Fractured Infinities

Summon The Huntsman

I make the mask blink slowly, pulling my attention back to the dingy stone room and the irate queen. I can feel my geas start to activate, attempting to compel me to tell the truth, but its slippery strands can't find much to latch onto. For questions like this, where the 'true' answer is subjective, I'm permitted to say anything that might reasonably be considered true. A weighted average of opinions is usually sufficient. Right now, the village gossip seems to think that the daughter is more beautiful than her mother, but a sizable contingent still regards the queen as the fairest. Either answer would be permitted by the geas.

I slide the eyes of my mask open, pretending to consider the question. The queen fumes, pacing back and forth across the threadbare rug, but mercifully remains silent. Do I tell her that she remains the fairest? Eventually, I won't be able to do so any longer; she's no witch, to preserve her beauty indefinitely. Her daughter is just starting to enter her prime, while her own best days are slipping through her grasping fingers. All the tinctures and powders in the world can't conceal that. Would it be merciful to divulge that fact to her now, or let her stew in her illusions a little longer? Which route is better for the daughter?

"Mirror," she warns, whirling with a rustle of silk and lace. "Answer me."

The geas tightens, and that decides me. Better to rip the bandage off swiftly, as the human saying goes, before her envy has time to curdle. "Your daughter is the fairest of them all, my lady," I intone. I don't know what expression would be appropriate, so I keep the mask blank. "She is the most beautiful woman in the kingdom." Such hyperbole is permitted by the geas, so long as the balance of probability favors the statement.

She, predictably, hisses with fury when I give her that tidbit of information. One of my humans – a true witch-queen – spontaneously combusted when I delivered the news. This one, though, merely snarls at me. "Are you sure?"

If I had a body, I would sigh. "Yes, my lady."

She snatches my mirror off of the wall, hoisting it above her head as though she wants to shatter it. It wouldn't be the first time someone tried that, though it never works. But she doesn't give in to temptation. Instead, she snarls a curse and lowers the mirror, tucking it under her arm as she storms out of the room. "Guards! Guards!" Servants scurry out of her way as she rushes through the castle, and I can hear a low hum of gossip start to build. I catch sight of the princess's maid ducking around a corner, and I wonder if she's going to tell her mistress that the queen is angry.

The last time the queen had a temper tantrum like this, she and her daughter ended up in a shouting match that shook the castle walls. The queen eventually confined the princess in her rooms, threatening to lock her up until she was married. In retaliation, the princess ran all the way to the neighboring kingdom, only returning when forcibly retrieved by a guard troop. I hope she has the sense to run now, for the current threat is much more dire.

Considering the queen's rage, a soldier appears with remarkable alacrity. He bows, and she snaps, "Fetch my daughter at once."

He returns approximately fifteen minutes later, shoulders hunched. "She's not in the castle, your majesty. The cook says she fled into the forest around ten minutes ago."

The queen slaps him, raking scarlet trails down his cheek. He bears the pain stoically, and she hisses, "Fine. Get me the huntsman."

Why do they always send for the huntsman? Even in worlds where eating meat is taboo, they have a comparable position – master of the horse or chief woodsman – who they summon. More often than not, the man (they're invariably men) will decide that the princess is too beautiful to kill, and will return to the queen empty-handed. Bringing the heart of a stag is also traditional, and less likely to get them executed.