A Royal Guide to Monster Slaying

by Kelley Armstrong

  I want to deny it, insist they’ve made a mistake. Yet my sword—and the jackalope on my head—gives me away.

  I should flee. Well, flee in the most dignified way. Sheath my sword and climb on my horse and be gone with a queenly nod and a “blessings upon thee.”

  But I keep thinking about that dead jackalope, and I can’t leave.

  “Yes.” I straighten. “I am Princess Rowan, heir to the ivory throne. And you have poached on my royal lands.”

  The girl takes a step back, as if ready to bolt. I lift my sword and point the tip at her throat.

  “Running from royalty is a capital offense,” I lie, in what I hope is a convincing voice. “Stand firm and hear my message. I will not turn you in for your crime. You are young, and I will show mercy. I know that you may have been forced to commit this crime.”

  “Yes, yes, we were,” the girl says, and she rushes on to tell a tale of woe, involving a sick mother, injured father, colicky baby brother and lame horse. Either she’s an excellent storyteller or she’s been born to the most unfortunate family ever. I’m sure it’s the former, but it is a good tale, and I listen to the end. Then I take a money pouch from my pocket. I fish out two silvers—the largest coins I have—and I give them each one.

  “This is your reward for not fleeing,” I say. “And for the two who fled?” I give the girl two coppers. “That is my donation to their families, plus encouragement to cease their poaching. Strong encouragement. I have noted all your faces, and if you are ever found killing a jackalope again, you will lose both your hands.”

  The boy pales and teeters. I realize I may have overdone it, but it’s too late to go back. At least it’ll keep them from killing more jackalopes.

  “Now take my royal blessing,” I say. “Begone and poach no more.”

  They run, tripping over themselves as they disappear into the night.

  CHAPTER THREE

  nce the poachers are gone, I exhale and sink to the ground. I need to be more careful. If those had been adult poachers, I’d never have gotten away that easily. I shiver just thinking about it, and I pull my knees up, holding them tight until I stop shaking.

  The jackalope wriggles onto my lap. Hoping for food, I guess. I give him some. Then I hunt for his den, and I find it, a hollow under a fallen tree lined with leaves and soft fur. I settle him into the nest and leave all my meat beside him before I return to my gelding.

  I’ve barely set out when I catch soft thumps punctuating the thuds of the gelding’s hooves. I look back to see the jackalope hopping after me.

  I stop the horse and call “Away with you!” to the jackalope. He chatters at me and lopes up beside the gelding.

  “You can’t come along,” I say.

  He gives a great leap, as if to jump onto the saddle. He doesn’t even make it halfway. He backs up to take a run at it. This time, he gets just high enough to scratch the gelding, who two-steps in alarm.

  I sigh and climb off the horse. The jackalope squeaks and jumps, all his claws digging into my tunic as he clings to it, chattering up at me.

  Another sigh. Then I dislodge his claws, set him down, turn him toward his den and tap his rump. “Go on. Your home is there.”

  He jumps on my leg and starts scaling it. I remove him—again—and set him down—again. Then I hurry to the horse and swing on. I consider making the gelding gallop away, but I can’t bring myself to do that. So I only nudge him to a walk.

  The jackalope follows.

  “You’re going to get tired,” I call back. “And then you’ll need to find your way home. Because I am not carrying you.”

  * * *

  I ride for the rest of the night. Finally, the sun crests the horizon, staining the sky the color of a unicorn’s horn, swirls of pink and blue. I’d enjoy the sight a lot more if I didn’t have a jackalope sleeping on my head.

  Yes, I’m carrying the jackalope, despite my threat. I’d meant to stick to it. I really had. But he started crying and falling behind. By then, we were miles from his den, and I didn’t think he’d ever find his way back.

  From the way he was crying, he might not even have tried going back. I kept imagining us returning from the gryphon hunt to find a dead baby jackalope by the side of the path. I couldn’t risk that. So I put him on my saddle, where he stayed for about half a mile before climbing onto my shoulder. Soon, he had his body draped over my head. Then he fell asleep.

