Three low peals. The King approaches.
I draw myself straight in my saddle. He wasn’t looked for. The regent rarely rides out with his courtiers. Not since the Queen took ill.
When Hyperion emerges into the glade, he’s resplendent in fur-edged robes and followed by the seven members of his Crescent Conclave, his closest advisors, all wearing the sickle swords for which their sacred order is named. Eight such swords were forged, but the King has never sought to replace my father. His sword has lain unclaimed since his untimely death.
I bow my head in greeting. When I raise it, the King is smiling down on me.
My chest swells. Even now, the King’s favour is ever the sun it was to me as a boy. I bask in the warmth of it.
‘Well met, Astrophel. How goes the hunt?’
‘I’m afraid we’ve lost sight of our quarry.’
‘A pity,’ he says, scanning the clearing. ‘A hoarclaw’s tusks are a rare prize. Overpowering such a beast would have augured well, ahead of your binding. We’d hoped to toast to your triumph and witness the spoils.’ He signals to his retinue and is handed a silver-rimmed drinking horn. Iskselk tusk from its snow-white colour and helical shape; a priceless treasure now the great ice-seals have all died out. ‘But no matter. A time for celebration, regardless.’ He raises the horn. ‘To your health, Astrophel, on this propitious occasion. Long have I desired the joining of our noble houses.’ He puts the vessel to his lips, knocks back the wine, then eyes the assembled courtiers. His meaning is clear. Coming here, in all this state, a calculated move: an official stamp of approval on tonight’s ceremony.
To denounce me is now to denounce the Throne.
Graylen and Saros squirm in their saddles, exchanging nervous glances as they echo the King’s toast.
Hyperion clears his throat, looks to the sky. ‘The hour grows late and we have much to prepare. You’d best disperse. Declare the hoarclaw the victor. We’ll meet again, by moonslight, in the Watching Chamber.’
There’s a grumbling, but the courtiers make to obey his instructions.
‘Astrophel, I’ll await you in the Orbium ahead of the ceremonies. We’ve family matters to speak on.’
I bow again. ‘As it pleases you, Radiance.’
Let Graylen and his cronies stew on that. They may deem me unworthy, but the King wants me for his daughter. Has publicly claimed me as kin.
‘I’ll come directly after I present the Princess with her binding gifts.’
He waves his assent as he turns for the palace.
The courtiers trail after him. Throat parched, I pause to take a drink myself, grateful for the refreshing sweetness of the honeywine as I drain my horn. I’m about to coax Silvermist homewards, when a flash of something grey streaks through the trees.
The hairs on my neck bristle. The hoarclaw, I’m sure of it.
I’ll permit myself one last chase. Petty as it is, I want my bounty. I want to prove myself. Most of all, I want the ceremonies to go well tonight. I need all the good omens I can get.
I follow the fast-moving shadow, passing track marks and several broken branches as I go. Banking a sharp corner, I find myself before a small stream. On the other side of the water, stretching up a tree on its hind legs, is the hoarclaw. I reach for my spear. It’s enormous, easily twice my height, its shaggy fur a light shade of grey, almost silver, save for a white diamond patch behind its right shoulder. The fur along its spine is slicked up in icicle points, resembling the feathered frost formations the hoarclaws are named for. Two gnarled tusks protrude from its gums. It’s grunting, batting at a hive with great curved claws that can disembowel a man in seconds. They rarely attack unless provoked, but hoarclaws are apex predators for a reason. I swallow and raise my spear. My aim is true. Honed from a decade of jousting practice. And I’m close enough for a clear strike. But as I tighten my grip, as I draw back my arm, something stops me from letting it fly.
It’s a noble brute. Hungry. Hurting no one. Just a creature battling to survive in a world stacked against it. Not so different from me.
There are so few hoarclaws left. Why should I kill it? Sport? Glory?
I let my spear drop to my side and watch the hoarclaw discard the hive to the forest floor when it proves empty, then lumber further into the woods.
Sometimes honour demands mercy. My father taught me that. Something Graylen and his ilk would never understand, for all their superior blood.
I wait for the hoarclaw to shamble deep into the thicket before turning Silvermist for home.
It’s time to ready myself for an audience with my future bride.
Another kind of battle. One of wills. One I can only hope ends as peaceably as this has.
UP IN SMOKE
LEILANI
