DE'UNNERO KNEWthat something was afoot as soon as Mickael and Joellus entered the common room at Micklin's Village. All the huntsmen were together with him, a rare occasion since the season had begun to wane and all fifteen were often out setting their trap lines in preparation for their autumn hundred-mile pilgrimage to Tyankin's Corner, the town that held the market for the huntsmen of the region.
But they were all here this evening, even surly Micklin, though the stars were out and shining and the wind was not too chill - a perfect evening for setting trap lines.
The talk in the common room was light, mostly concerning the impending journey and the expected takes on the fur piles - and on the amount of booze, food, and women that take might buy. De'Unnero hardly listened, for he hardly cared, and soon enough he started for the door, thinking to get a good night's sleep.
"Where're ye going, Bertram?" came Micklin's voice behind him before he neared the door.
De'Unnero paused to consider that unexpected call, yet another confirmation to him that something was out of the ordinary this evening -for Micklin rarely noticed him, unless the burly man had some chore needing to be done. And Micklin never, ever, used De'Unnero's assumed name, at least not in any way that was not derisive.
"I hope to complete the second woodpile tomorrow," De'Unnero explained, turning. He saw that every man in the room was staring at him, and that several were grinning. "The day may yet be warm, and I hope to be done before the sun is high in the sky."
"I'm thinkin' that ye won't be working much tomorrow," Mickael put in from the side of the room, and he ended with a snort and a chuckle.
"Sleepin', most o' the day," another man, Jedidie, agreed. "Pukin' after that!"
That brought a roar and a nod from Micklin. Another of the men moved toward De'Unnero, pulling a silver cup out from behind him with one hand and an ornate, decorated bottle out with the other.
De'Unnero caught on immediately; the huntsmen hadn't made too big a deal about his efforts to secure their village against the band of rogues. He had received a few pats on the back, to be sure, and many offers of splitting gol'bears once the furs were sold, but now it seemed obvious to him that the men wanted to more deeply show their appreciation. And why not? De'Unnero's efforts had saved them more than half a season's catch, several horses, and most of their precious belongings. De'Unnero's amazing defense of Micklin's Village had likely saved a couple of them, at least, their very lives, for if the thieves had been about when the first of the hunters had returned . . .
But the former monk didn't want the accolades or the cheers and most assuredly did not want the potent drink. He didn't want any reminders of that defense of Micklin's Village, what he still considered a horrible failure on his part for letting loose the deadly weretiger.
They were all cheering then, calling out the name Bertram Dale with enthusiasm, and the man before him thumbed the cork out of the bottle, the forceful popping alone telling De'Unnero that it was elvish boggle, a rare and extraordinarily priced drink. Grinning wide enough to show all six of his teeth, the man half filled the silver cup, handing it over.
"For savin' me the trouble o' killing the fools meself," said Micklin, holding his own cup up in toast, and every other cup in the room went up except for one.
Marcalo De'Unnero stood staring at the pale, bubbling boggle, sniffing the delicate bouquet and coming to terms with the fact that he owed these men their moment of celebration. He considered the boggle - boggle! - and reminded himself that his drink alone was worth a small pouch of gol'bears, perhaps a large pouch in regions where boggle was more rare.
After a few moments, the former monk glanced up, to see that every cup was still raised, all eyes upon him, waiting patiently.
"Take yer drink and give yer speech!" one of the men shouted from the side, and the room broke up in laughter.
Despite himself, Marcalo De'Unnero gave a laugh as well. "I did what needed to be done, nothing more," he said.
"Drink first, speak later!" came a shout, and all the room took up the cheer, "Hear, hear for Bertram Dale!" and all began to drink.
De'Unnero did as well, slowly and carefully, feeling the slight burn, mixed with the tingling and deceivingly delicate aroma. He knew the power of boggle, a thoroughly overpowering drink, though not from any firsthand experience. For Marcalo De'Unnero had ever been a creature of discipline and control, and he knew that such liquors defeated both. He had seen his share of drunks, mostly begging at the gates of St.-Mere-Abelle, and he had no sympathy and no use for such weak individuals.
But he did drink the boggle this one time, letting all of it flow down his throat in one long, slow swallow. Then he straightened and wiped his lips, and had to take a long moment reorienting himself, for even that small cup of the potent liquid had sent his mind into a bit of a spin.
