Chumba, I love you, Mez thinks.
Chumba’s closed eyes send the same message back. But there are also thoughts and feelings Mez can’t quite put her paw on. The tip of Chumba’s tail thrashes. Anger, fear, resolve—determination. Mez raises a singed eyebrow. What’s going on in your mind, sister?
Chumba’s tail continues to slash the air.
Mez narrows her eyes, wondering.
Lima licks them both. Healing, healing.
Mez’s legs begin to cramp. She curls and uncurls her paws in an effort to get her blood flowing. It helps a little—that and the tingling numbness that Lima’s licking gives her. The bat must be running out of saliva, though; she tucks in, and cuddles against Mez’s flank. Mez can’t move enough against her bonds to snuggle her chin against the bat, but she hopes the rise and fall of her ribs beneath her fur might give her friend a little comfort.
Mez’s worry enters repetitive loops: the welfare of her friends, the looming volcanic explosion, whether Rumi and Sky are able to follow what’s happening, and if they’ve found a way to fix things. But there’s nothing she can do about it. There’s not even a way to move. So she lies there, stewing, her thoughts repeating. Useless.
The Veil begins to drop. The sun’s heat slants, then the cicadas build their drone, the sound rising and then falling away, replaced by the insistent buzzing of mosquitoes. Normally Mez’s thick fur protects her from them, but though her wounds from her battle with Mist are mostly healed, much of her skin is tender, hairless, and exposed.
There’s nothing she can do to keep the mosquitoes off. All she can do is watch them suck her blood. It’s not helping her mood.
As the sky darkens, the nightwalker cult begins to stir. The animals unsteadily get to their feet and talons and bellies, fixing their captives with glares that somehow manage to be both groggy and menacing. As the rest awaken, they add their glares, and the grogginess fades. Mez gulps. Now it’s just the menacing part.
Mist is the last to rise, yawning widely to expose his long canines, and kneading the earth with his claws before turning his gaze to the captives. “I see you’re still here, cousins.”
Lima makes a squeak of protest.
“And the annoying little healing bat, too,” Mist says.
Mist pads toward the bound panthers, leans down, and places his jaws right against Mez’s face. His foul breath rolls over her. “Good dropping of the Veil to you, my discolored cousin,” he says.
Mez wouldn’t have answered, even if she could. She holds tight, watching Mist with wide eyes. He circles the restrained panthers again, stepping between and through their intertwined legs and tails. When he comes to Chumba, he leans down. Mez expects him to speak to Chumba, but instead he places his jaws around Chumba’s neck. He clamps down.
Chumba sputters and hisses, her eyes wide with fear.
Mist doesn’t let go. “I could close my jaws right now,” he says, his words muffled, “just a little bit more would be strong enough to break your neck. But I’m choosing not to. I want you to know that.”
Chumba sputters more.
Mez becomes enraged, muscles cording against her bonds, tail thrashing so hard it slams the ground with audible thumps. She hisses, but she can’t make any words against the bonds binding her muzzle shut.
Chumba’s eyes go wider still, then her body goes limp.
The assembled nightwalkers had been making bloodthirsty murmurings before, but now they begin to hiss in alarm. “This is not the time,” hoots one of the owls. “They are to be sacrificed! It is their deaths that will stop the volcano! It is their deaths that will save Caldera! This is what you promised!”
Mist nearly snorts at that. But when he looks at Chumba’s unmoving body, fear enters his expression. “I didn’t mean to kill her, just to scare her,” he says. He places a forepaw against his cousin’s rib cage, to see if she’s still breathing.
The other owls join the first in a chorus of “Not yet! Not yet!”
Cursing under his breath, Mist extends a claw and slashes the cord binding Chumba’s mouth.
She gasps in air, nostrils flaring in panic.
Then she abruptly stops. Improbably but unmistakably, a smile crosses her features. “Thank you for releasing my muzzle, Mist,” she says.
Confused, Mist hisses. He wheels, looking at his cultists, then back at his cousin.
“I challenge you,” Chumba says. “I challenge you for control.”
Mist snorts. “You have got to be kidding.”
