The Gryphon's Lair

by Kelley Armstrong

  I roll my eyes. For a monster hunter, it takes him a remarkably long time to detect a monster. The bindings on my hands slacken, and I pull free and then yank the gag the rest of the way down.

  “It’s Jacko,” I whisper. “He’s chewed through my bindings.”

  “Very funny.”

  I yank off the blindfold. Everything’s still dark. I find a half-used fire stick in my pocket and strike it on my boot. It lights up Jacko, who is determinedly gnawing through the rope tying my feet. I pull off Dain’s blindfold, and he stares at the jackalope.

  “That is…” he begins.

  “Awesome?”

  “I was going with weird.”

  I help Jacko by pulling off the frayed rope. Then I give him a hug. “Who is the most awesome jackalope ever?”

  Jacko chirps and nuzzles against my chin as his antlers bop my nose.

  Dain shakes his head. “Definitely weird.”

  Jacko hops over to Dain’s feet, picks up the end of the binding rope, looks straight at Dain, drops the rope and hops back to me.

  I sputter a laugh. “No jackalope rescue for you.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Untie me, princess.”

  “Mmmm, I don’t know.” I stretch my legs. “I was trying to earlier, but you pulled away. I think that means you don’t need my help. Or Jacko’s. You can get yourself free.”

  “Princess…”

  When I only raise my brows, he growls under his breath, muttering, “This is not the time,” but then breaks off with, “Fine. Rowan, will you please untie me?”

  I do, because as much as I’d love to make him squirm some more, he’s right that this really isn’t the time. Before I untie him, I poke the fire stick into the dirt so I can see. We’re in a tent. It’s beautifully tanned, with what looks like a river-rafting scene embroidered on a wall, and any other time, I’d have lifted my fire stick for a closer look. Right now, though, all that matters is that this tent is very small and holds nothing except the two of us.

  “Jacko?” I whisper as I untie Dain. “Have you seen Alianor? Or Malric?”

  A grunt sounds behind the tent. Then a giant paw slides under it, and I exhale in relief, leaving Dain half untied as I crawl over. Before I can think better of it, I lay my hand on Malric’s paw. He doesn’t pull away. Just stays there and lets me grip his paw a moment before withdrawing it.

  “They didn’t take the beasts,” I say. “Malric was knocked out by the dart, so they left him there. They must not have noticed Jacko. But Alianor…Did you see her fall?”

  Dain shakes his head as he tugs off the ropes. “You went down, and then I did. I was unconscious before I saw what happened to Alianor. She must have gotten away.”

  I nod. “Okay, the old witch captured you and me and then—”

  “Wait. Did you say witch?” He makes a face. “I must have heard wrong. I could have sworn you just said old—”

  “Elderly healing woman.”

  His exaggerated frown deepens. “No, that doesn’t sound the same at all. You said—”

  “Just before we were captured, I saw an elderly woman with a tube in her mouth, which seemed to be shooting the darts that sedated us.” I pause. “You didn’t happen to get hold of one of those darts, did you? I’d like to study it.”

  “Why, yes, princess. As I was falling, I yanked out the dart and tucked it into my boot, where the witch—sorry, elderly healing woman—wouldn’t find it.”

  “Excellent!”

  He glowers at me. “I was being sarcastic.”

  “Oh. That’s disappointing. Well, we’re going to want to get one before we leave.”

  “Certainly. Why don’t I just go out and find one while you and your monsters escape?”

  “That’s very kind. Thank you.”

  His glower deepens. “I was—”

  “Being sarcastic. I know. Still, you did offer…”

  “Might I suggest, princess, that we focus on the escaping part first, before this ‘elderly healing woman’ puts us into a giant pot and boils our bones for her dinner?”

  “That’s a story. You shouldn’t believe everything you read.”

  “True. Once I saw a trader hawking pamphlets with a story about the royal princess and how terribly clever she was.”

  “I am clever. I befriended a jackalope who chewed through my ropes. You, on the other hand, were foolish enough to mock him for it. If not for me, you’d still be tied up.”

