Chapter 3
A NOBLE brUTE
ASTROPHEL
‘TRY TO KEEP UP, Astrophel. It’s ill-luck for the chase to start without the leader of the hunt.’ Graylen Oberion kicks at his mount, a glint sharpening his deep-set eyes. ‘We wouldn’t want further misfortunes hampering this binding of yours, now would we?’
I clench my jaw. Peak’s sake! Does every courtier and their liegeman know about Leilani’s efforts to abscond from tonight’s ceremonies?
A mist of powdered ice churns behind Graylen as he charges across the hills that range beyond the city wall, headed south for the Thronewood.
He glances back, shooting me an oily smile, a smile which speaks to his privilege as one of The Nine, and leaves me feeling as unworthy and small as when I first entered Meissa, an illegitimate fatherless nobody.
Blood rising, I pat Silvermist on the neck and urge my gelding forwards. As I press my heels into his sides, he eases into a gallop, his movements swift and sleek, cutting through the air like whetted steel.
The tightness in my chest abates as the wind pinches my cheeks, tugging icy fingers through my hair.
For the first time since dawnrise, I’m breathing freely.
A calm descends as Silvermist and I move over the hills.
I forget any anxiety over tonight’s ceremonies, whether I’ll take first blood at this hunt held to honour my forthcoming nuptials, or how Leilani will receive my binding gifts.
Instead, I focus on the rhythmic movements beneath me, the pulsing clatter of hooves.
Since boyhood, I’m never so free, so fully myself, as when on horseback.
I soon catch up to Graylen, huddled alongside the other riders at the forest edge. I nod to the assembled company. I know these courtiers less well. They’re older and our paths didn’t cross at the Asteum, though I recognise the ridged nose of Saros Bidelion, leader of the King’s Watchers.
‘Is this where it was last seen?’ I jerk my chin towards the thicket.
Saros nods. ‘The scouts are out questing with the hounds as we speak.’
‘And they’re certain it’s a hoarclaw?’ I try to keep the note of incredulity from my voice, but thanks to the Sickening the mountain-bears are scarce, starved almost to extinction.
They’re fast-moving, known to range wide distances despite their bulk, but to my knowledge, they’ve never been seen this far south.
‘Three confirmed sightings since dawnrise.’
Frostfangs were glimpsed near the Asteum in recent moons, driven from the ravaged heights in search of prey. Perhaps it’s no surprise hoarclaws followed where the bolder peak-wolves led.
‘A noble quarry. One befitting such a special occasion. Play your hand well and you might spill the blood of two rare beasts before night’s end, eh, Vesparion?’ Graylen cuffs my shoulder, snickers.
I shoot him an acid look, tighten my grip on the reins.
For a moment, the courtly facade I’m so careful to maintain cracks.
For all Graylen is a member of The Nine, making crude quips about Leilani’s maidenhead is, without question, overstepping.
Even for him. She may be Starborn, wayward, difficult to govern – at least if her recent behaviour’s anything to go by – but Leilani is still a princess of the blood.
I’m about to answer Graylen roundly, tell him to keep her name from his mouth, but horns trill before I have the chance.
The beast’s been spotted.
I squeeze my thighs tight against Silvermist’s ribs and cluck my tongue. I’ll be damned if I let Graylen have this kill.
This time, I leave him in a cloud of ice-dust.
*
IT’S DARK IN the Thronewood, the scent of resin heavy in the air.
I keep Silvermist on tight reins, inching slowly through the pines as I search for scratchings on tree-trunks, tracks in the frost, any sign of the hoarclaw.
No further horns have sounded, and I haven’t crossed paths with the other riders since entering the forest. I’m still leading the charge.
A mound of fresh scat lies half-buried in the frosted leaf-litter.
I steer Silvermist towards it, following the trail left.
The trees are so densely clotted here I have to swat low-lying branches from my face. Silvermist halts, snorts deeply. Smoke. And not the sweet woodsmoke of the hearth. This is fouler. Pyresmoke.
My chest tightens anew, seething with memories of the fever that stole my father from me.
If he hadn’t died as a result of it, he might have fulfilled the promises he made to my mother: bound himself to her, legitimised me.
Were it not for Flamefever and the wretched Oralian sand-rats that caused it…
I swallow my bitterness and drive Silvermist through the wood, intent on my prey.
Nothing comes of looking backwards. My star is finally rising. My future starts tonight.
*
AFTER A TIME, the forest’s twisting paths begin to look alike.
I note a trampled branch and my heart lifts.
A sign the hoarclaw has passed this way.
But no, I recognise the egg-shaped boulder lying beside it.
It’s the same Sister-blooded branch I passed perhaps an hour back.
I’m riding in circles. I squint through the canopy.
The sun shines weakly, but it’s already high in the sky.
I consider turning back for the palace. I need time to dress, to steel myself for delivering my binding gifts to Leilani. A ritual I’m dreading.
Since arriving back from the Asteum, I’ve toiled long into the evenings with the palace silversmith designing and redesigning the diadem and binding bangles to ensure they’re fit for an heir to the Crystal Throne.
That they won’t shame me. Aside from a cold first greeting, when the King announced the date of our binding, I’ve scarcely seen Leilani.
She’s avoided me at every turn. And truth told, I’ve kept my distance too.
This binding is not what either of us would have chosen.
I can only hope she receives my offerings tonight with better grace than she did the last time I deigned to give her a present.
We were but children then. Though, if what I’ve gleaned from the stray remarks the King has let slip of Leilani’s wilfulness and prideful nature proves true, there’s every chance she’ll snub them.
It’s only a moonsquarter since she tried to flee the palace.
The King assures me she’ll accept our union in time, has stressed the importance of beginning as I mean to go on: with a firm hand so she learns to respect me.
