The ground flattened for a while as the beast led him near a rough-edged track, beaten out by years of pounding hooves finding their way through the forest until it had become a lane of its own, but it didn’t linger there long and turned back to its relative safety amidst the greenery.
The huntsman didn’t hurry, instead allowing the creature to take in the beauty of this day in ignorance that there would be no more. Finally the trees thinned and opened out into a natural clearing with a narrow stream running through it.
Ahead the white stag, a rare beast, fine and noble, paused to drink. The huntsman dropped silently to the ground, stretching his body long against the earth. He pulled his bow free. His brown eyes narrowed as they studied the creature, small lines wrinkling his forehead and joining those that had sprung there early, the result of a life spent outdoors that was leaving him tanned and rugged before thirty. His heart beat fast against the ground and for a moment, as was always the case in these seconds before the kill, he felt everything in nature connect as one; him, the forest, the earth, and the stag itself. He watched as its thick neck lowered, its antlers dipping into the cool water, before it raised its head and shook the drops all over its glorious hide.
Without taking his eyes from the creature he shifted position, one arm tugging back the arrow until it was fighting him to spring free. White stags were rare and magical and notoriously difficult to track. They were protected from hunting, and belonged – if they could belong at all to anyone – to the royal houses of the kingdoms. It was treason to take something which belonged to your king. Even with this thought, the huntsman’s hand didn’t waver. He was a stranger in this land. He had his own prince to honour. But more than that, he did not believe that any one life was more precious than another. Each creature that breathed was unique, so each death was equal. He respected them all.
He silently wished the animal safe passage. He wished it happiness in its moment of death. He closed his eyes and let the arrow fly true.
The stag fell without a sound. Its legs twitched momentarily and then it was still. The huntsman got to his feet, pleased with his work. It had been a clean kill and the animal had been unaware that death was coming. They should all have such a death.
He was so intent on skinning the stag, with the hunt now over and his senses no longer alert, that by the time he heard the soldiers crashing through the forest it was too late. He was surrounded.
‘Put your knife down!’
The huntsman weighed up his options and it was clear he only had the one. He put the knife, thick with the animal’s hot blood, on the ground next to the carcass. The black stallions, whose colour matched the black tabards and helmets of the men who rode them, pawed at the earth, excited by the proximity of death. It was an unnatural reaction, the huntsman thought. Horses, noble and beautiful as they might be, were natural prey, just like the stag. The blood should make them nervous.
‘To kill a white stag is treason, you thieving bastard,’ the captain said. ‘The queen will want to deal with you herself!’
‘The queen?’ the huntsman asked. The tabards they wore were marked in blood-red with a lion and serpent bound together. Was the queen the serpent? And in what land did a queen ever wield power?
‘Not from round here, then?’ a second soldier, one with a rougher accent, growled. ‘That won’t save you. The queen takes her magic very seriously. White stags are guardians of magic. You killed yourself when you killed it, boy.’ The circle of men drew closer.
‘An animal is just an animal,’ the huntsman said, standing tall, his shoulders wide and with his dark eyes burning. ‘I don’t hold with superstition.’
The blow to the side of his head came hard and he fell to his knees, reeling and dazed, black spots filling the corners of his eyes. The men around him laughed, and he forced himself back to his feet.
‘Shall we finish him off?’ one voice said.
‘No, tie him up,’ the captain’s eyes were cold through the gaps in his heavy helmet. ‘We’ll drag him back and let the queen deal with him. We’re the Queen’s Guard, after all.’
Two men leapt down from their horses and the huntsman’s jaw clenched as rough rope burned his skin as they tugged it tight around his arms.
‘And bring his things.’
‘What about the stag?’
‘You two. Take it up to Ender’s Pit and throw it in. Even the dwarves won’t be able to get it out of there.’
As the soldiers dragged him out of the clearing, tugging the rope this way and that to shake him off balance, the huntsman tried not to think of the beast that he had now killed for nothing. To take any life was a serious business, that was the first lesson of the hunters. A death before its time must have value, whether it be to provide food or safety or shelter. The stag’s now pointless death left a stain on the huntsman’s soul. He would have his revenge for that, one way or another. He kept his feet solidly on the ground despite the men’s attempts to topple him, but when they reached the track and the horses picked up their pace no man could have stayed upright. He did not scream though, even as the ground tore at his clothes and skin. He would not give them that.
The world spun by in a kaleidoscope of trees and light and sandy stones until they reached the edge of the forest where finally the track widened and levelled into a well-used thoroughfare. It was no kinder to his battered body and the huntsman fought to keep his face twisted away from the ground. As blue sky replaced the wooded canopy, the shape of the kingdom laid itself out around him, strangely vast and oppressive when seen from the ground. He bit down on the inside of his mouth and tried to focus on anything but the searing pain through his shoulders as they threatened to pop free of their sockets. The land was the hunter’s friend and knowing its layout could help him. A huntsman never gave up and at least the agony of his body was proof that, for now at least, he was still very much alive.
