The Gryphon's Lair

by Kelley Armstrong

  ACCOLADES AND PRAISE FOR

  A Royal Guide to Monster Slaying

  Shortlisted for the OLA Silver Birch Award

  A School Library Journal Best Middle Grade Book of 2019

  An Ontario Library Association Top Ten Title of 2019

  “A fast and fun read, [and] a great read-a-like for Tamora Pierce’s Tortall series.”

  —Starred Review, School Library Journal

  “A fresh take on familiar fantasy creatures and situations.”

  —Starred Review, Shelf Awareness

  “A rousing romp for monster hunters and monster lovers alike.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “A gripping middle grade debut.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  PUFFIN CANADA

  an imprint of Penguin Random House Canada Young Readers,

  a Penguin Random House Company

  First published 2020

  Text copyright © 2020 by K.L.A. Fricke Inc.

  Illustrations copyright © 2020 by Xavière Daumarie

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Publisher’s note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design: Kelly Hill

  Cover art: © Cory Godbey

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: The gryphon’s lair / Kelley Armstrong.

  Names: Armstrong, Kelley, author. | Daumarie, Xavière, illustrator.

  Description: Illustrations by Xavière Daumaire. | “A royal guide to monster slaying.”–Cover.

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20190233095 | Canadiana (ebook) 20190233702 |

  ISBN 9780735265387

  (hardcover) | ISBN 9780735265394 (EPUB)

  Classification: LCC PS8551.R7637 G79 2020 | DDC jC813/.6—dc23

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019955436

  Ebook ISBN 9780735265394

  www.penguinrandomhouse.ca

  a_prh_5.5.0_c0_r0

  To my nieces: Elena, Tesfanesh and Mya.

  May you slay all the monsters.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  CHAPTER ONE

  I have a way with monsters. Unfortunately, this chickcharney seems immune to it.

  When I was three, my dad captured a chickcharney and brought it home for me. I tried to hug it. You can’t blame me. Chickcharnies look like owls on stilts with amazing monkey tails. Adorable.

  Anyway, the chickcharney, shockingly, did not want to be hugged, even by a princess. For a flightless bird, it tried very hard to take flight. Finally, Dad whisked it away and promised me a more huggable version. I still have the toy, which has had both eyes and a leg replaced due to over-cuddling.

  Now, nine years later, I’m trying to capture a live chickcharney, and I swear it knows how much abuse its stuffed twin endured. It is not falling for any of my tricks, despite the fact that I am offering mealworm-and-hazelnut suet, which chickcharnies love the way I love honey cakes.

  I’m crouched behind a rock, watching the chickcharney bob around, totally ignoring the suet. Finally it stops, as if catching the scent.

  When the chickcharney turns toward me, my inner toddler squeals. It is truly the most adorable of the bird monsters, all huge eyes and fluffy feathers and those ridiculous legs. Its fuzzy body bobs as it walks to the first nugget of suet. To reach it, the chickcharney has to bend almost in half, like a human touching their toes. It swings down, grabs the nugget and levers up. As it chomps the treat, it squeaks in delight. Then it spots the next piece.

  When the beast heads my way, I suppress a shiver of glee. I’ve chosen my spot perfectly. I am the royal monster hunter, after all. Well, royal monster hunter in training, but I do carry the ebony sword.

  As Clan Dacre, I’d been raised to be a monster hunter. Yet my training doubled when I took the sword, and today I can see how it’s paid off. Chickcharnies are nervous beasts, but this one is heading straight for me, not suspecting a thing. I’m downwind and hidden behind long grass, wearing a tunic and leggings that blend with the green fronds.

  The chickcharney keeps bobbing toward me. When it hears a sound, its head swivels all the way around to look behind it. I tense, certain it’s about to bolt. But it only peeps twice and then continues toward my hiding place as it scoops up the suet-chunk trail.

  It’s five feet away. Four. Three…

  Dry twigs crackle and paws thump the hard earth as something plows through the grass. A flash of brown fur. Then jagged teeth flash as the intruder squeals in rage…and charges the chickcharney.

  “Jacko, no!”

  The young jackalope pretends not to hear me. He’s running at the chickcharney, I’m running at him, and the chickcharney is running as fast as its wobbly stilt-legs will carry it. It’s not fast enough, though, and Jacko leaps with a squeal of victory that turns to a grunt of surprise as I dive and grab him.

  I land flat on my face, outstretched hands clutching Jacko’s furry body. Once caught, he only gives a chirp of confusion. Then he sees me facedown in the dirt, and his chirp turns to an alert cry as he wriggles free and nudges me with his antlers.

  I groan and lift my head. The chickcharney is long gone. There’s just my half-grown jackalope companion, chattering at me. With long, powerful hind legs and a slender body, Jacko looks like a hare…if a hare had striped fur, pointed teeth and tiny antlers.

