Flight of the King

by C. R. Grey

  “Yep. You’re a very bad influence,” said Tori. “But who else would I spend time with these days?”

  As the door closed quietly behind Tori, Tremelo leaned against the workbench, trying to avoid his beckoning myrgwood pipe upstairs. Since the night he’d almost abandoned the school for the mountains, he hadn’t touched it. He’d even refused a fresh supply from Roger Quindley; they had exchanged letters about Hal’s whereabouts. Roger had sounded equal parts distressed and proud, referring to his nephew as “a revolutionary.” He promised to speak to both Hal’s parents and Bailey’s, and convince them that the two boys had merely snuck off the grounds on a lark, and would return as soon as they’d had their fun. Tremelo was glad that the Walkers and the Quindleys wouldn’t fret—and for now, Tremelo was the one to shoulder all the worry. It was a role he didn’t feel he fit into very well.

  He rose from his workbench—a walk in the chilly air would do him as much good as a myrgwood pipe until he could get his hands on the Dominae’s orb.

  BAILEY ESTIMATED THAT A week had gone by—he’d begun to lose count of the sunrises and sunsets that lit the rectangular hole cut high into the wall of his room. The window taunted him; Bailey couldn’t reach it, and he couldn’t see outside.

  Since that first disappointing morning, the Jackal had kept him on a steady routine: sleep in his lonely room, meals in the dining room, and hours each day of “practice.”

  On this morning, Bailey was awake with the dawn, huddled in the corner and rubbing his arms to keep warm. He heard the guard approach his door, and steeled himself for what was to come.

  “Let’s go,” said the guard gruffly. Bailey followed him down a hallway, to the room where the Jackal waited.

  “Good morning.” The Jackal smiled as Bailey entered the room. He was sitting in a wooden chair by a small metal table, which held a beaker of liquid and a few maps. He leaned back in the chair, twisting the metal tip of his cane against the floor. “Ready for another try?”

  Bailey moved his head in the smallest suggestion of a nod. In the corner, Taleth lay with her head on the floor, exhausted.

  “All right, then, let’s begin,” the Jackal said coldly. “You know what I want—just make the tiger bow to me. Then I may decide not to kill you and your friend tonight.”

  It was the same speech he gave Bailey every morning, yet he was sure that Hal was alive—he hadn’t seen him since that first night in the compound, but he’d heard the cook shuffling down to the basement with food. But Bailey wasn’t sure how long either of them could hold out. The Jackal demanded he use Dominance on Taleth, and with every day that passed he grew more and more irate.

  Without a word, Bailey stood facing Taleth. He felt trapped. He hoped Taleth understood. He wouldn’t use Dominance on her—he wasn’t even sure that he could—but he’d need her help to keep the Jackal at bay, at least until the Fair, when they’d have a better chance of escape.

  “What are you waiting for?” the Jackal demanded, hitting a fist against the table. His cup rattled. “A week of this nonsense! What’s stopping you?”

  “Sorry,” mumbled Bailey. He said it to appease the Jackal, but he was most sorry for Taleth. For what he needed her to do. It was too much to ask.

  Just bow. Just once. He’ll keep us alive. Please.

  As he did each time, he pictured her bowing to the Jackal, hoping that she would understand. He imagined the Jackal’s pleased sneer and the way his scar would curve up above the corner of his mouth. He felt like he might throw up. Taleth rubbed the side of her face against the stone, and then dragged herself to her feet. Bailey held his breath. Their eyes met.

  Please, he thought. Please.

  Taleth growled, and lay back down.

  “Mangy beast!” the Jackal shouted. “I’m tired of this—you disappoint me, boy. It happens today, happens now, or you all die, and the prophecy dies with you.”

  Bailey’s desperation felt like a small animal clawing its way up his arms. He didn’t know what to do. He was exhausted and frightened. They couldn’t keep on like this, or they’d never make it out of the compound with their lives.

  “Do it, boy!” the Jackal snarled, mere inches from Bailey’s ear.

  I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Bailey thought. Taleth’s fur shuddered. I’m sorry, Bailey thought again, deliberately forming each word in his mind as though he were carefully writing her a letter. I’m asking you. Please do this. It’s the only way we’ll survive.

