by C. R. Grey
“This is the power of the Dominae—power offered to all of you!” Viviana shouted. “In battle, and in our factories, the Dominae will have the upper hand because we can exert our control over any kin. Why? Because we come before the animals. We are better, smarter, and deserve to control them! If we are not first, we are nothing!”
Cheers erupted from the floor of the theater. Gwen clenched her fists—it was no wonder these people loved Viviana, despite her black heart. Using graciousness and beauty to hide her own evil, this woman played on her audience’s desire for power with her “demonstrations” and eloquent speeches. Gwen felt herself shaking with rage. Sweat dripped down her forehead from her concealed red hair.
The applause was interrupted by a piercing, angry screech from above, and everyone craned his or her neck to see what had made the noise.
To Gwen’s horror, she saw that it was Grimsen, the Elder’s life-bonded owl, in the company of two smaller barn owls. They had entered through a high broken window in the back of the theater. The Elder must have known all along that she’d followed the traitorous Parliament members here. He would have sent Grimsen to make sure she was safe. The two smaller owls circled quickly overhead, beating their wings frantically against the archways and chandeliers. Grimsen flew after them, trying to nip at their feathers and corral them toward the broken window. Then Gwen realized that she had summoned the two smaller ones here. Her anger and fear had pulled them to her like a beacon on a dark sea. They only wanted to help. Grimsen must have flown in after them, to try to turn them away before they caused Gwen to be discovered.
Frantically, Gwen tried to focus. Turn around, turn around! Go, be safe, she tried to warn the birds. But she couldn’t concentrate. It was her emotional state, and not her desires, that the owls were responding to. She looked toward the door—maybe she could make a run for it, but she’d surely be followed, or worse.
“I know that bird.” Viviana’s voice was cold, and it hit Gwen’s ears like a cascade of icy water. Viviana stood at the edge of the stage and pointed at Grimsen.
“I know that bird.” Her voice rose to a shrill pitch as she screamed. A man behind Viviana on the stage pulled out a bow and arrow, steadied his aim, and shot. The metal arrow cut through the air and flashed in the light of the footlamps. Gwen’s breath caught in her throat as the owl tried to take flight—but it was too late.
The arrow pierced Grimsen through the heart.
Grimsen fell quickly, and a heavy flash of feathers and metal landed in the crowd’s midst.
All was silent except for a terrified, wounded scream that echoed from the back of the room. A fiery pain ripped through Gwen’s heart, and it was only then she realized it was her own voice, her own scream. She was doubled over with nausea and pain, and now everyone’s eyes were turned toward her. She stumbled back against a set of stacked wooden crates but slipped, and the crates came crashing down between the door and the Dominae.
“Stop her!” Joan shouted.
The crowd began to move toward Gwen. A snake slithered quickly across the floor to her feet, poised to strike. She was frozen with fear.
Suddenly, a hand was on her arm. She nearly screamed again, until she heard a voice whisper in her ear:
“Go, girl, run. Tell the Elder the rats are here. Come to The White Tiger, tell him!” Gwen reeled backward, barely glancing at the man with dark skin and green eyes. She threw herself over the fallen crates and through the theater door. She ran full tilt across the square. Shouts, barks, and even a roar echoed from the entrance as she scrambled to reach the narrow alley she’d come from. As she turned the corner, she heard another voice echoing off the walls of stone that towered over her.
“Go, then!” Viviana yelled from the center of the square. “Run and tell that demented old man what you’ve seen—tell him how much hope he has left!”
Viviana’s voice seemed to become even louder as Gwen ran, and the echoes even more clear. Only once did Gwen look up, and the sight of three metal birds caused her to scream again. They landed on a roof just above, watching her.
“Go, then; go, then; go, then,” they shouted. “Tell him how much hope he has left, how much hope, how much hope … ”
The echoes finally stopped, drowned out in the street noise as Gwen drew closer to the city center. She could barely see where she was going through the tears that fell from her eyes. She kept running, petrified. She had to find the Elder. Any Animas Owl would have experienced an intense pain, as she had, from Grimsen’s death—but the Elder would have felt the blow as if the arrow had hit his own chest.
