II.

Hunt

Gray, wet sunlight filled Astara's room the next morning when she awakened from the sound of the distant temple bells. She held her quilt to her chest and stared at the muted white sky through the window, grateful for the natural light. She had slept badly, unable to shake the memory of the Queen's room and what she had seen. Beyond the horror of the serpent, the mirror itself was haunting her mind. Through fits of sleep she kept picturing its tall cabinet doors closed and then suddenly open—and then her vibrant reflection in it despite the darkness and the room's deep shadows. It all seemed supernatural to Astara: almost akin to magic.

Did the Queen, perhaps, know more of the mystical arts than just recipes for healing?

With some reluctance, she pulled herself out of bed and began to rifle through her wardrobe, muttering curses all the while and wishing she had had an outfit sorted the night before. Eventually, she decided on an ivory hunting gown that she knew would cover her riding boots. But her handmaiden seemed to be missing and without her she couldn't locate her boots and had no sense of what powder or cream to apply to her complexion, let alone how she should braid her hair.

"A fine way to start the day," she muttered, her fingers finding the last of her gown's buttons. She gathered it was only half past sunup, but the Hunt would begin at midday. The party would commune at the third slope of the inner Callis mountains, and her appearance was expected to be prompt.

When she finished dressing, her eyes landed across her room at the frame of her mirror on the opposite wall, which at that angle was curved away from her. Her fingers fell from her gown as she stood staring at the frame in peculiar arrest. It was just the same oval pane of glass she'd always looked through. But she felt a tremor of fear. What if there was something wrong with her reflection there…what if it wasn't quite right?

She walked herself over to it, holding her breath. Then she made herself stand before it, and breathed in relief as she saw only herself there: no illumination, no shadowy slithering.

And there were her boots, hiding in the corner behind her reflection. She smiled.

Before she left her room, she took Edwain's ring from the box inside her dresser and threaded it again on the chain next to her mother's locket. She also took a crystal on a chain for her father in hand.

The hallways were just as dismal in the muted light of morning as her chambers were. She rubbed her arms for warmth as she made her way through the drafty and light-sparse twists and turns to where the large oaken doors of her father's bedchamber stood. His room had come to double as a medical ward, with physicians and healers and chambermaids running in and out through the day.

Astara stood before the wide double doors, thinking of him on the other side. Then she took a breath and knocked, awaiting the chambermaid that ushered her in.

He was sitting up, drinking his morning tea of wormwood, black root and thyme. When he saw her, he smiled and called her to come in.

"Beautiful. Just beautiful," he said in his slow way, a small smile on his face as she approached. His eyes were shining with a bright delight that Astara had not often seen when he was well. His usual expression had always been pensive and serious. "Every day you're looking…" here he paused, his lips moving to work themselves into speech again, "…more and more as your mother did."

"Good morning to you, Father." Astara sat gently on the edge of the bed and showed him the crystal she'd brought him. Inside it was a rosemary sprig that she'd asked the gardener to install. He let her put it on him, and she kissed his forehead as she fastened it. "How are you feeling today?"

"As splendid as a foxglove," he said, raising the teacup to his lips again. When his hand quavered, she took the cup in her own to help him drink.

Astara smiled, pleased he was feeling up to holding a conversation. Up close his eyes were bright blue and glass, almost shining. But she was also watching the bones beneath his face as he sipped. They were there under his skin, visible and gray. He had declined steadily in the past few months, and when she saw him now, he was almost as small as she was.

A few moments of silence passed between them as she helped him sip, her mind retreading past images of him when he was healthy—when there was no thought or even notion of decline. How many months had it been, exactly? Had it already been a year?

King Varus had been known across the realm as the Iron Grip. Like his father before him, he held a fastidious passion for his people, with a reputation of being a great reformer. Different from the older kings, his idling ancestors who Astara had learned were reluctant to enact new reforms or shake the establishment of ancient rules. He had once told Astara that the people of the kingdom had been plagued by a "creeping dearth." They resented their lands and their livelihoods, he had said, because of a spreading fear that had caused them to be mistrustful and resentful of the ruling class. When she had asked what the fear was, he said that they had come to see themselves as on unequal footing, missing something that they couldn't name.

