Thornspell

by Helen Lowe

  The boar ran, heading for the roughest brakes and the dark unbroken line of the deep forest beyond. The hunt surged in pursuit, but as the hours passed and the boar kept on, apparently tireless, both men and horses began to drop behind. Sigismund changed horses when the brown began to slow, then pressed forward again, but he began to doubt as the day lengthened and the cloud cover thickened, fearing that the boar was going to outrun them after all. Their numbers had dwindled significantly by now, so that fewer than half of those who had set out were still following when the boar crossed into the deep woods. Sigismund was impressed at how many of the local hunters had kept up with the horses, tireless as the wolves they resembled, even if they had been able to take shortcuts through the rougher country.

  He looked around as they passed beneath the trees and saw Flor, his face a grimy mask as he grinned and raised a hand in salute. Sigismund suspected that his own appearance was little better, and Ban Valensar was muddied from a fall, although he was still riding. His cousin Adrian, however, was amongst those who had fallen behind.

  The Master’s horn sounded up ahead and there was a change in the timbre of the hounds’ cries. Flor yelled something, but it was borne away beneath pounding hooves and the blast of Ban’s horn as he blew it in reply. Sigismund was sure that the boar must have been brought to bay at last and that the huntsmen would be going in for the kill. As if to confirm his suspicions, the hounds’ cries became frenzied, then broke off in a confusion of baying and shouting. Horns were sounding from every side as he came out of the trees and into a long glade—and saw the black boar charging toward him. It must have doubled back, and although there were hounds harrying it on either side, they were unable to bring it down.

  Sigismund’s horse stood straight up on its hind legs, screaming, while Flor and Ban fought to turn their mounts away from the boar’s charge. A hound darted in, but the boar twisted its head, a quick sideways toss, and gored the dog on a bloodied yellow tusk before hurling it away. The whole incident was over in a split second, barely checking the boar’s rush toward Sigismund.

  He had his horse under control now, but there was no time left to get out of the way. He could see the boar’s eyes, red and furious as it bore down on him, and its size and ferocity gave credence to the forest demon stories. It was hard to believe that a mere spear blade could kill such a monster, but Sigismund struggled to hold his frightened horse steady and prepare his spear for the thrust. He was vaguely aware of Flor and Ban bringing their horses around again, but they were not going to be in time to affect the outcome, and he didn’t want to think about what would happen if his thrust failed.

  A hound burst from the brush and came at the boar from the side, and then two more were racing to join it. Sigismund recognized them as his own three—Bran, Joyeuse, and Mifawn—all named for Wenceslas’s hounds of legend. He caught the yellow blaze of Wat’s hair, sweat-stained now, as he came out of the brush behind them. The huntsman’s horse looked close to foundering, but he had his spear ready and was closing on the boar, not willing to leave it to the hounds.

  The boar must have seen the new threat for it spun, slashing at Bran who leapt away, then sidestepped Mifawn to charge straight for Wat. Joyeuse leapt for its throat and caught an ear instead, holding on gamely, but was tossed aside by a shake of the powerful head and yelped as she connected with the earth. She scrabbled to her feet and streaked in again to join her comrades, who were trying to gain purchase while avoiding the lethal tusks.

  Wat’s horse was holding steady, and Sigismund could see the young huntsman’s narrowed eyes as his spear thrust down, aiming for the boar’s heart. Then a dog and Wat’s horse screamed at the same time and both were down. Sigismund couldn’t make out which dog was hurt as he forced his own horse forward, but the other two were still on the boar and Wat seemed to be pinned beneath his flailing horse. His spear had missed the boar’s heart, and the enraged beast shook the dogs off and turned on the huntsman. Wat was struggling to get his knife out, but it must have been pinned beneath the horse as well. Sigismund was close, so close, but knew he was not going to get there in time.

