Free Hunter and Fox by Philippa Ballantine Page A

Syris.
    The nykur had the largest stall farthest from the rest of the horses, since the smell of meat unsettled his stable mates. While they liked barley and hay, he liked blood and flesh.
    Talyn climbed up and hung her arms over the top of the high gate to the stall. Syris glared at her with his dark eyes and pawed the thickly laid straw with one hoof. It was meant to be a chastisement.
    He was no horse, so she took his threats seriously. Still, she laughed and wiggled her fingers, daring him. He lunged, wicked teeth at the ready, but she was quicker—pulling back beyond the reach of his teeth and instead grabbing hold of his mane. He tugged and shook his head, but she held on.
    Finally, the nykur reluctantly let her stroke him. His mane bit and cut her fingers like rough grass, but the loss of a little blood was nothing to her.
    She let the nykur lick it delicately away with his barbed tongue. Such little rituals were a pleasant distraction from ridiculous talk of dances and dresses.
    Talyn was not so distracted that she did not hear the lurching steps of Faustin, Chief of the Horse, behind her. Hopping down from the gate, she gave the old man one of her rare smiles. Faustin was one of only two people she really smiled for in V'nae Rae these days. He was short like her, so neither had to look up at the other.
    His nut-brown face, wrinkled and off-center from an ancient encounter with Syris, lifted to see her too. “You planning on feeding that old devil your fingertips again?” His voice was gruff but laced with genuine affection.
    â€œNot today, I think the Caisah wants me to have them for his dance.”
    Unlike most people in the Citadel, the Chief of the Horse did not wince when the master was mentioned. He was rarely at the stables and as long as he did not interfere with the running of Faustin's little empire, he was of no consequence. It was the reason that Talyn liked the chief so much.
    Faustin leaned against the gate and watched Syris prance and snarl. “Still likes his bit of flesh does the old devil, though he's had none from my boys this week.”
    Talyn always found it curious how Faustin still admired and loved the nykur; his voice was never touched with anger or bitterness. “Not like he had from you.”
    The chief smiled in a distant, melancholy way. “That was a long time ago—not that I have forgotten the feeling of his teeth in my flesh, mind. He stopped me from getting around properly ever after.”
    Unlike her friend, Talyn could only faintly remember the unscarred, jaunty lad Faustin had been before Syris knocked him down and tore into him. In those early days he had not been worth saving a memory of. “Don't you hate him?”
    â€œHate?” Faustin looked at her with genuine puzzlement. “A fine beast like that? Never. He was just doing what instinct told him to. It was me who made the mistake.” He peered more closely at her. “You've asked me this before.”
    Talyn sighed. “I am sure I have explained how my memory gift works. Haven't I?”
    â€œAye, that you have. Must be a shame though—living so long and remembering only little bits.”
    â€œSometimes I think it is the greatest gift. That of forgetting.” She smiled bitterly.
    Faustin was beckoning over a wide-eyed stablehand who was carrying a small bucket. It smelt of blood, and he handed it quickly over to his chief before scampering back to the safety of the horses. Syris sidled closer to the gate, pressing his great clear eye against the gap and clashing his teeth together. It was a frightening sound, yet not necessarily always a sign of aggression.
    Faustin offered the bucket to Talyn, but she gestured it away. It would be good for the nykur to be fed by another besides her. The chief began sliding the tastiest morsels of liver and tongue through the special gap to the hungry beast. He was careful to keep his fingers well beyond the grasp of those teeth.