all disbelieved the ridiculous claims these bewitched monsters were making.

'But if there are so many of you, then surely–'

Cranden interrupted Desri's hopeful cry with an irate shaking of the head.

'Not so many of us: only a few, it seems, fully remember who they once were. And they are the most cursed of all!'

'Cursed? But surely, if you do remember–'

'Remember the love I once enjoyed, that I can never hope to have again? That life that was once mine–'

He pointed bitterly to his head with a huge paw.

– 'It's all still _in_ here! But it can never, ever be mine again.'

With a wave of his arms, he indicated his miserable surroundings. For the first time, Desri noticed that his splayed-out paws were almost like human hands, yet gnarled, disfigured, as if they had been deliberately broken many times to achieve this affect.

A part of Desri wanted to rush forward and, with a loving embrace, reassure Cranden that he was unnecessarily worrying about this; yet a greater part of her held her back, repulsed by the beast who was really standing before her.

Cranden couldn't fail to notice this reticence, the way she rose on her feet, hesitated, stayed where she was.

His great maw expanded into what could have been a grin, perhaps a bitter one.

'You see, Desri, how much better it would have been for me? How much better if, like most of these beasts, that's _all_ I believed I was – a beast?'

Once again, Desri had the urge to dash towards him. Once again, a greater part of her fought that urge and won out.

'We must stop the hunts; immediately,' she said instead.

Cranden's great head moved slowly, sadly, from side to side.

'How? Who would believe us? Because of me? A beast they will, at best, say is a creation of witchcraft, or trickery. Anything, any excuse they can conjure up, in fact. It's all better, isn't it, than having to admit you've really been eating the flesh of other humans?'

*

# Chapter 15

1000 Years Earlier

Naturally, the Assassins' Assembly was blamed for the fire that had destroyed the home and shop of Imp's parents.

The bodies of the dead assassins had been found just outside of the burnt-out butchers. They wore the dark cloak of the assassins', each equipped with a host of interior pockets containing various devices that helped them carry out their tasks.

As Imp had suspected, none of them carried any device linking them to the queen.

Which meant that the only people aware that the assassins hadn't really been the ones involved would be the queen and her close followers, Imp herself – and the Assassins' Assembly.

The Assassins' Assembly wouldn't like to be linked to an attack they hadn't personally undertaken, Imp reasoned. Especially one that had supposedly left some of their members dead.

That would be bad for their reputation – incompetence.

She moved from inn to inn (none of which charged her anything for her stay, as no one could remember her being there), while giving anyone who saw her the idea that she lived out on the streets (disguising herself in the _impression_ rather than the _reality_ of rags and filthy clothing) while she waited for the arrival of the assassin. She knew that at least one would be sent; someone who could work out who had really been responsible for this incompetent attack that had stained their otherwise infallible reputation.

When he finally did arrive, he made sure he wasn't easy to spot, of course. Nevertheless, Imp saw him straight away for who he was.

His Cloud of unKnowing was just a little too perfect, like the beginnings of a hole in the confused and tangled thoughts of a busy street.

He walked past people with an anguished expression, as if urgently rushing to his next business meeting. Yet his mind was wandering amongst them, seeking out anyone who might be able to provide him with information about what had gone on here that night.

He glanced at the spots where he now Knew the fallen men had been found, searching for any small fragment that would help him identify who had died here.

He studied the burnt timbers, his eyes and mind attuned to looking for the small clues that would lead him to the truth. Even the way a fire had spread, or the positions were it had been deliberately started from, could help pinpoint the real perpetrators, for every group had its preferred methods, its special expertise.

He saw nothing.

In that respect, at least, the queen's men had been good. Very, very good.

He was becoming increasingly frustrated, even slightly anxious.

Good, Imp thought.

That's how I want him.

I need him to be desperate for information, for a solution to his dilemma. So that, when I approach him, he won't send me packing. Or, worse, kill me.

Yet she was resolved that she would put him out of his misery – she would tell him who had really been involved.

How would he react to that? she wondered: to be told that the queen had perpetrated this attack now being blamed on the assassins?

At last, his lack of progress persuaded him that he had no alternative but to undertake a closer search of the building's charred ruins. It was a risk; the house might still be under a secretive watch, precisely because it had supposedly been attacked by assassins. It was an attack, too, that had left some of their number dead. There was probably someone, somewhere, who was hoping a lone assassin might show up to find out what had gone wrong...

He entered the ruins carefully, not so much to avoid disturbing delicately balanced timbers, to avoid dropping through floorboards turned to charcoal, but to reassure himself that there was no one watching him. He'd circled the site a number of times, realising that anyone placed on guard here would be capable of detecting and cloaking against an assassin's use of the Knowing.

He didn't realise it, of course, but he had no need to worry about the guards: Imp had already taken care of them. They lay in their carefully prepared hiding places. Telling themselves they were still awake, still on watch for any unusual behaviour.

As a further precaution, Imp had also cloaked their minds from further detection by the assassin. She didn't want to frighten him off, not now she was so close to making contact with the Assembly.

How had she developed all these remarkable skills, capabilities she had read about in the books she'd begged, borrowed, stolen – read, even, in the minds of others – but had believed must ultimately lie beyond her abilities?

There was the surfeit of high quality meat, of course. The candles, lamps. The clothing, of leather and fur. There was also all that reading, the patient, painstaking practise. And, more than all of these, the experience of dealing with and controlling the beasts, moving and manipulating them as if they had become nothing more than puppets in her hands, her mind.

Yet there was something extra. Something inherent, instinctive. A sense that this ability lay within every cell of her being. Some _thing_ lying deep inside her that told her she was capable of all these things, and more.

Call it confidence.

Call it arrogance, if you prefer.

Whatever it was, it was now the impetus that drove her through her life. And the more it drove her, the more confident – but no, _never_ arrogant, as that would ultimately be a weakness – she felt about that ability.

Now she was putting those abilities to their greatest test so far. A test that – if she _had_ become too arrogant – would probably result in her death.

'Hi,' she said. 'What're you doing here?'

She had enough sense to make sure she hadn't suddenly appeared alongside the assassin. She'd let him sense her languid, mournful approach.

She'd let him know who she was too: Imp, the daughter of the butcher and his wife who had lived here. The girl everyone thought was dead.

She wasn't dead after all.

She caught his unguarded thoughts. He wasn't expecting her to be able to read them: she was just a butcher's girl, after all.

It gave him hope, hope that he might be able to work out what had gone on here that night without having to resort to the far more dangerous task of searching out the bodies of those who had made this attack. Those, of course, would be under even closer guard than the house; in fact, as the house didn't have anyone guarding it, he was thinking, the bodies must be particularly well guarded, for they must hold most of the clues leading to those responsible.

Imp hadn't made the same basic mistake that he'd made: falsely assuming that the person you're coming into contact with won't be using any Knowing abilities. Imp had assumed the complete opposite; that this man's powers would be extremely well developed and dangerous.

'And you?'

Even though he thought he Knew what she was doing here, he had to ask it; to appear relaxed, appear normal.

'I lived here.'

Again, she had to say it, even though he Knew.

Her mind seemed open, innocent to him. He could see her supposed fear that night, when the assassins had come to kill her parents. See the trauma she had suffered.

What she didn't want him to see – which was most things – was effectively cloaked. But delicately so, fuzzily so, with no sudden, hard divide to draw attention to the veiling.

She let him Know she found him handsome; that would be the natural thing to do.

Flattering for him too. It enhanced his arrogance, his weakness. He believed it gave him a certain level of power over her.

Yet she was pleased to see that he also found her attractive, if not beautiful. He saw her frame as being athletically slim, an attribute a man of action found strangely seductive. Her cropped hair was practical, revealing the sharpness of her chin, the elegance of her neck.

She hadn't used the ploy of the beggar's clothes on him: he would see through it. It would alert him to her skills.

She had garnered all of this knowledge of him from his own mind in the last few seconds. She instantly hid that knowledge from him, for, of course, she wasn't supposed to be aware of any of this.

It was like using your mind the way a card sharp flicks though a pack, bringing the ones you need up to the top, planting the unwanted ones lower down. In the same way, the levels of thought had to be kept absolutely right, endlessly requiring a fresh, swift rearranging. Yet you had to constantly hide the fact that you were swiftly shifting through those thoughts – hiding even the intention to hide, which was the most difficult skill of all to master. Especially when you were taking in new information, new surprises.

Suddenly, she deliberately reshuffled her thoughts.

'It was the queen's men,' she said bluntly.

'How do you–'

He gawped in surprise, a brief moment of fear.

She was revealing to him the truth of what had happened that night: the men in assassins' cloaks, her dead parents, the way she had killed the first man, fought with and unveiled the queen.

She also showed him how she had killed the other men.

Showed him, too, that she had no argument with him; she wasn't about to attack him.

He was impressed. Not only with the ease of her own assassinations, but also the way she displayed such remarkable skill with the Knowing.

'Why are you letting me see all this?' he asked, speaking – although he didn't realise it – unnecessarily.

She already Knew the question that had been forming. Not that she allowed him to Know that.

'I need a job,' she answered.

*

# Chapter 15

1000 Years Later

Attending the Academy no longer seemed a chore now that Cranden – for yes, she now saw the beast as being Cranden in _some_ way, his thoughts and emotions being there if not his true physicality – was with her once more.

He could help her train, he had told her. Show her the means of fighting you picked up in battle, not at a glorified school.

Fighting for your life was different to fighting simply to win a dual. You fought dirty: you kicked, you spat, you bit. You clubbed with the pommel of your sword. You used your shield as a weapon, barging into your opponent with enough force to send him spinning away from you.

You took note of the ground you were fighting on, watching out for rocks you can force him back onto, making him unsteady on his feet. You kept an eye out for hanging branches, once again subtly moving him back amongst them. That way, he suddenly found he couldn't swing his sword with the ease he had up until now.

Cranden was the perfect training partner. She didn't have to hold back from putting all the force and aggression she could muster into her attacks and blows, for he could take it all, provided the sword she used was blunted.

He moved surprisingly quickly for his size. His strength, of course, was prodigious: he could alter the levels of defence he was putting up, treating her lightly at first, becoming more brutal as she improved. If she prevailed against him, he informed her, she could hold out against anyone human.

He was more in tune, too, with nature.

He showed her the obvious: how to track other animals, noting the disruption of soil, the broken twigs and leaves. To follow watercourses, to study the portions of prey they had left behind, the clues that could be had from even distasteful waste products like stools.

More unusual, however, was the development of those senses many animals took for granted; the instincts that frequently kept them alive or, conversely, helped them hunt a more careless, unwitting victim.

'It's still there, this sense, only hiding deep within us,' Cranden explained. 'Or, rather, we're foolishly hiding it from ourselves.'

The ability itself is patiently waiting to be revived.

_Expecting_ to be revived.

A remnant of this ability still remains easily accessible; that strange, prickling you feel in the back of your neck whenever someone is observing you.

Don't dismiss this, Cranden warned Desri, as just a foolish notion.

_Trust_ it.

Work on using it more often.

'And from this, we'll re-instil in you a gift equal of the Knowing.'

*

# Chapter 16

1000 Years Earlier

'We need a bedroom,' Haran said to Imp bluntly.

'I don't think we're at that stage yet!' Imp replied morosely.

It was the reply he was expecting, of course. She couldn't let him Know that she was already completely aware that he needed the room for the meeting with other Assembly members he'd promised to arrange.

The lone assassin had been suitably impressed by Imp's earlier demonstration of her skills. But there were some skills, Imp had decided, that she should keep hidden from him.

'It's so we can be alone, and the other people in the inn won't see anything wrong with that,' Haran said, allowing her a glimpse of his own thoughts, a means – he presumed – of showing her he was telling the truth.

Not, of course, that that meant he really was revealing the truth. It would be incredibly stupid of her not to accept that he might have capabilities she remained unaware of: another level of his thoughts, carefully veiled, might be pondering a totally different reality.

Still, she made her way up to the bedroom with him. It made sense, a meeting taking place away from the curious eyes of those drinking in the bar.

Once again, the assassins had thankfully underestimated her.

Via the roof, they were silently slipping into the bedroom through a deftly opened window. Their cloaks, which everyone assumed were black, only generally appeared this way because an assassin was more usually seen at night, or erupting out of the shadows. Yet they were made of minute, overlapping lizard scales, which reflected the surrounding lights and shapes. Thus to anybody but Imp – who had detected the arrogantly uncloaked minds of men who erroneously thought their Cloud of unKnowing offered protection – they appeared as nothing more than flowing fluctuations of the night, the walls, the window.

She was getting just a little tired of having to act surprised – but it was essential to keep up the subterfuge. So as she and Haran entered the unlit room, she gasped when the three men stepped out of the shadows into the block of dim moonlight coming in through the window.

'I've been told of your abilities,' one of the men said.

He'd had the sense to cloak the part of his mind revealing his real identity. Of course, as he wasn't even attempting to pretend he wasn't hiding anything, it was a solid, abrupt veiling of the vast majority of his mind. The other two men with him had taken a similar precaution.

'You say these men were the queen's men?' one of the other three men asked.

'It has been known,' the third said, as if he didn't require Imp's answer.

'If you wish to join us, we have a task you might relish.' It was the first man who spoke again.

'So soon?' Haran said doubtfully. 'I have seen in her mind what she can do, but a degree of training–'

'Of course!' The third man interrupted him. '

'Who is it?' Imp asked curiously.

She felt both irritated and yet strangely relieved that she couldn't directly see whom they had in mind as a target.

'Lord Krag,' the first man replied.

'Lord Krag!' Haran didn't hide his surprise. His horror. It would probably have been useless to do so. 'We've already lost–'

He was stilled in his protests by a raised hand from the first man.

'It's gratifying to see that you care for the wellbeing of our latest recruit, Haran,' he breathed caustically. 'We mention this only to show her that there can be benefits in making a commitment to our cause.'

'Lord Krag.' Imp nodded her head in satisfaction. She had never forgotten that Lord Krag had been responsible for Hoak's death. 'I don't care what protection he has; I accept this mission.'

The other two men chuckled at her impetuousness.

'First,' the second man said, 'there's the requirement of a payment for your training.'

'Payment?' Imp hadn't expected this.

She could hear the smile in the third man's voice.

'We'd like to utilise your talents as a butcher.'

*

# Chapter 16

1000 Years Later

The Academy's training, as Cranden had warned her, seemed rather basic in comparison to the multitude of skills she was gradually honing under his tutelage. Even so it was, of course, highly impressive in its own way.

