The Chosen

And he did not believe his nursemaid would save him. Sometimes he quite believed she chained him in the hopes he would be consumed, his death from elements or the wild freeing her whilst, if it occurred thusly, not being her exact fault.

To whom she was accountable, though, he did not know. If his mahmen had disowned him, who paid for his keep? His sire? The male had never been identified unto him and had certainly never shown up—

As an eerie howling sound wove through the night, he cringed.

It was the wind. It had to be … merely the wind.

Seeking something to calm his mind, he stared at the pool of warm yellow light that emanated from the cottage’s single window. The flickering illumination played upon the twisted tentacles of the dead raspberry patch that surrounded the cottage, making the thorned bushes move as if they were alive—and he tried not to find anything sinister in the constant shifting. No, instead, he fixed his eyes upon the glow and tried to picture himself before the hearth inside, warming his hands and his feet, his weak muscles uncoiling from their turgor-ous self-protection against the chill.

In his idle dreaming, he imagined his nursemaid smiling at him and holding her arms out, encouraging him to nestle into safety against her. He fantasized of her stroking his hair and not caring that it was filthy, and offering him food that was unspoiled and whole. He would bathe afterward, cleaning his skin and removing the collar from his throat. Ointment would soothe that which pained him, and then she would tell him that she cared not that he was imperfect.

She would forgive him for his existence, and whisper that his mahmen actually loved him and would come for him soon.

And then he would finally sleep soundly, the suffering over—

Another howl interrupted his musings, and he rushed back to full awareness, searching once more the brush and the stands of skeletal trees.

It was always thus, this back and forth betwixt him feeling the need to be aware of his surroundings in the event of attack … and him seeking shelter in his mind to avoid that from which he could do naught to save himself.

Tucking his head into his shoulder, he squeezed his eyes shut once more.

There was another fantasy he entertained, although not as often. He pretended that his sire, about whom his nursemaid had ne’er spoken, but whom Xcor imagined was a fierce fighter for the race, came upon a steed of war and rescued him away. He imagined the great fighter calling out to him, summoning him forth and putting him high upon the saddle, calling him “son” with pride. Upon a powerful gallop they would set, the mane lashing Xcor’s face as they went in search of adventure and glory.

In truth, that was just as unlikely to happen as him being welcomed into the cottage’s interior—

Off in the distance, the pounding of horse hooves signaled an approach, and for a moment, his heart leapt. Had he conjured up his mahmen? His sire? Had the impossible finally occurred—

No, not horseback. It was an incredible stagecoach, a proper regal one with a gold gilded body and a matched pair of white horses. There were even footmales in back and a uniformed coachman as driver.

It was a member of the glymera, an aristocrat.

And yes, as a footmale jumped down and attended the exit of a gowned and ermine’d female, Xcor had ne’er seen someone as beautiful or scented anything even half as fragrant.

Shifting his position such that he could see around the shack’s corner, he winced as the rough leather cut anew into his collarbone.

The grand female did not bother knocking, but had the footmale open wide the creaking door. “Hharm mated her upon the birth of the male. It is done. You are free—he shall not hold you unto this any longer.”

His nursemaid frowned. “What say you?”

“ ’Tis true. Father helped with the sizable dowry that he demanded. Our cousin in now his proper shellan and you are free.”

“Nae, this cannae be …”

As the two females backed into the cottage and shut the footmale out, Xcor struggled to his feet, and peered into the window. Through the thick, bubble-filled glass, he watched as his nursemaid continued to react with shock and disbelief. The other female, however, must have assuaged her contradiction, for there was a pause … and then a great transformation presented itself.

Indeed, a joy so pervasive suffused his nursemaid internally that she was like a cold hearth rekindled, no longer the worn wraith of ugliness he was used to, but something else entirely.

Resplendent she became, even in her tattered garb.

Her mouth moved, and even though he could not hear her voice, he understood exactly what she spoke: I am free … I am free!

Through the wavy glass, he watched her look around as if in search of sundries of significance.

She was leaving him, he thought with panic.

As if she read his thoughts, his nursemaid paused and looked over at him through the glass, the firelight playing across her flushed and excited face. With their eyes locked, he put his hand to the dirty pane in entreaty.

“Take me with you,” he whispered. “Do not leave me thus …”

The other female glanced in his direction and her wince suggested the sight of him turned her stomach. She said something to his nursemaid, and the one who had cared for him for his life thus far didnae immediately respond. But then her face hardened and she straightened as if bracing herself against an inclement gale.

He began to bang on the glass. “Do not leave me! Please!”

The two females turned from him and hustled out, and he ran forth to catch them a’fore they mounted the coach.

“Take me with you!”

As he rushed forth, he reached the end of his chain and was jerked off his feet by his neck, landing hard, the breath knocked from him.

The female in the fine garments paid no mind as she gathered her skirts and ducked her head to enter the coach’s interior. And his nursemaid hurried in behind, putting a hand up to her temple to shield her eyes from him.

“Help me!” He clawed at the rope, scraping his flesh. “What shall become of me!”

One of the footmales closed the gilded hatch. And the doggen hesitated before returning to his post atop the rear.

“There is an orphanage not far from here,” he said roughly. “Break yourself free and proceed fifty lochens unto the north. There you shall find others.”

“Help me!” Xcor screamed as the driver cracked the reins and the horses leapt off, the coach rambling down the dirt lane.

He continued to yell as he was left behind, the noises of the departure growing more faint in the distance … until they were no more.

As the wind blew upon him, the tracks of the tears on his face turned icy and his heart thundered in his ears, making it impossible to hear aught. From the flush of his anxiety, he grew so hot from his agitation that he cast aside the cloak, and blood seeped from around his throat, coating his bare chest and those huge pants.

Fifty lochens? An orphanage?

Get himself free?

Such simple words, coming forth from a guilty conscience. But of no aid to him a’tall.

No, he thought. He had but himself to rely upon the now.

Even as he wanted to curl into a ball and cry in fear and sorrow, he knew he must shore himself up, for shelter was dearly required. And with that in foremind, he gathered his emotions and gripped the chain with both his hands. Leaning back, he pulled with all his might, trying to get it free of the tether, its links hissing at the movement.

Whilst he strained, he had some notion that the coach could not be that far off. He might still catch them if he could just get free and run …

He further told himself that that was not his mahmen who had just departed, having lied to him all along. No, that was merely a nursemaid of some uncommon station.

It was unbearable to think of her otherwise.

TWELVE

It seemed appropriate that Qhuinn had to stare through iron bars to see his brothers—not that he wanted to look at them. But, yeah, a separation between him and those other living-and-breath’ings, marked by an ancient, impenetrable gate, seemed like the best course of inaction.

He was not fit for any kind of company.

And clearly, they were not happy with him, either.

As he sat with his ass on the bare stone floor of the cave and his back against a section of the shelves of jars that was still intact, he watched the Brotherhood prowl and snarl on the far side of all that iron, pacing back and forth and running into each other as they yelled at him. The good news—and it was only marginally “good,” he supposed—was that the sound on the whole drama had been turned way down, some trick of the universe, or maybe his failing blood pressure, going dimmer-switch on the world around him.