by Matt Laney
Anjali wrinkles her nose in frustration. “No!” She leans in. “I don’t want to get rid of him. I want to learn about the fiction affliction so I can know more about my brother . . . and I thought maybe the Spinner in the castle could help.”
My throat goes dry. “Sounds risky, Anjali. And from what I know, Spinners don’t control the disease. It flares up whenever it wants, not when the Spinner wants, which I suspect would be never.”
“So a Spinner’s brain is like a bookshelf, and every now and then a book falls off and dumps out fiction?”
“That’s not all. Things happen when the sickness strikes. Things that are not easy to explain.”
“I’m not afraid,” Anjali declares.
Without warning, the affliction awakens, as it always does: a rush of wind between my ears, and my stomach turning with nausea as a lump of fiction tumbles down from my brain. It lands on my tongue and begins to expand. Soon my mouth will be so full, I will have to let it out. I instinctively clamp a hand around my muzzle.
Anjali brightens. “I knew it!”
I wince at having given myself away so easily. The fiction pushes against my teeth and gums, desperate to be free. I have to get out of here. I have to find a private place to release this load of sickness. And whatever else comes with it.
“It’s happening, isn’t it?” Anjali exclaims.
I jump up and bound away from the table.
“Wait!” she cries.
Anjali leaps over the table, tackles and holds me to the floor. The wind is knocked out of me, along with the fiction welling up in my mouth. Instantly, the disease takes over my vocal cords, tongue, and lips, and I am powerless to stop it.
Once there was a merchant who found a nest of young firewing birds abandoned by their parents.
The words spin into a vision. It’s nothing unusual for me, but Anjali startles as the very scene emerges: the merchant discovering a firewing nest packed with downy, rust-colored chicks on a lonely mountain cliff. The scene is clear as day and bursting with life, growing larger with every phrase. Anjali paws at the vision, her hand passing through it as though it were smoke.
“Aha!” the merchant said.
Anjali yelps when the merchant’s voice flows from my mouth.
“When firewing birds are fully grown, they are the largest, most magnificent birds of prey on earth and their flame-colored feathers are treasures! I will catch these hatchlings, fatten them up, and sell them at the market for a good price.”
He flung a net over the nest and trapped the little firewings. He carried them home and put them in a cage. All day, every day, the trapped birds cried and wailed. Whenever the merchant tossed meat inside the cage, the firewings gobbled it down. All the birds ate the merchant’s food except one, and that bird became thinner and thinner while the others grew fatter and fatter.
The vision expands until we are surrounded and inside the world of this story. The characters and scene swirl about, unaware of our presence. The growing firewings have shed their fluffy, downy feathers for brilliant, blood-red plumage edged with gold.
The day arrived when the merchant would bring the firewings to market. He inspected his birds and noticed that one was much smaller and thinner than the rest. The merchant opened the cage and grabbed the scrawny firewing.
“You are little more than feathers and bones!” the merchant exclaimed.
As soon as he said it, the littlest firewing wriggled from his hand and flew to a nearby branch. The other firewings cried out for their brother to save them. So the freed firewing followed the merchant as he carried the birds to market, flying unnoticed from tree to tree.
As the merchant set the cage of birds on a table and attracted a customer, the free bird waited for his chance. At last it came. When the merchant opened the door of the cage to get a bird for his customer, the freed firewing swooped down and pecked at the merchant’s eyeballs. The merchant smacked him to the ground, where he lay stunned and nearly broken in two. Seeing their opportunity to escape, the other firewings dashed from the cage in a flurry of wings and a burst of joyful screeches.
The vision fades, and we are back in the feeding hall. In fact, we never left.
“So you are a Spinner!” Anjali marvels, scanning the room for any remaining images. “Incredible.”
Her eyes drift back to me and she gasps, fixated on something just over my head. I feel claws digging into the fur between my ears. Glancing up, I find a young firewing bird perched there: the bird from the story.