As she turned a corner near the opera house, she collided with a boy and fell to the cobblestone street. He was short, sandy-haired, and wearing an odd jacket with blue and gold stripes. Gwen scrambled to get up, but her cloak had twisted around her. The boy offered her his hand.
“Are you all right?”
She couldn’t even find the voice to answer. No, she thought. Nothing is all right. Gwen fought back new tears as she scrambled to her feet and ran. She felt his eyes on her as she ran up the alley, and disappeared into the winding streets of the city.
Nineteen
GWEN’S LUNGS BURNED AS she ran up the narrow staircases to the Elder’s tower. Her legs felt as though they would collapse underneath her, but she couldn’t stop until she reached him. Through the windows, she saw dozens of owls swooping, mournful and low. Grimsen had been nearly as old as the Elder himself— once life-bonded, both human and animal could live beyond their normal years. To see his life cut down so callously made Gwen’s heart break, and the owls outside shared in her sorrow.
Flickering candlelight glowed under the Elder’s door. Gwen stopped, and leaned her head on the smooth wood to catch her breath before knocking. She entered in silence.
The Elder sat at his desk, which was piled high with books and maps. His shoulders were hunched underneath his tattered owl-patterned cloak, which had once looked so fine. His interlaced fingers lay heavily in his lap. He did not look up at her.
“I’m sorry,” she said. She didn’t dare move beyond the door. “I should never have gone. If I hadn’t … ”
The Elder shook his head and reached out a hand to her.
“You did what you thought you had to do. My brave girl. Grimsen’s death isn’t your fault. ”
Gwen rushed forward, kneeling to grasp his hand. He held it tightly, keeping his eyes closed.
“Are you all right?” he asked kindly. Gwen shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut, afraid that she would burst into tears.
“You must tell me everything,” he said.
Gwen told him about the fearsome mechanical birds, the two conspiring Parliament members, and the terrifying demonstration with the bears. As Gwen described the fight, the Elder’s free hand became a fist of anger.
“The Animas bond, when strong, makes us stronger,” he said, just as he had so many times over their years together. “Melore unified Aldermere with this strength. His daughter will find only pain down this path. I pity her.”
“And I fear her,” said Gwen. “She knows who you are. She knows I was there.”
For the first time that night, the Elder met Gwen’s gaze. His eyes were red and his cheeks glistened where tears had fallen.
“Your fear is not misplaced,” he said.
Gwen felt like her heart didn’t have enough room in it for the grief she felt. She wished she could set the entire night in reverse and watch it all be undone.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
The Elder shook his head, as though hearing this from her only gave him more pain.
“It’s not your place to be sorry,” he said. “It was the greed and fear of others that took Grimsen’s life. Not you.”
A loud knock sounded at the door. The Elder placed his hand on Gwen’s shoulder, as if to protect her if necessary.
“Who is it?”
A kitchen boy’s cracking teenaged voice answered with a quick word: “Sap milk.”
<
br /> The Elder’s grip on Gwen’s shoulder relaxed, and she stood up to let the boy in. In all the terror and excitement, she had almost forgotten that the hour was not so late. The Elder’s nightly mug of heated sap milk was being delivered, as though nothing were wrong. As though the world hadn’t turned on its edge.
The skinny boy stumbled in and set the hot mug on the Elder’s desk. He hurried back out, and didn’t look twice at Gwen, who was glad. She was sure that she looked frightful—with tearstained eyes, wild hair, and an unkempt, muddy cloak.
“Gwen, would you care for some … ” the Elder said, waving his hand in the direction of the mug. “I cannot.” He turned away and stared at the owls, who flew back and forth in front of the window. The moonlight made shadows of their wings against the roofs below.
