‘Here now, enough of that. Stop wrenching her around, you halfwit, and leave her to me.’ Kelon, Aelwen’s head groom, entered the box, leaving room for the lad to scurry out. ‘You go and finish getting Maiglan ready for the Lady Tiolani, and I’ll see to this fractious little girl myself.’
‘Little girl, my backside,’ the lad muttered sullenly. ‘She’s as big as any of the others, and twice as bloody awkward. What she wants is a—’
‘What she wants is someone with a bit of common sense, instead of an idle, thoughtless fool.’ Kelon’s voice had taken on an icy bite that had even the mare turning her head in surprise. ‘And I’ve told you before, Horsemistress Aelwen will have no swearing in her stable. Now get about your work.’
Scowling, the youth stamped off, and Kelon, the smile back on his face, turned to Corisand. ‘Now then, little one, let’s get you settled down and looking beautiful. You’ll be carrying the Lord of the Phaerie, remember, and you have to look the part.’ His hands were gentle and, unlike the other groom, his voice was soothing and soft. Also, there was a sense of presence and strength about him that made Corisand cease her antics immediately.
Kelon never raised his voice to any of the horses - he didn’t have to. He was a horseman to the bone, and in his presence the most recalcitrant of animals suddenly found itself behaving exactly as he would wish. Now he was putting on the saddle with deft expertise, talking softly to her all the while in a low, crooning voice. ‘There now. That’s better, isn’t it? And you won’t have to worry about that young idiot any more. I’ll have a word with Mistress Aelwen, and by tomorrow he’ll be back among the field labourers hoeing cabbages. Serve him right, too. Some folk just aren’t fit to work in a stable.’
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.’