by Matt Laney
“So you’re in?” I press Stick. “You’ll do it?”
“You took my place against Amara. I guess I owe you,” Stick concedes. “I still don’t know if that was brave or stupid.”
I shrug and smile. “Thanks to that wolf, we didn’t have to find out.”
Chapter 16
Bravery is not the absence of fear, but action in the presence of fear.
—Sayings of the Ancients
dream.
At first I’m in the central hall of the castle following the crack that runs the length of the floor. I pass through walls and floors as the crack expands deep into the Great Mountain. Now I’m in a sloping cave, trailing a soldier bearing a torch. He stops suddenly and turns, eyes aflame with curiosity and fright.
I’m also filled with fear. The soldier is Tamir.
He sniffs the air before continuing his descent. He senses someone’s presence but he can’t see me. Relieved, I edge forward, my gaze drawn to Tamir’s tail gliding over the rough, rocky way. If he still has his tail, I must be looking into the past again, before he was disgraced.
The cave opens to a large chamber. A strange, gray powder lies in piles and swirls in the air. As Tamir enters the chamber, his torch illuminates the far wall, which is not made of rock. It has the appearance of metal, smooth and reflective, but supple as skin. Tamir kneels reverently and extends a hand.
“Such power,” he mumbles to himself while stroking the expanse of flesh. “Soon you will be free, my friend. Your countless years of imprisonment are coming to an end. You will have your revenge. Together, we will conquer.”
A moaning sound rattles the earth, and I realize this mass of flesh is only a small fraction of an impossibly huge and terrible beast trapped in the rock.
“Soon,” Tamir repeats. “Very soon.”
• • •
I’m roused by a shake on my shoulder as I lie curled in my hammock. Two figures loom over me, one wide, one narrow. I almost scream when a hand clamps around my muzzle, so tightly it feels like my teeth are being crushed.
The larger one leans down. “It’s us.”
Zoya’s raspy voice catapults my brain into wakefulness. Recalling our plan, I relax, and Zoya removes her hand. Stick has a long rope coiled around his shoulder. I roll off my hammock and we file out the door.
A not-quite-full moon illuminates the campus and casts sharp shadows of the bunkhouses, trees, and even ourselves—not a helpful situation when you’re trying to be stealthy. I’m about to suggest waiting for a darker night when Stick mutters, “Follow me.” He slips off the porch, melting into a shadow beyond the moon. He moves on, wearing the darkness like a cloak. He’s so quiet. A leaf would make more noise falling on the forest floor than his footsteps. He escorts us through the village of bunkhouses, clinging to the darkest places.
Just when I’ve lost track of where we are, Stick hunkers by a wall. “We’re here. This is the south side of Alpha’s house.”
I look up. The stone wall is capped by a tiled roof, reaching high into the night sky.
Stick nudges Zoya. “What’s the plan?”
“We go up to the roof and lower Leo through one of the skylights into the room with Wajid’s cage.”
Stick’s eyes nearly leap out of his head. “We’re going to lower the prince of Singara into a cage with a Maguar?”
“Shut it!” Zoya scolds. “Do you want to wake up every cadet in this canyon? If you’d rather go knock on the front door, be my guest.”
Stick sighs. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Zoy.”
“Our first challenge will be climbing up the roof without being seen,” Zoya muses.
She’s right.
On that moon-drenched roof, we’ll be about as obvious as pee on snow. Someone is bound to see us. Before I can spend another moment worrying, a cloud passes over the moon, covering everything in a gray gauze. Singa eyes are sharp, even in the dark, and the less light there is, the less pronounced our golden pelts will be up there.
“That will help,” Stick says, staring at where the moon used to be.
“Bend down,” Zoya orders. “I need a boost.”
