Thornspell by Helen Lowe Page A

feathered the sky. To avoid the congestion caused by farm carts already heading for the city markets, they took a steep, winding path down the palace bluff to the river and were ferried over to the other side. From there they followed a country lane for some distance, joining the main road east as the sun cleared the hills. The winter rains had not yet come, so the road was dry and would soon be dusty, but for the moment the dew was still heavy in the grass and surrounding hedgerows.
    Sigismund’s heart lifted with the sun and he found himself noticing little things: a dew-beaded cobweb hanging from a hedge, the song of a thrush as they clattered past a walled orchard, and the grace of tree branches without their summer veil of leaves. He inhaled deeply, feeling how good it was to be outdoors and part of even such small wonders after being cooped up in the palace for so long. Someone behind him began to whistle a marching song from the northern provinces, and one by one the riders took up the lilting tune.
    At first the country on either side of the road was cultivated and closely settled, with many farmsteads and small villages set amongst orchards and ordered fields. The settlements grew sparser as the morning wore on, and they began to ride between low rounded hills dotted with oak and chestnut trees. It was pleasant country and the travelers they met would call out greetings and good luck for the hunt, for the fame of the Thorn boar—and the havoc it caused—had spread far beyond the boundaries of the forest.
    It was not until late afternoon that Sigismund had his first view of the forest. They had just crested a low rise and their company was spread out across the road and the grassy slopes on either side. The hills ahead were higher and thickly wooded, the canopy so dark a green it looked almost black—although that, thought Sigismund, was probably the fading light. Clouds had been building up for some time and gave the forest a forbidding look.
    “It wears a more friendly face in sunshine,” said Flor, “but Thorn forest has always been rough, wild country, teeming with game. I hunt here as often as I can.”
    “And the hunting lodge belongs to your family?” Sigismund asked as they moved off again, falling into file along the road.
    Flor made an airy gesture with one hand. “Langrafon cousins, several times removed, but we’ve always had free run of the place, which is just as well. The village inns around here provide rough fare and rougher accommodation—the fleas are legendary.”
    Flor’s description of the forest as rough, wild country proved accurate as the road brought them closer. The hills rose up steeply, shutting out the sky, and the trees in the forest pressed close together, tangled into each other and the undergrowth at their feet. It reminded Sigismund of the Wood that adjoined the West Castle, except that this forest was full of bird noise and he could hear running water in the distance. Sigismund thought it was pleasanter up close than from a distance, and he enjoyed the last league or so of their ride beneath the forest eave, although the one village he saw in the distance looked poor: a narrow straggle of cottages amongst the trees, with only a few stony fields.
    Flor nodded when he mentioned this. “The soil’s poor here, so most of the villagers make their living as woodcutters or charcoal burners, and turn hunter as required.”
    “Or poacher,” said Adrian Valensar from his other side. Adrian was another of the numerous Valensar grandsons. There were four altogether riding to the hunt, including Flor’s friend Ban.
    “They hang if they’re caught at that game,” said Flor, “or lose a hand, if the Master at the lodge is feeling lenient. The game, like the forest, belongs to the Crown, so they might as well steal directly from the King’s purse.”
    Adrian shot a quick, sidelong glance at Sigismund. “But honest or dishonest, I’ve heard they’re all keen hunters. We’ll