by C. R. Grey
“Don’t sound like much to me, a song I maybe heard once, but I don’t know. Though that middle bit—there’s something not quite right about it, but it’s familiar.”
“What do you mean?” asked Bailey, gripping the underside of the bar.
“The bit about locusts and treachery,” the bartender said. Several grunts of affirmation echoed down the bar. The bartender went on: “The old king himself said something like that, Nature preserve ’is memory. Was part of Melore’s last address, at the Progress Fair, uttered even as the Jackal’s men were storming the fairgrounds to kill ’im. I was there, that day, hardly more than a schoolkid. He knew the Jackal’s men was coming, and he said that treachery turns men into locusts, but we weren’t to forget him … Brave until the very last, he were.” He brought his rumpled hat to his heart, and many of his listeners mimicked this movement.
An image flitted across Bailey’s mind, of the kind-looking man in the top hat and fur-like embroidered coat, holding a pair of scissors: the blurry photograph in Ms. Shonfield’s office, his very first day at Fairmount. Bailey nodded.
“They don’t teach you much ’bout him in schools these days, oh, no,” the scruffy man at the end of the bar blurted out. “The Jackal nearly wrote ’im out of the history books! Just like he did the Velyn, and the—”
“The Velyn?” Bailey interrupted. “Like in the stories?”
“Oh, yes,” the man said, scratching his white beard. “They were the Loon’s favorite subject, you might say! He studied ’em—even spent a few years living among ’em, when Tremelo were growing up. Most people think the Velyn were some sort of lawless troupe, living only in fairy tales—but they were real folk.” The man leaned closer to Bailey. “Tell you something not everyone knows. The Loon’s prophecy about a true king? He felt the Velyn would be a big part of that. And the Jackal had them all killed for it, them and their kin—only a couple o’ years before he went after the Loon too.”
The bartender crossed his arms and nodded in solidarity.
“They were amazing people, the Velyn,” the man continued. “Lived nose to nose with their kin, and knew all sorts of healing arts. Closest bonds you’ve ever seen—that’s why so many of the stories of ’em are about them being werewolves and shape-shifters. Not far from the truth, they could literally see, clear as day, what their kin was seeing, like they was living in their kins’ bodies, and their kin was living in them. The Loon spent years studying their methods—even Melore was interested. Probably why they were an important part of his prophecies, and why the Jackal had ’em all wiped out. ’Cause they was smarter than him. Then he goes and tries to cover his dirt by claiming they were all no-goods. It was a terrible thing. Terrible long years, when the Jackal was in power. Can’t even think about what the poor blighter went through who told the prophecy to the Jackal in the first place. Tortured it right out of ’im, the Jackal did.”
His sheepdog emitted a low woof of sorrow.
“Go on,” Bailey blurted out. He didn’t want any of them to stop talking. He wanted to know everything there was to know about the Loon and the man in the hat, King Melore.
“Then of course there’s Melore’s daughter. Viviana!” added the bartender. At the mention of Viviana’s name, a hush fell on the dingy bar.
“Listen to me, boy, and take what you hear back to Fairmount with you—no talk of such things there on your lofty mountain, I’d wager.”
Bailey gulped. So they had known the whole time? The stripes probably hadn’t helped. But he settled himself on his stool, eager to hear the whole story.
“King Melore had two children—Trent and Viviana. When he was murdered, twenty-seven years ago, the children were locked up in the palace as the Jackal’s soldiers attacked.”
Down the bar, Delilah muttered, “Terrible, terrible.”
“Everyone thought that the little ones were killed. Trent, he was only a little bug. Didn’t stand a chance. But Viviana, she was a little older, a little craftier. She made it out of the palace somehow, but she was taken up by some real nasties. No one really knows where she’d been since that awful night. Some say she was a slave all those years she was lost, some say she became the leader of an outlaw gang in the Dust Plains.”
“But she’s back now,” the man with the sheepdog chimed in. “And she wants her father’s throne for herself. ‘We will be free, or we will be nothing.’ Bunch of dreadful tripe.” Bailey shuddered at the memory of the fierce-eyed woman on the poster he’d seen only hours before.
