Page 21 of The Huntsman's Heart
“Yet so it is, princess,” says Évandre gently.
“Don’t worry,” says Corvin dryly. “Life’s not all it’s made out to be. At least that's what I've observed. We have never been alive and were perfectly happy.”
I hardly hear him. Somewhere inside the cold shell of my body I’m still here, but I can’t make my limbs work. I can’t form my lips to the shape of words any longer.
I’m barely conscious of Raban lifting me and carrying me back over to my nest. He lays me down, but I don’t feel the scratchy leaves or the cold wind anymore.
I don’t feel hunger. I beat off that spider monster with only a log.
Then I think of Alaric’s cold touch.
His unearthly blue eyes. His impenetrable strength.
“What have you done to me?” I whisper.
“Shhh.” Someone wraps me with a blanket.
A wet doggy nose nudges at my hand.
“You’ll be alright, princess, you will see,” Raban says.
“We will take care of you,” says Corvin.
Alaric
What in damnation am I supposed to do now?
The queen commanded me to return with Guinevere’s heart. By rights I should not be able to disobey, since she holds my phylactery, but there just may be a way I can slither out of this like a serpent down a hole. So long as she believes the heart I present to her is the girl’s, then I have obeyed her.
The closest thing to a human heart is a sow’s heart. A wild boar won’t do. The heart would be too large. It will have to be a domestic pig. Even then I’m not certain it will work.
Unwilling to think about the alternative, I spur Tharrok into a canter and lean down to speak into his ear. “Carry me swiftly. There is more to do before dawn. Serve me well and you will rest next hunt.”
He tosses his head indignantly, but unlike me he cannot be perpetually in motion. My stallion needs sleep and good fodder, even if his master does not.
Even in the predawn, still the town stirs. Puffs of white hang from the breath of tired villeins, dragging themselves from their warm beds to start another day. A rooster tucks its head beneath one wing, not yet ready to announce the morn. A mangy dog sniffs a pile of refuse beside a rundown cottage.
In their stall, three fat pigs lie in an orderly line, pressed against each other’s rounded body for warmth. They squeal with alarm when I vault the fence and my boots squelch in the mud of their pen. The closest sow is the smallest, the most likely to have a heart the right size.
As I draw my long knife, a voice draws my attention from behind. “Please, sir. That pig is destined for the queen’s table on Sunday. I will lose my holding if she doesn’t get what she wants.”
I turn to see a cowering man dressed in tatty gray and brown rags, looking at me imploringly. He’s right, I have no doubt. Melantha would be no less ruthless with these simple peasants than she is the highborn servants she surrounds herself with. Not that this is any concern of mine, yet the knife twists in my gut anyway. I’ve done enough harm today.
A vision of Guinevere’s pretty face, distorted in agony with my blade in her chest, sears me, and I grimace.
“Please.”
“I need only the heart.”
The man wrings gnarled hands together. “If I slaughter the beast now, the meat will sour before Sunday.”
I nod slowly. “Then let me take it now, and I shall replace her before then.”
It’s clear from the man’s expression that he doesn't believe me. Why should he? “Sir, I’m a simple serf. I cannot stop you if you’ve a mind to take anything of mine. Look at me. I’d have as much luck fighting a monster from the woods. But if you deceive me, may the stone god curse you.”
I laugh. I doubt the stone god could do more to me than I did to myself, but to the man I say, “I will not do you wrong.”
Shaking his head, he steps back, offering no more protest as I withdraw my knife and take the sow. When the body is cooling and gutted, I try to leave the meat for the man’s table, but he shakes his head. “It ain’t worth the punishment. No one around here who values his life will risk eating good meat like that. No, you may as well take it with you.”
