2
KING Henry and his court were out hunting when she rode into the broad enclosure that formed the northernmost of the royal hunting lodges in the Thurin Forest. It had taken her seven days to ride here, pushing her pace and changing horses at Quedlinhame. This time, at the monastery, she had been restricted to the stables; she’d had no chance to contact Ivar again. On the road, she’d seen no trace of the mysterious creature who had passed so close by her before.
Great hall and barracks, kitchens, smithy, storerooms, stables, and a few guest houses made up the hunting lodge. A large grassy field surrounded these buildings, bounded by a steep-bedded, narrow river on one side and the palisade wall on the others. Servants scurried here and there about the lodge. Liath heard the squeal of pigs being driven to slaughter for the night’s feast. A veritable army of servants swarmed around the cookhouse—set well away from the great hall in case of fire—and farther, down a grassy slope to the river, servants aired linen and featherbeds and washed clothes.
Once she crossed under the palisade gate, a groom took her horse and informed her that the king was gone for the day. Liath was glad to miss the hunt. She could take no pleasure in hunting some poor, terrified creature—it reminded her too much of her own life.
She settled her saddle and harness in the same empty stall where she found Hathui’s familiar gear, saddlebags and rolled-up wool blanket. Hathui had gone out with the king. She crouched to open the bag, set her hand on the book within—and hesitated. Had the daimone appeared—tracked her down—because she had opened the book out on the road? Or because she had, in her thoughts, recalled Da’s death? Or had it only been coincidence that the creature had appeared then? She closed the flap and tied the pouch shut, shoved the saddlebag under her saddle, then went outside.
It was a fine blustery autumn day with clouds aplenty and the scent of cooking fires heavy on the wind. Brittle leaves of faded yellow and orange rolled across Liath’s boots, blown by the wind. Goats grazed on the verge of the forest on the other side of the river, attended by a solitary shepherd. No one marked her. They were all too busy.
The morning’s sun which had shone on her earlier had now vanished, shrouded by the wings of a coming storm. This was the season of storms, blown in one after the next. She shivered, thinking of the Eika, themselves a storm blown in from the north; it was still painful to remember the fall of Gent.
Yet the world beyond seemed far away, here deep in the heart of the forest. No one lived here, no freeholders or peasants working a noble lady’s estate or church lands farmed the steep hills and densely wooded valleys. The Thurin remained a forest wilderness, and here the king hunted most autumns.