‘Do you think it’s a dragon?’ she breathed.
Prince Ottone chuckled. ‘I reckon so.’
He clicked his stallion onward and Alinore followed, keeping her head turned towards the cloud of smoke until it faded into nothing.
The path steepened, narrowing into a track cut by rain and goat hooves. Prince Ottone’s stallion took the incline easily, and Alinore urged her mare after him, the muscles in her arms and legs taut with the effort of the climb. Breath steamed from the horses, drifting back like banners, until at last the slope evened and the wintry sunlight widened around them.
Prince Ottone pulled his stallion to a halt. ‘Here we are,’ he said.
Below them, the land fell away in a tumble of stone and earth, rising and sinking in great toothed undulations. Valleys curved into shadows, then lifted into jagged ridges.
For once, Alinore was lost for words.
‘We’re standing on the border of Mountain folk territory,’said Prince Ottone. ‘What you can see ahead of us belongs to the dragons.’
A cutting wind whistled about them and Alinore shivered, looking out into the endless folds of the surrounding mountains. Somewhere out there, hidden in shadowed valleys or on ragged heights, were dragons.
‘Does anyone hunt dragons in Calestra?’ she asked.
‘Never. It’s part of the treaty.’
‘What about on the other side of the border? In Journier?’
‘These mountains are vast and the other side of the border is almost deserted. Besides, who would hunt dragons anyway? They’re dangerous.’
Alinore was about to say, ‘My father did,’ but the words caught in her throat. Sometimes it was too painful to speak about him, even to Prince Ottone. She pressed her lips together instead, staring out across the ridges. On the opposite hillside, she noticed a faint, snaking line like a sunken thread. ‘What’s that?’ she asked, pointing.
Prince Ottone grimaced. ‘It’s the Maiden’s Path. The guards use it when they escort the Maiden Sacrifice into the mountains.’
‘It leads to the Great Dragon?’
‘I suppose so. I try not to think about such things.’
The last Maiden Sacrifice had come from a Mountain village called Morccia. She had been a pale-haired, nervous-looking creature who had wept throughout the ceremony in the main square of Tormale and hung her head while King Borto gave his ritual speeches. Alinore imagined that girl setting off into the mountains, following the winding path, knowing each step carried her closer to the Great Dragon, and closer to death.
She gripped the reins and her mare stamped a hoof, as thoughsensing her unease. The thought of that lonely figure on the trail, swallowed by the hills, made Alinore’s chest ache. A single life, forgotten as soon as the ceremony ended and the feasting began.
‘The last Maiden Sacrifice’s name was Flessanie,’ she said, turning to look at Prince Ottone, her expression firm. ‘And youshouldthink of her. We all should remember her.’
Prince Ottone’s features softened into thoughtfulness. He gave a small nod. ‘You’re right,’ he replied. Then added, after a beat, ‘For once.’
Alinore rolled her eyes.
Ahead of them, in a hollow between two peaks, came a sharp crack that split the air and rolled across the valley like thunder.
Alinore’s head snapped back to see rocks shuddering on the far hillside, sliding against one another with a grinding roar. Then a piercing screech followed, high and terrible, and a sudden burst of flame ripped through the sky.
Alinore gasped and her mare threw back its head. Prince Ottone’s stallion stamped its front hoof and flattened its ears.
‘Did you see that?’ she cried, wrestling with the reins as her mare snorted and skittered. ‘That was a dragon, wasn’t it? A real one!’
‘Probably,’ replied Prince Ottone, struggling to calm his stallion, boots braced in the stirrups.
Alinore peered at the distant smoke trailing through the air until her eyes stung. The spot where the rocks had moved was still again and almost indistinguishable from the surrounding landscape. Whatever creature had been there was gone.
‘You’ve seen your dragon now, Lady Alinore,’ said Prince Ottone. ‘We should return to the hunt before our horses bolt.’
‘But I didn’t get a proper look.’
