The icy wind that swirled through the air carried with it the distant murmur of merriment from somewhere amidst the pines. Shrike held out his arm for Wren to take and led him towards the sound. The trees provided some shelter from the wind’s bite as they went and soon they came upon a clearing where fae had begun to convene.
Aside from the far greater variety of folk, it reminded Wren very much of the gathering before a mortal fox-hunt. Rather than the distinctive red riding coats, or “hunting pinks,” as society called them, the fae wore costumes in every cut and colour. Wren glanced over the throng in search of familiar faces—Nell, the ambassador, Tatterdemalion, or perhaps even some of the hidden folk he and Shrike had met at Mabon. He did espy Lady Aethelthryth; difficult not to, given her perch atop her steed standing some seventeen hands high. As Wren peered through the crowd, however, he found many in the crowd staring back, some halting in their tracks or silencing their own murmuring conversations to do so. He supposed he ought to expect such a reception. After all, the Oak and Holly Kings hadn’t been seen outside their realm since the Winter Solstice.
A nymph with damselfly wings dared to approach. Wren wondered how she didn’t freeze mid-flight, clad only in a diaphanous chiton which seemed to flow in breezes beyond those felt across the icy lake.
“Good morrow, my lords,” she said, alighting barefoot on the snow before them. “May I offer my congratulations on the success of your Midwinter rite?”
Heat flooded Wren’s face. His tongue, leaden in his mouth, couldn’t have moved for speech even if he’d known how the deuce to reply to her. No mortal maiden had ever spoken to him so brazenly.
Shrike thanked her with a bow. The nymph beamed and continued on her way.
“Well,” Wren mumbled as she went out of earshot. “At least part of me is warm.”
Shrike cast a fond smile down at his burning cheeks. “It becomes you.”
Wren took a little satisfaction in that despite himself. “How did she know…?”
Shrike blinked. “The days grow ever longer.”
“Oh.” Wren supposed that provided proof enough for fae purposes.
The howling of the hunting horn spared Wren any further embarrassment. The broad-chested, moss-bearded, antlered leader of the hunt—whom Wren could not think of by any appellation other than Herne, particularly given their prey on this occasion—sat astride his enormous wolf in the midst of the motley throng, head and shoulders above all. He brought the yard-long curled hunting horn down from his lips just as Wren glanced over to regard him. Herne gestured to those fae who fluttered above the hunt, Tatterdemalion and the damselfly nymph amongst their number, and with a decisive thrust of his arm, sent them scattering in all directions.
Wren looked to Shrike for an explanation.
Shrike bent to murmur into Wren’s ear. “He sends them to sight the white hart.”
“Why not send the wolves and hounds to track it?” Wren asked Shrike in a low tone. “Would they make too much noise?”
Shrike shook his head. “It has no scent.”
“Oh,” said Wren. “Right. Ethereal and all that.”
Shrike smiled and smoothed an errant lock of hair out of Wren’s face. Even in this icy realm, his gentle touch spread warmth.
Not many more moments passed before a particular fluttering fae flitted back to whisper in Herne’s ear. Herne raised his horn to his lips again and blew a rousing note. The body of the hunt, already on pins and needles for the chase to begin, shivered into readiness. Herne’s wolf howled along with the horn. A kick of his heels saw it bounding away over the snow, and the hunt followed with thunderous tread.
Shrike, however, hung back, and therefore so did Wren. Only after the hunt had abandoned the hollow did Shrike go forth, and then in a slightly sideways direction, and on foot besides. He made no move to summon a stag for them to mount, as they’d done in past hunts. Wren supposed it’d seem a touch odd for them to ride a deer and force it to watch them stalk and kill another deer. And Shrike appeared confident in his abilities to catch the white hart up on his own two legs.
Though, as they went along carving their own path through the forest, Wren wondered if Shrike had accounted for his mortal companion.
In the months following the Summer Solstice, Shrike had taught Wren many things—the tending of a garden, the rearing of goats and hens, the keeping of bees, and the butchering of game. Amongst and amidst all this, he had likewise attempted to instil in Wren some knowledge of the hunt. How to trackand shoot, yes, but more importantly how to move unperceived through the wilderness. According to Shrike, Wren had made great progress.
However, as they moved through the pines surrounding the Lake of Eternal Ice, even Wren’s mortal ears picked up the echo of his own footsteps as a patch of snow-turned-ice or a dead twig crunched under his heel. Shrike, meanwhile, travelled in total silence. And at a far quicker pace, too, having to halt and turn several times in their journey to wait whilst Wren picked his noisy way through the trees. Though Shrike gave not a word nor a gesture nor even a hint of complaint—indeed, he appeared more pleased than otherwise whenever he turned over his shoulder to espy Wren behind him—Wren couldn’t help but feel his presence held Shrike back. Doubtless Shrike would’ve caught the damned white hart by now if he didn’t have Wren dragging him down.
In the midst of Wren’s bitter self-reproach, Shrike halted again. But rather than turn to Wren, he instead crouched over something in the snow.
Wren caught him up and stood beside him, bending over his shoulder to try and see what he perceived. At first Wren saw nothing and thought perhaps whatever sign the white hart had left could be caught by fae eyes alone. Then, as he tilted his head and squinted, a shaft of sunlight coming through the pine-needles glanced off the snow just so, and he beheld the faint and delicate impression of a cloven hoof-print. The indented snow seemed to shimmer with iridescence. He caught his gasp before it left his throat.
Shrike continued kneeling for some moments longer. Only the infrequent whistling of the wind through the pines broke the silence.
“Would it be cheating to use the acorn spell?” Wren whispered. It sounded as loud as a shout to him in the snow-muffled wood.
Shrike shot him a startled glance which quickly transformed into a bemused smile. He replied in his soft burr, “Not cheating. Merely fruitless.”
Wren supposed he ought to have guessed than an ethereal creature with no scent might have other tricks to prevent its discovery through magical means.
Shrike arose and slung his longbow off his back to string it. Then, turning to Wren, he whispered, “Wait here.”
