by Maggie Furey
Corisand was a horse, and her thoughts were not like those of a human. But she knew what it meant when all this bustle happened, and every horse was prepared. She knew that soon she’d be out and free: running, flying through the frosty night air, hurtling with her companions across forest clearings in a shower of mud and leaves, and leaping over fallen trees. That feeling of freedom, illusory though it was, was what she lived for. The urge had been in her blood ever since her birth: an independence of spirit that had almost cost her her life when she had seemingly proved unrideable; the only horse ever to defeat the skills of Aelwen and Kelon. It had been the Forest Lord’s inability to resist a challenge that had saved her, and even he had needed to use magic in the beginning, to control her and override her will. So now she’d become Hellorin’s horse, replacing his ageing grey mare Maiglan, who was getting too old for the Hunt. The compromise had not come without a bitter inward struggle, but the Wild Hunt was the only thing that came close to the perfect freedom that Corisand craved.
The horses were not the only ones to be excited by the prospect of the coming Hunt. All the men and women of the Phaerie Court, their eyes ablaze with a fierce excitement, streamed out of the Forest Lord’s palace and hurried down the flight of steps that led to the courtyard, where they gathered in laughing, chattering groups, waiting for the grooms to bring their mounts to them. The Phaerie hunters were a glorious sight, their faces exquisite with a timeless beauty, and their hair spangled with gems. Their clothes, made of a flexible, silken material spun from the cocoons of luminous moonmoths, fitted them as closely as a second skin. The fabric was light as spider silk but warmer than wool, and it glistened in a multitude of hues, for each thread had been magically imbued with its own inner radiance, so that their garments glowed brightly in the starlight.
In a corner of the courtyard the pack of fellhounds - great silver-grey dogs with eyes of golden fire - milled about restlessly, kept under control by Gwylan the Huntsman and his assistants. The fellhounds yelped and snarled, catching their masters’ excitement. They knew what lay ahead: soon they would be released upon their quarry, to run their victims down, and tear, and kill.
A silvery fanfare of trumpets marked the arrival of the Forest Lord. Hellorin appeared in the torchlit doorway, cloaked in his customary green and silver, his long, dark hair touched with starlight, his tall form powerful and muscular, his shoulders broad beneath his cloak. He wore a golden crown of oak leaves, above which could be seen the shadowy form of a stag’s branching antlers. At his side stood Arvain, his son and heir, who, with his tawny curls and lively golden eyes, was the image of his mother.
Hellorin looked fondly at his son, his eyes brightening at the memory of the beloved soulmate he had lost. Estrelle, the Lady of the Forest, had been beautiful indeed. Her hair, the colour of autumn leaves, had reached almost to the ground. Her eyes were golden, and her complexion, so unlike the translucent pallor of most Phaerie ladies, looked as though her skin had been kissed by the sun. Frank, fearless and fair, with a merry smile and sparkling eyes, she had been a perfect foil for her royal consort, adored by her people almost as much as she was loved by Hellorin himself. She had died twenty years ago, just a year after giving birth to Arvain’s sister, Tiolani. Hellorin and his subjects still mourned her passing.
The Phaerie were Immortal, and did not pass from the mundane world unless they chose to do so, or were killed by an accident or an act of violence. Arvain, therefore, was unlikely ever to succeed to the leadership of his people, but he appeared not to mind. Possessing his mother’s sunny nature, he was content to study magic, to perfect his martial skills with sword and bow, to enjoy his many friendships - and to take part in the Hunt. Sharing his father’s passion for the extraordinary Phaerie horses, he took a great interest in the improvement of the breed.
‘Ho, Ferimon, there you are.’ Arvain descended the staircase a step or two to talk to his friend. ‘Looks like a good night for hunting.’