"Speech! Speech!" some men yelled, but others chimed in even more loudly, "Food! Food!" To De'Unnero's relief, that second call quickly won out, as several men ran back behind tables and brought forth trays laden with meats and berries and cakes - so many cakes! More cakes than Marcalo De'Unnero had ever before seen!
And he was glad of the feast, because it had gotten him out of giving a speech and because he felt like he needed some food to steady the spinning in his head.
They all sat down and the talk began anew, as trays made their way about the tables, with bottles inevitably following. Questions came at De'Unnero from every corner, with the men wanting to know how he had taken out three armed men in the compound, then had chased another down on the road and slain him, as well.
Bertram Dale recounted his tale as modestly as possible, crediting a good deal of luck for his victories more than any amazing skill, for the last thing that De'Unnero wanted was to call attention to his fighting prowess, which, in this wild town, would most certainly invite challenges.
Other conversations inevitably died away, as all came to listen intently.
One man near De'Unnero did move, though, lifting a bottle of boggle as if to fill the talking man's cup again.
Without missing a word in his mostly fabricated recounting, De'Unnero moved his hand to cover the cup. He knew better than to partake of any more of the potent drink.
"Bah, the cakes're dry," the man with the bottle protested. "How're ye to eat 'em without something to wash 'em down?" Laughing, he brought his other hand forward, as if to move De'Unnero's hand away, but with a sudden twist and hardly any interruption in his story, De'Unnero flipped his hand over the grabbing man's hand and slammed it down on the table. Not much of a move, really, but one executed so perfectly that many eyes widened; and many, De'Unnero knew, had just gained further insight into how this quiet and humble man might have so fended off the raid on their village.
"No more drink," he said to the man calmly, releasing him and then putting his hand back over the cup. "Just blueberry juice, if we've any."
A wineskin was soon passed along and De'Unnero's cup was filled with juice. De'Unnero quickly concluded his tale.
The former monk tried to excuse himself again after the meal, but the huntsmen would hear nothing of it, claiming that the party was just getting started. They all milled about, falling back to their minor conversations, though many kept at De'Unnero, begging him to recount his story again and again.
The former monk played along, and soon admitted to himself that he was enjoying this attention. Perhaps it was the boggle, perhaps the mere fact that for so long he had been forced to hide his identity and his exploits. One day long ago - so very long ago it seemed! - he had enjoyed talking, particularly if he was the subject of the conversation. During his days at St. Mere-Abelle, De'Unnero had earned his reputation as a self-promoter, a bit of a braggart, except that he had never, ever said anything about his abilities that he could not prove.
So now he was enjoying the night with his . . . his friends, he supposed, for these men of Micklin's Village were as close to being his friends as he expected anyone would ever again be. There was a simple charm to this gathering and this night, boisterous, lighthearted, and without implications beyond the headaches that most of his fellows would awake to in the morning.
Soon enough, Marcalo De'Unnero stopped trying to leave.
"He's a bit too tight in the arse, by me thinkin'," Mickael said mischievously to Joellus sometime later. The grubby Mickael tossed his long and stringy hair from his patchy face and gave a wink, then slithered over behind Bertram Dale and waited patiently as the hero took a sip from his mug of berry juice, then set the cup down on the small table and continued with his conversation.
Mickael tipped his own cup to pour just a bit of his drink into that cup, then moved back beside Joellus.
"I'll get the others to take turns," Joellus said, catching on and grinning widely, his misshapen, grayish teeth sporting blue stains from the mixture of boggle and juice in his glass. "Just a bit at a time," Mickael explained. "Don't want him tasting it and getting all ferocious on us."
They both laughed at that, and Joellus moved across the room, to the same spot Mickael had just occupied behind Bertram Dale. After similarly tipping his cup over Bertram's, then topping off Bertram's drink with berry juice, Joellus moved away to find another conspirator.
With each refill, the group found that they could safely put more of the potent whiskey into Bertram Dale's drink, and it soon became obvious to all that the normally introverted man was beginning to loosen up. He was laughing and talking, and he even, at one point, mentioned something that would indicate that he had spent some time serving in the Abellican Church, at the great Abbey of St.-Mere-Abelle, no less!
Mickael watched it all with growing amusement, thinking it perfectly harmless.
"Ye was in the Church?" Jedidie said to Bertram Dale.
The surprised tone of the man's voice reminded Marcalo De'Unnero that he should be careful of what he said - when he thought about it, he could hardly believe that he had mentioned his involvement with the Abellicans in any way at all.