  “If not for you, I wouldn’t be here at all.”

  I lean over, my face close to his as I whisper, “I know. And isn’t it marvelous that you have such a friend to take you on grand adventures?”

  His lips twitch, and then he laughs, a real laugh as he pushes me away, shaking his head. “You are as weird as that jackalope of yours, princess.”

  “Yes, and being odd, I naturally surround myself with odd beasts…and odd friends. Friends that I allow to join me in escaping a witch’s tent, even when they refuse to risk their lives finding me a dart along the way.”

  “You said witch.”

  “Sardonically.”

  “Do you even know what that word means?”

  “I know what all the words mean.” I slip toward the tent flap. “Now hush. We’re lucky we haven’t brought our captor running already.”

  It’s more than lucky. It’s downright strange.

  I tug the flap open the tiniest bit, and Dain tries to peer over my head while Jacko squeezes under me to look through. I wave them both back so I can get a better look at…

  Nothing.

  I see trees, trees and more trees. The smell of damp earth wafts past. Gray dawn crests the forest, casting enough light for me to be certain there’s no one in sight.

  I creep through the tent, lift the bottom and see a warg tail. I move that aside, gingerly, and Malric spins, but only to fix me with a look that says, “If there was someone on this side of the tent, princess, do you really think I’d be lying here?” Good point. Again, there is no one in sight.

  “Where’s Alianor?” I whisper to Malric.

  He grunts and looks to the left, but even when I stick my entire head out—ignoring Dain’s squawks of protest—I see nothing except trees.

  I pull back in. “There’s no sign of the w—” I clear my throat. “Woman.”

  “You were going to say witch.”

  “Misunderstood natural healer.”

  He gives me a look. “She knocked us unconscious and left us bound and gagged in a tent. Not much to misunderstand there.”

  “To be fair, you did fill her cabin with dropbears.”

  “Me?” His voice rises to an indignant squeak. “It was your—”

  “Shhh.” I tilt my head. “Do you hear that?”

  He glares, as if I’m faking it to keep him quiet. Then his head swivels, following the distant sound of a voice. At first, it’s muffled, but then it comes clearer, as if a gag has been pulled away. I can’t make out the words, but the voice is unmistakable.

  “Alianor,” Dain and I say in unison.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Dain and I are out of the tent, slipping through the dew-damp forest toward Alianor’s voice, intertwining with an old woman’s voice, bristling with anger. I know this isn’t a witch. At least, not in the sense of someone who can cast hexes and curses and spells. There is no such thing. But that doesn’t mean she isn’t dangerous. She lives alone in the forest. That means she probably doesn’t like people very much. Plants and herbs can be used for more than healing, as she proved with those darts.

  I don’t have my sword. I remember it falling as I lost consciousness, but I have no idea where that happened. Dain’s dagger and bow are gone, too. We have Malric, though, and I’d choose him over my sword any day.

  As we creep through the woods, the warg follows at our heels. Jacko r
ests on my shoulders, his front paws across my head.

  In the distance, Alianor argues with the old woman. I catch snippets of the conversation, Alianor saying, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” and the woman replying, “Don’t lie to me, girl.” They keep circling that—the old woman is obviously accusing Alianor of something that she’s denying.

  She’s obviously accusing Alianor of filling her house with dropbears. The only solution to this problem doesn’t involve wargs or swords. It requires another weapon entirely. The truth.

  Finally, we’re close enough for me to see Alianor on her knees, hands tied behind her back as the old woman snaps at her. I peer at the woman. Her skin is the same shade as mine and wrinkled like a walnut shell. She wears her dark-streaked gray hair in a simple plait down her back, and she’s dressed in leather leggings and a tunic, with a dagger in her belt and boots laced to her knees.

  Despite her age, she’s no bent-back elder, toddling along on a walking stick, and seeing her, I quail at the thought of what I’m about to do. I don’t reconsider, though. I take a deep breath, and then I step from the forest, ignoring Dain’s intake of breath and Malric’s jaws snapping at my shirttails to hold me back.