  He’s snoring, too, each reverberation reminding me of how tired I am. I’ve never ridden this long at once, and I’ve never stayed up all night before. I’m ready to collapse in the saddle.

  The sky is still pink when I spot smoke swirling over hide tents. I catch a whiff of breakfast meat, and my stomach growls. The jackalope wakes up. He sniffs the air and then his stomach grumbles.

  “We’re almost there,” I say.

  A familiar figure walks along the forest’s edge. It’s Rhydd. I prod the gelding to go faster, and a guard spots me, calling, “Halt!”

  Rhydd turns as Jannah comes running, Malric at her side. Three hunters follow her. All five skid to a stop and stare.

  “Yes, it’s me,” I say. “It’s too late to send me back, so don’t bother.”

  “Uh, Rowan?” Rhydd says. “There’s a—Why is there a baby jackalope on your head?”

  “Because he was too tired to run.”

  Jannah bursts out laughing, and everyone joins her.

  “What?” I say.

  She shakes her head. “Come, have breakfast, and you can tell us the whole story.”

  * * *

  There are a half-dozen other monster hunters in Jannah’s camp. While she’s the royal monster hunter, she isn’t the only person in Tamarel trained to hunt them. I’ve undergone the basic training, as has my mother. But Jannah also has her own troop. They can handle minor cases on their own. For larger ones, a couple might join Jannah. A gryphon hunt, though, requires all six.

  Once we’re in camp, I relax, something I haven’t done since I jumped out that window and realized I might not get back in. From that point on, it’s been one worry after another. That isn’t normal for me.

  Rhydd is the cautious one. If we swim in a new lake, he’s wondering whether there’s a monster beneath the waves. Maybe an undertow? Should we swim so far from shore? We should have told someone where we were going.

  I always roll my eyes and tease him. To me, a new lake is a new adventure. I never understood his concerns. Now I do.

  Coming here alone was like leaping from a cliff and having no idea if the lake beneath was deep enough. I’ve spent the whole night holding myself tight, anxious and afraid and trying so hard to pretend I was not. Now I can relax, and when I do, I’m exhausted.

  There’s no time to rest, though. And I certainly can’t let anyone know how scared I’d been. I’m Princess Rowan. I don’t get scared. So I regale everyone with my story; they laugh and slap me on the back. They tell me how brave I am, and I start to feel more like myself. But when I talk about the poachers, I skim over the details. I make the story funnier, less frightening, certainly less dangerous. Still, I feel Rhydd’s gaze on me. He knows there’s more to it.

  As the hunters break camp, Rhydd and I sit off by ourselves on a giant boulder, feet dangling. The jackalope curls up on my lap, and I scratch the base of his antler prongs, which makes him purr, eyes closed as he pushes against my hand.

  “You came all this way by yourself, at night.” Rhydd shakes his head. “That must have been scary.”

  Not as scary as staying home and letting you face a gryphon alone. I don’t say that, of course. I just shrug and keep my attention on the jackalope.

  After a moment of silence, I say, “Are you mad at me?”

  “If I say yes, will you promise to never do it again?”

  I snort, and he laughs at that.

  “Worth a try,” he says. “You came for me. I can say that I didn’t need it, that Jannah won’t let me near that gryphon, but…” He glances over. “I’m glad
you’re here. And I hope, if it’d been the other way around, I’d have had the courage to come for you.”

  “Of course you’d have come. You’d have just done it differently.” I kick the rock behind my feet. “You’d have handled it better.”

  He knocks his shoulder against mine. “Nah, not better. Just different.”

  “It was more dangerous than I realized. I’m lucky I made it here.”

  “And the fact you know that means I don’t need to say it. Which is good, ’cause I hate playing the nagging big brother.”

  “Pretty sure I’m the older one.”

  “Not bigger, though.”

  I straighten, but even sitting, I’m a handbreadth shorter.

  He grins. “Remember when you were taller than me? Dad told you to enjoy it while it lasted. Now I get to boss you around forever.”

  “Uh, no. Once I’m queen—”

  “I’ll still be bigger.”