Chumba lets out a low growl. “I promise you that I am not.”
“Your sister, who has magical powers when you have none—and four working paws, I might add—tried to fight me and failed. Usha, who is stronger and more experienced than any of you, tried and failed. You think you will succeed where they didn’t?”
“Yes,” Chumba says, a hint of hesitation entering her expression.
Mez strains against her bonds, beaming out a message to her sister: Don’t do this. He will kill you.
Chumba pointedly turns to face away from Mez, so she can look at Mist—and only Mist—directly. “Let the battle begin, cousin,” she says.
Mist bristles. “Right now?”
“Yes,” she says.
Mist snorts, then walks a few lengths away to the burial mound. “Same arena as before, then.”
“Yes,” Chumba says. “I’ll just need . . . you need to release me from these bonds first.”
“Is that so?” Mist scoffs. “I’m not sure. Maybe I’ll decide to release you. Maybe not.”
“You know the panther code requires a fair start,” comes a voice from the other side of the clearing.
The nightwalker cult, the panthers, and Mist turn to see Aunt Usha step between two hirsuta trees. She moves forward only enough to come fully into view, then stops, wary. Her movements are rigid and pained, but even so are not without her usual stateliness. Rumi can see why she’s stayed near the hiding spot—Jerlo quivers in fear just within the camouflage of the fern. “You must accept Chumba’s challenge, and it must be a fair combat,” Usha says. “You may no longer be my son, but you are still a panther. Some ties still bind you.”
Mez’s eyes flit between Usha and Chumba and Derli. Did you all know this would happen?
Mist looks pained for a moment at Usha’s words. Then he gets control of himself and rolls his eyes. “Yes, fine, though Chumba going up against someone as powerful as me can never be considered a fair fight.”
“You have broken all the other bonds that animals might have with one another,” Usha says. “I’m glad that at least you haven’t gone against your very pantherness.”
Mist gets an odd, distant look on his face. “I have not broken the panther code, Mother. My defeat of you was not against the panther code. My defeat of Mez was not against the panther code—she was the one who broke it, by seeking help from her ally. I will fight Chumba, don’t you worry. I will destroy her, if need be.”
“Release me and we’ll see about that,” Chumba says through gritted teeth.
Mist extends a claw to slash through one bond, then another, then the next. Once Chumba can, she gets to all fours, wincing as blood flow returns to her legs and paws. Mez—and therefore Rumi—can imagine the tingly feeling, as if she’s dropped from a height.
“Ready, cousin?” Mist says.
“Give me . . . a moment,” Chumba says, wobbling.
Mez strains against her own bonds, whimpering through her closed muzzle. If only Mist would release her, she’d make Chumba stop, she’d throw herself at her cousin again, she’d offer her own sacrifice to keep her sister alive. That’s how it has always worked, Mez stepping in, doing the extraordinary to keep Chumba safe . . .
. . . until now. Maybe that’s why this is happening, Mez thinks, trying to peer into Chumba’s eyes even though her sister steadfastly refuses to look at her. Chumba is stepping into the role of protector, even if it means the end of her.
Chumba closes her eyes even tighter, g
irding herself. She tilts her head this way and then that, spine crackling. Finally she speaks. “I’m ready.”
She doesn’t look ready. Rumi can feel the worry rippling through Mez’s mind, can see concern wrinkling Usha’s usually serene and expressionless face. Her aunt doesn’t interfere, though. Even if it’s an unlikely one, Chumba represents the panthers’ last hope.
Chumba approaches the burial mound and turns, ears drooping and teeth bared as she pants in the nighttime heat. Mist pads his way over and turns, allowing his tail to entwine with Chumba’s, just like it had done with Mez’s a short while before.
White and calico panthers, snapping and whipping, each panther letting out low yowls as it squares off. Rumi’s gotten so used to his panther companions that it comes as some surprise to realize all over again how powerful they are, how muscled their jaws and legs, how thick their flanks and backs. A panther’s jaws can puncture the head of an alligator, and seeing these two in battle preparations, it’s not hard to see why.
“It’s been good knowing you, cousin,” Mist says.