  Jackalopes are predators and a full-grown one could take down a chickcharney. At half size, though, Jacko is just dangerous enough to spook the poor beast.

  “I was not being attacked by a chickcharney, Jacko,” I say.

  His chirrup says he’s not so certain. In fact, he’s qu
ite sure he’s just rescued me from a terrible death at the talons of a deformed owl, and he nudges my hand, looking for the petting he so richly deserves.

  I give him a pat. He did think he was protecting me, and despite our training, he’s still too young to grasp the difference between threats and targets. Which is why someone was supposed to be watching him.

  When a giant black wolf charges from the brush, I don’t pull my sword. I don’t even scramble to my feet. I just skewer the warg with a glare.

  “Hello, Malric. Great job taking care of Jacko.”

  People say that Clan Dacre can understand the speech of monsters. Not exactly. We just learn to interpret their body language. Yet the more time I spend with beasts, the more I suspect they understand a greater portion of our speech than we realize.

  Malric’s snort insists that caring for a jackalope is beneath his dignity, but I don’t miss the sheepish look in his eyes. He stalks over and grabs Jacko by the scruff of his neck. Jacko hangs there, limp, even when Malric gives him a shake and a growl.

  A shadow passes over us. I squint up as a white cloud floats down to land on four roan-red hooves. The pegasus filly looks at Malric and Jacko and then tosses her red mane with a whinny of annoyance.

  “No, you didn’t miss the party invitation, Sunniva,” I say. “Thank you for staying away while I hunted. Unfortunately, your fellow beasts weren’t as patient. So much for catching a chickcharney.”

  Leaving my beasts at the castle hadn’t been an option. Jacko needs a steel cage to keep him from coming after me, and even then, he’s been known to squeeze through the bars. I refuse to corral or bridle Sunniva—staying with me must always be her choice. As for Malric, well, this isn’t exactly an authorized hunt. Mom thinks my brother and I are off enjoying a picnic, which means we need my personal bodyguard, and that’s the warg.

  I push to my feet and look around. “I’m sure Rhydd won’t catch one either, so—”

  Malric woofs. It’s a deep chuff, and I follow his gaze to see the chickcharney perched on a rock fifty feet away, watching us.

  Maybe I haven’t lost my chance after all.

  “Malric—” I begin.

  Before I can finish asking, he pins Jacko under one massive paw. The jackalope grumbles but lies still. I thank Malric with a nod. Then I pull an apple from my pocket and give it to Sunniva, while politely asking her to stay here. Her whinny agrees.

  Beasts under control, I leave the chickcharney watching them with interest while I creep through the long grass. On all fours, I make my way toward the monster, ease behind it and toss a suet pellet over its head. It peeps and gives a start. Then it smells the treat. As it gobbles up that one, I toss another into the space between us. The chickcharney trots over and—

  Hooves pound the earth, the very ground vibrating beneath them.

  A massive black horse leaps out from the forest. A steed with an iridescent horn. The unicorn charges, a rider clinging to his back. Rhydd grins and lifts his net as his unicorn, Courtois, bears down on the chickcharney.

  My chickcharney.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I stand my ground as my brother gallops straight at me. For twins, we don’t look much alike. We share the same honey-brown curly hair, though he now keeps his short. His skin is the color of his hair; mine is a little darker. I have our mom’s heart-shaped face and our dad’s green eyes; Rhydd has Dad’s square face and Mom’s brown eyes. Those eyes dance as he whips past me.

  “Hey! That’s my chickcharney,” I shout as the bird monster runs for its life.

  “Nope!” Rhydd yells back. “You set the rules, Rowan. Remember?”

  The last time we hunted, Rhydd had found the target—a hoop snake—first, but then he’d lost it, and when I captured it, he cried foul. So this time, I’d made a rule that being the first to find a monster did not mean it was yours. I’d meant that you couldn’t claim a target after you’d lost it. Apparently, I hadn’t been specific enough.

  “You can still catch this one,” Rhydd calls. “Just beat me to it. You’ve got a pegasus.”

  I grumble under my breath. He knows I can’t ride Sunniva yet.

  “I’m sure Malric will give you a lift,” Rhydd shouts as they disappear in a cloud of dust.

  The warg fixes me with a look that dares me to try it.

  “Thanks,” I mutter.

  Malric lifts his paw from Jacko, who leaps up and stands, poised on all fours, back straight, looking at me and chirping, as if offering his services as a mount. I chuckle and scoop him up.

  Rhydd’s right—I made the rules—and this is just a game. He’ll crow over his victory, but the next time we hunt, he’ll be the one who adjusts the rules to be more fair.

