Toad Words(38)

He halted his mare a dozen yards from the gate and narrowed his eyes.

“Arrin Huntsman,” said the steward. “The queen demands your immediate presence.”

Arrin met his eyes, and the steward mouthed the word Run.

He wheeled his horse and spurred her back down the road.

The men-at-arms gave chase, more or less. A few ran after him on foot, shouting, and one or two of the younger, keener ones went for horses—but somehow the stablehands were a little slow bringing them out and the swiftest horse in the stable was in need of shoeing and by the time anyone was mounted and in pursuit, Arrin had vanished.

The steward brought this news to the queen.

“You lost him,” said the queen.

The steward inclined his head. “We have sent out search parties. They may yet find him. But none know the woods as well as Arrin and I have no man who is his equal.”

Her hand shot out and her nails slashed down his face, curving under his jaw. The steward felt a hot itch across his neck, but he did not flinch.

“I want him found,” said the queen. “Bring him to me. Alive or dead, it matters not.”

“Yes, my queen,” said the steward. He bowed to her and left the room, and only once he was well away did he stagger back against the wall and blot the blood from his face.

But Arrin was not found. The men-at-arms went out every day—the queen could see them from her window—and the steward made a speech that the queen could hear, about bringing traitors to justice. But they rode out slowly and rode back quickly and they were always careful to make a great deal of noise. They combed the same ground, armlength by armlength, and left vast stretches of the woods untouched.

And Arrin was not found.

(And I must tell you now, readers, that if you, like Arrin, are worrying for his elderly aunt, you need not. The queen would undoubtedly have punished her if it had occurred to her to do so, but knowing that Arrin had an aunt would have required her to take an interest in the lives of those around her. She did not know, and no one was inclined to volunteer this information. For her part, Arrin’s aunt fretted for her nephew, but she knew that he was much too canny to be caught by such lackluster efforts.)

Arrin went first to his house, as fast as his mare could gallop, and emptied out everything he could carry. He slung it on the mare’s back and led her away, first in one direction then another, up a streambed and down. He led her through dry leaves that would take no tracks and over hard-packed stones.

He did not think that they would follow too closely or try too hard to find him, but it was not only his own life at stake.

He spent three days this way. Twice he heard the distant belling of hounds, but far off. On the third day he heard nothing, and made his way at last to Snow and the boars.

He saw Hoofblack first, rooting in the leaves for mushrooms. The boar snorted a greeting and trotted along beside the mare. Arrin looked down and remembered Snow saying “I couldn’t invent a chimney.”

This is an architect in the body of a boar.

The thought was so strange that he had to set it aside for a moment.

“Come to see Snow, hunter-man?” said Hoofblack. “She’ll be glad of it. So will we.”

“You will?” asked Arrin.

“Sure. Humans need humans. Pigs need pigs.” Hoofblack lifted his snout. “We go a bit mad ourselves if we don’t see anyone. Happened to Ashes before she could talk, and now she’s made of squeal and bones, poor soul.”

“I’d hate for Snow to be reduced to squeal and bones,” said Arrin dryly.

Hoofblack gave a wheezing laugh. “Wouldn’t take long. She’s half bones already, no matter how many potatoes Juniper fries up. We worry a strong breeze’ll come along and she’ll blow away, away, away like a leaf in autumn.”

He cast a critical eye up at Arrin. “You could use a few more potatoes yourself. You should stay for dinner.”

“Thank you,” said Arrin. “I may have to, at that.”





He told them the whole story over dinner. The heart in the box, the madness of the queen. The pursuit. “She must have found out,” he said. “I don’t know how. I can’t get word back—they don’t dare get word out to me—”

He dropped his eyes and stared at his hands where they lay over his knees. They were long, lean hands with scarred fingers. He clenched them and watched his knuckles go white.

Greatspot, always maternal, laid her broad bristly cheek against Snow’s. “Careful, child. You smell like the bad end of winter. You must know we won’t let her get to you.”

“She’s got magic,” said Snow, almost inaudibly. “The mirror—I don’t know how much more. Everyone says.”