Hunted

by Maggie Stiefvater

  Meilin smirked, certain of her abilities.

  “I call dibs on the mace,” Rollan said. “And the brass knuckles.”

  “Not so fast,” Tarik said. As he spoke, four other Greencloaks entered the room. Though their spirit animals were in passive form, the four newcomers held their arms in such a way to display their tattoos to the four kids — like the Greencloaks were introducing the animals, even though they weren’t physically present. There was a llama, a fruit bat, a lemur, and a mountain lion.

  Tarik continued, “You won’t always have access to weapons. In fact, an attack will more often come when you’re not ready — while you’re sleeping or eating. So you will not be using those weapons.”

  He pulled aside the folded screen behind him. The wall behind it was hung with frying pans, broomsticks, plates, pillows, and other ordinary objects.

  He said, “You’ll be using these.”

  “Oh, I did that every day in my old life,” Rollan joked.

  “This is ridiculous,” Meilin argued. “Maybe a street urchin is willing to fight with these crude tools, but I could do better with my bare hands.”

  Abeke exchanged a look with Conor. They both moved to the wall to get weapons. Neither bothered complaining.

  “Grab the first one you come to,” Tarik said. “And when I whistle, change to another object.”

  Abeke took a broomstick. Conor took a fork.

  “Here,” Rollan said, offering Meilin a handkerchief from the wall. “This one won’t scratch up your noble hands.”

  Meilin smiled prettily. Removing the frying pan, she handed it to him. “And here’s one for you. Doesn’t require much brains to figure out how to use it.”

  Rollan pretended to bow.

  “Everyone to their marks,” Tarik ordered.

  They took their places, the other Greencloaks opposite. Abeke faced a middle-aged man with a lemur tattoo and friendly-looking, wide eyes. The sword he held was not quite so friendly looking.

  “I’m Errol,” the man said, touching his chest.

  “My name is Abeke,” Abeke replied.

  He smiled warmly at her. “I know.”

  Tarik’s voice rose above the introductions. “Older team: Keep your spirit animals in passive form. Younger team: You may use all powers you have at your disposal. The object is to disarm your opponent. And if you manage that, to pin them to the ground.”

  “For how long?” Meilin asked. “How will we know if we’ve won?”

  “There is no win or lose here, Meilin,” Tarik replied. “We don’t have time for games. What I want is for you to show me that you can neutralize an opponent so I feel more comfortable putting you in a real-life dangerous situation. Now. Are we ready? Three, two?”

  Putting his fingers to his lips, he let out a sharp, piercing whistle. The training battle began.

  Right away, Abeke knew that her broomstick would be no match for Errol’s sword. So, drawing on her past in Nilo, she hurled her broomstick like a spear. The stick bounced harmlessly off his chest. Grinning at her, he picked it up.

  “I’ll let you have one free pass,” Errol said, offering her the broomstick. In the background, iron clanged and Rollan swore joyously. “But remember that thing doesn’t have a point on it. If you tossed it at me in a real fight, you’d just end up empty-handed as I came at you with my blade.”

  Abeke’s cheeks felt warm. “Of course.”

  “But well-thrown,” he said. “Here’s a hint: Use that broomstick defensively, and count on your spirit animal as your weapon. And the other way around, if you find yourself with a real weapon.”

  “Thanks,” she said. Then, suspicious of his kind smile, she added, “Don’t go easy on me.”

  “That wouldn’t be a favor,” Errol said. “We want you prepared when you get out there. Don’t go easy on me.”

  Abeke stole a glance at the others. Meilin sat on the shoulders of her opponent, the silk handkerchief wrapped around her assailant’s eyes. If Meilin can do so well with just a scrap of cloth, Abeke thought, I have to be able to work with a broom!

  This time, when Errol came at her with the sword, she used the broom like a long staff instead, blocking his blows as best as she could. His strikes became steadily harder, though, and the broom handle began to splinter.

  “Sorry!” Abeke said.

  He looked confused. “For what?”

  “For this!” With a pang of conscience, Abeke thrust the broom bristles into the swordsman’s face. Sneezing, he swatted at the noxious cloud of dust, hair, and animal fur surrounding his head. He blindly windmilled his sword.

