The Only

by Katherine Applegate; Michael Grant

  Khara nodded and gave me an encouraging smile.

  “As you know, it has long been a mystery how natites are able to communicate almost instantly across vast distances. When a human pays the natite tax in far-off Bossyp, how is it that the natites in the Chrisherna Sea seem to know it? How are they able to talk to each other in this way? To know what a fellow natite, one they’ve never met, knows?”

  “I will say this,” Gambler interjected. “If it’s theurgy, it’s like no theurgy ever practiced by human, felivet, raptidon, or terramant. During my time on the Isle of Scholars, this ability to communicate was one of the mysteries I studied. Natites there would reveal nothing.”

  “It isn’t theurgy,” Renzo said flatly. “I saw it being done. I would have known if magic was involved.”

  “Saw what being done?” Khara asked. “How? By whom?”

  “Whales,” I said.

  Khara frowned. “Whales?”

  “Whales,” I repeated. “Sailors know that whales vocalize.”

  “Oh, yes indeed!” Tobble exclaimed. “They sing! It’s quite a sound!”

  “A sound,” I continued, “that acts very differently in water than it does in air. The songs the whales make aren’t just heard by those nearby. They reverberate for hundreds of miles.”

  Khara gave a short, sharp laugh. “Am I supposed to believe that natites can communicate with whales? Natites are one of the governing species. Whales are, well, just animals.”

  I shook my head. “I sensed no dishonesty at all from the queen when she told us . . . well, when she said something you will find hard to believe.”

  “Go on,” said Khara.

  “Natites are whales,” I began. “And whales are natites. I don’t mean they’re exactly the same thing, but to natites, whales are close relations. Family, even. They call the whales brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers. The natites believe they came from whales. That over vast stretches of time, some whales changed, so much so that they were no longer true whales, but a whole new thing: natites.”

  I paused and took a breath. Who would have guessed that being an ambassador involved so much speaking? Meanwhile, Khara waited, expressionless. I couldn’t tell if she was doubtful, annoyed, or intrigued.

  “When the queen told us this, she knew we would be skeptical, so she demonstrated,” I continued. “She asked me to name a kind of water creature. I chose a squid. The queen started to . . . sing, I suppose you’d call it. It was a brief song, a sort of slow, undulating vibration.” I paused. “In less time than it takes to fry an oatcake—”

  “Very little time,” Tobble interrupted. “You want to be careful not to overcook an oatcake.”

  “As I was saying,” I went on, “in less time than—”

  “Three minutes on one side, just one minute on the other side, or the oatcake will . . .” Tobble trailed off. “Um, never mind. I apologize for the interruption. It was rude of me. Carry on.”

  “In the very little time it takes to fry an oatcake,” I said, “a small whale appeared out of the depths.”

  “If by ‘small,’ you mean very, very big,” Renzo added.

  “On the queen’s command,” I said, “he opened his mouth and displayed, within his cavernous jaw, a large, very annoyed squid.”

  Khara sat perfectly still. I knew it wasn’t because she didn’t understand my story, but because she did. This was a power beyond the ability of any human, felivet, raptidon, terramant, or dairne. It was beyond theurgy.

  No one stirred as this new reality sank in, although Renzo and Tobble and I had already spent our return trip grappling with the revelation. If it was possible to communicate over vast distances, then natites had a power to rival that of dairnes. A power that tyrants like the Murdano and the Kazar Sg’drit would fear.

  Tyrants have no greater fear than the truth. And if the truth could be known quickly, and by all? What then?

  Khara spoke at last, her voice oddly subdued. “And what does Queen Pavionne ask of me?”

  “She asks that if you bring down the Murdano, when you bring down the Murdano, the ruler who comes next will agree to have a natite present at all council meetings.”

  Gambler shifted uneasily. “And tell the whole wide natite world what this new ruler is saying and doing?”

  “Yes,” I said. “The next ruler must rule openly, in plain view of all species. No secrets. That’s Queen Pavionne’s demand.”

  Khara gave a curt nod. “And in exchange?”

  “In exchange, she will ensure that you are never without money to buy weapons or feed your troops. And she will stop the Murdano’s navy from attacking Dreyland.”

  Khara didn’t have to utter a word. I already knew her answer.

  Later, as the others headed back to their tents, Khara motioned for me to stay. “Byx,” she said, “I want to thank you for your service. You accomplished everything we’d hoped. I’ll send a messenger to communicate my decision to the queen.”

  Dairnes don’t blush, of course, but we do get embarrassed. Beneath the fur on my face, I could feel a rush of heat. “I’m relieved it went well,” I said. “I was so afraid I’d let you—all of us—down.”

  “That, my friend, will never happen.” Khara clapped me on the back.

  “I hope you’re right.”

  We stepped outside her tent into the damp, chill air. Khara’s guard, a young female human, snapped to attention. “We’ve completed our first challenge, Byx,” said Khara. “Now comes the next step. We’ll discuss it more at the war council convening in a few days. But first I need to know: Are you game for more?”

  Flushed with pride at Khara’s praise, at that moment I felt invincible. “Ready and willing,” I replied.

