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bow.” Pick paused. “Were
it not for your grandfather’s passion your father never would have
learned how to enjoy his.”
    “But what am I ever going to learn from
hunting?” Brayden argued.
    “That’s for you to find out, young
master.”
    He was out of excuses. He could stall no
further. With a reluctant sigh, Brayden urged Arrow forward.
    The company of hunters moved through the
woods, looking, listening. They all had their bows ready, arrows
notched, but Brayden knew the only ones who would draw their
strings were he and his father. This hunt belonged to them.
    After a while the company stopped. Pick
gestured for Brayden to trot ahead. “Your father wants you,” he
said, pointing toward the head of the line.
    Kingsley sat atop his stallion on a gentle
slope overlooking a descent of forest shrubbery. He cracked a smile
when Brayden neared. “Down there. I’ll go down around the west side
of those bushes and flush them out. When they take flight, they’ll
be headed east, so track them first before you let go of your
arrow.”
    “Yes, Sir,” Brayden said quietly.
    There was no avoiding it now. The moment he
always feared had come.
    He watched as his father, tall and regal in
the saddle, meandered down the slope to the left. The young prince
of Aberdour lifted his bow, fingers teasing the taut string, ready
to set his arrow free at a moment’s notice.
    He wondered if he would hit his target this
time, and if the others would rib him when he missed. He would
miss, of that much he was certain. Broderick and Dana were better
at archery than he was. The only thing Brayden ever got from using
his bow was the look of disappointment on his father’s face when he
failed to hit his marks.
    Behind him, Fierdrick made a noise as though
he’d just been slugged in the stomach. Brayden turned around on the
back of his horse to see the soldier tumble from his saddle. The
impact of his body on the forest floor sounded like a single
partridge wing beat, sudden and strong.
    Brayden remembered the owl, the way it had
perched on his windowsill, staring at him with those big haunting
eyes.
    But then he saw the arrow in Fierdrick’s
back.
    The silence of the woods evaporated, and
everything seemed to happen at once. Footsteps crashed through the
leaves on the hill behind them. Soldiers shouted. An arrow flew
past Brayden’s head. Pick galloped forward, and Khalous called for
his father. Black soldiers of the high king lined along the top of
the ridge, yelling and drawing their weapons.
    “Broods!” Khalous said.
    Brayden saw Kingsley’s horse come hurrying
back up the slope, startling the pair of partridges at last. The
birds shot up into the air in a panicked flurry of thumping
drumbeats as more arrows whipped past.
    “Brayden!” his father yelled. “Go back to
the castle! Now!”
    An arrow found its mark in the nape of
Kingsley’s neck. He fell forward on his horse, choking on the
spurts of blood that showered from his throat.
    Fear entered Brayden like a monster,
invading every corner of his soul. “Father!” he shouted.
    Pick grabbed Arrow’s reins and yanked the
horse around. “Move!”
    “What? No! Father!”
    More arrows careened past him.
    He and Pick rushed their horses down the
forest slope toward Aberdour. Brayden glanced back to see Khalous
riding away with Lord Kingsley just as two other members of the
king’s company were brought down by arrows.
    The hill at their backs, he saw, was
crawling with black vipers. The brood poured over the ridge like
ants out of an anthill.
    “Come on,” Pick said.
    His fierce tone scared Brayden, sharpening
his focus as the pair wove their way out of the forest. Once in the
clear, their horses raced across the southern plain to the city’s
gate, where the navy and silver flags of Aberdour waved high.
    Brayden charged into the southern gate,
through the tunnel under the city’s stout wall, to the brown and
gray stone entry court beyond. Pick dismounted to inform the