He did not wish to risk mishandling the discovery, so he stepped back outside and hailed a passing city guard. Producing the Duchess's ring, he delivered a brief message of urgency addressed to the lady's Secretary. The guard, recognizing the Blanc signet at once, did not question him. He saluted stiffly and hurried toward the palace without delay.
Cendre remained outside the Huntsman's house, arms folded beneath his cloak, eyes scanning the treeline. The wind bit harder there beyond the city walls. The broken door creaked faintly behind him, swinging on its damaged hinge. No one approached. No curious neighbors lingered near enough to take note.
Half an hour passed before the riders arrived.
Four of them, cloaked in the Duchess's colors.
He wasted no time explaining. He instructed them to keep watch over the house, to allow no one entry or exit without his order. Their expressions hardened at the tone he used as they understood it was no trivial matter.
Borrowing one of their horses, he rode back toward Icy's End.
The wind cut at his face as he passed through the gates. The city felt warmer within its walls, quieter, almost insulated from the harshness beyond. He dismounted at the palace and made his way directly to the antechamber.
Kyra was where he expected her to be.
Seated at her desk. Spectacles low upon her nose. Firelight catching faint red strands of hair that had slipped loose.
He took the seat opposite her without preamble.
"You sent word," she said, setting aside her quill. "You found something?"
"I did."
He leaned forward slightly.
"Ser Sullybane was clean. There is nothing overtly traitorous within his house. Financial strain, perhaps. But no conspiracy. His wife swears upon his honor with a conviction I cannot easily dismiss."
Kyra watched him carefully.
"Then the Huntsman?"
"Yes."
He exhaled slowly.
"He has sabercats in his attic. Two of them. One is muted gray. The other is painted to resemble a two-colored sabercat."
Her brows knit at once.
"That is a problem," she said, pushing her spectacles higher upon the bridge of her nose. "Was he attempting to cheat the Duke and the Heir? Lure them with false prey?"
"Possibly," Cendre replied. "There is clear intent to deceive. A book detailing the rarity of two-colored sabercats lay open nearby. A passage marked. The animal altered to match the description."
He paused.
"But we do not possess the full story. Only evidence."
"Damning evidence," she countered. "Enough to send a common man to the gallows."
"Let us not hang him yet."
His tone sharpened more than he intended.
"We need to know why before we decide what to do. Do not be reckless."
Kyra tilted her head slightly at that, studying him.
"You plead for him."
"I plead for reason," he corrected. "He may be a fraud seeking coin. A fool attempting to profit from the Duke's desire. That does not make him a murderer."
In truth, his thoughts churned faster than his words.
The Huntsman had no visible family. The woman's dress upstairs suggested hired company rather than a wife. Perhaps he was tempted by gold. Or by women. Or by both. Perhaps debt pressed him. Perhaps someone promised him protection in exchange for cooperation.
Too many possibilities.
"But deceiving the ruling family is treason enough," Kyra said calmly. "Even without bloodshed."
"Yes," he conceded. "It is grave."
She folded her hands.
"He lies in the infirmary," she continued. "Wounded. Haunted. If this is performance, then he performs well. If he is innocent, then he is a victim of circumstance. Either way, he must be questioned."
"I agree," Cendre said. "But we will not jump the gun."
She blinked once.
"What does that mean?"
He stared at her.
"What?"
"You said 'jump the gun.' What does it mean?"
"It means," he said, faint irritation slipping through, "to act before the proper time."
Her lips twitched faintly.
"You have strange phrases."
He ignored the remark.
Instead, he tapped his fingers lightly against the edge of her desk, the wood still warm from the hearth.
"The Huntsman is our prime suspect at present," he said. "He intended to deceive. That much is clear."
"But," Kyra prompted.
"But that deception does not explain the attackers."
The room seemed quieter then.
"The horned figures Captain Vandal described," he continued. "The unnatural limbs. The black stone weapons. Fifty men engaged them and returned without a single corpse to present."
"You believe the Huntsman staged that as well?"
"I believe nothing yet," he replied evenly. "If he lured the Duke with a promise of rare game, he may have led them into a trap. But that would require accomplices capable of overwhelming trained knights in full armor."
"And escaping."
"And escaping," he echoed.
Kyra's gaze sharpened.
"You suspect veterans," she said softly. "Not demons."
"I suspect men," he replied. "Men who know terrain. Men who know when to withdraw. Men disciplined enough to leave no body behind."
He leaned back slightly in his chair.
"The painted sabercat proves intent to deceive. It does not prove murder."
"And yet," Kyra said, "it ties him to the origin of the expedition."
"Yes."
Silence lingered between them.
"If he lured them under false pretense," she said slowly, "then whether or not he swung a blade, he set events in motion."
"That is true."
Cendre exhaled through his nose.
"We will question him when he is coherent enough to answer. Until then, the house remains guarded."
"And the Quiet Pass?" she asked.
"It can wait one day longer."
His eyes drifted briefly toward the fire.
"The deception explains some motive for the hunt. It does not explain the slaughter."
Kyra studied him in that steady, analytical way she had carried since their days at St. Alfons.
"You are unsettled," she observed.
"I dislike half-truths," he replied. "They itch."
A painted sabercat. A desperate Duke seeking virility. A huntsman with altered prey. Fifty men claiming horned adversaries. No bodies.
It did not align cleanly.
"The Huntsman stands at the center for now," he said at last. "But he is not the whole of it."
Kyra nodded slowly.
"Then we proceed carefully."
"Yes."
* * * *
He had the evidence transferred to the castle for safekeeping.
The two sabercats were brought under guard, muzzled and chained, their weakened bodies placed within a secured storage chamber near the inner yard. The book with the marked passage, the pigment used to alter the fur, and several items from the Huntsman's house were catalogued and sealed.