No matter how many times this happens, I never get used to it. A character or creature is always left behind when the disease hits me. These beings are faded, ghostly, and freakish.
The phantom firewing stretches flamelike wings, screeches, and flaps into the open air of the feeding hall. He circles the room and soars through the doors.
Anjali follows his every move.
I watch her, astonished.
These stranded beings are not new for me, but this is the first time anyone else has seen one. Then again, this is the first time I’ve been caught in the act. Maybe hearing the words and seeing the creatures that follow are linked.
“You saw that?” I sputter.
Anjali tries to speak and fails.
A chill sweeps over me. Anjali not only knows what I am—she’s also seen what happens when the sickness strikes. If I die tomorrow, the problem will be solved. If I survive the hunt, my troubles will be far from over.
Chapter 3
Beware the one who hugs you with a dagger in hand.
—Sayings of the Ancients
ight comes swiftly in Singara. The castle, carved into the Great Mountain and looming high over the city, faces east. As the sun dips behind the mountain, Singara is plunged into shadow before the final curtain of darkness falls.
Only half of the castle is built out from the face of the mountain. The other half is carved into the mountain rock.
I haven’t slept all day, and after my training session with Kaydan and the episode with Anjali, I can barely keep my tail off the floor. Singas don’t get all their daily sleep at one time like some creatures. We bed down for a few hours several times a day. I could retire to my own den, but the comforts of Grandfather’s lair tug at me like a magnet.
I bound up the leaping platforms that spiral the walls of the central hallway. These platforms lead to the entryways of the castle’s ten floors. I spring and flip to the eighth level, which holds the Kahn’s chambers.
The darkness and density of guards thicken as I draw closer to Grandfather’s lair. Singa vision is well suited to the dark. We have a special coating at the back of our eyes that captures and magnifies any available light. Our night vision reduces everything to shades of black, white, and gray, but the world is no less visible. The light of the sun, or from a fire, brings color back into view.
I focus on each pair of glowing eyes among the guards, who look my way. Anyone else would be halted and questioned, but I have been coming to this part of the castle nearly every day of my life. They know the light pattern of my eyes, in addition to my shape and scent. And I know theirs.
The outer hall of the royal den, known as the Hall of Kahns, is furnished with lavishly carved chairs and benches. Paintings of the Singa-Kahns of old, my ancestors, line the walls. Beneath these portraits are smaller pictures of the invention each Kahn presented to Singara: tools and laboratory instruments, paper and writing implements, a carriage, a riding saddle, windows, eyeglasses, a telescope, a clock, a printing press, a water wheel–powered sawmill, and more. The Singa-Kahn is expected to be a great scientist as well as a great warrior.
The hall ends with a tapestry, marking the entrance to the Kahn’s lair. It hangs like a curtain from one wall to the other. Embroidered in gold, greens, and deep reds, the tapestry illustrates the Great War against our enemies, the Maguar, twenty-five years ago. After the war, Grandfather ordered the construction of the Great Wall and the Border Zone Fence. It was a magnificent victory, but st
ill we train, still we watch their lands from towers along the wall. Should the Maguar ever breach the wall, they would find themselves trapped in the fenced-in Border Zones.
The Maguar are related to the Singa. We share the same biological family of Leos, the Maguar being the dumber and less evolved of the two. That makes my name, Leo, the most unimaginative and generic name possible. It’s like naming a goat Goat or calling a deer Deer. I hate it.
The embroidery shows the Maguar as similar to the Singa but their pelts are marked with dark stripes. As the larger of our two races, the Maguar have longer arms and therefore greater reach. That’s why our blades are so essential.
I’m thankful to have seen this much. Most Singas will never lay eyes on this tapestry. Only elders like Grandfather and Kaydan who fought in the Great War know what the enemy are really like. We younger ones have to be satisfied with the bits of information elders share about the Maguar’s ferocity, savagery, and superstitions.
