Chapter 14
Alinore
ALINORE NUDGED HER mare into a canter across the brow of the hill.
Below her, the hunt streamed through the valley, the brown swirl of the hounds disappearing into the woods beyond, following the scent of the horned hare, and the galloping riders thundering after them, ruddy faces turned into the beating wind, their horses’ coats velvety dark with sweat.
‘Lady Alinore?’ called a voice.
She slowed her mare as Prince Ottone cantered up beside her on a bay stallion.
‘Why’re you back here?’ he asked, peering down at her. ‘You’re missing the kill.’
The ears of Alinore’s small mare only reached the shoulder of Prince Ottone’s stallion.
Alinore had asked the stablemaster several times if she could ride one of the larger horses in a hunt, but he always replied that at sixteen winters old, she was still a young lady and should be seated on smaller mounts. Ridiculous.
‘I don’t like the killing bit,’ she replied. ‘Anyway, why aren’t you down there?’
Prince Ottone always looked most comfortable riding and he was normally at the head of the hunt, leading the charge.
‘I thought I should check on Cress. And you.’
‘Or maybe it’s because you don’t really like the killing bit either?’
Prince Ottone shook his head, but she knew that she was right.
‘How is Cress finding it?’ he asked, turning in the saddle to look behind them.
Further down the hillside stood a cluster of ladies on horses, flanked by guards and stable boys.
The Queen was among the group, easily spotted in her rich indigo riding habit and trailing veil.
Cressyda was wearing an identical version, and both of their mounts had matching sapphire ribbons woven around their bridles.
Even from this distance, Alinore could see that Cressyda’s petite, delicate figure was sitting stiffly in the saddle, every part of her enduring the occasion.
‘She’d enjoy it more if she got rid of her side-saddle,’ said Alinore. She rode astride, unlike most of the court ladies. ‘Cress just needs to be bolder.’
‘Sometimes people can be too bold …’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I saw you jump that fallen tree.’
Alinore rolled her eyes. ‘I didn’t want to get left behind.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘You don’t need to worry about me. I can look after myself.’
Prince Ottone nodded, the wind pulling his dark curls away from his face. ‘I know.’
Below them the hounds howled in the woods, moving in for the kill, their barks echoing across the valley. They were hunting in the vast farmland that sprawled at the back of Syonno Castle, stretching and rising into the mountains.
‘My father taught me how to ride,’ said Alinore. ‘He was fearless.’
It was at times like these that she missed him the most. He would have found her daring impressive and would have let her ride a proper horse.
Memories of her father came to Alinore in flashes: the warmth of his hand steadying her when she was small; the bedtime tales of his travels during her childhood; his smell of leather, smoke and horses.
Each recollection made her ache. Since receiving news of his death two winters ago, the seasons had been dark and lonely.
She did not know how she would have survived it without Cressyda or Prince Ottone.
They never let Alinore sink too far into grief, tugging her back with laughter, coaxing her through each day, encouraging her to keep going.
‘Thank you for reminding King Borto of the anniversary,’ added Alinore, fiddling with strands of her mare’s mane. ‘It was nice toasting my father’s memory at dinner yesterday.’
‘It’s the least we can do,’ replied Prince Ottone.
They rode on in companiable silence until a smattering of applause broke out below and Prince Samsel emerged from the woods, carrying the head of a horned hare aloft, fingers gripped around one prong.
He swung it over his shoulder, blood dripping down his arm.
The King nodded his approval and the courtiers around him cheered.
‘I think my brother’s enjoying himself a bit too much.’
Alinore wrinkled her nose. She had noticed that Prince Ottone tried to stay out of his older brother’s way. Prince Samsel called Prince Ottone ‘the hulking beast’ or ‘the useless spare’, though he was careful to be all smiles whenever the King and Queen were present.
‘They’ll start another hunt in a moment,’ said Prince Ottone. ‘Are you coming?’
Alinore shook her head, avoiding his gaze. ‘I’m going this way,’ she muttered, gesturing off to their left, further along the hill.
‘Where?’ asked Prince Ottone, frowning.
‘Nowhere specifically. I thought I’d just have a look around. This is the only time I’m allowed out of the castle. We’re not all princes.’
‘And what’re you going to be looking for exactly?’
‘Nothing.’
He stared at her.
Alinore felt her cheeks flush. She found it difficult to keep anything from Prince Ottone.
‘You’re a terrible liar, Lady Alinore.’