  Well, he said not to go easy on him.

  “Uraza!” Abeke called. “Now!”

  Just as Errol’s sword split her broomstick in two, shards flying, the leopard pounced. Her paws clapped on his chest. With a grunt, he fell back, catching himself with his hands. His sword clattered away.

  Uraza licked a paw serenely.

  Errol gave Abeke a thumbs-up from his place on the floor.

  Abeke smiled at him. It was nice to feel accepted.

  Tarik’s whistle sounded.

  “New weapon!” he shouted. “Now, this round, I want you fighting as a team. Hurry! Grab something, quick.”

  Abeke snatched up a heavy wooden mixing bowl. Conor took a spoon. Meilin and Rollan argued over a vase. Meilin ended up with the porcelain bottom and Rollan ended up with the dry flowers inside it.

  “Wait —” Rollan said.

  Tarik let out his shrill whistle. “As a team, go!”

  This time, all four Greencloaks attacked at once, and the four kids moved as one against them. Abeke’s wooden bowl served well as a shield. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Conor and Briggan working together, darting forward and back.

  Smart, thought Abeke. Conor’s been taking his training to heart. He would be prepared even if he was surprised out in the open, with no weapon at all.

  In fact, she was awed by their progress. Although he and Briggan had been gradually improving at each training session, this was a huge leap forward.

  Suddenly, the older Greencloaks changed tactics, turning to Abeke at the same time. She found herself facing two swords, a spear, and an axe — impossible to hold off on her own, even with Uraza.

  Uraza snaked beneath a Greencloak, her flexible body low to the ground. One paw darted out, claws sheathed safely away. The Greencloak with the llama tattoo careened to the ground, unbalanced. Abeke used her bowl to knock back the bat-tattooed Greencloak. Uraza sprang onto his shoulders effortlessly. The weight of the big cat brought him to his knees.

  But the success was short-lived. The other two Greencloaks came at her while Uraza was occupied. Errol’s sword smacked her bowl right out of her hands. As it flew up into the air, the other Greencloak slammed her with the broad side of his training axe, hard enough to throw her to the ground and knock the breath out of her.

  Abeke gasped as her palms scuffed over the floor.

  Tarik’s whistle shrieked. It sounded a little irritated, louder and longer than usual.

  “What was that?” Tarik demanded. “This was not a spectator event! Where were you three? How could you let her go down like that?”

  Conor had the good manners to look ashamed. Rollan acted like it simply hadn’t occurred to him to help. Meilin’s carefully painted face remained haughty. They didn’t explain themselves, but they didn’t have to.

  They don’t trust me, Abeke thought, her eyes prickling with tears. The days of the others’ distrust piled up inside her along with the ache of her scuffed palms and the humiliation of having been so badly beaten. She wouldn’t cry in front of them. Especially not in front of Meilin. She was sure Meilin didn’t cry over anything.

  “I’m deeply disappointed,” Tarik said. “Part of good strategy is making good use of all your assets. Abeke is one of your assets, and you should have protected her.”

  Conor offered his hand to Abeke. She hesitated before accepting it. He hauled her up.
r />   “Sorry,” he said.

  On the other end of the room, footsteps rang out through the uncomfortable silence. It was Olvan, the regal leader of the Greencloaks. As always, his movements were slow and deliberate. There was something imposing about him, even when his spirit animal, a moose, wasn’t visible.

  Rubbing his beard, he surveyed the wreckage: shattered glass, broken broomsticks, dried flower petals. “Tarik, I don’t like to interrupt. But this is important.”

  “Go ahead,” Tarik said. He was still frowning at three of his four pupils. When he nodded at the four Greencloaks, they nodded back and exited. Errol waved to Abeke as he left. It was kind enough that it made her want to cry again.

  “We’ve confirmed that one of the Great Beasts is in the north of Eura,” Olvan said. “Rumfuss the Boar. It’s not a far journey from here. The four of you and the Fallen must travel immediately to find out more. Tarik, you will lead them again.”