  “It was me,” I say as I walk from the forest. “I trapped the dropbears in your cabin.”

  The woman turns sharply. Then she sees me and stares. Just stares. Rendered speechless by the sight of the royal princess. Then a voice says, “Is that a…jackalope on your head, girl?”

  I quickly pull Jacko down and cradle him in my arms. Then I realize the voice didn’t come from the old woman. I turn to see another woman with a bow. Beside her stands another woman, this one holding a spear. Two more step out on my opposite side, both armed.

  “Yes, that’s a jackalope,” Alianor says, her voice ringing out. “This is Rowan, princess of Tamarel, royal monster hunter, tamer of wild beasts…and my friend.”

  The women laugh. Throw back their heads and laugh.

  “Nice try, child,” one says. “She’s a girl who’s tamed a jackalope. Easy enough to do if you catch them young.”

  “Easy?” I sputter. “Jackalopes are untamable.”

  “Then what do you call that?” the woman says, pointing at Jacko. “Unless you’ve stuck antlers on a rabbit.”

  “Obviously she has,” another woman says. “It’s a Clan Bellamy trick to pass herself off as the princess by pretending she’s tamed a jackalope.”

  “Excuse me?” I lift Jacko’s paw. “Semi-retractable claws.” I pull up his lip. “Sharp teeth. He’s a jackalope, which makes me Rowan of Tamarel.”

  The women all laugh.

  “What’s so funny about that?” I say hotly.

  “The princess of Tamarel…wandering the Dunnian Woods with no one to guard her but a Clan Bellamy brat.”

  “Hey!” Alianor says. “I’m the warlord’s daughter.”

  “You’re still a bandit brat come to spy on us, along with your little friend here. Where’s your entourage, princess? Where’s your royal sword?”

  “Take me back to where your dart felled me, and I’ll find my sword. As for an entourage, I don’t need one. I have him.” I jerk my thumb toward the forest. “Malric? Come out, please.”

  There’s no response.

  “Malric?” one of the women snorts. “Princess Jannah’s warg? Yes, child, show us him, and we’ll believe you.”

  “You’ve already seen him.” I nod toward the old woman. “You knocked him out with your darts.”

  “A warg?” Her steel-gray eyebrows shoot up. “I think I’d have noticed that.”

  I sputter. Then I stop. It doesn’t matter. I can fix this easily enough.

  “Malric?” I call.

  No answer.

  I turn around and shout, “Malric!”

  Still nothing. Of all the times to ignore me…

  “Fine,” I say. “Don’t believe I’m the princess. I’m sorry about the dropbears, but together, we can get rid of them.”

  The old woman’s blue eyes narrow. “You’re responsible for the dropbears?”

  “Of course,” a younger woman mutters. “They’re Clan Bellamy. If there’s trouble, they’re behind it.”

  I start to argue that I am not Clan Bellamy, but Alianor shakes her head, telling me not to bother.

  “The dropbears were chasing us,” I say, “and we ran into your house to escape. But then we were trapped. We lured them inside and put up warning signs. We knew the hut belonged to a wit—healing woman, but we meant no disrespect.”

  “Witch?” The old woman’s brows shoot straight into her hairline. “You think I’m a—”

  “A respected elderly healing woman,” I say quickly.

  “She thinks that’s your hut, Gran,” one of the younger women says, struggling against a laugh. “You do kind of look like a—”

  The old woman spins, a bony finger raised against the younger one, who makes no effort to contain her laughter.

  The old woman turns on me. “If you mean the cabin to the south, it is indeed the abode of a healer. A young woman of twenty, who is not a witch. I am Yvain of Clan Hadleigh, great-aunt to the warlord.”

  “Clan Hadleigh?” I perk up. “That’s the clan of my father, Armand of Hadleigh.”

  Her lined face darkens. “That is the father of the princess, and if you are still claiming to be her, I’ll take a switch to your bottom to teach you respect. Armand—rest his soul—was my brother’s grandson.”

  “And my father.” I point at my face. “I have his eyes, see? I take after my mother more, but if you ever met your great-nephew, you cannot deny my parentage.”