"No," he answered, scouring his thoughts - his surprisingly fuzzy recollections - to try to find some way to undo the potential damage.
"You just said that you worked at St.-Mere-Abelle, out in the east, a monk's place if e'er there was one," another of the nearby huntsmen argued. The man's more educated accent told De'Unnero that he was somewhat more sophisticated than his companions, and the manner in which he spoke of St.-Mere-Abelle suggested that he knew much of the place. "You even spoke of working on the wall, and that's work for monks alone," the man went on, confirming De'Unnero's fears. "So when were you talking to both sides, Bertram Dale? When you said you did work on the seawall of St.-Mere-Abelle Abbey or now when you're denying it?"
De'Unnero settled back, trying to recall his every word, trying to find some middle ground here.
"What're ye saying?" Jedidie asked the other huntsman.
"I lived in the area for a bit," the man answered. "I'm knowing that you can't be having it both ways." He looked at De'Unnero's obviously perplexed expression and added with a grin, "You were wearing the robes, weren't you?"
"Briefly," De'Unnero answered. "Very briefly. It took little time for me to learn that I was not of heart compatible with today's Abellican Church."
"It must have been some time ago," the huntsman pressed. "You go into the order at twenty years, correct?"
De'Unnero nodded slightly in response, and turned to the side to retrieve his cup, lifting and draining it in one huge swallow.
He noted the burn as the liquid flowed down his throat. That meant nothing to him immediately, but then his eyes widened as he came to realize the truth, came to understand the reason behind the fuzziness of his recollections, the reason behind his, albeit minor, error here with this little group.
"It is not a time I wish to recount," he said, and he stood up and bowed, somewhat ungracefully, and started away, unintentionally veering as he walked toward the door. Cold air would do him some good right then, he realized, and he wanted nothing more than to be out in the late summer night.
But others, wanting to hear again the tale of how Bertram had saved their village, had different ideas, and they corralled him before he got near the door, the press of their bodies bearing De'Unnero halfway across the room, where he fell into a comfortable chair.
He noted that another one, Mickael, was there almost immediately, placing his mug down on the nearest table and dragging it over so that it abutted the chair.
De'Unnero's unhappy gaze went from that mug to the eyes of Mickael, but the man only snickered and melted into the tumult of the room.
Questions came at him from several angles, but De'Unnero hardly heard them, so intent was he on the internal workings of his being. This was not a situation with which he was at all familiar or comfortable. He was physically relaxed, whether he wanted to be or not, and mentally foggy and lightheaded. He knew what he should or should not say, but he realized that he was answering questions too openly again even as he came to realize that he was talking at all!
"I'm wantin' to hear more o' St.-Mere-Abelle," Jedidie said determinedly, pushing through to the front of the group standing before De'Unnero, practically falling into De'Unnero's lap in the process.
The former monk felt a deep and primal stirring then, and had to consciously fight back against releasing the feral growl that had risen in his throat. Yes, the weretiger was right there with him, gaining strength as the human's focus weakened.
Still, the man De'Unnero knew he could defeat the tiger. He could sit here and hold the weretiger in check as long as he could keep the foolish huntsmen back from his immediate space and from pressing any questions that became too uncomfortable.
"I'm goin' to go there one day, I am!" Jedidie remarked, spraying De'Unnero with each slobbering word and staggering as he spoke so that he spilled some of his drink on De'Unnero's pants leg.
The former monk closed his eyes and fought back with all of his shaky willpower, holding the beast at bay.
Another drink was shoved into his hand, accompanied by cries of, "Drink! Drink!" from many men. De'Unnero tried to resist and wound up with more than half the cup's contents spilled onto his lap. He leaped up and felt the beast keenly, then slowed and pushed back with all his strength and focus, hardly paying attention as someone forced his arm up so that the cup tilted at his mouth, spilling the rest of its contents.
Hardly realizing the motion, De'Unnero drank some of the liquid and felt the sharp burn, realizing then that they were no longer even pretending to be giving him berry juice.
He couldn't yell at them, though, for he had to keep his focus inward. Another drink was shoved up to his mouth, and then another, and he slapped at them and staggered away, yelling at them, pleading with them to leave him alone.
To their credit, they did let him go, and he veered and staggered across the room to slam heavily against the wall. Leaning on it for support, he managed to turn, then took many, many deep breaths, fighting the weretiger with every one, forcing himself into a mental place of calm.
