The
Haunting of the Grove
was an ancient hunting spell of Eildon, so old that half the words were spoken in the Chyrian
tongue—Eildon’s original settlers. A party was prepared: it would include Gael, old Garvis of Grays himself, Lord Auric’s Captain Tully, and also a strong, tall old man known only as Hunter, as subtle a master of woodcraft and tracking as ever Gael had known, though when she complimented him, he only hemmed and said, with an ironical gleam, that he was in truth a city man, and proud of it. Garvis Merl of Grays was a handsome, aging man, with all the courtly manners Gael expected of Lien’s gentlefolk, though he was touched by a bitterness that only lightened when he looked upon Mayrose, she who had shared all the years of exile from Lien’s courtly circles, or upon his lively daughters. And these daughters … to Gael’s dismay, Lady Guendolin of Grays, Garvis’s younger daughter, was to accompany them on the
Haunting.
Gael would have spoken against this, and strongly, but to work the spell, there must be a virgin in the train, and she must be a fast rider.
After some practice in the meadows and woods close to hidden Erinhall, Gael saw that the choice of Lady Guendolin was not so foolish as it had first seemed. Lady Guendolin was a small girl: short, wiry, intense. There was no foolishness in her … save perhaps for those moments when she cast her eyes Lord Auric’s way, and Gael—along with everyone else—could see how truly she adored her sister’s handsome betrothed, his fine gentle manners. Such a contrast to the rough girls of Mayrose, their plain straight figures and training!
Lord Auric did not practice with them; he was to join them after the spell had begun. After two days, he made his way to Balufir Court. He was to join a hunting party—the prince’s hunting party, for Matten, Heir of Lien, though hemmed in on all sides by the Brown Brotherhood, was still allowed some of the princely prerogatives, hunting for pleasure among them. In four days’ time, those training to make the
Haunting
would ride out to Fountainfields, one of Lien’s famous hunting forests, where the Prince and his court would take their pleasure, hunting the fat red roebucks that were bred there for just this purpose. Gael sent a message to Tomas—she would not risk using her slip of cedarwood, for Lady Mayrose warned her there were ways within Lien of detecting such magics; the witchfinders of
Lien never tired of tracking such threads. But at last they were ready, and the fivesome rode out.
They rode cross-country, for they wished to avoid scrutiny. Gael gained in flashes a sense of a well-ordered, thickly-populated land, with elegant houses of the gentlefolk nestled among the trees, and wide estates. Still, for one who had been raised in Mel’Nir, it seemed a small, heavily-burdened place. They passed an astonishing number of punishment places, tucked back away on quiet lanes and within lonely fields. In one place, they passed a pair of blackened stakes, and she knew that women accused of using magic—nothing more than this!—had been burned there.
At Fountainfields, they reached the forest enclave’s long boundary wall, made of mellow, golden red brick. They rode along beside this wall for more than a mile, through unkempt brush—Gael could hardly imagine the labor that had been lavished upon this barrier, and all to keep a parcel of deer from running wild—the wall was surely too low to deter a determined poacher. Finally they reached an old, neglected-looking door, and Garvis of Grays had the key. Inside was a broken-down row of coops for pheasants and other game birds, disused and fallen into ruin, along with a pair of wicker pens, overgrown with grass and empty, where the red roe deer were fattened in season and brought to fawn. Passing these pens, they went on through the woods, immaculately cleared and maintained; Gael saw why old Garvis had scoffed at her reluctance to bring Ebony, her fears that in this magical chase he would fall and harm himself on “uneven ground.” Even the low-hanging branches were trimmed, to prevent fast riders from coming to injury; all around, the ground had been smoothed and shaped; she could not tell what was nature and what was artifice.
Lord Garvis was intimately familiar with this forest; of course, he had hunted there through all his youth, probably right up until the terrible spring when Rosmer had conspired to have his family, his lovely sister, murdered. He led them through a maze of planted glens and then up to a little table of sheltered high ground, under an enormous spreading oak. If all
went well, Lord Auric would bring the prince’s party along the open vale beneath: they would call the spell, ride down and overtake them, cull young Matten away from his people, and then give him chase, hunting the young prince through to the completion of the spell, the grove ceremony.
