Page 21 of The Poisoned King (Impossible Creatures #2)

The Healing Properties of Centicore Milk

It was perhaps the cold of the morning sky, or perhaps the thought of her father, and it was certainly the aftershock of the adrenaline, but after an hour Anya began to shake.

At first it was just a chattering in her teeth, but eventually her legs and arms were quivering, and she tried to wrap her fingers tighter in the sphinx’s fur, willing herself not to fall.

“We are stopping for water,” said Naravirala. “I must drink. I have lost blood. And you cannot hold on much longer. That is a promontory of Edem below us. The area is wild and mountainous, and there are few humans. We can pause there.”

She swept down onto the peak of the rocky hillside rising from the sea, spotted with green and yellow flowers.

“Stretch your bones,” said Naravirala. “We have farther yet to fly.” She tipped them from her back, and stalked away to lick her wound in solitude.

Anya stumbled. Her legs were unsteady.

“Are you all right?” said Christopher.

The old difficulty with words was returning, now that they were on the ground. “Yes. I think so.”

“I mean, of course you’re not. Why would you be? But nobody’s shooting at you, and that’s a good start.”

There was a bleating on the rocks above them, and they whipped round. “Centicores!” said Christopher. They were lithe, goatlike creatures, and their long horns swiveled in every direction as they leaped over the rocks.

Anya nodded. “They used to come into the forest where I lived, sometimes, in the summer.” She had always adored them; their glossy brown fur and wild faces. But the thought of her father—waiting, in chains—stole her delight in the great beauty around her.

“I’ve never seen one before,” said Christopher.

His whole face was alight. “But I’ve read about them, in the Guardian’s Bestiary.

They say their milk has healing properties.

Wait a moment.” He approached the creatures, whistling softly.

To Anya’s astonishment they did not scatter, but let him come, watching unblinkingly.

“May I?” he asked the centicore. He bowed to it, and it rested its chin in his hand. Anya thought, He treats the centicore like it’s royalty.

He took a flask from his pocket and milked the creature into it with strong, confident movements.

“How, by the Immortal, do you know how to milk a centicore?” said Anya.

“I saw a man milk a goat on TV once.”

“On T-what?”

“It would take too long to explain. But look.” He showed her. “You pinch at the top and pull downward. Try?”

It wasn’t easy, and Koo did not make it easier by blindly climbing across her shoulders and attempting to help, but they filled the flask. Christopher bowed again, and the centicore gave him one strong butt and went leaping up the side of the hill.

“Here,” he said, and gave the flask to Anya. “You need it. It’ll help, I think.” It was sweet and rich, and, in that moment, the best thing she had ever tasted. Warmth spread through her numb hands and aching legs.

Anya looked at him then, hard and properly; and forced herself not to look away when he stared back. “You talked about the Guardian’s Bestiary,” she said. “How do you know what’s in it?”

He tried to change the subject. “Give me a go at that milk. Do you think those berries over there are edible?”

He had, she saw for the first time, a small mark high on his cheek in the shape of an apple. She suddenly understood.

“I know who you are! You’re the guardian! The mermaids sing about you!” The apple was the mark of the Immortal’s kiss.

Three dozen expressions flickered across his face, too fast for her to read—and then he smiled at her. “That’s me, I suppose.”

“But why are you here? I thought you guarded the waybetween?”

“I came because the dragons are dying and nobody knows why.”

“Excuse me, but that is a rank falsehood!” The tiny dragon flew up to land on his head. “You came because I summoned you.”

“I came because Jacques summoned me.” Christopher laughed. “I’m flying to the great red-winged dragons, to speak with Sarkany. We made a detour to find you, but now I have to go on.”

Anya looked at him, skeptical. “The guardian in the stories is a hero. He was six foot ten and invincible.”

“Details often get edited in the telling.”

“The mermaids are terrible hyperbolators,” said Jacques, “and far too inclined to lavish praise on humankind. When my acclaimed biography comes out—Christopher is my amanuensis—my role shall be clear. It shall be called The Dragon and His Odorous Pet Boy. And I shall have some of that milk.” He dipped his whole face into the flask, and came out coated white.

“But the stories say you’re a warrior. You’re just a teenager from the Outerlands. And…”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “And?”

“You’re wearing pink socks.”

Christopher glanced down. “What? I like pink socks.”

He wore strong leather boots, a beautifully made woolen coat with many pockets—one of them stained with a sticky red substance—and a sword. The sword was a metal she did not recognize: something silvery white and radiant in the light.

“Pink socks and a dragon, I suppose,” she said.

“He’s not wearing me,” said Jacques. “I am not a hat. If anything, I wear him.”

“But if you’re the boy-guardian”—Anya bit her lip—“you knew the Immortal?”

Christopher’s hand went to the scar on his cheek. “I did. Yeah. I knew her.”

“Oh!” A thousand questions rose in Anya.

All children in the Glimouria Archipelago knew the story of the Immortal.

The eternal soul, born of the first apple of the first tree, reborn in a new life at each death, never forgetting what they had seen.

To meet an immortal soul! That, Anya thought, would be a thing to hold forever.

But she didn’t have the words. She said only, “You were lucky, then.”

“I was,” said Christopher. He smiled. “I loved her. Mal.”