—come into view: dragon-like shapes with broad feathery wings, spear-shaped tails and scaly black feet. Her stomach drops. She knows what they are.


    Wyverns.


    They’re as big as she is, and there’s an entire flock of them, at least a dozen circling the peaks.


    Maybe she should turn back. The thought flashes through her mind at the same time as the flock’s behaviour changes. They call to each other. They descend.


    Then the first wyvern stoops—


    *


    She awoke in a rocking chair. She awoke as if she had escaped a narrow death, palms sweating, muscles cramping, mouth dry. The contrast was disorienting.


    Avon’s gaze met hers. He was inches away from her—in fact, she wondered if he had kissed her cheek to wake her—and though her heart skipped a beat, his presence calmed her. The air was still, and he was smiling. They were safe.


    “The sleeping beauty awakes.” He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “Good morning.”


    Morning… Valerie blinked up at him. Sunlight seeped in from a small half-shuttered window to her left. The whitewashed walls were plain, wooden beams running across the sloped ceiling, and an empty fireplace held a mean little grate. This wasn’t the Archbishop’s residence.


    For a moment, she was transported back to the Crescent sitting room, her grandmother’s knitting needles going clack-clack-clack while she looked out through the bay window at the hustle and bustle of the High Road below…


    It felt like a distant memory. But, she thought, Aurelia might well be knitting in her favourite rocking chair at this very moment. Did the Crescents miss her? Did they wonder what she was doing right now? Or had they given up?


    Avon was blocking her view. She sat up to look over his shoulder, trying to get her bearings, and started.


    Another man was watching them.


    Not just any man. This was the man from the Archbishop’s carriage, the one who had brandished the wyvern’s claw. No longer wearing his purple livery and cap, he stood tall and stern, his head shaven, dressed in soft leather and fur-trimmed boots, a heavy fur cloak around his shoulders. The wyvern’s claw hung around his neck, a gleaming talisman.


    Avon followed her gaze. “Lady Valerie, meet Master Ghen. Master Ghen, I believe you and Lady Valerie have already met.”


    The man folded his arms, face dark. He lurked in the shadows, leaning against the wall on the other side of the room. The queen’s locket still hung around her neck, and so the pair of them could not approach each other.


    “No offence,” she said, “but why is he here?”


    “I invited him,” said Avon. “Ghen is one of the mountain folk. He’s going to help us find this monastery.”


    “He doesn’t seem too happy about it.”


    Ghen scowled. “I was threatened.”


    “You were ordered,” Avon corrected him, standing up. “Come. The villagers say it’s an hour’s ride to the monastery. We should eat first.”


    Over breakfast, she learned what she had missed. Two full days had passed. They had stayed overnight at the councilman’s house in the village of Tyrney, a stone’s throw from the mountains and close to the southern border with Carthal. The village was so tiny it didn’t even have its own inn, but the councilman and his family, a wife and three daughters, were eager to share their hospitality.


    They all warned Avon not to go to the monastery.


    The place was haunted. Cursed, they said. In the years since the monks had abandoned it, the monastery had become a wyverns’ nest, and the wyverns attacked anyone who approached their territory.


    Nonetheless, Avon ordered the councilman to provide three horses and enough supplies to take them to the mountain and back. The journey ought to take less than a day.


    And so, fed and watered, Valerie dressed in her travelling clothes and leather boots, and saddled up.


    When the three of them exited the village—Ghen in front, Avon and Valerie behind—she swallowed a gasp. She had the most strange and disconcerting sense of déjà vu.


    For the landscape before her looked awfully familiar. The azure blue sky crowned mist-covered peaks, the terrain a mix of rocky bluffs and trees in full leaf. Already she could make out the dark shapes circling the closest summit.


    I’ve been here before.


    “Do you see them?” she called, leaning forward over her horse, a hardy grey mare. “The wyverns?”


    Avon nodded. His gaze was fixed on the mountain too. Ahead, she caught Ghen tapping the wyvern claw against his mouth and forehead.


    “That won’t protect you,” she said. “Ghen? I said that won’t protect you.”


    He half-turned in his saddle, expression sour, and spoke in a slow, raspy drawl. “It protected me from you.”


    “That’s not the same,” she said. “How did you know the claw would stop me anyway? Are you a sorcerer? Do you have the blessing?”


    But Ghen only snorted and turned away.


    “His people have several long-held superstitions regarding the wyverns,” said Avon. “The ward is likely one of them.”


    “His people? But we’re still in Drakon.”