  It was only later that night, lying awake on my cot as I watched the moon turn tree limbs into grasping shadows, that my doubts resurfaced.

  I was ready to help. I wanted to do my part. But was I really able? Able to do all that Khara would be asking of me?

  Sleep eluded me that evening, and many more evenings to follow. Some nights, even with Tobble snoring soundly nearby, only the silent moon listened to my fears.

  12

  The War Council

  I’d never been to a war council before. Until Khara had said it, I’d never even heard the phrase “war council.” And I’d certainly never expected to attend one.

  Let alone speak to it.

  But there I was.

  The council convened six days after our return from Jaureggia, in a clearing at the center of our latest camp. Khara’s generals and chief advisers were there, including Bodick the Blue and General Varis, along with other allies, all of whom had been en route to join the army even before my visit to Queen Pavionne.

  Mysenie Marrak, a quiet, capable fellow, delivered a force of five hundred archers armed with formidable bows, all the way from the southern reaches of the Forest of Null.

  An ancient, gray-bearded ally named Feldrick, a supposed criminal from the Therian Marshes, came too. He’d been outlawed for fighting back when the Murdano’s soldiers had tried to slaughter his entire village. Feldrick had brought three hundred men and women, mostly ax-wielding people who called themselves “Marshcats.”

  A strange man named Woad was also in attendance, along with one hundred warriors from the western slopes of the Perricci Mountains. Woad and his fighters wore leather jerkins and strange pointed shoes. His entire face, neck, and shoulders were covered in black tattoos designed to make him look half human, half felivet, although Gambler was decidedly unimpressed.

  Arriving by sky was a broad-winged green-and-red raptidon named Stimball, an adviser to Rorid Headcrusher, a mighty raptidon leader.

  Gambler, Renzo, Sabito, Tobble, and Maxyn completed the group. Maxyn had recovered sufficiently to be able to walk without his crutch for brief periods, though I could tell he was still in a lot of pain.

  In all, we were two dozen or so, standing in a circle around a table set up in the open air. The sky was busy with da
rk, roaming clouds, and the temperature was dropping, though it was only noon. The air held the sharp smell of advancing rain.

  A large, frayed map lay on the table, held down by stones at each corner. It showed all of Nedarra, the southern reaches of Dreyland, and a sliver of far-off Marsony.

  “To begin with, General Varis will lay out the problem,” Khara said. “Then I will hear your advice.” She smoothed the center of the map. “Wise Varis points out that all wars involve reading the land. Rivers, mountains, seacoast, forests: these are what we must understand. General?”

  She stood back and the grim-faced general stepped up. His battered sword looked like it had seen a thousand battles. And perhaps it had.

  “To our north, the Sovo Ridge divides us from Dreyland,” he began. “But we know that the Kazar Sg’drit has enthralled terramants and forced them to dig a great tunnel beneath those mountains. His plan is to open the tunnel and deliver terramant shock troops onto the plains south of Zebara, followed by his army. They will ravage the area, burn crops and villages, kill livestock and people. But after that, they’ll run into the Perricci Mountains, which will stand between them and the Murdano’s capital of Saguria.”

  I watched his thick index finger trace a route on the map. I didn’t know the geography nearly as well as most, but this much, at least, I understood.

  “From the Zebaran plains, the Dreylanders have two choices. They can scale the Perricci Mountains and follow the southern edge of the range into Saguria. Or they can send their forces, both human and terramant, down the coast, which means passing through a dense forest and crossing a river. The Murdano will have fortified that path. It would be a long, bloody fight to reach Saguria, let alone take the city.”

  I had the odd realization that I didn’t know which side to support in that battle. I’d been born in Nedarra, of course. But I certainly owed nothing to the murderous Murdano.

  General Varis stroked his red beard, studying the map. “I believe if they break out from the terramant tunnels, the Kazar will send his troops over the Perricci Mountains. Since the Murdano doesn’t know about the tunnels, he won’t have strongly fortified the Zebaran plains or the mountains. Still, it would be a hard crossing in cold weather for the Dreylanders. Many would die from the sickness that comes with climbing too high.”

  “Ah, I’ve heard of that,” Tobble whispered in my ear.

  I couldn’t help but notice smug looks from both Sabito and Stimball at the very idea that altitude might make one sick.

  Woad spoke, and it was the first time I’d heard his voice, surprisingly high-pitched for such a wild-looking creature.

  “We’re accustomed to great heights. And we know the Perricci Mountains, which we call the Goldanvaal, like we know the faces of our own children. However difficult that path is for the Dreylanders”—he pounded his chest with his fist—“we can make it much, much harder.”

  Khara nodded. “I was hoping you would volunteer, Woad.”

  “We would wish to get our children and others who cannot fight to a safe place first,” Woad added.

  “Of course.”

  “But then?” He grinned, which was not a reassuring look, given his tattoos and missing teeth. “It would be like going home. Those are our mountains! We get jumpy down here in the flatlands.”

  “What if I told you,” said Khara, “that I would have you do all you can to delay the Dreylanders crossing the Perriccis without attacking them?”

