To his surprise and annoyance, Simon found he was still alive when the setting sun slid below a distant, sawbacked ridge. The wind up on this rocky knob of a mountain top was bitter, with little shelter, and he was exhausted. He could sleep and warm up in the afterlife.

  Surely, the heavens wouldn't be cold — though, after two seasons' worth of eluding capture in these high mountains, he would have been content with the fires of the nine Hells if he could bask against the warmth of their flames.

  He watched the men below. They'd all dismounted and were making camp. Had they no intention of pursuing him? How embarrassing for them. Their mothers would not be proud of such a show of cowardice.

  The Temple justified the Hunt by claiming it taught men combat skills, but Simon, who had seen his share of bloodshed, thought most of these men would fail miserably in their first skirmish if they didn’t even dare to charge one small elven man armed only with a sword.

  Below him, firelight flared. He watched as the Hunters clustered around a bonfire. Shortly, drunken, off-key singing drifted up to him on the cold wind, bringing with it memories of happier times. Starting with his fifteenth year and every winter thereafter, Simon had hunted bandits in these same mountains. At night, he and his men had sung the same ribald songs while warming their bellies with Lord Halvers' best wine and toasting pans of spike-nuts in the fire.

  They set a grate over the fire, and threw steaks upon it. As the frigid wind was blowing in his direction, Simon could smell grilling beef, and his stomach clenched so hard it felt like it was consuming his backbone. He hadn’t had a complete meal in months, not since the mule had died and a pack of wild dogs had finally driven him off the frozen remains.

  The grimalkin sat alone, wrapped in a blanket, apart from the other men. He was not eating.

  Simon hunched with his back to a boulder that had been sun-warmed that day but which was now rapidly cooling. His knees fit under his tunic and mail shirt, tucked close to his chest, a position only possible after months of starvation. There was no way to start a fire as he’d lost his flint and steel, along with his overcoat, during his flight from Hunters days ago, and the night grew increasingly bitter under the light of a rising full moon.

  Cynically, he wondered if allowing him to die of exposure was their plan. It might work and wasn’t technically against the Hunt rules, though it lacked honor.

  He huddled into a tighter ball, and wondered if it would be safe to doze. He was so tired. For a bit, perhaps thirty minutes, he let his eyes slide shut, drifting in a sort of half-sleep, ears listening for any noise of approaching Hunters. It would be shameful to die without taking some of them with him.

  Iron-shod hooves clattered over the rocks on the hilltop behind him. Simon lunged to his feet and whirled about, bringing his sword up in one violent motion.

  The horse jerked her head up in surprise and planted all four hooves stiffly against the ground when he popped upright amid the rocks, but she did not spook. A slightly breathless voice said, “I’d chide you for not... being aware of my approach, but a man... can only run and fight for so long. After... the pursuit today, I’m surprised... you’re not insensate. You did well to evade us for so long.”

  “Lord Yienry!” In his shock, Simon only barely managed to keep his voice down. He lowered his sword. He would not strike at this man.

  Yienry leaned on the pommel of the saddle, breath puffing through pursed lips. The mare wore no bridle but stood quietly, eyes alert with calm intelligence. After a moment, sounding less winded, Yienry said, “Mydhali Tiv — that’s my new grimalkin man — is going to cast an illusion of you breaking for the valley below. The other Hunters will give chase. You will have an opening to flee.”

  “You’re helping me.” Hope thrilled through his veins. He might be able to escape and live.

  “The girl had the babe.”

  Comprehension dawned. Lady Stashia’s pregnancy had already been showing during the trial six months previously. Her lie that Simon was the father would have become apparent when the babe was born without pointed ears

  Simon snapped, “Did she also admit that she attempted to coerce me to her bed, and I said no? Naming me as the father was revenge for my refusal, while allowing her real lover time to escape.”