While they were waiting, Guendolin napped with her head in her father’s lap. Garvis of Grays stroked her rough hair—Gael saw in him a terrible fear that his daughter would somehow fall sacrifice to this
Haunting
. He dearly wished to send her home, but he could not quite bring himself to do it. This showed the extent of the terrible hope he lay on the
Haunting
’s success, made Gael afraid in her turn. She would have brooded on this further, but Hunter spoke up—perhaps he recognized the turn of her thoughts—diverted her with some questions about the Chameln. He had lived some years in Achamar and was curious to learn about this recent wedding of Tanit and the Eildon count. And Aidris, the Witch-Queen? Did she still have her wits about her? Morning passed away to afternoon. It was almost twilight when they heard the first horn, still far away, but coming swiftly to them.
They leapt up and drew together on the crown of the hill. Gael had the Fleece in her hands: she held it to the center of their circle, and they all caught hold of its folds. They had to go carefully, for this was not a call to the Dark Huntress, but to the Mother, for her Blessing. Gael and Lady Guendolin spoke aloud the intonation, then they all went hastily and mounted up. Gael uncouched the Lance from its traveling straps. She could not keep it in the bands if they were going to gallop. All four of the adult riders cast anxious looks at Guendolin, they could not help themselves, but the girl’s eyes were only for the head of the vale, where the first of the princely hunt’s riders would make their appearance.
A movement came—no horse, but a magnificent stag, delicate legged, its sides heaving. Foam streamed from its lips, its eyes rolled in terror. The poor animal was lagging—its end was near. Three lanky deerhounds followed, then a bunched pack of heavier hounds, then the grand cavalcade of the courtly Lienish hunters, tightly bunched together. Lord Garvis moved his horse
forward, the signal that he had seen Lord Auric and Prince Matten among this crowd; at this cue, Gael raised, brought down her lance—pale blue fire spread, encircled them. She felt a tearing, somehow familiar, yet distinct, then there were streaks of light all around them, and it was as though they had entered the current of a swift-moving stream, and it was pulling them forward. As Ebony began to move, as she pressed him down the hill, she sensed she was only half riding in this dark plain, down this dark hill. There was a strange flowing lightness all around her; the trees, the stones of the hill, and, then, even the riders of the prince’s hunt seemed to stream and fade away.
Ebony was thundering downward through this pale blue shadowland; ahead, she saw white faces turned to them, as if seen through water. The movement of their attack had finally caught the hunting party’s attention. At the point of a little group, she saw a slender young man on a beautiful white and grey horse. He wore a brown tabard of rough cloth over a silken shirt in blue and white; he pulled round his horse’s head without realizing what he was doing as he turned toward the distraction. Now the animal almost stumbled, skewing sideways through the other riders. Gael turned Ebony’s head to track this man’s tail—this was surely Matten of Lien, the man they must ride down for the grove-ceremony.
His eyes, even at this distance, seemed to meet hers, and in that moment quarry and hunters took a bond. Gael and her party, riding the stream of pale blue light, were moving faster than mortal steeds could ride, and as they came up toward him, Prince Matten’s horse, too, fell into the stream, gained a preternatural quickness, slipped away, rode involuntarily out and away from his companions. Gael had a flashing glance at the royal hunting party as she rode through them and beyond—she saw Lord Auric, who would be left behind after all because he was not in the spell, then at his side she glimpsed two familiar faces, one golden-haired and sun-touched, one dark-haired and pale—just a flash, then they were gone—but her startlement was so great she would almost have pulled Ebony up, save that for the spell, there was no stopping him.
Dannell Royl; Devon Bray the Adept. What were they doing
here? Had the poor pretender out of Eildon been forced upon this hunt, that he might glean some last courtly polish before being sent out among the Chameln? Even within the swift flow of the
Haunting,
Gael felt a stab of dread for this poor lost pawn. What was happening in Mel’Nir? Was the news already spread abroad that the Chameln’s Lost Prince was at last found, would be brought home? Gwil Cluny had brought the Pretender’s Journal safely to Nightwood and the house of Vanna Am Taarn. Surely Tomas would make the story known to Gerd Am Zor and his family; surely measures would be taken to protect this poor forsaken bastard of the Zor, trapped within Lien’s web.
