by C. R. Grey
“Give it here,” Gwen said.
Reluctantly, Bailey handed the book to her. Gwen set it on her lap and opened it. Bailey sat down next to her and leaned over her shoulder to get a better look. The markings the Loon had made in the book’s pages were both familiar and mysterious; like twigs scattered across the ground, the seemingly random symbols made no sense at first glance. But when Gwen guided the Seers’ Glass along the open page, it reflected the markings, and, with that reflection, created the form of letters. Bailey mouthed the words together with Gwen.
Sunken deep at kingdom’s edge and watched by a wise and dusty army, the True King’s symbol of peace waits for its time to sing again. Its song is twofold: to cleave and to bond, to sever and to heal.
“‘To sever and to heal,’” repeated Tori. “Just like you said, Bailey.”
“But I don’t understand,” Bailey admitted. “It doesn’t say anything about a weapon. How do we know what this ‘symbol’ is?”
“Does it matter?” said Tori. “It’s watched by an army! Maybe that army would fight for Tremelo! Then we have both the symbol and the fighters that we need.”
“A dusty army,” said Hal. “Does anyone else think that might mean an army of old people?”
“Or an army we have to fight ourselves, in order to get…whatever this thing is!” said Bailey. He glanced down at Gwen for help, but she was busy sliding the Glass along the passage again.
“‘At kingdom’s edge…’” she whispered. “‘A wise and dusty army…’”
“I think I know what the riddle means!” Phi said. Her tan cheeks were flushed.
“You do?” Bailey asked.
Gwen looked up from the book. Tori and Hal leaned in to hear what Phi would say.
“Sure—just listen,” she said. “Gwen, read it again?”
“‘Sunken deep at kingdom’s edge and watched by a wise and dusty army,’” read Gwen.
“‘Sunken deep,’ that must mean the ocean,” said Phi. “And ‘at kingdom’s edge,’ that means someplace where people don’t often go. It must mean the Bay of Braour!”
“Where?” asked Bailey, trying to recall if his mom and dad had ever mentioned such a place to him.
“Don’t be silly, we learned about it in History,” said Tori. “It’s at the far northeastern edge of the Dust Plains. Past the Maze, past the Lowlands—the largest, most unsettled territory in all of Aldermere.”
“But why would something of Melore’s be all the way out there?” Hal asked. “He wouldn’t have spent much time in Braour during his reign. It was completely lawless.”
Bailey thought back on everything he knew about the Plains. He and Hal had become far too acquainted with the northern Dust Plains in the weeks before the Reckoning. The thought of a place more remote and more threatening than the Jackal’s bunker made his skin crawl. But something else floated to the forefront of his memory, pushing aside the menacing specter of the Jackal: it was the voice of Digby Barnes on the first night they met in the Gudgeons. No one really knows where Viviana’s been since that awful night. Some say she was a slave all those years she was lost; some say she became the leader of an outlaw gang in the Dust Plains.
“Melore wouldn’t have been out there,” Bailey said. “But Viviana may have been. She might have left something behind—something of her father’s—that now we can use to stop her!”
“I don’t know,” said Hal. “Maybe we should ask Tremelo?”
“No!”
Bailey and the others looked down at Gwen, who sat clutching the Loon’s book to her chest. She blushed.
“Why not?” Bailey asked her.
“I just think…” She paused. One hand traveled to her hair, where she twisted it between her fingers. “He has enough on his mind. I think Phi could be right.”
“You mean, you think we should go?” Phi asked. She looked surprised. “Just like that?”
Bailey stared at Gwen. She was undoubtedly a part of their group now, ever since they had all fought together against Miss Sucrette. But Gwen could be such a mystery at times. She caught him looking at her. Something in her eyes fluttered with worry. What, he wondered, had she seen in her vision?
“Yes,” she said. “We know what needs to be done for the good of all the Allies. I say we get a good night’s sleep and leave before first light.”
Bailey looked to Phi, who nodded in assent.
“Another adventure, then!” crowed Tori.
“At least this time, we’re all together,” Hal said. He smiled at Tori, and to Bailey’s surprise, she didn’t scowl—but she did cross her arms and look away shyly. Bailey offered Gwen his hand as she stood up and folded the Loon’s book into her bag.