  Wat’s horse saw the looming head and bloody, curved tusks of the boar and screamed again, kicking to its feet as the dogs leapt in—and then a squealing, snarling melee of boar and dogs rolled over Wat where he lay on the ground. Wat screamed too, and for a moment Sigismund froze. His horse snorted and he recovered, holding it steady with his knees and a hand of iron. He raised his spear, waiting—waiting for the moment when the boar would fight free of the dogs, would begin to turn—and then he thrust down with the full power of his arm, deep into the beast’s heart.

  The boar did not die immediately but continued to thrash and twist on the spear while Sigismund tried to lift it off Wat’s body. There were more men and dogs there now and a great confusion of noise and shouting. One of the forest hunters thrust his spear through the boar’s eye, finishing it, while others dodged in to pull Wat’s body clear. Sigismund dismounted and dropped to his knees beside him, looking a question at the man who was bending over the wound. It was one of the landholders from the forest fringe—Sigismund remembered him from the previous night’s feast—and his expression was grim. He met Sigismund’s eyes and shook his head.

  The boar’s tusk had carved a deep half-moon gash up through Wat’s stomach. Sigismund could see the dark blood welling up and the gray, slick glisten of intestine. Wat’s eyes were closed, his breathing shallow, and there was a bubble of blood at the corner of his mouth. Sigismund took his hand between both his own, recalling how the yellow-haired boy had been working in the kennels when he first came to the West Castle, and as a huntsman after that—yet he was no more than a year or two older than Sigismund himself.

  “We killed the boar,” Sigismund said, speaking as slowly and as clearly as he could, hoping Wat would hear him. “You and I between us, with the hounds.”

  Wat’s lids lifted, but his eyes were dark. “Missed…my stroke,” he whispered. “Hounds?”

  “All well,” Sigismund told him, although he was not sure if that was true. His hands tightened over Wat’s. “I owe you my life, Wat. The boar would have been on me before I could master my horse if you hadn’t drawn him off.”

  Wat’s lids fluttered again, but his voice was fainter. His legs and arms were twitching, much in the same way, Sigismund thought uncomfortably, as the boar had convulsed on the end of his spear. He had to lean close to hear what the gray lips said: “Bal’san…said stay close…feared…treachery.”

  Sigismund almost wished it had been treachery, rather than the sheer ill fortune of a wild boar fighting its way clear of the main hunt when they thought it brought to bay. He squeezed the cold hand between his. “You did well, my friend,” he said, and forced himself to look at the welling wound again and meet the hard sympathy in the squire’s face.

  “I don’t think it’ll be long, Highness,” the man said, keeping his voice low. “There’s no way to staunch this blood.”

  No, thought Sigismund. He saw that the boar was already being trussed onto a spear for the journey back and the hound pack had been drawn off, but most of those present were watching him, waiting. He could see the hunt’s Master, gnawing at his lip, and Flor and Ban standing together with Adrian and the others who had arrived late. Looking past them, he saw Wenceslas standing with the spare horses, Bran and Joyeuse pressed against his legs. Joyeuse was licking at a bloody gash down one shoulder and Mifawn was nowhere to be seen.

  Sigismund released Wat’s hand and stood up, calling Wenceslas over with a jerk of his head. “Best say good-bye,” he said, low-voiced as the squire.

  It was a somber journey back to the village, with Wat’s body wrapped in a cloak and tied over the back of his horse. Mifawn was dead too when Sigismund found her, killed in the last struggle with the boar. The Master had pressed him to take the boar’s head back to the capital, in honor of his killing stroke, but Sigismund had replied that the trophy wall in the hunting lodge seemed
more appropriate, given that so many of the forest folk, both noble and common born, had participated in the hunt. His words were greeted with approval, and Flor clapped him on the shoulder and murmured something about diplomacy, but the truth was that Sigismund didn’t want the head. The beast had been a rogue that needed killing and he had killed it, but at the price of Wat’s life. A head on a trophy wall could not even begin to compensate for that.

  The clouds rolled in and covered the hilltops as they rode back, and the day faded swiftly. They had brands to light if the darkness grew too thick beneath the trees, but the local men agreed that it would rain before morning, and everyone was eager to push on and reach the village before full night came.