Streams of blue mist dragged past her. She was moving faster than the mist itself, closing in on the young prince—he kept glancing back to her over his shoulder; perhaps he did not know this was the worst thing he could do if he truly desired to outrun her. Garvis of Grays, Hunter, Tully—she could not hear their horses, would not look back herself to see where they had gone. The only one who had kept pace was young Guendolin, bent light as a feather over her short horse’s neck—Stryder was a Chameln grey, and fleet of foot—urging him forward with her voice.
They chased the prince on and on—if all this was enclosed in the Fountainfields wall; Gael could hardly conceal her amazement at the distance. She could see the prince’s steed was tiring—if all had gone as planned, Lord Auric would have delayed Matten in taking his remount; this horse should have been tired even before they’d come charging down the hill.
As their pace began to slow, the mist broke into swirling currents, trammelling them back toward the dark world. They were in a part of the park that was populated with ancient trees. The prince turned his horse sharply—he knew where he was. Perhaps he was trying for guile rather than sheer unthinking flight, but it was too late—his pretty mare was done. She stumbled, Prince Matten gave an angry cry, half-jumped, half-fell, to the turf. He had to go back to his horse for his sword, then he pulled it free of the saddle strap and slapped her away.
Gael, reining in Ebony, remained mounted, scanning the territory. They had come to rest in a verdant glade—not that any
part of Fountainfields was not green and well-tended!—but autumn here seemed held a little in abeyance. A premonition came to her: this glade might prove witness to more than the expected effects of the
Haunting.
She prayed she would retain control, not lose possession to some unexpected great coil of power, power that might rake the young prince ungently, as well as all those around him. Behind the prince, there was a little pool, almost perfectly round; it was overgrown with moss and flowering plants, withered a little from the fall’s first cold nights. An age-patinaed dipper tied to a rough length of twine stood nearby, perched on a rooted staff by the water’s edge.
“Do you know who I am?” she asked the prince.
“You have been described to me.” His voice was steady, though his face was white with fear. “You are the kedran
Wanderer
from the Chyrian Coast.”
“If you know I am the
Wanderer
,” she said, “you must also know it is nothing for me to call the Stillstand, the Grand Bewitchment. You are frightened, I am sure, but you are also a prince, and I will offer you a choice. I have come here today for a single purpose, and it is not to harm you. Shall I cast the Stillstand, or will you give me your word of honor, and accept what I am here to do?”
“You dare not call the spell,” said Prince Matten. “There are witchfinders all around—even now they will be closing in. Call your spell, and they will surely find us.”
“Is that your choice?” Gael raised the Black Lance.
“No,” the prince said, shivering. Someone must have told him of the Stillstand, the awful helplessness; he could not bear the thought. “I will submit. This I swear on the Goddess, the Great Mother, and all who serve her.”
“Don’t trust him!” cried Guendolin, coming down from her horse, half-frantic. “To one such as him, the Mother is only the foul Marsh-Hag! What would it cost his honor, for him to cross such a pledge? Make him swear to something else, to something he believes in!”
Gael stared at the young prince, deeply met his eyes. In his face, she could see a shadow of the manly handsomeness that molded the striking features of Dannell Royl, the sensitive
brow of Gerd Am Zor, even a curve of cheek she had seen in the young giant of the east, Chawn Yorathson. Here was an uncomfortable choice. She slipped down from Ebony, came toward him, the Lance still in her hand. “Let us drink on your words,” she said, catching up the dipper by the pool.
“I will take your Blessing,” said Matten, bowing. Gael felt a heady rush of surprise, understanding all at once what he was asking from her: this was a ceremony she knew from her life at the Holywell, a Blessing called from the Goddess to sanctify a pledge. She had not expected this; perhaps no one bred outside of Coombe would have known what to do …