Now I do startle. My cat friend! I completely forgot to ask someone to feed him last night. I begin to turn back toward the tent—for what, I don’t know—and nearly barrel into Boyd.
“No need to worry, Your Highness,” he says. “Fuller made sure he was taken care of.”
“Did you?” I say, facing the man. “Thank you. I’m most grateful.”
He bows. “Of course. I’m happy to be of service.”
My brow creases with a sudden question. “How did you know I had…well, that there was a cat?” I’m not sure I can quite claim him as my own yet.
“Oh.” Fuller suddenly becomes intensely interested in his feet. “I am acquainted with one of your chambermaids. Cora?” Her name he says as if asking someone’s permission to speak it.
I withhold my smile. “I see. Well, I thank you and her.”
A prickle of awareness warms the side of my face, and when I glance that way, I find the king standing there, arms crossed, morning sun glinting off his horns as he studies me. Without a word, he turns to the open sand of The Pit, and we follow.
The crowd is already murmuring, and when the king walks out from amongst the cluster of tents, they loose a deafening cheer. Alongside him, Rally and Ty each lift a fist into the air, and the crowd roars even louder. My heart thunders at the sound, at the sheer number watching him cross the sand, yet Soren seems not to notice them or anyone else. His posture remains stiff. Withdrawn.
Worry trickles through my veins.
“Should we be concerned about the tents?” I ask the guards, my eyes on Soren’s back.
Yarl actually chuckles. “No, Your Highness.”
My spirits lift to hear him so confident. My mind, though, it plays through an alarming amount of scenarios as we move toward the distant wyverns.
What if the king is hurt?
What if he loses?
What if the wyverns try dragging me off to that foul Tallin?
What if what Soren and I shared yesterday meant nothing to him?
This last concern is laughably insignificant compared to the others, yet it clings to my heart with all the pain and persistence of a sea urchin spine.
I shake myself. This isn’t the time for sentimental musings. Soren is about to fight for his throne.
And my freedom.
There’s no reason to worry, I tell myself as I eye the waiting Seltzen. Soren easily won the last fight. The way he handled Seltzen in his human form should be assurance enough that he’ll win this one. Still, I don’t even know what a fully transformed wyvern looks like.
I don’t have to wait long to find out.
I expect some announcement, some proclamation of rules like a grappling match, but there are no words. Seltzen—teeth bared, eyes locked onto Soren—flares his wings wide and drops low, veins standing out along the knotted muscles of his arms. His back arches. The bones of his spine roil along his skin in a nauseating procession.The mouth of his cheeky companion ticks into a satisfied smirk.
Then Seltzen begins to grow.
The neck lengthens, the legs thicken, the shifting bones of his back rise into jagged black ridges. My eyes climb up and up as his form grows taller, darker, as the wyvern emerges and blocks out the rising sun, as his widening shadow swallows us whole.
When the behemoth before us throws his head back and releases a guttural cry, my blood runs cold.
11
I stare at the beast in breathless astonishment.
“Are wyverns typically so large?” I force myself to say.
Yarl echoes his words from a moment ago, though this time, he doesn’t laugh. “No, Your Highness.”
