Page 22

M y mother taught me how to see monsters.

Not everyone could spot them, she said, but with the proper training, it could be done.

When I was a child, her lessons were far too advanced for me, and so I immersed myself in monster stories instead.

Every time a bard came to our village, I’d pester them for new stories to add to my collection, and then I’d secrete each away like a precious jewel, to be pulled out and studied and pondered from every angle.

What I noticed was how often girls were the victims. Occasionally, I would find one where she was the hero, and those were my favorites, but I was astonished by how many young women ended up sacrificed – or wedded – to beasts, always to benefit someone else.

They gave their lives to save their village, their parents, the prince, the kingdom, and they accepted this as their fate.

Their purpose in life was to die, and that never seemed very satisfying, especially when the beast only returned for more girls.

All this studying primed me for my mother’s teachings. When I finally understood her lessons, I began to see the monsters, and I decided this would be my purpose in life. I would kill monsters.

At sixteen, I went into the world and discovered that monster stories are everywhere.

Every fiefdom and kingdom has their tales of the beasts who will only be sated by the sacrifice of a young woman.

She has to be young so you can be sure she’s a virgin, but really, this only proves that it is men making these decisions, men who have conveniently forgotten they deflowered their first virgin at thirteen.

Oftentimes, the monsters exist only in lore.

They are nothing but bedtime stories to keep girls from dreaming too big.

Be careful, be small, be invisible, or the king/knight/bishop will select you to feed/wed/pleasure the dragon/werewolf/hydra in our mountain/forest/sea.

In those versions, there were no actual monsters, which is a relief, because if all those stories were true, there wouldn’t be a virgin – or presumed virgin – in the world.

But sometimes, the stories are true. Other times, they become true, the beast waking from sleep and demanding its due from an overly fat kingdom.

That appears to be what has happened here, in this tiny realm whose name I have never encountered before, so tiny it’s barely more than a city.

That city is surrounded by mountains, which is where the beast – a gryphon – lives.

After the last sacrifice, the gryphon slumbered for generations, awaking only now, when the rulers had discovered precious metals in its mountains.

Some say it woke greedy for its share of the spoils; others say the mining disturbed its slumber.

Either way, mining has ceased until the sacrifice is made.

This may explain why I have barely entered the city gates before I am pounced upon by locals.

“You’re new,” an old man says as he falls in beside me, his worn sandals clacking on the cobblestones. “From one of the villages?”

I lower my gaze and speak shyly. “I lived with my mother in the woods, but now she is gone and…” I blink, as if holding back tears.

“You are alone,” an old woman says, falling in on my other side, enveloping me in the acrid odor of laundry soap.

“How tragic,” the man says, in a voice that suggests the word he wants is not tragic but fortunate . Fortunate for them.

We continue along the main road, the castle shining ahead, the hovels on either side shining…a little less. The smell of baking bread mingles with the stench of slaughter, and I step gingerly over a rivulet of blood that I hope comes from a pig.

“How old are you, dear?” the woman asks.

“Fifteen, I think. At least, that’s what my mother said.” I actually passed my nineteenth birthday last month, but no one looks a gift sacrifice in the mouth to check the wear on her teeth.

Another woman, this one with a baby on her hip, appears from a doorway, as if she overheard us. “Fifteen,” she says. “What a lovely age! I suppose you’re looking for a husband.”

I duck her gaze and whisper, “I can only hope to someday catch the eye of a kind man.”

Another woman hurries out with a basket of apples and offers me one, which I take with whispered thanks.

“I hope your journey was easy,” the young mother says. “You did not…encounter any difficulties, did you? Perhaps near the mountain?”

“Oh, no. I stayed away from the mountain. My mother always said a gryphon lives there.”

The locals exchange a look.

“Did she?” the old man says, his voice neutral. “And what did she say about it?”

“That it has been sleeping for over a hundred years, but you never know with monsters. They can wake at any time.”

“True, true,” the old woman says, nodding. “You were wise to avoid the mountain, dear. It seems the gryphon is stirring.”

I shiver. “Oh!”

“Do you…know how the gryphon is returned to its slumber?” the woman with the apples asks.

