A Royal Guide to Monster Slaying

by Kelley Armstrong

  Before I go, I leave my mother a note for morning.

  Escaping the castle isn’t easy. With the state dinner, staff and guards are everywhere. I know which halls are least used, though, and I’ve chosen a path with hidey-holes that I can duck into when I hear footsteps. I’m racing along one of those, my boots in hand, when I hear voices raised in argument.

  It’s one of the guards and a maid. Apparently, she caught him flirting with the maid of a visiting lady. She’s upset, and he’s trying to tell her it meant nothing, and I’m stuck in a window alcove, wishing they’d just kiss and make up. I have a castle to escape.

  Then the guard and maid do make up. And they do kiss. They don’t stop kissing. I don’t watch them, of course. That’s gross. But I can tell they’re kissing by the noises, which are also gross. They kiss and whisper, and whisper and kiss.

  I peek out, in case they’re busy enough that I can sneak past them, but the corridor is too narrow for that.

  I creep the other way. I’ll have to take a different route. I can—

  Footsteps sound. Heavy ones that I recognize.

  Berinon.

  He’s heading straight for me. I look around. There’s no place to go, no place to hide. I’m in a shallow window alcove, and the nearest room is too far away.

  Maybe he’ll turn into that room. It leads to a storage closet, so he’s probably heading there to get something for my mother.

  “Digory!” Berinon’s voice echoes down the hallway.

  I hear the maid squeak…because Digory is the guard she’s kissing.

  “Yes, sir!” Digory calls. “Coming, sir!”

  I look from side to side. Digory is down the hall to my right…and Berinon is to my left. The clomp of their boots tells me they’re both on the move. Both headed this way.

  In a few heartbeats, one of them will be here. Even if I flee, Berinon will see my travel pack. He’ll know exactly what I’m doing and order the guards to block my way.

  I need to get rid of my pack.

  I wheel to toss it out the window…and instead I find myself going out the window. Which isn’t what I meant to do at all. I don’t even really realize I’m climbing out until I’m hanging by my fingertips from the sill.

  The footfalls stop.

  Berinon or Digory must have spotted me. I should jump.

  I look down…to the cobblestones thirty feet below.

  No, I should not jump.

  What was I thinking?

  I wasn’t thinking, as usual. It’s like part of my brain works things through calmly and gives reasonable instructions like “Toss your pack out the window.” Then the other part says, “Why just throw your pack out when you can jump out, too?”

  Berinon is telling Digory to return to his post. Digory stammers apologies, but Berinon is already walking away. Digory scampers off in the other direction.

  After a few moments, the hall goes silent.

  I exhale a whooshing sigh of relief. Then I brace to heave myself up—

  My body just dangles there, arms barely flexing. I don’t have a good enough hold. When I try harder, my fingers slide.

  I’m going to fall. I’m going to drop like a rock and crash onto the cobblestones below.

  Or I can shout for help.

  Those are my choices. Drop or shout for help. The first is madness. I could die. Even if I only twist my ankle, I won’t be able to go after Rhydd.

  Yet if I shout for help, the travel pack on my shoulder will tell everyone what I was doing. I won’t be able to go after Rhydd then either.

  What made me think I could do this anyway? It’s not like when Rhydd and I would sneak away to a village festival. I’m about to set out into the countryside alone.

  I’m twelve. And yes, if I lived in the village, I’d be done school and off to work like a grown-up, but I can’t even imagine that. I don’t feel grown-up. At all. I feel like a foolish child, hanging outside a window.

  Is that it then? Am I giving up? Leaving Rhydd to face a gryphon alone?

  I grit my teeth. Never. I can do this.

  Or, at least, I can really, really try.

  I close my eyes and ignore the pain shooting through my arms.

  Relax and concentrate. That’s what all my trainers tell me. Stop being in such a rush to do things and think about what you plan to do.

  I shift my hands to find a better grip. At first, there’s nothing, and I start panicking again. Then I find a divot where a stone has fallen out. I wedge my fingers into it. Once my right hand is secure, I move the left until I find the inside windowsill. I grab that and bring my right hand to join it.