  He tried a new tactic—he imagined the mountains where Taleth had come from, where Bailey’s people, the Velyn, still lived. He pictured the soft, stately pines and the craggy rocks covered with rust-colored moss. He visualized his bond with Taleth as a ball of light, growing brighter. He concentrated harder on his memories of the woods outside Fairmount. The sound of damp leaves underfoot. The smell of clean, cold air. We can go back there, but I need your help. Please…

  Taleth turned her massive head from side to side as though protesting, and Bailey felt his heart sink. But then she got back to her feet and growled. Bailey felt his concentration falter. He squeezed his eyes shut, refusing to let the humming he felt inside of himself die again.

  “Do it,” he said out loud, his teeth gritted. The energy grew in intensity, so that Bailey felt as though his skin were vibrating. He opened his eyes. “Do it,” he pleaded.

  Taleth growled again, but then she backed away, never taking her eyes off Bailey. With a graceful arch of her back, she lowered her forehead to the floor in an unmistakable bow.

  The Jackal clapped delightedly.

  “Well done!” he cheered, slapping Bailey hard on the back.

  Bailey watched, racked with shame and dizzy with relief, as Taleth padded to the corner of the room with her tail curled underneath. Her shoulders were hunched as she lay down, peering at him with tired eyes.

  As the guard walked Bailey back to the dining room, Bailey tried desperately to make sense of what had just happened. But he’d never felt his bond become so intense, just by his own will. And he’d certainly never seen Taleth do anything that she so clearly did not want to do. He’d ask Tremelo, later, once they were free, how different the bond truly was from Dominance. Because he couldn’t use Dominance. He would never…

  He tried to concentrate instead on the one piece of hope he had: his secret.

  Just as he had every day for the past week, Bailey finished his food and waited patiently, silently, for the cook to take his plate away. As soon as the door closed, Bailey knew he had mere seconds before it opened again, and a guard would enter to take Bailey back to his room.

  Quickly, he dashed to the corner of the dining room, to the pile of broken, discarded Clamoribus parts he’d seen on his first night in the compound. He grabbed whatever he could and stuck it into his pockets as he rushed back to his seat.

  The door opened, and the guard shot him a blank, thuggish look.

  Bailey stared at the table in front of him, taking care not to glance toward the pile of parts in the dim corner. It had grown smaller and smaller over the past week without any of the guards noticing.

  After being led to his room, he eagerly emptied his pockets. Several small gears and springs came out—and a polished metal button that Bailey instantly knew was the starter. He rummaged in the darkest corner of his room and removed a loose stone from the bottom of the wall, then pulled out a scrap of fabric holding the other parts. The body of the bird was mostly reconstructed—one wing still lay on the floor of the mess hall, waiting for him. He placed the polished black button in a circular space in the metal bird’s belly, and felt a satisfying click. The machine whirred, and with a burst of joy, Bailey heard the recording device inside the bird spin to life. Hope grew in his chest. He looked up at the window that mocked him, and, for the first time in many days, he smiled.

  EACH DAY, THE SEERS’ Glass glowed brighter.

  “What do you think it means?” Gwen asked Phi as they hiked carefully along a steep ravine. The landscape had changed ov
er the course of the last week, from steep but walkable mountainsides to narrow paths between jutting, angry rocks. Climbing had become painstakingly slow and treacherous.

  “You would know better than I would,” answered Phi. “Though I’ve noticed you don’t like to look at it.”

  Gwen shook her head.

  “It scares me,” she said. “I’m sure it has something to do with the Instrument of Change, but each time I look at it, it only makes me nervous. My heart starts beating so wildly, and I almost feel like it’s watching me or calling to me.”

  “I know that feeling,” murmured Phi.

  “You do?” asked Gwen.

  Phi stopped walking and bent to adjust her boot.

  “I know that sounds crazy,” she said. “But I didn’t just leave Fairmount because I wanted to help you—I do, of course. And I missed you too.”

  Gwen felt herself blushing.

  “I am glad for the company,” she admitted.