Stick hunches over as if they have performed this maneuver a thousand times. Zoya steps on her brother’s back and hoists herself onto the roof. She pulls us up one by one, as though we are cubs. The roof stretches upward in a gradual slant before meeting the canyon rock. The place where the rock and the roof meet is where Wajid’s cell must be. We’ll know for sure when we find the skylights that offer the only view of the outside world he’s had in two and a half decades.
The roof tiles make for easy climbing. We reach the place where the roof merges with the canyon rock. Gradually the scene brightens.
Zoya’s ears go flat with dread. “The cloud is moving away.”
Seconds later the canyon is bathed in a fresh wave of milky moonlight.
And so are we. Anyone looking in this direction would see us in a heartbeat.
“Over here.” It’s Stick’s voice, but he has vanished. “On your left. Under the ledge.”
Zoya scoops me around the waist and pulls me beneath a rock overhang next to her brother. I’m sitting on Zoya’s lap, feeling safe and extremely awkward.
“There!” Stick exclaims. We follow the line of his outstretched arm to a dark rectangular blotch a few meters up. “I’ll bet my tail that’s one of the skylights over Wajid’s cell. But the canyon rock is too sheer. Nothing to climb on.”
“I counted three skylights when we were in there,” I say. “All at about the same height, spaced evenly apart.”
Stick nods. “Me too. That means the others aren’t far away. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them was directly above this ledge.”
“That would give us a way up,” Zoya offers hopefully. “And a base of operations for lowering Leo down.”
We stare at the blazing moon, and Stick voices what we are all thinking: “Sure would be nice if another cloud came along.”
But there are no clouds in sight.
“We’ve come this far,” Stick concedes. “Might as well keep going.” He turns and for the first time sees me sitting on Zoya’s lap, one of her thick arms draped protectively over my waist. “Don’t you two make a cute couple!”
“Give me the rope,” Zoya snaps. “I’m going up.”
Stick drapes the rope over Zoya’s shoulders as I wiggle off her lap.
“Remember what I taught you about moving quickly and quietly?” Stick asks.
“Keep your joints loose. Don’t tense up. Flow like water,” Zoya recites. “Got it.”
She lunges into the moonlight and scurries up the rock overhang, unleashing a landslide of pebbles, followed by a river of dirt.
Stick winces. “Not exactly what I meant by ‘flow like water.’” We peer down into the Academy grounds, looking for any responses to the disturbance.
All is quiet.
From above, Zoya whispers, “Now you.”
A rope dangles over the ledge and sways invitingly at us.
“You first,” Stick urges. “Be quick about it. The less time you are out under that moon, the better.”
I grab the rope and scuttle up to Zoya. A moment later Stick appears and we all crouch together.
“Look,” Zoya says, pointing uphill.
We crane our necks toward the rectangular opening yawning into the night, three meters above.
“I knew it!” Stick crows.
“If you get on my shoulders, 24-4 can climb us like a ladder.” Zoya links her hands together. “Up you go.”
Stick allows Zoya to lift him to her shoulders. Perched there, Stick’s chin is level with the opening of the skylight.
“Can you see anything?” I ask.
“Not much from this angle. But I can smell him. It’s Wajid’s cage for sure.”
Zoya links her hands again and boosts me into Stick’s arms. He guides me into the skylight’s shaft. I hold on to the edge to keep from sliding down. Stick takes the rope,
drops the end to his sister, and tosses the rest into the shaft. We both listen for the rope to smack the floor.
It doesn’t.
That means the rope isn’t long enough to reach the bottom.
“If the end of the rope is too far from the floor, you may have to have your little chat while holding on,” Stick counsels. “Safer that way.”
I grasp the rope and lower myself feet first, into the skylight shaft. The shaft is less than two meters long. Without warning my legs are dangling in empty space, signaling the beginning of my descent into Wajid’s prison. His scent wraps around me like giant hands.
No doubt he can smell me, too.
I’m relieved to find the tip of my rope dangling only a meter from the floor and well outside the bars of the cage. I shimmy my way to the bottom, heart banging against my ribs. The stone floor is cold underfoot. The air is damp.