She was taught how to ride, how to continue spurring your horse on to what could be a gruesome death for both of you. That, of course, was a skill Cranden had mastered in.

In particular, she was shown how to command men, how to make decisions in the heat of the moment when everyone else was panicking, overwhelmed by a run of apparently hopeless misfortunes. Taught, especially, that she should be prepared to sacrifice the lives of the few to save the many. An officer incapable of taking this on board was not an officer at all, but simply another man.

You could not, therefore, you could never, regard those under your command as 'friends'. This was _not_ the way to ensure they would always obey you, not when you were issuing orders that could result in them being maimed or killed. They had to trust you because they realised you had a wider perspective of the battle than they could ever hope to master.

Friendlessness was something Desri could effortlessly identify with. There were no other girls in the Academy. No one, even, from her own low level of life.

Every boy there was the son of someone holding a high position in the ruling class. Their natural inclination was to look down on her, to view her as an unwanted intruder into what they believed was their own rightful level of life.

Added to this was their other natural inclination to follow the crowd, a crowd led by Barane's ideas of what was right and what was wrong. No one questioned these ideals and attitudes that everyone had subserviently and willingly accepted, for fear of being made an outcast, the butt of the anger and vengeance of those very ideals.

Desri noticed that the boy who had made an effort to defend her that night in the alley obviously made some attempt at rebelling against these self-imposed rules of the crowd. As she had presumed that night, he also seemed attracted to her. He not only made no effort to fully disclose this attraction, however, but also failed to use it as a spur to stand up for her, despite the way she was either ostracised or humiliated at every opportunity. She was jostled in the corridors, such that she dropped her books. She had odious tricks played on her, including the time a venomous spider was left in the leggings of her armour. The deliberate weakening of her shield lead to its unexpected collapsing in a dual, resulting in a badly injured arm.

Of course, Desri had no firm proof that the boy, Neilif, found her attractive. Yet she couldn't fail to be aware that her beauty seemed to be increasing with the passing of each month, the physical training she was being put though by both the Academy and Cranden giving her both a leanness and a confident baring that enhanced her already natural elegance and gracefulness.

Moreover, she often caught Neilif intently watching her, and not just when she also happened to glance his way either: she sensed his interest whenever he was close, feeling his longing intent even when he was seated behind her in class. For, just as Cranden had instructed her to do, she had gradually developed that natural, instinctive sensation of the prickling neck, experienced whenever someone was intensely staring at her.

She no longer needed to whirl her head around, in the hope of catching the culprit before they had chance to look away. Instead, under Cranden's directions, she _absorbed_ that focused intent, making herself fully aware of it, like you attune your ears to picking up malicious whisperings about you.

Letting that intenseness of the observer soak into her, she dissected it, examined it, felt the intent of the person. She felt the person himself, utilising his own longing as a connection between them: secretly rushing back on the waves of energy sent out by him, dipping into the pool of his being, swimming around in there for a while to see what she could learn about him.

The classes on Knowing taught that the eyes were more than a window to the soul: they were a door to a person's mind, their identity, their very being.

Carefully, subtly (an unhurried subtleness is essential throughout) catch someone's eye.

Linger a little, with a glittering amusement, a hazy dreaminess, within your eyes. ( _Think_ of being amused, of being a little dreamy, and your eyes will reflect these thoughts.)

Smile inwardly: for that smile will appear in your eyes (trust us on this).

Let them know you're pleased to be with them.

Watch their pupils dilate – and prepare to slip into those dark, inviting pools of being.

Think of how interesting you find them. How attractive they are as a person.

Flatter them.

You don't need to say this: they can read it in your eyes.

The connection is made.

Use what little you are already aware of – even if it's just their preference for a certain colour, a way of dressing, the way they have their hair – to become a part of their thoughts.

You like the colour of my eyes, don't you?

(You think this is trivial, this focus on attractiveness? Why would anyone who doesn't find you attractive allow you to come close, to come so close you're about to become a part of them?)

Be especially careful about what you're thinking now: for they will read those thoughts in your eyes.

Twist those earlier thoughts slightly; you find _me_ interesting, don't you?

You find _me_ attractive.

Move from rhetorical questions to positive statements.

Move from being _you_ to being _them_.

Yes, I do find you attractive – yes, it's strange, but there's something about you I can't quite...

Something I hadn't noticed before.

Yet I see it now.

I think I need to get to Know you more.

Did these lecturers of the Knowing realise, Desri wondered, that the eyes were just an easier means to asserting this control? That once a connection was made, it was achievable by other means?

In most of her lessons, even her military exercises and training, Desri continually found that she had to hide her own higher-levels of expertise. She feared being asked how she had achieved these extra skills, acquired this special knowledge.

She slipped up in her answers to questions, slipped when taking part in a mock dual. She didn't want to appear to be completely incompetent, of course: but she made sure she always ended up on the register where she was expected to be – at the bottom of the class.

Naturally, it was frustrating for her to be constantly mocked by her teachers, and jeered at by the other cadets, for her supposed failures. The alternative, however, was far worse: if she was seen to be performing beyond the low expectations the Academy had for her, how long would it be before a suspicious, envious cadet followed her to see where she disappeared to each night?

With most of the cadets being from ridiculously wealthy, incredibly well-connected families, they weren't under strict orders to stay within the Academy's dormitories. Many lodged within the town in rooms more suited – as they saw it – to their personal standing. So although Desri wasn't known to be in any way rich, it was understood by many that she had money from the sale of the tavern, so no one saw anything unusual in her staying away from the Academy.

If it hadn't been for her evenings and nights with Cranden, Desri would probably have succumbed to the loneliness imposed on her throughout the day. With Cranden, however, she had never felt more connected, more a part of someone, such that it was impossible to feel alone even when they were separated throughout most of the daylight hours.

Yes, she had never felt this close, even, to the real, human Cranden.

So was it love?

No, not _love_.

She couldn't, no...she just couldn't love the animal he had become.

Even in the times when she found herself morosely thinking in this way, she instantly harshly admonished herself.

For, of course, the Cranden inside the beast was no animal by any stretch of the imagination.

His kindness, his thoughtfulness, was greater by far than that which the original Cranden had ever managed to display. At last, he even understood and appreciated the incredible sacrifices that his parents had made for him.

Too late, of course, for him to let them know how he now felt.

Such foolishness, not to have realised earlier, to have been able – _capable_ – of telling them how much he loved them.

What complete idiots we are to realise this only when it is too late!

And yes, Desri saw, even experienced, Cranden's irritation with himself.

And that, of course, was why she _almost_ loved him, despite the beast he had otherwise become.

*

# Chapter 17

1,000 Years Earlier

They travelled on a pair of horses more suited to tinkers than the high-ranking assassin Imp aspired to become. Their dress, too, was that of impoverished travellers.

Similarly, their stench was carefully matched to their new personas; a smell of soap would be an instant giveaway. Even an animal has the good sense to roll in the dung of any creature it wishes to draw near to.

Other travellers naturally avoid rather than seek to innocently question such undesirables. And that was exactly what Haran and Imp desired.

Rather than setting them apart, their filth made them blend into the surroundings of the poorer parts of the town they eventually arrived at. They made their way, as directed, to a derelict house that was similarly hidden amongst other derelict houses.

The sickly reek inside the house cut through even the other noisome smells of rotting food, damp and stale water. Imp sensed Haren gipping, close to vomiting.

'Are you sure you want to...?'

Imp nodded in reply to his anxious query.

They were each carrying a thick, canvas bag. She took out the knives and cleavers she would need for the task they'd been given, slung the handles of the bag over her shoulder.

The people were down in the cellar, they'd been reliably informed; the people who had to be disposed of.

The closer you got to them, the more their stench sliced into you. Imp was tempted to turn back, to at least grant herself a long breath of fresh air before attempting to descend the dark steps once more.

She carried on, twisting the heavy cleaver around in her hand.

'How did they know I hated Lord Krag?'

She didn't bother turning to face Haren. She was fully aware that he was following her down the stairs.

'The Assembly?' he answered. 'As soon as the birds I'd sent them arrived, they would've sent their own out; gathering as much information as they could about you.'

Hah, she thought: he _had_ hidden that from me. What more is he capable of hiding?

'They were most impressed by your way of hunting the beasts.'

Imp sensed the amusement in his disclosure. His way, she Knew, of making her aware that he was capable of hiding a lot more from her than she'd accepted.

She had been foolish, naturally, for taking such an accomplished man for granted. And he wanted her to Know that.

'You do realise,' he added with only a half-veiled chuckle, 'it's illegal for anyone under twenty-one to practise the Knowing? Unless, of course, you're at a registered college?'

The bodies, six of them, had been dumped across the sewerage soaked floor. Could the Assembly have come up with any more distasteful task for her?

She appreciated Haren's presence. He must have a high enough rank by now, she reasoned, to turn down a task as onerous as this one.

'Do you need some sort of slab?' he asked? 'A work table, at least?'

She shook her head.

'We butchered our catches out in the wild; you use their own bones and ribcages as supports to break the harder ones against. You've just got to know how to crack them in the right places.'

By way of a demonstration, she lifted up the arm of one of the dead men. Placing a booted foot deep within his armpit, she twisted the arm with an abrupt jerk, pulled back on it as she did so. With a glutinous plop, a sharp crack, she wrenched the arm clear of the rest of the body.

'Easy,' she said, with a grim smile.

She looked down at the bodies, making a quick calculation of how many cuts she'd have to make to transform them all into more easily transportable pieces.

'Where do you want them all to end up?' she asked, recognising that the distance to be travelled would also determine the size of the pieces.

'There's a meat warehouse a block from here: we've already made the sale.'

Imp glanced at the yellow-streaked mess the contorted figures were lying in.

'I hope they're given a good wash then,' she said.

*

# Chapter 17

1,000 Years Later

Naturally, whenever they were out in the woods sharpening Desri's growing skills, they frequently came across other buisoars.

Strangely, Cranden always hung back, avoiding either drawing too close to them, or drawing their attention.

Unable to read his thoughts on this, assuming that it could only be down to a now unwarranted anxiety over her safety, Desri lightly touched his arm one day as they silently observed a noisily foraging buisoar from the elaborate hide they'd constructed of branches, leaves and mud.

'Cranden,' she whispered in his ear, 'if you'd like, you can talk to him while I–'

'Is _that_ what you think of me?' he bellowed furiously. 'That I converse with _beasts_?'

'But, like you, they once _were_ men–'

'Once! But no longer, Desri–'

Cranden's own angry reaction to Desri's question was as nothing to the infuriated snorts and snarls of the disturbed beast. It thundered towards their hide, crumpling before it any bush or tree standing in its way.

Cranden reacted swiftly, decisively.

Effortlessly picking Desri up by the waist and carrying her outside the hide, he equally effortlessly threw her up towards the crook of the nearest large tree. Far from being startled by this, Desri smoothly took the momentum of the throw and made it her own. Remaining upright, she virtually stepped into the opening where the tree's thick trunk branched and splayed.

As Cranden turned from his throw to face the charging beast, its great, bowed head caught him in the chest. The incredible force of it all lifted him up off his feet, despite his own immense size.

Sent flying back, Cranden crashed through the bushes, the many, cracking branches wildly crackling like a roaring bonfire.

The beast didn't stop in its hurling charge, despite striking a bigger creature than it had ever taken on before. Rather, it rushed forward with its head lower than ever, seeking to gore its victim while it was still floundering after that first, brutal blow.

Apparently wounded, Cranden rolled aside just in time to avoid the full force of the new charge. It wasn't quickly enough, however, to avoid receiving a glancing blow to his flanks.

Once again, he was sent painfully reeling into the bushes.

The huge beast swung around, preparing itself for another attack.

Desri had already unslung her bow form her back, notched in an arrow.

She sighted on the soft eye.

Your bow, your arrow, is simply an essential part of you.

The bow is an extension of your arm. The arrow is a thought wave of your mind.

You don't aim: you cast it out, letting it know where you want it to be, to end up.

You instinctively Know when everything is right, when its time to let that wave flow from you towards its goal.

For this is how it should be, and it could not possibly be any other way.

Her fingers flexed.

Her mind – a part of it at least, but a very focused part – coursed through the air, disguised as an arrow.

As it was a part of her mind, she continued to direct it. The whole world around her, now, was a part of her.

She could direct it all.

The barbed thought struck home into the softest, most delicate, most vulnerable flesh of any animal, even a great beast.

It sank deep, deeper and deeper, that deliberately malicious thought of Desri's.

Now, I'm afraid, you will die.

What choice did the poor buisoar have?

The light of its own mind died instantly.

It keeled over, even in its falling taking with it the lives of many plants and bushes, those crushed and those broken, injured beyond recovery.

Cranden had managed to stand, splaying his massive legs in readiness to face the beast, his arms held wide as if in greeting.

As the beast toppled before him, it's eye now a bloodied mess of otherwise brightly coloured feathers, he breathed a strangely saddened sigh of relief. He glanced back up towards Desri in her lofty position, nodded gratefully.

'Thanks, Desri.'

He could have been grinning wryly, or gratefully, or with relief. It was hard for Desri to tell if it was even a grin.

'I don't think I could have won against it.'

Desri was about to ask him what he meant when she saw him cock his head, as if hearing something far off. He looked over to where the main road ran through the wood: and that, indeed, was a very long way away.

Desri scampered up higher into the tall tree. She could sense something out there herself now, sense it before she heard the sounds of a great many people casually working their way along a road in a huge procession.

As she reached the top of the tree, Desri could at last see the odd glint of glittering, expensive banners and pennants.

It was a wealthy procession. One of a major duke, at least, and on official business too.

It wasn't a duke, however.

For Desri Knew whose presence the arrival of this serpentine procession heralded.

The queen.

The Queen of all the Knowing World appeared to be on her way to the Academy.

'What are you doing here?' the queen demanded with a mischievous, chuckle. 'I need _you_ at the Academy!'

*

# Chapter 18

1000 Years Earlier

Butchering the dead, once you'd got used to it, was hardly different from slicing up a beast.

Imp was sickened at first, of course. But she told herself there was nothing she could do for these poor people now.

She'd been given a task to help remove them. That is what she would do.

Any emotion she might have felt for these people was, thankfully, quickly assuaged when she discovered that the first body she started hacking into was a male that, even now, when lifeless, still retained a faint, swiftly vanishing hint of that sense of presence she'd detected when her parents had been killed.

It was one of the queen's assassins. And he had been killed only recently, hence the lingering hint of presence.