  My feet scrabble against the castle wall. One finds a shallow hole, and it gives me a foothold. I take a deep breath and then haul myself onto the window ledge and tumble through.

  I leap up to look around. The hall is quiet. I stay crouched in the alcove, catching my breath and listening. When I’m sure the way is clear, I take off out the small rear door that leads to the stables.

  Once I’m outside, the falling sun casts enough shadow for me to creep unnoticed to the stables. The grooms are gone—they’re playing footmen for the dinner guests. I slip past my mare. She whinnies, and I back up to feed her an apple. That keeps her from noticing I’m saddling another horse tonight. I would love to take her, but if she’s missing, the grooms will know I’m gone, so I choose a gelding instead.

  A guard patrols the stables, but Rhydd and I have long known his route. I wait for him to pass before I hurry the gelding out, knowing it’ll be ten minutes before the guard returns.

  I make straight for the castle forest. I keep my lantern unlit and let the moonlight guide me down trails as familiar as the hallways of our castle.

  A stone wall surrounds the castle forest. There’s a gate at the back, which is guarded only when we’re at war. Otherwise it’s latched inside with a massive timber. Heaving that open takes as much effort as hauling myself through the window. I finally get it and lead the horse through. When the gate closes, the latch thuds back into place.

  One last glance over my shoulder, and then I’m off.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ’d eavesdropped on Jannah’s plans, so I know where they’re spending the night. If I ride straight through, I’ll catch up to them before they break camp. The moon is bright, but when it slips behind clouds, I realize how dark and quiet it is, and how alone I am out here. I’ve never ventured beyond the village by myself, and as much as I’m trying to be brave, every crackle in the bushes sounds like a warg’s paw crunching a dried twig, and every owl gliding overhead looks like a gryphon.

  I remind myself I am not alone. I have the gelding. But this isn’t my horse. He’s new, and I am ashamed to admit that in my haste, I hadn’t even checked his stall for his name. I apologize for that, and while he may not understand my words, my tone should be enough. People whisper that Clan Dacre hunters can talk to monsters. We can’t. We understand animals’ body language and their vocalizations: the noises they make. That isn’t magic.

  I talk to the gelding and rub his neck. He doesn’t swivel his ears to catch my voice. He doesn’t chuff in thanks at the petting. He is kind enough, but he isn’t my mare and I am not comforted.

  When the moon is high, I find a stream and tether the gelding for a brief rest. I’m crouching by the water, cupping some to my mouth, when I hear a weird chattering behind me. I squint into the darkness. I haven’t bothered to light my lantern, but the moon has disappeared behind clouds, and all I see are shadows.

  The chattering comes again.

  The gelding stamps and whinnies. As I rise, my fingers reach for the lantern ring. Then a dark shape flies from the bushes and my hands sail up, knocking the lantern aside as the blur smacks into my chest.

  A small horned beast hangs from my tunic. Its teeth clamp down as all four legs claw at me for a better hold.

  I look down at the creature, no bigger than a small rabbit. And I laugh. I can’t help it. My laugh only enrages the bea
st more. Its head shoots up to bite me…but that means releasing my tunic. It squeals in alarm as it starts to fall. I catch and then hold it at arm’s length while it squirms and chatters and tries to head-butt me.

  It’s a baby jackalope. At this age, it looks like a rabbit with horns, but when it’s grown, it’ll be twice the size of a hare and sport a full rack of antlers. Dangerous antlers. Jackalopes use them for fighting, along with their jagged teeth and semi-retractable claws.

  Before Clan Dacre took the throne, people used to catch jackalopes and make them fight in pits. They nearly went extinct. We’ve outlawed all monster fights, but people still poach jackalopes for their antlers, which they think can be ground up as a cure for infertility.

  Nonsense like that is all too common. When people see monsters, they see the work of magic and witchcraft. But monsters are as natural as any other creature. They’re just rarer and more unique. A jackalope, for example, is a carnivorous rabbit, with a predator’s claws and teeth and horns.

  “You don’t look very predatory,” I say.