Captain Vandal learned of the painted beasts before the ink on the report had dried.
Cendre found him in the infirmary corridor, storming toward the Huntsman's bed like a man intent on breaking a siege gate.
"You lying bastard!" Vandal roared, fist already drawn back.
He would have struck Karlos square in the jaw had Cendre not caught his arm mid-swing. Two nearby knights reacted at once, seizing their captain's shoulders and hauling him backward.
"Release me!" Vandal snarled, struggling against them. "He led them there! He lied!"
Cendre stepped between the captain and the bed where the Huntsman lay pale and half-lost in restless sleep.
"Hold your fist," Cendre said evenly. "Before you ruin the investigation."
Vandal's gray eyes burned.
"He deserves worse than a fist."
"Perhaps," Cendre replied. "But not yet."
The captain's jaw worked. His breath came heavy. For a moment, Cendre thought he might attempt to shove past them regardless. Then he'd have to protect Karlos.
But Vandal was, at his core, a disciplined man.
Slowly, with visible effort, he lowered his arm.
"If he dies before he speaks," Cendre continued, "you will have silenced the only man who might tell us why."
Vandal glared at him, anger not entirely spent, but reason had won enough ground.
"Do not delay too long," he muttered.
"The Duchess will decide what is long enough," Cendre answered.
And as if summoned by the mention of her title, word of the discovery reached her swiftly. The palace had ears in its stones, little moved within those walls without her knowing.
It did not take long before she entered the chamber where the sabercats were kept.
The guards straightened at once.
The beasts lay chained at opposite ends of the room, too weak to resist more than a faint shift of their heads. Under proper light, the deception was unmistakable. One gray and natural. The other streaked with subtle but deliberate pigment, the coloration attempting to mimic the rare dual-toned coat so prized by hunters.
She approached without fear.
"How many were in the attic?" she asked him, her voice level.
"Two," he replied.
She studied the altered one carefully.
"Are you certain there were no others?"
He considered it before answering.
"There may have been more than two," he said at last. "It is possible one was released into the Quiet Pass to serve as the target. The Duke and the Heir would not have ridden for rumor alone. They would have wanted proof."
He gestured slightly toward the painted beast.
"If Karlos intended to deceive them, he would have needed at least one convincing specimen roaming free."
Her gaze remained on the animal.
Her expression did not shift, but something in her posture hardened.
"He has been with our household since I was barely more than a child," she said quietly. "He served my father before I understood what duty meant."
Her eyes flickered, not with weakness, but with memory.
"He rode beside my father in winter hunts. He taught my brother how to string a bow."
Silence lingered.
"He is not a stranger," she continued. "Not some recent hire."
Cendre listened.
She believes he is innocent, he thought. Or at least wishes to.
"He may have only wished to ensure the hunt occurred," she went on. "Rare sabercats draw prestige. Coin. Stories."
Her jaw tightened faintly.
"But men change."
There it was.
"Coin changes them," she said. "Desperation changes them. Humiliation changes them."
And then, more bitterly. "Perhaps he was paid enough to lure my father and my brother into that pass. All for the sake of curing frailty that should have remained private."
Her voice did not rise. But the words cut sharper for their restraint.
Cendre did not comment on the irony of it all, the expedition born from the pursuit of an aphrodisiac.
"I do not yet know his excuse," he said carefully. "And until we hear it, we cannot measure the weight of his guilt."
She did not reply immediately.
Instead, she regarded the sabercats with a stare so severe it seemed almost to press the air itself downward. The guards shifted uneasily beneath it. Even the beasts lowered their gaze.
After a long moment, she turned back to him.
"You still intend to ride to the Quiet Pass?"
"I do."
He met her eyes steadily.
"I must follow what traces remain. Examine the terrain. Determine whether the attackers were men of flesh or something else entirely. I require proof."
"It is closed for a reason," she said. "Not merely because it is our hunting ground."
She stepped closer, lowering her voice.
"The Quiet Pass is treacherous. Sudden drops. Narrow ridges. Weather that shifts without warning. Even seasoned riders avoid it when they can."
She studied him as if weighing his measure anew.
"Your bravery does you credit, Ser Dalens. But bravery is not immunity to mistakes."
She gestured toward the courtyard beyond.
"Take men with you. A dozen at least."
He shook his head.
"No."
Her brow arched slightly.
"I need to move quietly," he continued. "Without drawing attention. If there are men hiding in those mountains, they will vanish at the first sign of a company riding under banners."
He folded his arms loosely.
"I will travel light. Observe. Investigate. I intend to be a hound in shadow, not a stag in an open field."
She regarded him for a long breath.
"It is not pride?" she asked.
"No."
It was not.
It was a calculation.
"I cannot divide my attention between clues and the safety of others," he added. "Alone, I answer only for myself."
She exhaled slowly.
"I advise against it."
"I know."
Another pause.
At last, she inclined her head slightly.
"You are a reasonable man," she said. "And I chose you for your judgment. I will trust it."
The matter, for her, was concluded.
She turned from the chamber and returned to her duties with practiced composure, emotions stowed away as efficiently as any document upon her desk.
Even from the corridor, Cendre could see the steady flow of courtiers, messengers, and minor lords entering and departing the palace. Faces hushed. Whispers thinly veiled. It was impossible to tell how much they suspected, or whether rumor had already begun to coil through the city.
It did not matter.
Curiosity could not be stopped. Not in a place with so many eyes and ears. Eventually, someone would ask too many questions. Eventually, patterns would be noticed.
That was the nature of courts.
But that was not his concern.
He had his task.
And he intended to see it through.