She sensed another of the assassins amongst the pile. She'd cut him up next.

The Assembly had worked quickly in tracing and removing these fake assassins.

'The Assembly,' she calmly asked Haren as she deftly brought her cleaver down on the weak points of muscle and gristle; 'are they responsible for all these people who just seem to vanish? The ones suffering the Disappearance?'

Haren was quickly picking up the joints of meat she was throwing onto the floor, slipping them into one of the large, pitch-lined canvas bags he'd brought with him.

'All those?' He shook his head. 'No, not even the Assembly could make so many people just vanish like that.'

'You don't seem to do too bad.'

She gave a wry nod towards the pile of bodies.

Haren grinned.

'The Assembly wasn't exactly happy about your disclosure that the queen was involved. They also had to get rid of the informants who led them to the queen's men involved; make sure there's no _definite_ proof of connection between their disappearance and the Assembly. Even though, naturally, everyone will see us as being the cause of all this.'

'Brutal.'

'Necessary.'

With a groan of exertion, he slung the handles of the now filled and heavy bags across his shoulders. He made for the steps, trotting up them quickly, despite this been just the first of many similar trips he'd have to make. Although the horses wouldn't be fully loaded, it was time for him to head on towards the meat warehouse and meet his contact there.

'I shouldn't be too long,' he promised.'

'Don't worry; I don't think any of these are capable of giving me any trouble.'

She brought the cleaver down hard again, used its broad blade to push aside another slab of meat she'd just created.

As soon as Haren had exited the cellar and let its rotting door slam behind him, she dashed over to the pile of bodies, quickly pushing most of them aside to uncover the corpse of the queen's assassin. Taking her sharp knife, she dug hard into the soft flesh around the bottom, right-hand rib. Gouging quickly at the skin and muscle surrounding the end of the rib, she uncovered the bare bone.

As she'd cleaved apart the previous victim, she'd noticed something odd about this same rib. And here, as proof that she hadn't imagined it, that it wasn't unique to that particular man, was exactly the same thing.

The end of the rib had been carved into an elaborate shape. As if delicately turned on a carpenter's foot-powered lathe.

*

# Chapter 18

1,000 Years Later

By the time Desri had arrived back at the Academy, the fields stretching out before the main set of buildings had already been quickly taken over by the queen's entourage. Either that or – which was more likely – the Academy's council had had enough forewarning to prepare everything for them.

Huge, brightly coloured tents had been erected. Long tables had been set out for dinner, perhaps even a feast going by the smells of the various types of meats being roasted and boiled out in the open. Jugglers and acrobats wandered around amongst everyone, entertaining anyone who wished to join those gathered about them.

Most of the cadets had been ordered to take part in providing entertainment for the queen and her followers, with demonstrations of their prowess in riding, running, or use of a variety of weapons. There were a few mock fights, an interplay of massed formations of riders, a display of the use of lances to cleanly strike targets dangerously held up by other cadets.

Desri didn't find it in anyway surprising that she hadn't been commanded to take part in any of these events. Instead, she'd been given a seat at one of the long tables, well away from the queen and those of her court.

Despite knowing its real origin, Desri ate the buisoar meat served before her. She and Cranden had decided long ago that to be seen to refuse it at the Academy would lead to accusations that she wasn't suitable material for a cadet. Besides, Cranden had reassured her, those buisoar captured and served up as food in this way were undoubtedly only those who believed themselves to be beasts and nothing more, any residue of humanity and man's intelligence that had existed in them having thankfully been extinguished long ago.

Despite this heartfelt reassurance, Cranden never ate the meat himself.

'For me, that would be _too_ much like cannibalism.'

He had, too, morosely observed the beast Desri had killed earlier that day, referring to it as 'him' when he wished it hadn't attacked them.

'"He" didn't act like a man: like you do,' Desri had pointed out in an effort to assuage his obvious feelings of guilt that this 'man' had died because of him. 'You said yourself: they were men "once".'

Cranden had nodded in agreement sagely.

'How many, I wonder, _did_ have more human sensibilities originally; but when they came back to find their loved ones didn't recognise them – loved ones who chased them away, screamed "Beast!" – how many, Desri, would it send mad? So they became the beast they appeared to be; wanting to die, to fight other beasts, so that like the warriors they had once been, they died an heroic death!'

Today, in particular, the meat left an odd taste in Desri's mouth.

She took long drinks to wash it down, to wash away the taste. No alcoholic drinks were allowed for the cadets, no doubt to ensure no one made a fool of themselves and thereby, by extension, the Academy too.

This didn't help improve the already sour attitude of Barane who, for some unaccountable reason – even Desri had to agree with that – had also been made to sit down at one of the long tables rather than take part in the demonstrations. Barane had obviously taken this as an affront to his abilities and dignity, especially when he noticed that Desri had also been denied a place in the activities.

At least, Desri thought, he's been allowed to sit relatively near to the queen, as befits his standing as the son of a powerful local lord. Not that Desri wanted to be seated any closer; the last time she had been close to the queen, after all, she had been deliberately sent bowling from her saddle by a sharp jab of the royal elbow.

Why had the queen done that?

Desri still, of course, didn't know.

To a burst of applause, the archers who had been performing in front of the queen and her court left the arena, the butts being rapidly removed by the Academy's many servants. Before the next act entered the arena, however, the queen's trumpeters rose to their feet. The trill they played was immediately recognised by everyone present as a call for silence; the queen wished to make a pronouncement.

As silence fell about the Academy's extensive fields, no one wishing to even perform an action that might result in an unwarranted noise, the queen imperiously stood up, rising up from amongst courtiers who had been commanded to remain in their seats.

This was the first time that Desri had had a clear view of the queen since that day of the hunt. The arena's many displays had tended to get in the way of any attempt she'd made to catch a glimpse of her. Even when it seemed that a demonstration was suitably small enough to allow a clearer view, the crowds of people craning their necks, stretching on toes, moving forward, had all blocked any sight of the queen she might have had.

Now, at last, with the whole field of people stilled and quiet, Desri at last got her view of the queen.

The queen was dressed in an elaborate mix of light armour and silk veils, all of it either white or cream. Her long red hair was once again allowed free rein, such that it hung about her body, or flicked in the light breeze like the flames of a setting sun reflected across a snow enveloped landscape.

And once again, Desri thought in rapt admiration, she looked magnificent.

Unfortunately, she would be too far away for Desri to hear her speech clearly, if at all.

The queen spoke loudly, confidently; but Desri was right – her voice was too light to have any hope of covering such a distance.

Desri heard her, though. She heard the queen in her mind.

It was praise for the demonstrations she had seen. A typical speech for such an event.

Then, however, there was a sudden change to the pleasantries she was almost tiredly spouting.

It was a complaint; a complaint that so far she hadn't been allowed to see the top performing cadet in action.

A bored, morose Barane suddenly sat up in his seat.

Being seated nearer to the queen, he could hear her reasonably clearly.

He grinned with malicious satisfaction.

The queen's complaint continued.

She had also been denied her right to see an unusual pupil she knew attended the Academy.

And that cadet was unusual because she was female.

Now it was Desri who suddenly sat up rigidly in her seat.

Barane glared at her, angry that he had to share the queen's accolade with her.

Seated just along from the queen, the Academy's council appeared mortified. They swapped terrified accusatory glares with each other, either unable or denied the right to use the Knowing when so close to royalty. Going by their fearful shaking of head and hands, some were protesting their innocence.

The queen glanced their way, saw this; and smiled.

Desri couldn't see the queen's smile, yet she sensed her amusement at the council's discomfort.

And Desri Knew why she was amused, why the council were being torn apart by their fear of protesting or accepting this unfair judgement on them.

For it had been the queen herself who had commanded that neither Barane nor Desri should take part in the general demonstrations.

'I can see only one way to make amends for this strange oversight,' the queen unashamedly continued. 'I wish to see this girl show us that females are the equal of any man here!'

There was laughter and applause from the crowd.

Who would be foolish enough to contradict or even appear dismayed by the queen's statement?

Barane clapped, his mouth twisted in bitterness.

In a moment though, that bitter grimace had been replaced by an expression of utmost glee.

'I want to see how this girl can now fair against the Academy's top cadet!' the queen declared adamantly.

'And,' she added, with that amused, inner-smile once more, 'just for the extra thrill of it: let it be a fight to the death!'

*

# Chapter 19

1,000 Years Earlier

Imp learned how to kill with every fearsome weapon available to man or beast.

These included a rigid little finger. When forced hard and suddenly against a certain part of the body, it resulted in instant death for the chosen victim.

There were also claws taken from a wide range of animals, the extracts of poisons and venoms, even sharpened scales, teeth and quills.

The furs and skins of animals made for a natural camouflage, enhanced with natural woods or foliage. Disguise included a way of warping the body, a way of walking, that gave the unwary the impression they were being approached by an old woman – until it was too late for them to appreciate the foolishness of their mistake.

The Knowing, of course, could be used to instil a stupor, or at least a sense of stupidity, into the more carelessly guarded.

She sometimes worked with a partner, most frequently Haren, with whom she had both a natural connection and increasingly affectionate relationship (which had to be hidden, with increasing difficulty, from the rest of the Assembly).

She more usually worked alone. And, whenever she had the opportunity, she would carefully cut into the corpse of her victim, expertly slicing her knife into the soft flesh lying just beneath the lower, right-hand rib.

At first, she was surprised to discover that none of those early victims displayed the carved ribs she had found within the bodies of the cellar corpses.

Surprised because she had uncovered a wonderfully carved rib in every body lying in that cellar.

They weren't just skilfully, gorgeously carved. They also had a form of tattoo-like colouring, the tastefully coloured patterns swirling around the indents and curves of sculptured bone.

Amazingly beautiful, admiringly creative in their oddly satisfying designs, they could have been works of art in their own right, had they been carved into bone that had been removed long ago from the dead. As it was, of course, they had somehow been created within a living, breathing person, with no obvious ill effects to that individual. No scarring of the stomach, either, that could have pointed as to how this might have been achieved.

Only the ribs of the two assassins had been more or less similar, however.

As Imp's tally of victims increased, she did at last begin to come across more of these carved ribs, but never again in such an accumulated number, as she'd encountered that first time.

She had never heard anyone mention coming across these or similar carvings.

She had never Known anyone even thinking of them.

Then again, the assassins she now associated with were there to kill, not to dispose of the bodies, as had been asked of her for that very first and last time.

You went in. You removed the _living_ person.

If the dead person had to be removed, there were people equally skilled at that. They moved in as the assassin left.

No one knew each other. No one swapped any signs of recognition that they were ultimately connected by the same task.

Even if the assassin had been injured in his or her task, the removal men were under no obligation to help them in any way. It would have been seen as unprofessional to offer help, when the prime concern was getting rid of any trace of the deceased.

Besides, just as the assassin had been well trained in making use of the weak spots within a human body (and, for that matter, within a horse: sometimes you had to swiftly dismount a victim via a simple jab to the throat of his steed), they were also well versed in treating any injuries. The potions extracted from animals and plants that could cause death in certain quantities and placements could heal when used more circumspectly in other ways.

Imp had suffered her fair share of such injuries, including broken bones, deep slashes to flesh and muscle, even a mild version of a disease she had used to wipe out an advancing column of Prenderean troops.

Her most surprising injury, however, had been a relatively simple sword slash, received while killing one of the queen's generals.

Like Lord Krag, he was well protected. In fact, she had been told that a successful completion of this task would prove to the Assembly that she was ready to take on the long-awaited assassination of Krag.

The general lived in a ranch-style home, surrounded by patrolling guards. There were also a number of lower officers permanently in attendance, each of whom controlled a number of soldiers who lived and slept in small barracks scattered randomly around the ranch.

Working her way past the relatively complacent guards was no problem for an assassin. The problem would be in finding a place to hide in an area where the general would generally frequent.

Imp struck and made her first kill at night. This first kill wasn't human, however. It was the general's large Doberman, which slept out in a large pen. She skinned the dog quickly and expertly, throwing the meat amongst the large joints provided for the dog.

She lay wrapped in this skin, waiting for the morning and the arrival of the general. He suspected nothing. His last expression was one of surprise when his own dog rose up to slash his throat.

Her escape, as she had expected, would be the most difficult part of the task.

She moved freely for a while, before someone wondered where the general was and set up a search. His body was almost unrecognisable, strewn amongst the remains of his own dog, the dog's dinner.

Imp wore his clothes, stripped of its richer adornments and any distinguishing insignia. It allowed her to fool most of the soldiers chaotically rushing past her. By the time she was spotted, she was close to escape, her tethered and hidden horse only a small copse away. She took care of the men blocking her way easily, casually, but suffered a slash just above her stomach.

On reaching the safe house she had prepared earlier, she had heated a knife blade, originally with the intention of cleaning out the cut, of eventually cauterising the wound

Curiously, however, she had dug a little lower, a little deeper, into the flesh, the muscle lying beneath.

Having placed a well-illuminated mirror before her, she gazed at the end of the rib she cautiously, carefully revealed.

It was elaborately, perhaps even beautifully, carved.

*

# Chapter 19

1,000 Years Later

It was far from being an elaborate tilting yard, as usually seen at tournaments.

It was just a line of well-spaced posts, quickly hammered into the ground, as per the queen's instructions.

Desri and Barane had both been given a choice of armour to wear, with neither being told what the other would be choosing.

They would have a lance, a shield, a sheathed sword, a warhorse; this was once again at the insistence of the queen.

The fool's choice would be to spurn the offer of armour, flattering yourself that it would give you a speed and agility that would take your enemy by surprise. By that erroneous reckoning, any mounted peasant would easily defeat any mounted knight.

You can't swerve to one side: it's not allowed, an act of cowardice. Just a slight swerve, anyway, can easily be taken into account by an opponent experienced in using the lance.

You can't duck: the lance would still strike home. Even an inexperienced user of the lance couldn't fail to hit such an easy target, particularly as they no longer have to fear being hit by your own poorly held and handled lance.

You can't use any aspect of the Knowing: not only is it disallowed, but the attendants lining the tilting yard will all possess the necessary powers to block any attempt at its use.

It was a myth, anyway, that armour completely restricted your movement. It was skilfully, purposely constructed. It allowed a surprising amount of easy, flowing action.

Desri had lived for days at a stretch in a suit of armour, to the point where every action had become natural while wearing it. (Yes, those actions too!)