“I’m not thirsty, either.” She took the mug and left it in the hallway by the door, where someone would be along to collect it. When she came back into the room, she lifted her cloak off of her shoulders and something fell out of her hood. It clunked onto the floor behind her. She bent down to pick it up and saw that it was a necklace on a gold chain. The pendant was coin-like, with an embossed image of a sleeping fox on one side, and letters on the other. The letters were oddly spaced, but spelled out the name TREMELO. It must have come from the boy she’d collided with. Gwen was sorry to have taken it from him. She tucked it into the pocket of her dress, where it would be safe. She doubted she’d ever see that boy again, but if Nature ever granted it, she’d make sure that his pendant was returned safely to him. For Grimsen’s sake.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a strange, gargled howl in the hallway, followed by a thump. The Elder and Gwen looked at each other with confusion. She went to the door, opened it just a crack, and peeked out.
Immediately, her hand flew to her mouth as she stifled a scream. There on the floor was a striped yellow cat, the kin of a Parliamentary clerk who worked late hours at the palace. It lay inert on its side, covered in spilled sap milk. Its face and belly were swollen and distorted. There was no doubt that the poor creature was dead.
“Let me see,” said the Elder, who had gotten up and come to Gwen’s side. Gwen slid back against the wall and the Elder studied the scene for only a moment before closing the door.
“Poison,” he said. His face showed no emotion, only a stern and unshakable comprehension. Gwen felt like she was going to be sick. Someone had tried to kill the Elder—it didn’t seem possible.
The Elder looked stricken.
“Parliament is full of locusts,” he said. “After tonight, it’s clear the Dominae’s spies are willing to kill for their cause.”
Then Gwen remembered one thing she hadn’t told the Elder about that night.
“Who are the rats?” she asked him. “A man helped me on my way out; he said to tell you that the rats were there. What does that mean?”
The Elder’s eyes widened, but he shook his head.
“The RATS? They’re nothing but rabble-rousers,” he said.
“They may be Melore loyalists like us, but they’re also daydreamers and idealists—dedicated believers of prophecy and mere rumor. The RATS were against the Jackal, but they don’t care for Parliament, either. It’s unlikely they’d be any help to us.”
He paced between the door and the window, his hands clasped behind his back as if he was unsure where to put them.
“This man did help me,” she reassured him, “and he referenced you by name. He knows you’re with Parliament but he still said to come to The White Tiger.”
“It’s too dangerous,” he said, shaking his head.
“More dangerous than staying here?” Gwen argued. “It’s not safe. You said so yourself.”
The Elder was silent. He stared at the wall as if he were listening for advice from someone who was no longer there. Then he moved toward his tall wardrobe, where he retrieved his traveling bag from inside.
The sympathetic birds that had gathered up in the rafters tittered nervously.
“Then we leave at once,” he said. “Before the Dominae’s spies realize they’ve failed to poison me.”
The Elder began combing through the drawers of his desk and rolling up papers to fit neatly into his pack.
“We?” asked Gwen. “You mean I can go with you this time?” She thought about those terrible days when he’d been away before, how worried she’d been about him, and how lonely.
The Elder stopped and smiled at her, a smile made all the more poignant by the streaks of tears on his tired old face.
“Of course, my child. We’re both in danger, and you are now all the family I can claim in this world. Go and pack.”
Twenty
BAILEY MANAGED TO RETURN to the opera house and sneak in before the end of the concert. No one said anything to him there, and as he and his classmates boarded the rigimotive to return to Fairmount, he was sure his side trip into the city had gone entirely unnoticed by anyone—anyone except Hal, Tori, and Phi.
“Where did you disappear to?” Tori asked him on the rigi, turning around in her seat to face him. She leaned over the headrest with her slim arms crossed under her chin. Phi sat with her, but she stared straight ahead—all Bailey could see of her was her dark brown curly hair. Hal sat next to Bailey and had his knee propped up on the back of the seat in front of him. He dozed with his mouth open and glasses askew.
“Nowhere,” he lied. “I was at the concert. I sat in the back.”
“But—” started Phi, but then she seemed to change her mind.