He had it beaten, he believed, if only he could just stand there for a long while, with no drink and no talk.
No anything. Just calm.
With his eyes barely open and his thoughts turned inward, Marcalo De'Unnero didn't even see the approach of burly Micklin, the man, obviously drunk, staggering right up to stand before him.
"How'd ye do it?" the big man asked, poking De'Unnero hard in the shoulder.
Grimacing more against the internal turmoil than against Micklin's rude poke, De'Unnero opened his eyes and stared questioningly at the big man -and at the few others who stood behind Micklin, grinning.
"Eh, Mr. Bertram Dale?" Micklin pressed, poking hard again. "How'd the likes o' skinny yerself take down the bandits? Ye got friends about that we're not known' of?" And he poked again, and De'Unnero understood that the man might well be directly jabbing the tiger at that point.
For there it was again, that terrible beast, using Micklin's prodding finger like a beacon to get around the edges of Marcalo De'Unnero's alcohol-weakened control.
"When did ye become so great a fighter?" asked Micklin, putting his face very close to De'Unnero's, spitting at him with every word. "And might ye want to be showing us yer mighty techniques? Bah, pulling down three armed men!" Micklin turned and smiled at the onlookers. "Bah, but he's had a hard time beatin' up stubborn logs!"
That brought a laugh, and that, in turn, brought more people in to watch the growing spectacle. Those immediately behind Micklin grinned all the wider, knowingly.
Or so they thought, De'Unnero realized, for could they really know that which Micklin was now prodding? Could any man who had not seen the weretiger, or felt the beast within him, truly understand the level of primal rage and power?
De'Unnero came away from the wall then, determinedly standing straight.
"Bah, three men!" Micklin howled and he turned back and shoved De'Unnero hard against the wall.
"Four," the former monk calmly corrected. "Do not forget the one on the road. I killed his horse, as well."
"And a stupid thing that was to do!" roared Micklin.
De'Unnero understood the source of this one's ire. Since the founding of this small community, Micklin had been undeniably and uncontestedly the man in control, the boss. Now, simply because of his actions this day, and not by words spoken against Micklin or in defiance of Micklin's rule, De'Unnero had threatened that position.
He could see the rage mounting in the huge drunken man, could see Micklin trembling as his anger rose to explosive levels.
"Four, so he says!" Micklin yelled. "Hear ye all? The hero speaks!"
"Ah, ye be leavin' him alone, Micklin," said one man off to the side. "He ain't done nothing but for the good of us all."
"But he must show us!" Micklin demanded. "We're all needin' to learn to fight as well as Bertram Dale!" As he finished, the bully grabbed De'Unnero by the shoulders and pulled him away from the wall - or rather, he started to, for soon after he began to tug, Micklin pulled his hands back and clasped his face.
Clasped what was left of his face.
Marcalo De'Unnero, hardly aware of it, looked down to his right hand, his tiger paw, to see a huge chunk of Micklin's face hanging there at the end of his great claws.
All noise in the room ceased immediately; all eyes were riveted to the two; and all jaws dropped open in disbelief.
De'Unnero then understood what was happening within him, what was coming over him fully, without hesitation, and without any chance of denial. The drink and the threat were too much for him, too demanding of the weretiger for him to suppress it. He knew it, too, understood what he was again becoming. He tried to call out for the other huntsmen to run away, to barricade themselves into their most secure buildings, to grab their weapons and slay him quickly. He wanted to say all that, but all that came out of his mouth was a great feline growl.
And then he felt the pain and the spasms as his body began the transformation. He heard them calling to him, asking him what was wrong, begging him to answer. He heard others screaming, yelling for everyone to look at Micklin, who was thrashing about the floor, blinded and in agony.
A moment later nobody in the room was paying any attention at all to poor Micklin. Every eye was trained on the spectacle of Bertram Dale, on the great tiger that Bertram Dale had become. For a few endless moments the room held perfectly still, that delicious moment of hush before the spring of the great predator.
And then it exploded, the leap and the thrashing, the blood spraying the walls and the floor, the screams and the futilely flailing limbs.
Several of the men got out of the common room, but the weretiger was soon in pursuit, chasing them around the village, pulling them down one by one and tearing them apart, or just delivering a single precise bite to crush a throat, then moving on, leaving the man to suffocate. A couple managed to get to their weapons, but even armed, and even when a trio managed to join in coordinated effort, the hunters were no match for the fury of the weretiger.