The choice wasn't between armour or no armour: it was between heavy armour, which would be perfect if expecting a relatively swift victory with the lance, or the lighter version, which would allow you to dismount and fight with the sword if the lance hadn't decided the outcome.

Barane would be sure of himself: he was highly proficient when it came to use of the lance. He would go for the heavy armour. Light armour against heavy armour in those circumstances would be like choosing suicide over life.

She was already contemplating her death and she hadn't even left her dress tent! With such a defeatist attitude, she had already lost the fight!

She was allowing everything Cranden had taught her to simply vacate her mind now she was in a position where she needed to utilise it.

It was your opponent you should be playing mind games with, not yourself!

To instil an anger within him that will make him commit mistake after mistake.

And every mistake will make him more frustrated, more open to evermore mistakes.

Conversely, you have to be aggressive, without being foolishly so.

You have to remain under control; and yet not really under control, because you have to move instinctively.

To flow through your moves.

To move smoothly, as if you are a part of the very air around you.

And, suddenly, she realised what armour she would have to wear.

*

# Chapter 20

1,000 Years Earlier

Like the general Imp had previously assassinated, Lord Krag lived in a large, secluded home.

There were the randomly scattered barracks, too, the lower officers almost permanently in attendance. There was even a dog pen: but one occupied by the lord's favoured _dogs_ , rather than _a_ dog.

Still, Imp was in no way dismayed by this knowledge. She never used the same device twice. Besides, it was now well known how the other general had died.

Imp didn't strike immediately. She had made sure that her previous assassination of the general had appeared to be an almost random attack: one undertaken, perhaps, because he had upset the wrong people, rather than being the first of a deliberate series of attacks on the queen's supporters. In this way, the guard around the lord had gradually become merely professionally adequate once again, as opposed to being nervously alert.

Imp was kept busy in the meantime, with more tasks to fulfil. It also gave her time to make frequent yet unhurried incursions onto the lord's land, from where she would observe and take note of the layout, the regular patterns of action, the weak spots of the plan of protection surrounding the lord and his family.

The lord, wisely, didn't have a regular daytime routine. He changed it daily, sometimes by an hour or more, sometimes by just a few minutes. Even when it was changed by just a few minutes, it was more than enough to upset any assassination plan.

His routes were similarly being forever changed. All the regular inspections expected of a military establishment were carried out by the lower ranking officers.

And so Imp decided on her plan of action: she simply had to wait for a night when it was raining hard.

*

# Chapter 20

1,000 Years Later

As Desri had hoped, Barane visibly fumed when she finally rode out into the tilting yard.

As she had surmised, Barane had donned the full set of heavy armour, in the expectation of a swift victory over her. Only his helmet was presently missing, this being held by the boy appointed to be his squire.

Desri's own squire didn't have anything to hold. The only armour she had decided to wear were the two arm pieces, and these only because she needed them to help her support her shield and lance correctly and firmly.

Apart from the sheath and belt for her sword, the rest of her body was naked. It was plain to anyone watching the tournament that she was a woman.

And that, of course, was what Barane found so infuriating. She was a female: she had no right to be at the Academy. It was an insult to every cadet, to the long-standing honour of the Academy, that she had been allowed to join.

Here, at last, was proof for everyone to see that she wasn't the right material for the Academy. She obviously had no idea how a tournament fight should be conducted: no idea that to flout the rules was to mock them.

His victory over her would be cheapened. She was a woman, not another equally experienced cadet. He would be laughed at rather than glorified: he had killed a virtually defenceless, _naked_ woman!

With a sharp jab of his knees into his mount's sides, an angry twitch of the reins, he trotted over towards the main viewing box occupied by the queen and her courtiers.

Desri smiled: she had expected him to complain.

With a deft twitch of the reins of her own horse, she joined him in front of the box.

'...making out she's defenceless! Is she also intending to charge between the poles, going against every rule of the tournament?'

Barane had wasted no time voicing his complaint. He had started before she drew up alongside him.

The queen smiled, remained seated. It was a smile and pose that said she didn't deign to speak to the competitors, let alone address these complaints about procedure. With a casual wave of a hand, she indicated that one of her nearby lords should take responsibility.

The lord glared furiously at Desri.

'Is this true?' he demanded. 'Do you intend to bring dishonour to everyone here by fighting like the worst peasant? With guile and trickery?'

'No, this isn't true, my lord!'

Desri stood proudly in her saddle, her lance held rigidly and correctly upright.

'She means to throw her lance then!' Barane insisted petulantly. 'Or at least to weave aside!'

He glowered at Desri. Desri stared directly and confidently at the lord.

'I intend to do _none_ of these things, my lord! I'm aware of and will abide by the tournament rules!'

'You do realise, girl, that to try and duck...?'

He left unsaid the fatal consequences of such a foolish move, utilising instead raised eyebrows and a flowing hand movement to indicate a dead body being carried off the field.

'I don't intend to duck, my lord.'

The queen watched all this as if bored and impatient for the fight to begin.

'I must admit,' she complained, 'I had expected more of a fight before the girl died.'

*

# Chapter 21

1,000 Years Earlier

The rain fell hard.

It sent anyone who could do so, without leaving their post, running for cover. Otherwise, they were drenched within seconds.

The darkness of the storm had added to the dim evening light, cutting the area of vision down. The falling rain itself gave everything an almost wraith-like appearance, slicing through the forms you would normally easily recognise, breaking them up into unfocused dreams.

Every one of us has our habits.

The self-imposed regularity that gives us a sense of stability, of reassurance, in an otherwise unpredictable world.

These are the regular actions a trained assassin closely observes, turns them to his or her advantage.

Lord Krag, even though a military man, had obviously recognised the foolishness of sticking to an itinerary that made your every move predictable. A timetable that makes your life easier also makes it easier for your potential killer.

Constantly on guard against his assassination, Lord Krag looked forward to the relief of finally settling down with his family for the night. As he always did, as he always enjoyed doing – so that he'd be the first to greet her – he shouted for and called out to his daughter, letting her know they were all about to sit down for dinner.

She ran through the rain from the stables. Lord Krag chuckled to himself: he Knew that she was still fuming over his refusal to buy her the racehorse she had desired. Over dinner, she was going to plead with him once again to purchase it for her.

He always, eventually, let's me have what I want, she was mischievously thinking.

She loved him, he could see that. And he loved her, more than he loved anyone else, even his wife, his other daughters.

Yes, he would let her have anything she wanted.

He opened his arms to greet her, to hold her close and hug her.

Imp struck so swiftly he thankfully died without realising his daughter already lay dead amongst her horses.

*

# Chapter 21

1,000 Years Later

Desri's long blonde hair flickered about her naked body, drifting upwards a little around her head, catching the light and bathing her in a glowing halo.

Good, Desri thought: that was just what she wanted.

He's furious. He'll want to aim for her face, her head.

Destroy, as he saw it, her feminine beauty.

The better she could predict where he might strike, the more chance she had of preventing it causing the most damage.

The lord they had spoken to held the wooden ball that would be dropped to start the first – and, as Barane saw it, last – charge.

The ball dropped, Barane anticipating it and setting off instantly into a full-on charge.

Desri held her horse still.

She couldn't see Barane's reaction beneath his heavily-visored helmet, but she presumed her inaction would only be enhancing his fury at her.

It would unsettle him, she reasoned, for he wouldn't have been expecting this. Moreover, it would set his carefully worked out timing wrong: this wasn't how a tilt was supposed to work, how it had worked out time and time again whenever he had previously fought in a tournament.

She held her horse back a little longer, hopefully giving him the impression that she was refusing to take part. The more he thought this, the more unsettled, and furious, he would become.

At last, she urged her horse into a sudden charge. With her being so light, it was soon moving gracefully swiftly.

Desri didn't use the Knowing. It would be detected: an archer would probably be signalled to execute her immediately.

She used, rather, the more instinctual senses that Cranden had revealed to her.

They were strong enough, even in these strange circumstances, for her to determine Barane's most basic intentions. He was so angry he was easily readable.

He would aim for the head, but only after a feinted strike towards the chest. He would raise his shield to cover his own chest, expecting that to be Desri's most likely striking point.

As they hurtled towards each other, Barane aimed his lance towards her chest. Similarly, she aimed for his chest, as he was expecting.

At almost the last moment, Barane raised his lance, positioning it to split Desri's head. She brought up her shield to deflect the blow, pushing out as hard as she could as she did so. At the same time she bent forward and slightly to her right. Twisting a little as she did so, she jabbed low with her own lance.

Her lance struck the thick armour running along the horse's side. Guided by this thick plating of iron, the lance head slipped with great force beneath Barane's thick wooded saddle.

The harness holding the saddle in place snapped. The wood of the saddle itself shattered, the huge splinters driven deep into Barane's more poorly protected inner leg under the force of the impact.

Combined with Desri's deflection of his lance, which now completely unbalanced him, Barane slipped from his charging mount. In his heavy armour, he hit the ground with a tremendous clang of reverberating metal plates.

Still wedged into his high-backed saddle, which itself was still attached to his galloping mount by what remained of the harness, Barane was dragged behind the horse across the ground. Even the slightest bump or hollow of unevenness sent him briefly flying into the air, twisting him partially around, letting him land with a raucous thud and clumping.

Everyone in the crowd had risen to their feet, yet few were cheering Desri's victory. They were groaning in dismay and horror at the punishment Barane was receiving.

As the tiltyard's attendants rushed to halt the charging horse, Desri brought her own mount to a sudden stop, causing it to rear slightly as she brought it around in a whirl on its hind legs.

Raising the remnants of her shattered lance upright once more, she turned towards where the queen sat, not in the expectation to be hailed as the victor, but to see what was expected of her next.

The queen wasn't there.

The queen had already left, at some point within the fight.

The lord who had started the charge was urgently and nervously pointing to the fields stretching out behind Desri.

'A buisoar!' he cried fearfully. 'A beast has been watching us from just across the fields!'

*

# Chapter 22

1,000 Years Earlier

Hoak had been avenged.

Her parents too, in a way, for she had removed one of the queen's chief supporters.

Imp felt a surge of satisfaction. She relished it only briefly however, being well aware that such feelings were dangerous while you were still out in the field.

She had hoped, of course, that she could complete her plan without having to kill Krag's daughter. Unfortunately, she'd had to utilise the Knowing to read the poor girl's mind, intending to use these thoughts and longings as the perfect camouflage as she approached Krag himself.

That part of it all had worked wonderfully. Where Imp had foolishly underestimated her opponent was her presumption that the poor girl's own Knowing abilities would be too limited to detect the probing. The girl had reacted with a start as she'd sensed Imp's presence within her.

There had been no alternative but to kill her.

The poor girl had had to die because Imp had made a simple, elementary mistake.

Well, whoever said life was fair?

These thoughts were quickly dealt with by Imp. She had her own life to look out for now.

A poorly trained assassin would now be killing anyone getting in her way. That was a sure way to leave a track of where you were headed.

Rather, Imp used her bow to kill a man set to guard a way out she had no intention of taking. The arrow had a tip like a throwing knife, a delicate shaft that deliberately snapped off and sprung reasonably clear on impact.

When anyone discovered any of the bodies, that third kill would ensure they incorrectly assumed she was heading out across the rooftops, before taking to the woods lying beyond. Instead, she was keeping to the much barer fields, using the rain and the mud it produced as cover.

It was a choice of route that allowed her a reasonable view of the road leading out from the house towards one of the nearer towns. A road that, in the distance, was clogged with a struggling, rain-drenched procession of riders, carts and richly decorated carriages.

Even through the grey veil of driving rain, Imp recognised the flaming white banners and pennants of the queen.

_Perhaps,_ she thought, _I can_ truly _avenge my parents today_.

*

# Chapter 22

1,000 Years Later

Desri spurred her horse into a charge once more, this time heading across to the fields, following the direction of the lord's nervously pointing finger.

It was a course that took her through the crowds, the tables set out for the feast, the huge, elaborate tents.

They no longer existed as far as she was concerned. She urged her mount on to barge past anyone or anything in its way, or forced him into a long jump across the food-strewn tables.

The beast the queen had set off chasing was undoubtedly Cranden.

What other buisoar would be hanging around such a hugely populated area, watching the tournament like some curious passer-by?

Why hadn't she sensed his presence earlier?

Because all her senses had been attuned to taking part in and completing the battle with Barane. In fact, it was probably this very focusing of her senses into war-like tasks that Cranden himself had detected, persuading him to take the risk and watch her from afar – doubtlessly ready to rush in and save her, had anything gone wrong.

He had had no need to worry, of course.

Behind her, Barane was still laid out in the dirt, the attendants fearful of removing anything of his armour but the helmet. His breathing was heavy, his lips dry. Most of his bones were probably shattered, the attendants reasoned, and he would be badly bruised despite the armour's extensive padding. Huge wooden splinters had completely gashed the inside of his leg.

He would survive, one of the more-learned men surrounding him pronounced; but he would take a while to recover, and even then would be forever lame. Those experienced in use of the Knowing couldn't fail to read the hatred for Desri that was the weft amongst the warp of his intense agony and humiliation.

As soon as Desri was out of sight of everyone, she wheeled her mount into a tight turn.

Cranden wouldn't have continued running in this direction.

He would have headed for the safety of their underground home.

Unfortunately for Desri, someone else had also realised this: and they were already on their way to kill Cranden.

*

# Chapter 23

1,000 Years Earlier

Imp didn't waste any time working out a plan of attack.

She didn't even survey the situation, accumulating what knowledge she could to ensure the success of her mission.

These were basics that had been ingrained within her. They had proved their worth countless times.

She ignored her training. Her own sense of common sense.

If she stopped to ponder the situation, she would be wasting time. Probably missing her chance to kill the queen.

Besides, once she'd considered all the inherent problems facing her, she would have no choice but to conclude that her task was impossible, suicidal.

Once again using the pouring rain as a veil, she gradually merged with the procession slowly winding its way along the poorly constructed road.

Yes, she was covered in mud: but then so where most of the people around her. These were the more lowly attendants denied a place in the drier carts and carriages, and given the responsibility of keeping the procession moving. They had slipped countless times into the mud as they had sought to free trapped carts, or helped steady sliding horses.

Fortunately, beneath the mud, Imp was dressed for her part as a court follower, the dress she had chosen to help her emulate Krag's daughter being perfect. Her thoughts, too, were now those of a courtly attendant, for she once again allowed her complaints of inadequate horses to fill her mind.

