Page 5 of The Huntsman's Heart
“Is it the betrothal which has you all overset, my lady?”
“Yes. No! It is everything. All of it. Why must I marry a man I do not love?”
She makes a soft cooing noise. The brush moves quietly over my hair. “It is the way of the world, little minnow. You can swim against the tide, but you’ll only grow tired and be carried away.”
I pout, though I know in my heart she is right. “If I were a man, it would be different.”
“Would it?”
“Yes. If I were a man, I could choose. I could choose not to marry at all.”
“Not if you were a prince.”
I think about this as she braids and ties my hair. Last year we gave up trying to set curls in it while I slept. By mid-morning they always fall out and my hair returns to being perfectly straight. I’ll never look like the other ladies at court with their styled hair and soft, dark eyes. But now that I'm a little older, I realize I do not want to.
I climb into bed and she tucks me in just like she used to do when I was small. Just like I did with my father earlier. This brings the tears back to my eyes, and I press my lips together, unwilling to cry again.
“There now. Get some rest. Things will look brighter in the morning. You never know how things will turn out. Sometimes an older and wiser head is good in a husband. You are young. You will learn.”
I’m too tired and overwrought to argue back. So I simply roll away, shutting my eyes and trying to shut out the longing for another chance. Another life that is vastly different from the one I’m trapped in.
What is the use in longing for something I’ll never have?
Alaric
I get two days of peace. Two days when I’m not called upon to track down the unruly princess. Two days when I take my horse and ride out beyond the wall, bringing back the head of an unfortunate dire wolf I come across.
At least I would have had two days of peace, but those two days were haunted with memories of a slim, shapely figure, of red pouting lips I should not be imagining kissing.
The messenger waves, and I reluctantly draw Tharrok to a halt. “What is it?”
His face is pale. He shifts uncomfortably in his saddle, though the horse looks fresh enough. He wasn’t looking long. “Her Majesty wishes you to see her in her chamber.”
I turn and spit upon the earth in disgust, but her summons can’t be ignored. “Fine.”
Without another word, I spur my horse and make for the stables. I take as long as I dare removing the saddle and brushing him down, delaying the inevitable.
I do not bother to change from my riding gear before climbing the stairs to the upper level of the keep. Up here the air is clean and fresh. No scents of animals or food or muck from the levels below pollute the royal chambers. Yet the cloying sweetness of her perfume tenses my jaw and makes me wish I could slink below to the great hall and the fire. Or out to the frosty forest where the air is truly fresh and clean.
There might be monsters in the Gloamwald, but the worst of them are here, at the heart of Blackthorn.
“Enter.” The queen’s voice cuts through the thin air and stiffens my back. I pause with my hand on the door, steeling myself for what will come.
Melantha sits at her dresser, long, dark hair unbound and trailing down her back. She wears a thin black garment with a lace neckline and cuffs. In the mirror, she watches me asI approach. I look away from her reflection, disgusted by the loose, wrinkled skin, the dark circles, the withered, ancient corpse it reveals. Her true image, unfiltered by the spell she keeps me for.
“What is your desire?” I ask, though I know what she wants.
Her brows twitch into the beginnings of a scowl and she presses her lips together for a moment. “I have spoken to you about the way you address me. Do not make me do so again.”
“What is your desire,my lady?”
“Show me.”
She does not need to say more. Each week she calls me to her chamber to perform this ritual. This dance which has become a duel. Each sevennight we eye each other off. I search for a weakness, a moment when she will reveal her hand. She watches me smugly, knowing
she’s found mine and I will never escape her.
My feet carry me into position behind her. My mind longs to be anywhere but here. I place my hands on her shoulders and close my eyes, drawing on the cold, unnatural force within. My skin, icy already, grows colder still as I weave the magic, and my fingers feel so brittle they might snap off at any moment. The chill pulses in my bones, burns in the place my heart once beat. It softens and knits flesh that’s not my own. “The blood,” I grit out through clenched teeth.