  The jackalope gnashes its teeth at me, and I can’t help laughing again. I give it a closer look. It’s a male, a few months old, which means he should be eating solid food. Holding him at a safe distance, I rummage through my pack for dried meat. Then I put him down with a few scraps. He gulps those and snatches a second helping right from my fingers.

  “You’re hungry,” I say. “Where’s your mother?”

  Because jackalopes are predators, they stay with their mothers longer than regular rabbits. This one is barely old enough to hunt, so his mother should still be around.

  I give him more meat, and he lets me stroke his soft fur. Then he leans against my hand, and a weird grumbling vibrates through his flanks, like a cat’s purr. I pat him some more. Then I rise to search for his mother.

  I haven’t had much experience with jackalopes. The only time monster hunters get involved with them is when they’re poached. But for Clan Dacre children, monster studies are a daily lesson, like geography and history. From that, I know jackalopes live in dens.

  While I search for the jackalope’s home, he hops along behind me, squeaking. The squeaks are attention calls—Hey, don’t forget me, and by the way, do you have more food?

  As I walk, the jackalope’s squeaks change to alert cries. The farther I go, the louder they get. When I change direction, he stops. That means he’s warning me about something.

  It must be his den. I continue, braced for his attack if I get too close to his home. I push past a shrub and then…

  I see what he’s warning me about.

  I steel myself to walk closer. Then I crouch, sweep aside long grass and mutter a few words that I’m not supposed to know. My hand flies to my sword, but I don’t pull it out. The person I want to fight is long gone.

  The mother jackalope lies on the ground, her body riddled with arrow piercings. The killer took only her antlers. Somehow that makes it worse. I understand you might need to eat a jackalope if you’re starving. You’d still harvest the antlers then. If we must slay a monster, we take everything. Even the meat goes to dogs if it’s unfit for our table. We respect the life of a monster by making full use of it in death.

  This isn’t like that. It’s poaching, and I vow to tell my mother and Jannah. They will send spies to nearby markets, searching for anyone selling jackalope antlers. Once I’ve made my promise, the outrage passes and I look at the dead mother, tears blurring my eyes.

  When the young jackalope squeaks behind me, I back out of that grove. Then I sit on the stream bank and watch him drink.

  I can’t bring the jackalope with me. It’s wrong to take a wild monster from nature unless you can keep it as a companion. Jackalopes are untamable. All the field guides say so.

  As I watch, the jackalope chases a toad. When he catches it, he squeals in shock and my laugh rings out, startling him again.

  Obviously, he can hunt. He’ll be fine. I’ll leave him the rest of my meat. If I’m worried, I can stop by after the gryphon hunt and—

  A voice drifts over on the breeze. Another one answers. It sounds like a boy and a girl. I squint up at the moon, now freed from cloud cover. It’s past midnight. Kids shouldn’t be out this late.

  As the voices continue, the jackalope chitters and gnashes his teeth.

  “You don’t like the sounds of that either, huh?” I murmur to him.

  He hops closer to me. The voices are coming this way.

  “She must have had a den around here,” the boy says.

  I glance down at the jackalope. Then I scoop him up. He squeaks but doesn’t protest. I hurry to a clump of tall grass and hide him in there and creep toward the stream—and my gelding—as I listen.

  “It’s spring, so she should have kits,” the boy says. “Father says their antlers will be small, but he’ll still give us three coppers each.”

  I’m nearly at the stream when the boy and the girl appear, two other kids following. They’re all a year or two older than me.

  When they see me, they stop. They eye me, and there’s no sign they recognize me. I’m dressed in breeches and a tunic, the leather soft but unadorned, the sort of thing they’d expect from a landowner’s daughter. I have my mother’s honey-brown curls and heart-shaped face. From my father, I inherited my green eyes and my skin tone, a few shades darker than my hair. My snub nose and freckles are—unfortunately—all my own. Put it together, and no one sees me and says, “That must be the queen’s daughter.”

  As the kids’ gazes pass over me, my hand goes to my sword. They don’t seem to notice. They look from me to my horse. Then the biggest boy smiles, flashing a gap between his front teeth.

  “That’s a fine horse you have, girl,” he says.