‘Urgh, fine! I thought I might see a wild dragon. You said you’ve spotted them on hunts before. I’ve still never seen one.’
Prince Ottone tipped his head back and sighed. ‘I suppose we could be quick …’
‘You’ll come too?’ Alinore quickly tried to hide her delighted smile.
‘Of course. I know the best vantage point.’
Prince Ottone nudged his stallion into a canter over the brow of the hill and Alinore raced after him on her mare.
Mountain goats scattered with bleats of protest as they passed, and stones clattered down the slope in their wake.
They dropped into the dip of the next valley, hooves thudding against rocks, before beginning the steady climb up the opposite hillside.
Ottone glanced back once, a grin flashing across his face, as though daring her to keep up, and Alinore met the challenge with a laugh, leaning forward in the saddle, urging her mare faster.
Behind them, the hunting hounds howled, chasing a new scent.
As they crested a ridge, a nearby hillside flashed into view, stone cottages dotting its side like scattered pebbles.
Alinore squinted, trying to pick out details: the glint of straw-thatched roofs and the dark, round mouths of communal wells.
She had heard one of the King’s councilmen refer to the ‘many’ Mountain villages and Cressyda had later explained there were more than twenty, each with their own ruling governor in a constitutional monarchy.
Alinore looked at the distant stone cottages now, wondering what it was like to live up here in the thin, bright air, surrounded by wilderness.
And dragons. She was quiet, lost in such thoughts, until something high up to her left caught her attention.
‘Look!’ she cried. ‘There’s smoke up there!’
They paused on the rocky hill and turned. On a faraway mountain, a plume of dark grey wafted from a jagged ledge.
‘Do you think it’s a dragon?’ she breathed.
Prince Ottone chuckled. ‘I reckon so.’
He clicked his stallion onward and Alinore followed, keeping her head turned towards the cloud of smoke until it faded into nothing.
The path steepened, narrowing into a track cut by rain and goat hooves.
Prince Ottone’s stallion took the incline easily, and Alinore urged her mare after him, the muscles in her arms and legs taut with the effort of the climb.
Breath steamed from the horses, drifting back like banners, until at last the slope evened and the wintry sunlight widened around them.
Prince Ottone pulled his stallion to a halt. ‘Here we are,’ he said.
Below them, the land fell away in a tumble of stone and earth, rising and sinking in great toothed undulations. Valleys curved into shadows, then lifted into jagged ridges.
For once, Alinore was lost for words.
‘We’re standing on the border of Mountain folk territory,’ said Prince Ottone. ‘What you can see ahead of us belongs to the dragons.’
A cutting wind whistled about them and Alinore shivered, looking out into the endless folds of the surrounding mountains. Somewhere out there, hidden in shadowed valleys or on ragged heights, were dragons.
‘Does anyone hunt dragons in Calestra?’ she asked.
‘Never. It’s part of the treaty.’
‘What about on the other side of the border? In Journier?’
‘These mountains are vast and the other side of the border is almost deserted. Besides, who would hunt dragons anyway? They’re dangerous.’
Alinore was about to say, ‘My father did,’ but the words caught in her throat.
Sometimes it was too painful to speak about him, even to Prince Ottone.
She pressed her lips together instead, staring out across the ridges.
On the opposite hillside, she noticed a faint, snaking line like a sunken thread. ‘What’s that?’ she asked, pointing.
Prince Ottone grimaced. ‘It’s the Maiden’s Path. The guards use it when they escort the Maiden Sacrifice into the mountains.’
‘It leads to the Great Dragon?’
‘I suppose so. I try not to think about such things.’
The last Maiden Sacrifice had come from a Mountain village called Morccia.
She had been a pale-haired, nervous-looking creature who had wept throughout the ceremony in the main square of Tormale and hung her head while King Borto gave his ritual speeches.
Alinore imagined that girl setting off into the mountains, following the winding path, knowing each step carried her closer to the Great Dragon, and closer to death.
She gripped the reins and her mare stamped a hoof, as though sensing her unease. The thought of that lonely figure on the trail, swallowed by the hills, made Alinore’s chest ache. A single life, forgotten as soon as the ceremony ended and the feasting began.
‘The last Maiden Sacrifice’s name was Flessanie,’ she said, turning to look at Prince Ottone, her expression firm. ‘And you should think of her. We all should remember her.’
Prince Ottone’s features softened into thoughtfulness. He gave a small nod. ‘You’re right,’ he replied. Then added, after a beat, ‘For once.’
Alinore rolled her eyes.