“So is he not a prince?” Alianor whispers. “Not even a captive? Sarika said he was.”
“They told her that?”
“No, she overheard it.” She pauses. “Unless she was supposed to hear it.”
“Why?”
“To scare her. To prove they weren’t kidding around by holding her hostage. They already had a prince. And then we come along, and he tells us the same story.”
“Why?”
She shrugs, her gaze fixed on Trysten laughing below. “In case Sarika mentioned it, I guess. When we escaped with the harpies, Geraint sent Trysten after us with the dropbear. What better way to prove Trysten was sincere? Give us back the dropbear and then throw himself on your mercy. You’re a princess, after all.”
I stare down at Trysten, who’s joking with a man about Kaylein’s age. I want to say we’ve misinterpreted, but I don’t see how that’s possible, and I fear the impulse is purely selfish. I don’t want to admit we could be fooled this badly.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I know you liked him.”
She glances up, her brows rising as she shakes her head and smiles. “My heart isn’t broken, Rowan.”
“I know. I just mean…”
“That I said he was cute, and a prince, so that means I liked him. I did like him—as a companion. Otherwise?” She wrinkles her nose in thought. “I wasn’t thinking of him that way. I’m sorry he turned out to be evil. Let this be a lesson to us. Never trust a cute boy.”
“Cute but evil.”
She sighs. “A tragedy.”
“Agreed. Now let’s go tell Wilmot the bad news.”
By the time we get back to Wilmot, he is really, really not happy. He’d wanted to be on the road by now. Our news doesn’t improve his mood.
“So what do we do now?” I ask.
“Is there any question?” Dain says. “Leave him, obviously.”
“I don’t mean about Trysten. I mean that he’s passed on my conjectures about the dragons. We have to presume some of what I told him is new information. I confirmed the location of the den and the existence of eggs, and I said there was a back door in, through the river.”
It’s not until I put this into words that I truly understand what I’ve done. What I’ve given them. A way to sneak into the den while the mother dragon is gone, steal eggs and escape through the tunnels, where she can’t follow.
I’ve learned so much since Jannah died. I’ve developed skills that will make me a better monster hunter. But I’ve learned things about myself, too, and those are just as important as archery or swordsmanship. Here, I make another leap, even if no one else will notice it.
When I realize I gave Geraint a secret way into the dragon’s den, I want to blame myself. Take responsibility for a mistake while berating myself for my recklessness. Yet before I do, I stop, and I think, and I don’t do that. I don’t do it out loud, and I barely say it inside my head.
No one foresaw Trysten’s betrayal. Not even Wilmot. When I told my story, we hadn’t yet realized there could be a link to Geraint and his poachers. If I blame myself aloud, then everyone needs to leap in and reassure me it’s not my fault. A leader doesn’t need that reassurance. She knows when it’s her fault…and she knows when it isn’t. This isn’t.
When I glance up, Dain’s gaze is resting on me, his mouth tight. He’s waiting for me to start that cycle of self-blame and necessary reassurances. Instead, I say, “So we need to figure out our next move,” and he nods in satisfaction.
“The question—” I begin, and I’m cut short by a distant roar that has us all jumping.
It’s the dragon. I will never forget that sound. Yet this roar is different. When she chased me, she’d been outraged at the trespass. I was in her den, and I have no doubt she’d have killed me for that mistake, but once Sunniva and I were in the forest, she didn’t try to pursue, didn’t circle and roar. I wasn’t a threat. I was just a small human who should not have been so close to her babies, and once I was gone, she trusted I’d learned my lesson.
This roar is boiling fury. This roar is the dragon screaming at the entire forest.
“Something’s happened,” I say. “Something bad.”
Wilmot nods gravely. No one says what that “something” might be. This is a mother who has lost her child, and I want to block my ears until it stops. I don’t, because this is important. Important for us, and possibly for all of Tamarel.
Wilmot peers up into the afternoon sky. “We need to get deeper into the woods, where she can’t see us.”
No one points out that we didn’t do whatever just happened. It won’t matter.
I run to the nearby stream, where Doscach was fishing while Sunniva grazed along the sun-dappled banks. Now they’re both poised, heads up; water streams from Doscach’s mane as he tracks the dragon’s progress through the sky.
I open my mouth when the sun disappears and thunder rolls through the forest. I look up. There’s no storm coming. The sky is bright blue, dotted with white clouds. The sun has disappeared because there’s an ink-black dragon blocking it, the beat of her huge wings like thunder.
Sunniva races over to me, a blur of white, and the searching dragon turns. I grab Sunniva’s mane and half drag her toward the forest, shouting apologies as I do. She understands and doesn’t even snap at Doscach as he prods her from behind.
I get Sunniva into the thickest stand of trees I can find, just barely enough room between trunks for
