The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [43]
Grace was so startled she could only answer with the simple truth. “We came by the path.”
“The path?” the rider snapped. “And who gave you permission to tread upon it?”
Durge cleared his throat. “The path is here for all. We need no permission to follow it.”
Ire flashed in the rider's eyes. “You are wrong, mortal. The path belongs to us, as does everything in this wood. You are trespassing here.”
“Then we'll leave at once,” Grace said. Like a candle burned to a stump, the desire to talk to the Little People had sputtered and died within her. In spite of his boyish appearance, there was a predatory air about the rider. His eyebrows slanted over his green eyes, lending his face a cruel aspect. “Let's go,” she said, tugging Durge's arm.
“Not so quickly,” the rider said, guiding his horse in a quick circle around them. Other figures stole into the glade. Some slunk on four legs while some pranced on two; some slithered on their bellies, and others flitted on wings as delicately woven as a spider's web. Grace had glimpsed such creatures on Sindar's ship, but only fleetingly, out of the corner of her eye. Here they gathered in plain view.
It was hard to be sure how many of them there were, given the way they kept weaving in and out among the trees. There were greenmen with round bellies and beards of oak leaves, prancing goat-men with shaggy legs and curving horns, and swan-necked women who wore gowns of white feathers—or were the feathers part of them? Tiny beings with butterfly wings and ugly, long-nosed faces darted about on the air, and golems made of sticks bound together by vines stared at Grace and Durge with hard pebble eyes.
“Stay close to me, my lady,” Durge rumbled as he reached up to grip the hilt of his greatsword.
The strange beings formed a circle around the two mortals. Like the boy on the horse, the goat-men and swan-women carried bows with arrows ready, and the butterfly creatures carried tiny bows as well, fitted with darts no larger than toothpicks. The greenmen carried wooden cudgels, and the other beings bore stone-pointed spears or wielded long thorns like knives.
“Tell me quickly,” said the one on the horse. “Which way did the king go?”
Grace shook her head. “But he didn't go anywhere. King Boreas is in the castle.”
Even in anger, the rider's boyish face was beautiful. “Not him, you dolt. I couldn't care less for the comings and goings of some foolish mortal who dares call himself a king. I speak of the true king—the forest king. Which way did he go? Tell me, and perhaps we will spare your wretched, finite lives.”
Like a ray of light, understanding pierced the fog in Grace's brain. “The stag. That's who you're hunting.”
The boy's eyes sparked with green fire. “We are always hunting him. Every year we slay him and spill his blood upon the ground. And every year he comes again, so we may begin the hunt anew. Now speak up, or it's your blood that we'll spill. Which way did he go?”
“That way,” Grace said, pointing to a gap in the trees directly opposite the place where the stag had vanished. Durge turned to stare at her, but she gave her head a slight shake. She didn't know why she had done it; only that the stag had been so majestic, so beautiful.
The rider grinned and lifted the silver trumpet, blowing a ringing note. “This way!” he said, motioning to the others, and urged his horse in the direction Grace had pointed. Grace dared to breathe a sigh.
Two greenmen bounded into the clearing, coming from the direction the stag had gone. The rider whirled his horse around, a frown on his elfin face. He leaned over in the saddle, and one of the greenmen jumped up to whisper something in his ear. The boy sat up at once, his face a mask of fury.
“You lied to me, mortal. The king did not go the way you pointed.”
Grace shook her head, searching for words. Durge pressed close against her.
“You are a fool to protect the forest king,” the rider said. He climbed down from