That's when, as the mortals say, all hell breaks loose.

It's been decades since I've seen the Horned Lord in any world, but no one could ever forget the terrifying aura that precedes him. Fae fall back as he strides forward, swinging his ponderous head around to survey the bejeweled dandies of the court. Fog clings to the antlers that protrude from his forehead, and icy sparks of winter blue drip from his hands. Riders of the Wild Hunt, clad in blackened iron helms that conceal their faces, follow in his wake. Some say that they're the spirits of the hunted who evaded the Hunt for the longest, while others claim that they're demons, fae, or demigods. I personally suspect that the former is closer to the truth, but I don't know for sure. Jet black hounds with eyes made from coals weave their way in and out of the riders' feet, flickering like smoke as they brush against the armored figures.

Oberon raises a disdainful eyebrow. "What is the meaning of this?" His tone could be mistaken for pleasant, if not for the hint of ice running through it. His courtiers flinch backwards.

The Horned Lord, though, is unmoved. "There be strange happenings in the mortal lands, Lord Oberon," he announces as he continues to stride forward, riders at his heels. The space around him continues to widen as the court flows away from his Hunt as though magnetically compelled backwards; silence drops after his words like a stone into a still pool.

Oberon leans forward in his throne. "Strange happenings?"

The Horned Lord snaps his hand into a fist and a hound stumbles forward. Faint, dusky-gray tendrils around its neck connect it to the Horned Lord, though I can tell that the leash is invisible to both fae and mortal eyes. The court shrinks back even farther, if that's possible, as it snaps and snarls. The Horned Lord's brow furrows between his antlers. "This," he declares, gesturing towards the hound, "was caught on the eve of yesterday. A skinny, paltry piece of prey, to be sure, but it led us on a merry chase indeed, until it took shelter within an iron-bound church of the hanged man."

Oberon's eyes darken. It's clear that he, like most of the fae, despises mortal religions and the sanctuaries that accompany them. Mortals have hedged the fae in with stories and walls of iron, constraining their hunts and forestalling their pleasures of old; few humans venture into the dark without the protection of a horseshoe or iron cross nowadays. The Sidhe can deal with the iron, but they struggle to combat the mortal tales that are slowly forcing them into unrecognizable forms – I know some worlds that lack a fae presence at all, due to mortal stories. This particular world has just begun to see the blight; I wonder if the Horned Lord has come to report the first signs of it.

But his next words disprove my theory. "We sent the hounds ahead to test the defenses, for the church was not warded all around with iron, merely guarded by the power of faith." His mouth stretches into a humorless grin. "Faith like cobwebs that vanished at the slightest touch of the hunt." The hound whines and lunges at a nearby fae lady; he yanks it back. "Their sanctuary be no sanctuary at all, to my eyes, and thus..." He jerks the hound to heel. "we have this."

I hear the huntsman gulp. Has he realized that the Horned Lord is not discussing the capture of an animal, that the hound used to be human until the hunt captured it? His face is pasty and his hand around my mirror is white-knuckled, but he says nothing.

Oberon is far too composed to allow surprise to cross his face, but he does permit himself a small smile. "Ah. That is good news indeed. But curious... what caused their protections to fail so suddenly?"

The Horned Lord takes a step forward, swinging his antlers from side to side as he surveys the crowd. "Now that is beyond my ken," he admits. "But can you not feel it? There are strange murmurs in the air of the mortal realm..." His gaze lands on the princess and his eyes – deep ebony lit by speckles of icy white – narrow. She gulps and steps backward, clutching at her skirt with both hands, as he turns to face her.

Lily glides forward and tips her head slightly to the side. She doesn't say anything, but she doesn't need to – the expression on her face is as smooth and hard as a glacier and all semblance of vacuousness has vanished. The Horned Lord nods his head in acknowledgement of her silent warning.

As he returns to facing Oberon, Lily seizes the princess's arm. "Come along, dear, you don't want to get in the way of this," she twitters, tugging the princess away from the dais. "We'll just return a little later, once things have calmed down."

Oberon doesn't even glance in her direction as she chivvies the princess and the huntsman away from his throne, but I can feel the Horned Lord's regard sizzling against my senses as the crowd envelops us. I wonder what he wants from the princess – does he sense the same lack of discernable future that the farseers see? Or is it something else? He has even less reason to love humans than most fae, after all.

That may be all there is to it, but his attention makes me uneasy. Something tells me that there's more going on; it feels like I'm gazing into the serene surface of a lake that holds a multitude of horrors in its depths. But I've got no reason to feel like this.

I'm not the only one who's worried, though. Once we're safely enmeshed in the crowd, the huntsman asks diffidently, "So, what now, milady? That..." He pauses, struggling to find the right word. "Was odd." Not the word I'd have chosen, but it's accurate enough.

Lily flutters her hands. "Oh, this uproar will settle soon enough; it's nothing to worry about, really." Her tone is light and airy. "Give it a week or so, and it'll all be back to normal." She lifts a strand of the princess's hair in two fingers and makes a face. "But right now, we have more pressing matters. First order of business is a bath, I think." The princess sighs, and Lily pats her on the shoulder. "Poor dear, you must be exhausted after such travails. Come with me and I'll make you feel like a princess again."