“Wajid!” I say in a half whisper, suddenly aware I have no idea how to formally address a Maguar, let alone have a conversation with one.
No response. There are no sounds at all. My eyes adjust to the gloom, and I can see into nearly every portion of his cage.
“Wajid!” I repeat, louder.
I expect him to come charging out of the darkness, hungry for another chance to attack the same Singa who got too close just a few hours ago.
I creep to the bars, raking the cell for any sounds of life. A fresh dose of moonlight brightens the chamber, including the gleam of metal on a length of discarded chain at the back of the cage.
Wajid’s chains. But no Wajid.
My pelt stands on end. I squeeze through the bars and examine the chain and ankle cuffs that once bound Wajid to the wall. Where in the name of science has he gone?
Did he escape?
Was he set free?
A name floats to mind. One given to me before I left the castle, the prince from the story who sought wisdom. Didn’t he say he could provide answers?
For the second time in only a few hours I speak a name, daring to call forth one of the strange visitors who have haunted and pestered me my whole life. I’m either desperate, or I’m losing my mind altogether.
“Kensho.”
Nothing happens.
“Kensho!”
I feel ridiculous.
“Over here,” a voice squeaks from the back of the chamber, barely more than a pin drop.
I whirl around and find two eyes glowing back at me on the other side of the bars. “What are you doing out there?”
“You ordered me not to scare you ever again,” he says, stepping into a beam of moonlight.
“That’s . . . very nice of you.”
He bows. “How may I serve you?”
“There was a Maguar here, held captive for twenty-five years. He was in this cage only yesterday. What happened?”
Kensho smiles knowingly. “He escaped.”
“How?!”
He ambles to the bars and studies each one. “This one,” he says at last. “Give it a shake.”
I cross the cell and wrap my hands around the bar. He nods encouragingly. I jiggle the bar. It rattles, loose at both the top and the bottom.
Kensho’s eyes sparkle. “Can you lift it?”
I raise the bar into its mounting in the ceiling, and the bottom comes out of the floor. I push the bar outward. The top slides free and the bar begins a rapid descent.
Not good.
With a deafening clang, the bar bounces on the floor.
Kensho frowns. “That was unwise.”
Together, we return the bar to its place.
“You should go,” I say to Kensho.
“So should you,” he replies, already fading away.
I bound across the chamber and scramble up the rope to the skylight. There are voices on the other side of the door, guards alerted by the falling bar.
“What’s wrong?” Stick queries. I wedge my feet into the corners of the skylight’s shaft and signal for him to keep quiet. I pull the rope up hand over hand, at a feverish pace. The door swings open, and two Singa soldiers burst into the cell chamber as the last meter of rope slithers into the skylight shaft, out of sight. The soldiers are shocked to discover that Wajid is missing. They rush from the chamber, calling out an alarm.
I hand the tangled mass of rope to Stick and climb into the night air.
“What was all that noise?” Stick asks. “Did he attack you?”
“He wasn’t there.”
Stick and Zoya narrow their eyes and cock their heads. For the first time, I see the family resemblance.
“Wasn’t there?” Stick probes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means he wasn’t there. It’s that simple.”
“There is nothing simple about that! He’s been locked in a cage for twenty-five years!”
“We need to get back to the bunkhouse as fast as possible.”
“Were you seen?” Stick asks.
“No, but I think I have a few things to learn from you about stealth.”
“Doesn’t everybody?” Stick says, draping an arm around my shoulders. “Don’t worry, I’m going to transform you both into sneaking thieves as my gift to the military. Starting now. Let’s go.”
Chapter 17
He who is destined for power does not have to fight for it.
—Sayings of the Ancients
bugle announces the rising sun. It seems only moments ago that we wrapped ourselves up in our hammocks following the late-night visit to Wajid’s cell. The rows of cocooned bodies around the bunkhouse twist and stretch.