King Varus had shaken his head sadly as he told her these things. He had been determined to continue his father's quest to incite vigor into the populace again by incentivizing their contributions to the kingdom at large, and this was coded into a law that his father had made his life's work, known as the Edicts. Because of how much growth in the kingdom he had seen from them, King Varus was determined to take them farther than they'd been enacted before.

Astara's entire life had been filled with talks of the Edicts. He father and the Council had always been busy with them. The laws were controversial across the land, and she remembered discussions of peasant riots, but the Edicts were wildly popular with the nobles of Callis North, who saw their estates grow exponentially under the changes. Riots and unrest are part of the package with reform, King Varus had told her—change takes time to be digested by the heart and mind, even beneficial change. Before her father's illness had set in, he had completed a full draft of revisions to the Edicts, which sat currently in limbo.

Astara studied him again when he was finished with his tea. In his frailty it was hard to believe he was the author of such a massive set of laws. "Father," she said, setting his cup down upon the table beside him. "You seemed well—better than today—only a few months ago." She knew she shouldn't remind him, not when his spirits were high, but she felt the familiar sting at her eyes and couldn't help herself. "What could have happened to you between now and then?" She knew he wouldn't stop her if she cried. But there was a time he would have.

The King placed his hands upon hers. Her hands were shaking, but his were now still.

"My darling girl. My Astara," he said. "This thing inside me, it eats away." His voice was steady, but slow, as though he labored to find each word. "I knew it was there, even in its infancy. I knew it deep down. Because…" he paused for a moment, taking slow sips of air. "Because, I have always known myself. This thing…has chosen me for its home. And so be it. As the fate of the villager, so is the fate of kings." He leaned back and studied her with his still bright eyes. "My only remaining happiness," he said, "is that it has let me live to see you grow. And now," he said, a grin appearing, "you are a beautiful young woman. And perhaps, one day soon, a beautiful Queen."

Astara gasped. "Father," she said breathlessly, "how could we think about such things now?" He had always alluded that she would assume the responsibilities of the throne in the natural order of affairs, but he had never once referred to her as the future Queen so explicitly.

He smile grew. "This is the best time to think of such things. I have no doubt, that in my journey beyond," here he stopped, gathering his strength, "that in my journey beyond…you will lead this kingdom to the fullest it can be capable of. The next," here he paused again, "Edict, is in your hands."

Astara moved closer to her father and closed her arms gently around him, mindful that any pressure could cause him pain. Then she let her tears fall against his shoulder. His fingers grazed her hair, unable to return her embrace.

After a moment, Astara could feel the King's shoulders rise. "Hello, my dear," he said softly. Not to Astara. She lifted her head.

"Varus." The Queen was in the doorway, dressed in a gown of green and black that fanned across the length of the foyer. Atop her red curls there was a gold circlet, which Astara noted with some surprise. The Queen rarely wore any royal insignia. She was decorated for the Hunt, surely, although she would not be attending it.

The Queen clasped her gloved hands in front of her, her smile rigid. "You're not dressed, child," she said, in her dainty half-whisper.

Astara tried to return her smile. "I am, Your Highness. I've chosen just a simple gown for today."

The Queen narrowed her eyes, the smile unwavering from her face, and Astara recalled how quickly she had smoothed over her anger the night before when she had found Astara in her room. She is upset to see me here, she thought, feeling a warmth on her cheeks.

"Princess Astara," she said. "The chaplain has been awaiting your presence below to escort you to the Hunt. If you cannot be on time, how will you lead a kingdom?"

Astara sat up straighter, trying to hide her shock. This was the first day that either of them acknowledged her future role as the Rule of the Realm. She glanced up at her father, but he was staring blankly at the Queen, as though his previous thoughts had been wiped clean away. She had seen it before, and much more so recently. With alarm she put a hand to the bone of his cheek, but he sat still.

"I'll be going now, Father," she whispered, then kissed him and moved off the bed. She could feel her beating heart as she approached the door, taking care to bow her head to the Queen as she passed. The Queen stood tall and remained silent as she watched her go.

