by C. R. Grey
The Velyn had to be near, but there were no footprints or gaps in the undergrowth—and nothing to suggest there was a camp nearby. Everything felt quiet and completely untouched.
He was almost ready to move on when the skin on the back of his neck prickled. He smelled the slightest hint of burning wood. It seemed to be coming from below, from the river itself—but that was impossible. Bailey walked to the edge of the cliff and looked over.
Huge rocks jutted out from the cliff face, leading down to form a cave entrance at the base of the river. There was a thin, barely used path. Bailey gasped, crawling back out of sight. He scrambled along the edge of the cliff until he was directly over the cave.
He heard voices then, rising out of the rocks. He lowered himself to the ground and crawled toward a thin fissure just a few feet from the cave entrance. From there, he could see three figures around a campfire. Two of them were men, sitting next to each other and talking in low voices. They both wore dark clothing that looked good for hunting—thick fabric reinforced at the knees and arms with real leather. The third form was a massive mountain lion stretched in front of the fire. Just outside of the camp circle sat two wolves. Bailey stayed still and held his breath. A breeze rushed over him, ushering his scent away from the campfire.
“Where’s the beast now, then?” asked the dark-haired man. He had a beard and wore a tightly knit scarf around his neck.
“Hunting,” said the other, a tall blond with dark circles under his eyes. He wore a hood that seemed to be trimmed with the same color fur as the mountain lion. Both of them had weapons at their sides, and Bailey saw that the blond man wore a claw, just like the one Carin had found, on a strap hanging around his neck. “She’s been restless. She’s looking for something, same as us, right here at the school.”
“How do you know that? You’re not her kin!”
The blond man nodded at the mountain lion who lay next to the fire.
“She knows it. So I know it.”
The same man removed a pouch from around his neck. He reached in and pulled out a glass object, which Bailey knew must be the object Tremelo described.
“She’s scared, which means she’s dangerous. But we still have our mission … We know who we need to give this to. The Seers were very clear on that point. We can’t just hand it over to the RATS; it has to be to the man who follows the Child of War.”
The man with the dark beard nodded gravely.
Bailey’s head spun. Seers, RATS, the Child of War—it was overwhelming. He’d be sure to tell Tremelo what he heard here later, if Tremelo was willing to listen.
Just then, an angry hiss echoed through the treetops. Both men looked up, and the blond one shoved the Glass into the pouch before they rushed out of the cave. Bailey scrambled back on the rock to where he could watch without being seen. Outside on the low rocks, the bearded man took up a bow and arrow and aimed it at the sky.
“It’s the vultures again,” he said.
Bailey shrank back against the cliff face. He couldn’t risk being seen and getting an arrow loosed at him.
He heard the bird before he saw it—a dark shadow swooping down from the trees. It barreled toward the Velyn, straight at the pouch in the blond man’s hands. The bearded man shot an arrow, barely missing but causing the vulture to careen off to the side. Another bird dropped in from the opposite direction and Bailey felt the urge to cry out and warn the men, but he didn’t know them or what they had planned. For all he knew, the vultures might be doing just what Bailey needed.
The mountain lion who had been by the fire jumped up and growled. The second vulture flew at her face, its talons bared. She roared and snapped her teeth. The bird beat against her face with its wings as a third vulture flew at the two men and tore the pouch from the blond man’s grip. As it flew away, the bearded man took aim and shot another arrow. He hit the bird in its wing, but the vulture only dipped in the sky before it disappeared into the trees.
“After it!” shouted the bearded man. The mountain lion leapt and grabbed the second vulture with her paws. Bailey looked away as she bit into the bird’s neck, though he heard the snap as it broke. The two men and the wolves began climbing the perilous path up the cliff face, straight to where Bailey was hiding.
He scrambled back on the rock and jumped to his feet. He had two choices: hide and follow the Velyn as they tracked the vulture, or run after the bird on his own. The Velyn had yet to appear at the top of the cliff face, which gave Bailey a head start. He dashed away in the direction the vulture had flown ahead of the Velyn.