  “I didn’t tell Bailey this,” Phi continued, “or Tremelo. They’d have only worried. But someone—something—was watching me at the school. I never saw them, but I heard rustling outside my dorm room almost every night. And I think someone was going through my things.” She stood straight again and walked on. Gwen fell into step behind her.

  “I made the decision to leave to protect the others,” Phi said. “But I don’t know if it did any good at all. The Dominae could still be watching all of us.”

  As they climbed, every sound on the mountain made Gwen jump. She wondered whether the Dominae was after the Instrument of Change too—and if it could be the key to ending Dominance once and for all.

  “Why you?” Gwen asked her, as they edged along a cliff top overlooking the valley.

  “I think I know,” said Phi. “But you have to promise not to be mad.”

  “I promise,” said Gwen, growing worried.

  Phi leaned back against the rock face and opened the lapel of her coat. Pinned to the lining was a sparkling blue-and-green brooch in the shape of a blossoming flower.

  “It belonged to Sucrette,” said Phi.

  Gwen gasped.

  “You stole it?”

  “No! I mean—yes, I did,” Phi said. “But it’s not why you think.…”

  “Why, then?” asked Gwen.

  “We were right there when she died,” said Phi. “And I can’t help but think: we would have killed her if those animals hadn’t! It’s so horrifying! I don’t ever want to forget that. She was a person, and we were involved in her death. I can’t pretend it never happened. So this reminds me.”

  Gwen breathed in deeply. She understood what Phi meant—the memory of Sucrette’s grisly death upset her too. But she also remembered the Elder lying on the snowy forest ground, urging them to be brave. The kingdom needed them. Phi was sensitive; it made her vulnerable.

  “You have to take it off,” said Gwen. “Someone at Fairmount must have seen you wearing it.”

  Phi nodded.

  “But I can’t get rid of it,” she replied. “Not yet. I—I can’t explain it, but I don’t want it lost in the mountains.”

  “Then you’ll have to keep it hidden,” Gwen insisted. She kicked at a rock, sad and angry all at once. But then, plunging her hands into her traveling coat pocket, she touched Melore’s harmonica. Relics, reminders—they meant something, it was true. The Elder had known that.

  “I will,” Phi promised, pulling her coat tightly closed.

  When they’d finally found each other, they had both assumed that the path would come to an end soon. But the air had grown much thinner in the last days of their journey, and the path had become so steep they climbed a cliff face that was nearly vertical. Carin and the owls flew ahead each time, urging them with hoots and cries from the top of the rocks. Days came and went quickly, and each night Gwen lay awake, counting her sore muscles until she could count no higher.

  And each morning, Gwen unwrapped the wolf pelt to check on the Glass, and found it glowing brighter and brighter.

  Finally, on a foggy morning, Gwen and Phi ascended the highest peak, and pulled themselves over the edge of a black rock to find a desolate cave.

  “This is it,” Gwen whispered—the first words she’d spoken all day. They’d reached the mountaintop. She helped Phi to her feet, and together they faced the mouth of the cave. Gwen’s heart raced at the sight of the cave—she feared the dark, enclosed space. Phi was scared too.

  “Maybe there’s a way around?” Phi asked.

  Something moved toward them from the shadows. Gwen grabbed Phi’s hand as a wolf the size of a bear padded out. It was all white, with blue eyes. It lowered its head and growled. Carin and the owls flew protectively low over the girls, and Gwen stepped in front of Phi in a useless attempt to shield her. Her mouth had gone completely dry. She frantically looked around the rocks for a means of escape.

  To the girls’ horror, another wolf followed the first out of the cave, this one just as large and just as angry. Gwen held her breath, hardly believing that this was their journey’s end—to be attacked by vicious white wolves. Behind her and Phi, the rocks they’d just climbed dropped quickly down a steep ravine. There was nowhere to go.

  Shhhh…

  The noise was so quiet, so subtle, that when Gwen finally noticed it, she wasn’t sure when it had begun.

  The wolves stopped their growling, but they didn’t take their light blue eyes off Gwen and Phi. Around their feet, the earth moved. At least, that was what Gwen thought she saw.

  The hissing noise was the sound of the ground trembling and coming alive.

