In a desperate gamble to save her throne, a young monarch conceals a secret marriage in the shadows of an enchanted forest—and unknowingly alters the fate of her world—in this dazzling novel from the New York Times bestselling author of The Bear and the Nightingale.
Anne of Brittany was a child when France invaded and drove her royal father to his death. Now she is a young woman, sovereign duchess of an occupied realm, and France means to crown their conquest by marrying her to their king. Such an alliance would put her title, her lands, and her body forever in the hands of her enemies.
But Anne refuses to be the last duchess of Brittany.
Her only hope of resisting conquest is another alliance sealed with marriage, so Anne arranges a daring last gambit: a secret betrothal to Charles of France’s greatest rival. But secrets are hard to keep in a world where rival courts spy on each other with diviners.
The forest of Brocéliande was once the haunt of Merlin the Enchanter and the long-lost faerie queen. But magic is long gone from Broceliande, except for the occasional sight of a unicorn and one critical quirk: This ancient forest is completely hostile to divination.
While pretending compliance with France, Anne plans a unicorn hunt in Brocéliande. A bit of pointless pageantry. A diversion so she can wed in secret.
Or so she thinks.
In this rich and epic novel, the author of the acclaimed Winternight trilogy turns the real history of a remarkable woman into an unforgettable tale of mystery, enchantment, and the price of power.
Don't just take our word for it...
“An alternate history in which… courtly romance makes friends with a steamier variety of physical contact. Fans of jousts, spells, dark magic, and brave women will find plenty of each here. A clever and inspiring reimagining of a little-remembered time and place.”
– Kirkus Reviews, starred review 🌟
“A glittering treasure chest of a novel, The Unicorn Hunters brought back all my childhood love of unicorns while offering a sophisticated, lyrical fantasy about a young woman navigating the impossible politics and gender dynamics of fifteenth-century Brittany. It’s beautifully written and entirely delightful.”
– Heather Fawcett, New York Times bestselling author of Emily Wilde’s Encyclopaedia of Faeries
“Katherine Arden writes beautiful, irresistible books—the kind you want to immediately reread, the kind you want to both share and hoard, the kind you carry around in your heart. Her books are full of exquisite prose, wonderful characters, and fantastic stories!”
– Sarah Beth Durst, New York Times bestselling of The Spellshop
Taste the very first page
The French envoy came to Nantes on the last Sunday of Eastertide, when all the Breton court were still at church, when the hiss of rain and the pealing of bells swallowed the hoofbeats and shouts of his company. The court heard Mass unaware of his coming; they schemed and gossiped and took communion just as always, and no one from the pot-boy to the duchess knew that from that year, Christendom would never be the same.
Rain does not fall in Brittany so much as hover, filling the air with vapor, so that the courtiers emerged from the cathedral and were instantly wrapped in cloud. The bells overhead rang loud enough to shake the raindrops crooked. Arrayed in their Easter best, the court glowed in the gray light, though there were fewer of them than there should have been. Many had died in the war with France, many more were still far away awaiting ransom, like ambulatory notes payable in their conquerors’ châteaux.
At the heart of the crowd walked a girl with merry eyes, a floating violet in a sea of cut-velvet and silk hose, cloth-of-silver and the smell of myrrh, concentrating as she held her skirt clear of puddles. This was Anne, duchess regnant of Brittany, her hair caught back in a diadem and a pearl-studded crespine, though she wore no other jewels. They had all been sold to pay her garrisons.
She did not know that a French envoy had come to the castle. Indeed, she was expecting a messenger from quite another direction, and that expectation lit an already animated face. She and her maids-of-honor were playing a game of riddles as they walked.
“I am in all things and through all things,” declaimed the prosiest among them. “I am in candles and lamps and water and dice. I am the word of God; I am the blessing of mankind. I am— ”
“Divination,” answered four brisk voices. All of Anne’s maids-of-honor were clever.
Another of them began a different riddle: “Three pears hang, three monks pass, each takes one, yet two remain, how— ”
Jean de Rieux had been named Anne’s guardian by her father while the latter lay breathing blood on his deathbed, and now he watched the riddle-game with an indulgent, anxious face. He was of far too sober a mind to make up riddles. He said, low, “Highness, have you seen the diviner this day? What news?”
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