Janto’s vision blurred as he walked along the path, trees and bushes indistinct, as though spied through an inverted reading glass. He had spent the morning at the archery Feat, shooting flying-squirrel-shaped target after flying-squirrel-shaped target to no avail. After dashing through the woods for an hour, wasting not an arrow as he picked off each target he could find, Sielban’s voice had rang in his ear. Tonim broke the king’s record: all thirty targets hit in forty minutes. After the announcement, Janto had yelled in frustration, but only the birds stirred. By the time he had reached the others, he meant the congratulations he gave Tonim with a backslap. He also commiserated with Hamsyn over how neither hunter had won before heading out on his own to make peace with the defeat.
The air was crisp, as though a breeze had swept up from the Giants’ Pathway. Around the next bend, he sighted Jerusho by a stream, holding his fishing pole. The Ertion stood tall, no sign of weariness in his body—he had not attempted the archery Feat. His head bobbed with the current, eyes fixed on the water. As Janto drew close, Jerusho raised his fingers to his lips to hush him. He pointed to the water where water bugs skimmed the murky surface, leaving little pools no grander than a cent-piece in their wake. Jerusho’s brow was smooth, excitement evident only in the shaking of his free hand as though a tambourine were in his grasp. Janto’s eyes crossed from both confusion and missed targets cycling through his mind.
As another bout of weariness came, something sparkled in the water. Something thin as a scroll.
“Is that the gran—”
Jerusho clapped his hand over Janto’s mouth. “Silence!”
Janto watched the fish wiggle, a saw of brushed steel in motion. The humongous creature was nearly four feet long. How could he not have seen it before? Yet each time he blinked, it disappeared until he focused on it with crossed eyes.
The line jerked. Jerusho used two hands to hold it. He raised his arms high in the air and lifted the line out, stepping backward as he did.
“The net!” Jerusho yelled as the granfaylon rose out of the water, exposing its flat snout. “Behind the tree!”
Janto spotted and grabbed it in one movement then held it beneath the struggling creature. It was completely out of the water, but he could only catch glimpses every few seconds. He eased the net forward blindly, adjusting his aim as Jerusho called, “Left! Right! Higher!” Then the Ertion unhooked the creature’s fat lip, the thickest part of it Janto could see. The fish fell into the net, and Janto nearly dropped it. It weighed far more than he would have guessed, heavy as the fattest trout he had fished out of the River Call.
“You did it! You caught the granfaylon!”
Jerusho laughed raggedly. “I did, didn’t I?” He leaned against a nearby pine and wiped the sweat from his head. The fish struggled fiercely in the net, and Jerusho pulled out his knife, a simple blade with a handle of beige rock from the Ertion quarries. He shook the fish out a few yards from the banks. One hand on the wiggling body was not enough to settle it, so Janto knelt down, trapping its bottom half. Jerusho took the knife and sliced into the shimmering flesh above its eye. It thrashed more violently, and he cut a deep “X” into its head. The fish flexed once more and went limp. As it did, the full body formed on the ground, no longer flickering. Its flat, iridescent backside only made it appear paper thin. The fish was about three inches thick, and it would make quite the feast for the men.
Now that the killing of the fish was complete, Jerusho flushed red with excitement. He clapped Janto on the shoulder with a whomph. “You must be a good luck charm. I have been tracking this fish for days, but it never stayed so well in sight until you joined me around that tree.”
“Give me no credit, Jerusho! This victory is all yours. I did not think it existed until I saw its scales shimmering in the water. You came to the Murat knowing you would leave with a purse full of those scales.”
“Hmm, I like that idea. Would your father accept a new fish-scale currency? I will be the only one with it, but that seems a fine idea to me.”
Janto laughed, but his thoughts zoomed. Right in front of him was proof the granfaylon existed. If it did, what else was possible? What if the creature in the woods that first morning had been—
“Don’t keep staring off like a craval beast that’s forgotten where the grass is, help me move it. I have been wanting to rub this catch in Flivio’s face for weeks.”
“Of course.” Janto lifted its tail. “Lead the way.”
The fish sizzled over a fire not long after, its fat sparking as it dripped down the spit. The others had been amazed to see it, and Jerusho enjoyed their attention, especially Flivio’s fake faint as he and Janto came around the bend. Janto thrummed with the excitement of it and with the certitude that another creature hid in those woods for him. He scanned the tree line constantly, hoping for something bright and shiny.
“You must go find it, Janto. There is not much time left in our Murat.” Hamsyn’s hand fell to his shoulder and squeezed. “And you must take the Old Girl. She’s the best weapon here.” He held out his treasured bow.
“I could not.” The hunt felt preordained, but Janto would not risk marring the beautiful weapon during it. He had no idea what lay before him.
“If you don’t, I will spread rumors of a prince refusing a gift from his fellow Murater.” Hamsyn smiled as he made the threat, but it had the desired effect. Janto raised his elbows in defeat. He brushed his fingers over the Old Girl’s polished curve. It felt smooth as Serra’s skin.
Just as he cocked his finger to test the string, a bedazzling, silver flash shone in the woods. Janto jumped to his feet, bow clenched in hand.
“If only I could see what you see now,” Hamsyn said, pushing him forward. “Go, my prince. Go.”