  “Yes,” Rollan said. “Finally. Let’s leave all this cutlery behind.”

  Tarik’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know much about the North.”

  Olvan seemed unconcerned. “I’ll be sending Finn with you. He’s from that area and can act as a guide.”

  “Finn?” Tarik echoed. He didn’t add anything else, but the single word was enough to make Olvan raise a thick eyebrow. It was unlike Tarik to question Olvan.

  “Concerns, Tarik?” Olvan asked brusquely. But his tone didn’t seem to encourage a confession. Tarik merely shook his head.

  “It will be good to have another set of hands,” Meilin said.

  “Finn was once a great warrior, but now he’s seen too much battle,” Tarik answered carefully. “He will only be useful as a scout.”

  “But a very good scout,” Olvan insisted. “He will not fight for you, but he will stand by you. There can be no question of that. Here he is.”

  Finn entered the room with footfalls much softer than Olvan’s had been. Abeke’s head darted up. At once her humiliation was forgotten, replaced by interest.

  Finn was the tattooed man from the mirrored room.

  And their lives would soon be in his hands.

  3: Letter

  THE FIRST THING CONOR DID TO GET READY FOR THE journey was head to the kitchen. He didn’t have a problem existing in dirty clothing or without weapons as long as he had enough food to last the trip. The cool basement kitchen was dug right into the rock foundation of the fortress, and it was very full. Greenhaven required quite a lot of cooks — not only were there a lot of Greencloaks, there were more than a few spirit animals with very strange diets. So Conor tried to grab jerky, crackers, and dehydrated fruit from under elbows and over shoulders and around hips. He had to keep saying, “Excuse me,” and “I’m sorry,” and “Oh, was that your eye?!”

  “Oh, love,” said one of the cooks, a woman who looked a lot like a decorative pillow, “we will do that for you. You are too good to be in the kitchen!”

  “Oh, no,” Conor protested fervently. The kitchen was one of the only places in Greenhaven where he felt remotely comfortable. He came from a shepherd family and, until the last year or so, had grown up in fields. It wasn’t the easiest life, but it was simple, and he’d been good at it. He knew his place, and it wasn’t this magnificent fortress. This kitchen was closer.

  “Oh, yes,” the cook replied with a laugh. “You’ve bonded with a Great Beast! You’re destined for greatness!”

  With a hint of panic, Conor shoved some more jerky into his pack. The idea that he was destined for greatness was not a cozy one. His former noble employer, Devin Trunswick, would certainly have argued against it.

  “Look, the messenger boat’s come in!” called an older, bearded cook. Peering out of the small window, he beckoned for Conor to join him. The fortress sat up high above the shore, and though the beach was not close, the building’s lofty vantage point let Conor see all the way down to where a small boat had scuffed onto the rocky sand. In the afternoon light, two messengers climbed out. One walked purposefully toward the castle, but the other began to run, heading for the main entrance of the fortress.

  Why run? Conor wondered with a frown. What is the hurry?

  As Conor watched the two messengers, the cooks took advantage of his distraction to pack his bag full of food, including a large bone for Briggan. A few minutes later, the running messenger disappeared around the side of the fortress, and the other, to his surprise, came right to the kitchen. She had a mailbag. And one of the letters was for Conor.

  Conor accepted the letter, trying to keep the shock off his face. He knew very few people who would write to him. Although he was close to his family and their small farming community, none of the peasantry could read or write very well. In all the time he’d served the Trunswicks, he’d only received a single letter from his family. They’d paid a week’s earnings to hire the Finley girl, who was training to be a scribe, to scratch it all down. The younger Trunswick brother, Dawson, had read it aloud to him — when he wasn’t too busy laughing at the penmanship.

  Devin Trunswick was very capable of writing a letter, but it was impossible to imagine him writing one to his former servant. Conor could still remember the open hatred in Devin’s gaze as Tarik led Conor away from the crowd during their Nectar Ceremony.

  Which was why Conor was surprised to see what looked like Devin’s handwriting. It was a little more jiggly and uneven, but the capital letters looked the same.