Chumba doesn’t reply, except to say, “Count. Off.”
Their tails unlock as they pace forward with each of Mist’s counts. “One . . . two . . . three!”
Both whirl, teeth bared, feinting and retreating as they gauge the distance between them. They’re too far apart for either to lunge yet, so they begin to circle, hackles up as they pass around the burial mound. Chumba starts making a terrible keening noise, loud and desperate, unlike anything Rumi has ever heard from her. Is it fear? Is it intimidation? It’s hard to know. Rumi certainly wouldn’t want to face off against her, not on any cycle of the moon, but Mist is bigger, and has magic on his side.
He plants his four limbs heavily in the soil and lowers his head, jaws open. Instead of howling, though, he emits a burst of air—Rumi’s own power. It roars through the clearing, flattening ferns and bushes, sending Chumba skidding in the dirt. Mist takes advantage of the opportunity to leap, disappearing in midair as he does. Chumba looks up, startled into stillness before her reflexes bring her dodging. She chooses her direction wisely, as a thicket on the other side of where she was crackles and breaks as Mist’s body slams into it. He goes visible, whirling and hissing. “You won’t be so lucky next time,” he growls.
Chumba doesn’t bother to answer. She continues her keening, teeth bared. Mist appears unruffled by the unnerving yowling except for one ear, which flicks in irritation. He goes invisible again.
Mist’s going invisible got Mez springing into fast motion, but that’s not Chumba’s response. She goes stock-still, nose in the air. She closes her eyes. Mez gasps, the sound of it strangled against her gag. What is Chumba doing?
But of course—vision isn’t useful anymore, so Chumba is focusing on her other senses. The calico panther’s fur ripples as she enters high-alert mode. There’s a popping sound, and then an arc of flame shoots in from the right. It fills Rumi’s and Mez’s vision, becoming all they can see or think about, but Chumba uses the sound to figure out where to spring into the air again. Eyes still shut, she leaps over the flame. This time she doesn’t dodge to the right or left, but instead soars above and toward the source of the popping—invisible Mist.
Chumba rolls. Her jaws snap around empty air, her back claws rake the earth—until they strike something . . . that yowls in pain. Mist materializes, belly up, fighting against his cousin’s snapping jaws. He sends out a buffet of wind that pops Chumba up into the air, but as soon as she’s landed, her jaws are back at Mist, snapping and snarling. She uses her pawless foreleg strategically to pin Mist’s chest against the earth while her foreclaw scrapes his shoulder and throat.
Mist isn’t out of tricks yet, though. His fur smolders and then blazes, causing Chumba to yelp even as she keeps up the attack. Rumi knows from his experiences around Gogi’s fire that Mist is probably immune to the effects of his own magic, so when the sickly sweet smell of burning fur enters the clearing, he knows that Chumba is getting injured as she presses the onslaught. She finally relents, limping and cringing.
Now it’s Mist’s turn to go on the attack. Fury contorts his features as he goes into full assault mode, hissing in rage as he snaps his teeth at his cousin. Chumba rapidly backs up, keeping her eyes trained on Mist even as she retreats. She’s soon snarled in the line of watching nightwalkers, who jeer at her and press her back into the makeshift arena. She skirts the line while Mist stalks toward her.
He slaps the ground with a paw, sending a line of fire along the soil, arcing toward Chumba. She leaps away, but before she even lands Mist has sent out another line of fire, speeding to her new position. Chumba leaps again, only just getting her tail clear of the flame this time. She must be getting tired; how long can she keep this up?
Mist sends out stream after stream of fire, Chumba dancing through the air as she dodges and rolls. She’ll never get the initiative back at this rate, and will just continue dodging until her body fails her. Unless . . .
Yes, Rumi’s suspicion is correct: once again, Chumba’s making her way toward Mist. Though dodging side to side, she’s also working her way back up to him, one panther-length at a time. Intent on the attack, Mist doesn’t seem to notice, snarling and thrashing as he sends out stream after stream of flame.
“Are you ready to give up yet, cousin?” he calls.
Chumba doesn’t answer, just continues to dodge and roll.
