I say this, and then add that it’s probably a dropped kill. No predator is going to drag a goat haunch for two days.
“Gryphon would be the obvious answer,” I say. “A manticore could carry it, but I don’t think they’d bother. Or perhaps a large wyvern? We know gryphons will return food to their den, especially if they have young ones. I’m not as sure about wyverns.”
I bend to take a closer look at the teeth marks. When Wilmot appears, I rise. “Sorry. We don’t have time to satisfy this much curiosity.”
He shakes his head. “We have time. And we’re at least a half-day’s walk from Tiera’s den—in the wrong direction for a gryphon to be flying there from a farmer’s field. If there’s another gryphon den in these foothills, we need to be aware of that.”
Even if I can determine that a gryphon killed this goat, that won’t tell us where its lair might be. Wilmot is humoring me. If we really did need to get moving, though, he’d say so. I’ll take this brief break to practice my detection skills.
After months of studying Tiera, I know what gryphon bite marks look like. They’re actually beak marks, a gryphon having the head of an eagle. These don’t match. I ask Dain to confirm, and he does. Wilmot does, too. These are bites, from teeth.
Manticores have lion bodies, wings and simian heads which—like harpies—have been mistaken for human. Their teeth are simian. That’s what I see here. Teeth marks that look human.
“Could they be human?” Alianor asks.
“That would mean tool marks and I don’t…” I turn the bone over, and Alianor crows, pointing to an obvious slice, like one made with a knife.
“It’s been butchered.”
Someone cut meat off this bone. And also chewed it? With raw meat still attached?
“It’s a folklore remedy for nausea caused by dietary issues,” Cedany says, as if she read my mind. “You chew the bone of a hoofed mammal.”
Alianor wrinkles her nose. “I’ve never heard of that one.”
“It’s from Roiva.”
“So someone from Roiva—with stomach upset—butchered a domestic goat in the middle of the Dunnian Woods?” Dain says.
“The fact that the tradition is from Roiva doesn’t mean the person is. Folk remedies travel.” She walks over to where there’s more of the goat. “In this case, though, you are correct, Dain. Or that is a reasonable assumption, given that the goat is also from Roiva.”
I follow and see what looks like the top half of a regular domestic goat. She points out the bridle markings and the long tufts on what remains of its ears. When I don’t comment, she chuckles, “I suppose a princess doesn’t see many goats.”
“Not really.”
“Well, I studied in Roiva, and I’ve only seen these goats there.”
“An expedition from across the mountains,” Wilmot murmurs as he bends beside the carcass. “Look here. See these worn patches on the goat’s hide? Those are from saddlebags. It’s a common practice to use goats for carrying supplies on long journeys and then, when the supplies run out…”
“They butcher the goat for meat.” I examine both pieces of the goat. “There’s a lot left, though. Wouldn’t they dry it all?”
“They would. Otherwise, they’d let the goat keep walking and grazing until they needed the meat.” Wilmot rises from his place beside the carcass. “Something happened to either make them butcher it early or to force them to stop before they’d finished.”
He rises. “Look for a clearing. If we find the remains of their camp, we might get some answers.”
I’m walking with Kaylein. Alianor and Cedany stayed behind to take a closer look at the goat. Dain is searching with Wilmot.
I catch the smell of wood-fire smoke first. We’ve been walking off the path, hunting for a clearing, when the wind brings the faint smell our way. We follow it until we spot the clearing. It doesn’t hold the remains of a camp, though. It holds an actual camp—tents circling a smoldering fire.
When I start forward, Kaylein grabs me at the same moment Malric snags my tunic.
“They’re traders and travelers,” I say. “That’s what Wilmot said. An expedition from Roiva.”
Kaylein shakes her head. “He just meant that the travelers seem to have come from Roiva. There’s no way of knowing their intentions.”
“It won’t be a war party, though. No one’s going to make the trek through the mountains and the forest for that.”
“True. Their purpose is likely legitimate. But that doesn’t mean they’re safe. This is the Dunnian Woods, your highness. Many miles from any settlement. There is no law out here.” Before I can speak, she says, “Yes, the forest is technically under Tamarel’s rule, but it’s impossible to enforce. Just ask Alianor’s clan.”
She has a point.
“Caution is always warranted, your highness. Particularly for you.”
“How ought we to proceed, then?”
“Allow me to make first contact, your highness. I’m dressed in the royal colors, and my sword proclaims me a member of the guard. That should make them think twice if they have any thoughts of robbery.”
“Take Malric,” I say.
She hesitates, but I ask the warg to go with her, and when he doesn’t grumble, I know it’s the right choice.
As they walk into the clearing, I survey the camp. Three very basic tents. A fire, which is snuffed out and likely has been since dawn, leaving only a thin stream of smoke perfuming the air. It was a big fire. Too big, I think, with a spark of superiority, as if I am already an expert on forest travel.
That’s all I can see from where I sit. Tents and the smoldering remains of a large fire.
“Hello,” Kaylein calls as she marches into the camp.
It’s not a question but a statement, and she has one hand on her sword, her dark eyes flint hard, muscles tight as she looks around. In that moment, I’m awed
