"It appears that around the turn of the last century a Huntsman decided to compile a history of their kind. This is his life's work. You'll see it's all in a single hand, the ink changing and..." He turned to the back, where at least twenty pages were blank. "Continued right up until his death."
"Why the mutilation?" I said.
"Fae consider themselves a secretive lot, but..." He waved at his library. "Obviously that doesn't apply to our books. It's arrogance, really. We presume we can write what we like, and if any mortal finds it, he'll think it a work of fiction. The Cwn Annwn are far more careful. The thought that someone outside their community would find such a book..." He gave a mock shudder.
"So a Huntsman wrote it, and his pack found it after his death. They cut out and redacted the most sensitive information but couldn't bring themselves to destroy his life's efforts. Dare I ask how you got hold of it?"
He smiled. "You can ask. I won't tell. And I would very much prefer that Ioan didn't discover I have it."
"Of course not. Once he got it, I'd never see it again."
"Smart girl. All right, then, the information is a bit fragmented, particularly the parts on deals." He turned to near the back of the book, where a section had been almost entirely redacted.
"Uh-huh," I said. "I'm surprised they didn't just cut this out completely."
"Mmm, I can understand their reluctance. In matters of business--as in law--it is helpful to be able to refer to a precedent. For our purposes, it's good that they left the pages in, because while the words are covered, they still exist. You'll notice jumps and jolts, but you should be able to get the general picture. You'll want to start here..."
He pointed partway down the page. I began to read, translating the general gist of the text that remained.
The offering of deals is a difficult business. It allows the Cwn Annwn to pursue justice in cases where they otherwise could not, and as has been previously explained, it is the pursuit of justice that drives us. Quite literally. It feeds a hunger that is never quite satiated. The actual pursuit--the chase--only takes the edge from that hunger. To see justice done temporarily stills that relentless drive. While exacting justice ourselves is best, we can take pleasure in the victory of others.
The danger, obviously, is the temptation to offer such deals as often as we can. Yet to do that, perversely, would nullify the effect. It speaks to the dual nature of our basic drives. We want justice, and we want it to be righteous. To accept deals for substandard reasons means we would also choose substandard victims--those where the righteousness of the punishment is questionable. We risk falling victim to our drives, a danger that faces anyone who vehemently pursues justice. At what point are we taking lives for our own pleasure rather than fulfilling our contract with the universe? Such a thought is abhorrent to the Cwn Annwn and, therefore, we offer deals very selectively.
The concept behind any deal is the sacrifice of life, which allows us to channel those powers we cannot name. Lifeblood must soak the earth. Again, the idea is repellent to us, but if the deal is offered in such a way that it also fulfills our need for justice, then we can righteously act as mediators in the transaction.
The rest of the paragraph had been redacted. The next one started...
The earliest example I was able to find--which is almost certainly not the very earliest--was a case in the old country...
At last, the ink swam and I braced myself for it to open, and when it did, I tumbled through into a forest.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
A man crouched by a well-worn path. His clothing suggested a Celtic clansman, but my knowledge of such things is pretty much limited to movies and novels.
As he crouched there, breathing hard, I picked up the thunder of hooves. Then the bay of hounds, so loud the man stumbled back, and he grabbed a tree trunk, as if needing to hold tight to keep from running for his life. His breath came ragged and loud, his face a pale mask of panic. Fire blazed through the trees, the baying of the hounds softer, the pounding of hooves hard enough to shake the earth. A man raced past, tearing down the path like the hounds of hell were on his heels. Which they were.
The man himself wore armor--a helmet and leather breastplate. He had a sword in hand, but he didn't stop to use it. As he tore past us, the hounds pursued, and I swore sparks flew as their paws struck the earth. They passed, and the man beside me threw himself toward the path, using the tree as leverage to launch himself there.
That's when I saw the Hunt. The true Hunt. Black steeds bore down on us, red-eyed and fire-maned. Dark-cloaked men rode on their backs. Or I must presume they were men--their hoods were drawn up and all I could see were red glinting eyes.
The clansman dropped to the path and covered his head and shouted, "Mercy, lords of the Otherworld. Mercy!"
The soldier long past us shrieked and the hounds snarled, and I knew from that sound that they'd caught their prey. The horses whinnied, and the riders reined them in.
The scene stuttered, like a film caught in the projector. And I glimpsed a house, a modern house, so briefly that I could tell nothing more about it. A house and a voice, and then I was back in the forest, shaking my head and remembering what Patrick said, that there might be fits and starts from the book's mutilation. When I looked up, the front rider had brought his steed to the cowering man.
"You are not our prey tonight," he said, his voice a sonorous boom from the depths of that hood. I was pretty sure he--like the cowering man--didn't speak modern English, but as usual, that's what I heard. "Go home, and tell no one of what you have seen, lest the Hunt come for you next."
"I-I wish to speak to you. I have waited for you."
"You interrupt our hunt intentionally?"
"I beg pardon, my lord. It was the only way to gain your attention, and the hounds have taken their prey, so I hope the imposition is not too grievous."
"You hope wrongly. I can tell you come from a family of cunning men, which explains how you know of us, and perhaps you think that excuses you, but that knowledge is the very reason why you have no excuse. You have impeded--"
"And I will pay the price, whatever it may be. But I beseech you, my lords, to hear me out. My wife has been taken by the Romans. She is forced to serve in their kitchens, and from what I have heard..." He swallowed. "That is not all she is forced to do."