But I’ve heard rumours of the Starborn – what they’re capable of.
I’d be a fool if I wasn’t wary of a lifetime chained to such a woman. I tighten my grip on the reins.
This binding is a means to an end.
Legitimacy. Power. All I’ve ever wanted.
Voices lift on the air. Thin and clipped but oddly languid. That distinctive coterie inflection I’ve worked so hard to emulate.
I urge Silvermist closer, till I spy Saros and Graylen astride their mounts in a small clearing, a short distance from the scouts and other riders. The hounds lie panting on the forest floor while the riders take it in turn to sip honeywine from drinking horns.
It appears they’ve been no more successful in tracking the hoarclaw than I.
‘Do you think she’ll come to the Watching Chamber, then?’
Saros is speaking. I pull on my reins so I can listen unobserved behind the veil of dense-knit trees.
‘Care to make it interesting?’ Graylen replies. ‘A purse of sickles she runs again. I’d wager even the tainted heir wants better for herself than some peak-blooded by-blow. Tin will never be silver, no matter how you polish it.’
At this, I dig my heels into Silvermist’s sides and break cover.
Let him say that to my face. He wouldn’t dare.
The courtiers blanch as I ride out, reaching for the spear girded to my side.
Graylen hasn’t been able to best me in the lists since our second sunring at the Asteum. I’ll unhorse him in seconds.
But before I can challenge him, horns sound again. Only this time it’s not the warbling trills for a sighting.
Three low peals. The King approaches.
I draw myself straight in my saddle. He wasn’t looked for. The regent rarely rides out with his courtiers. Not since the Queen took ill.
When Hyperion emerges into the glade, he’s resplendent in fur-edged robes and followed by the seven members of his Crescent Conclave, his closest advisors, all wearing the sickle swords for which their sacred order is named.
Eight such swords were forged, but the King has never sought to replace my father.
His sword has lain unclaimed since his untimely death.
I bow my head in greeting. When I raise it, the King is smiling down on me.
My chest swells. Even now, the King’s favour is ever the sun it was to me as a boy. I bask in the warmth of it.
‘Well met, Astrophel. How goes the hunt?’
‘I’m afraid we’ve lost sight of our quarry.’
‘A pity,’ he says, scanning the clearing.
‘A hoarclaw’s tusks are a rare prize. Overpowering such a beast would have augured well, ahead of your binding.
We’d hoped to toast to your triumph and witness the spoils.
’ He signals to his retinue and is handed a silver-rimmed drinking horn.
Iskselk tusk from its snow-white colour and helical shape; a priceless treasure now the great ice-seals have all died out.
‘But no matter. A time for celebration, regardless.’ He raises the horn.
‘To your health, Astrophel, on this propitious occasion. Long have I desired the joining of our noble houses.’ He puts the vessel to his lips, knocks back the wine, then eyes the assembled courtiers.
His meaning is clear. Coming here, in all this state, a calculated move: an official stamp of approval on tonight’s ceremony.
To denounce me is now to denounce the Throne.
Graylen and Saros squirm in their saddles, exchanging nervous glances as they echo the King’s toast.
Hyperion clears his throat, looks to the sky. ‘The hour grows late and we have much to prepare. You’d best disperse. Declare the hoarclaw the victor. We’ll meet again, by moonslight, in the Watching Chamber.’
There’s a grumbling, but the courtiers make to obey his instructions.
‘Astrophel, I’ll await you in the Orbium ahead of the ceremonies. We’ve family matters to speak on.’
I bow again. ‘As it pleases you, Radiance.’
Let Graylen and his cronies stew on that. They may deem me unworthy, but the King wants me for his daughter. Has publicly claimed me as kin.
‘I’ll come directly after I present the Princess with her binding gifts.’
He waves his assent as he turns for the palace.
The courtiers trail after him. Throat parched, I pause to take a drink myself, grateful for the refreshing sweetness of the honeywine as I drain my horn. I’m about to coax Silvermist homewards, when a flash of something grey streaks through the trees.
The hairs on my neck bristle. The hoarclaw, I’m sure of it.
I’ll permit myself one last chase. Petty as it is, I want my bounty. I want to prove myself. Most of all, I want the ceremonies to go well tonight. I need all the good omens I can get.
I follow the fast-moving shadow, passing track marks and several broken branches as I go.
Banking a sharp corner, I find myself before a small stream.
On the other side of the water, stretching up a tree on its hind legs, is the hoarclaw.
I reach for my spear. It’s enormous, easily twice my height, its shaggy fur a light shade of grey, almost silver, save for a white diamond patch behind its right shoulder.
The fur along its spine is slicked up in icicle points, resembling the feathered frost formations the hoarclaws are named for.
Two gnarled tusks protrude from its gums. It’s grunting, batting at a hive with great curved claws that can disembowel a man in seconds.
They rarely attack unless provoked, but hoarclaws are apex predators for a reason.
I swallow and raise my spear. My aim is true.
Honed from a decade of jousting practice.
And I’m close enough for a clear strike.
But as I tighten my grip, as I draw back my arm, something stops me from letting it fly.
It’s a noble brute. Hungry. Hurting no one. Just a creature battling to survive in a world stacked against it. Not so different from me.
There are so few hoarclaws left. Why should I kill it? Sport? Glory?
I let my spear drop to my side and watch the hoarclaw discard the hive to the forest floor when it proves empty, then lumber further into the woods.
Sometimes honour demands mercy. My father taught me that. Something Graylen and his ilk would never understand, for all their superior blood.
I wait for the hoarclaw to shamble deep into the thicket before turning Silvermist for home.
It’s time to ready myself for an audience with my future bride.
Another kind of battle. One of wills. One I can only hope ends as peaceably as this has.