Before passing through the slit in the middle of the tapestry, I hear two familiar voices locked in debate. I can make out only snatches of the conversation. I lean closer until the fur on my cheek interlaces with the threads of the tapestry.
“He is not ready! You are sending him to his death!”
It’s Tamir, Grandfather’s nephew and my elder cousin. Tamir is a high-ranking commander. According to many Singas, Tamir should become the Singa-Kahn after Grandfather, not me. Tall and powerfully built, he certainly looks the part.
I, on the other hand, don’t.
And there is the problem of my parents.
My mother died giving birth to me. My father’s identity died with her, but the shame of the secret lives on with me. No Singa-Kahn has ever had such a disgraceful entrance into life.
Nevertheless, I am the grandson of the Kahn and direct heir to the throne through my mother, his daughter. As the Kahn’s nephew, Tamir’s claim to the throne is weaker.
Grandfather snarls. “It is the first full moon after his thirteenth birthday, and the law states he is ready. We are a pride of laws, Tamir, do not forget that.”
“Does the law say we should throw an undersize Singa before the jaws of a hungry slaycon? Even with a long blade his reach is less than two meters! And how many times has he gone beyond the castle gate in his life? Four times? Five? What does he know of the world, let alone of hunting a slaycon?”
“He knows more than most Singas his age, Tamir.”
“Because he has studied with tutors, inside the palace, and not in the science centers of Singara, like other younglings? You want to protect him, but instead you have deprived him of the opportunity to develop strength and courage. Consider the evidence. Don’t let your feelings cloud good judgment.”
“Don’t lecture me on judgment!” the Kahn shouts. “He may not be strong, but he is clever!”
“He is too small!”
“He is my only heir! All my sons are dead at the claws of the Maguar. My youngest child, his mother, is dead!” His voice falters. “He is all I have. He will face a slaycon tomorrow, train at the Academy, and become a soldier in accordance with the law. And one day he will sit upon the throne!”
Grandfather coughs and wheezes, the force of the argument bearing down on his aged body. I hear the creak of wood as he settles into his reading chair.
“Forgive me, Uncle.” Tamir adopts a more respectful tone. “I care only for the prince and for the throne I am sworn to protect, even at the cost of my life.”
“I know what you care for most, nephew.”
“All I ask is that you give Lord Leo a year to gain in size and skill. A slaycon will be no match for him then. I will take over his training if you wish.”
“He has a trainer whom I trust. You are dismissed, Tamir.”
Tamir likes to have the last word, even with the Kahn, so I wait for his next comment. Instead, I hear footsteps marching toward the tapestry.
The hair on my pelt sticks out like a porcupine. In a few heartbeats Tamir will be tripping over me, irritated. Far more so when he finds out I have been eavesdropping.
No time to run and hide. Besides, my scent is all over the place.
I pounce back to the center of the hall and stride toward the tapestry as though I am just making my entrance. The tapestry shakes, and a brooding Tamir, wearing his light armor and draped in a cloak made from Maguar pelts, emerges, his tail lashing.
“Lord Prince,” he says with a halfhearted bow. “Up so late on such an important night? Don’t you know a slaycon can sniff out a tired Singa twice as easily as a well-rested one?”
Tamir rarely expects an answer from me, but tonight he lifts his chin, inviting a response. The words bubble up and spill out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“My trainer says an overconfident beast is the easiest kind to kill.”
Tamir scowls as though I said something about him. He surges past, nearly knocking me to the floor.
I wiggle through the tapestry and exhale with relief. This chamber’s painted ceiling, fur rugs, and warm fire are a safe haven for me, removed from the many watchful eyes of the castle. There is a broad bed, an ample oak desk, shelves lined with thick, leather-bound books, an observation balcony with telescopes pointing into the open sky, and tables covered with all sorts of scientific instruments.
And there, in the center of the room, is my grandfather, Raja, the Singa-Kahn, slumped to the side of the chair. His once-golden fur has taken on a silvery sheen. His movements are often stiff and slow. Sometimes he stares into space for long stretches and mumbles to himself.