    “Drakon is not a monolith,” said Avon, “as I think you’ve seen. I am Yironian. The mountain folk of Arden speak a language much closer to Severhine than to our own.”


    Ghen twisted in his saddle. “I’m not from Severhine.”


    “Divine forbid you were.” Avon smiled slightly. “Brutish barbarians all. They constantly threatened Carthal before we put a blockade on the border. And Maskamere, for that matter.”


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    The no-woman’s-land, she thought. That strip of land nestled between two mountain ranges and three realms—Severhine, Carthal and Maskamere—had been a contested territory for years before the Empire took control of it. For the Maskamery, Carthal had acted as a buffer; few of the Severish encroached on their land. They were more worried about the Drakonian troops at their doorstep.


    “I lived in the borderlands,” she said. “It wasn’t Severhine that threatened us.”


    Avon shot her a look. “Mind your tongue.”


    Valerie gritted her teeth. She had spoken too freely. How annoying. She’d grown used to their more casual intimacy out of the public eye, the Avon who enjoyed her challenging him. Now with Ghen around, she would have to put on this act again, the loyal Maskamery servant and her Drakonian master.


    Worse, she couldn’t ask him about the revelations from that night at the Archbishop’s house. He’d called himself Yironian. But what did he think now that he might be part-Maskamery? Had he spent these past two nights pondering the matter? Surely it must have occupied his thoughts.


    But she couldn’t ask.


    The sun beat down hot and fierce, and the group lapsed into silence. They followed a winding path along the course of a brook that narrowed as they climbed further up, jumping from rock to rock in a series of miniature waterfalls. Their progress slowed, the horses picking their way along increasingly steep terrain.


    Then an awful screech sent chills through her spine. Valerie looked up. “Wyvern!”


    The creature swooped high above them, wings silhouetted against the sun, then disappeared behind a rocky precipice. Ghen’s chestnut mare had spooked; he yanked at the reins to get it back under control. Valerie’s grey mare snorted and stamped her feet. She patted the horse’s flank.


    Avon sat up in his saddle. “Where did it go?”


    “We need to turn back.” Ghen turned his horse around. They were on a narrow mountain path, trapped between a sheer cliff-face and a sharp drop to the valley below. “It’s spotted us, and it’ll come back with friends.”


    “We’re not going back,” said Avon.


    “Drop the claw,” she said. “We need to stick together.”


    Ghen spat on the ground. “This is sacred land. Turn back.”


    He wasn’t moving, she realised. They’d reached a pinch point, and as long as she wore the queen’s locket, she wouldn’t be able to go past him. The plan had been to stick together. With her magic and Avon''s sword, they should be able to withstand an attack, but—


    A shadow moved over the sun.


    Skin prickling, Valerie glanced up—then yelped.


    A wyvern plummeted from the sky. It came at her claws first, not the single talon that blocked her way up the mountain path, but a set of eight shining black claws, any one of which could tear the flesh from her bones—


    She ducked, but the wyvern pulled up before it reached her, wheeling back into the air. Another followed, and another: sleek black creatures with feathery wings, tails as long and sharp as spears, and claws outstretched like raptors swooping on their prey. Screeches filled the air.


    Avon’s sword flashed. Another wyvern braked midair and shot up into the sky.


    Ghen had no such defence. He ducked the first set of claws, but his horse spooked again, charging down the mountain path and straight towards them—


    She realised what was going to happen a second before it did.


    The chestnut mare collided with the magical barrier. It flung them back, horse and rider both, Ghen toppling from his saddle, his steed crashing to the ground with an awful shriek.


    “Ghen!” She was struggling to control her own mare. “Drop the claw! Come over to me—they can’t reach me!”


    None of the wyverns attacking her got close, and she knew why: the locket was protecting her. They couldn’t pass the barrier.


    Avon jumped down from his horse. He ran over to her, grabbing the mare’s reins with his free hand. “Climb down! Hurry—let the horses go.”


    Dozens of wyverns now darted above them, their cries scraping her ears like metal. They descended on Ghen and the fallen mare like vultures, claws gripping, biting into flesh. The horse kicked and screamed; Ghen rolled over—


    She dismounted, Avon grabbing her hand, and they ran to Ghen, leaving their steeds to flee behind them.


    “Drop the claw!” she screamed.


    A wyvern sank its talons into Ghen’s thigh. He wrested the claw from his neck and flung it away—over the edge of the mountain path and down to the valley below.


    Avon charged ahead with his sword, driving the wyverns into the air like a flock of startled pigeons. He swung at a straggler, catching its leg, and the wyvern crashed into the cliff-face by the mountain path, flapped its wings wildly and then took off again.


