Dain’s family did the same, and then he was raised by a man who obviously loves him, but I’ll bet Wilmot never actually says that. So Dain struggles to admit his feelings for people. Even now, with Alianor gone, Dain’s saying nothing, but the way he’s fussing with his pack and casting anxious glances at me says everything he can’t.
Wilmot sighs. “We need to go after her.”
I exhale under my breath. There’s no way I want to keep going and leave her behind. I just appreciate not having to fight Wilmot on the matter.
Once we reach the path, Malric confirms that Alianor’s trail continues on.
“And how does she expect to track the kidnappers without Malric?” Wilmot gripes. “I’m not sure whether I’m relieved she didn’t steal him or annoyed.”
“I think…” I begin carefully. “I think we should be careful about using the word steal with Alianor. She would never have taken Malric, but even if she did, it would be borrowing him, which I’d have allowed if he permitted it.”
Wilmot gives me an awkward pat on the back. “Of course. I’m just being a cranky old man.”
“You’re younger than my parents, aren’t you?”
Cedany laughs. “I think the princess is telling you, diplomatically, that you don’t get to use the cranky old man excuse.”
A few steps in silence, and then someone says, “Rowan’s right, though, that we should be careful which words we use when we talk about Alianor.”
To my surprise, this is Dain.
He shrugs. “If she steals, we can’t pretend it isn’t stealing. If she lies, we can’t pretend it isn’t lying. But it’s easy to accidentally keep reminding people what they are and where they come from.”
I slow and look at him.
He waves me off. “Stop looking at me like that, princess. I don’t mean that you remind me where I come from. People do, though, and it’s…” He rolls his shoulders in another shrug. “It doesn’t help. This is about Alianor, though. Obviously, we made her feel like we wouldn’t believe her sister was a victim. The only one she thought she could talk to was Rowan, and that isn’t right. That’s how we got into this mess.”
He glances around, realizes everyone’s watching him and shoves his hands into his pockets, mumbling something unintelligible as he waits—hopes—for us to look away.
We continue in silence until the trail forks. Wilmot looks from one branch to the other and curses under his breath.
“She went right, didn’t she?” I say. “And to discover what’s driving the monsters this way, we would need to continue left.”
He nods.
“How did she know which way to turn?” I ask.
He points at the trail. In some places, it’s hard-packed soil, but here it’s soft earth, and the foot impressions are clear. One small set of prints—Alianor’s boots—and two other sets.
“Only two people?” I say. “Or am I seeing wrong?”
“Only two. Running, from the looks of it.”
“Running? Why?”
He doesn’t answer, meaning he has no answer to give. No idea why there would only be two people, both running, when we estimated there must have been at least five travelers, plus a kidnapper.
“Maybe two of them escaped their kidnapper,” Kaylein says.
“They’d be smarter getting off the trail, then,” Wilmot says. “But yes, that makes sense.”
When he sighs and turns right, Cedany raises a hand. “Allow me to go after Alianor. I know this forest, and I’m a decent enough hunter to follow her tracks.” She slides a glance Kaylein’s way. “Kaylein could come with me. I know she’s Rowan’s bodyguard, but the warg does that admirably, and it would help to have her sword if we run into trouble.”
Wilmot shakes his head. “We’ll all go. The other path heads directly west, but this one goes northwest. It’s not as if we have a precise goal in mind anyway.”
“There’s a settlement to the northwest,” Cedany says. “That’s likely where this trail leads, and they may know more about the monster migration.” She pauses. “Unless they’re the ones who took Alianor’s sister.” Another pause. “Let’s just say there’s a reason I kept moving east to ply my trade.”
Wilmot sighs deeply, and then waves for us to take the right-hand branch.
We’ve barely gone a mile when we reach the dead harpy.
Malric’s the one who finds it. We’re walking along, and he stops short, growling for me to stop, too. Another growl to tell me to stay put, and he disappears into the forest.
“Couldn’t he have done his business when we all stopped?” Dain mutters. “At this rate, we’ll be lucky to get to the mountains before winter.”
A moment later, Malric appears with something in his mouth. He throws down the bundle, and the harpy lands on its back, wings flopping open, tiny lips drawn back over needle-sharp teeth.
“They never get any less ugly, do they?” Cedany says with a shake of her head. She bends over and prods the harpy. “Judging by the rigor, it’s been dead since yesterday.” She flips it over and examines a small spot of blood, parting the short fur to reveal a pinprick hole. “Dart, I think?”
She frowns and backs onto her haunches to study the beast. Then, with a grunt, she checks its neck.
“Broken,” she says.
“Its neck broke after it died and fell?” I say.
Wilmot shakes his head. “No poison works quite that fast. That’s why we avoid using poison arrows in hunting.”
I glance at Wilmot. “A sedative dart, then—like Yvain uses. After which the harpy broke its neck in the fall. Or whoever shot the dart broke its neck after it fell.”
While we use sedative mostly for relocating monsters, there are times when it’s the easiest—and most humane—way to kill a rampaging beast that isn’t suitable for relocation. Sedate it, and then kill it.
“I’d vote for the latter,” Cedany says as she checks the beast’s mouth and eyes. “The harpy attacked someone without a proper bow.