Marcalo De'Unnero awoke sometime later, in the forest some distance from Micklin's Village. He recalled many of the scenes and the horrifying sounds, but he had no idea of how many of the fifteen Villagers he might have killed.
Sore in every joint, his head throbbing from the previous night's drinking - what fools they had been to secretly intoxicate him! - De'Unnero pulled himself to his feet and headed back toward the Village. In a secluded place not far from the houses, he had buried a private stash of belongings, fearing just this type of incident. He had another set of clothing there, a water skin, a small knife, and most important of all, a bundle of parchments he had stolen from St.-Mere-Abelle when he had been sent away to investigate reports of the rosy plague in the southland a decade before.
Not even noting the movement, De'Unnero hugged those parchments to his chest as he looked back toward Micklin's Village. He saw several forms moving between the houses, and he was glad that he had not killed them all, despite the fact that now he had left witnesses behind, yet more tales of the great man-tiger that had stalked the frontier of Honce-the- Bear for the last several years.
It wasn't a legacy that did Marcalo De'Unnero proud.
With a resigned sigh admitting that the world itself might not be large enough to contain him, the bedraggled and weary wretch started away, down this road or that, or no road at all. How far might he walk? How many more remote villages might he find?
Or could he even, in good conscience, insinuate himself into the lives of others again? he had to ask himself. He had thought the weretiger beaten this time, suppressed and under his complete control. And though it had taken extraordinary events to bring forth the beast, such events might well happen again, he knew. Even worse, the tiger had found its way past his discipline and his determination and would not easily be put back away.
The weretiger's hunger was sated now, if only temporarily. That, Marcalo De'Unnero realized and admitted, was the only reason that he didn't then transform into the beast and rush headlong back into Micklin's Village to finish what he had started. Because the great and terrible cat was still there, he knew, lurking below the surface, ready to claw its way out and rain destruction on De'Unnero's enemies.
"If that was only the truth," De'Unnero said aloud, voicing his frustrations, for it wasn't that the weretiger arose to destroy enemies, but, rather, that the weretiger arose to destroy - randomly, indiscriminately.
Those men back there in Micklin's Village - even the brute Micklin himself - had not deserved to face the fury of the weretiger. Perhaps Micklin had earned a punch in the mouth; perhaps De'Unnero would have been well served and justified in showing the man his more conventional martial powers, slapping him around and throwing him down, embarrassing him in front of the others. But that was the problem, the former monk recognized. He could not begin to seek that kind of a release for his frustrations, for that beginning would serve as a port for the lurking tiger. Yet, without that release, De'Unnero's inevitably mounting frustrations would also serve as a port.
And so he was in an unwinnable and untenable position, and he was acutely aware of the fact that any village he entered would be placed in mortal danger by his mere presence.
He could not do that. No more, for now he could, and had to, admit the truth of his internal struggle.
The beast was stronger than the man.
Forlorn, facing an existence of exile, the life of a hermit, Marcalo De'Unnero wandered away from Micklin's Village, moving west instead of east, further from the civilized lands of Honce-the-Bear.
He wandered for days, having little trouble in finding sustenance, for in his defeated state, Marcalo De'Unnero no longer tried to deny the urges of the weretiger. When he got hungry, he let the great cat run free, and soon enough, and so easily, he fed.
He didn't know how many miles he had covered, or even how many days had gone by, when, while walking along a high ridgeline one late afternoon, he heard the sounds of a stringed instrument drifting past on the autumn breeze.
And a voice joined in the melody, one that Marcalo De'Unnero recognized.
As desperate for conversation as for revenge, the man ran along the ridge, trying to trace the source of the melody.
It seemed to come from everywhere at once, echoing off the stone walls of the rocky, hilly region.
He entertained the notion of letting loose the weretiger then, for surely the great cat would have little trouble finding the bard. He dismissed that thought immediately and completely, for his needs this day were of a different sort, were for companionship.
The sun began to disappear behind the western horizon; the song halted for a bit and then began again. As he searched for the direction once more, De'Unnero found a definitive clue: the glow of a campfire.
He moved with speed and made no attempt at stealth. A short while later, he simply strolled into Sadye's camp, walking to stand directly across the fire from the surprised woman.
She leaped up, pulling her lute in defensively, wearing a horrified expression and glancing all around. De'Unnero expected her to try to run. But then, as if she merely came to accept the inevitable, her muscles relaxed and she even managed a helpless chuckle.