She didn’t even turn around to face him. He sat back in his seat, trying to ignore Tori’s raised eyebrow. He’d tell them what he’d done at some point—as soon as he had some time to think it over on his own. As it stood, he wanted more information about King Melore’s last speech, which had made its way into Tremelo’s riddle. He felt closer than ever to solving it—and more convinced than ever that the riddle wasn’t the only mystery to be solved.
Between juggling homework and practice every afternoon, and pondering Tremelo’s riddle most nights, Bailey had barely any time in the following days to feel nervous about his first Scavage match. But now the day was here: Fairmount versus Roanoake. He felt jittery as he suited up, excited and eager to impress his schoolmates on the field. Even so, he couldn’t shake the strangeness of the previous week’s events: the panicked girl he’d collided with near the opera house, or his time spent at The White Tiger. He was determined to learn more about Melore and the Velyn as soon as he got the chance—but today, Scavage was king.
The Roanoake team had arrived that morning by rigimotive, and had brought with them a menagerie of kin—deer, rabbit, hedgehogs, and more. Now, as the two teams lined up to take the field, the entire Scavage pitch was crawling with players and animals. The stands were packed with Fairmount students and teachers dressed in blue and gold, as well as a few Roanoake fans who’d traveled there, dressed in green and black stripes. Most of the spectators had binoculars with them so that they could see out over the huge Scavage field. In a special box set atop the highest stands, two Fairmount students were ready to broadcast the game on the school’s radio channel. Bailey wondered if his mom and dad, home in the Lowlands, would be tuning the dial on the old kitchen radio at that very moment.
Ms. Shonfield stepped briskly onto an elevated platform in front of the stands, waving for quiet. She lifted a bullhorn up to her mouth.
“Welcome!” she said. “Warmest welcomes indeed to our friends from the Roanoake plains. We’re excited you’ll be joining us tonight for our Autumnal Soiree celebrating the start of a new Scavage season!” This was met with loud applause from throughout the stadium. Bailey had almost forgotten about the Autumnal Soiree. The team members were required to attend, and act as representatives of their schools. He’d been so distracted with Tremelo’s riddle and his trip to The White Tiger that the party had vanished from his mind.
Shonfield finished making her announcements, and then handed the bullhorn to Coach Banter.<
br />
“Clean game, everyone!” Coach said. “No biting, scratching, mauling, or use of excrement!” Bailey heard laughter from the stands, and grinned. The players stood in a row at the edge of the field, each team in front of their own “territory.” Many of the kin had already scurried onto the field. Bailey envied the fact that everyone else could sense where their kin was, and that those with the strongest bonds could learn something about the field’s terrain before the game even started. But he reminded himself that he didn’t need the Animas bond to do well in the game. He’d already proven that. His heart hammered as Coach Banter counted down from ten, and he and the other players crouched into a running position. Three Sneaks, three Slammers, and three Squats from each team stood at the ready.
Coach blew the whistle, and they were off. Bailey paid no attention to the other players as he barreled onto the field and into the trees except for Phi. In practice, they’d had lots of success with Phi finding their team’s flag first, and leading the Slammers and Squats to it before darting off to find the opposition’s. Carin flew high above them, leading them.
When they finally saw it, Bailey’s heart took a jump in his chest. Their blue-and-gold striped flag was lodged in a rock face at the far end of the Scavage pitch, close to where the forest terrain gave way to the Dark Woods. They’d have to span out at the base of the rocks and climb if anyone from Roanoake got past them. Bailey left the Squats at the base of the rocks, and then ducked into the trees to find a good vantage point.
He didn’t have to wait long for one of the Roanoake Sneaks to cross his path. A nervous deer stepped through the trees, followed by an athletic girl with long legs and blond hair. She didn’t see him as she looked up at the flag from behind a boulder. Bailey crept closer to get in better range for the Flick, and saw a flash of blue and gold in his periphery. It was Taylor, making his way through the trees. As a Squat, he was supposed to be guarding their home flag, but he was far off course. Bailey ignored him; he had the perfect shot at the girl and readied his Flick.