“She’s the leader of the Dominae? But isn’t that what you want?” Bailey asked. “I mean, if Melore was the king, then his daughter is—”
“Everything her father wasn’t!” the bartender said loudly, and brought his fist down on the bar. Bailey jumped. “Cruel and self-serving. An embarrassment and blot on the family’s name!” The man with the sheepdog nodded emphatically, his eyes closed in sadness. “She blames the Jackal for this, the Parliament for that—and she talks about restoring progress the likes her father would be proud of, but that’s a thin story. Melore was a good king because he believed in the goodness of the Animas bond, but Viviana wants to smash it to bits and call that progress instead. She says it’s all in the name of good work and invention, but it’s about twisting the bond to ’er own means. ‘Free’ of Parliament, she says, but what she really means is free of the bond—so we can rule over animals instead of learnin’ from them. We’ve seen her factory—we’ve seen her set animals against each other at the drop of a hat.”
“What about the other one?” Bailey asked. “Trent?”
The bartender shook his head.
“Dead.” He brought his hat to his heart once more for the dead prince.
Bailey took a deep breath. His mind was spinning.
Behind him, the door to the bar screeched open, and both Bailey and the bartender looked up as a man in a familiar overcoat entered. Herbs and the heads of wild flowers poked out of the tops of bulging pockets, and atop the coat-wearer’s shoulders was draped a snoring badger.
It was Roger, Taylor’s and Hal’s uncle. Bailey turned his face away quickly as Roger passed by to join a group of loud young people in the back of the room.
“Sorry, I … uh … I have to go,” Bailey said, slipping down from the stool and trying to attract as little attention as possible.
Just before he reached the door, he looked back at the bar, where the man in the wool stocking cap stood watching.
“You be careful, boy,” he said as Bailey slipped out the door and onto the street, where the sounds of arguing and laughter were immediately swallowed up by the sound of hooves, wings, and working men.
He stood still for a moment on the street, but his mind was running as though a Scavage opponent, a particularly tricky one to catch, was just within marking distance. He realized that in his haste, he’d forgotten to ask about the name of the bar: The White Tiger. But he’d already learned so much.
Tremelo, the son of a man who’d been close to a tragic king. Old words, spoken by King Melore, in Tremelo’s riddle. The Velyn, a tribe of people wiped from the mountains and the history books … He wasn’t sure what all of these things had to do with the Dominae or the shadowy people in the woods, but his curiosity had grown into an undeniable pull: he had to find out what was going on in the Fairmount woods, and he would need Tremelo’s help.
Eighteen
GWEN FOLLOWED THE TWO Dominae members down a steep hill toward the Gudgeons, a neighborhood she was all too familiar with—her days as a pickpocket had taken her through these dark streets, and she knew to keep her head low and her steps quick. Her fear beat inside her like a tightly made drum. She pulled the hood of her cloak low over her forehead. She was a spy now, on a mission that the Elder hadn’t approved.
The narrow street she’d come down opened to a small, dingy square where groups of men and women waited outside of a run-down theater. The lamps that lit the marquee were dark. Gwen placed her hand on the gritty brick of the b
uilding next to her, readying herself to approach. This was the meeting place.
“Excuse me,” said an angry-sounding woman.
Gwen’s mind seemed to drain of all sensible thought—what would she say? The woman stared at her; she was blond, her hair cut into a bob. Under her trim coat she wore a bright yellow dress.
“Yes?” asked Gwen. Her heart fluttered inside her like a nervous bird.
“You’re in my way,” said the woman in a high-pitched voice.
“Oh … sorry,” said Gwen, as she stepped aside to let the woman descend into the square.
A chirping bluebird flew onto the woman’s shoulder and began to sing merrily. The woman sighed, reached up, and smacked the bluebird away. Gwen recoiled.
“Enough with you,” Gwen heard the woman say. The bluebird, stunned, hopped away behind a waste bin.