In the distance to the right was the Far Mountain which sat on the skyline of all the kingdoms, but here it was fringed with a range of jagged hills punctuated with dark patches from which black smoke rose in clouds. Mines, they had to be. And mines meant a dwarf land. He had never seen a dwarf although the tales of their small stature, long lives and hardy spirits had reached his own kingdom. To be so small forever was a strange concept to the hunter. How different the world must look.
A small rock was kicked up by a horse’s hoof and caught his cheek, slicing it open slightly. He gasped and fought the urge to cry out. He would not give them the satisfaction of showing his weakness. Pain, like all things, his father had told him, passes. The few people who had come to the road from the patchy villages they passed, took a cursory glance at him and then scurried away. He caught a flash of pity on a few faces he was dragged by, but their glances all remained downcast and none came too close.
The Queen’s Guard finally came to a halt outside the castle walls, and as the huntsman rolled carefully onto his back and panted out his exhaustion he saw that different soldiers guarded the gates. These were dressed in a rich blue decorated with a gold lion on their chests. He recognised this uniform – and it wasn’t of his own kingdom’s alliance. They wore silver helmets that, unlike the Queen’s Guard, did not cover their faces. Why were the Queen’s Guard hiding their identities, he wondered. Were they unpopular or did the anonymity guarantee them more fear from the populace? Both were likely, judging by the bristling of both sets of soldiers’ horses, reflecting the tension between the men who rode them.
The soldiers were certainly eyeing the Queen’s Guard with a healthy dislike. The huntsman lay back and breathed hard into the dirt, happy just to have a moment of respite after being dragged so far.
Shadows fell across him and he looked up to see one of the soldiers in blue – an old dog with battle scars cutting across his weather-beaten face – standing over him. He reached down and, with one strong tug, pulled the huntsman to his feet. The world spun madly for a moment as the agony in his arms became almost sweet in its exquisi
teness, but as it faded to an excruciating throb he was pleased that, although he was swaying, his trembling legs hadn’t failed him. It wasn’t just dwarves who were hardy. The men of the hunt were born tough too and he would not let them down while so far from the forests of home.
‘He killed a white stag. He deserved the ground,’ the captain snarled. ‘He’s the queen’s prisoner. One of ours. You have no right to touch him.’
‘He may well be a traitor, and if so, then I’m sure he’ll pay the price.’ The second soldier remained where he was at the huntsman’s side, defying any of the soldiers in black to knock the prisoner back down again. ‘But our king, the Commander of all the guards, queen’s and otherwise, respects bravery in all. This man hasn’t screamed on the road. Not once. We’d have heard him.’ He turned his head and spat into the dusty ground. ‘We normally do. The king would allow him to face his fate on his feet.’
‘The king isn’t here, or haven’t you noticed?’
‘But he will be back. And I still outrank you, little brother.’
‘So you do, Jeremiah, so you do.’
The huntsman looked from one to the other. Even though the captain’s face was mostly covered by the lines of his helmet, he could see the two men had the same eyes. The same chin.
Although the captain still looked defiant, the huntsman knew he would stay on his feet for the rest of the journey. As the gates opened and they left the king’s guard behind, he nodded slightly to Jeremiah. The soldier didn’t respond and the huntsman hadn’t expected him to, but thanks had still been required. He now owed the man a debt, just as he owed the white stag a life.
The city was full of life and energy, as were all the kingdoms this close to their castles. Merchants hurried this way and that with carts laden with cloths and fruit, from side streets came the clang of metal as blacksmiths worked on the ore from the mines and children ran between adults, ignoring the shouted reprimands and laughing as they chased each other. It seemed the city of his kingdom’s enemy was not so very different in spirit to the city of his own. No wonder his father always shook his head and laughed quietly when they heard new stories of war. Their kings might have their battles, but a huntsman could talk to a huntsman and a baker could talk to a baker happily enough no matter what flag they served under.
He walked wearily forward as the small entourage took the centre of the road, no matter if there was someone already in their path or not. As quickly as the pedestrians cleared out of their way, so laughter died as they passed. One man spat in his face as he walked by, the warm thick liquid, rancid with tobacco, stinging the cut on his cheek, even though the man couldn’t know what crime, if any, the huntsman was being dragged in for. As he stepped back the man looked to the guards for approval and then glanced upwards. A small twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his fear.
The ravens perched so still on the rooftops were out of place against the brightness of the wealthy city, filled as it was with ornate buildings and shiny clear glass windows. This kingdom was winning its skirmishes and it had the mines, and therefore plenty of strong metal which so many of the kingdoms lacked. No doubt much of the metal scraped from the heart of the earth made its way to his own alliance. Traders didn’t let wars get in the way of business and kings didn’t let wars get in the way of revenue. There was affluence here. The market squares were lined with pale sandstone and the closer they drew to the white castle at the core of the city, the richer the stones became, glinting with shards of crystal in the sunshine.
He let his hair fall across his face to shade his eyes as he studied the ravens above them. There were too many of them, perched every twenty yards or so on a turret or chimney. They made no noise and their eyes, shining like the tiniest black pearls from the Meridian Sea, darted this way and that. They were watching the activity on the streets below. One met the huntsman’s gaze as he walked beneath it and the bird stared back, coldly fixated. Despite the events of the past months the huntsman still didn’t really understand the politics of cities and princes, but he did know wildlife. This behaviour wasn’t natural. He had no fear of ravens – they had done nothing to deserve their reputation as a bad omen. It was just a bird of a differing feather to a dove. This bird’s feathers though, were decidedly unruffled.
