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with a dagger. “Come on, do.”
    “He’s just a stray, your highness.”
    Highness! Marco looked at the young man. He resembled Prince Golther, but he was smaller and slighter. Why had he not come to the princess’s ball? Every royal male over 12 had been invited. Then Marco calculated in his mind the length of his travels. It had been nine years since the disastrous celebration party. This lad was no more than twenty. He would have been a child. But now he was grown to manhood, and what a handsome fellow he was, with soft black hair and hazel-colored eyes! Marco came to his outstretched hand and sniffed. The hand shifted and came down on his head. Stroked. Rose from his hindquarters and stroked again. Marco stood stock-still with astonishment.
    “There, you see? Why, you’re down to skin and bones, you poor fellow. Here.” The prince took out his dagger. Marco started back, but the prince reached beside him and cut a slice of flesh from the belly of the stag. “Have a bite. The cooks will never miss it.” Marco seized it and retreated to a safe distance to eat.
    “Sire!” the companion scolded him. Marco paid no attention, as the prince did not. Obviously this young man made his own decisions. He was kind. He was respectful to his fallen foe. He was generous to those less fortunate than himself. He was handsome enough, as humans went. And he must indeed be brave, because the stag was a 12-pointer, not a beast to be borne down by a white-livered hunter. He could be the man Marco had been looking for.
    But was he curious enough? When his meal was through, Marco rubbed against the prince’s leg and went a few feet away. He looked hard at the young man.
    “What do you want, puss?” he asked. Marco came up, rubbed again, then danced a short distance away, his eyes fixed on the prince’s face, and waited. The prince stood up, stomped his boot to seat his heel again, and came up beside Marco. Marco, his heart racing with hope, trotted a little farther. The prince followed. “Where are you trying to lead me?”
    “Prince Reynard, where are you going?”
    “On a quest,” the prince said, his eyes alight. “If you do not wish to come, then run and tell my brother I am going. He’ll be happy to see the back of me. There’s nothing so useless as an extra prince.”
    Marco’s calloused pads were as sore as ever he remembered them, but his heart was light. The prince ran back for his horse. Several of Reynard’s friends followed. Marco waited, then began to lead them. The horses overshot his fastest trot in a matter of seconds. Reynard leaned down from the saddle and scooped him up to the horse’s neck.
    “Point where you wish us to go, puss,” the prince said. “Tell me when to change direction. Otherwise we shall ride straight and true.” Marco nodded. “He understands me!”
    “How can he, sire? He’s just a cat.”
    “I don’t know, but he does,” Reynard said. “It is a wonder.”
    “Where are we going, highness?” the redhead asked. Reynard smiled.
    “I do not know, Theo, but it’s an adventure! Ride on!”
    Marco clung to the saddle cloth, his heart racing. This must be the man. He must be!
    * * *
    It took months to ride along the coast back to Cadmonia. Marco slept at night on the prince’s blanket, one paw touching his shoulder or arm, just to make sure he didn’t disappear in the night. He must not lose this man.
    He need not have feared. A few of the companions dropped back, not interested, thinking the prince mad or the cat a witch in disguise, but the prince perservered. Marco thought of his friends, but above all the princess. She must not sleep forever. Reynard was his best hope.
    They broke through the trees, now higher and thicker, that marked the end of Hawellia. Marco looked ahead toward the isthmus. It was blocked by a tangle of dense black thorns.
    Theo frowned. “This is where your brother came to see the princess who grievously insulted him.”
    “How did she insult