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orphan like Pug, Martin had come to be known as
Longbow by those in the castle, as he had few equals with that
weapon. Something of a mystery, Martin Longbow was still well liked
by the boys, for while he was aloof with the adults in the castle, he
was always friendly and accessible to the boys. As Huntmaster, he was
also the Duke’s Forester. His duties absented him from the
castle for days, even weeks at a time, as he kept his trackers busy
looking for signs of poaching, possible fire dangers, migrating
goblins, or outlaws camping in the woods. But when he was in the
castle, and not organizing a hunt for the Duke, he always had time
for the boys. His dark eyes were always merry when they pestered him
with questions of woodlore or for tales of the lands near the
boundaries of Crydee. He seemed to possess unending patience, which
set him apart from most of the Craftmasters in the town and keep.
    Martin came up to the stag, gently
reached out, and touched his neck. The great head swung up, and the
stag nuzzled Martin’s arm.
    Softly Martin said, “If you walk
out slowly, without speaking, he might let you approach.”
    Pug and Tomas exchanged startled
glances, then stepped into the clearing. They walked slowly around
the edge of the pool, the stag following their movements with his
head, trembling slightly. Martin patted him reassuringly and he
quieted. Tomas and Pug came to stand beside the hunter, and Martin
said, “Reach out and touch him, slowly so as not to frighten
him.”
    Tomas reached out first, and the stag
trembled beneath his fingers. Pug began to reach out, and the stag
retreated a step. Martin crooned to the stag in a language Pug had
never heard before, and the animal stood still. Pug touched him and
marveled at the feel of his coat—so like the cured hides he had
touched before, yet so different for the feel of life pulsing under
his fingertips.
    Suddenly the stag backed off and
turned. Then, with a single bounding leap, he was gone among the
trees. Martin Longbow chuckled and said, “Just as well. It
wouldn’t do to have him become too friendly with men. Those
antlers would quickly end up over some poacher’s fireplace.”
    Tomas whispered, “He’s
beautiful, Martin.”
    Longbow nodded, his eyes still fastened
upon the spot where the stag had vanished into the woods. “That
he is, Tomas.”
    Pug said, “I thought you hunted
stags, Martin. How—”
    Martin said, “Old Whitebeard and
I have something of an understanding, Pug. I hunt only bachelor
stags, without does, or does too old to calve. When Whitebeard loses
his harem to some younger buck someday, I may take him. Now each
leaves the other to his own way. The day will come when I will look
at him down the shaft of an arrow.” He smiled at the boys. “I
won’t know until then if I shall let the shaft fly. Perhaps I
will, perhaps not.” He fell silent for a time, as if the
thought of Whitebeard’s becoming old was saddening, then as a
light breeze rustled the branches said, “Now, what brings two
such bold hunters into the Duke’s woods in the early morning?
There must be a thousand things left undone with the Midsummer
festival this afternoon.”
    Tomas answered. “My mother tossed
us out of the kitchen. We were more trouble than not. With the
Choosing today . . .” His voice died away, and he felt suddenly
embarrassed. Much of Martin’s mysterious reputation stemmed
from when he first came to Crydee. At his time for the Choosing, he
had been placed directly with the old Huntmaster by the Duke, rather
than standing before the assembled Craftmasters with the other boys
his age. This violation of one of the oldest traditions known had
offended many people in town, though none would dare openly express
such feelings to Lord Borric. As was natural, Martin became the
object of their ire, rather than the Duke. Over the years Martin had
more than justified Lord Borric’s decision, but still most
people were troubled by the Duke’s special