The sky was charcoal and threatened rain as Astara and the chaplain rode their horses to the third slope of the mountain, their hooves muddied with gold and red leaves. A thoroughly autumn day, Astara mused, warming her hand on Lazarus's mane and watching the mist ascend on the mountainside. The crossbow at her back felt heavy, and she touched the seams of its hilt a few times to ensure its placement. When finally they arrived at the circle where the Hunt would begin, the rest of the party were present, three dozen royals mounted and clustering in groups as they waited.

When they saw her, the groups of nobles upon their horses circled about Astara to greet her—the ladies clasping their gloved hands together and calling her beautiful, the lords bowing their heads and congratulating her on her first solo lead. A few looked at her sharply, but for what reason she couldn't be sure. She had no doubt they were burning with questions about her father—his absence this year would be the first since he took the crown. She reminded herself to remain cordial, and took care to ignore Edwain's sly wink as it was his turn to approach her.

"Congratulations, your Highness," he said, his breath visible in the chill air as he took her hand in his. "I look forward to the bounty we find today under your watch."

"You flatter me, Sir Edwain," she said, feeling the warmth upon her face. She was sure she had turned scarlet.

Once introductions concluded she joined the chaplain at the front of the group, organizing herself into a polite witness as he began his unwavering annual speech. "And to our brothers in the fight against inequity," he recited, his deep voice echoing clear across the slope, "from flying specimens to bones of clay, shall we all be rewarded by Heaven's just rights."

Astara sat tall and polite atop Lazarus, nodding along at his emphatic pauses and willing her demeanor to be most studious. But her thoughts had now drifted toward the future. For the first time, her father had implicitly implied to her that she was to be the Queen. Queen Lenore had done the same, in her own way. But then, why hadn't she been involved in any Council meetings thus far?

She frowned, and let her eyes flash over the crowd. Several eyes met hers. There was Lady Rea in her gray ostrich hat, Lord Guinan, and Lord Abram, who was sitting on an impeccably large black horse alongside the rest of Edwain's family. There were courtiers she could not recall the names of, and others who looked upon the chaplain with glazed eyes. Carefully, she searched for Edwain again and found him staring back at her, his eyes sparks of fire. Astara blushed and quickly averted her gaze, but it was hard to keep from smiling.

"… and to our animal kingdom, built just for us, may Heaven's blessing present its meaning through the Will above."

Now it was time. Astara pulled her crossbow out and aimed it toward the east, closing her eyes and whispering a prayer of strength as she pulled the bowstring. Think now, she told herself. What intention was it that she wanted to set with the freeing of the arrow? Confidence? Purity? When she'd been tasked with the leading of the Hunt, she promised herself that it would be a meaningful gesture as a daughter. King Varus's daughter. But the image before her was her abysmal behavior at the feast the night before—the words she had said to Queen Lenore.

Disgusted, she fired, and then the sixteen hounds were released, scattering across the wild sloping inclines of the Callis mountains. She nudged Lazarus with her foot and set off, the rest of the party spreading out into the forest behind her.

For the next hour the hunting group fanned out across the mountainside in search of the wild boar. Although Astara wished she could partner with Edwain, his mother's poor eyesight required him to be at her side, and instead she delved into the forest with Lady Rea and Lady Doela, who talked fantastically of the feast and who said what and how splendid or scandalous each facet was. By mid-afternoon, Astara had discovered a brook for Lazarus and had bidden the ladies a brief leaving as she followed the stream to a clearing on the eastern side of the slope. When eventually Lazarus paused for a drink she dismounted and stretched her arms, listening to the forest sounds around her.

To her left was the sharp blue and black slope in the mountain, its top haloed with clouds and touching towards the rain-gray sky. Behind her and out of sight was the image of Castle Valor, a spidery network of turrets and brick. And ahead of her was the forest. She closed her eyes. She could feel the shape of the breeze through the branches as she reached her hand out. Behind her the forest rustled, and she heard a raven's call.

"Princess Astara!" a deep voice boomed behind her. Astara shrieked and dropped her crossbow to the ground, startling Lazarus so that he bucked and nearly kicked her as she scrambled to back away from him. Once she managed to steady herself she looked up to see Lord Abram, who was watching her from atop his horse.