There was no time to stop and listen for the vulture. As he ran, he tried to exercise the same focus that he’d been honing all those afternoons during training and practice, using all of his senses to know where the vulture was. Above, a high branch was shaking: the bird had brushed against it only a moment ago. He heard the sudden scattering of finches up ahead, as though they were flying out of the predator’s way. He caught the smallest scent of carrion—dead meat—on the bird’s talons, and he knew he was close. The vulture was due north of him, which meant it was flying toward the school.
His lungs burned as he kept running. If only I were Animas Falcon, like Phi, he thought. A falcon could go after the vulture and hassle it out of the sky. He looked up and saw the shadow of the massive bird, flying low with its wounded wing, the weight of the Glass under it.
He had to stop it before it reached the school. If he couldn’t retrieve the Glass, he would have to tell Tremelo—and explain that he’d not only borrowed the book, but snuck into the woods again.
Quickly, Bailey took stock of his surroundings. If the vulture was flying toward the school, it would be flying over rougher terrain, through tall trees that might slow it down. Bailey knew that the hills closer to the Scavage fields were smoother, which made it easier to run and jump, and if he took that route he had a chance to cut the bird off before it left the forest. He had to try.
As he veered left in the direction of the Scavage field, he heard the men not too far behind him. The Velyn were tracking the bird, and though they’d caught up quickly, they weren’t as familiar with the woods closer to Fairmount as he now was. As he ran toward the smoother hills, the Velyn crashed onward, following the direct path of the bird. He heard the loosing of another arrow, and a curse from the archer as it missed.
He drew near to the far edge of the Scavage field, where he’d seen the King’s Finger Oak, but realized he had no plan for getting the vulture out of the sky. The claw, his only weapon, weighed heavy in his pocket—but he couldn’t risk losing it. He imagined himself pouncing on the bird from the branch of a tall tree as it flew past, just as he had jumped off the clock tower—but there was no time to climb high enough. He had to find a way to stop the bird from the ground.
As he neared the place where the trees became less dense, he slowed down. The slightest sound of feathers cutting through wind could be heard above him. He looked and saw the vulture, flying just over him, toward Fairmount. It was struggling to stay aloft, with its wing damaged by the arrow, barely usable. It had the pouch in its mouth, and again Bailey wondered why it had flown in this direction.
Bailey wished he’d changed into his Scavage uniform; the wool coat weighed him down and the Fairmount tie around his neck suddenly felt suffocating. As he tore it off, he had an idea. He folded the tie in half and grabbed at the forest floor for a heavy rock, then placed it in the center of the fabric as he held on to both ends. With three swoops over his head, he unfurled the tie and the rock launched directly at the vulture, the fabric nearly slipping from his hand. The rock hit the bird in the left wing, causing the vulture to falter and drop the pouch. Bailey felt a twinge of guilt for harming someone’s kin—but the Glass was too important. He darted forward, but despite its wounds the bird was too agile. It dipped down and caught the pouch holding the Glass again in its talons.
Bailey found another stone, smaller than the first but smoother, with a sharp edge on one side. He cradled
it in the fabric and swung again, just as he would with a Flick loaded with paint, and this time the stone hit the vulture in its eye. The vulture bobbed in the air; it fell.
Bailey stood very still, listening. From the place where the vulture landed, he heard ruffling feathers and small croaks as the bird tried to right itself. Though he heard nothing else, he knew the men and their kin couldn’t be far behind.
He pushed past a line of trees and found the injured bird. The pouch lay beside it as it thrashed on the ground. It fixed a beady eye on him as he reached down and picked up the pouch. It was heavy—the Glass was still inside. The vulture screeched loudly, and Bailey’s heart began to hammer. He backed away, horrified by what he’d done as the vulture continued to squawk and scream, too wounded to defend itself. Still, Bailey knew there was no time to waste. He turned and ran toward campus, hoping the Velyn’s need to stay hidden would keep them from following him onto the school grounds. He didn’t look back.