Our company commander’s voice jabs my ears. “Quadron 24!” The three of us lift our sleep-heavy heads. “Your captain has arrived. She is outside. I suggest you go and welcome her.”
He looks troubled. Something isn’t right about this.
My stomach tightens.
Stick leaps to the floor, licks his hands, and attempts to smooth out his scruffy mane.
“Don’t bother,” Zoya teases. “It’s a lost cause.”
We step onto the front porch, watched closely by a dozen sets of half-open eyes. Waiting on the ground is no cadet but a fully armed and armored Singa soldier.
“Hey, is that . . . ?” Stick asks.
“Anjali?” I finish.
“Good morning, Lord Prince,” she says with a bow.
“You know her?” Stick asks, astonished.
“What are you doing here, Anjali?”
“She was undefeated at Judoko when she was at the Academy!” Stick gushes. “And she’s going to be our captain?” He nearly trips down the front steps.
Zoya, scowling, remains on the porch with me.
“I’m position three,” Stick yammers on, “and my lemon-face sister up there is our number two.”
“I know,” Anjali replies. “I know all about you.”
“Oh,” Stick says, enthusiasm draining from his face.
“Could you two leave us alone for a minute?” I ask.
“Let’s go, Stick,” Zoya says, returning to the bunkhouse. She opens the door to reveal the rest of the company scrunched together and listening. Zoya saunters through without breaking stride, and the cadets scatter like cockroaches.
“She’s a confident one,” Anjali observes as I pull her away from the bunkhouse and the eager ears of Company F.
“Why are you here, Anjali?”
“I’ve finally been assigned a quadron.”
“Why this one?”
“Don’t cough up a hairball. I’m here to help you.”
“I don’t want your help. I want to do this on my own.”
“You’re not off to a great start.” Anjali draws closer. “Alpha told me what happened at gaming last night. And there’s more: Wajid has disappeared. The leadership of the Academy is in an uproar. Things at the castle aren’t much better. And all the trouble starts when the prince arrives? Are you trying to stand out?”
“You think having a Singa soldier as my captain is going to make me stand out less?�
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“Listen, Leo. Alpha thinks the wolf’s appearance and Wajid’s disappearance are linked. The fact that both happened on the day you showed up has her wondering. But she trusts me. I can protect you.”
“I can protect myself.”
“How? Will you conjure up another wolf? A slaycon? What’s next? And have you figured out that Jakal is in Amara’s pocket? You need someone on the inside of the Academy who can face up to them both, someone who knows your secret.”
I wince. That’s exactly why I want her gone before she blows my cover. If she won’t leave willingly, there might be only one other way. I call over my shoulder, “Cadets! Assemble! We have an intruder.”
Cadets, not only from our bunkhouse but also from those surrounding ours, file out into the misty morning air, their faces marked by curiosity and concern.
Anjali gives a half smile. “This isn’t going to work.”
“This warrior has been sent here by mistake,” I explain to the mob. “She needs help finding her way out.”
Thirty or more cadets close in on Anjali. None of them is armed, so I don’t think much harm will come to her. I just want to wipe that smirk off her face before sending her home with her tail between her legs.
Anjali holds up her hands. “Wait!”
Or maybe she will just give up now and leave in peace.
“This isn’t a fair fight,” she protests.
Anjali does a perfect double draw with blinding speed. She tosses the long blade to Zoya, the short blade to our commander, and hands the dagger to a cadet from a different company who looks eager for a fight. Everyone flinches as Anjali unclips the aero-blade from her back and hurls the metal ring over our heads. It whistles in flight and sinks into a post on our bunkhouse porch.
“Now it’s a fair fight,” she concludes. “Let’s do this.”
Suddenly I’m at the back of a mob descending on Anjali like a pack of starved rats. There are growls and roars, arms and legs whirling along with an occasional flash of metal. In less than a minute Anjali is the only one standing, and somehow she has reclaimed all three of her weapons.