by Matt Laney
I suppose he’s right. Again.
“Go quickly,” Galil urges. “You must get to the Border Caves before dawn. Tamir will never guess that you have gone to the Maguar’s realm, but he will search every centimeter of our realm until you are found.”
I hesitate, unable to move. “Kaydan,” I gasp. “If I leave the castle, Tamir won’t need him anymore.”
“He would die gladly,” the Royal Scientist states solemnly, “knowing you have escaped Tamir’s hand.”
“Somehow that makes it worse.”
“You have a large heart for one so small, Lord. But now is a time for courage, not for looking back.”
Stick inserts his head into the trash chute. He plucks an old, cheap-looking gold ring from his cloak and drops it into the shaft. The ring pings and rattles, then fades into silence.
“I hope there’s a lot of soft, fluffy trash down there,” Stick says.
“I hope you get your ring back,” I say.
“It wasn’t exactly mine.”
“You first, Zoya,” Anjali orders.
“Good call, Captain,” Stick agrees. “I wouldn’t want her landing on me either.”
Anjali ignores him. “Find out what we’re dealing with down there, Zoya. If you’re not too injured, do what you can to catch the rest of us.”
The chute doesn’t look wide enough, but somehow Zoya squeezes in. Most Singas are adept at landing on their feet no matter which way they fall, but Zoya goes down feet first anyway. She crosses her arms over her torso and begins her descent. We cluster around the chute, listening. For a long stretch, we hear nothing.
“Maybe she got stuck?” Stick wonders.
Anjali pokes her head into the chute and says, “All clear down there?”
“Clear!” comes the unmistakable gruff voice of Zoya.
Anjali nudges me. “You next.”
I follow Zoya’s example, going down feet first, arms folded over my chest.
“Keep your head up,” Stick advises. “I’m sure your skull isn’t half as thick as hers.”
I let go of the chute’s opening and drop into the stuffy darkness. The advice to keep my head up was good, but there is no way to prevent my backside, elbows, and shoulder blades from taking a serious beating. In under ten seconds, the chute vanishes, and I find myself enfolded in Zoya’s waiting arms.
“Your Majesty,” she says.
“Thanks,” I answer, feeling both relieved and awkward.
We’re in a huge bin of rotting animal corpses, discarded clothes, broken furniture, and all manner of filth. It’s a miracle Zoya landed without being skewered by one of the many sharp objects lying about.
Stick and finally Anjali make the same entrance, with Zoya having a slightly more difficult time catching each of them.
“Phew! The stink down here could gag a maggot!” Stick proclaims.
“I agree,” Anjali says, covering her nose. “Let’s go.”
We pick our way through the rot and heave ourselves over the sides of the bin.
Except Zoya.
“Come on, Zoy!” Stick calls.
“Can’t,” Zoya says from within the bin. “I think my leg is broken.”
“We need to get her out,” I beg Anjali.
“Don’t bother,” Zoya protests. “Just get Leo away from the castle.”
“We’re not leaving you here,” I say. “Give me a lift, Anjali.”
“We don’t have time,” Anjali warns.
“Just help me get back in!” I growl.
Anjali groans, makes a step with her hand, and launches me into the trash bin.
Zoya rests on a tattered carpet, cradling her outstretched leg.
“Amazing you were able to catch all of us with that injury.”
She shrugs. “You should leave me. Every moment you sit here is another moment wasted getting away from Tamir.”
“She’s right, Leo,” Anjali says impatiently.
“You didn’t leave me when I was trying to get into the Academy,” I remind Zoya.
A hint of a smile alights on her lips. “So are you going to carry me?”
“I won’t have to. You’re going to climb out by yourself.”
“I don’t think so. It’s broken badly.”
I bend to her ear and whisper, “Close your eyes, Zoya. Don’t open them until I tell you. Can you do that?”
“Sure.” Her eyelids lower as she rests her muzzle on her broad chest.
“Remember, don’t open your eyes until I say.”
“What’s going on in there?” Stick asks.
