The dress conversation scared Dain away. He claimed it was boring, but we both noticed he fled once we asked his opinion about which colors suited us best. Now that we’re talking about imaginary monsters, he stays away. I’m sure he thinks it’s silly. Such creatures don’t exist, so why are we discussing them?
This is why I like having more than one friend. For most of my life, it was just me and Rhydd. With Dain and Alianor, plus Rhydd, I have friends I can talk to about anything. If one doesn’t understand, another will. Only Rhydd can truly understand what it’s like to be royal. Only Dain truly understands monsters and monster hunting. Alianor is the one I can be silly with, be imaginative with, and yes, talk about things like dresses and jewels with. That’s far from the extent of our conversations. There is, however, a companion best suited for each of my interests, someone who really gets me on that subject, and that is a wonderful feeling.
“What if Sunniva and Doscach had a baby?” Alianor says as we walk. “That’d be a new kind of monster horse. One with wings and gills. It could fly in the air and swim in the ocean.”
“Or it might not be able to do either,” I say. “It could just be a green horse with a red mane and hooves.” I wrinkle my nose. “Not sure if that’d look good or not. Probably not.”
When she glances at me, I shrug. “Science, right? You don’t inherit all your parents’ traits. I don’t even know if a pegasus and a ceffyl-dwr could mate. They’re both equine monsters, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it would work.”
“Doesn’t mean what would work?” Dain says as he catches up.
“Sunniva and Doscach having a baby,” Alianor says.
“W-what?” Dain sputters. “They’re not even old enough to…to…”
“Hypothetically,” I say.
“Because they’re in looove,” Alianor says. “At least, Doscach is.”
Dain sputters some more as Alianor giggles and shoots me a look. Alianor is fascinated by romance, maybe because she’s a half-year older than me.
“We aren’t making marriage plans,” I say. “We’re theorizing. That’s what happens when you put the future royal monster hunter with the future royal monster healer. We start talking science.”
“But scientifically, how does cross-species reproduction work?” Alianor says. “I know dogs can mate with wolves. We’ve had a few of those. My brother—the idiot—always bugged Dad for a half-wolf dog. Dad said there was a reason people keep domesticated dogs instead. So, a few years ago, Lanslet got himself a half-wolf dog, and it escaped as soon as he let it off the chain.”
“Because true domestication takes many, many generations,” I say. “Your dad was right. Now, if a wolf-dog was more strongly dog, it would be fine, but there’s no way of knowing that, so it’s best just to find a dog you like. As for cross-species between monsters—”
Wilmot raises a hand, and I stop mid-sentence. He’s spotted something, and we need to be quiet and stop moving.
I creep up beside him, which would be a lot more of a “creep” if I didn’t have a giant canine lumbering at my heels. Wilmot’s gaze swings from side to side.
After a moment, a bird squawks. A raven’s croak. Wilmot motions for the others to stay back and for me to follow. I ask Malric to wait. He grumbles but plants his furry rump. Then he looks at Jacko as if to say, “He’d better not be allowed to go if I’m not.”
I bend and ask Jacko to stay with Malric. He pretends not to understand until Malric raises a massive paw, threatening to pin the jackalope. Jacko lets out a grumble of his own and settles in.
Wilmot is already two steps away, and I hurry to catch up. The raven’s caw came from the left of the path, and Wilmot waits for me there. He doesn’t say a word or even gesture, but I know he wants me to choose a path that will least risk disturbing the raven. I check the wind direction, though that’s more important with mammals. Then I check the ground. It’s autumn, and crunching leaves underfoot are a giveaway, but this particular area is mostly coniferous forest.
I ease in. The raven has gone silent, but when I strain, I pick up a sound I can’t quite place, from roughly the same direction. Then there’s another croak, this one loud and angry, accompanied by a flap of wings. I stop short, thinking I’ve disturbed the bird. Then I see it. Them, actually. Two ravens. One is perched on an animal thigh that’s nearly bone. The other wants to share the first’s feast.
Wilmot peers over my shoulder and grunts. He motions for us to retreat. As we do, one of the ravens must spot a movement in the trees. It lets out an alert cry, and they both take wing.
“Nothing,” Wilmot calls to the others. “Just ravens scavenging.”
“May I quickly check what they were eating?” I say. “I think it was a mountain goat, and I want to see whether I’m right.”
He nods. Dain joins me. Alianor follows. This is one interest we all have in common.
The bone is from an average-sized mammal, almost certainly genus Capra. In other words, a goat. We’re close enough to the foothills for mountain goats. This one was probably killed by a larger predator and dragged here. It’s only the haunch, with teeth marks on the bone. Alianor and I are examining it when Dain says, “The rest’s over here,” from a dozen steps to the south.
“It’s not a wild goat,” he says as we approach. “It’s domestic.”
We’re at least a two-day walk from the