"I would not have believed that you would be stubborn enough to track me all the way out here," she said.
"Not stubborn and not tracking," De'Unnero honestly replied. "I happened upon you by chance. Simple luck."
"Bad luck for Sadye the bard," Sadye said.
De'Unnero merely shrugged.
"I am composing a new song," Sadye said after a while. " 'The Lay of De'Unnero,' I call it."
That set the former monk back on his heels!
"That is your true identity, of course," Sadye remarked. "Though I would have thought you much older."
De'Unnero put on a puzzled expression and stared at her hard.
And she laughed all the louder. "Of course you are he!" she said. "Your movements alone betray you as an Abellican monk - a former Abellican monk."
"There are many former Abellican monks," De'Unnero answered.
"But how many of them have a reputation for turning into a tiger?" the woman asked. Her grin was sincere, for it was obvious that she had made some connection.
De'Unnero narrowed his eyes threateningly, if for no better reason than to destroy that confident grin.
"The rumors of Baron Rochefort Bildeborough's demise?" Sadye asked. "Rumors tied to Bishop Marcalo De'Unnero."
"You presume to know much."
"That is my trade, is it not?" Sadye answered. "I collect tales, embellish them, and pass them along - though I must admit that the tale of Marcalo De'Unnero, if the rumors are true, needs little embellishment."
"They are true," De'Unnero said flatly, "every one."
"You have not heard every one," Sadye said.
"But I know that there are enough truths so that lies are unnecessary," the man admitted.
"Then you are Marcalo De'Unnero, still alive despite all the efforts of the widow Wyndon?"
"Widowed because of me," De'Unnero said. When Sadye raised her delicate eyebrows at that, he added, "Yes, it was Marcalo De'Unnero who slew Nightbird, curse his name."
Sadye shook her head slowly, hardly digesting the information, stunned by the admission. "Why would you tell me - " she started to ask.
"Why would I not?" De'Unnero answered. "For all these years, I have had to hide my identity and my history. What have I to lose in telling you?"
"Because you mean to kill me," Sadye stated more than asked.
"After the treatment your band offered me, can you give me a reason why I should not?" the former monk asked.
The woman paused, then shrugged. "Because without me, you are alone," she said simply.
"With you, I will likely be alone soon enough," the man replied. "You have seen the beast that is within me."
Again came a reflective pause. "Then the tale of your last fight with Jilseponie is true," Sadye remarked. "It is said that she goaded the tiger out of you, showing the truth of you to all the folk of Palmaris and to the Baron Tetrafel and his soldiers, thus banishing you from the city."
"She goaded, or I allowed it," De'Unnero replied with a casual shrug, trying very hard to show that he hardly card.
Too hard, he realized, as perceptive Sadye's face brightened knowingly.
"I am still waiting for a reason," the man said coldly.
Sadye stared at him hard. "I am not without talents," she said, presenting her lute, with a touch of lewdness in her voice.
It was De'Unnero's turn to laugh. "You are offering me companionship?" he said. "After seeing that other side of who I am?"
The woman shrugged. "Perhaps I enjoy living dangerously."
"What you do not understand, dear, foolish bard, is that the weretiger can come out on its own accord," the former monk admitted. "And it does not discriminate between friend and foe. Only between dinner and lunch."
"Charming," Sadye said dryly. "And," she added, holding up her lute, "charming. I am not without skills, Marcalo De'Unnero, and not without magic. Perhaps I can help you."
"And if you are wrong, the price would be your life," De'Unnero replied.
"And if I do not try, is the cost any less?" Sadye remarked.
It was a good point, De'Unnero had to admit, for from Sadye's point of view, she and her fellows had tried to kill him, and certainly he would pay her back then and there the same way he had paid back the other ruffians. But was that the case? De'Unnero honestly asked himself, for in truth, he harbored no resentment toward this interesting woman. Indeed, so relieved was he at merely hearing another human voice that he could not begin to imagine purposely killing her.
Of course, he knew that the weretiger might have other ideas.
"Your life is the stuff of epic song," Sadye said. "And despite the actions of my former traveling companions - fools all and never friends of mine! - I truly am a bard, or hope to be. Who better than Sadye, who has seen the wrath of . . . your darker side, to write 'The Lay of De'Unnero'?"