For some reason, this causes the princess to start crying again. The tears leave streaks in the dirt smudged on her face, which does nothing to enhance her attractiveness. If the queen asked me now, I could legitimately tell her that her daughter is nowhere near as fair as she is.

The huntsman looks uncomfortable with this display of feminine distress. "Um, my lady? What do ya want me to do now?"

The princess is too busy sobbing to answer, so Lily replies, "Whatever you want, dear. I believe the farsighted ones are interested in talking to her, so she might be here for a few days." She's busy fussing over the princess, pretending to be horrified by the state of her nails, skin, and hair. I wonder if the princess realizes that it's all an act. I have no trouble picturing Lily in the pitch black leathers of the hunt, smeared with blood and exulting over a kill; her current elegance is as false as her motherly smile. She'll take good care of the princess, I think, but only because it serves her purpose in some way.

Maybe the huntsman can sense this as well, for he shifts closer to his liege. "Ya promise to protect her?"

Lily strokes his hair like she's petting a dog. "Of course, dear. She'll come to no harm while under my care." For one of the Sidhe, that's actually a fairly binding guarantee. Unless Lily relinquishes responsibility for the princess, she's bound to guard her from all harms. While the fae often take a creative view of what counts as harm, I get the feeling that Lily means what she said.

The huntsman exhales heavily. "Alright, then. Thank ya. Should I return to the queen, then?" He doesn't sound particularly eager to do so, and I don't blame him.

Lily waves a negligent hand. "Like I said, dear, you can do whatever you want. You're free to remain here and avail yourself of the hospitality of the court, if you choose, or you may explore the lands beyond our domain. Be careful, though; Underhill is dangerous to mortals." I suspect she's saying that more for the benefit of the princess than of the huntsman; there's no reason for her to care if he lives or dies. But, in her guise of kindly godmother, she can't be too callous.

The huntsman blinks in wary confusion, and she sighs. "If you choose to explore, return in a week or so and I'll return the princess to you, safe and sound." She snaps her fingers, and the elf who brought us here materializes from the crowd. "Guide this man wherever he wishes to go. I have offered him the hospitality of the court."

Our guide bows. "As thou commands, my lady." Lily links arms with the princess, shepherding her away, while he turns to the huntsman. "Where are thou bound?"

The huntsman is watching the princess vanish behind a tapestry, and doesn't reply immediately. A peculiar expression drifts across his face before he resumes a stony mask and turns away. It doesn't look like the lovelorn expressions that I've seen other mortals wear – those are usually more sappy and plaintive. But he's not indifferent to the girl either. If I had to guess, it almost looks parental. But it disappeared too quickly for me to study it, and I've never been very good at deciphering mortal emotions. Rage, happiness, lust – those are easy to identify. But most others are too alien, and their expression is heavily dependent on culture and time. I prefer the mortal races whose eyes change color with their moods; I can understand those.

The elf clears his throat, and the huntsman jumps. "Oh, sorry. Um..." He shrugs helplessly. "I don't know." I don't blame him for his answer; I don't particularly want to return to the queen either. But Underhill is no place for an untrained mortal.

Our guide doesn't roll his eyes, but his disdain is obvious. "If thou wishes food or rest, there are guest rooms available," he offers smoothly.

"Is it safe?" the huntsman asks dubiously.

I silently congratulate him on his perspicacity, while the elf looks almost offended. "Of course it is; we take good care of our guests. Thou art perfectly safe within our demesnes."

The huntsman shifts his weight uncomfortably from foot to fit. "Ah, what about the stories of people eating food here and returning to find that a hundred years have passed?"

"The food comes from mortal realms and will have no ill effects on thee," our guide promises, though a sly smile tugs at his lips. "So, should I guide thee to a suite?"

It's the only logical choice, but the huntsman doesn't agree immediately. Instead, he pulls my mirror out of his belt and turns it to face him. "Mary?" I manifest the mask. "What do ya want to do? Is there anything ya want?"

What do I want? A few of my mortals have asked me that question over the centuries, and my answer has always been the same: whatever you want, my liege. So far they've been happy with that; I think they were asking more as a formality than anything else. In some ways it's even the truth, as answering their questions staves off boredom for a bit. Some of the more intelligent ones are actually pleasant to serve – I enjoy keeping watch over a kingdom and helping it run smoothly. The stupid ones, well... they die soon enough. I suppose I could say that I want to stop answering 'fairest of them all' questions, but that's not a helpful answer right now.

The only thing that comes to mind is my desire to figure out what shook the space between the worlds, and the best way to do that is to talk to the farseers. But the huntsman will need sustenance sooner or later, as well as sleep. "Perhaps rest and refreshment now, and an audience with the farsighted ones at their convenience?" I suggest. Such phrasing is potentially dangerous, for 'at their convenience' could be now or in a decade, but I'm no mortal for them to play such games with. I suspect that they'll see me sooner rather than later.

The elf's eyebrow twitches upwards, but it's the only sign of surprise he shows. "Of course." He gestures to the huntsman. "Please follow me."