Twenty-five
“THIS IS NO WAY for a person or their kin to live,” the Elder said, as tensions simmered between a terrier and a raven that had been fighting over a piece of dead mouse. He was becoming more frail these days, and Gwen worried that without Grimsen, he was losing hope.
The night they fled the palace, Gwen had thanked Nature for her pickpocket past. It was only through her intimate knowledge of the Gudgeons that they had been able to find the low-lit bar that housed the RATS. She was excited then to join the fold. After all, the RATS stood for something much larger than any of them: Resistance Against Tyranny and Suppression. They were loyal to King Melore, and feared only the worst would come of Viviana’s reign.
But the weeks that followed had been hard on them. Viviana’s spies forced them to move operations again and again. The RATS had made their way through a series of safe houses, from attic garrets to abandoned dirigible stations. Sleep didn’t come easily; there was an inescapable feeling that they could find themselves in the middle of a war at any moment. Other “RATS Nests” existed all over the city, and as rumors of the Dominae’s growing forces reached them, Gwen and the RATS took comfort in knowing that there were many others like them—if only they could all meet at once, without Viviana’s terrifying birds watching them.
They had been living in a large underground tunnel for the last several days. It was the remnants of what would have, with time, become the tunnels for the Aldermere’s first underground rail-motive: Melore’s greatest achievement.
Aboveground, Viviana’s mechanical birds were all over the city, alongside the gargoyles on the roofs of buildings and perched on lampposts and stoops. One of their only means of communication was the real rats who scuttled between the safe houses and brought their human kin in the group news from the other nests. To remain undetected, the RATS were only allowed to enter and leave their hiding places one or two at a time—and food was brought in by women from the local markets who made it appear to be a routine stop. But the markets had been affected by Viviana’s hordes as well: fewer and fewer farmers were sending their crops to the city, afraid of getting caught up in the Dominae’s rioting. Gwen became so used to thinned cabbage soup that she wondered if she’d ever eat anything else. The kin were anxious and tired, and squabbles broke out almost daily between different species.
Gwen took comfort in learning to play the harmonica that the Elder had given her. Enoch the Animas Chameleon—the same young man who had helped her escape the Dominae rally—had taught her the basics one night.
“It’s not hard to learn,” Enoch told her. “Playing music should be fun, even if you miss the right notes at first.”
The chameleon, Bill, was sprawled across Enoch’s shoulder. He turned a pleasant shade of coral pink as Enoch played a fast, toe-tapping melody. With Enoch’s guidance, Gwen practiced every chance she got. She couldn’t play well, but the music calmed her. In the midst of all the uncertainty, she’d take any small pleasure she could get.
Gwen played absentmindedly on the harmonica to ease her mind, alternating between a lullaby and an energetic jig. She’d noticed in the last few days that as she played, not only did she feel more tranquil, but the various species of kin that shared the dark rail tunnel with her calmed down as well. Just the day before, a scrawny, ruffled little owl had found its way underground and hopped to her as she played. Now there were three of them, listening to her from a crumbled block of concrete, along with a mop-eared sheepdog who yawned peacefully. But in one moment, the peacefulness disappeared.
She heard shouts bouncing off of the arched stone ceiling above them. The Elder woke and sat up in the bedroll next to her. Gwen pulled a blanket around her shoulders and helped the Elder stand. The tunnels were dry, at least, but the approaching winter had begun to creep underground. Gwen could see her breath, and the Elder’s, as they entered the main chamber.
Enoch was climbing down an iron ladder that reached up from the unused platform to the street. He’d been on watch, stationed near the palace, as the riots grew stronger and more violent, despite the chill in the air.
“It’s finally happened—the Dominae have taken the city; Parliament is poised to fall,” said Enoch. “An army of weasels and coyotes from the Dust Plains have swarmed the Parliament’s troops—the palace and Parliament are surrounded! The rioters have become one with the Domiane army. It’s a mob.”
The RATS huddled together in the tunnel.