Mez struggles violently against her bonds. Rumi plainly reads the expression on her face: Just ask for mercy, Chumba!
For a moment, the first time since the combat started, Chumba goes still. She howls and then—whoosh—she’s flying through the air, up and over the latest streak of flame Mist sent out, down right onto Mist himself. She locks her jaw around the back of his neck, pressing him into the mussed earth.
Focused on producing his streaks of fire, Mist is taken totally unawares. This time Chumba’s not giving him the chance to muster up more flame. She bites down hard, and Mist’s eyes go wide, rimmed white. He chokes and shrieks into the soil.
The shadowwalker cult gasps, animals shuffling from one side to the other, looking at one another: What do we do? Mez puts a paw in front of her face, in shock. Derli hides his face.
Will Chumba kill Mist?
The white panther writhes and thrashes, but Chumba won’t let go, scrunching her eyes shut against the pain as desperate claws rake her belly and backside. Nothing will make her release this time.
“Say ‘mercy,’” she hisses through her locked jaws.
Mist doesn’t respond, just squirms and begins to smolder.
Chumba clenches her grip tighter. “No fire. You die the moment you make fire. Now say it.”
From across Sky’s directive, Rumi can hear the awful sound of neck bones creaking, beginning to splinter.
“Agh!” Mist screams. “I give up! Mercy!”
Chumba releases her jaws and flops onto the earth, flat on her back. There’s not even enough energy left in her to get into a defensive position.
An astonished pall descends over the nightwalker cult. They look to one another, baffled. It was not supposed to go this way.
Mist is prone on the ground, gasping against the soil. No, not gasping—sobbing. Great tears fall from his eyes, and his belly heaves. He can’t seem to get in any air, is howling too quickly. Chumba wearily gets to her feet, places a tentative paw against Mist’s ribs. “You’re hyperventilating. Take deep breaths.”
“Get away from me!” Mist shrieks, shoving against Chumba, missing her entirely in his misery.
She steps back, forepaw up to show she means no harm. “I’m not going to hurt you,” she says. “The battle is over.”
Chumba steps to Mez and Derli and deftly slices through their bonds. The panthers get to their feet, shaking out sore limbs and joints. Usha and Jerlo join them, limping across the clearing.
Sobbing and howling, Mist staggers to all fours and takes in his family, lined up against him. He stare
s at the cult members, who refuse to look into his eyes, shifting their baffled gazes across the ground. “You cheated,” he accuses Chumba.
“How did I cheat?” she asks, a look of genuine confusion on her face.
“I don’t know, but you must have. I defeated Mez. I couldn’t lose to you.”
“If you’d been paying attention, you’d have seen that Chumba was always the more powerful fighter of the two of us,” Mez says. “With or without magic.”
“She doesn’t even have both forepaws,” Mist spits.
“Which led to your underestimating me, which led to your defeat,” Chumba says sharply. She looks about her. “I am now in control of this region, and the panthers who wish to live here will do so only with my authorization. This cult is disbanded, and I will not permit it to come back together. You may not consort with my cousin again. Go! Back to your homes!”
The nightwalker cultists stare back at her balefully.
“If you obey me, I will rule as panthers always have, and not interfere directly in your lives,” Chumba says. “Go now, and run. Don’t make me regret my choice.”
“You heard her. Go!” Aunt Usha snarls, drawing up high on all fours, glowering.
The nightwalker cultists waste no time in disappearing into the shadows.
Mist’s breathing slowly returns to normal. He faces his family, the panthers he grew up with, looks at them one by one. “So this is it,” he says finally. “You’re exiling me.”
“Mist,” Mez says, her tone neutral. She cuts her eyes to Chumba before continuing. “We can’t forgive you for what you did here, for what you were about to do to Derli, Chumba, and me. But the volcano underneath the rainforest is about to erupt. All of Caldera—including you, including us—will be destroyed when it does. You have been gifted with magic by the lunar eclipse, magic that might help us stave off the explosion. Will you join your powers with ours? Will you help us find an answer? What’s at stake is greater than any petty family power struggles.”
Rumi's Riddle Page 12