  He had not been allowed to testify in his defense, nor even speak to Yienry after his arrest. His solicitor’s request that they wait for the birth before conviction had been denied. The trial had been a farce, and he still wasn’t sure why. He’d been careful to maintain a respectable appearance, and as an elf in a human world, he’d had no choice but to be completely uncontroversial and apolitical if he wanted to survive. Other than the girl he’d spurned, he thought he had few enemies with enough motive to destroy him — yet, it had felt very targeted.

  Yienry sighed. “I assumed something of the kind had happened.”

  “She was not to my taste,” Simon noted with a wary sideways glance at the man. “And she is half my age, barely more than a child, really.”

  “I’d prefer to think you said ‘no’ out of a sense of honor, or failing that, common sense, rather than your, ah, preferences.” Yienry’s response was predictable.

  Yienry knew damn well Simon discreetly watched men with an admiring eye and had no interest in women. He disapproved, but at least he respected Simon’s choice to remain celibate. Simon didn’t dare seek a partner who interested him, and he would not subject a woman to a loveless marriage when he had little else to offer.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Now Simon noted, “Had I wished to lie with a woman, I’d have been wise enough to wear a prophylactic, and I’d have had better taste in bedmates. You and I both know that girl’s honor was lost a long time ago — accusing me of stealing it was a farce.”

  Lady Stashia had been entirely absent from court for the winter of her fourteenth year after vomiting in the halls of the palace for three days in succession. Now seventeen, she had a rather notorious reputation for flitting from one man to another, and often pitting them against each other. Rumor had it that her father had struggled to find her a suitable husband. Last year, they had betrothed her to a widowed middle-aged lord with nine children of his own, who was presumably more interested in her family’s wealth and power than he was concerned about Stashia’s escapades.

  Simon had a few dark suspicions about the root cause of Stashia’s behavior and who the father of her firstborn might be — and why Stashia might be concealing the existence of the child, beyond mere concern over appearances — but that didn’t mean he’d appreciated being her target. Her interest in him hadn't even been genuine; she'd meant to inflame the jealousies of a wealthy merchant's son by 'spurning' him for Simon.

  Yienry dismounted in a single fluid motion. On the ground, he was the same height as Simon — a head shorter than most men — though he was far more powerfully built. After taking a moment to catch his breath again, Yienry said, “I meant your honor. Even if you were interested, you would not sleep with a noble girl promised to another.”

  Simon’s answering sigh was bitter. “My honor? Most think I have none.” He glanced down the hill towards the camp. If Mydhali was going to cause a distraction so he could escape, where was he?

  “I’ve never believed that.” Yienry still sounded winded. Simon thought that the Hunt had taken a lot out of him. The old man remained agile but struggled to find enough breath for years. He stood with one arm wrapped around his chest as he spoke, and Simon watched him with concern. Did he have a stitch in his side from the exertion of a ride up the hill or something worse?

  “The courts disagreed.”

  The girl had accused Simon of seducing her with magical spells. It was a grave accusation and one, in Simon’s case, that was impossible. He had been tested extensively by one of the land’s most skilled mages, the same man who had foretold that Simon would someday wield great power. He hadn’t a whisper of magic.

  Yienry had been barred from speaking at the trial on Simon’s behalf, as the prosecution had alleged a conflict of interest: Yienry wouldn’t want to lose his right-hand man.

  The verdict had been decided before the trial began.

  “We can’t stop the hunt.” Yienry stroked Elynal’s jaw. The horse leaned into his fingers, but her ears were pricked at Simon. “A Hunter’s Mark cannot be lifted except by order of the King, and he would not grant us an audience. Nothing has changed.”

  “So... what, I flee again?” He was so tired of running.

  “Simon, if you can get to the port, I arranged for passage for you aboard the Silverdawn to Riesteval. I know you have contacts there, some of whom might offer you employment.” Yienry jerked his chin at Elynal. “There’s enough silver in her saddlebags for the fare and for you to start a new life.”

  He hesitated. How far had Elynal traveled already? “The mule I stole from you died.”

