A black silhouette had appeared at the foot of the hill. It seemed to have simply manifested out of the air. Or perhaps it had stepped out of a shadow cast by one of the larger stones? It was difficult to make out any detail, but Athairdrost could not break the court if there was even one more petitioner, even a latecomer. As long as they arrived before the sun touched the horizon, they had to be heard out.
His Master Herald saw the approaching shape just a moment after Athairdrost. He raised his creaking voice and announced that the royal court was not yet adjourned after all. The prince could have throttled the man where he stood, but he restrained himself. As soon as it was possible to see that the approaching shape was a figure riding an unusually large horse he felt fear rise in him. Who were these assassins? Why were they dogging him? How had they known to ambush him at the secret pool? Had one of the other princes of Sorthe hired them? Or were they southerners, sent by some foul sun-crowned king?
Whoever they were, the assassins were certainly full of eldritch arts and old dark power. The horse-thing unsettled Athairdrost. It had a smell about it that spoke of something only half-mortal. It wasn’t entirely what it appeared to be. Of that, he was certain. And the young shadow-witch who rode the beast had a sword of charmed fane-make. There was that nasty owl-creature too. And the thing that wore a simple boy’s shape, but could shrug off powerful death-magic. There might well be others too.
Someone had set terrible assassins upon him.
Someone must be deeply afraid of his growing power. Or had they found out about his broken, secret treasure?
Was that it?
It might well be. Wars have been waged over lesser things than an old great spell.
His hand darted back under his tunic. He searched inside the satchel this time. There was some reassurance in its touch. He narrowed his eyes. The girl and horse were plain enough to see. But where was the owl-creature and the child-thing? He looked into the sky, half-expecting to see the great wings of an owl circling, but saw nothing beside clouds.
When the woman and horse were close enough for others of the court to see the strange attire of the young lady and freakish, almost skull-like visage of the horse, Athairdrost rose from his throne. He laid a hand on the cold, uncomfortable hilt of his sword, and said in as strong a voice as he could manage: “You are no servants or troth-folk of mine, lest I am mistaken. State your business with me and approach in peace, or do not approach at all. You stand before one of the four Princely Courts of Sorthe. Do not mistake. Your life is forfeit if you approach with violence in your hearts.”
The young woman answered with silence. Her gaze was chilling. The look in her eyes reminded the prince of the ghostly young woman behind him.
In her own time, she dismounted, then approached the final few dozen paces. “I challenge you, Ahtairdrost. I challenge you before your court with all eyes on you.”
He curled into himself a little. “On what grounds? There must be a wronged party for there to be such a challenge.”
“This is true,” agreed his blithering old herald. “Quite true, hmm. No wrong. No challenge can be brought.”
She waved a hand at the figures who stood robed and cowled in gauzy white. “On their behalf. On behalf of the girls whose lives you have taken and enslaved with necromancy and bleak spells. On behalf of the murdered and the stolen.”
There were a few rather false sounding gasps from his retainers. Everyone knew that the spirits of the Sorrowful Women must come from somewhere–and there were rumours of vanished young peasant women and farm girls and runaways. Sometimes the daughter of a lord who displeased Athairdrost would vanish too. Some of the more bloodless and prim of his court openly pretended that the souls were nothing more sinister than a few long-dead ghosts, conjured out of their graves. After all, Athairdrost’s father had commanded ghosts too, had he not? And his father. And his father. Those who knew a little about sorcery knew enough to question this, but also knew enough to keep their silence.
It was like a shock of cold water to have this open lie thrown into the faces of everyone present. Athairdrost felt himself scowl. He wiped his lip and cheeks, as if something unpleasant had been spat at him.
“Very well,” he hissed in a low tone. “Then to what wager? What price do you want?”
“Whatsoever may be desired by either party.”
That would be very much to his liking. Still… if it was a fight, and she used that demonic horse-thing as a mount he did not like his chances. “Well and well,” he said, “let me consider. But if this is a challenge, you and I must face each other alone. I will send away my knights and soldiers and my Ladies in White too. And you will send away your–” he waved a hand at the horse… “your, erhm… beast.”
“Agreed.”