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This was dream and nightmare and fantasy and horror and freedom and disbelief all churned into one.
Serilda was given the riderless horse, and its strength and power seemed to transfer into her own body. She felt invincible as they raced away from the city. The hellhounds tore across the countryside. The world blurred in her vision and she doubted her horse’s hooves were touching the ground at all. Their path was guided by thelight of the Crow Moon and the unearthly howl of the hounds. They skimmed over riverbeds. Shot past darkened farmhouses. Crossed over pastures lush with grass, freshly plowed fields, and hillsides singing with early wildflowers. The wind in her face smelled sweet, almost salted, and she wondered how far they had gone. They might have been near the ocean, except that it wasn’t possible to travel so far in such a short time.
None of this was possible.
In her daze, Serilda thought of her mother. A young woman, not much older than she was now. Yearning for freedom, for adventure.
Could she blame her for having been tempted by the call of that horn?
Could she blame anyone? When so much of life was rules and responsibilities and cruel gossip.
When you weren’t exactly what others thought you should be.
When your heart desired nothing more than to stoke the flames of a bonfire, howl at the stars, dance beneath the thunder and rain, and kiss your lover, languid and soft, in the frothy surf of ocean waves.
She shivered, sure that she’d never had these yearnings before. They felt wanton, but she knew they were hers. Desires she’d never before recognized now clawed their way to the surface, reminding her that she was a creature of earth and sky and fire. A beast of the woods. A dangerous, feral thing.
The hounds chased wild hares, a startled doe, quail, and grouse.
Serilda’s mouth watered. She glanced at her father, whose face was caught in speechless bliss. He was at the back of the group, though Zelig was galloping as fast as his old legs would move. Faster than he had likely ever run in his life. Moonlight glistened off his sweat-covered body. His eyes flashed wild and bright.
Serilda turned her head and caught the eye of a woman to her other side. She had a sword at her hip and a scarf tied around her waxen throat, and Serilda vaguely remembered her from the night of the Snow Moon.
Words filtered back to her through her heady thoughts.
I believe she speaks true.
She had believed Serilda’s lies of gold-spinning, or at least claimed to. If she had not spoken, would the king and the hunt have murdered Serilda that very night?
The woman smiled at Serilda. Then she dug her heels into her steed’s side, leaving Serilda behind.
The moment was fleeting. She wondered if it had even been real. She tried to lose herself again in the mad, delicious chaos. Up ahead, a man with a cudgel leaned forward from his saddle and swung at their newest quarry—a red fox who was trying desperately to get away, darting back and forth, but trapped in every direction by the hunt.
It was a direct hit.
Serilda didn’t know if the fox made a sound. If so, it was too quickly buried beneath the loud cheer and laughter that rose up from the hunters.
Her mouth was watering. The hunt would end in a feast. Their kills served on silver dishes, still swimming in pools of ruby blood.
Turning her face up toward the moon, Serilda laughed along. She released the reins and spread her arms wide, pretending to fly over the fields. Crisp air filled her lungs, bringing with it the most profound elation.
She wished for this night to never end.
On a whim, she glanced back again, to see if her father was flying, too. If he was on the verge of weeping, like she was.
Her smile faded.
Zelig was still charging forward, trying desperately to maintain his speed.
But her father was gone.
The drawbridge thundered beneath the horses’ hooves as they stampeded across it and beneath the gatehouse. The courtyard was full of figures awaiting the return of the wild hunt. Servants hurried forward to collect the game. The stable boy and a few other hands took the reins of the horses and began leading them toward the stables. The master of the hounds lured the beasts back to the kennel with slabs of bloodied meat.
The moment Serilda slid from her mount, the spell over her shattered. She drew in a sharp breath, and the air was not sweet. It did not fill her with buoyancy. All she felt was horror as she spun around and her gaze landed on Zelig.
Poor old Zelig, who had collapsed onto his side just inside the castle wall. His sides were heaving as he tried to drag in breaths. His entire body was shaking from the exertion of their long ride, his coat covered in a lather of sweat. His eyes had rolled back into his head as he panted.
“Water!” Serilda screamed, grabbing the stable boy’s arm as he returned for another steed. But then, worried that she would crush his fragile bones beneath her grip, she quickly released him and jerked her hand back. “Please. Bring this horse some water. Quickly.”