Ignoring Stick, I speak the name of the old sage and healer: “Vishna.”
Instantly, Vishna appears at my side. Without glancing at me, the strange elder squats down and lays her hands on Zoya’s damaged leg. She mutters something in the Old Language. Zoya’s ears angle forward, but true to her word, her eyes remain shut. Vishna removes her hands, looks at me, and nods.
I mouth the words Thank you. Vishna bows and fades from sight.
I lay a hand on Zoya’s shoulder. “You can open your eyes now.”
Zoya stares at her leg. “What did you do to me?”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“The pain is gone!” She flexes her leg, beaming with astonishment.
I take her arm. “Let me help you up.”
Zoya rises in the squishy filth.
“How does it feel?”
“Stiff, but I can walk.”
“Then let’s get out of here.”
Zoya hauls her bulk over the side of the bin and I follow.
Stick shakes his head. “Not like you to fake an injury.”
Zoya scowls but says nothing.
“Let’s get going,” Anjali urges. “Tamir must be searching every part of the castle. Then he’ll widen the search to the city and all of Singara.”
Anjali steers us to a large door that slides up on a track mounted to the ceiling. She locates the lock at the center and holds out her hand to Stick. “Dagan’s keys, please.”
Stick rummages around in his cloak, growing increasingly distressed. “They were right here a minute ago. Maybe they fell out in the chute?”
“What kind of a thief doesn’t keep track of his stolen loot?” Anjali demands. “I know you have them.”
Stick’s muzzle breaks into a playful grin. “Oh, now I remember where I put them.” His hand glides into Anjali’s cloak and extracts the keys from her pocket.
I’m astounded.
Anjali isn’t.
She snatches the keys from Stick. “Do that again and I will break you in half! Do you understand?!”
Stick’s only response is to look extremely pleased with himself.
Huffing mad, Anjali sorts through the keys and fits one into the lock. The lock clicks, and the bottom of the door bounces up a centimeter or two. She gestures for Zoya to help.
“Let’s hope there isn’t anyone on the other side,” Anjali says as they pull the door up. A gust of night air beats back the offensive odors of the trash room. We are all so relieved to breathe easier, we don’t see the Singa staring at us, mouth agape.
“What are you doing in there?” he asks.
The trash worker is dressed in common laborers’ clothes: deerskin leggings, a heavy apron tied around his neck and waist, foot coverings, and gloves. He’s about thirty-five, which is middle-aged for Singas, and doesn’t look too harmful, as long as he doesn’t call out for help. Anjali’s hand is on her dagger, ready to cut him down if he raises his voice.
The worker’s eyes land on me. “Lord Prince!” he exclaims, falling to one knee. “You have returned! Accept my humble condolences on the death of your grandfather, our good Kahn.”
Anjali relaxes. “Kind sir, the prince’s life is in danger. We must leave the city without being seen. Can you help us?”
“I am at your command,” the worker replies, holding his head low.
“Rise, loyal servant of Singara,” I say, surprising everyone with my royal tone
. “Allow us to put our lives in your hands.”
The worker climbs to his feet, quaking. “It is a great honor, Sire. As it happens, I am about to take a load of trash from the castle to the old quarry for disposal. We do it under the cover of night when everyone is asleep, as a courtesy to the Pride, because of the smell, you see.”
Anjali is uninterested in these details. “We have no time to lose.”
“Of course. Forgive me. Come this way.”
He escorts us to a team of karkadanns harnessed to an empty cart waiting beside another bin of waste. A tarp rests on the cart’s flatbed.
“If you climb under the tarp, I will cover you with garbage. It won’t be a pleasant ride and will be far, far beneath you, my prince, but no one will bother to investigate.”
“Not at all,” I say, trying to keep up my royal tone. “Your kindness will not be forgotten.”
The worker glows at that, and even Stick looks impressed.
“You only need to take us two kilometers beyond the city wall,” Anjali says.
