Prince Nera Mossveil's Arc

Chapter 3 of 23

Nera turned the dragonfly south along the market road before noon. He kept it low over bracken to hide the wing-flash from the ridges. He meant to reach the market in two days, find the buyer, and end the price on his head before the next hunters found him. He did not look back at the cottage. He did not stop at the hollow. An hour past the second creek, he heard wings behind him that were not his mount's. He drew the crossbow and turned in the saddle. A fawn was flying after him. Small, spotted, one wing dragging in the wrong rhythm. A ragged snare wound crossed its chest. It was one of his herd. It had followed him out of the hollow. He cursed and slowed the dragonfly. The fawn dropped into the ferns behind him and bleated. Its cry carried far in the still air. He had heard that cry from three ridges away as a boy. Anything with teeth in these woods would hear it too. He swung down and gathered the fawn against his chest. It was lighter than a housecat. Blood had dried along its ribs and cracked open again from the flight. He tried to lift it onto the saddle. The dragonfly shied. Two riders and a wounded fawn were too much weight for the low, fast flying he needed. He could not outrun pursuit with the fawn on his lap. He could not leave it here to bleed and call every wolf in the south woods to his trail. He thought of Gareth Thornfield. The old huntsman was riding the poacher to the castle guard. His road ran west of Nera's. If Nera cut hard west now, he could meet that road by dusk. It would cost him a day. It would put him back on ground the buyer's men were already watching. He cut west anyway. He rode with the fawn wrapped in his cloak and one hand on the blessed dagger. He pushed the dragonfly harder than was safe. At dusk he came out on the cart track and saw Gareth ahead, the bound poacher walking on a lead rope. Gareth lifted a hand. Nera did not slow until he was close enough to speak low. He held out the fawn. "Take her to the castle stables. Tell the herdsman snare wound, three days old." Gareth looked at the fawn, then at Nera's face. "You're not coming." "No." Gareth took the bundle. He tucked the fawn inside his coat without a word and shifted the lead rope to his other hand. Nera watched them go until the track bent. One of the herd was safe. The buyer's men would know by morning that he had broken cover on the west road. He turned the dragonfly south again, alone now, and rode into the dark toward the market.