‘Not for me.’ Ferimon grimaced. ‘I lost at dice with Jeryla, and she’s making me ride with her and the rest of the net-casters tonight.’ As tall as Arvain, he was more than a match in looks for his high-born companion, with his sun-gold hair and his blue eyes that were most unusual in one of the pure-blooded Phaerie. A cluster of young women hovered around them, all hoping for a golden glance from the bright eyes of Hellorin’s heir, or the flash of a charming white grin from Ferimon.
Hellorin, seeing that smile, felt his stomach tighten.
When he smiles like that, he is the image of his father.
For an instant, Estrelle’s face flashed before him, not lively and laughing as he remembered it best, but pale and spattered with dirt and blood, a gash across the temple and an ugly bruise darkening all down one side, while her golden eyes, their splendour dimmed in death, stared up blankly at the forest canopy above.
With a shudder, the Forest Lord thrust the dreadful memory away. This would be Tiolani’s first Hunt, not a night for bad memories, and he had always sworn that he would never blame the son for the transgressions of the father.
Arvain was laughing at his friend. ‘That’ll teach you to wager with Jeryla. She’s the most skilful cheat at dice I ever came across.’ Suddenly remembering his proper place, he ran back up the steps to his father. ‘How the court love their little amusements,’ he remarked to Hellorin, gesturing at the bright-eyed throng below. ‘They are as eager as the hounds to be off. See? They can scarcely wait.’
And neither can you, the Forest Lord thought, his stern mouth softening into a smile. ‘Speaking of waiting, where is that sister of yours? She had better hurry.’
‘Ah, let her be, my Lord. Tonight is special.’ Arvain laughed. ‘I recall my first Hunt. I spent an age getting ready, as vain as any girl. It’s the same for us all. I will call her.’ For a moment he was silent, his golden gaze opaque and inward-looking. ‘She comes.’
‘Are you sure I look all right?’ Tiolani turned this way and that in front of the mirror, scanning her reflection with a critical eye
Varna, her lady-in-waiting, two years older and Ferimon’s sister, cast her eyes up to the ceiling. ‘For the thousandth time, you look perfect. Now, can we please go? It will not do to keep the Lord of the Phaerie waiting, even if he is your father.’ Grabbing Tiolani’s hand, she tugged her determinedly towards the door.
Tiolani glanced back for one last look in the mirror. She was always concerned about her appearance - that was all part of being the Forest Lord’s only daughter - but tonight was different. Now that she had reached her twenty-first year, she was about to join the other members of her father’s court in one of their best-loved and exciting pastimes, but this would be about more than just thrills and sport. Her first Hunt was a rite of passage which all Phaerie must undergo. Only when she had killed her first human would she truly be accepted as an adult, and a member of the Phaerie Court.
Will I like it? Will I really like hunting mortals - all the bloodshed and the slaughter?
Of course she would. Tiolani dealt firmly with that small quiver of doubt. She was Phaerie, and Hellorin’s daughter. The Hunt was part of her heritage. It was in her blood. Why should she not come to love it as Arvain had?
As Varna hurried her out of the room, the image in the mirror lingered in her mind. Could she compete with the slender lady-in-waiting, as dark as her brother was fair, and one of the greatest beauties of the court? She decided that she could. Like Arvain, she had inherited her looks from her mother, though the copper in her tawny hair was a shade or two deeper. Her eyes, however, instead of being golden, were dark grey; uncannily like those of her father but lacking, as yet, the mastery of Hellorin’s piercing gaze. Tonight they sparkled in a face that was pale with excitement. Her long red-gold hair normally hung loose down her back in rippled waves, but tonight, under Varna’s skilful hands, it had been threaded with gems and looped back in an intricate arrangement of braids. After much deliberation, she had settled on shining gold for her costume, and
the result was dazzling. She might be a newcomer to the Hunt, but she was damned if she would let any of the hard-riding females in the Court outshine her when it came to looks.
At that moment, Arvain’s call, spoken directly from one mind to the other, broke into her thoughts. ‘Tiolani, are you not ready yet? Hurry up, you little monster. Do you want to keep the entire court waiting all night?’