Our new friend agrees and lifts the tarp at the back of the cart. “Lie down, flat as you can.”
We arrange ourselves like logs on the cart’s bed, and I find myself wedged between Zoya and Anjali. The worker tenderly covers us with the tarp as though tucking four cubs into bed.
“Looks like we won’t need your stealth talents after all,” Zoya says.
“It’s not too late to let me guide us out of the city,” Stick offers.
“You might be able to sneak us out,” Anjali says. “The hard part is getting off the castle grounds with every available soldier looking for us. This is our best option.”
“I’m going to cover you with garbage now,” the worker says. “With my sincere apologies.”
“Go ahead,” Anjali assures him.
The worker dumps piles of filth onto the tarp. At first it’s just the smell that irritates, but soon the weight of the stuff presses down, like a giant hand crushing walnuts. Zoya rolls onto her stomach, draping an arm over my shoulders to shield me from the mounting load. I don’t know how she can possibly hold this position for the entire ride, but I’m grateful.
The air grows thick and unbreathable.
“Stick!” Anjali calls. “Dig out an airhole from your side and I’ll do the same from mine.”
There is a good deal of scraping and sloshing on either side, until a steady stream of cool, delicious air wafts over us.
The worker climbs onto the driver’s bench, and the cart lurches forward, powered by the karkadanns.
My eyes get heavy. Thoughts swirl into a blurry mosaic of memories, words, and longings. This time, I do not dream in stories or visions of the past or future. This time, there is only blue sky.
I stretch out my arms.
And soar.
• • •
Anjali nudges me. “Time to go.”
I look to my right and find Zoya and Stick at the end of the cart, holding up the tarp. I crawl out, stifling a yawn. Anjali is right behind me.
Stick sweeps some filth off my shoulders. “I slept too. It’s the only way to travel when covered by garbage.”
Over the open field, stars sparkle and flash in an unending blanket of light, so many that it seems wasteful. Or maybe the stars are only pinpricks in the fabric separating this world from a brighter place beyond.
“We are in your debt, sir,” Anjali says to the trash worker.
He bows. “The honor is mine. Where will you go now?”
“We will stay hidden for a time” is all that Anjali says.
Our friend lowers himself to one knee. “Strength and prosperity to our Kahn.”
At first I’m not sure who he’s talking about. Grandfather is dead, after all. Then my companions take similar positions around me and offer the customary response.
“And to all who serve him.”
Chapter 22
The quieter you become, the more you can hear.
—Sayings of the Ancients
re you sure you know where you’re going?” Anjali growls.
“Did I question your judgment when we were buried in garbage?” Stick fires back.
“Yes, you did,” Zoya says. “You only stopped complaining after you fell asleep.”
We’ve been walking for nearly two hours with only the stars and a claw-shaped moon to guide us. The ground is a level plain, dressed with tall grass that tickles our knees.
“The Border Caves are just ahead,” Stick says confidently.
Anjali is skeptical. “Funny, I don’t hear any bleating goats.”
Stick stops suddenly, becoming still as a statue. “But did you hear that?” His ears tilt forward.
“Hear what?” Anjali’s ears swivel, searching the night air.
“Something’s coming closer.” Stick’s words are dripping with fright.
“I don’t hear anything,” Anjali says, unconcerned.
Just then, someone springs up from the tall grass and Stick is knocked off his feet. Anjali cries out and wobbles as if she’s been struck in the back of her head. Zoya folds herself over me as a shield when her legs are swept upward, and she too falls to the ground with a great thud.
Anjali’s blades flash and whistle at a hooded figure bending and twirling like a streamer in the wind. Stick and Zoya draw their blades as Anjali yowls and falls to her knees.
“Anjali!” Stick cries.
“Stand down!” Anjali croaks. Two blades rest on either side of her neck. Empty-handed, Anjali’s arms are stretched out in surrender, which means the weapons at her neck are her own blades now in the hands of our triumphant opponent.
I never imagined Anjali could be defeated so easily.