De'Unnero's stare was less imposing, then, for in truth, he did not know what he was thinking. Sadye had caught him off guard with every turn of the conversation. Why in the world would she want to remain anywhere near him? Was this just a ploy to save her life, to buy her some time? That, of course, seemed the most probable.
"Leave," he found himself to his own surprise saying to her. "Go far, far away and compose your song."
The woman was obviously surprised, but she hid it well. She stood there for a moment, then carefully placed her lute on the ground beside her - and De'Unnero saw that it was gem encrusted, as he had expected when he had sensed the magic during the fight at Micklin's Village.
"I would prefer to stay," the ever-surprising Sadye said softly, and she came forward, placing a hand on the front of each of De'Unnero's strong shoulders, then bringing one to his cheek, gently. So gently.
De'Unnero wanted to say something; he just didn't know any appropriate words at that moment.
Sadye came even closer, her lips brushing his softly. "You fascinate me," she whispered.
"I should frighten you," he replied.
Sadye backed off just enough to show him her wistful smile. "Oh, you do," she assured him, and she came forward again and kissed him hard, then pulled back. "And nothing excites me more than danger."
She came at him again, forcefully, full of passion that bordered on anger, and De'Unnero resisted.
For the span of about three heartbeats. And then he was kissing her back, their arms rubbing all about each others' bodies, their legs entwining and bodies pressing. Sadye pulled him to the side, tripped him, and down the pair went in a passionate tumble.
Marcalo De'Unnero had never known the love of a woman, both because of his standing among the brothers of St.-Mere-Abelle and, even more important, because giving in to such base emotions had always seemed to him an admission of weakness and a denial of discipline. He gave in then, though, wholly and with all his battered heart and soul; and it was not until that moment of completion, of complete release, that he understood the depth of the danger.
For in that instant of ecstasy, the beast within him growled, the primal urges of the tiger found their release to the surface.
Marcalo De'Unnero leaped away from Sadye and shoved her back when she tried to pursue. "Warned you," he managed to gasp as the feline change began to strangle his throat.
And then he fell back, angry, so angry, because he knew that he was about to slaughter this one, too, thus throwing himself back into absolute solitude. He was becoming the weretiger and could not stop it, and Sadye would die as all the others had died. . . .
In the throes of the agonizing change, Marcalo De'Unnero did not hear his own screams of protest and denial.
But he did hear the music.
He opened his eyes and stared at Sadye, sitting cross-legged and naked, her lute in hand, gently brushing the strings and singing softly. He couldn't make out the words, but that hardly diminished their sweetness.
For a brief moment, he was Marcalo De'Unnero again, the man and not the beast, but, no, he realized, Sadye's music alone could not deny the weretiger once it had been roused.
And then he knew no more, for the cat had won.
Sometime later, after feeding upon an unfortunate deer, Marcalo De'Unnero, cold and naked, walked back to the camp, expecting to find the gruesome remains of his latest human victim.
Sadye sat by the fire, smiling at him.
If a wind had come up then, it would have knocked an astonished Marcalo De'Unnero to the ground. "How . . ." he started to stammer.
"Sit with me," Sadye said with a teasing, wistful smile, and she lifted a blanket that she obviously meant to drape about his shoulders. "You owe me a bit of conversation, I guess, and then, perhaps, we can rouse the beast once more."
"You should be dead," De'Unnero managed to say, and he did take a seat beside the amazing woman.
"I already told you that I was not without a bit of magic," she replied, and she lifted her gem-encrusted lute. "Music to charm the wild beast, perhaps?"
De'Unnero stared at her with a mixture of amazement and admiration. She was on the very edge of destruction here, facing the prospect of a terrible death. And yet, there was no hesitance in her voice.
"You are a far preferable companion than the last group," Sadye said with a laugh. "And a better lover than I have ever known." She gave a lewd chuckle. "And I assure you that I am not without comparisons!"
De'Unnero merely continued to stare.
"And less dangerous than that last group," Sadye went on.
The former monk's eyes widened at that remark.
" 'tis true!" Sadye declared. "There is that power within you, indeed, but there remains within you, as well, a code of honor and discipline."
"You cannot be certain that I will not destroy you," De'Unnero said.
Sadye turned and moved very close to him. "That is the fun of it," she said.
And he believed her, every word, and they made love again and the tiger did not appear.
They walked together the next day, talking easily, and with Marcalo De'Unnero admitting feelings and pains to Sadye that he had not, before that time, even admitted to himself.