  “Letter from home?” asked the pillow cook. Somehow figuring out from his hopeless expression that he couldn’t read it, she added kindly, “Shall I read it to you?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Wiping her hands on her apron, the cook took the letter and scanned to the bottom. “It’s from your mother!”

  Conor’s heart soared for just a moment before crashing back to the earth. It couldn’t be true. Conor’s mother couldn’t read or write.

  Dear Conor,

  I have wanted to send you a letter for a long time, but as you know, I could not write. Devin Trunswick’s little brother, Dawson, has kindly agreed to write it for me. He says he needs the practice with his handwriting anyway. He is a fine boy!

  I do not have much time before my evening duties, but I wanted to let you know that we are proud of you. Sadly, things have gotten worse since you left. I have had to take your place as Devin’s servant, as our debt to Lord Trunswick was still large when you left. Also, a very cold spring killed many of our lambs and the wolves have been getting desperate. We lost two of our dogs to them this season. Food is scarce. We must hand over almost everything we earn to the Trunswicks to pay our debt. I do not mean to scare you, but it is hard to make ends meet without your labor. Please ask the Greencloaks if they could send food for us this winter. Surely it is the least they can do for us as you work with them now. I would not ask if it was not dire.

  With all of my love, Your mother

  P.S. This is Dawson. I am sorry that your family is so hungry. My father will not forgive their debt. I asked him.

  Conor didn’t say anything. It was bad enough to imagine his mother as Devin’s servant, but also to imagine his family starving? He didn’t want to picture it, but he couldn’t help seeing disaster striking. They had been close enough to it when his father had asked him to go work for Devin. Even as he’d hated leaving for Trunswick, even as he’d wondered why he was the sibling who had to go, he’d known that otherwise they would have starved. Suddenly the bag of food he’d packed felt like a luxury.

  “I’m sure they’ll be all right,” said the pillow cook, draping her arm over Conor’s shoulders and giving him back the letter. “Giving you up to Briggan is just their sacrifice to save Erdas. You heard what she said! She’s proud of you!”

  One of the other cooks handed Conor his bag. “As are we,” she added. “Now, off with you. Briggan’s lad doesn’t belong in a kitchen, no matter where he came from.”

  But if I don’t belong in a field or kitchen anymore, Conor thought, a
nd I don’t feel like I belong in a castle, then where do I belong?

  4: Moon Tower

  ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE FORTRESS, MEILIN PACED IN THE map room. As she moved around the room, her hands behind her back, she did her absolute best to avoid looking at the three-hundred-pound panda in the room with her. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Jhi. It was just that looking at her reminded Meilin of precisely everything that was angering her at the moment.

  In front of Meilin was a map of Erdas. All the continents were neatly drawn in burgundy ink: Amaya, Nilo, Eura, and Zhong. Someone had lightly drawn in another continent, Stetriol, near the bottom of the map. Meilin put her finger on it. This was where the Conquerors were coming from. Where the Devourer was coming from.

  Meilin traced her finger to Zhong. It wasn’t very far at all. No wonder Zhong was the first to be attacked.

  Is my father still alive? she wondered. If she closed her eyes, she could still see the general’s face.

  Meilin dragged her finger from Zhong to Eura. It seemed like a much farther distance than Stetriol to Zhong.

  Why am I here? she thought furiously. Why am I not there fighting? And why do I have such a useless spirit animal?

  She wished the others were ready to go. Meilin had selected her weapons and supplies and packed with the efficiency her father had taught her. She wasn’t surprised that the others were slower. They probably weren’t used to having enough belongings to even learn how to pack.

  It felt a little better to be going on a mission, but doubt chewed at her. How was chasing down the other Great Beasts supposed to do anything to help Zhong now?

  Meilin spun. Jhi sat silently behind her. The black spots around her eyes made her look a little sad. She was so slow. So peaceful. Sure, she had some healing powers, but not enough to save someone mortally wounded. Jhi would be a very useful ally if the Devourer needed to be cuddled to death.

  Fury bubbled in Meilin.

  The door opened. Immediately, Meilin composed her face. She wouldn’t let anyone see her truly upset. Especially not if it was Rollan.