  “And at least,” said Flor, riding beside Sigismund the first time the terrain allowed, “there is something approximating a road from the village back to the lodge, not like this trackless country.”

  “It’s rough,” agreed Sigismund. He had been aware of that when the pursuit was on, but it seemed so much worse now that they were making their way back, weary, hungry, and cold. He tried to concentrate on picking a safe path and to keep his thoughts away from Wat, but the memories kept returning, especially the way the young huntsman would toss his yellow hair and flirt with Annie during happier days at the West Castle. Mifawn’s death too was a dull ache in Sigismund’s heart, and he wondered what Wat had meant about Balisan suspecting treachery. Why would the master-at-arms have let him come on the hunt, if that was really the case?

  “That was a fine thrust that killed the boar, worthy of a prince!” Flor said, as their horses sidetracked around a large clump of brambles. “But I thought you were done for when we galloped into that clearing and the boar charged straight at you.”

  “I was lucky,” Sigismund replied, trying not to be short. “But I wouldn’t have stood a chance if Wat hadn’t drawn the boar off.”

  Flor nodded. “It was well done,” he agreed, “especially for a servant—although no more than his duty, of course.” He whistled a snatch of tune.

  Sigismund shut his mouth hard to avoid saying something that he would regret. It was a struggle to hold his anger down, and he wondered how Flor could dismiss any man’s death so lightly. He was glad when the trees pressed in too close for anyone to ride more than single file, and even the chill thrust of the wind suited his mood. The gusts had a knack of finding their way through both cloak and coat, and they stirred up dead leaves in the open spaces. A cloud of them blew in front of Sigismund when he was nodding in the saddle, jerking him awake, and for one startled moment he thought he saw the girl Rue in the swirl, but when he blinked and looked again, she was gone.

  They lit the brands before they reached the village, in the open boggy country where they had first flushed out the boar. The Master said that it would stop the column breaking up and people straying from the path, but it was not long after that when Sigismund began to nod again. The fiery stars of the brands blended into one long serpent, twisting its way across the heath. It was like riding through a dream where even the air had substance, and Sigismund’s mind slipped in and out of a haze of physical and mental weariness, overlain with grief.

  He only came fully awake when he realized that his horse had halted before two tall wrought-iron gates, set in a high stone wall. He thought he could make out formal lawns through the palings, and the dark bulk of what looked like a very small castle or a large hunting lodge. It was full night, however, with the moon half hidden in cloud, so he could not be sure of anything except that he was completely alone.

  The House in the Forest

  It was clear, Sigismund thought, that his horse must have turned down a side path without anyone noticing. But at least it seemed to have brought him to a place where there would be food and shelter, and people who could send a message to the hunting lodge or set him on the right road. It might even be home to one of the forest squires who had been on the hunt, although it was larger than he would have expected and appeared to be made of stone rather than wood. The formal garden, with its creeper-covered walls and box hedges, suggested a home rather than a lodge in intermittent use, and Sigismund suspected that the whole scene would be charming by daylight. But right now he was more concerned with the lantern burning over the door and the fact that the gates opened at the touch of his hand, swinging silently inward.

  Strange, Sigismund thought, hesitating, but he was tired and had no idea where he was. He shivered as the wind plucked at his clothes with cold fingers and could see no choice but to wake whoever lived here and ask for help. He urged his horse forward, then stopped again as the gates clicked shut behind him. The shadows cast by the hedges lay in black blocks across the ground, and everything was very quiet. No dog barked to announce his arrival, but he thought he heard a rustle in the hedge, and a moment later something shrieked from a dark corner of the garden. An owl swooped by on heavy wings as both Sigismund and his horse jumped.

  Just an owl, thought Sigismund, letting the horse walk forward again. I must be tired to jump at that.

