She always wore black, like she was in mourning, even though Quentin couldn’t think of anyone she should have been in mourning for. She wore a sepulchral black riding dress and an actual riding hood, also black. Did you three argue this much when you were at Brakebills?” “It can see the future,” Julia said softly, beside him. “If this rabbit thing really can see the future won’t it know we’re trying to catch it?”

“Don’t start,” both Julia and Janet said, in unison. And they don’t live in burrows, they make nests in open ground.” “I’m starting to wonder,” Quentin said, “if it’s even possible to track a rabbit.” Dauntless snorted once in the silence: lofty horsey contempt for whatever human enterprise they thought they were pursuing.

Two years as a king of Fillory and he was still shit at horseback riding. Quentin’s horse didn’t halt when the others’ did-Dauntless wandered a little out of line and halfway off the trail before he persuaded her for good and all to quit walking for a damn minute. They moved in silence, slowly, together but lost in their separate thoughts, gazing out into the green depths of the late summer woods. They rode along a high-arched forest path littered with yellow leaves, perfect little sprays of them that looked like they could have been cut and placed by a florist. Up ahead were another queen and another king, Janet and Eliot-the land of Fillory had four rulers in all. He was hunting a magic rabbit.īy King Quentin’s side rode a queen: Queen Julia. He was everything a king of Fillory should be. It was ten o’clock in the morning on a warm, overcast day in late August. A glittering side-sword bumped against his leg-not the ceremonial kind, the real kind, the kind that would actually be useful in a fight. He wore black leather boots up to his knees, different-colored stockings, and a long navy-blue topcoat that was richly embroidered with seed pearls and silver thread. Quentin rode a gray horse with white socks named Dauntless.

Lev grossman the magician king