  I really shouldn’t have wagered that the loser had to attend the boring state luncheon tomorrow. I wouldn’t have agreed if my fellow monster hunter in training, Dain, hadn’t sworn he had a foolproof method for capturing chickcharnies. Now Rhydd and Alianor will catch a chickcharney first, and I’ll be stuck at that luncheon. I could get my revenge by insisting Dain join me, but the only thing worse than sitting through those speeches would be sitting through them with Dain grumbling beside me.

  A horse tears past to my left, on course to help Rhydd. The rider is a girl with light-brown skin and braided light-brown hair, her blue eyes glinting. It’s Alianor, my friend and Rhydd’s partner on this hunt.

  Alianor waves as she passes.

  I sink to the ground. “At least someone’s partner stuck around.”

  Jacko hops onto my lap, looks into my face and chirps. I scratch behind his antlers. “Yes, you stuck around. Dain, however, did not.”

  When Jacko hisses, I twist and notice Malric staring behind me, his narrowed gaze fixed on something that requires his attention, but not his concern.

  A boy creeps through the long grass. He’s my brother’s height but thinner. His ebony hair is tied at the nape of his neck and his skin, a shade darker than mine, almost blends with the shadows cast by the long grass.

  “Trying to sneak up on me?” I say to Dain.

  “No point with those two glaring at me.”

  “Malric’s just watching you. It’s Jacko who’s glaring. They’re my bodyguards for when my human partner doesn’t stick around. I’m teaming up with Alianor next time.”

  “Oh, so I guess that means you don’t want this?” He lifts a burlap bag. Inside it, something peeps in alarm.

  I scramble to my feet. “You caught a chickcharney?”

  He carefully lowers the bag around the bird, holding it in place. I see a familiar black spot on its beak.

  “You caught my chickcharney,” I say. “The one I was hunting.”

  “The one we were both hunting. You were luring it in while I was setting a trap in case it got spooked. Or in case your blasted bunny tried to attack it.”

  Jacko chitters at him, teeth flashing.

  “First your jackalope, and then your brother,” Dain says. “It was pretty much a guarantee that something would spook your chickcharney, princess.”

  I squint out over the long grass. “So if you caught my target, what are Rhydd and Alianor chasing?”

  “I have no idea.”

  I laugh and crawl over to examine the chickcharney. Dain crouches over it as we study the specimen. Dain might not seem excited by the creature, but his dark eyes gleam with interest, and he lets strands of hair fall into his face without impatiently shoving them back. We study the beast and discuss it, and I sketch it for my journal as Dain holds it without complaint.

  Then we prepare to release it. Alianor will grouse about us not proving we caught it—being from a bandit clan, she always expects a trick. Yet Rhydd knows I wouldn’t lie, and a training exercise is no excuse for traumatizing a beast.

  I carry the chickcharney a reassuring distance from my beasts. I may also give it a cuddle.
A very small one, and only because it’s already snuggled into my arms. I bend and set it down with murmurs and feather-strokes. It peeps, running its tail along my arm as if petting me back. I give it one last suet pellet for the road. Then I rise and step away.

  The chickcharney tilts its owl head, looking at me. Then it peeps, hops closer and wraps its tail around my leg.

  “No, princess,” Dain calls.

  I glance at him, my brows rising.

  “No, you do not need a pet chickcharney,” he says.

  I roll my eyes and give the beast another pat before I try to back up again. That delicate but strong tail tightens around my boot.

  “Absolutely not,” Dain calls. “You’re a monster hunter, not a monster collector. Stop taking them home.”

  I glower his way. “I have never taken a beast home. They follow me willingly. Well, except that one.” I hook my thumb at Malric, who watches us with baleful yellow eyes.

  “And the gryphon?”

  I straighten indignantly. “That is not the same, and you know it.”

  Before I could become the royal monster hunter–elect, the council insisted that I hunt down the gryphon that killed my aunt and wounded my brother. While I was training for that, the gryphon found us. I hadn’t trusted the council to believe I killed it, so we brought it back to the castle alive, where we’d discovered it was pregnant and decided to let it live so we could study both mother and baby.

  So, yes, technically, I brought the gryphon home. Still…

  “It’s not the same thing,” I say again.

  Dain shrugs. “If you insist, princess.” His face stays serious, but I don’t miss the amusement twinkling in his eyes. I huff and turn to the chickcharney.

  “I’m not taking it home,” I say. “Now, if it were an orphaned baby that wanted to follow me, then it would be an excellent opportunity to study—”

  “No.”

  I glare at him. “I said baby, which this is not.” I crouch and unwrap the chickcharney’s tail from my leg. “You’re fine. If you ever see me again, feel free to say hello, but you belong out here.”