“Yes,” Gwen agreed. “We’re all together.”
In the morning, Taleth waited for Bailey outside his sleeping nook. When he emerged with his rucksack to meet the others, she stood and rubbed her forehead against his shoulder.
“You don’t mind another journey, do you?” he asked. She didn’t, he knew. The walls of the tunnels made her feel too big, and the lack of sunlight made her weary. She wanted to run, to hunt, to see the trees. Bailey scratched behind her large ears. He knew exactly how she felt.
He hurried through the early morning hush of the tunnels toward the girls’ sleeping nook, but stopped short when he saw a flicker of candlelight coming from Tremelo’s work space. He set his rucksack down against the tunnel wall, out of sight, and peeked around the corner. Tremelo stood over his work, alone. He saw Bailey and waved him into the space.
“Is Gwen all right?” Tremelo asked.
“She’s fine,” lied Bailey. “Eneas leaving got her upset.” Even if he didn’t know what was bothering her exactly, it was pretty clear she was not all right. But Tremelo had enough on his mind.
Tremelo tapped his knuckles on his worktable. “I’m afraid I haven’t been as attentive to the needs of you young ones as I should be,” he said. “You shouldn’t have to be worried about Eneas, or anything for that matter. I should have tried to shield you from all that.”
“No,” said Bailey. “We want to help!” He wondered if Gwen was right to say that Tremelo shouldn’t know about their plans to journey to the Dust Plains.
Tremelo shook his head.
“I can’t let you do that.”
Bailey swallowed his next words. He’d wanted to blurt out the entire plan—the trek to the Plains, the riddle of the book, Gwen’s visions, everything.
“I’m sending Digby and the RATS out into the Lowlands and the villages between the Peaks and the Gray to drum up support,” Tremelo said. “They leave any moment now. And until I can make more of these”—he swept his hand over a pile of the amulets he’d made, about a dozen in all—“then that will have to do. In the meantime, the tunnels are the safest place to be until we can amass more fighters.”
“What if…” Bailey began. “What if there was a different army—one we haven’t thought of yet. If you knew where they might be, wouldn’t you want to find them?”
Tremelo raised one black eyebrow and folded his arms.
“Did you speak with Eneas?” he asked.
Confused, Bailey shook his head.
“Eneas? Why?”
“What did he say to you?” Tremelo asked. He searched Bailey’s face, but Bailey wasn’t sure what he was looking for. He had spoken to Eneas before the warrior had left the camp, but what of that could cause Tremelo such concern?
“Whatever he told you, don’t take it to heart,” Tremelo said. “The Velyn have many strange superstitions in their culture. Stories. Stories won’t save us. This will.” He pointed to the amulets again and breathed a heavy sigh. “These are dangerous times,” he continued. “We must keep working where we are sure we can gain ground. Not go off chasing dreams.”
Bailey wanted to ask what dreams had caused such a divide between Tremelo and Eneas, but he didn’t have the chance. Just then, Digby Barnes hastened into the room. His makeshift metal armor clanged and squ
eaked as he clapped Bailey on the back and shook Tremelo’s hand.
“Well, we’re off,” he said. “I’ve got some o’ the troops heading down into the Lowlands to rally with Roger, and the rest of us is going up Stillfall way. Anyone we meet, we’ll send back here. You sure you don’t want more of us to stay with you? Now that Eneas is gone…”
“The Velyn here are trustworthy,” Tremelo said firmly. “I have no doubt on that score, no matter what the others say. I will be fine here.”
“That may be true, sir,” said Digby. He patted down his red wool cap and lowered an absurd helmet made of flattened soup cans onto his head. “But you send word to Roger if that changes.” He shook Tremelo’s hand again.
“Bailey, I trust you’ll take care of our regal highness while I’m gone.” Digby shook Bailey’s hand as well, and gave Taleth a swift pet on the top of her head.
“I’ll try,” Bailey said. The lie made his stomach churn.
“I’ll see you off,” said Tremelo. He followed the clattering Digby out of the workspace and into the tunnels.
“When I was just a ferret’s size,” Digby sang as he exited, “my mum said to me, ‘Son! Don’t pull the tail of a RAT in his hole, or you’ll find the fight’s been won!’”