“What is Parliament doing about it?” someone called out. “Are they just sitting there? Surely they have some sort of plan!”
Enoch shook his head.
“Most of its members fled this morning, and those who stayed have told the Parliament troops to stand down. The traitors … ”
“Where is Viviana?” someone asked.
“She’s taken up headquarters in the old library, in the center of the city.”
This was met by shouts and murmurs throughout the echoing chamber.
“We strike now, then! March on the library before they’re the wiser!” yelled a dockworker.
“We don’t have an army,” said Digby, the bartender from The White Tiger. “We can’t even organize a meeting between Nests, much less an attack—not with the way her spies watch the city. It’s too dangerous to send our rat messengers out. The Dominae would sniff out every last one. I know there are many of us willing to fight, but we don’t have the weapons even to defend ourselves here for long.”
Enoch leaned against the bottom of the ladder and rubbed his temples. “It’s no use—we can’t gather an army the size of Viviana’s.” His chameleon was currently the color of the brown tweed coat he was perched on. He blinked.
“Don’t say that!” said Merrit, an Animas Sheepdog with a lopsided white beard. He took a large swig of bourbon. Gwen guessed it was to calm his nerves.
“Well, then?” shouted Enoch. “What do you suggest?” He pointed to a large man in an overcoat who stood against the tunnel wall. “Roger—you’ve just come from the Lowlands; what is our hope of finding support there?”
Roger Quindley, an apothecary from the Lowlands, had been bringing news of the rest of the kingdom to the RATS for weeks. He stepped forward, followed by a portly badger.
“The Lowlands is filled with apathy,” he said. “What’s happening in the city isn’t of consequence to them out there. Perhaps if they knew of Viviana’s true plans … we might have hope of assembling an army.”
“We need an army as powerful as Viviana’s, not just as big,” said Digby. “We need fighters who know how to use the bond to their best advantage. We need a leader.” The bartender sighed. “If only Tremelo were still around. Not just to pick up a spot of myrgwood, but here standing with us. His strength could help train an army, turn the tides so us RATS weren’t running scared.”
Gwen twisted her red hair in between her fingers nervously. There was something nagging at her mind—what was it about that name, Tremelo? It sounded so familiar.
“He’s crackers, though,” said Merrit, slu
rring his words. “Holed up in that school of his, only tinkering around with machines and the like. Isn’t even interested in his father’s work anymore.”
Gwen suddenly remembered where she’d seen that name before. She turned her back to the group and fumbled down the dark stone tunnel to where her belongings were stored. She dug in her bag for the gold coin with the image of a sleeping fox and that name. Tremelo. As she made her way back toward the central chamber, she saw a light glimmering off of the stone wall. It was the Elder approaching.
“Is everything all right, Gwendolyn? Where did you rush off to?” he asked.
Gwen said nothing. Instead, she held the necklace out on her palm, where it caught the light from the Elder’s dynamo lamp.
He stared at the necklace and lifted a wrinkled hand to his mouth.
“It has the same name,” she said.
“Where did you find that?” asked the Elder, a sharp urgency in his voice.
“I found it in the hood of my coat the night Grimsen was killed,” she said. “I ran into a boy. We both fell … and I think it must have been his. I didn’t have it before then.”
“What boy? What did he look like?” the Elder asked. He grabbed Gwen’s arm and held it tightly.
“I don’t know! He was young, maybe a bit younger than me. He wore a jacket with bright blue stripes,” she said.
The Elder let go of Gwen’s arm and rushed back to the noise of the group. Gwen followed him, confused. She hadn’t seen the Elder this upset since the night he’d nearly been poisoned. He marched straight over to Merrit and grabbed his shoulder, shaking him out of his drunken stupor.
“Tremelo, he’s the man you wish would lead us? You said he was ‘not interested in his father’s work.’ Who was his father?”
Gwen wasn’t sure what to do. The Elder was wide-eyed.
“The Loon, of course. His father, Thelonious Loren.” Merrit blinked hard. “What’s this all about, Elder?”