  “That doesn’t count. As queen, I can tell you what to do.”

  “You can try.”

  I’m about to retort when Jannah appears. “Time to head out, you two.” She looks at the jackalope. “I suppose he’s coming?”

  “It’s up to him.” I hop off the rock and set the beast down. “This seems like a nice place. He could make a good life here. He—”

  The jackalope jumps onto my leg and starts climbing. I sigh and scoop him onto my shoulder, whereupon he perches on my head. I sigh again, more deeply.

  Rhydd snickers. “Nice try. Looks like you’re stuck with him.”

  “Oh no. As future queen, I dub thee, Rhydd of Clan Dacre, keeper of the royal jackalope.”

  He walks away, calling back, “Like I said, you can try bossing me around. But I wouldn’t recommend it. Time to admit you’re the proud owner of a baby jackalope.”

  I grumble under my breath as I follow Jannah and Rhydd to our horses.

  * * *

  Like my brother, my aunt is dressed for battle, in knee-high boots, soft riding trousers and a heavy tunic. Today’s tunic is crafted from the hide of a warakin—a cross between a boar and a wild dog, twice as savage as either. Others see our royal monster hunter’s tunics as trophies, but to her they’re failures. They’re the beasts she had to kill.

  Royal monster hunters used to slay every beast they encountered, like exterminating rats in a barn. But Jannah would say this isn’t their barn—they don’t actually live on our lands. If they’ve wandered here, they can be “encouraged” to wander out again. We can drive them back to the forests or the mountains. Or sedate and relocate them. Monsters have as much right to live as any other creature, and most of them happily stay in their own place.

  If they get a taste for livestock—or endanger people—that’s another story. Sometimes, rehabilitation is still possible. Like Malric, who’d been a pup when Jannah caught him raiding chickens. Other times, as with the warakin whose hide she wears, it’s not.

  A gryphon is an exception to the rule. It’s one of the few monsters that can’t be driven away. Which is why we’re here.

  As we ride, Jannah explains that the gryphon reports came from this region. Villagers have spotted the beast a half-dozen times, ravaging the local livestock. No one knows where to find it, though. That’s our job.

  We’re riding along the foothills. Beyond them, fog-shrouded peaks rise, part of a mountain range infested with monsters and bandits. All the other kingdoms lie beyond that treacherous terrain. To cross it, you need an expert guide. Clan Bellamy is happy to help, for an outrageous price, but if you pay it, you’re guaranteed not to be set upon by bandits…because they are the bandits. The other option is to join one of Jannah’s convoys. This is a task Jannah added to her duties as royal monster hunter—she escorts trade caravans through those monster-infested mountains. Most people prefer Jannah, not surprisingly. The leader of Clan Bellamy doesn’t appreciate the queen cutting into his profits. He’ll be at the castle next week, hoping to negotiate a deal.

  Jannah can cross the mountains because she trained for it. One of the ordeals all royal monster hunters face is the pilgrimage, where they must travel the mountain passage alone.

  As we look for signs of the gryphon, Jannah tells us stories from her pilgrimage. She talks about the terrible beasts she fought—and the glorious ones she saw—and I hang on every word. I’m there with her, fighting a manticore. I’m there, seeing a phoenix nest. I’m there when she tumbles over a waterfall to escape a pack of warakins. I’m there when she wriggles through a cave tracking a basilisk. With the mountains close enough to smell, these old stories leap to life. My heart pounds and my very soul aches. I want to wheel the gelding around and gallop into those mountains and experience all that myself.

  I want to…and I never will.

  Beside me, Rhydd laughs when Jannah describes tumbling over that waterfall. He sighs at the story of the phoenixes. He grins at the thought of squeezing through that cave. But his heart doesn’t race. His eyes don’t shine. He’s not there with her. And he doesn’t want to be.

  Jannah has tried to make Rhydd into a royal monster hunter. Yet some things can’t be taught, as I’ve overheard her saying to our mother.

  “He doesn’t have the passion,” she said. “He’s like you.”

  “I always enjoyed a good hunt,” Mom retorted. “I’m quite fond of monsters.”

