Act V, scene xxi

Be thy mouth or black or white,

Tooth that poisons if it bite;

Mastiff, grayhound, mongrel grim,

Hound or spaniel, brach or lym;

Or bobtail tike or trundle‑tail;

Tom will make them weep and wail:

For, with throwing thus my head,

Dogs leap the hatch, and all are fled.

–William Shakespeare, King Lear,Act III, scene iv

The scent is hot wine, acidic and intense. Spicy, irresistible. His legs move tirelessly, tremors stilled by the willow‑being’s magic, only a slight limp affecting his stride. The quarry lies ahead, the pack lies behind; the grass and gravel and tramped earth lie steady under his feet.

He follows that scent–that hated, enticing, bittersweet scent–to its inevitable conclusion. A man, a man who does not serve. A man who threatens something the hound holds dear. A man who will not be permitted to continue.

Close. So close. Running feet, the jostling shoulders of brothers and a sister beside him. Sweet motion, hot scent, follow it down – fox to his lair, wolf to his den, badger to his burrow. The scent hot, metallic as blood, bitter as the sap of monkshood dabbed against the tongue. The red bitch whines low in her throat, levels her strong, slender body. On his other side, a smoke‑and‑gold brindled dog bends low to the ground, hard into an angle, and runs.

Over hedgerow and ditch, down bank and through privet–it is not his concern how the horses will stay with them. That’s a worry for the horses and their masters. His concern is to hunt, and to run.

The scent’s hotter now, fresher. Borne on the wind as well as the earth. It’s not a scent, precisely, more a contagion, a trace of the passage of the one they hunt. The one they hunt. And the ones they hunt forride behind–

There!he shouts joyously. There! There! There! There!The quarry turns, a broad figure on a dark‑colored horse, floppy brim of a thing on his head, gray cloak wrapped tight. A rogue wind swirls it about his shoulders, about his thighs.

The gray hound collects himself for the leap. His brothers, his sister, they gather themselves. The white hound who runs before them is gone, vanished, tattered and blown apart by the freshening breeze as if he had no more substance than a twist of smoke. The gray dog can already feel the panicked horse shying from his scrabbling nails, the way they’ll furrow saddle leather and flesh, taste the man’s blood hot over his tongue, muscle stretching and tearing between ripping teeth –

“Hold!”

Somehow he stops the killing leap, braces front feet hard enough to furrow turf, trips on the black‑brindle dog who likewise struggles to a stop before him, and they go down yelping, tumbling one over the other, coming to their feet again almost under the horse’s belly. It shies and dances a step, and the rider gentles it; deftly, not harshly, but the motion unseats his hat, and pale hair glitters in the strange sunlight.

The gray dog whines and crouches low, his limbs tingling uncomfortably, baring his teeth in a silent, warning snarl. Behind him, a woman’s voice rises, fluid and mellifluous on words he does not understand, until Will pushed himself upright with both hands flat on the dew‑wet grass and got his feet under him in a crouch. Around him, Morgan and Murchaud and Tom all stood as well, Murchaud rubbing a wrist that Will thought he might have rolled over when they tripped into each other.

Will stood, scrubbing his earth‑stained hands on the front of his breeches, unmindful of a little more muck on the ruined cloth, and tilted his head back at Richard Baines. “Your master’s thrown you to the wolves, Dick,” Will said mildly as the horses came up behind him, their hooves that had been ghost silent clopping on the strangely solid turf. “Or perhaps I should say, the hounds. I suppose it’s too much to ask that you would come quietly? ”

“For the sparing of my life?” Baines chuckled, spreading his hands. Something glittered between them. Will stepped back. “Somehow, Master Playmaker, I do not think that is a vow you can make on their behalf–”

“Will!” Kit’s voice, a startled shout as Baines moved suddenly. Will threw himself backward hard, scrambling to get out from under the gold‑shot shadow that flared from Baines hands like a fisherman’s high‑spun net.

He was not fast enough. What settled over him felt like the brush of a silk sheet down his skin. What followed that touch was blackness, utter and complete.

Act V, scene xxii

Talk not of me, but save yourselves, and depart.

–Christopher Marlowe, Faustus,Act V ,scene ii

The saber hung useless from Kit’s hand as Baines spun light over Will and yanked it tight, his gestures efficient. Will didn’t fall. He raised his hands and froze there, still as an oil painting, posed like a man shielding his face from divine light.

The same radiance that netted and shrouded Will twisted around Baines as well, knotted in his hands, drawn up to his chest. The dark bay gelding he rode stood steady, one white‑stockinged forehoof cocked but not lifted. Kit froze where he was, half standing in the saddle, one hand upraised, the hilt of his borrowed saber warm in his palm, the red horse breathing convulsively beneath him.

He’d outridden the others on Gin’s game back, just by a stride or two, and now he could feel Cairbre, the Mebd, Ben Jonson, the Puck, and the rest of the fey courtiers drawing up in a half circle. Murchaud had been standing closest to Will; both he and Tom stepped up beside the paralyzed poet, flanking him and facing down Baines while Morgan dusted her hands on her riding breeches and fell back to stand at Kit’s stirrup. “Dick,” Kit said, without lowering the saber. “Let Will go.”

Morgan laid a hand on Kit’s boot. Gin sidestepped, mouthing the bit, Kit’s tension flowing down the reins like cold water.

“Why should I wish to do such a thing as that?” A timeless ray of sunlight singled Baines out, fingering his blond hair gold. Perhaps we are in Faerie after all,Kit thought, and the Mebd has stilled time’s passage.

And then Will’s lips moved. No, not precisely moving so much as compressing rhythmically, as if attempting to shape speech despite their immobility. Kit could read the panic in Will’s eyes, the tightness in his face. How hard is this for him, who lives with the fear of his body’s rebellion every day?

Poetry,he realized, watching Will’s face. A furious brightness sparked in Kit’s breast, equal parts pride and fury. Even now, he corner back with poetry.

Morgan did not try to move closer again. Murchaud’s face stayed impassive; Tom’s expression was that of a man who wished he had a pistol in his hand. Kit glanced over his shoulder, not certain what he was seeking besides reassurance, and found himself looking into the Mebd’s swirling violet eyes. Somehow, she’d come up beside him on the side opposite Morgan, her mount shoulder to shoulder with his own.

The corner of her mouth quirked; it wasn’t humor. “‘Tis in thy hands, Sir Poet.”

“Sister, nay!” ‘Twas Morgan’s protest, and the Mebd silenced her with a glance.

Kit turned back to Baines and smiled like a small animal baring his teeth. “Let him go,” Kit said, feeling Mehiel’s understanding and acquiescence. “And I shall go with you.”

“Kit!”Murchaud and Tom cried in unison. Will’s mouth also worked, his eyes squinting tight.

Fight it, William.

Morgan shook her head, sunlight glinting from her hair, but she said nothing. Kit sheathed his saber without looking, clenched his right hand on the nail in his pocket, his left hand tightening on the reins. Gin sidestepped, feeling Kit’s tension, the hair on his neck drying into salty spikes where the leather rubbed them. Trust me,Kit prayed, catching Murchaud’s eye for a moment before looking back at Baines. “Set him free, Dick.”