She swiftly worked her way through the procession, looking for clues that would lead her to the queen's carriage. It would be the grandest there, surely? Insignia didn't help: the queen's emblem of the All Knowing Swan was everywhere. The queen's colours of a bright, flaming white also graced most things she passed.

She cast out her mind, seeking out the odd glimpses of careless thought that would lead her to the queen. A burst of anger from a lord, perhaps, or an attendant's inner grumbles on being given a particularly onerous job to do.

Desri smiled with satisfaction, a mix of wry disbelief.

There was no need to seek out the unveiled thoughts of a disgruntled courtier or court follower.

Tonight the queen herself had been foolish enough to briefly drop her guard, no doubt feeling secure within the middle of her great procession. She was in an exuberant, celebratory mood.

She was drunk on success, on the wine being excitedly passed around between herself and the five courtiers she'd invited into her carriage.

They were celebrating the long-awaited death of Lord Krag.

*

# Chapter 23

1,000 Years Later

Desri had dismounted, urging her horse on to seek its freedom within the forest.

She couldn't be sure how even such a well-trained horse would react when confronted by a buisoar. Besides, it would leave a clear track for any hunt or dogs to follow.

As Desri made her way to the underground home built by Cranden, she made sure she left no track herself. Behind her, she trailed a scent-be-spoiling mix of animal skins and faeces, all of which had been collected in one of a number of muslin bags Cranden had hung from the surrounding trees.

She was surprised, also horrified, to find that Cranden was sitting outside the hideaway rather than already being inside.

'Cranden! Why aren't you in hiding?'

'They're not close yet,' he explained, rising to his feet, stepping forward with his arms open to warmly embrace her. 'I realised you'd know to come here; but I wanted to make sure you were safe!'

Desri held him as he held her; thankful that he was safe, fearful for his safety.

'You idiot! You shouldn't be risking your life for me!' she insisted.

She felt his body move beneath her own naked body as he chuckled.

'So you weren't risking _your_ life?'

'I didn't have any choice!' She stepped back a little, raising her head from his chest but replacing it with a lightly placed hand. 'Besides, what risk was I _really_ taking, when I've had such a good teacher?'

'Learning _how_ to fight is one thing: but many things can go wrong in an actual fight.'

He hung his head miserably.

'You...you thought – no you _sensed_ – you would lose against that wild buisoar, didn't you?' Seeing his sadness, she recalled his poorly conducted fight against the beast. 'But why? You had the intelligence of a man on your side.'

'Yes; the intelligence. And also the more restricting emotions.'

'Restricting?

'You said it yourself, Desri: I was fighting against a _wild_ buisoar. As a man, I've lost that sense of aggression, gained compassion. I didn't want to _kill_ him.'

Desri grinned happily, tenderly touched the side of his face.

'And that is no _bad_ thing!'

He laughed.

'Hah, so is that why, at last, I've been allowed to see you naked? You never allowed me to see you like this when I was a _man_!'

She joined in his laughter.

'The whole _world_ was allowed to see me naked today!'

As his huge hands held her by the waist, he frowned, puzzled.

'What's wrong?' she asked anxiously, glancing down towards where he was perplexedly staring.

He felt along her lower rib as delicately as he could.

'It just feels...feels as if your _rib_ has been _carved_.'

*

# Chapter 24

1,000 Years Earlier

So, she had been tricked into performing an assassination for the queen.

Imp shrugged off this new information.

She would have happily killed Krag anyway. And now the queen herself would also pay for the hurt she had unnecessarily brought into Imp's life.

Five lords would be no protection against an assassin as well trained as Imp. They would have spent a lifetime of training in the martial arts, but lords always retained at least a hint of that impossible-to-eradicate arrogance that would always be their undoing.

The queen would be the most dangerous person there, undoubtedly.

The queen would have to die first.

That way, even if the courtiers managed to surprise her with abilities she hadn't expected, she would have completed her mission.

In her head, she was fetching more wine, more food. She was an attendant, fulfilling her role of keeping the queen and her courtiers well supplied with their luxuries.

Her main concern was keeping the food dry in this dreadful, pouring rain.

The travelling carriage was large, with a rear rather than side doors. A door approached by simple steps.

Imp knocked on the door, stepped inside without being given permission to enter. She already had a sword in one hand, a throwing knife in the other, a second knife held in readiness between her teeth.

This would be quick and easy.

She had no fear.

She was prepared to die.

*

# Chapter 24

1,000 Years Later

Now it was Desri who frowned in bewilderment.

'How could my rib possibly be _carved_?'

As Cranden moved his own delicately probing hand away from her waist, Desri dropped her own hand there, pressing hard against the flesh to feel the rib lying beneath.

As she felt the carving of the rib, her puzzlement only grew.

'How is that _possible_?'

With her other hand, she quickly felt the rib on the other side of her body. This one felt like any rib she had ever seen, whether that of a butchered animal, of the bones revealed on a starving beggar.

'It could just be some defect I was born with...'

She didn't say it with any certainty, doubting her own reasoning.

Similarly, Cranden shook his head doubtfully.

'While coming back from the Blue-table Pass, someone I trust told me of a tribe that still lives as we did millennia ago, called the Bone Carvers. They–'

'I _knew_ I'd find you here.'

The boy was well camouflaged, wearing simple green and brown clothes and boots made for the silent stalking of animals. He should never have been able to get this close, however: both Desri and Cranden had let their guard down, too intent on their joy of finding each other safe.

'Neilif?'

Desri recognised him despite the mud and animal dung he had smeared everywhere about him. She recognised him, too, despite the warping of his face by the strain of keeping the arrow notched in his powerful hunting bow.

The arrow was pointed directly at Cranden's eye. And Desri had no doubt that Neilif could hit it: she Knew he could, because he was allowing her to read his knowledge of how to ensure his arrow sank deep into his chosen target.

Even Barane couldn't compete against Neilif when it came to hunting with the bow. And now, suddenly, Desri understood the reasons for the boy's success.

He had been following her out here for ages, originally because he felt sure she was meeting a lover. Although shocked and surprised by what he had eventually uncovered, he had watched and learned along with Desri as Cranden had taught her all his own skills. Ironically, he had managed to turn those abilities against them, using the skills divulged by Cranden to remain undetected within the forest as he watched them together.

'I've seen you many times in action, Desri,' Neilif deliberately thought now, deliberately allowing her to feel his sense of humiliation. 'You could have easily beaten me; but you always held back, didn't you?'

With a slight nod of his head to one side, he indicated that he wanted Desri and Cranden to separate.

'Stand away from him, Desri,' he said. 'I'll protect you.'

Rather than moving away, Desri stood closer towards Cranden, standing between him and Neilif. Cranden was far too tall, however, for her to have any hope of protecting the eye the arrow was aimed at. And Cranden refused to bow low, refused to hide behind her.

He placed his great hands before her, affording her a far greater protection than her entire body was offering him.

'No, no, Neilif!' Desri pleaded. 'You don't understand: he's my friend.'

In fact, Desri couldn't understand why she had to say this. If Neilif had been watching them, he would be well aware that Cranden meant her no harm. Was he simply saying this as a means of confusing Cranden – a means of showing Cranden he was the 'beast' a girl had to be protected from?

_That_ , Desri realised, was something Neilif wasn't letting her Know.

'A friend?' he sneered. 'I think he's more than friend, don't you, Desri?'

'What do you mean?'

'I've _watched_ you, remember? I've been _sickened_ by what I've seen. Sickened by _you_ , Desri!'

His voice was quivering, yet – thankfully – his grip on the notched arrow still remained firm.

'That's why you showed no interest in _me_!'

'You've got it all wrong, Neilif–'

'Has he?'

It was the first time that Cranden had spoken. Now, when he did, his voice – his now fully opened mind – was full of misery, of understanding of the truth of the situation between him and Desri.

Obviously, she would prefer this handsome, wealthy boy over him. He had just been there to help train her, to help prepare her for her vengeance over Barane.

And, suddenly, Desri realised that she was the one to blame for Cranden's sense of hopelessness, not Neilif.

Hadn't she always specifically hidden from him any affection she'd felt whenever they were together?

Hadn't she (if she were being honest with herself, for a change) always been – like Neilif – _sickened_ whenever she'd found herself admitting to any growing feelings for him?

And she had done this time and time again, despite reading quite clearly his own deep love for her.

Now, he wanted to die: and he wanted to die at the hands of this boy he presumed was more worthy to be her lover.

'No, no! Please, Cranden!' She pleadingly looked up into his saddened face. 'You've got it all wrong too–'

Was it a movement she detected out of the corner of her eye? Was it an instinctive sense of what was about to happen?

No matter how many times she would try to accurately recall this situation, Desri would never really know.

The arrow missed Cranden's eye, flying instead just off by his ear.

Neilif crumpled to the ground, the small dagger Desri had thrown perfectly splitting his throat.

Cranden stared quizzically at this dagger that had appeared to come from nowhere.

'I'd lightly glued it amongst my hair at the back,' Desri explained blankly, shocked by her own swift, instinctive action. Shocked by the resulting death of this young boy. 'Just to make sure I'd beat Barane _somehow_.'

*

# Chapter 25

1,000 Years Earlier

As she slipped in through the door into the large carriage, Imp had already prepared herself to swiftly take in the situation.

First, determine where the queen was seated – then kill her.

The execution was, surprisingly, rarely the second thing on a list of things to do during an assassination.

There were usually other aspects of the situation you had to determine before acting.

For this mission, however, the two actions were more than enough.

As for the rest of what followed – she would trust to her instincts.

Her instincts were briefly obliterated within the literal blink of an eye; for she was abruptly blinded by the brightest, most painful flash of light she had ever experienced. It not only temporarily blinded her, but also completely disorientated her.

She had to keep moving, throw herself aside so she didn't make an easy target. She realised this quicker than most would have in her situation, but it wasn't quick enough. Her arms were tightly grabbed on either side. She found herself being forced into a swift sprint, in readiness to slam her hard against the far wall.

She tried to use her opponents' own force against them, jerking back, swinging her arms together: but they were expecting this, countered for it.

She slammed against the wall, thrown there with such terrific force that it knocked the wind out of her. Before she had a chance to recover, her assailants were on her again, jabbing her hard with rigid fingers against the points of her body that – under this abrupt, insistent pressure – instantly began to weaken her, to weaken her resistance.

At the same time, prepared loops of cord were slipped around her ankles, around wrists swiftly brought together behind her back. There was even a slightly looser loop for her neck, the rope connecting it to her bound wrists so short she had to crane her neck back to stop herself from choking.

These were no lords!

These were assassins!

*

# Chapter 25

1,000 Years Later

Desri was seated on Cranden's great, humped back, and reasonably cushioned by the harness he had specially made for her (as Desri had long suspected, he had spent ages training his huge paws to act like hands, including painfully breaking and reforming their bones a number of times). She could have fooled herself into thinking she was flying as they effortlessly flowed through the forest at remarkable speed.

She weighed hardly anything, he told her.

All she had to do was watch out for any low branches that he hadn't anticipated might strike her as he ducked out of their way. He only had to stop every now and again to slake his thirst in a stream. He seemed to require little sleep, and surprisingly little food. He had managed so far to survive only on the few provisions (he effortlessly carried these too, having slipped them into a pouch on the harness) they'd brought with them when they'd fled the underground home.

The first part of their journey had been the most dangerous, when they'd had to remain aware at all time that they might stumble across any one of the vast numbers of people out hunting Cranden. As soon as Neilif's body had been discovered, of course, that hunt had also become a hunt for Desri, no one being fool enough to think a buisoar would resort to using a throwing knife.

Fortunately for Desri, it had taken a while for the searchers to discover the body, even with all their dogs. Neilif had, of course, originally headed off in a completely different direction to everyone else. What's more, Cranden had buried Neilif's body, buried it deep within their now deserted home when he brought it all crashing down around the honourably laid-out corpse. Neilif's clothes, although a little large for her, had been perfect for Desri, even the boots fitting after the addition of a bit of padding.

Desri and Cranden had travelled throughout each day, and for most of the night. They had put an immense distance between them and the Academy.

Still, though, they remained well within the borders of the queen's vast empire. And they would remain within it despite weeks of travel, even at the ridiculously unbelievable rate they were managing.

Cranden knew of somewhere they could stay for a while.

Provided it was still there.

Provided his friend was still alive.

They only talked when they rested, when they knew for sure it was safe to do so. And then only in whispers, their hearing and minds attuned to anything going on around them.

'Why would the queen want me dead?' Desri wondered out loud one night, having pondered this question for a while now and found she was unable to arrive at any answer. 'I mean, _before_ I killed Neilif. She expected me to lose against Barane – to die!'

Cranden shrugged his massive shoulders.

'Who ever _really_ knows what the queen wants or desires?'

'I saw her that day when you left for war; how far did she travel with you?'

Cranden noticed the scepticism in her voice, her glowering expression.

'All the way there, surprisingly,' he answered. 'I saw her at one point in the very midst of a battle, when everything was so chaotic it was impossible to tell who was fighting who.'

Once again, Desri scowled sceptically.

'And, although I realise you don't want to hear this; everyone who saw her that day said she looked – amazing! Anyone who saw her was stirred on to fight all the harder: even when it had become obvious we were losing.'

'So, what happened, then? When you were losing. She must have fled: otherwise, how is she still here? Still alive?'

'As far as I could tell, she was fighting up until I lost my life. Yes, she must have escaped somehow: but how, I've no idea!'

'My father; he thought she was a witch.'

Cranden chuckled bitterly.

'If only! Then, maybe, we might have won that battle, rather than getting wiped out to just about the last man.'

'Obviously, not the last _woman_.'

'Desri, I saw her on a number of days: and she fought better than any man I've ever seen. She was this amazing blaze of light on the battlefield: her still remarkably white yet increasingly blood-spattered armour. Her fluttering red banner, rising above her like a great flame. And, later, when she discarded her helmet: that mass of red hair!'

'Wait a minute!' Desri laughed. 'This sounds like you're in _love_ with her!'

'In those days, yes: I tell you, we _all_ were.'

What passed for a mischievous grin flooded across his huge face. He was pleased that Desri seemed to have briefly displayed a hint of jealously in what was supposedly a throwaway comment. Before he could make more of it, however, there was a heavy scuffling of bushes nearby that caused them both to instantly fall silent.

There was too much unnecessary noise for it to be an animal: none would be so careless, so foolish. Not even a buisoar, which had nothing to fear.

They both ducked lower into the overgrown hollow they had chosen to rest in. The noises of bushes breaking, the bizarre heavy snorting, was all drawing slowly nearer.

