Page 41

ALICE

T he marketplace is a hive of activity, filled with the scents of woodsmoke and produce.

It surrounds a permanent stone structure, open sides and solid roof, divided roughly into stalls which then spread out around it in a haphazard fashion.

My eyes are practically on stalks as I take in my new surroundings.

There are stalls piled high with a mixture of vegetables I recognise and plenty I don’t.

Clothing stalls flutter with fabrics in various hues, a lot less black than I’d have expected.

There are stalls with huge tubs filled with multi-coloured powders.

Anywhere else these could be spices, but here, in the Yeavering, they have to be something different.

I give Fenrother a nudge.

He’s on edge but as yet nothing has happened, so I’m beginning to have hope we might not bring about market-geddon.

“What are those?” I ask, pointing to the piles of powder.

“They’re spells, my dear,” a woman from a nearby stall says.

She’s tall, pretty, and her dress is close fitting, emphasising her natural…

assets. I feel like a frump next to her in my warm clothing.

Her eyes are anything but human though, dark spots which seem to see into my soul.

“Human?” she queries.

“My mate,” Fenrother snarls.

I think if she could have backed up, she would have, but the stall behind hers means she has nowhere to go.

“Our natural magic is limited, depending on our sires or dams,” she says, keeping her voice even whilst eyeing my Wyrm, “so we require spells. Some Faerie provide these for us, at a price.” Her pretty face sours as she says the words.

“Those who peddle them, no better than thieves.” She spits, glaring at the stall holder who has the spells.

He huffs and folds his arms.

My head reels from this knowledge.

The Yeavering has remained a mysterious place to humans, and I’m beginning to see why.

I’m beginning to understand why the Faerie saved us.

And I’m beginning to see why they keep us out.

Fenrother growls low in his throat, catching my attention.

He’s staring down a line of stalls at another creature, this one heads above the rest of the crowd.

A centaur. His chestnut flanks shine under the sun, muscled torso on display.

He moves his bulk through the throngs easily as they part ahead of him.

Given Fenrother is also head and shoulders above most of the inhabitants, it’s no surprise when the centaur spots him and, to my increasingly anxious stomach, he makes a beeline for us.

Fenrother tucks me behind him, his wings extending and his tail wrapping around my right leg, as the centaur approaches us.

My heart beats swifter as the great creature’s hooves ring out against the stone flags, witches and warlocks scurrying out of his way.

I spot the large sword strapped to his side, and the bandolier which runs over his impressive chest is filled with daggers.

He is as weaponised as Fenrother is not.

“Warden,” Fenrother rasps.

“Fenrother,” the centaur responds with a brief, almost imperceivable dip of his head.

“Your presence here is…unusual.”

“You mean I used to come here for food and I am no longer allowed,” Fenrother says starkly.

“In your Wyrm form, yes.” The centaur inclines his head and studies Fenrother, almost with the same interest as Fenrother studied me.

“But then you are rarely in your present form, here or in the Night Lands.”

At the mention of this place, Fenrother lifts his lips, exposing his fangs.

“I thought you were remaining there, per your orders,” he rasps.

“My orders changed. I did not desert my post.” The centaur growls.

“Neither did I. My work was completed.” Fenrother glares at him.

The centaur does not wilt.

Instead he huffs out a hot, horsey breath.

Which is when he spots me.

“Your work was completed?” He cranes his neck around Fenrother to get a better look in my direction.

Fenrother growls out loud, causing any inhabitants of the market to make a very swift exit from our local area.

“Do not,” he says, his voice low and menacing, “look at my mate.”

“You have a mate?” The centaur brays, his front feet stamping, sparks flying from his hooves.

“You?”

Fenrother extends his wings further, knocking into one of the stalls.

The stall-holder exclaims, and as if he’s remembered where he is, Fenrother shrinks them back, a little.

“I have a mate.”

The centaur leans to one side in order to get a better view of me.

“Hello, mate of Fenrother. I am Warden,” he says, dipping one of his front legs to execute a stately bow.

“.” I push under Fenrother’s wing, and he instantly clamps an arm over my chest, pulling me up against his hard body, tensed to the point of vibration.

“ is mine,” he says, his words still a growl.

“She is,” Warden replies.

“I am sure she will knock off your rough edges. Protect her well, Lambton Wyrm.”

He spins on the spot, his huge withers only just missing various stalls, and trots away.

“Friend?” I ask Fenrother.

“I have no friends. We fought in the Night Lands.”

“And he thinks you deserted?”

“He is wrong.”

Fenrother stares after Warden for a while until the centaur disappears.

“He lost a mate,” Fenrother says.

“I heard him talk of her. It’s probably the one reason he didn’t attempt to separate my head from my body.”

“Could he have done that?” My heart is seized by something with hooks and claws, buried deep and painful.

A fear, for my monster.

“No,” Fenrother says.

“No creature can kill me.”