None of them leads us now. And it is getting colder.
The horn sounds a fourth time, closer. An answering howl snakes through the bone-pale trees, closer even than the horn.
“Why didn’t it take us?” I call to Ragne.
Ragne shakes her head, distressed. “It is the horses, the call is to the horses, and the riders are prisoners with them!”
Then we have to get Gisele off her mare. But I can’t just shove her from the saddle, there are a thousand ways that could go wrong—her foot could get caught in the stirrup, she could fall and be trampled—
I grip the copper knife.Don’t panic.
“We need to push her away from the rest of the riders.” I huddle close to Ragne’s neck, moving my left leg up and away from her side. This is about to get rough.
Ragne shoulders into the silver mare, not hard enough to knock Gisele from the saddle, but enough to send her dancing wide of the pack. We weave around trees, driving the mare into open snow. Then I cut through my reins and loop the loose end around Gisele’s stomach, grabbing her arms and freeing the foot I can reach from its stirrup. She’s still entranced and doesn’t even fight. “Ragne, stop on the count of three—one—two—three—”
The mare keeps cantering, sides lathering with sweat. Ragne digs in her hooves. Between her and me, we drag Gisele from the saddle.
She crashes into the snow, then sits up, eyes clear and alarmed. “What wasthat?”
Before I can answer, hoofbeats pound through the woods. Adalbrecht appears as if from nowhere, spear in hand, bow strung and strapped to his back. I go even colder than the frost. He very well may try to kill us both here, while the guests are still caught in the hunt.
But confused shouts pierce through the woods. It seems breaking Gisele out shattered theWildejogt’s hold.
Anger darts through Adalbrecht’s face before it’s masked with dismay. “My blossom, what’s wrong?”
This time, a growl answers.
A massive, starving gray wolf leaps out of the trees, bound for Gisele.
She shrieks and throws herself out of its way. Adalbrecht’s face is impassive, evaluating. This close, I can see the flicker of blue in the wolf’s eyes, smell the rot in its fur. It’s amahr, like the one in Lähl.
A dark spike thrusts into my sight against the snow: Death watching from the edge of the clearing, her face shifting, shifting, shifting. Gisele’s features keep surfacing.
Voices rise. Figures rush through the trees.
Ragne flings a hoof at thenachtmahr’s side, but it whips away. She screams her fury.
That seems to bother Adalbrecht’s stallion, its pink nostrils flaring. “Rear and try to scare his horse,” I whisper to Ragne.
She obliges, throwing her forelegs into the air and bellowing as I tumble from her back. The copper knife is still unsheathed in my hand. I slash it at the wolf-mahr. It snarls, but the copper scares it back, buying Gisele and me space.
From the corner of my eye I see a handful of hunters and nobles have nearly reached us. No doubt Adalbrecht staged it just so: They’ll witness a mindless beast tearing his bride to pieces.
But now his stallion is rearing too. He drops his spear to grab the reins.
And Gisele swoops for it. The spear shudders as she levers it to push herself back up, snow raining from her cloak. Even with the illusion of the pearls, I recognize the way her eyes sharpen, the angle of her shoulders, the comfort of the weapon in her hands.
The wolf-mahrcharges for her again. This time she leans back, readies herself—and drives the spear into its belly.
It lets out a hissing howl, thrashing in the snow. I pass her the copper knife. She slashes it across themahr’s throat.
It goes still. A stinking stain spreads into the snow.
Adalbrecht looks like he wants to obliterate Gisele here and now. The many, many nobles gathered around us look like they’ve witnessed the birth of a saint.
And when I look for Death, she’s gone.
Gisele hands the knife back to me as a hush falls in the woods. The sunlight warms to gold again.