It was a woman. A woman acting incredibly strangely, lashing out wildly at the surrounding bushes as if deliberately attempting to break them, to make as much noise as possible. She snorted and growled too, a poor attempt at imitating a buisoar's naturally groaning complaints.

Desri and Cranden exchanged curious, puzzled glances: a woman who had lost her mind? A woman who, bizzarely, thought she was a beast?

The woman stopped her wild thrashing, her odd snorting. She raised her head, her nose, as a buisoar would sniff at the air when scenting either prey or trouble.

She snorted again, happily now – and began heading directly towards Cranden.

*

# Chapter 26

1,000 Years Earlier

'Sorry for the rough treatment: but we just couldn't let you kill a client now, could we?'

Imp recognised the voice. It wasn't just _an_ assassin: it was _the_ assassin, one of the three who had first interrogated her on her reasons for joining the Assembly.

'Well, not until they've paid us, at least.'

It was another voice she recognised. Recognised, too, the black humour.

She was roughly spun around. She had already smelt the burnt magnesium of the flares that had briefly blinded her. As she had guessed, too, everyone in the room had blindfolds, these now loosened and hanging low around their necks.

What she hadn't expected, of course, was that she recognised every man there. She had seen them all at the Assembly, the five most major players amongst the assassins.

It had all been a well-sprung trap. The queen hadn't foolishly let her guard down, allowing Imp to Know her: Imp herself had been the fool, dropping her guard and allowing all this to happen. No doubt exactly as the queen had planned.

The queen wasn't even here to gloat. She had already left, perhaps leaving the assassins to complete the less savoury elements of removing her.

'May I ask why?' Imp asked. 'Why use me to remove Lord Krag, and then remove me too?'

'Oh, Lord Krag was a difficult target.'

'One that required not only a highly skilled operative, but one who was also expendable,' one of the other assassins continued.

They were taking it in turns to speak, as they had on Imp's first meeting with them.

'You did well: we weren't expecting you to get out alive.'

'With such obviously profound abilities, you are too dangerous for us to let you roam free any longer.'

'Your anger against the queen is well known.'

'And that, of course, is why the queen needed Krag himself removing.'

'He saw himself as a potentially better emperor.'

'Gradually raising an army that would plunge us into civil war.'

'The only beneficiaries ultimately being a certain _other_ empire; who don't pay us anywhere near as well!'

They were all uncomfortably jolted as the carriage came to an unexpectedly abrupt halt. Even through the clatter of the rain driving hard against the carriage's wood and iron carcass, the frightened cries of attendants could be heard if not clearly identified.

One of the assassins calmly made his way towards the door, opened it, and peered out into the thick veil of rapidly falling rain.

'Gentlemen,' he said nonchalantly, turning to glance back into the carriage once more, 'it seems we're surrounded; by a rather huge force of Lord Krag's men.'

*

# Chapter 26

1,000 Years Later

Sniffing the air, as if she could smell him, the woman continued to confidently head towards Cranden.

At last, Cranden decided he would have to stand up from amongst the bushes and reveal himself, before the woman literally stumbled on both him and Desri.

Instead of being frightened, which was the usual reaction of anyone confronted by a buisoar, the woman's face lit up with joy. She picked up her pace as she rushed towards him, grunting wildly once more as if more animal than woman.

Suddenly she stopped, wariness immediately replacing her happiness. Cocking her head, beast like yet again, she eyed Cranden curiously.

She was acting as if she had sensed that something wasn't right, Desri thought. Sensed, however, in the way an animal instinctively recognises that a situation isn't as it seems, not in the way a human is just merely suspicious.

Desri had to Know why this woman was behaving so strangely.

The woman started in terror as she felt Desri's probing thought waves. She glanced everywhere about herself, startled, expecting a trap. With a final, accusatory glare at Cranden – believing him responsible for almost leading him into this trap – the woman abruptly turned and fled hurriedly through the bushes.

'She really thought she was a buisoar,' Desri whispered in awe as she and Cranden watched the woman swiftly vanish into the forest. 'She was looking for other buisoars: ones that, she strangely believed, would befriend her and take her to safety.'

' _I_ don't know of any such buisoar,' Cranden wryly replied.

'Well, she's so _sure_ she's really a beast that she's avoiding any humans. _That's_ why she fled when I tried to Know her – because although she didn't really have any idea what was happening to her, she sensed that a human was close.'

'Madness: the poor woman must be mad. It seems unfair to take advantage of that madness, but we can surely hope that she won't be giving away our presence here.'

'Her family might be searching for her, though: we'll have to leave.'

Cranden nodded sadly in agreement.

'We'll rest again once we're far from her–'

With a swiftly raised hand placed against the back of Desri's head, he gently indicated that they needed to lie low again. They both quietly ducked down into the overgrown hollow once more, Cranden pointing off to where he had sensed the new, oncoming threat.

The approaching buisoar made far less noise than the woman had. It made far less noise than a buisoar would normally make, moving almost stealthily, with an obviously higher level of intelligence guiding its actions.

Desri glanced Cranden's way, wishing for perhaps the first time that he had developed the powers of Knowing, as she had. They would have been able to talk and question each other in silence, had each allowed a slight unveiling of their minds.

Fortunately, it was easy for Cranden to guess the question that must be on her mind: Is this one of the more human beasts you've mentioned before?

Cranden answered with a slight shaking of his head, a frown that he hoped would indicate he was every bit as puzzled by this intelligent beast as he had been by the mad woman.

They had to wait in total silence as the beast made his way past them. As the woman had done only moments previously, the beast raised his snout to sniff at the air.

Desri froze, worried that the beast would detect Cranden's presence, as even the poor mad woman had with her far more inadequate senses. The beast's head whirled, a sign that he had indeed sensed something; but it turned in the direction of where the woman had fled, not towards Cranden.

The beast snorted out a loud call. It growled, moaned, as if crying out to someone far away.

And, far away, the woman returned the call, with her own strange chorus of fake snorts and growls.

*

# Chapter 27

1,000 Years Earlier

The five assassins stepped from the carriage out into the still pouring rain. Two of them had roughly picked Imp up by the arms, dragging her along with them.

Her feet clomped uselessly down the carriage steps. They slipped through the mud of the road.

Imp was already wet, but the rain drenched them all in a matter of moments. Through the rain's driving grey sheets, Imp could only just make out the wraith-like forms of the mounted, heavily armoured men lined up alongside the halted procession.

Rather than heading towards these mounted men, the assassins carelessly dragged Imp past the other halted carts and carriages.

'He must be here somewhere, damn him!' one of the assassins grumbled.

'To save time when we meet with the queen once again,' another said, fleetingly peering Imp's way to let her know that he was talking to her, 'we'll take this opportunity to dispense with the least important reasons why we're all gathered here tonight!'

'It was the queen who ordered the killing of your parents.'

'Yet you were to be spared.'

'To the extent that the life of any of our assassins involved were deemed less worthy than yours.'

'We then had to facilitate your supposed discovery of and introduction to the Assembly.'

'Your acceptance as an assassin was assured; no matter your abilities.'

'Though your abilities have been a surprise to us all.'

Imp no longer had the energy to react in any way to these blandly delivered comments. She simply allowed herself to be limply dragged along through the mud and rain.

'Unfortunately, as we have already explained, these abilities don't sit well with your seeking for vengeance against the queen.'

Towards the head of the stationery procession, the dark blanket of incessant rain was split apart by the orange glow of huge, blazing torches. As they all drew closer to this, the glow increased, enhanced by smaller but no less bright braziers. A vast, golden canopy had been erected between two carriages.

Beneath this canopy, the floor had been carpeted, the space decked out with expensive chairs and a low table, as if it were all some ornate tent. The queen was seated in the highest and most elaborate seat, her pure white gown sparkling as if formed from ice crystals. Her red hair, spilling over both dress and chair, blazed in the light, like a manifestation of one of the fiery torches.

The chair placed next to hers was smaller, but hardly less elaborate, its occupant also regal in his casually confident pose.

And that was a surprise to Imp.

Because it was Haren.

*

# Chapter 27

1,000 Years Later

On hearing the woman's strange, strangled cry, the beast elatedly made off in her direction.

'A strange love affair, don't you think?' Cranden observed with a deliberately ironic tone to his voice.

'You don't think this buisoar was something a bit like you?' Desri asked, having noted the beast's relatively intelligent behaviour. 'Or, at least, one who can partly recall his previous life as a man?'

'He – _it_ – just moved differently. I can't quite put my – hah, _finger_ – on what it was; but it just didn't _seem_ like the movements I've seen before in these half-man, half-buisoars. There's an anger, a bitter frustration, in every move of buisoars like me–'

'I've never noticed that in you.'

'That, Desri, is because you never saw me when I believed I would never be able to approach you once again. Now – even if you can't fully accept who I now am – you can at least _understand_ what I've become.'

Desri offered him her hand.

'I _do_ accept what you've become–'

Cranden let her hand go, turned away miserably.

'Not in the way it once was between us, Desri – and don't worry, _I_ accept that. _I_ understand.'

As he spoke, he turned back to face her, to let her know he didn't expect anything more of her than what she had already freely given him.

Desri hung her head in shame.

'I'm sorry Cranden: I just _wish_ I could–'

'I know, I know.'

Reaching out, he wrapped his arms around her, brought her closer to him.

'Let's move on – before, as you said earlier – they come searching for that poor woman.'

*

# Chapter 28

1,000 Years Earlier

'Ah, here they are, Haren.'

The queen smiled as the five assassins unhurriedly walked towards the canopy, the drenched and bedraggled Imp slung limply between them.

'You know them all, of course: no painfully boring introductions needed, thankfully. But I do believe they _do_ have _something_ of yours.'

As the assassins drew closer to the seated Haren, the two supporting the sagging Imp threw her down onto the ground before him.

'Imp?'

Urgently rising from his seat, Haren immediately dropped down onto his knees beside Imp. Tenderly turning her around, cradling her head in his arms, he glowered accusingly at the surrounding assassins.

'What have you _done_ to her?'

'A few simple disabling jabs to the body.'

'We couldn't allow her to be brought in front of the queen any other way.'

'She _did_ kill your _father_ , Haren!'

This last statement was added smugly, the smugness of someone expecting his comment to elicit surprise.

'Ah, so you were aware of that, then?'

Haren remained calm. His focus seemed to be more on caring for the still weakened, still painfully bound Imp. Drawing a dagger from his belt, he cut the cords binding her wrists.

Imp was still too weakened to speak. She couldn't see any need for speaking yet anyway.

Better, she thought, to conserve her energy.

To listen and learn about what is being said here.

Haren had never even hinted, let alone told her, that Lord Krag was his father.

'Of course! It's our _business_ to be aware of such things.'

A different assassin provided the unnecessary answer to Haren's rhetorical question. Even so, the smugness of the first speaker was still there.

The queen had been watching everything passing between them all with a wryly-amused smile. Now she was the one who spoke.

'Ah, then perhaps you could explain to _me_ , master assassin, why you presumed that _I_ was the one requiring my dear Lord Krag's elimination?'

The sharp move of heads that passed between the assassins would have been virtually unnoticeable to any normal observer. Those who knew them, however, and were aware of their habits, would recognise this slight movement as the equivalent of an exchange of shocked glances.

'Your majesty, I...we...we have been _purposely_ misled by–'

'By _me_ , master assassin.'

' _You_?'

The master assassin glared down at Haren in surprise.

'Oh come now, master assassin.' The queen sounded as if she were bored with all this talk. 'Don't tell me you've never had a son approach you with a need to kill his father?'

'But...he didn't!' This was another of the assassins, yet he sounded no less mystified than the master assassin. 'We were lead to believe the assassination was approved under _your_ orders, your maj–'

The queen stilled his protestations with a raised hand.

'If Lord Haren was prepared to pay for it, why should I waste my time attempting to dissuade you from your arrogantly mistaken belief?'

'Then...then you _approve_ of Lord...of Krag's removal?'

'His son has pledged his – and his troops' – loyalty to me.'

'My father disowned me long ago,' Haren added, cradling Imp's hand as he sought for a stronger response in her grip, 'because I believed any war with our queen would help only our enemies.'

Imp clenched Haren's hand as she struggled to speak, still weak from the assassins' expert disabling attack on her.

'Haren – I didn't _know_ he was your father! I'm sorry...'

'It was my _own_ commission. I–'

Imp gripped his hand as tightly as she could. For the first time since her parents had been killed, she found she couldn't hold back tears from forming in the corners of her eyes.

'But...but I didn't know she was your _sister_.'

'My sister? Which one? What do you mean, you "didn't know", Imp?'

Haren's tight, caring hold on her relaxed. He pulled away from her slightly.

From almost anyone else's mouth, it was a fairly innocuous phrase; _I didn't know she was your sister._ But when coming from the mouth of an accomplished assassin, however, such an apparently innocent comment would always potentially hide a far more threatening possibility.

'You _killed_ her?' Haren asked in hopeful disbelief, in a fearful realisation of what was being implied.

'I didn't _know_!' Imp insisted tearfully. 'I didn't _mean_ t–'

'You didn't _need_ to kill her!'

He let Imp fall to the ground once more as he abruptly rose to his feet, glaring down at her as if fighting the urge to kill her.

'Oh dear,' the queen broke in, speaking without any emotion but for a slight touch of amusement, 'this _is_ an unfortunate, unexpected turn of events, isn't it?'

Around them, the assassins watched with expressionless faces that, somehow, nevertheless seemed to be full of gloating.

'I can only think that an execution is in order,' the queen continued emotionlessly. 'The master has already informed me that she's a potentially dangerous thorn in my side: what do you think, my Lord Haren?'

*

# Chapter 28

1,000 Years later

Although Cranden had tried to give her some idea of the size of the fortified manor they had been heading for, Desri was still surprised by how large it actually was when it at last came into sight.

Another thing she hadn't been expecting from Cranden's enthusiastically vivid descriptions was the poor state of the whole estate.

The surrounding fields they were crossing were churned up into a haphazard mush of dried mud and smashed bushes. As for the buildings themselves, the defensive walls had at some time been breached by an attacking force. The encircling moat had also been roughly filled in at various places, no doubt by the same besiegers.

The house was mainly a charred wreck, obviously having suffered a grave fire. Even so, the outbuildings were in an even worse state, with most of them entirely demolished.

Cranden frowned worriedly, giving Desri the impression that he hadn't been expecting to find the manor in this poor sate either. He quickened his pace, despite the ridiculous distance they had already covered that day.