Gwen looked up and saw a very large bird sitting on the corner of the roof above them, watching the woman in yellow as she walked toward the theater. Gwen couldn’t tell what it was—but it was no bluebird.
Slowly, Gwen followed the woman into the square. For the first time, Gwen noticed how varied the company really was—these were not just backstreet paupers. Gwen was shocked to see a woman in a fine wool skirt who held the hand of a young boy. Gwen looked around at the crowd—a few other children seemed to have been dragged along with their parents. She was relieved she wouldn’t stick out for her age, but she worried too what was in store for minds as young as hers inside that theater.
As the woman in yellow approached, people stepped aside as if she were royalty. The woman smiled kindly and nodded as she passed. The crowd pushed in after her.
Inside, the theater was dilapidated. Many of the original folding seats had been torn away, so most people stood shuffling amid the rows of chairs that had been left behind. Gwen settled close to the entrance. From there she could see that there had once been a stately balcony overlooking the auditorium, but the floor of it had been removed, leaving a scar in the bricks that circled the space. A portable crank box had been set up next to the stage, powering a set of footlights that shone behind tin sconces. A young boy was stationed by it, charged with the task of cranking the handle if the lights should begin to sputter. The rest of the space was lit by candles that cast a sinister glow on the room. An enormous flag was draped across the back of the stage: red, with a giant image of a hand squeezing a bird claw whose talons reached up like a branch. Gwen felt the violence of the image in her gut—the hand was cruel and controlling, restraining the bird’s foot. A looping scroll drawn underneath the image was printed with the words FREE—or NOTHING!
A burst of applause announced the arrival onstage of the woman in yellow. On the shoulders of her dress was embroidered a pair of bluebirds that matched her flashing blue eyes. The woman tucked her blond hair behind her ear and gestured for the crowd to quiet down.
“Dominae of the Gray City!” she said in a kind, singsong voice. “Today is a great day—our armies in the Dark Woods are gathering strength, and our movement is growing,” she said. “Our leader has gained allies not only in the forests, but in the skies as well. And here, in the Gray City, we are prepared to send our message to Parliament. The citizens are poor, hungry, and angry—and they blame Parliament, as they should. They know they deserve better! And our leader, Viviana, will bring about true progress and fullfill the potential that Parliament has squandered. Let me demonstrate how.”
The woman lifted something in her right hand—from where Gwen sat, it looked like a switch. As she pressed a button, a cacophony of noise crashed through the hall. Giant black birds had appeared in each of the archways above the main hall. Their beaks were all open, and out of them poured a single human voice: “My human brethren, we will be free—or we will be nothing!” Gwen held her hands over her ears, as did many of the other onlookers who’d been taken by surprise. Each of the birds, Gwen could see, represented a different species and were crafted out of fine burnished metal with black enamel. They unfurled their wings, which were as intricate as any living specimen’s, and turned to face the stage as their leader entered. The crowd applauded.
Gwen gasped—Viviana was more stunning than her posters had shown. She wore a tailored black suit with a calf-length skirt, which was embroidered from top to bottom in purple, gold, and silver thread. It was impossible to tell from the embroidery what Animas she was, though Gwen knew from the Elder that Viviana was Animas Pig. The embroidered images of two birds of prey wrapped around Viviana’s slender waist, their upturned claws imitating the boning of a corset. Her shoulders were decorated with stags, their hooves stomping the birds below. Her dark hair hung down in perfectly crafted waves, and her lips were a deep berry-red.
“Thank you, Joan,” she said to the woman in yellow. Then she turned to address her audience. “You have been promised a demonstration. Progress is one thing—but how we achieve it is quite another. Citizens, let’s not dissolve into talk of political woes; instead, see for yourself what we, the Dominae, can accomplish!”
Joan exited behind a curtain along with four men who’d been waiting onstage. They returned with a cage covered with a long canvas tarp, which they wheeled to the front of the stage. The cage was immense—much taller than the petite Joan. A woman in a plain wool suit was ushered onstage. She had broad shoulders and a wide chest, and her large head hung down with a slight hunch.
