Ren placed his hand on the hilt of his father’s dagger. “We’re not alone,” he said, and guided his horse down the path. The Shambles was a place reserved for the king’s family and their escorts, their servants and messengers. No one else was permitted to enter the sacred grounds. He worried that he was being followed, that the gray-cloaks had found him once again.
As the sun failed in the west, Ren and the Harkan soldiers reached a stone gate marked by an eld-horn totem—the threshold of the hunting reserve—where an old man, his bronze skin deeply wrinkled by time and sun, stood awaiting them, a dog at his side. “Dakar Wadi,” he announced, tipping his head ever so slightly toward Ren. “Warden of the reserve. You the king’s son?” He chewed a blade of grass as he appraised him. “A messenger arrived, said you might be coming.” He rubbed his forehead.
Ren offered the man his hand to shake, but Dakar shook his head: as a man of low status he couldn’t shake hands with kings. Ren was embarrassed, as he was not king yet. Not until the hunt was complete. He still felt like nothing more than just a ransom—despised, injured, afraid. It might take him a long time, he realized, to get used to better treatment.
“You know what you are here to do?” Dakar asked.
Ren nodded.
“A man can’t rule Harkana without claiming the eld’s horns. He makes his sword with the horn, and that sword becomes a symbol of the king’s power for the rest of his reign.”
“My father explained the custom to me. Like killing a deer, I suppose.”
“The eld is no deer. It is unlike any creature that lives outside the reserve. It is an ancient breed, a fierce creature of immense proportions, and rare as well, living only in the high canyons, among the narrow streams that fall from the high cliffs. Along the rivers grows a withered-looking plant called smoke grass. Look for the marble-white flower; then you’ll know you’ve found the plant. The eld is always close by there.”
“Gray grass, white flower. Easy enough.”
“Not easy at all, I’m afraid. The eld is clever. The eld chooses the king, and only a king can tame one, but in my experience, only a king should try.” He fixed Ren with a penetrating look. “You’ll need to keep your mind on what you’re doing, son. The Shambles is no place for daydreaming.”
Ren inspected the old man more closely. The truth was, he had been daydreaming. But a creature of hideous size was something entirely out of legend—old stories meant to frighten children, like those they told at the Priory. “I understand,” he said, even if he didn’t. “How do I go about it, then?”
Dakar smiled, as if he had been waiting for just this question and was pleased Ren had asked. He regaled the company with a long story detailing the creature’s habits, how it fed and nested, how it lived and died. “It’s a solitary animal.” Dakar gnawed at the straw that hung from his lip. “The eld follows its stomach and you should do the same—look for the smoke grass, it worked for your father.”
“What was he like?” Ren asked.
The old man paused and handed him a hard cake of bread. “I remember the king’s arrival for the hunt. He was a tall boy, far thinner than his current bulk would suggest. He could command a pack of dogs with the tone of his voice and could wield a bow better than any man I’ve met. He killed an eight-point buck on his way back from the hunt. We cleaned and roasted the deer and got drunk on amber as we picked through the meat.” Dakar’s voice went quiet.
Ren realized the old man thought Arko was dead, as there was no other reason for Ren’s presence in the reserve.
Arko was as good as dead, and I am not ready to be king.
Dakar handed Ren a sack of provisions containing flat bread, honey, two jars of amber, and some salted venison. “Take the dog,” the old man said. “He knows this land better than I do, but you must leave your escort behind,” he said, turning to the king’s men. “You cannot accompany the heir.”
Ren nodded and dismissed the men. He knelt, letting the black-haired mutt wet his face with slobber. He had never had a pet before and welcomed the company. While the little dog licked his cheek, Ren gazed up at the mountain; the tip was white and the cliffs were near vertical.
“That food’ll last a week,” Dakar said, pointing to the parcels. “No king has needed more time, but if you do, I’m here.” His eyes narrowed. “Be careful, boy.” He bowed his head respectfully, but his words were edged with warning. “The cliffs are a dangerous place, and the eld can be ferocious; it can come from nowhere to attack and you could be dead before you spot it—”
“Don’t fret,” Ren interrupted, his father’s dagger in his hand, the provisions slung over his shoulder, the small hunting dog by his side. I’ve stood beneath the sun, felt the sting of a cane, the bite of a whip. No hideous deer will get the best of me.
Ren would return with his horns. It was the least he could do for the father he never knew.
24
First they’ll bludgeon me. Kepi saw the outlines of their clubs, whirling in the darkness. Then they’ll kill me and feast on what remains.
Gray ribbons of stone jutted above the sandy earth. The rocks were as high as her knees, her shoulders, a few steps more and the stones stood above her head. As Kepi fled deeper into the stone forest, away from the San warriors pursuing her with nips and howls from Dagrun’s carriage and the scene of battle, she tried not to think of Seth, how she had been forced to leave him alone and outnumbered. She’d fled across the bridge and into the Cragwood, a place many times the size of Harwen, a forest of rippling stones. She had a chance here—a chance to hide, a chance to strike at her attackers if she was careful. But what chance did Seth have, ten against one in the open?
Kepi darted from one stone to another, keeping to the shadows, keeping hidden. The stones towered above, their shadows overlapping in the distance. Breathe. She pressed her back into a rocky concavity, felt the stone cup her shoulders. She had been here before, long ago, with her father. She was young enough at the time to share a saddle with Arko, who held her close and told her about this place. “The Cragwood is Feren’s sacred ground,” her father said, “home to the Waking Rite, the place where Feren kings have earned their crown for untold centuries. The rite tests a king’s strength, and his heart too.”