  “Elynal is one of the fastest, best horses I know over an extended distance. She’ll get you to the port. Take her with you on the ship. The Silverdawn has some stalls, and you’ll have the coin to afford her passage.”

  “She’s a friend, and I’d have to push her harder than is wise,” he replied, appalled.

  “Only you would consider a horse a friend.” Yienry said this with a fond smile.

  “They were my friends when I had none other.” He did not mention Prince Iorge. He never did. Twenty years had passed since the only man he’d ever truly been close to had died, and even now, merely saying the man’s name — or remembering the cause of Iorge’s death — threatened to break him.

  “You’ve always had me.” Yienry smiled at him. “I know your feelings for me are mixed, but you will always be the son of my heart. I wish things had turned out differently, Simon. I truly do. You did nothing to earn their wrath and hate except exist.”

  You killed my mother, Simon thought. He’d been four. He still remembered. On the other hand, Yienry had given him a home and a life, treating him less like a fosterling turned hired hand and more like his own kin. Was it guilt, affection, or some twisted mix of both? He was never sure what Yienry’s reasons were.

  On the other hand, there was a grimalkin man below them, geasbound to Yienry, and that was wrong. Even if Simon attempted to explain, Yienry would not understand why it was evil.

  There were so many things about their world that Simon questioned. Iorge had once told him it was a curse of being a learned man; he saw hypocrisy and bitterly unfair laws, used his own reason and logic, and followed his own moral code, whereas others simply accepted the Temple’s teachings and the rules of their society because they were traditional.

  Simon inclined his head and said, finally, “Thank you.” He was exhausted, but stubborn too; he would force his body to cover the ground to the port. He could sleep on the boat, rocked to sleep by the waves as the ship sailed swiftly away from the land that had so unjustly condemned him. It was a seductive thought. The idea of sleeping for days in a locked cabin was the best part.

  Yienry’s smile widened.

  The kind of ride that Yienry was proposing would be brutal on a horse. He’d need to outrun the Hunters, and the lean bay mare could end up foundered or worse, especially given that she’d already spent a full day pursuing Simon through rough country, and Simon had led them on a merry chase. Deliberately, he’d cut across deep canyons and through dense woods where horses could not follow, forcing them to travel many miles out of the way to keep pace with him.

  Simon desperately wanted to live, but he did not want to kill the best horse he’d ever known in the process.

  “Mydhali can follow her trail. We’ll retrieve her if she cannot make it, and you need to leave her behind,” Yienry suggested. “With my brand on her hip, none would dare steal her.”

  Simon nodded reluctantly. It was an acceptable compromise. He still felt terrible about the mule, a fine, willing beast well suited to the mountains. “How will you explain her disappearance?”

  “I’m an old man and fell off. She bolted into the night. Simon... letters would be appreciated; I would like to know how you fare.”

  He nodded. “Of course.”

  Only after Yienry had boosted him aboard the horse did he realize there were no reins. Simon had been the one to train Elynal to work without them, and in happier times, he’d been teaching Yienry the cues. The old man appeared to have kept up the practice and become confident enough to ride without a bridle in a Hunt. That took dedication and skill.

  Most people who rode bridleless controlled their mount with a spell, but there were drawbacks to that. Simon had been determined to prove it could be done without magic if one had the right horse, and seeing his success, Yienry had asked for lessons. They’d always had a deep love for horses in common — Elynal had been Yienry’s gift to Simon on his twenty-fifth birthday.

  Below, an excited cry arose. The hellbeast yipped. When he glanced down at the campfire below his position, he saw men snatching their weapons and running for their horses. The grimalkin man’s illusion was starting.

  Simon grabbed two handfuls of Elynal’s mane, leaned forward, and with a shift of his weight and a brush of his heel, he encouraged her into a gallop in the other direction.

  Hope arose. He was a small man atop a fast horse, and Elynal felt surprisingly fresh and eager beneath him.

  He just might escape.