  “So is Rhydd. He enjoys the hunt. He likes the beasts themselves. But he’d like both a lot more if he didn’t know they were his future. That’s the difference between you and him, Mari. You knew you’d never have to carry the ebony sword. He knows he must, and it means he can never relax and enjoy hunts or encounters. Rowan, on the other hand…”

  “Unless you know a way to fix the situation, telling me this won’t help. Make him a monster hunter, Jannah. Please.”

  She’s tried. She’s tried so hard. So has Rhydd. But it’s not just our mother he takes after in this. Our father was the best warrior in the land, and Rhydd is truly his son. My brother has an instinct for swordplay that I envy. But, like our father, Rhydd does not have the Clan Dacre instinct for monsters. That can’t be taught or I’d teach him myself.

  “Can we talk about gryphons?” I ask. “Tips? Tricks? I know they have weaknesses, but I’m not sure I remember them all.”

  It would be hard not to remember them all, considering how few weaknesses gryphons have. This is for Rhydd—to reassure him they can be killed. I already know everything there is to know about the beasts.

  When we were young, Jannah and my father used to play a game with us.

  Which monster would you most like to see?

  Which monster would you most like to touch?

  Which monster would you most like to hear?

  Which monster would you most like to meet?

  At the time, we’d been deep into our monster lessons as our bestiary knowledge expanded. So the answers kept changing. Whenever Jannah introduced us to a new beast, we’d pay close attention. We’d imagine what it would sound like, look like, feel like, act like. Through the game, the monsters became real. They leapt off the pages, snorting and bucking and howling and slithering.

  Once I learned about gryphons, my answer stopped changing.

  I want to see a gryphon.

  I want to touch its wondrous mane.

  I want to hear its terrible screech.

  I want to meet it, to stand before it and look up into those amber eyes and say hello.

  The last one always made Jannah and my father laugh. No, Rowan, you don’t want to say hello to a gryphon…or it’ll be the last thing you ever say.

  Five years ago, when villagers brought tales of a gryphon, my father snuck me out of a history lesson. We scurried into the courtyard, where he hoisted me onto the wall. Then he hopped up to sit beside me.

  “Want to know what I’m off to see?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “A monster.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’re a monster hunter. You see them all the
time.”

  “Not this one.” He leaned over. “Guess what kind of monster?”

  I looked at him, saw his eyes dancing, and my heart skipped. I could barely breathe the words. “A gryphon?”

  He grinned. “A gryphon.”

  “Are you going to say hello to it?” I asked with a smile.

  “I will. For you. From a distance. But do you know what else I’ll do…?” He leaned in again to whisper. “I’ll touch its mane.”

  I giggled, my feet thumping against the wall.

  “And I’ll do better than that,” he said. “I’ll pluck out a tuft for your field journal.”

  When they brought my father’s body home, my mother found a tuft of golden mane in his pocket. I threw it as hard as I could and spat on it. I never talked about gryphons after that. I swore I never wanted to see one. Now I’m about to, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.

  When I ask Jannah for tips on gryphons, she launches into a lesson. A gryphon has the head and upper body of an eagle. Its forelegs are an eagle’s, too, with talons the length of my forearm. The back half looks like a giant cat. It has cat ears and huge eagle wings.

  Villagers say that a gryphon’s gaze can paralyze a person. That’s not true. It just has a razor-sharp beak, razor-sharp talons, razor-sharp claws on its hind legs…

  Yes, a gryphon doesn’t need a paralyzing gaze to kill. It does very well on its own. Very, very well, which makes it the most dangerous monster in our world.

  As for weaknesses, well, it’s not armored, which is good. Our swords can puncture its thick hide…as long as we can get close enough. Arrows won’t do more than prick its skin. To kill a gryphon, one must ram a sword through its heart. That sounds easy enough, but it’s not as if the gryphon is standing there waiting to die. It’s dodging and attacking while the hunters are fighting for their lives, trying to get the right angle and leverage to drive their swords through the narrow gap between its ribs. It’s like hitting a flying sparrow with a peashooter.