  There was a twisted metal ring set into the foot of the stone stairs at the entrance to the house, and a heavy wrought-iron knocker on the door itself. Sigismund tied his horse to the ring before mounting the steps, then brought the knocker down with a sharp rap. He waited, listening, but there was only silence, so he rapped again. There was another pause, and then he heard footsteps inside the house and the sound of bolts being drawn back. A moment later the door swung inward, letting a shaft of yellow light out into the night. Sigismund raised a hand against the brightness, but he could see the dark shape of a man, half concealed by the door, and a wide, tiled hall beyond.

  The man made a gesture, indicating that he should enter, and Sigismund stepped forward, still blinking against the light. He opened his mouth, to say who he was and ask for help, but was stopped by a chime of laughter from the end of the hall. Hands clapped together as he hesitated, and a woman stepped forward, her hair gleaming gold in the lantern light. Her eyes were sapphire as she smiled at him.

  “Welcome to my house, Prince Sigismund,” said the Margravine zu Malvolin.

  Sigismund whirled to run, but the door slammed shut in his face. The man guarding it smiled out of an all-too-familiar face. “I wondered how long it would take you to get here,” said Flor Langrafon. “And such a long ride too. Surely you can’t want to leave so soon?”

  Sigismund stood very still, watching him. “It’s customary for guests to be invited,” he said, forcing himself to speak calmly, “and to leave at will.”

  Flor’s smile deepened. “We did extend an invitation,” he said, “to your horse, which accepted like a lamb while you dozed on its back. As for leaving…” He shrugged. “How churlish to refuse my grandmother’s hospitality out of hand.”

  Sigismund turned, looking from Flor to the Margravine, and saw that armed men had appeared in every doorway that opened off the hall, all of them clad alike in plain dark clothes. “I take it then,” he said, speaking to the Margravine, “that you are Flor’s grandmother?”

  Her smile was a deep curve, the blue eyes limpid as she came further down the hall. “Grandmother,” she said, with a pretty shrug, “or great-grandmother, or great-great—I have forgotten. Just as you seem to have forgotten our talk, just a few years ago, when I promised that you should visit me here one day, in my castle of Highthorn.”

  Sigismund stared at her, taken aback. “I remember now,” he said, and did. “But your castle is in the west, far from here. This house is in the forest of Thorn.”

  “Is it?” she asked softly. “But whether in Thorn or the west, you are in my house now—and not everything here is always as it seems.”

  Sigismund glanced around, and remembered Balisan telling him about places where mortal ground overlapped with the Faerie realm. He felt the burn of a slow anger: against himself for letting grief and weariness dull his senses, against the Margravine for having trapped him, and against Flor—but he would not think about Flor, not n
ow.

  “You brought me here against my will,” he said, keeping his voice even. “Why?”

  The Margravine shook her head. “Hard words, Prince Sigismund, not the language of those who should be friends.” She was still smiling faintly as she scrutinized his face. “And it is of friendship that I wish to speak, and matters of common…interest. But I can see that you are tired. You should rest now, without fear, for you are my guest and will be housed as befits a prince.”

  “A guest,” Sigismund asked, not moving, “or a prisoner?”

  The Margravine held up one white, slender hand. “Such an ugly term, Prince Sigismund. We will talk again when you are rested, and then my hospitality may wear a fairer face.” She extended the hand to Flor. “Come to me, my dear, when our guest is safely bestowed.”

  Flor came forward and bowed over her hand, then sketched a second, mocking bow in Sigismund’s direction. “My grandmother’s servants will show you to your room, Prince.” He smiled as though at some secret joke. “And you needn’t worry about imposing on our hospitality. This house is larger than it looks from the outside, much larger. It’s easier to find your way in than out.”

  Sigismund stared at him, his eyes hard and level, but Flor had already turned to give orders to the dark-clothed retainers, who closed around Sigismund and led him away. The room in which they left him was as comfortable as the Margravine had promised, with rich hangings and a bright fire burning on the hearth. It warmed the whole room and there was food on the table, but Sigismund did not touch it. One of the first things that Balisan had taught him was that he must never touch any food or drink offered to him if he was ever a guest, or prisoner, of the faie.