“Edith,” Viviana said, shaking the woman’s hand. Behind them, the stagehands pulled the canvas covering off of the cage and let it fall to the floor. Inside paced two young bears. As the audience watched, one bear nuzzled its face into the other’s neck.
“Edith, you were raised Animas Bear, correct?” asked Viviana.
“Yes,” Edith said.
“And there was a time in your life when you would feel pain if your kin was hurt, or in danger?”
Edith nodded. “Just like anyone else,” she said.
Viviana placed a reassuring hand on Edith’s back and addressed the waiting crowd.
“Yes, just like anyone else—but with Dominance, you can do away with this dependence. Your kin can be hurt or injured, and you will not have to feel their suffering.”
She snapped her fingers, and a stagehand brought a swift blow of a whip down on the back of one of the bears. It yowled with pain and tried to burrow itself into the corner of the cage. Gasps of disbelief, followed by a smattering of applause, emerged from the audience. Astoundingly, Edith hadn’t moved a muscle. In fact, she seemed to be smiling. In the cage next to her, her kin whimpered.
“Edith has just demonstrated one of the first lessons of Dominance,” Viviana announced. “Our bond with common beasts only weakens us! With practice and focus, a human can sever the bond with their kin, and remain strong even when they are in pain.”
Gwen shook with rage while the audience around her seemed impressed. The Elder had taught her that the Animas bond made her stronger, not weaker. How could it be considered weakness to care for and receive the help of another creature?
Viviana wasn’t finished yet with Edith. She waved a hand to quiet down the crowd, and spoke again.
“Not only has this woman severed her dependence on her kin, but she is learning to use Dominance for her own ends—to control her kin and make them work for her.”
Viviana stepped to the side and allowed the grave-faced Edith to stand center stage. Behind her, the two bears cuddled together in the corner as Edith shut her eyes and clenched her fists. The bears then sparked to life on all fours, pacing around the cage and growling at each other. They bared their teeth and began to claw at each other. They hadn’t been fighting before—it was clear to Gwen that the woman Edith was controlling them and showing the audience how they could be made to hurt each other.
“Through Dominance, Edith can affect her kin’s emotions and urges,” said Viviana, gesturing to the bears. “She can create discord where none existed, effectively turning her own kin into weapons.”
Gwen looked aw
ay; it was too horrifying. One man next to her got dizzy and leaned against the wall. Several people covered their eyes. A few groans of pain could be heard from other Animae Bear in the audience. She heard the sound of someone retching.
But to Gwen’s surprise, the woman on stage was silent and unmoving. Her eyes, now open, were focused straight ahead. Finally, she breathed out in an exhausted huff, and the bears slowly backed away from each other. Viviana stepped forward clapping, and the audience burst into applause. The mood among the crowd sickened Gwen. The woman may have shown how she could control her own pain and emotions—and that she could force her kin to do her bidding—but at what cost? Her kin were now bloodied, hurt, and confused.
“Thank you, Edith,” Viviana said warmly, and then kissed the woman on both cheeks. Edith left the stage, and Gwen could see her hands were shaking. Dominance, it seemed, was not easy work.
“My brothers and sisters, we have many soldiers-in-training like Edith!” Viviana crowed. “The number of true Dominae followers grows every day. And we can be even more powerful, even more unstoppable.” She turned to her stagehands who carefully opened the door of the bears’ cage. The bears whimpered and backed away from the open door.
“Dominance over one’s own kin is easily achievable,” she began. The footlights at her feet cast a glow upward, shadowing her face. “But a true Dominae has complete control—not only over his own kin, but over any animal in Nature. Let me show you … ”
She gestured to the two bears as they stumbled to their feet and walked out of the cage. There was no more fear in their deep black eyes. There was nothing. They moved forward until they stood just behind Viviana, and in one movement, they both reared up on their hind legs. Like perfect soldiers, they stood at Viviana’s side and stared forward without expression. Whispers of awe spread throughout the room.