Still, I’m ahead of the others, and when Kaylein shouts for me to wait, I pretend not to hear her. I feel terrible for that, but I don’t change my mind. I can’t. I hear Jacko’s shrieks and Malric’s snarls and the cries of the villagers, and their panic fuels my own.
Finally, I’m on the cliff top and running toward the sounds. Ahead, Malric has his prey on the ground. He hulks over it, every hair on end, making him look the size of a pony. Jacko is beneath him, atop the prey, chattering in outrage.
Seeing them, I exhale. They are fine. They’ve countered the attack. I can’t make out the harpy pinned under Malric—the long grass hides it—but there must be only one.
Then I take two more running strides, see past that grass and…
It’s not a harpy. It’s Geraint pinned beneath the snarling warg, Jacko on his chest chattering angrily. Chattering angrily at Geraint.
The other villagers cluster ten feet away, two brandishing daggers. The other two have bows, but they’re holding the harpy-fledgling cages, arms wrapped tight around the boxes.
I slow, trying to interpret what I’m seeing. Did Geraint accidentally frighten Jacko? Step on him? Tease him? If Jacko was a nervous rabbit, I could see him overreacting. But he’s a jackalope. Step on him, and he’d only chatter his outrage. Tease him, and he’d stalk away. Neither of those things would upset Malric either—he steps on Jacko all the time, and he’s usually the subject of the young jackalope’s teasing.
“Call off your warg, girl,” Geraint says, his voice a low growl underscored with fear.
I bristle at the last word, but it’s Kaylein who strides past, sword drawn, saying, “That is the princess of Tamarel. Show a little respect, old man.”
“She isn’t my princess, and I show respect where I receive it. I extended my hospitality, and the moment she’s away, her monsters attack. If she wants to resolve this problem, she will call them off now.”
“What did you do to them?” I ask.
Geraint sputters. “Do? Nothing. They attacked—”
Malric growls, shaggy head lowering over the man, lips curling to show off those impressive fangs.
“Give us the harpies,” Wilmot says, and I jump a little, startled by his voice at my side and by what he’s saying, which seems the least of our concerns right now.
“Get this warg—” Geraint begins.
“Give us the harpies first. Pass over the boxes, and then Princess Rowan will ask her warg to retreat, and you will escort us to the village to retrieve our companions.”
As Geraint sputters, cold dread slithers through me. He never intended to give us Sarika, and now he has Alianor and Cedany, too. At first, I didn’t know why Wilmot was asking for the harpies, but he must just be insisting on the full terms of our agreement. Give us the harpies to safely remove, so we fulfill our contract.
“The harpies,” Wilmot says, his voice low. “Now.”
“Do you honestly expect me to trust you after this?” Geraint gestures at Malric above him. “You’ll probably release them right outside our village and bring the full wrath of the flock down on our heads.”
“We would not. However, if you do not take us at our word, you may send two villagers to accompany us and witness the release.”
“I’ll do no such thing. You can have your people. Then go.”
“My people and the young dropbear.”
Dain tenses. He’s near the cliff top with his bow notched. Hearing Wilmot mention the dropbear, his head shoots up, and even from here, I see his eyes narrow.
“There’s no place for a dropbear on your journey,” Geraint says. “We’ll tend to it.”
“As you’ll tend to the young harpies? As you planned to tend to the princess’s jackalope?”
I stand there, confused. The harpies? The dropbear? Jacko? I don’t understand.
And then I do. I remember the boy, Trysten, and what he’d said to us.
Whatever you do, do not take your pets into the village.
It hadn’t made sense. Yet I’d missed a clue there. A very important one in his wording.
Not my companions. Not even my monsters or beasts.
My pets.
I’d corrected him automatically—it’s a common mistake. Yet in this case, his choice of words was very telling.
While we were gone, Geraint had grabbed Jacko. That’s what Wilmot is guessing, and it fits what I heard. Jacko’s scream. Malric’s rage. The warg attacking Geraint and pinning him until we returned. Jacko voluntarily taking refuge under Malric.
The harpy fledglings. The young dropbear. My juvenile jackalope companion.
What do these have in common? Things they don’t share with Malric or the adult harpies?
They’re small and young. Small enough to easily transport. Young enough to need humans to care for them. Young enough not to be particularly dangerous. Young enough to be trained.
Trained as pets.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“You—you—” I can barely get the words out. I’ve heard of such things, of course, and I always thought they were terrible tales of terrible episodes that happened once upon a time, like the stories of people being sold into slavery. None of that is remotely legal in Tamarel, so it must not be legal anywhere. That’s what I’d thought when I was little. Then I grew up and realized they were not horror stories of times long past. Even in Tamarel, where indentured servitude—being forced to work until a debt is repaid—is illegal, it still happened to Dain. In other countries—distant ones, thankfully—they do practice slavery. And in other countries, there is an active trade in monsters, both for menageries and as pets.
If you want monsters as pets, you’re going to want them young.
And where are you going to find those juveniles? Old enough to be weaned but still dependent on others?
Where the monsters feel safe to build their nests and dens. In the mountains. In the Dunnian Woods.
“You trade in monsters,” I say. “You steal them