“It can be returned to slumber? Oh, that is excellent news. I had not heard such a thing could be done.”

“It can,” the old woman says. “We know why it has woken. Because the prince has not yet taken a wife.”

“The prince? Oh! I have heard he is very handsome.”

“Very handsome and very rich.”

“And kind,” the young mother interjects. “Very kind.”

“So he needs to find a wife?” I sigh. “Imagine what a lucky girl that will be.” I perk up. “Do you think there might be a royal wedding soon? I should dearly love to see it.”

The old woman smiles. “Oh, I am certain it will be very soon. Now, come, child, there’s someone you need to meet.”

***

The problem with local legends is that all the locals know them.

If a gryphon lives in the mountains and requires a virgin from that particular royal family, you are not going to trick any city girl into marrying the prince and being sacrificed before her wedding night.

You could reach farther afield and find a foreign princess, but diplomatic relations tend to suffer when your daughter is eaten alive hours after her wedding.

The solution is to find an outsider with no knowledge of the legend and convince her that what the gryphon really wants is for a commoner to marry the young prince.

Because the world is full of stories where that’s what the monster wants – one ordinary girl to be elevated to royalty. If only monsters were so thoughtful.

The procedure rarely changes. I find a place in need of a naive sacrifice, and then I show up, as innocent as a newborn lamb.

Next, I will be introduced to some palace official, who ensures I fit the criteria for a prince’s bride.

Of course, I am perfect. What luck! Then I am taken to meet one of the royal couple – in this case, the queen – who questions me further.

When she declares me perfect – what luck!

– she takes me to meet the prince. That is where we are heading now, and I know exactly what I will find: some slouching and bored young man who can barely look at me without the urge to scrub his eyeballs clean.

The queen finds the prince in the gardens. However, he is not sitting – or slouching – by the pond. He is off to one side, kneeling and planting shoots for an elderly gardener. He has a pleasant face, with a shock of bright-yellow hair, and long, nimble fingers that expertly work the earth.

“Eraric!” the queen calls.

The prince jumps up. Then he sees me, and something almost like guilt flashes across his face. He hurries over and holds out his hand.

“Eraric!” The queen passes her son a handkerchief before I can shake his dirt-streaked hand. With a deep sigh, she waits for him to clean it and then says, “This is Marielle. Your future bride.”

“Ah.” That look again, furtive, his gaze sliding away.

His mother clears her throat meaningfully.

Eraric gives me a slight bow. “So pleased to make your acquaintance. Thank you for your, uh, assistance in this matter.”

“Yes!” the queen says. “We are delighted that you have agreed to marry our son and settle the gryphon. Eraric really should have been married last year. He is nearly twenty! But you know how boys are – so particular.”

As she prattles, Eraric shifts from one foot to the other, looking discomfited.

“Eraric, do you have something to say to Marielle?”

“Uh, yes. Would you like to go for a walk? Perhaps to the stables? One of the hounds has new pups and—”

His mother cuts in. “That is not what I meant.”

“Er, yes.” He turns to me with a slight bow. “Thank you, again, Marielle, for your generosity. May I bestow upon you this token of my esteem?”

He reaches into a pocket, pats it with a frown and then tries two more as his mother sighs again. Finally, he withdraws a pendant – a brilliant ruby in an ancient filigree setting, on a chain that shines like newly-forged gold.

“Oh!” I clap my hands to my mouth. “Oh! That is beautiful.”

“The pendant belonged to my grandmother,” Eraric explains. “We have fitted it on a new chain, with gold from our mines.”

“An apt symbol of past and future,” the queen says. “The prince’s past and your shared future.”

“So lovely,” I coo.

Eraric lifts the necklace. “Please, let me put it on you. And then we can go for a walk—”

“You will have plenty of time for walks after you are married, Eraric. For now, we have a wedding to plan. Come along, Marielle.”

She taps my back, guiding me like an errant lamb. I glance over my shoulder to see Eraric watching us go, his face wreathed in dismay. He catches my gaze, and then quickly looks away, but not before I swear I see him mouth, “I’m sorry.”

***