Tiolani gasped in dismay. ‘Tell Father I’m sorry,’ she called back. ‘Varna and I are on our way right now.’
Hearing the sound of hoofbeats, Hellorin turned towards the entrance of the long, echoing tunnel that curved through the depths of the hill, even passing beneath the palace itself, to emerge in the courtyard before the great doors. This permitted the Phaerie steeds to be brought with ease from the north-facing stables at the bottom of the hill to the palace high on the southern slopes, without having to thread a long and tortuous way through the crowded streets above ground. The passageway had been cunningly wrought by magic, and lit all along its length by crystal globes filled with tamed lightning that crackled and hummed and gave out a tingling ozone smell.
A procession of grooms was leading the horses into the courtyard up the gentle ramp at the tunnel’s entrance. Hellorin looked at the animals with pride. The mounts of the Phaerie could rival and in some respects even surpass their masters in splendour. Their necks arched proudly, their great muscles moved smoothly under shining coats and their long manes and tails swept down in waves of gleaming silk. In appearance, speed, stamina and every other respect, they were far superior to the horses of the Wizardfolk - as well they might be. They were different. Special. They were bred only here in the royal stables, and they were never traded or sold to people of other races. Their origins were a mystery known solely to the Phaerie.
The Phaerie loved secrets, and it pleased the Forest Lord inordinately that his Wizardly rivals had never guessed the origins of the Xandim breed: that these splendid creatures had once been shapeshifters, capable of switching at will between human and equine form. Hellorin smiled. The subjugation of the Xandim race had been one of his greatest triumphs. His people had discovered the tribe of metamorphs in the mountains that formed the northern boundaries of their own realm. The Xandim were a primitive people by the standards of the Phaerie and Magefolk civilisations, and it had been no great task to subdue them. Their human aspect had been of little interest to the Forest Lord - he already possessed mortal slaves aplenty. He had been stunned, however, by the magnificence of their equine forms, and it had been a simple enough matter to formulate the spells which trapped them in that shape forever.
Arvain ran back down the steps and took the reins of his magnificent chestnut stallion from the groom. ‘It’s a good thing,’ he said to his father, ‘that none of the Magefolk know that the Xandim ever existed - otherwise, no doubt, they would be raising their usual bleeding-heart outcry at what we’ve done.’
Hellorin shrugged. ‘After this long age, there is no way in which they could discover the truth. No living soul outside the Phaerie can remember the origins of these animals, and after so many generations have come and gone, even the Xandim themselves must have forgotten that they were ever human.’
You are almost right, Hellorin - but one of us remembers. One single Xandim holds the memories of a race long gone.
The chestnut stallion Valir, Arvain’s mount, eyed the Forest Lord coldly. No one, not even his own people, suspected that he possessed an intelligence and intellect far beyond that of an ordinary beast. Of them all, only he remembered that the Phaerie horses had come from very different beginnings. He was the Windeye, or Shaman, of the Xandim race - a role which had originated in the time before the tribe had been enslaved and trapped in their equine shapes, and which had been passed down through his bloodline during all the countless generations in captivity. Only the Windeye possessed powers of the Old Magic, which stemmed from the same ancient roots as the arcane abilities of the Phaerie. And though he was unable to access this magic whilst in his equine shape, at least it allowed him to think and reason in a human way - and, more importantly, to remember his origins and those of his people.
It wasn’t easy. To become Windeye was to be born into a life of frustration and loneliness. The other Xandim could neither think nor communicate in the complex manner of the Phaerie. They had few actual words - such as ‘food’, ‘run’, ‘come’, ‘go’ and ‘danger’ - and these could be expressed through a change in stance, the roll of an eye or the tilt of an ear, as well as through vocal sounds. Their thoughts were also simple, and based on emotion, cause and effect, or instinct. Much worse, they could neither remember nor understand what they had lost. What could a Windeye - one solitary individual - do to change all that? Valir was trapped: without magic he stood no chance of fighting the Phaerie and regaining his humanity, yet until he could take on human form, his powers would be lost to him, and he could do nothing to help his people.