    It didn’t bleed.


    Even in the heat of the moment, her lungs screaming for breath, she noticed that. She caught up with Ghen and slid to the ground, the shrapnel shifting beneath her feet. Avon stood over both of them, ready to fight. Meanwhile, she pressed her hand against Ghen’s thigh, her fingers coming away sticky.


    “I can heal you,” she said. “Ghen—Ghen, listen.” He was groaning, trying to sit up. “You have to trust me. I can only do it if you let me, do you understand?”


    “I don’t trust any witch,” he growled, lifting up on his elbows.


    Valerie sighed. A few feet away, Ghen’s chestnut mare lay in the shadow of the cliff-face, snorting in pain. A deep laceration ran down its flank, and she almost wanted to go and heal it first. At least it wouldn’t object to the person trying to save it.


    “Fine,” she said. “You’re not that important. I’ll let you die. The wyverns will get you the second Avon and I walk away.”


    The creatures were still circling overhead, calling to each other in their croaky voices. Perhaps they smelled blood.


    “You shouldn’t be here,” he rasped. “The wyverns know this place is not for you.”


    “What, did you think you’d lead us here so the wyverns would kill us?” She raised her eyebrows. “Oh, you did. Well, now I definitely have a reason to kill you. You’re really not helping yourself here. Do you want to die?”


    First the Emperor, now this. Honestly, would it kill these men to show some gratitude?


    She recognised the look he gave her. The defiance in his eyes. His scowl was not a scowl; behind it lay years of deep and bitter resentment. She didn’t know why exactly—was it hatred of people like her, or people like Avon? But in an odd way, he reminded her of herself, the prisoner enlisted to carry out a task against his will. This bristling resistance in the face of death—well, it was either stupid or admirable. She wasn’t sure which.


    “If you could make a decision in haste,” said Avon, glancing down at them, “then we might save the mare. She’s significantly more valuable than you.”


    Ghen snorted, a shudder running through his body. “Fine,” he said. “I want to live. But save the horse too.”


    With that, she got to work. The gash in his thigh was the deepest wound, but not the only one. The wyverns had slashed his chest, stomach, left arm and ankle. The stomach wound worried her the most; she wasn’t confident that she could fix any internal bleeding, but that one felt relatively shallow. One by one, she closed up the cuts, eyes closed, focusing on the damage in his body.


    She did a poor job. Valerie had never thought of herself as a healer despite being called upon to do it several times, but even for her, this was bad. She stopped the bleeding, but that was all. The gashes remained, old wounds rather than fresh, but wounds nonetheless.


    “Maska,” she muttered.


    She recalled the story that Anwen had told her when he’d first explained how her power worked: how a Maskamery nurse famed for her healing powers had lost most of her abilities out in the battlefield. She had failed not because of any deficiency as a healer, but because the battlefield was not her domain. To cast such potent magic at will required considerable power. That included mastery over the environment.


    Obviously, trapped out here in a foreign land with the wyverns soaring above them, she was never going to do her best work.


    She stood up, brushing her hands on her cloak, and turned her attention to the injured mare. This was even harder. She dared not directly touch the mare’s wounds. They were far too close to her legs, for one thing, and the horse kept kicking, perhaps out of fear or some feeble attempt to deter further attackers. Instead, she knelt down and patted the mare’s head, trying first of all to soothe her.


    This worked to an extent; the mare quietened down. Her flanks rose up and down as she breathed, but she made no attempt to move. But after that, Valerie couldn’t find a way to heal the wounds. The mare couldn’t ask to be healed. Nor did she have any existing bond with the horse; she was a borrowed animal.


    “Valerie.”


    She jumped, Avon’s voice startling her. She had been so focused on the chestnut mare that she had lost track of her surroundings. The quiet wasn’t in her head; the wyverns had finally given up. Ghen had got to his feet, though he clutched his side with a grim expression. Avon stood guard between them, looking down at her not unkindly.


    “We need to move on,” he said. “Can you heal her or not?”


    She hated the answer she had to give. The horse was innocent.


    But she shook her head. “I’m sorry. I tried, but…”


    He nodded. Valerie covered the mare’s eyes with her hand, focusing again on that soothing energy. Sleep. So when Avon drove his blade into the beast’s chest, at least she didn’t feel it. The horse shuddered and went still.


    Valerie wiped the tears from her eyes, then realised that she’d streaked her cheeks with blood.


    “Well, then,” said Avon. “We must walk.”