Dain leads the way. He’s quieter, and Malric wants to watch my back. We keep our eyes on a sliver of dark red among the green and brown trees. As I draw closer, I realize it’s the back of a tunic. The person wearing it is looking in the opposite direction.
I touch Dain’s shoulder, asking him to hold up. He does, and I consider the figure. The person is definitely looking in the opposite direction. Not searching for us. Watching something.
Watching someone. Silver glints in the morning sun. Silver metal and blue sapphires. My old hair clip. The one now worn by Alianor.
I ease three steps left, Malric following. Yes, the sentry is watching Alianor, who’s seated on a log, bent over something.
I can see the sentry better, too. It’s a boy, maybe a half-foot taller than me, with light hair and broad shoulders. He isn’t just watching Alianor, either. He’s sneaking up, and he has something in his hand.
A rock. He’s holding a rock.
He’s going to hit her over the head.
I race forward, ignoring Malric’s warning snap and Dain’s hiss. I move as fast as I can, sticking to green undergrowth that doesn’t give away my footfalls. As I go, I take Jacko off my shoulders and set him on the ground.
The boy is so intent on his goal that he doesn’t notice me until I press my dagger tip to the back of his neck.
“Drop the rock,” I say.
He wheels, rock rising. I slam my left fist into his arm, and he drops the rock and lunges at me, but I dance out of the way. Dain rushes in, dagger raised. I snag the boy’s calf with my foot, yank, and down he goes. That’s when I switch my dagger back to my sword, because, like I said, it’s a lot more impressive, especially when it’s held at the throat of someone lying on his back with my boot on his chest.
I’m braced for the boy to try rising—I don’t want to accidentally slit his throat—but he just lies there, staring so hard I almost reach up to be sure I don’t still have a jackalope on my head.
I survey the boy. I don’t see a weapon, which is my biggest concern. He’s about my age, maybe a bit older, with wavy hair the color of sand and skin just a shade darker. He’s wearing a dark-red tunic, a dark-red bandana and no shoes. That’s what I really notice—no shoes and no weapon. I think he must have removed his boots to sneak up, but his feet are covered with dirt. Odd, especially as the weather grows colder, but I don’t question foreign customs or personal preferences.
Alianor comes running over and stares down at the boy almost as hard as he’s staring at me. Then she looks at us.
“Guess that letter didn’t work,” she says.
“Did you really think we’d stay away?” I turn to the boy. “Identify yourself.”
He blinks, and I try again in two more languages, but when he answers, it’s in the common language, which is what Tamarel and bordering countries use, with variations in dialect. His accent is one I can’t place.
“I am Prince Trysten of Dorwynne,” he says.
As Dain snorts, Alianor walks up beside the boy and says, “And that is Princess Rowan of Tamarel.”
His hazel eyes narrow. “Do not mock me.”
“Oh, believe me,” Alianor says, circling him. “We will mock you. Our warg is more a prince than you. Bare feet. Ragged clothing. Dirty face.”
It’s the last that makes him scowl. “My face is clean.”
“The point is that you are no prince of…where was it? Some made-up country? You really do take us for fools.”
“Actually, there is a Dorwynne,” I say. “A small country to the west of Roiva.”
“Never heard of it.” Alianor looks at the boy. “Have you heard of Tamarel?”
His face darkens. “Of course. I’ve heard of Princess Rowan, too. But she is not…” He trails off as he eyes me more closely. “Her face is dirty.”
“It has one streak of dirt,” Alianor says. “Which you only noticed because you can’t stop staring at her.”
Dain steps forward. “Enough of this. Who are you really?”
“Prince Trysten of Dorwynne.” He looks at me. “That is an ebony sword in your hand.”
“And a warg on her left side, a jackalope on her right,” Alianor says. “She is very clearly—”
The boy scrambles up so fast I have to yank my sword back so I don’t skewer him.
“Princess Rowan.” He executes an impressive half bow. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Pleased, huh?” I say. “We saw you with that rock. You were going to hit our friend over the head with it.”
“What? No. I had the rock in case she attacked me. But you need to leave. Now. All of you. Before—”
“I’m not going anywhere without my sister.” Alianor turns to me. “They have Sarika. I saw her. She’s their captive.”
The boy ignores her. “Leave. Quickly. Come back tonight, and we’ll talk. But whatever you do, do not take your pets into the village.”
I straighten. “They are my companions, not pets.”
He waves off the distinction, looking genuinely agitated. “Whatever they are, you must not—”
Alianor’s dagger flies to the boy’s back. “Don’t you dare try to stop me from saving my sister.”
“I’m not. I’m just saying—”
“You’re saying nothing. You’re our captive now.”
The boy lunges. Alianor’s blade flashes, and Dain jumps in to stop her, and she turns the dagger on him. A yowl from the treetops, and something falls, hurtling toward Alianor. Before anyone can react, the creature is on her back, its teeth going straight for her throat.
“Dropbear!” I say, and I raise my sword, but Dain grabs the beast from Alianor and stumbles back, holding it out at arm’s length.
The dropbear twists and leaps at Dain. I raise my sword again, but it has jumped into his arms. Then it turns and hisses at Alianor. That’s when I see its—her—slightly ragged left ear.
“Huh,” I say as I sheathe my sword. “Seems you found your dropbear, Dain. Or
