“Agreed.”
“On the count of three, we’ll charge. Make a lot of noise. Brandish your sword and—”
The wyvern strikes with the speed of a cobra, that snake-like neck springing. I’m mid-word when there’s suddenly an open pair of massive jaws coming straight for my head.
I fall back, sword slashing up. The broadside strikes the beast just as a tooth rips into my cheek. Pain, sharp and fierce. Jaws clamp on my shoulder but are stopped by the hardened tunic, and I slam my sword into the beast’s head.
The wyvern screams and falls back. Blood streams from its side and flecks spatter from Rhydd’s sword. Malric has hold of the beast’s leg. The wyvern wheels on the warg, and I raise my sword to strike. A stone thwacks against the side of his head. The wyvern lets out a terrible cry as he spins on Dain, now holding his slingshot. It’s then that I see Jacko…on the wyvern’s back, his teeth clamped onto his neck. The wyvern’s wings extend, ready for takeoff.
“Jacko!”
I run, but Alianor is there first, plucking Jacko off as the wyvern crouches for flight. The huge beast doesn’t notice—he has just spotted his mate, lying dead on the ground. As the wyvern flaps over to land beside her, we stand guard, everyone brandishing their weapons. Jacko is in his shelter spot at my feet, and Malric stands beside me. Sunniva has taken cover in the forest. The wyvern hisses our way a few times but stays with his mate, nudging and licking at her.
My heart twists as I whisper, “I’m sorry.” I am sorry that we had to kill this beast’s mate, and yet had to are the key words there. Even if we’d given up the chickcharney—which I’m not sure I could ever do—the beasts wouldn’t have been content with that small meal. We had no choice but to fight.
“Let’s back up,” I murmur. “If it will let us leave, we should do that.”
“Are you okay?” Rhydd asks, glancing over.
Hot blood trickles down my cheek, and my shoulder aches, but I’m fine and say so.
We start our retreat, gazes fixed on the wyverns. Malric stays in place to give us cover. Once we’re about twenty feet away, he allows himself to retreat. Two more steps and I hear a peeping, and look over to see the chickcharney running after us as fast as its stilt-legs will allow, tail whipping as it chirps, as if to say, “You forgot me!”
Dain sighs. Then he pockets his slingshot, jogs over and scoops up the chickcharney, which peeps in alarm. Dain runs back with it under his arm like a ball.
“Looks like you have a chickcharney after all, princess.”
CHAPTER FOUR
We’re back at the castle. On the way, Alianor—who’s training to be a healer—tended to Sunniva’s and my injuries. Now I’ve been double-checked by Dr. Fendrel. The filly is cut and sore. My shoulder’s bruised, and there’s a sticking plaster on my cheek. Superficial wounds, which won’t spare me from my mother’s wrath.
Rhydd and I are in her chambers, waiting as she paces. The captain of the guard, Berinon, stands at attention. His face is unreadable, shoulders stiff. Berinon is a head taller than Mom, his shoulders nearly twice as broad. His shaggy black hair is tamed into a braid today. His dark skin shines with sweat, though the evening chill has set in and the fire hasn’t been stoked. That sweat is the sole sign that we aren’t the only ones braced for Mom’s anger. Berinon isn’t in any trouble, though—his concern is for us.
Berinon was my dad’s bodyguard and best friend, and my mom’s friend, too, the three of them growing up together. At one time, we thought of Berinon as our uncle. Since Dad’s death, he’s become the closest thing we have to a father, guiding and mentoring us while leaving the discipline to Mom.
She paces, looking out the window as she passes it, her jaw set. She’s wearing a morning gown—the sort that means she won’t be giving audiences today. It’s grass-green, and each time she pivots in her pacing, the gold threads shimmer. So too does the ebony pin that holds up her hair. That sword-shaped pin reminds everyone that she is a trained monster hunter, like all Clan Dacre monarchs. I watch that tiny sword flash and feel the weight of the one on my back, and all the responsibilities it carries…including the responsibility to keep my brother and friends safe from monsters.
I glance around the room. Mom’s sleeping quarters are the size of mine, but she has this room, too, for working and meeting family away from the prying eyes of staff. Furs cover the stone floor—furs from my father, who’d stayed a monster hunter even after he married my mother.
Tapestries hang from the stone walls as both decoration and insulation. Each bears a scene depicting my parents’ favorite beasts. A pegasus and a warg for my mother. A firebird for Dad. As I study the hangings, I avoid looking at the spot where my father’s other favorite had once hung: the tapestry of a gryphon. In its place is my father’s sword; below it, my mother recently added my aunt Jannah’s secondary blade.
When I was seven, a gryphon killed my father before Jannah slew it. Then, six weeks ago, another gryphon killed her. Rhydd should have been the one to inherit her ebony sword. He’s the younger twin—if only by two minutes—so I was in line for the throne while he was meant to be the royal monster hunter. Except the gryphon also badly injured Rhydd’s leg, and that gave us the chance to switch places, which we’d always wanted.
I feel the weight of what those swords on the wall signify. Mom’s husband and her beloved younger sister were both killed by gryphons. And now her only children stand before her, having admitted to sneaking off and being attacked by wyverns.
“It was my fault,” I blurt, unable to bear the silence any longer. “The game was my idea.”
“It wasn’t a game,” Rhydd says. “It was a hunting exercise.”
Mom wheels on him. “Was it?”
He swallows visibly and then straightens. “Yes, Your Majesty. Rowan has been thrust into the role of royal monster hunter four years before she should have had to wield the ebony sword. She needs experience. No one forced me to go with her. In fact, when we faced off against the wyvern, she wanted me to stay back.”
Mom pales, the same look she gets every time someone mentions our encounters with the gryphon. I’ve learned what that look means—she’s picturing her children in front of a beast big enough to devour them.
I hurry on. “We were fine. It was the four of us, plus a warg and a unicorn, against a wyvern.”
“Jacko helped,” Rhydd says with an easy smile, trying to distract Mom.
Mom doesn’t even seem to hear him. She just meets my gaze and says, “Two.” When I fumble for a response, she goes on. “Two wyverns, Rowan. Either of them could have killed you. Rhydd, you say it was a training exercise, yes?”