Chapter 9: Power and Freedom

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  For once, the weather is mild and dry, rays of soft sunlight breaking through the patchy blanket of clouds and bathing the land in warm hues. Around us, the ground is coated in browns and yellows with the occasional stick or rock peeking forth from below the cover of fallen leaves.

  I tread carefully, seeking steady footing with each step, the memories of my last trek through this forest ever so fresh in my mind. The redhead before me moves with such natural grace that twigs barely snap beneath her boots. I do my best to try and keep her pace.

  Searching the forest floor closely for animal tracks, Chiselle leads me around trees and rocks, underneath low-hanging pine branches, through clusters of withering ferns; curving along a path I cannot make out nearly as confidently as she can.

  Before long, we stop by a small stream trickling serenely through the ground. Humming in delight, the redhead seems to have found her target.

  She lets her backpack dump to the ground and plucks a few remedies from it. Her hands work swiftly - a testimony to the fact that she has done this numerous times before.

  The contraption is simple, really: A pair of forked sticks is hammered into the ground less than two feet apart, bridged by a third stick, from which a thin rope noose hangs. It doesn’t take much imagination to figure out how it works.

  Chiselle installs one snare on either side of the stream, where faint depressions in the soil suggest recent activity. Whether it be hares, pheasants, badgers, foxes, or something else entirely, I don't possess the ability to identify. Something edible, presumably.

  On our way back to the mansion we swing by more than a dozen active trap sites, all without yield. Her frown gradually deepening, the redhead sifts through a few final snares hidden in the long grass beyond the house. No luck here either.

  We’re about to return to the scullery empty-handed when the sound of hooves on gravel catches our attention. Instinctually, I duck into the sea of grass and weeds until I can spot the riders emerging from the forest edge.

  New faces. I breathe in relief.

  Bows strapped to their backs, the men appear to be hunters. The biggest giveaway, of course, would be the pair of freshly shot deer strapped to the horses in front of the riders.

  Paying us no heed, the party of three trots along the stone path. I notice how Chiselle’s gaze follows the game closely.

  For reasons beyond me, the redhead decides to engage the strangers; with a curt wave of her hand she catches their attention, then moves to greet them as they slow to a stop. I follow her, perhaps a tad reluctantly.

  “Fine day, eh?” says one hunter, his jovial tone incongruous with the wary look in his eyes. “Now, what can we do for you ladies?”

  Chiselle points to one of the deer and taps her hip. The man’s brow furrows ever so slightly.

  “What about it?”

  Chiselle repeats her gesture and adds a motion similar to offering money from a belt satchel.

  “You… want to buy it?”

  A nod.

  “It's not for sale.”

  Huffing, the redhead steps closer and points to the man’s clothed chest accusingly.

  “What? You want my coat now?” The man turns to his companions, chuckling and shaking his head. “Don't tell my wife that some furiosus offered me money to strip down.”

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  His words seem to strike a nerve; Chiselle’s fine, pale skin takes a shade of red, and I can tell by her fisted hands and tight shoulders that the man is one wrong comment from being dismounted most inelegantly.

  “If I may,” I cut in and step forth, earning the attention of the hunters and a grumble from Chiselle. “My friend simply meant to point out the fact that neither of you are wearing a noble’s sigil.”

  The wave of haughty merriment ceases at once. The self-appointed spokesman narrows his eyes at me.

  “I am aware. Thank you for your keen observation.” Clicking his tongue, the man cues his horse to move forward. The others follow. So do I.

  In truth, I don't care the least about the deer - I am certain the larder offers enough food for days like this where fresh meat is unavailable. Right now it's purely about the principle of it.

  “You mean to tell me you don't know that hunting large game is considered an illicit activity?” I continue, matching the pace of the horses without too much difficulty.

  “Is there a point hiding somewhere, girl?” He does not even look at me as he speaks.

  ‘Hiding’ is a stretch. My point stands rather clear. He is simply playing oblivious to avoid a conflict.

  “Sell us one of your deer - the smaller one is fine - and we won't inform the authorities of your poaching.”

  Not that I would ever rat on somebody over something so trifling and harmless, but he doesn’t know that. Besides, I am not exactly the epitome of morality either, trying to blackmail complete strangers to avenge the bruised dignity of someone I don't even particularly like.

  “Enough of this nonsense. The answer is no.”

  Stubborn type. But I am not done.

  “The last I heard, all greater forests in Redbirch Vale fall under a lord’s demesne. And, based on your lack of sigils, I presume you don’t have a permit.”

  I catch the man rolling his eyes and nodding curtly to his companions, and I sense they are about to gallop away, so I quickly add:

  “Last year, my neighbor’s uncle was hanged for poaching deer. It’s not uncommon here, you know.”

  My words seem to catch him off guard enough to keep him by my side a bit longer, even though we have now breached the skirts of the forest on the other side of the mansion.

  “What in the Nine Hells are you talking about? You’re even madder than the other one!” he says, gesturing wildly to Chiselle, who is trailing along like a drifting thunder cloud. Then he turns to me again. “First of all, this is Highstone, not Redbirch Vale. And secondly, I doubt the bailiff would ever consider the words of some absolute dalcop who doesn’t even know where in the world she is.”

  I stop in my tracks. Highstone?

  “We are not in Redbirch Vale?” I ask Chiselle behind me. The redhead halts by my side and shakes her head, her murderous glance never leaving the strangers.

  Fuck.

  Fuck the hunters and their deer.

  Fuck this.

  Turning on my heel at once, I stalk back to the house, letting the men ride away with their supper in peace.

  How is this even possible? How far did the slave traders take me? I had the impression that I was unconscious for a handful of hours, maybe a day, but the numbers don't add up. And I sure as Hell did not run to another county on my own in one night, that much is certain.

  But no matter how, the reality of my situation is that I am in bloody Highstone. And not only am I stuck somewhere worryingly far from home, I have definitely just blown my chance of securing a lift to the nearest village on top of that. And who is to say when the next opportunity will arise?

  A fine day indeed…

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  Knowing that I am farther from home than I have ever been leaves me locked in contemplation for the rest of the day.

  Nobody back home knows where I am, and where I am right now, nobody knows who I am. If I wanted to, I could run away to somewhere - anywhere - and start anew. A life on my own terms, not dictated by expectations about my future. I could learn a new craft and start my own business, leaving The Rabbit and the Rooster for someone else - perhaps cousin Ella, who has been helping out every now and then, and who has a sharp mind and quick feet.

  I would be free to choose my destiny; free to discover new talents and interests.

  With a bit of money on hand, I could even travel around the country - perhaps see the coast and the sea beyond. Or farther still: I could explore the ever-frosty lands of the north or delight in eternal sunshine and fresh, juicy fruits straight from the branch somewhere south.

  The world would be open to me.

  For the first time ever, I have the power to decide for myself. As exhilarating as the thought is, it also terrifies me a bit. I never imagined I’d one day be in this position.

  That night, I lie in bed and stare up at the ceiling until the oil runs out in the lamp and the flame dies on its own. When finally sleep consumes me, I dream of strange colors, new flavors, and unknown sensations; of a sea full of possibilities.