The cry of the horns rebounded off the peaks, each clarion call a torn strand from the life left unravelled behind her. For of course, the notes framed the heartbreaking reminder of the carefree days when she had ridden out hunting. Now, as she thrashed through the thickets, the same music lashed her to terror: the ox horn of Sessalie’s master huntsman blended into the descant bugle of the crown prince’s trumpet, sounding to muster the hounds. When she also picked out the deep, belling tone of Devall’s distinctive conch shell, she bolted in sweating panic…