  “It’s a fine sword I have, too,” I reply.

  They look down at my blade, still in its sheath, and the gap-toothed boy snickers.

  “A fine toy sword,” he says.

  They chortle and elbow one another.

  The gap-toothed boy says, “Give us your horse, my lady, and there’ll be no need to draw your toy.”

  “I’ll give you nothing but a stern warning. I found the jackalope you killed. That’s poaching, and it’s punishable by one year of hard labor.”

  “Jackalope? I’ve never even seen a—”

  “Her body is lying over there, and I heard you say you were looking for her kits.”

  The gap-toothed boy steps forward. “Are you sure you heard that, my lady? I hope you didn’t, or we’d have to make you forget it.” He lifts his fists. “Knock it clean out of your head.”

  I pull my sword. He snorts. One of the other boys takes a slingshot from his pocket. The girl draws a knife.

  I’m surrounded by four older kids, all bigger than me. I might be well trained in sword fighting, but I can’t beat four of them. I’ve done exactly what my father did: started a fight I can’t win.

  I’m suddenly very aware of how quiet it is. How far we are from the nearest village. I could disappear, and my family would never know what happened to me.

  I should lower my sword. Tell the poachers that I heard wrong. Let them take my horse, even. At least I’d escape with my life. But my hand won’t move. My lips won’t either. I see these four poachers, and all I can think about is that dead mother jackalope.

  Rage swirls through me.

  Put the sword down, Rowan. Berinon’s voice echoes in my head. Part of being a warrior is knowing when you can’t win. When you must step aside. When you must run.

  I can’t. I’m trying, but I can’t.

  A stone strikes my temple. I spin on the boy with the slingshot, and my sword spins, too. The tip of it catches his sleeve, and he yelps as if I’ve stabbed him.

  The gap-toothed boy slams his fist into my jaw. I reel, pain ripping through me, and he charges, fists still clenched.

  I lift my sword. I don’t swing it. The gap-toothed boy isn’t armed, so I cannot attack with my weapon. I only lift it to remind him tha
t I have one. He leaps out of my way, but the girl charges. I smack my sword against her knife, the metal clanging. She gasps as her knife goes flying. Then all four of them charge me.

  I back up, my sword raised. I don’t want to use it. These aren’t monsters. They’re my subjects. They’re kids, like me. If I accidentally kill one—

  The gap-toothed boy yowls, and everyone freezes. He’s dancing on one leg, the baby jackalope hanging off his trousers.

  Another boy swings a club at the beast. I dive, hitting the ground in a slide, my sword still in one hand as I grab the jackalope. I manage to scramble up. Under my arm, the jackalope gnashes his teeth at the poachers.

  “Stop that,” I hiss to him. “You aren’t helping.”

  The beast grumbles. Then he climbs onto my shoulder. He’s too big to perch there, so he puts his forelegs on my head and chatters at the poachers.

  The kids stare at me. I must look a little odd, with a jackalope on my head, and I’m waiting for them to laugh. But they only stare.

  Then the girl whispers, “Her sword. I thought it was tin and blackened wood. But it’s…it’s silver and ebony. And the beast…”

  “It obeys her,” the smallest one says. “She speaks, and the monster obeys.”

  The third boy—the one with the slingshot—turns and runs.

  The gap-toothed boy shouts, “Hey!” but the other one keeps going as fast as he can.

  “It’s the princess,” the girl whispers. “Princess Rowan.”

  Oh no.

  No, no, no.

  I am going to be in so much trouble.

  Which is, I guess, better than being dead. I could have told them who I was earlier, but Mom says we can’t trust all our subjects. If someone finds me wandering about on my own, they might take me hostage. That’s why Rhydd and I are never supposed to be alone, and if we are, we’re supposed to hide the one thing that would identify us: our ebony-and-silver swords.

  The gap-toothed boy stares at me. He looks at my sword. He looks at the jackalope. Then he runs.

  “Wait!” I call. “Don’t—!”

  “I’m sorry, my lady,” the girl says, as she falls to one knee, the youngest doing the same. “We didn’t know it was you.”