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I shot him a deathly stare which swiftly changed to a grin as I realized where we were.
We had almost reached the roost.
CHAPTER 3 - MORGAN
Despite Draven’s teasing, I knew he was worried about Sunstrike, too. And while the elegant cuisine Hawl had crafted for the exmoors might be a little excessive, if the food really did improve Sunstrike’s recuperation, I knew Draven would be thankful.
He was simply in a difficult position. Torn between eagerness for his battlecat to recover and a desire to remain as close to Medra for as long as he could.
The sun was shining warmly overhead as we entered the perimeter of what Sir Ector had labeled the “Winged Roost.”
The Master-at-Arms had really outdone himself, especially considering how little time he’d had to prepare suitable accommodations for two massive creatures—ones which the people of Camelot found both utterly terrifying and fascinating, so rare and strange were they.
An ancient stone tower had been repurposed into something suitable for the large cats. Part of the wooden roof had been cut away, providing a huge, circular opening, allowing the battlecats to take off and land freely. The remains of the roof had been left as large awnings, which provided shade and shelter for the exmoors, while a large secluded alcove had been set up on the ground floor with soft straw bedding to offer a padded nest.
But most ingenious of all was what Sir Ector had done to the walls. Elevated perches and platforms had been strategically positioned on the exterior of the tower to allow the battlecats to climb and survey the castle and grounds from various levels and positions. Nightclaw in particular seemed to love creeping up to these vantage points, just as any feline might.
Dotted around the roost were large, sandstone blocks with textured surfaces. As we approached, Nightclaw was standing on his hind legs beside one of them, scratching and sharpening his long claws while an audience watched, oohing and aahing.
The fact that the two battlecats frequently had an audience was both a source of amusement and annoyance to Draven and me.
Word of the rare creatures staying at the castle had spread quickly throughout Camelot thanks to their dramatic arrival on the night of the king’s death. Once the funerals and days of mourning had passed, many citizens seemed eager to find something to be, well, excited about. Something that had nothing to do with tragedy or war.
Nightclaw and Sunstrike had provided the perfect distraction.
So many residents from the city and visitors from the villages surrounding Camelot had started to gather at the Winged Roost that it had gotten to the point where Sir Ector had to set up benches and built a fence around the roost. A few guards were regularly stationed nearby to keep out trespassers, though there had only been a few.
The fences were more for the viewers than the exmoors. After all, it was not as if the exmoors could not easily defend themselves from the overly curious and bold or simply fly away.
So far, however, the tourists had managed not to become exmoor food.
There had been one incident in which a young man attempted to sneak into the exmoor’s roost and fetch a handful of fur for his lady love to make into a pillow. To Nightclaw’s credit, he had only ripped off the poor young man’s trousers. Though, considering how the young man had shrieked and wailed, one might have thought he had lost a chunk of his buttocks as well as his pants.
The craze for exmoors had extended all over the city. In the markets, artisan stalls offered battlecat-themed trinkets, drawings, and other souvenirs. A new inn, The Sunstrike, had been erected to serve the tide of travelers, while a tavern had renamed itself The Empress’s Exmoor. A blatant attempt to win royal favor, but secretly, I rather liked the name.
Thankfully, the crowd outside the roost was small today.
It had been raining earlier, and I assumed this had caused many to disperse. Those who remained were pressed eagerly against the fence. I caught sight of one small girl standing on a fence rail, waving a little stuffed version of Sunstrike. The exmoor’s yellow eyes were made from bright yellow buttons.
My gaze quickly moved to the tall, slender figure of a young woman standing all alone further along the rail. She had short, cropped, blonde hair, and even now, the sight of her profile and the brutal scars on her cheek made my heart tighten.
As if feeling my eyes on her, Lancelet turned her head.
“Ah, look who it is,” she drawled as I approached. “Our Regal Eminence, Our Divine Grace—the Rose of Myntra.” She glanced down at the tray I carried. “Oh, Your Imperial Majesty, who dared to load down your noble arms with such a vulgar burden?”
I flushed with heat, but then spotted the mischievous look in her eyes. She was mocking me, yes, but not trying to be cruel. I nearly sighed in relief. We had moved past the cruelty. Slowly but surely, my friend was letting me back in.
“I rather like that. The Rose of Myntra.” Draven let the words roll over his tongue. “Who came up with that one? Was it you?”
Lancelet snorted. “I’m offended you even had to ask that, Draven. No. I suppose it was someone in the faction.”
Ah, yes. Even more awkward than the entire castle kitchen coming to a standstill was the fact that a new faction had quickly arisen following Arthur’s death. This small group—and I prayed to the Three that it was small—believed I should not only be empress of Myntra but queen of Pendrath, and perhaps even all of Eskira.
The last thing I needed right now, as we tried to make amends to our northern and southern neighbors, was a group of overly fervent supporters starting rumors I had plans to take over the continent, starting a new war between kingdoms as a result.
I groaned and said as much.
“But you could, you know,” Draven declared, bouncing Medra in the baby carrier. “If you wanted to.”