Bailey watched them go, his guilt and confusion eating away at his previous excitement about the new adventure he and his friends had concocted. What was it that had wedged such a rift between Eneas and Tremelo? And why, once again, did Tremelo not want his help? He looked down at the worktable, where the metal glint of the amulets caught his eye. His heart stirred. Tremelo would worry about them all, once he realized they were gone. But if he knew that they had some small protection, perhaps next time he wouldn’t accuse Bailey of never thinking before taking action. Bailey grabbed three of the amulets and stuffed them into his coat pocket. Just like Tremelo, he would do what he needed to keep his friends safe. Surely Tremelo would understand.
Once he was certain that Digby and Tremelo were out of sight, he grabbed his rucksack and hurried to meet the others.
TREMELO MIGHT HAVE LAUGHED, once, at the sight of the RATS in their traveling gear. All done up in sheets of metal tied with rope, and sporting weapons like slatted spoons and hand-knotted nets in addition to their bows and arrows and knives, Digby’s crew made for a motley sight. But Tremelo couldn’t quite remember the last time he’d laughed at anything—not since he had brought his followers to these dark, dusty tunnels. Certainly not since Eneas Fourclaw, his only hope for gaining the trust and loyalty of the Velyn, had disappeared without even a fare-you-well.
“Be back before you know it!” Digby lifted his hand to his forehead in a jaunty salute. Then, with the rest of the RATS, he began a cautious climb down the steep hill toward the Lowlands.
Tremelo fought the urge to call out “Be careful!”—as if they needed reminding. He ached for a myrgwood pipe. His faith that Digby would find anyone in the RATS network willing to risk their lives for him was wearing away. He tried to hold on to hope he’d been carrying inside him since the evening of the Reckoning; huddled in the Gray City RATS Nest, hearing his newfound followers’ cheers for him, for their king, had made him believe that Viviana’s defeat would be swift and soon. But now, with Eneas gone and the Velyn unmoored, his hope was dwindling as quickly as their chances.
Fennel the fox waited for him on the path. She sat licking her black paws, still red with the blood of a bird she’d eaten for breakfast. Tremelo’s own stomach grumbled.
As he neared the tunnel entrance he heard a rustling noise, then a whisper. He hurried around the next tree and saw three Velyn women with packs on their backs. They froze when they noticed him.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “Has something happened?”
The women looked at one another. Finally, the one closest to him, a young fighter with red hair bound up on her head, spoke.
“We’re not staying,” she said. “Some of the others are, but it’s only a matter of time. We’d rather take our chances in the woods.”
“You can’t leave,” Tremelo said. “Please—Eneas will be back. Don’t you want to stand up to Viviana?”
The red-haired woman jutted out her chin.
“Viviana isn’t after us the way the Jackal was. She wants you. We were safer before we joined you.”
She nodded to her companions, and together they began to climb up the rocks that led farther up into the Peaks.
“Wait!” Tremelo cried. “Don’t you understand? Dominance is a threat to all of us! You won’t be able to hide if we can’t defeat it. We have to stay together!”
The women didn’t stop climbing. Soon enough they disappeared over the rocks and into the trees. A murder of crows lit up from the branches of those trees, circled once overhead, and followed the women.
“Ants, ants, ants,” Tremelo cursed. He ducked into the tunnel, listening for the other Velyn. Dogs barked; an owl hooted. The others in the tunnel were awake and restless. He passed a huddled group of men and women on whom he could direct his wrath. “What good is strategy and caution,” he demanded, his arms flailing as he spoke, “when all one has to do is skip into the woods and find a make-believe army?!”
The group had gone quiet, and looked up at him now.
“Why even bother trying to save the kingdom?” he said, then wheeled off toward his work space to think.
He was acting rashly. He knew that, just as well as he knew all the reasons that the kingdom was worth saving, worth fighting for. But he was angry, and felt betrayed. He couldn’t be sure if Eneas would return. What kind of king would he be, if he couldn’t convince his allies and followers that his plan was the way to victory?
But Eneas’s disappearance made Tremelo second-guess himself. Eneas had tried convincing Tremelo to move south, beyond the Peaks. But there was nothing beyond the Peaks, Tremelo knew this. Only wilderness, and the kind of tall tales that are exciting to tell around a fire but useless in the face of real war. The Queen of the Underlands, indeed. Tremelo sat down and placed his head in his hands.