Within the walls, the sense of desertion was even stronger. The only movement and sound was that caused by the wind, flapping the remaining shreds of canvas coverings, slapping together pieces of dangling, smashed wooden flooring. There was the odd scuffle of a scavenging creature, but even these were rare.

'All gone: all of it!'

Cranden was distraught: the picture of the manor he had formed for Desri was one of near perfection for a beast such as himself.

Like him, the master of this manor, a former officer of the army, had returned from the war transformed into a beast. Remaining in hiding in the nearby woods, he had watched his family going through the routines of life he had once been an essential part of, an impossibly painful mingling of bliss and miserable torture. With every passing day, he had come closer, lingered longer, ultimately deciding it was worth the risk even if he were caught and killed.

Eventually, his eldest daughter had discovered him: and, being highly experienced in use of the Knowing, she had instantly understood who he was. His wife, similarly recognising him as her husband through her accomplished Knowing abilities, had welcomed him back into their home, if not her bed. The servants, although at first both disbelieving and horrified, had come to accept him as their master as they gradually recognised his characteristics, his mannerisms of speech and general kindness.

Now all this, this most perfect of lives that a beast could ever hope to expect, had vanished, wiped out by a force of attackers

Cranden and Desri moved carefully through the debris of the manor, searching for any clues of what might have happened to the family; anything pointing to their being able to flee and seek safety before the besiegers completed their task of wrecking the manor and its environs.

As they rose higher through the only remaining part of the house, Desri heard a creaking of floorboards coming from above them. It was like the slow shifting of a great weight, yet one that hardly moved, turning again and again, but only ever in the same small space.

There was a blocking of the Knowing, poorly done, for the existence of the veiling was obvious.

Everything pointed to someone's presence in the master bedroom.

Cranden insisted on being the first to enter. He threw open the impressive double doors, striding confidently through them, expecting his size to intimidate anyone waiting there.

'Cranden! So you _did_ return!' the beast lying in the large bed exclaimed hoarsely.

*

# Chapter 29

1,000 Years Earlier

The interior of the carriage was sumptuously decorated yet, for Imp, it was still a prison. She was confined to its four walls, despite the great distance that would be travelled, that had already been travelled.

It had everything she needed, of course, including a plushly padded hole that served as a toilet. Food was served up to her through a hole in the bottom of the permanently, securely locked door.

Only attendants experienced in use of the Knowing were allowed to draw close to the carriage, even though the nearby outriders had been ordered to constantly block off its use.

With hardly anything to do within the carriage, Imp spent longer and longer in bed, either sleeping or reading the books she had insisted on being provided with: the trip across the empire towards the pass leading to the Blue-table Plains was a long and increasingly slow one.

She had had no right to make any demands, she had realised that – rather, she was fortunate that Haren had declared that he would be satisfied with her permanent exile as opposed to her death.

He could never forgive her for the killing of his sister; yet he could understand how an assassin might see such a death as inconsequential.

She had wanted Haren to Know how wretched she felt, but the queen had expertly veiled any such use.

Now, of course, she was more wretched than ever.

Often, as she lay in bed, she just wished she could die.

*

# Chapter 29

1,000 Years Later

The beast almost constantly turned in his bed, briefly granting relief to one part of his sorely wounded body while another part now had to accept the pain of being in contact with the mattress.

'Grusel: what happened here?' Cranden asked as he concernedly knelt by the bed and tenderly stroked his friend's blazingly hot brow.

'Everyone was killed; my daughters, my servants, and – I suspect – my wife too.'

'Why? Why would anyone attack you, when you weren't doing any harm here? Was it because they feared you as a beast living here?'

Even as he said this, Cranden realised that the attack on the manor had had to be one far more elaborate and professional than any frightened mob of peasants could manage.

Grusel shook his head. It was only the slightest of moves, yet even this caused him to wince in agony. His body was a mass of deep wounds, most of which had healed badly.

Death for his friend couldn't be long in coming, Cranden realised.

When Cranden had last been here, Grusel had explained his intention to inform the queen of the horrifying link between beasts and men, sending a letter to court via his wife, Heslinda.

Was it this that had brought a besieging army to the manor?

Heslinda and her daughters had welcomed Cranden warmly when, after observing this remarkable manor from afar for over a week, he had strode on two feet into the courtyard. They were glad to see him, this walking, talking confirmation that their recognition of a beast as their husband and father was sound.

They had kindly offered to let him stay. He had refused, explaining that what he had seen here had given him new hope that he too could be accepted in some way by those he still loved.

'Who wants to know, Cranden,' Grusel hissed weakly, 'the truth of who we really are?'

For the very first time he saw Desri standing behind Cranden.

He smiled, grabbed his friend's hand in a warm clasp.

'So you did it, hey, my friend?'

Cranden smiled.

'In a way: a way similar to that which you were the very first to achieve!'

'And I was hoping to remain hidden from you when I heard you below! I thought you were someone here to steal, to cheapen and disgrace the life of my poor family even more.'

'Your family deserves _no_ disgrace, Grusel! I'll find those responsible. I'll ma–'

The hoarse guttural rasp could have been Grusel's attempt at a wry chuckle.

'The _queen_? You would kill the queen? The woman we fought so bravely – so _stupidly_ – for?'

This from a man who had admired the queen: who had spoken enthusiastically of the way he had seen her in the middle of battle so confused it had been impossible to tell friend from foe. She had held off everyone about her so aggressively and skilfully no one had dared attack her.

Whereas Cranden's mission had aimed to hold the pass against the threat of a Prenderean invasion, Grusel's regiment had been sent up from the south to prevent a previous but now retreating intrusion from returning home. When Grusel had found himself transformed, he'd had little choice but to briefly move deeper into the Blue-table Plains, only safely making his way back through the pass once the fighting was entirely over.

'Heslinda never returned from court, Cranden: it was just the army who turned up here. They thought everyone was dead, leaving us all here to rot. I had to bury them all. And as I buried them, I wished time and time again that I'd told you what I'd really found out on the plains.'

'You _did_ tell me, old friend: the Bone Carvers. You followed them for a while as they wandered across the plain. And when you came across the bones of long-fallen men in the pass, you saw ribs that had been elaborately carved–'

Grusel stilled Cranden's talking with an urgently waved hand.

'No, no: not that, not that! On my wanderings across the plain, I _never_ saw the great cities of Crxuan, of Defresser!'

'No one would have expected you to–'

'No, Cranden, no! I mean these supposedly great Prenderean cities don't _exist_! There aren't even towns, not even _villages_. The _only_ people living out there are the Bone Carvers!'

Cranden stared at his friend with a perplexed frown.

'That's not possible,' he said uneasily. 'If that's true; who have we been fighting all these thousands of years?'

*

# Chapter 30

1,000 Years Earlier

Haren had ensured that Imp was left on the other side of the pass with a suitably robust horse and enough water and bare provisions to enable her to reach the nearest Prenderean town, Mujarea.

There was no sense in her trying to return by turning back through the pass: the commander of the large force of men sent to escort her to the border had warned her they would remain here for at least a year.

The area stretching out from the base of the mountain range and leading down into the plain was rocky, barren, with few animals to hunt to help her eke out her scant supplies. She travelled mainly by moonlight, when it was incredibly cold, rather than throughout the day, when it was unbearably hot.

She used the sun and stars as bearings, so when she failed to see any signs indicating she was at last approaching Mujarea – not even scattered homesteads, travellers, some form of road – she began to fear her growing thirst and malnutrition was affecting her capabilities more than she had realised.

For a while, she turned more towards the north, hoping she had simply stumbled past the town too far to the south. When this failed to turn up any sign of civilisation or even human life, she turned and headed south.

As both her provisions and any game to hunt dwindled, she began to prepare herself for death. She knew, of course, how to utilise her own mount to prolong her life at the expense of its own: but she saw no reason why she should cause the death of this poor innocent animal.

Stripping off the horse's harness and saddle, she gave her a slap to the flanks to urge her on her way.

Sitting down amongst a pile of relatively comfortable rocks, she rested her back against the taller ones. She was already strangely delirious, as if her preparedness to die was hastening the deterioration of her consciousness. Her vision was increasingly hazy, everything before her becoming mirage-like, indistinct.

'May the Great All Knowing welcome me.'

Her voice, like her vision, her thought processes, were rapidly fading.

The horizon shimmered, in the rising heat haze rippling as if everything had turned to water. Everything was blending, becoming as one, no longer separate but entwined, intermingled.

At first, she thought the oncoming tribe was all part of her hallucination, the figures just hardening whirlpools of the rising heat.

It was only when they were a hand's breath away that she realised they were real.

For that was when they welcomed her to the tribe of the Bone Carvers.

*

# Chapter 30

1,000 Years Later

Cranden's referral to the Bone Carvers and their carving of the skeletons made Desri recall the day she had felt the odd shape of her own rib.

It seemed crazy, she knew, impossible even: but _was_ there a connection?

She wondered, was it possible to...

Could she Know herself?

She thought only of where she wanted her mind to be.

Still _within_ herself, but in another _part_ of herself.

She let her thoughts flow throughout her own being, to spread like waves of water flow into every corner, every space, within their receptacle.

She wrapped those thoughts in particular around her lower rib. Caressed the bone with fingers of Knowing.

She felt and admired the intricate beauty of the carving there. She looked carefully over the markings, the tattoo-like symbols.

And there, surprisingly, she was welcomed into the tribe of the Bone Carvers.

*

# Chapter 31

1,000s of Years Ago

'You are destined to overthrow the queen.'

'How do you know this?'

'We created you while you were forming within your mother's womb; when all elements are delicate and malleable, especially to our thoughts, our hopes, our wishes.'

'This is the meaning of the carving?'

'This is the meaning of your carving: for others, it is their privilege, when they realise they are ready, to leave your world for a more fulfilling life amongst us.'

She sensed the loving presence of her mother, the mother she had falsely believed had died. She felt that love, that longing to be together, to be as one once more.

'These are the ones we think of as the Disappeared?'

'At first, they recognise themselves as the beasts they really are. They seek out other beasts, and so we send out other beasts who will escort them safely here.'

'Why take my mother? Why do you steal these people from us?'

'Because she shows us how to love those who fail to appreciate her, who take her for granted – yet she never, ever, took those she loved for granted.'

'Is that why the queen fights you? Because you take all these people from us?'

'We fight no one. We have no one amongst us who wishes to, or sees the need for us to fight.'

'Then – who are we fighting?'

'Yourselves, as always. You can, if you think about it, only ever fight amongst yourselves.'

'Those fighting a supposed attack? And those attacking a supposed internal enemy?'

'Without their suffering, how could there be any Knowing?'

*

# Chapter 32

1,000s of Years Later

The queen's capital city of Greforel had now been under siege for six months.

Desri and Cranden's vast army of beasts had relentlessly pounded the city walls with a large variety of ingenious siege machines: the many wheeled towers, pushed under a hail of arrows and pouring hot oil towards the equally towering fortifications; the battering rams, rammed home with more force than humanely possible when handled by huge beasts; the gigantic slings, the oversized crossbows, propelling boulders, flaming balls of pitch and thick bolts through stone and man alike; the huge screws, eating daily into the earth, the intention to undermine the heavy walls.

Grusel had declared such a coordinated force of buisoar impossible, pointing out the problem of communication: most beasts still remained too inhuman to take part in any reasoning, let alone conversation.

Desri had surmounted this problem with a carefully ordered hierarchy – those like Cranden and Grusel being the commanding officers, the next rank made up of those with a slightly lower level of human consciousness, enabling these in turn to hand out orders to those just slightly below them in human capabilities. In this way, with the command structure stretching right down to beasts who retained hardly any human sensibilities at all, almost every beast they had come across had been conscripted into their vast, unbeatable army.

Over twenty years, now, they had fought battle after battle against their wholly human foes. Battle after battle had been won, even though they had lost uncountable numbers of their own troops along the way. Grusel had died long ago, but from his old, incurable wounds; yet he had died seeing the very first successes of the rebellion.

The queen herself had frequently been seen on the walls of the besieged city, rallying her exhausted troops when everything had seemed hopeless. Desri's own troops had cheered elatedly when a lucky shot from a crashing boulder had appeared to send her flying from the battlements. Within the hour, however, she was back on the walls, urging her men onto ever-greater feats of valour and stubbornness.

As always, Desri had to admit, the queen appeared as a blaze of light amidst the carnage – her red hair gleaming like a vengeful flame, the white armour shining as if she were some protective angel descending to aid those pleading for her assistance.

There were many times that Desri had to wonder if the queen had elements of magic at her disposal. Many times, too when she doubted that her rebellion against the queen would ultimately be successful.

She had read in the history books of the last major rebellion against the queen, one led by an ex-assassin called Impersia and her lover, Lord Haren. Although it, too, had managed to fight its way through the empire towards the gates of Greforel, it had failed to breech the great walls, the queen surviving to re-impose her rule.

Had this Impersia also discovered that the supposedly ever-threating Prenderean Empire didn't actually exist, Desri wondered, using that knowledge to persuade Lord Haren and his men to follow her in rebellion?

The many years of wading through blood, of sleeping on ground laced with iron ore, had somehow gradually dyed Desri's previously blonde hair into the same flame red of the queen's. Her armour, although of silver rather than white, sparkled in even the dimmest light. As such, she cut a magnificent figure against the strangely stooped man she invited into her tent that night: a man seemingly made more of wood than flesh, his body so often beaten, his bones broken so many uncountable times, that he required splints of every kind to stand, let alone walk. His crutches were padded with material, to quieten his approach, to aid him in his chosen trades of deceit, thievery and treachery.

It was this man, however, who would enable Desri to overthrow the queen.

*

It had, of course, been this man's destiny to lead the small group of armed buisoar up through the hidden, narrow tunnel leading into the very heart of the city itself.

All citadels, even the supposedly most impregnable, have these weaknesses deliberately built into them under the misapprehension that they merely allow a besieged city contact with the outside world. Yet it is the business of men like Trogic to learn of these ways, as they aid their own professions of smuggling and secret messages.

These traits of misbehaving, this final essential task, have all long being carved into Trogic's life, if only he would Know it.

The buisoars that storm through Greforel's darkened, sleepy streets are ruthless – bestial – in their determination to force their way through to and open up the gates that allow in the rest of Desri's patiently waiting army. The advance of the buisoar regiments is now unstoppable, the fall of Greforel at last inevitable.

At the doors to the palace, the only man preventing Desri and Cranden entering is a general who limps painfully as he approaches them.