  Phi gasped, and backed away a step.

  “Spiders!”

  Gwen could see them now, hundreds of them—tiny white spiders crawling along the stony bottom of the cave, glistening in the soft sunlight as they emerged to greet the girls. The wolves moved out of their way as the spiders massed forward eagerly.

  “Oh, Nature!” breathed Gwen.

  The white spiders clambered around the girls’ boots and the hem of Gwen’s traveling coat. Gwen stiffened as the spiders passed over and around her feet.

  “Gwen, look!” said Phi, pointing to the mouth of the cave.

  Walking behind the spiders like a queen at the end of a procession was a woman. She had white hair, piled wildly on top of her head, with wisps floating out behind her as she walked. She searched the rock for Gwen and Phi with eyes the color of fresh milk. She was blind.

  “Come closer,” the woman said, somehow knowing that they were there.

  Gwen moved her right foot forward, looking down to see the spiders cascade away from her to make a path. She didn’t know who this woman was, or what she wanted, but she felt compelled forward by a force very like the bond itself. She sensed comfort from this person. Gwen approached the woman, who was no taller than she was. The woman wore a long gray dress woven out of delicate fibers that shimmered in the light. Spiderwebs. She raised her hands and began to touch Gwen’s cheeks and forehead, and the tip of her nose.

  “My dear,” she said, searching Gwen’s face with her spindly fingers. “Here you are at last.”

  GWEN SQUINTED AS THE woman led them into the mouth of the cave, then stopped as though she’d forgotten something. Reaching toward the stone wall, the Animas Spider felt around for a metal lantern hanging on a hook. A flare of bluish light appeared. Strands of silky spiderwebs glistened on the walls and rocks.

  “That should make the way easier for you,” the woman said softly.

  Gwen and Phi followed, with the blue light casting shadows that danced and shone.

  “Are you a Seer?” Gwen asked, though part of her didn’t dare believe. “An advisor to the old king sent me here. We called him the Elder, and he told me I’d find something…” She trailed off, wondering how much they could trust her.

  The woman simply turned and beckoned with her bone-white hand. Gwen remained silent.

  They walked until the light from the mouth of the cave had disappeared, and then the
y walked even farther. The air remained chilly, and Gwen tugged the sleeves of her coat down over her fingers. Finally, the tunnel opened up, and the light from the woman’s lamp illuminated a tall, rocky ceiling, full of downward-reaching stalactites. The room had been constructed by Nature herself, but it appeared as grand and solemn as any of the great halls of Parliament. Both Gwen and Phi craned their necks to gaze at the glistening ceiling.

  “You live here?” asked Phi.

  The woman nodded, and gestured to a table and chairs nearby. The furniture was made of crude, heavy wood. Gwen and Phi sat down.

  “What’s your name?” asked Gwen.

  “We stopped using names long ago,” said the woman. “They are of little use to us.”

  Gwen started—the old woman spoke firmly, and the sound of her voice echoed off the rocks.

  “You asked if I am a Seer—that’s what we are called, out there in Aldermere, yes. There are other Seers too, somewhere,” the woman continued. “We do not visit one another often. The caves are deep.”

  “How many of you are left?” asked Gwen. Phi, sitting next to her, stared openmouthed at the lofty stone ceiling. The birds had not followed them inside.

  “We do not make it our business to peer into one another’s doings,” she said. “But I believe there are others still alive. I would know if their lights had dimmed.” She thought for a moment, and then smiled. “If you must call me something, you may call me Ama.”

  Ama knelt at a small fireplace in the rock, and after a moment, a small fire flared under her bony hands. Ama felt along the wall, then grabbed ahold of a metal arm affixed to the rock, and hung a copper teakettle on it.

  “I am sorry if the wolves frightened you,” Ama continued. “They are Velyn kin, lent to me for protection. While I may have known that you were expected guests, they did not.” Gwen wondered how many guests a blind Seer entertained, alone under a mountain. Not many, she thought.

  “Are you all alone here?” Gwen asked. “Does anyone live here with you?”

  Ama shook her head. “Others cloud the sight. I have a visitor every—oh, year or so. More lately. But too much talk makes my light dim.”