Lysanne Shard
Atropa Belladonna
- Character Profile
- Profile
The horns blew at first light. Not the grand trumpets of kings, but the shriller kind. Hunting horns, rough silver dented at the mouth, blowing out across the valleys like geese disturbed from sleep.
Lysanne Shard adjusted her glove and nudged her palfrey forward. The beast snorted at the cold and the steepness of the slope. Below them, the hunting party moved like a scattered net: ten riders, three hounds, and a boy with a bundle of javelins strapped to his back like firewood. The forest here was cruel, even in summer. Steep gullies and moss-slick rocks made footing treacherous, and mist pooled in the lower bowls like milk spilled. Chirping birds were rare here, but there were plenty of ravens and eagles. In these hills, every other spring, someone whispered about “the pale beast,” shy and strange.
"What if it's a unicorn?" he asked. His voice cracked halfway through. It was her cousin, Theuderic. Ten years old, maybe. Thin as a stick, wrapped in a too-large cloak. Lysanne didn’t look at him. She watched the ridgeline ahead, where the trees grew closer together. “A unicorn?” she said, turning the word in her mouth like a hard candy. “Maybe.”
She nudged the palfrey forward again. Hooves slipped slightly on the scree. “I hope it is.”
Theuderic blinked. “You do?”
“Aye.” She cast him a sideways glance. Her breath steamed in the air. “I think its head would look good mounted over my bed...”
The hounds bayed then. Sharp and high. Riders stiffened. Someone’s mount reared, hooves striking gravel. “There!” a voice called. “By the stream!”
She spurred forward. Her horse struggled at the slope, but she bent low, reckless. Behind her, hooves thundered. One of the accompanying Ashcloaks cursed. The boy with the javelins cried out as he slipped, rolled down a bank, and tumbled into the bracken. Lysanne saw it only a moment: a pale flank.
By the time Lysanne and the rest of the hunting party rode back into camp, the mist had thinned and the sun was clawing its way over the peaks. The valley below was a bowl of gold and smoke. Fires hissed, pots steamed, and voices tangled with the smells of roasting elk and pine sap. A kitchen maid was chopping onions poorly as her red eyes were covered in a fog of tears. One minstrel claimed he had seen the unicorn clearly, up close, and it spoke to him in some old tongue.
Lysanne dismounted, tossed the reins to a page, a girl too young for weather like this. The page just nodded and led the horse away. Its flanks steaming like a forge. Lady Shard walked uphill toward the largest tent, pitched beneath two leaning cedars. Its canvas was dark with moisture, the poles driven deep into stony earth. The House Tourmalet standard hung limp beside the entrance. Theuderic ran ahead.
She pushed aside the flap and stepped inside. Warmth hit her like a slap. Braziers burned in the corners. Someone had laid fresh cedar boughs underfoot to cover the stink of wet leather and meat. Her uncles were gathered at the big long-table, broad-shouldered men in boiled wool, wine in their hands, telling the same lies they’d told every hunt since the Black Winter. Lysanne sighed and yanked off her gloves with a snap. Her long dark hair hung in a loose braid, a few pine needles still clinging to it.
Someone finally noticed her. “The beast not bleeding yet?” her oldest brother called. He grinned. "Or did you lose your way in the fog again?" A few hearty laughs.
Lysanne Shard adjusted her glove and nudged her palfrey forward. The beast snorted at the cold and the steepness of the slope. Below them, the hunting party moved like a scattered net: ten riders, three hounds, and a boy with a bundle of javelins strapped to his back like firewood. The forest here was cruel, even in summer. Steep gullies and moss-slick rocks made footing treacherous, and mist pooled in the lower bowls like milk spilled. Chirping birds were rare here, but there were plenty of ravens and eagles. In these hills, every other spring, someone whispered about “the pale beast,” shy and strange.
"What if it's a unicorn?" he asked. His voice cracked halfway through. It was her cousin, Theuderic. Ten years old, maybe. Thin as a stick, wrapped in a too-large cloak. Lysanne didn’t look at him. She watched the ridgeline ahead, where the trees grew closer together. “A unicorn?” she said, turning the word in her mouth like a hard candy. “Maybe.”
She nudged the palfrey forward again. Hooves slipped slightly on the scree. “I hope it is.”
Theuderic blinked. “You do?”
“Aye.” She cast him a sideways glance. Her breath steamed in the air. “I think its head would look good mounted over my bed...”
The hounds bayed then. Sharp and high. Riders stiffened. Someone’s mount reared, hooves striking gravel. “There!” a voice called. “By the stream!”
She spurred forward. Her horse struggled at the slope, but she bent low, reckless. Behind her, hooves thundered. One of the accompanying Ashcloaks cursed. The boy with the javelins cried out as he slipped, rolled down a bank, and tumbled into the bracken. Lysanne saw it only a moment: a pale flank.
By the time Lysanne and the rest of the hunting party rode back into camp, the mist had thinned and the sun was clawing its way over the peaks. The valley below was a bowl of gold and smoke. Fires hissed, pots steamed, and voices tangled with the smells of roasting elk and pine sap. A kitchen maid was chopping onions poorly as her red eyes were covered in a fog of tears. One minstrel claimed he had seen the unicorn clearly, up close, and it spoke to him in some old tongue.
Lysanne dismounted, tossed the reins to a page, a girl too young for weather like this. The page just nodded and led the horse away. Its flanks steaming like a forge. Lady Shard walked uphill toward the largest tent, pitched beneath two leaning cedars. Its canvas was dark with moisture, the poles driven deep into stony earth. The House Tourmalet standard hung limp beside the entrance. Theuderic ran ahead.
She pushed aside the flap and stepped inside. Warmth hit her like a slap. Braziers burned in the corners. Someone had laid fresh cedar boughs underfoot to cover the stink of wet leather and meat. Her uncles were gathered at the big long-table, broad-shouldered men in boiled wool, wine in their hands, telling the same lies they’d told every hunt since the Black Winter. Lysanne sighed and yanked off her gloves with a snap. Her long dark hair hung in a loose braid, a few pine needles still clinging to it.
Someone finally noticed her. “The beast not bleeding yet?” her oldest brother called. He grinned. "Or did you lose your way in the fog again?" A few hearty laughs.
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