"Lord Abram!" she called, flustered, though Lazarus was making such a commotion that she could barely hear her own voice. She attempted to gain control of the horse, grabbing at Lazarus's reigns and shushing him while she stroked his mane. She felt deeply annoyed. Surely he could have called to her without startling her. As it was he was merely sitting there in silence.

When Lazarus finally seemed calm again, snorting and stamping his foot but remaining in place, Astara dusted at her gown and turned back toward Lord Abram. "You gave Lazarus and I quite a fright," she said as evenly as she could, though her inner thoughts were conjuring worse words.

He remained still, gazing at her with a furrowed brow as a trio of falcons flew over the tree range behind him. But his gaze seemed far away somehow. Confused, she thought of calling his name again, but stopped as his hand moved slowly behind his back. He was unfastening his crossbow.

Then he brought it before him and aimed it at her.

"Stay where you are, your Highness."

She blinked, staring at the bolt of the bow in his gloved hand.

"I—I have not heard right…." she started, feeling arrested by the air around her. But he was quite still, his weapon remaining on her.

Suddenly she felt very far away, as though she were watching the scene from behind a celestial glass.

"Lord Abram," she whispered, her skin prickling with sweat.

"Remove your crossbow. And move over there," he said, pointing the bolt ten paces to the left of Lazarus. His mouth had tightened into a frown. Strange, she thought. She had never seen his countenance this way before, his turned down mouth, his angry eyes. Usually when she saw him he was smirking or laughing, his demeanor something of a jester about the castle.

"Lord Abram," she tried again, by now feeling ill in her stomach. "Please."

"Do as I say."

She unfastened her crossbow and set it down by her feet, fighting through a brewing nausea at her own helplessness. She looked up at him, then shuffled to the spot he directed her too, feeling his eyes boring into her as his bolt followed her. Now she had nothing to her; even Lazarus seemed at a great distance.

"Lord Abram," she tried, her voice sounding impossibly small. "Lord Abram, you can talk to me. Please."

He remained still, seeming to tower above her there upon his horse, his face shadowed in the weak light of the meadow. She felt perspiration at her brow.

"I am to put an arrow directly into your heart," he said, his voice echoing across the small clearing.

Astara felt the blood coursing through her.

"I am to bring back proof," he continued. "Your heart…or your eyes. In a box that I brought." He cocked his head, looking quizzical as she stood frozen before him. "The box is inside my cloak. I've felt it on my hip this whole time. Its space…it would fit a human heart. I've measured it."

Astara's tongue felt dry in her mouth. She was unable to say his name again.

"It would be a quick death for you. The work afterwards will be much more unpleasant." Suddenly his eyes widened, and his mouth appeared to tremble. "There would be blood on the box. I'd have to wipe it away."

She felt herself trembling. Around her the woods blurred to a mottled brown, swirling as though she were in a snow globe.

Lord Abram seemed to recover, and narrowed his eyes again. "It is most extreme…most extreme indeed…that the Queen would ask for such a dark prize," he said, swallowing as he kept his aim on her. "But King Varus, she believes, King Varus has been a menace. A devil to the kingdom. And you would continue his legacy."

I will pass out, I will scream, she thought—but suddenly he lowered the crossbow, and Astara watched frozen as he wiped a gloved hand across his brow.

She stayed still, daring not breath.

"She dabbles in the Dark Arts, you know," he said quietly. "I have seen her sacrifice things. Hawks and rabbits. Perhaps that is why she desires proof of your killing."

"Lord Abram," she tried to whisper again.

"Run," he said quietly.

Astara trembled. "Run—where—"

"Run there!" he cried sharply, pointing his crossbow toward the line of trees that ran upward along the slope. When he looked back at her he was wild-eyed, shouting at her to run over and over again. "Get as far away as you can," he bellowed as the birds scattered through the trees. "Don't run to anyone else—don't tell them! Lenore will make sure it is the grave for you!"

Astara was pale with fright as she turned to bolt toward the woods at the opposite end of the meadow, leaving Lazarus behind as she was driven by the furious panic in her heart. Behind her, he was shouting at her to never come back.