  She snorts. “Yes, I can. I only need to look at you to know you are no princess.”

  When I squawk my outrage, Alianor says, “She has a point, Rowan. Your tunic is torn. Your face is streaked with dirt. And your hair…” She shudders. “You haven’t had time to bathe since you left the castle, have you?”

  I glower at her. “I bathed yesterday morning. It’s damp in the forest, and my curls frizz, which is why I tie them back.” I glance sidelong at a puff of hair on my shoulder. “Usually tie them back, when I’m not woken in the night by dropbears.”

  I stride up to the old woman, shoulders squaring. “Enough of this nonsense. You say I am not the princess? Ask me anything about court. About the queen. About monsters.”

  “Why are the dropbears on the move?” another woman asks. She’s about my mother’s age, and she’s been silent until now.

  “What?” I say.

  “The dropbears are moving east. We’ve been tracking them to find out why. If you’re an expert on monsters, tell us the answer.”

  “I have never even seen a dropbear until tonight. Hardly anyone does. Ask me another question.”

  “This is silly,” the youngest says, stepping forward, her dagger out. “Enough stalling. You are a spy from Clan Bellamy, who thinks us fools.”

  “No, I’m the princess, and I’m—”

  The young woman lunges. I grab for my sword, which isn’t there, of course. No one else interferes, and I stand my ground as she moves forward, dagger pointed at my throat.

  “Tell us who you really are.”

  I straighten. “Princess Rowan of Clan Dacre.”

  Her face twists with anger. “Lie to me again, girl, and—”

  “I am Rowan, daughter of Queen Mariela of Clan Dacre and Prince Consort Armand of Clan Hadleigh.”

  She steps closer, dagger tip pressed to my chin. “You are an impudent little—”

  An earsplitting screech rips through the quiet morning air. The young woman jerks back, her dagger nicking my chin. All the women back up, weapons raised as their gazes lift to the sky. A dark cloud appears, winging toward the clearing as that screech rings out again.

  “Gryphon!” the old woman shouts as
Tiera spots me. “Archers, prepare—”

  “No!” I rush forward, waving my arms. “It’s okay. She’s with me.” I race under the gryphon. “Tiera! Down, girl! I’m here!”

  Tiera circles once as the women gape, their bows raised, arrows nocked. Tiera screeches in delight, lands beside me and gallops over to rub her head against mine. I scratch behind her ears and murmur, “Good girl. Such a good girl.”

  A figure bursts from the forest. Tiera hisses and ruffles her feathers as Dain rushes in, my sword in hand, Malric bounding along behind him.

  “Finally,” I say. “I thought you two had abandoned me to my fate.”

  “I was fetching your sword, princess. Malric showed me where it was. I thought you might need it to prove who you are.” He nods toward the young gryphon. “But I guess Tiera does that.”

  The young woman with the dagger drops to one knee, her head bowing. “I’m so sorry, your highness. I wouldn’t have threatened you if I’d thought you might actually be…”

  “The royal monster hunter.” It’s the old woman, her voice a whisper. When I glance over, she’s staring at the ebony sword.

  “That’s…,” she says, faltering. “That’s Princess Jannah’s…” Her gaze goes to Malric. “And the warg, too.”

  As I untie Alianor, I realize then that they don’t know what’s happened in Tamarel. It’s been three months, but it will take longer for news of my aunt’s death to reach every citizen, particularly those who live in the wilderness.

  I bow my head. “I am sorry to bring news of my aunt’s death, Mistress Yvain. She was killed by a gryphon in the spring.”

  “But…but it is your brother, the prince, who was to wield her sword. Is he—?” She swallows. “Your brother is—”

  “Rhydd is fine,” I say quickly. “His leg was injured in the gryphon attack, and the council decided that since we are twins, it was acceptable for us to trade positions. I am better suited to monster hunting.”

  “That is an understatement,” murmurs one of the middle-aged women as she watches me pet Tiera. “We do not believe in magic, but if ever there seemed proof of it.” She shakes her head. “That is a gryphon.”