“I would hope not, but . . .” Barthl shakes his head. “He’s guaranteed it somehow. Multiple letters reference his promise to that effect.
Most of them are from Count von Hirsching, who seems to be coordinating this as the margrave’s proxy.”
“That aligns with what we overheard the night of the ball,” Emeric says. “The letters aren’t enough evidence thatheexecuted the plans and committed a crime, but they should prove intent and motive beyond a doubt. You won’t be participating in the hunt,MeisterBarthl?”
“No.”
“Then once the hunting party’s left, I can collect the letters. They should be safe in the outpost. We may be able to search the study again as well.”
The hour-bells peal through the chapel, and we all jump. Gisele laughs, a little strained. “We should get going before anyone else arrives. Thank you so much,MeisterBarthl. You’ve taken a terrible risk and done the empire a great service.”
It’s Barthl’s turn to look sheepish. He doesn’t seem quite prepared to be appreciated, especially not by the noblewoman I’ve been rudely impersonating for the last year. “M-my husband and I are thinking of starting a family here,” he stumbles. “I just want what’s best for us all.”
“You’remarried?” I ask, amazed. “We’re best friends and you didn’t even tell me?”
Barthl stands from his pew. “I’m leaving.”
“I can meet you outside the banquet hall after the hunting party departs,” Emeric tells him as Gisele and I scoot into the chapel aisle as well. Then he catches my arm. “Vanja, wait. Take this with you today.” He holds out a knife. I recognize the hilt; it’s the one plated in copper. That one I remember: best againstgrimlingen. “Just in case.”
`
By midafternoon, I’m beginning to wonder whether Adalbrecht’s lost his nerve. The biggest problem we’ve encountered thus far is that Gisele does not like her horse.
There’s nothing wrong with it, of course; it’s a dappled silver mare, almost as fine a steed as Adalbrecht’s stallion. But it’s notherhorse, the one she brought from Sovabin. “It’s not the same,” she groused this morning as we rode out of Minkja. “Falada’s gait is glass compared to this.”
I’ve had no use for her old horse—the rare times I’ve needed a mount, it’s been a sturdy little pony suitable for Marthe the Maid—so it’s safe to say Gisele’s own gelding is just growing tubby on oats and rolling around in a pasture.
Not that it would have made much of a difference. The wedding hunt is an old tradition but something of a moot point with this many chattering nobles traipsing through the forest outside Minkja. Any wildlife fled long before we arrived, and Gisele and I have stayed at the heart of the crowd, surrounded by too many others for even a beast like Adalbrecht to risk a shot. Instead we’re strolling sedately through the sun-streaked snow, the white birch trunks starting to gild with the honey glow of a clear winter afternoon waning.
The real hunters have gone far ahead, including the margrave. It’s supposed to be good luck to bring in large game for the wedding feast, and knowing Adalbrecht, he’ll want to make sure his kill is the first, and the biggest.
Gisele’s mare tosses her head, no doubt picking up on Gisele’s frustration. If this were Sovabin, she’d be at the front of the pack. Instead she’s stuck here, picking at her pearls.
“How much longer, do you think?” Gisele asks me quietly, so the others don’t hear. I’m far from the only lady’s maid here, but it’s still unusual for her to keep my company over, say, Sieglinde von Folkenstein’s.
“Not long. The roads will start freezing over again after sundown.” My hands tighten on the reins. The bridle is purely ornamental; I couldn’t stop Ragne from bolting if I wanted to, but at this point I’d trust she had good cause. She snorts as if in agreement.
I don’t say that Ihopeit ends soon, because the cold is making me ache everywhere a gem has erupted. Including the two new rings of bulbous pearls around my wrists, hidden under lambswool-lined leather gloves. I’m bundled up in a riding costume like Gisele’s, with thick leggings, woolen breeches, a long tunic, and a heavy coat under a heavier cloak, but it’s still not quite enough to keep the chill at bay.
A horn sounds through the woods. The hunters are on the chase again. Every time, they’ve come up empty. The rest of the party moves into a reluctant trot, in no rush to catch up.
Then the horn sounds again. A strange sort of shiver pulses through the leaves.
The golden sunlight softens and bleeds to silver, like it’s passing through a cloud—but the sky is crystal clear. Shadows on the snow blur into a sea of blue.
The horn sounds a third time.
The hunting party surges into a canter, snow spraying like water. Ragne lets out a startled whinny and leaps forward to keep pace.
“What’s happening?” I shout.
Gisele doesn’t answer.
When I look to where she rides to my left, I see a blue-silver glow has fogged over her eyes, and her mare’s. Everyone else seems caught in the same trance, eyes milky and unseeing. Only Ragne and I have escaped. Whispers of frosty sunlight flicker among the riders, manes and tails and ghostly teeth, phantom horses in the tide.
“It is like theWildejogt,” Ragne calls to me, “but it is wrong!”
The Wild Hunt. I saw them pass Castle Falbirg once on a cold, clear night, with the Spindle-dam at the head; I could have sworn she looked straight at me. Sometimes she leads the hunt, pulling riders from roads and dreamers from their beds; sometimes it’s Waul of the Winds, sometimes the shadowy blur of the Knight Unseen.