The huntsman dropped his gaze, having seen all he needed. The ravens were enchanted. He was sure of it.
It felt like they marched up hundreds of stairs before they reached the highest tower of the castle, where the queen was waiting. The huntsman had lost count by the time they got to the top, but as the soldiers’ boots echoed on the black marble floor all the huntsman could see through the arched windows was the sky. A cool breeze, much sharper than the warm wind below, caught him and he shivered. Were they so high they were almost among the clouds? And why would the queen of such a rich land have her throne room so far above her people?
Finally they reached a vast circular room high in the tower. The walls here were as black as the stone beneath their feet, but the solid colour was broken up by patterns and streaks of crimson red, the decoration sharp and jagged like winter branches that had stretched up through the floor, far from wherever their roots might be in the castle below. It looked like unnatural veins on black skin to the huntsman.
In the centre of the room was a solitary throne made of cast black ore and lined with luxurious red velvet cushioning. The huntsman took in a deep breath. Everything here was new. Opulent and impressive as it all was, these had not been the queen’s rooms for long. There were no scents in the crisp and brittle air as if even the summer outside didn’t dare venture in.
At the back, an ornate archway led to a smaller room and as the guards threw him to the floor and he slid forward a few feet, he caught a glimpse of strange objects laid on soft cushions and locked in sparkling glass cases. A shadow fell across his line of sight and behind him the guards stood to attention. The queen had arrived.
Her footsteps were delicate and her stride short as her heeled feet tapped over to stop before him. The huntsman’s dark eyes rose from the cold floor and for a moment his aches and pains were forgotten. She was beautiful. Her hair was like the ice on the sheer walls of the Far Mountain. Her lips were pink hearts from the highest branches of the blossom tree and her eyes were so blue and cold they stung him to look into them. He’d seen winter wolves who looked like that just as spring began to ease the rest of nature’s suffering but start their own. Pure defiance, even though they knew their time to chase the frost to a different kingdom or die had likely come. Winter wolves, so much smaller and more ethereal than their grey rough brothers, were beautiful, delicate and dangerous. This queen was no different.
‘I see you’re still taking orders from your big brother,’ she said, her eyes on the captain.
‘I had to, your Majesty. He’s the senior ranking officer. What else could I do?’
‘You’d do well to remember that the king will not be returning home soon. I’m told his campaign is doing well and he’s pushing towards the sea. He says he might not be back for another two years.’ The soldier shuffled awkwardly under the intensity of her icy gaze.
‘That’s a long time. Terrible things can happen to people – or their families – in that time. The dwarves always need ore sorters, and sadly, as we all know, only dwarves’ lungs can cope with the dust for very long. If you feel uncomfortable serving in my guard then I’m sure I can find a use for you elsewhere, Captain Cricket. And remember, in his absence, I am the voice of the king himself.’
‘It won’t happen again, your Majesty.’ The captain quickly tugged open the huntsman’s rough hemp bag. ‘The prisoner had these on him. I thought you might want them.’
The diamond slippers. Of course. The huntsman watched as the queen’s irritation with her servant vanished at the sight of the sparkling shoes. As the light hit them and refracted, all the colours in the rainbow dazzled in their surfaces. The queen’s beautiful eyes widened and her mouth opened slightly. He knew why. The s
lippers were warm to the touch. They tingled with charm and charisma. He’d felt it when he’d taken them from that very different kingdom, and he’d heard their story since. There was more than precious stones in their making.
‘Slippers for a ball,’ the queen whispered. ‘And with such magic in them.’ She looked down at the huntsman again, this time with far more curiosity. ‘And he killed a white stag?’
‘In the heart of the forest. I ordered my men to throw it into Ender’s Pit.’
‘Not a fitting burial for such a beast. But at least no peasant will eat it.’
The huntsman could smell the relief in the sharp tang of the captain’s sweat, but it was overwhelmed by the warmth radiating from the queen’s skin. How could someone so cold on the surface have so much heat inside her? His own heart beat faster. He was a huntsman, after all, and proximity to danger always excited him. How old was she, this queen? Younger than him, for sure. He met her gaze.
‘You can leave us,’ she said, still not looking up at her men. They didn’t protest, and the huntsman wondered what kind of weapons this delicate beauty had in her arsenal that made her men sure they could leave her with a killer and she’d be safe. Magic, it had to be. He’d learned a lot about magic in the past few weeks – it was more powerful than any blade. Not that he had a blade. Even if he did, he’d find it hard to use on this exquisite creature.
As the soldiers left he got to his feet, regardless of a lack of permission. The queen didn’t comment, merely studied him as he rose. He stood several inches taller than her but she didn’t step back. She was not afraid of him, that was for sure.
‘Where did you get these?’ She held up the slippers and the sunshine they reflected danced across her flawless face.