“Do what she says.” The stranger’s voice is relaxed and unhurried. “Sheathe your weapons.”
“Do it!” Anjali orders.
Stick and Zoya return blades to their scabbards. Zoya takes a protective half step in front of me.
“I’m curious,” the stranger says, sounding more like a concerned parent than a menace. “What is a young quadron doing this far from the city so late at night?”
“We are on an official mission to protect the throne,” Stick says proudly. And stupidly.
“Shut it!” Anjali barks.
“Really, I once protected the Kahn. It is a noble thing.”
There is something familiar about this Singa. The voice. The way he stands so tall despite his age.
I peer out from behind Zoya’s arm. “Shanti?”
“This is the old shepherd you were talking about?” Stick blurts out. “The one we’re looking for?”
“Your Majesty!” Shanti says, throwing back his hood. “I am glad to see you again.”
“He fought with Grandfather in the Great War. He was Kaydan’s captain.”
Stick leans closer. “That means he’s on our side, right?”
“Please return those blades to my captain,” I say.
“As you wish, Lord.”
Shanti lifts the blades from Anjali’s neck. He twirls them in the air and yields the weapons with the handles facing Anjali and the blades pointed at him. Anjali reclaims her blades, leaps up, and snarls defiantly into Shanti’s face.
Shanti smiles. “It’s too bad we don’t have time for some training, Captain. I could teach you a thing or two for your next encounter with an old shepherd.”
He picks up a long metal pole with a slight bend at one end. He defeated Anjali with that?
“For now, you’d better come with me.”
He ambles off, singing one of his strange tunes peppered with words from the Old Language.
Anjali watches him warily. “You trust him?”
“He helped me before. He’s the one who delivered the note from my mother to Galil. We have to go with him.”
“He’s going in the right direction, at least,” Stick adds. “The Border Caves are only a few hundred meters ahead.”
“All right, then,” Anjali grumbles. “Let’s fall in.�
��
Shanti strolls through a field, over a gurgling stream, and finally to a lightly wooded area where the sounds and smells of live goats and sheep fill the air and call to our stomachs. Firelight pulses in three different places. The flames illuminate six Singa figures and the entrances to several yawning caves.
“The Border Caves,” Stick says knowledgeably. “You think all those shepherds can fight as well as Shanti?”
“Maybe,” I say. “But I don’t think we have anything to worry about.”
Shanti escorts us to one of the fires and speaks to two shepherds gathered there. They contemplate us with gentle eyes and move on. Shanti invites us to sit on the log benches encircling the fire and passes a plate of meat. As we eat, Shanti hums and purrs another tune.
When his song fades away and we have had our fill of food, I dig out my mother’s note from my cloak and hold it up to Shanti. “How did you come by this?”
The old shepherd stares into the flickering flames. Light dances about his face and makes his graying mane shimmer in golds, oranges, and deep browns. And there is something else woven into the threads of his mane.
Feathers. Firewing feathers.
“First let me tell you a story,” he says, as if he were only offering to fetch another log for the fire instead of engaging in criminal activity.
Before Shanti can breathe another word, Stick springs to his feet, draws his short blade, and points it at Shanti’s muzzle.
“He’s a Spinner!” he sputters. “By order of the Kahn, you are under arrest! Hold your tongue before we cut it right out of your diseased and lawbreaking head!”
Shepherds from the neighboring fires bound over to us, but Shanti waves them off.
Anjali rises and puts a reassuring hand on Stick’s shoulder. “Relax, Stick. Since when did you become so concerned about lawbreakers? Come on. Sit down. It’s all right.”
Stick stares at her as if she’s just asked him to pull his brain out through his nose.
Anjali switches tactics. “Look,” she whispers, “we can’t take them all on. We might as well listen, right? Deep down, haven’t you always wanted to know what fiction is?”
“But stories are not true, not real. They’re just evil, dangerous lies!” he says, reciting what we have been taught since the day we were born. “They infect and pollute the mind, take us away from the facts. A fiction is a dereliction—”