'Barane!' Desri breathes in surprise.

General Barane does his best to ignore her, his eyes on Cranden rather than her.

'Her Most Knowing Majesty, the Great Queen of All the Knowing World, grants audience with Her and permission to speak.'

As he looks towards and speaks to Cranden, he suddenly lurches closer towards Desri, the dagger he already holds in his hand curving up towards her lower rib.

Desri has fought and killed many better men than this.

As with one hand she deftly turns the plunging dagger aside, with the palm of the other she smacks Barane hard beneath his nose, sending his own nasal-bone shooting up into his worthless brain.

*

# Chapter 33

1,000 Seconds Later

The buisoars accompanying Desri and Cranden as they confidently strode through the palace's many room didn't see themselves as beasts, but as men, warriors malignantly transformed by an evil magic.

As such, they appreciated the richly decorated walls and ceilings, admired the vast paintings of epic battles, viewed with interest the ancient weapons set out in geometric patterns. They were clothed in the cloaks and armour of men, tailored to accommodate their huge size and oddly shaped backs and legs. They walked on two legs, not four, though they had forgone what had been found to be painful boots.

Like any men who have undertaken a long siege, they are also hungry. Those laying siege to a city often find themselves almost as short of food as the besieged. Of course, if the myth of the beasts' fondness for human meat had been true, there would have been no shortage of food, with so many of the city's defenders dying each day. Yet the beasts who retained their human sensibilities naturally refused to touch what should have been this ready source of nutrition, seeing eating it only as the worst form of cannibalism. And although the lower ranks of more bestial beasts refused to recognise this distinction, it was a stipulation imposed on anyone serving in Desri and Cranden's huge force.

In the palace, it was immediately obvious that the starvation suffered by Greforel's general populace hadn't been shared by the courtiers and generals based here. Tables were graced by overflowing fruitbowls, by platters of nuts and spiced cloves. Desri's officers fleetingly glanced at these bowls of obvious excess with an ironic distaste, for the moment fighting their hunger. When they arrived at the great hall that stood before the throne room, however, a long table had been set out for a dinner that the fleeing generals had left untouched, the great sides of beef and hog, the cauldrons of simmering stew, too enticing to resist.

Crandren saw and understood the hunger of his men.

'Stay here,' he said to his closest friend, Defreg. 'We'll only be a door away.'

Defreg looked doubtful, a look that said he was going to refuse Cranden's offer.

Then he looked at the food laid out before them, smelt the delicious aromas.

He gave Cranden a hearty parting slap on his shoulder.

'If the queen resorts to her trickery,' he growled, 'you only have to shout!'

*

The queen is waiting for them when they enter the throne room.

She sits on her throne, a regal cloak of white and silver draped around her. Her blazing curtain of flame-red hair completely hides her sadly drooping head.

'What took you so long?' she grumbles, her voice harsh, croaking.

She sits up proudly, regally raising her head and throwing back her fire-like hair.

The face is withered, ancient.

Both Desri and Cranden gasp in complete surprise.

'You're surprised,' the queen chuckles wickedly. 'I _was_ beautiful: until your arrival here, of course.'

She playful waves a hand in front of her face, as if replicating the ripples of rapidly passing time.

'Now, at last, time has caught up with me.'

'But... we saw you on the battlements: you seemed as young as ever.'

It seemed an odd point to be making at a time like this, Desri realised – yet she was curious, wondering if the queen's legendary beauty and youth were indeed down to a judicious use of magic. If so, if the queen could utilise magic, then they had to be especially wary. Even now, when they seemed so close to victory over her.

'Ah, but _was_ it me, though?' the queen replied mysteriously. 'You see, some are destined to be _lesser_ queens, who serve for me in battle: it's not such a bad fate, really, to live a life of luxury before going out in a blaze of glory.'

Seeing the surprise on their faces, she gives a harsh, mischievous chuckle.

'You think me cruel? You'd be surprised how few are actually killed. You've worked out how these battles work by now, I'm sure? In the chaos, _everyone_ naturally believes _their_ queen is fighting for them. None dare attack her. Any royal fatality is generally only _very_ unfortunately accidental.'

'Why are you so careless of life? So murderous?'

'Oh, you're _so_ like me!' the queen laughs. 'Or, at least, how I _was_ , when I first came to the throne. Seeing all the changes I must make to make life _fairer_. Only the changes I made always had their own, unforeseen repercussions; for there are always evil, cunning men – or even the many more who are just simply incompetent or lazy – who will take advantage of any new rules and twist them to their own use.'

'Then why let them retain their power? These corrupt lords and official?'

'How did you control an army of beasts but by forming an hierarchy?'

' _Our_ men aren't corrupt!' Cranden snarls angrily.

'Oh no, not _yet_ , of course: not while they fight for a consolidating ideal of _freedom_. But give them a few years, when you have no common enemy to bring together – _then_ you will find them fighting for their _fair_ share, for fear they aren't appreciated, or that those gaining more power will step all over them.'

'You're saying there's no solution?' Desri frowns scornfully. 'That this is the best way the empire can be run?'

The queen steps down from the throne, with a gracious wave of a hand inviting Desri to take her place.

'I suppose you want to try it out for size, comfort...?'

'I don't want to be like _you_!'

'That's _exactly_ what _I_ said,' the queen pronounces with mock theatricality. 'When _I_ was standing where you are now a thousand years ago!'

'A thousand years ago?'

Having read the history books along with Desri, Cranden recognised the significance of the date.

'You're Impersia?' Desri asks uncertainly, disbelievingly. 'But your rebellion _failed_.'

'Oh, when you're queen, you'll find you can always rewrite history,' the queen declares with an airily dismissive wave of a hand. 'A hundred years from now, some historian wishing to make a name for himself will ponder how your own rebellion failed to unseat the queen. He'll realise it was all nothing more than some silly myth that grew out of a rampage of wild buisoars accidentally released into the palace – ohh, and _there_ they are now!'

She draws their attention to the raucous scuffling and snorting coming from the great hall next door. Elegantly making her way towards the great doors, she flings them open.

Within the great hall, beasts clothed in oversized human clothes are rampaging everywhere, knocking over tables, chairs, and furiously fighting each other.

*

# Chapter 34

100 Seconds Later

'What magic is this? What have you done to my men?'

Cranden is furious. His eyes are locked on the queen, as if he would kill her at a moment's notice.

The officers he and Desri had left in the great hall only minutes ago are behaving worse than the lowest ranks, throwing themselves at each other with a definite intention to harm badly, perhaps even kill, their chosen opponent. Most of their clothes, even their armour, is shredded or smashed. They growl, snort, not talk or cry.

'There's no magic, I'm afraid,' the queen calmly replies to Cranden's accusation. 'They've simply reverted to their true nature; the natures of the beasts they really are, not the men you falsely suppose them to be.'

'We've _talked_ with them! _Eaten_ with them,' Cranden insists irately. 'They _were_ men, until you used your trickery on them!'

'Really? And these, these really are the actions of men, are they?'

The queen nonchalantly draws his attention to a beast defecating on the floor, another barging so forcefully into a table it cracks and completely shatters, the food on its top spilling everywhere.

'And what of you Cranden,' the queen continues, 'why do you continue to believe that Desri cannot love you because you are a beast? Do you really think all those memories of the women you've bedded are hidden to someone so accomplished at using the Knowing?'

Desri and Cranden exchange glances full of guilt and apology.

'I'm sorry, Cranden! I didn't mean to–'

'They're not memories! They're dreams I can't control–'

'They're _memories_ ,' the queen insists starkly. 'You simply fail to recognise them as such!'

She turns to Desri, glowering at her every bit as unforgivably as she had at Cranden.

'And you, while you were inside his head, why didn't you ever consider searching for memories of his parents?'

'That...that would be _too_ private.' Desri squirms with shame and embarrassment, aware of her hypocrisy. 'It wasn't of my _concern_ ...' she adds defensively.

'It's very much your concern! Do it _now_ girl! _Know_ his parents.'

*

'I...I don't understand.'

Desri has never felt so confused.

Yes, as expected, Cranden has firm memories of Jaben and Mavern, even of his sister Clearen. Yet, bizarrely, there are weaker memories of _other_ parents, a large number of them, varying in strength, in detail.

'It's _impossible_ for him to have had so many parents!'

'They're simply people in my _dreams_ again,' Cranden insists adamantly. 'I...I can't control them; they get _mixed_ up with my memories.'

'No; they're the memories of many men who are no longer with us, Cranden – all fighting for prominence,' the queen explains with a peculiar, unexpected tenderness. 'That's what causes your confusion – and, now, theirs too.'

She looks towards the beasts nosily destroying the great hall.

'What _did_ you do to them?' Desri asks.

'Me?' The queen appears surprised by the accusation. ' _You_ provided their feast, my dear!'

'Me?'

'Why, with your successful attacks on my men, of course! Even our foolish General Barane was hurriedly prepared for dinner.'

' _Human_ meat? You fed them _human_ meat?'

Cranden's expressions and voice move swiftly through the emotions of horror, disgust, fury.

'What do you think they eat after the battles out in the Blue-table Pass? It's their eating of so many of these brave men – the absorption of their human intuition, thoughts, emotions – that gives their meat its value to us–'

'That's why you send all these men out to these false battles?' Desri is aghast. 'You betray their loyalty? Sacrificing them merely to enhance the Knowing?'

' _Ensure_ , not _enhance_ , the Knowing! What is our world without the Knowing? Nothing, really. So these men _are_ defending the world as they Know it; it would cease to exist without their sacrifice.'

'And me?' Cranden asks fearfully. 'How does all this explain _me_? Why am _I_ not confused by all these conflicting thoughts of different men flowing through me? Why do I think – dream, talk, _live_ – as if I really am this _Cranden_?'

'You, I'm afraid, are an unfortunate – yet thankfully relatively rare – creation. If a beast feeds mostly on one particular man – particularly a man with a strongly held vison to return – then he will take on the sensibilities of that man; to the extent that he really believes he is that man. For what are our thoughts, but us?'

Cranden's head hangs miserably low.

'I _am_ a beast!'

'No, Cranden!' Desri reaches out to him, strokes his arms tenderly. Looks up into his eyes with astonishing directness and honesty. 'The man _inside_ , that's you! _That's_ Cranden!'

Not far from them, there's a snort, an angry growl. Turning, they see a beast glaring at Cranden, its paws striking the ground as it readies itself to charge.

Cranden recognises the shreds of the blue cloak hanging off its great humped back.

'Defreg?'

He tries to approach the pawing beast as calmly and unthreateningly as he can manage.

Still, the unnerved, belligerent beast throws itself into a hurtling charge towards him.

Desri's perfectly, _Knowingly_ aimed arrow sinks cleanly and deeply into the beast's dark eye.

The beast slews to a tumultuous halt, the chairs around it scattered, shattered, its tremendous momentum continuing to carry it forward even as it dies.

'Desri!' Far from being thankful, Cranden is outraged. 'You've killed Defreg! I could have talked to–'

'It wasn't Defreg anymore, Cranden,' Desri interrupts him sternly. 'He was going to kill you.'

The queen's smile is one of satisfaction.

'Yes, I think you are ready,' she says, stilling all the raging beasts into a quiet stupor with nothing more than a glance.

*

# Chapter 35

10 Seconds Later

As the queen had curiously insisted, Desri is tightly holding onto her extended hands.

The Knowing requires no such physical connection.

Know this: you are the queen!

No! I cannot rule as you do! You sacrifice lives: you create misery for thousands! You act like you are a god!

A queen is god when her decisions – her whims, her mistakes, let alone any wilful, malicious intent – result in the misery you talk of. And there is little alternative to this, for thousands to a queen are few, whereas she has to rule in favour of the many, of millions. Those few believe you are not thinking of them – and they are right, for if you did think of them, if you contemplate the misery you have resigned them to, then you will never make any rightful decision again.

Then I cannot be queen, for I could never do this!

How stable is an empire without it's rightful ruler? How unstable does it become when others claim that they have more right to the throne than the present usurper?

I'm not your child: I have no right to be queen!

Hah, unfortunately biology rarely chooses its rulers well! And so you are chosen while you are in your mother's womb. Then everything required to give you the strength of will to become queen is provided throughout your life.

Then I have been destined to take on a role I do not want!

A thousand years ago, I stood where you are now saying exactly the same thing. A thousand years on, you will be where I am now, telling a new queen-to-be what I was told then: all this has been written into your very bones.

If you believe your own rule is so essential, why don't you just live on and on?

At some point in their lives, everyone grows tired of life: a new inspiration is required. Our emblem isn't the All Knowing Swan, as people believe, but the phoenix: and so Know this, in this way we do live forever.

*

# Chapter 36

1 Second Later

Desri is no longer holding the queen's hands.

The queen has vanished.

Only her royal robes and crown remain, lying in a pile at Desri's feet.

'She...she just seemed to flow into you: like you absorbed her!'

Cranden stares down at the robes, his eyes full of bewilderment.

'She explained: explained that I had to be queen.'

Desri wonders what she is supposed to do next.

Cranden bows down before her, picks up the robe, the crown.

Coming behind Desri, he reverently and carefully places the crown on her head. Then he respectfully slips the royal robes around her shoulders, taking the risk at this moment to bring his cheek lovingly close to hers.

'My queen,' he whispers.

Desri turns slightly towards him, looks up at him, tenderly touches his cheek – and whispers in return:

'My prince.'

End

If you enjoyed reading this book, you might also enjoy (or you may know someone else who might enjoy) these other books by Jon Jacks.

The Caught – The Rules – Chapter One – The Changes – Sleeping Ugly

The Barking Detective Agency – The Healing – The Lost Fairy Tale

A Horse for a Kingdom – Charity – The Most Beautiful Things (Now includes The Last Train)

The Dream Swallowers – Nyx; Granddaughter of the Night – Jonah and the Alligator

Glastonbury Sirens – Dr Jekyll's Maid – The 500-Year Circus – The Desire: Class of 666

P – The Endless Game – DoriaN A – Wyrd Girl – The Wicker Slippers

Heartache High (Vol I) – Heartache High: The Primer (Vol II) – Heartache High: The Wakening (Vol III)

Miss Terry Charm, Merry Kris Mouse & The Silver Egg – The Last Angel – Eve of the Serpent

Seecrets – The Cull – Dragonsapien – The Boy in White Linen – Porcelain Princess – Freaking Freak

Died Blondes

Coming Soon

The Truth About Fairies