“What am I going to do?” he asked Fennel. She sat at his feet and gazed up at him. Her black eyes were bottomless—she couldn’t help him, either. She sniffed the air and then jumped up onto the table.
“What is it?” he groaned. He felt a prickling of worry in the way her fur ruffed at the neck. She began to whine.
He looked at where her nose was pointed on the worktable: the pile of amulets he’d made had been disturbed. Quickly, he counted. Three were missing.
“Did I give them to Digby?” he asked aloud. Fennel cocked her head. He knew he hadn’t. All of the amulets had been here when he’d left Bailey in the room that morning.
“No…” he said, launching himself off of his stool and running for the boys’ sleeping nook. “Bailey!” he cried. But all that greeted him in the nook was a discarded sleeping roll, an extinguished torch leaning against the wall, and a note.
We’ve gone to find you an army, it said.
Tremelo stuffed the note into the breast pocket of his worn striped vest and ran to the girls’ quarters, knowing what he’d find. Sure enough, Gwen, Tori, and Phi had left the same sparse disarray behind: a few scraps of clothing, a few eating utensils borrowed from Digby’s supplies, and another doused torch.
“Fools,” Tremelo spat. He looked down at Fennel. “Let’s go; we may still be able to track them!” He ran outside with Fennel at his heels. The tops of the trees were now orange with the rising sun.
Fennel dashed into the brush; her black nose and her whiskers quivered. Tremelo held his hand over his heart, which hammered like an engine in his chest. Once again, Bailey had betrayed his good judgment and run off. How many times would the boy need saving before it was too late? He tried to quiet his mind and find Fennel. She was running fast; her heart beat as audibly as his. She smelled the students, but more than them, she smelled the strong scent of Taleth. They were headed down the mountain, in the opposite direction of Digby and his R
ATS. They were going east. Why? He felt himself pulled forward by Fennel’s energy. She had the scent—he followed it down the hill, weaving between the pines. Bailey always acted on instinct, and now Tremelo’s own instinct told him to keep the boy safe at all costs. He stumbled over a root but righted himself and surged forward. Fennel ran ahead, just out of sight.
He closed his eyes, feeling his consciousness flicker in and out as he tapped into the bond. A switch occurred, and Tremelo felt himself one with Fennel. He didn’t hear or see the person behind him, but smelled them as Fennel did. When she stopped short on the path with a frightened yip, Tremelo was blinded by his own adrenaline and panic. And then all was darkness—a bag was pulled over his head and he was dragged away from the path, away from Fennel, into the heavy brush of the woods. He kicked against the dirt and the leaves, but the person holding him was strong. And he was dragged away as he heard Fennel whine. Searching his mind for her, he could find nothing. She was gone. A chilly breeze rustled through the pine trees, unfriendly and cold.
“I HATE TO BE the one to say it,” said Tori as the kids trudged along a back road in the Lowlands. “But we can’t exactly buy rigi tickets for five schoolkids and their pet white tiger. I have a sneaky feeling the Dominae might be, I don’t know, looking for that exact thing.”
They were headed to a station that serviced a trade rigi bound for the southern Dust Plains. The Bay of Braour was located at the far northeast coast of Aldermere, and though the southern Plains were reportedly more barren—and more dangerous—than the north, after some discussion Bailey and his friends knew they had no choice but to cross them.
“At least the southbound rigis are mostly grains and goods,” said Bailey. “No passengers. We just have to sneak on.”
“It’d be more dangerous to take the rigi the other direction through the Gray,” Hal added. “They’d be searching every car for us!”
It was common knowledge that the rigimotive, which had been designed to run in a great circle through the kingdom, was more like a crescent moon. Its western route ended in the northern Dust Plains just outside the Maze, and the unfinished eastern route, which ran closest to the Lowlands, ended in the midst of the much wilder, much dustier southeastern Plains. In between, the Plains had to be crossed by wagon, motorbuggy, or foot. Bailey’s mom and dad had sent grain out that way to be traded with the villages in the eastern Lowlands and the Plains border. Bailey knew that they could ride the rigi there—they just had to avoid getting caught on board.