Standing there in the crowded courtyard, the stallion wondered which of his many sons and daughters would inherit his mantle when he was gone. Only one in every generation had the seeds of the Windeye’s powers lying dormant within, which would burst into life following the current Shaman’s death. So I’ll never find out which of them it will be, Valir thought. If only there was some way of knowing. Then at least I could warn them, prepare them, try to explain . . .
Even if he could discover the identity of his successor, there was no way he could make an equine mind understand what lay in store. Maybe they are better off not knowing, he thought grimly. There would be time enough, once they had assumed the mantle of Windeye, for them to be tortured by the memory of what they had lost, and were powerless to regain. Time enough to know frustration and despair because they were unable to help their people. Time enough to be revolted by the savage slaughter of the Hunt. Time enough to loathe and abominate the Phaerie for what they had done.
All too aware that they were keeping Hellorin and the Phaerie Court waiting, Tiolani and Varna had raced down corridors and flights of stairs, but when they reached the lower levels of the palace, their progress was slowed by knots of courtiers who were all heading in the same direction for the self-same purpose.
Why, we’re not so late after all, Tiolani thought indignantly. From what Arvain told me, I thought everyone would be standing around in the courtyard, waiting for us - though, if they had been outside, at least there would not be all these crowds to delay us.
She had no intention, however, of letting the crowds obstruct her. ‘Make way,’ she called out in imperious tones. ‘Make way, there.’ Reluctantly, the members of the court - a bunch of empty-headed idiots in the candid opinion of Hellorin’s daughter, and they didn’t like her any better - moved aside to let the girls through. They hurried between the massive carven doors of the palace, and went out into the courtyard.
The Lord of the Phaerie, who still stood at the top of the steps, turned to greet his daughter. ‘I’m so sorry I’m late,’ Tiolani said, curtseying low. Her contrite tone and expression notwithstanding, she was confident that her father would forgive her. He always did.
Hellorin smiled. ‘It was worth the wait. You look lovely, my dear. Absolutely radiant. All this excitement has you shining like a jewel. Ah, to be taking part in my first Hunt again.’
Though Tiolani smiled at him, warm with such praise, her attention was already wandering, her eyes moving, seemingly of their own volition, to seek out Ferimon in the crowd. Surely tonight, her night, he would look at her a little differently? Maybe realise that she had grown into more than just his friend’s bothersome little sister? But his shining blond head was turned away from her as he talked and laughed with the usual crowd of young women who were always around him, hanging on his every word, and he was paying no attention to her at all. Not even tonight.
Tiolani’s glow of pleasure died, and the temper that she had never really learned to control rose up in its place. What was the point of stupid compliments from her father? She
could get them any time. Gritting her teeth with frustration, she turned away from Ferimon and his collection of fawning females. She was damned if she would let anybody see the jealousy that always overwhelmed her at the sight of that coterie of giggling fools, and she had no intention of joining their ranks. She was Hellorin’s daughter. She could never demean herself in such a way. And she had far more important things to think about tonight than Ferimon.
Her brother slung an affectionate arm around her shoulders. ‘Worried about the Hunt, Monster? Stick close to me. I’ll show you how it’s done.’
Forgetting, for a moment, that they were under public scrutiny, and therefore she ought to be on her best behaviour, Tiolani glared at him. ‘Will you, indeed? Well, for your information, I’m not the least bit worried. I’m as good a rider as you are, any day.’
The Huntsman, Gwylan, came up the staircase and bowed low to Hellorin. ‘All is ready, my Lord. My scouts have found our quarry for tonight - a nest of feral humans living in the forest to the south.’
