Page 37 of Feralheart

“If it isn’t the kingdom’s foremost authority on weapons,” he said.

I dipped into the best bow a woman could manage with both hands clasped behind her back, though I must look like I was smuggling a goose.

His gaze traveled to my arms, the mud on my knees, then back to my face.

“You’re a long way from the aerie,” he said.

“Herbs, Sire. The moonvetch is sparse this year.”

“And you’re hiding something from your prince.”

“Not my prince.”

He lifted one eyebrow. “That’s treason, technically.”

“Add it to my account, Your Highness.”

“It’s becoming a long account,” he said mildly, watching the northern ridge instead of me.

The talon heated. If he knew anything, I’d already be in irons, and princes didn’t do their own arresting.

The patrol’s dust still hung over the road where they’d charged off after the wild dragon. I nudged my chin toward it, offering him a safer subject. “What are you hunting, Sire?”

“There are reports of a wild one in the area. It’s been seen twice near the fortress.” He shifted the spear. “The council wants it dealt with before the race.”

“And you?” The question burst out of me.

He studied my face longer than I liked. “I want to find it first.”

“To kill it?”

“I didn’t say that.” He frowned. “Have you ever seen one up close?”

I sucked in a breath. “Only from a distance.”

“They’re smaller than ours. Faster. No shine on them at all.” He rolled the spear haft slowly across his shoulder. “They look at you. Ours look through you. I’ve stopped asking myself why.”

My own thought. I’d returned to it since the clearing. The wild one’s gaze had pinned me in place while every aerie dragon I’d ever worked with stared through me.

They lay in their stalls between trainings, their heads on their forelegs, watching the bright opening of the valley for hours. No one asked what they were looking for.

If it was me, I’d be longing to be free—like the wild dragons.

“Maybe looking costs them too much, Sire,” I said.

“They breed ours for shine,” he said, the courtly tone back in his voice. “The wild ones waste all that effort on being alive.”

He turned toward the ridge. When he spoke again, it was to the mountain, not to me.

“We hunted one recently. That could be the one haunting the fortress. Someone sprang the trap before our party arrived. Whoever it was has no sense of self-preservation.”

I held very still, the talon’s edge pressing a thin line of heat across my fingers.

“Did you catch them?”

“No. The trail went cold west of the stream.” The corner of his mouth moved. “Careless of us.”

The first bell tolled from the fortress. Late meant questions. Questions meant Nuant.