“Grandfather?”
The Kahn lifts his regal head. For a moment he seems not to recognize me.
“Leo?” He stretches out his hands. “Come here, dear one.”
I rush forward and fall into his arms. My cheek rests on his mane.
“Your heart is racing!” he says. “Well, who could blame you? Tomorrow is . . .” Grandfather’s voice trails off, as though he’d rather not think about it.
“I saw Tamir leaving your den. Is everything all right?”
Grandfather grunts. “Nothing will be right for Tamir if he isn’t the Singa-Kahn. Do not underestimate him, Leo. His desire for power is beyond even his ability to control.” It’s Grandfather’s most frequent warning about my cousin.
“That’s why tomorrow is so important. Success means you will be confirmed as my heir and claim the throne when I am gone. And I am getting old . . . in case you haven’t noticed.”
“I haven’t.”
“Ha!” Grandfather chuckles. “Consider the evidence, Leo. Always consider the evidence. As Kahn you must learn to put aside your own feelings and think clearly about the facts before you. Your brain must always be your sharpest weapon.”
Grandfather rubs the thick layer of skin at the back of my neck and purrs a little tune.
Music! A rare treat.
Our law limits music to formal ceremonies. Music is played with caution due to its power to stir the imagination and spark fiction.
This doesn’t concern Grandfather now as he cradles me by the soft glow of firelight. The notes coming from his chest are unlike anything I’ve ever heard. They have the ring of something ancient and otherworldly. I try to fasten the tune to my memory, but my mind is a kaleidoscope of sounds, smells, and images as I slide into sleep.
“These are the plain facts, dear one,” the Kahn intones. “I don’t have much time left. The sun is setting on the Age of Raja Kahn. Tomorrow, if you succeed, you will be my undisputed heir. You must succeed, Leo. The future of the Pride depends on it.”
Chapter 4
You make yourself by the choices you make.
—Sayings of the Ancients
forest glade echoes with birdsong. Warm breezes caress my fur.
Then I see her: a Singa, stately, graceful, appearing as a marble sculpture on the far side of the dell.
Mother!
I bound forward, running with unnatural speed, like an arrow sprung f
rom the bow. The statuelike figure gets closer but doesn’t react to my approach. When she is but ten meters away, my feet become heavy, until I am a statue myself, frozen in midstride. An inky-black darkness rolls in, blotting out everything—the sun, the sky, the trees, and finally . . .
Mother! I scream into the night. Tears fall as tiny pebbles down stony cheeks. An odor invades my nostrils, accompanied by the footfalls of a snarling creature: a slaycon. Soon the beast is close enough to feel its hot breath puffing at my leg.
Go ahead, bite me! I’m already paralyzed. Let’s see if your teeth can cut through stone!
Thunder explodes, not from the sky above but from the earth below. The ground gives way. The slaycon and I fall through the air, as if pitched from the peak of the Great Mountain. The ground rushes to meet me. Instead of my body smacking the earth, I hear the flap of wings. Giant talons wrap around me as I’m held in the tender grip of a massive firewing. Light cascades from its broad feathers like living flames. The great bird circles lower and lower until I am back in the forest glade, the slaycon dead at my side.
I sit up, grateful to be alive. My heart lurches as eight figures tower over me, silhouetted against the bright sky. Their scent is unknown. One of them thrusts a spear at my head. “What are you doing here, infidel?”
• • •
Then a different voice beckons: faint but familiar.
“Lord Prince?”
The dream forest fades. The figures melt into shadows.
“Excuse me . . . Leo.”
The wheels in the waking side of my brain begin to turn. I breathe in the smells of Grandfather’s lair.
“It is now the ninth hour and you are due in the city square to select your slaycon.”
I wince.
The speaker is a blur, but I recognize the voice. Not her again. I rub my eyes and behold Anjali, wearing her armor and blades.