  Woad laughed. “I’d be sorry not to plant my ax in a few Dreylander skulls. But truth be told, we can delay them more easily by felling trees, diverting streams, and causing landslides. Blocking roads and paths would make life miserable for them.”

  It was clear that Woad liked the idea. He was practically rubbing his hands together with glee.

  “We are ready to help as well,” said Stimball, the raptidon. “The eagles of Gore’s Peak, the highest mountain in the Perriccis, will act as your eyes in the sky, Woad.”

  “Hah!” Woad exclaimed. “And glad we shall be of your help, friend raptidon.”

  Gambler cleared his throat.

  “Yes, Gambler?” Khara asked.

  “The Kazar Sg’drit is a valtti, a rogue felivet. He is cunning. I believe he will have a second line of attack.”

  “That would be the wise thing to do,” said General Varis. “The Murdano’s army is large, but not so large that it can be everywhere, all the time. And what army can stand against a thousand or more terramants and well-trained troops?”

  “If the natite queen does as she’s promised and stops the Murdano’s navy,” Khara said, pacing back and forth, “we’ll have ensured an eventual Dreylander victory. We will have traded one tyrant for another. And that is not our goal.”

  Bodick the Blue spoke up. “Once the terramants break through with their tunnel, a wave of them will pour into the Zebaran plains.” Despite her intense gaze, her voice was calm and soothing. “We’ll do what we can to stop them, but that leaves dozens of villages, thousands of farms, and tens of thousands of innocent people to the mercy of the terramants and the Kazar.”

  “To stop them at the tunnel,” said Khara, “we would have to get there first—and that we cannot do.”

  Everyone was quiet for a few minutes. We stared at the map as if we could force a solution to appear by sheer will. The wind picked up, and around us tents fluttered like sheets drying on a line.

  “Um . . . I’m not exactly a general. I’m just a thief,” Renzo said. He sounded uncertain, even shy, which was not at all like him. “But couldn’t we send a smaller group ahead to at least delay the terramant attack? If we slow them down, they’ll cause less mischief among innocent villagers. And they’ll be in all the greater hurry to cross the Perriccis, where Woad’s people can delay them again.”

  “With my people to act as guides,” Woad answered, “we could perhaps get a small force near the tunnel openings, but it could take weeks to get those soldiers into place.” He scratched the back of his head. “They would get there ahead of the Lady’s army, but not by much.”

  Renzo sighed, slowly nodding.

  Stimball waved a wing. “Raptidons could cross the mountains in that time, but we cannot defeat terramants, or even delay them by much. When we fight alongside ground dwellers, we are effective. But on our own?”

  Tobble timidly raised a paw, but no one noticed except me.

  “Can we raise the local people to fight?” Bodick asked.

  General Varis shrugged. “Farmers. And with what weap-ons? Pitchforks and hoes? Against terramants and the troops of the Kazar?”

  “Bodick’s right,” said Khara. “We need reinforcements.”

  Tobble waved his paw with more force. No one paid him any mind, but I was curious. “Yes, Tobble?” I said.

  “I, um—” He looked around, tongue-tied, at the circle of warriors.

  “Go ahead, Tobble,” Khara said. “Please.”

  “What if raptidons could carry fighters over the mountains?” Tobble asked, his huge ears trembling.

  “You give us too much credit,” said Sabito. “You think a raptidon could carry someone the size of, say, General Varis?”

  The group broke into laughter, and at first I thought Tobble might retreat and fall silent. But Sabito’s scorn seemed to spur on my little friend.

  “Of—of—of course you couldn’t carry a human or a felivet,” Tobble said. “But, meaning no reproach—we are all friends here, and I apologize if my words offend either of you admirable raptidons—but . . . well. Raptidons have certainly carried wobbyks away. And I think the largest raptidons might even carry a dairne.”

  Woad laughed again, but Khara did not. “What are you suggesting, Tobble?” she asked, leaning forward.

  “My lady, we are a small people, we wobbyks, and often dismissed as inferior since we are not a governing species. But you have seen that when we are angry enough, we can be, well, very impolite.”

  This time Khara did laugh, and so did I.

>   “Impolite?” she echoed. “Impolite? I’ve seen you in action, my friend. The word ‘ferocious’ is more apt.”

  “However fierce friend Tobble may be,” Bodick said, “he is only one small wobbyk.”

  Tobble turned to Bodick. “What if there were five hundred of me?”

  Woad began to speak, but Khara silenced him with a slight motion of her hand. “Five hundred? Where would we find five hundred wobbyks ready to risk their lives?”

  As it happened, Tobble had an answer for that.

  13

  Two Small Creatures

  “I’m sorry to be sending you off again, Byx,” Khara said the following morning while we ate our breakfast of porridge and rashers, “but you’re too valuable to waste, just lying around camp.”

  Did I puff up a little at the word “valuable”? Yes, I admit that I did.

  “Of course, you’ll once more carry the title of ‘ambassador,’” Khara added.

  Did I deflate a little at the word “ambassador”? Perhaps a bit.

  I was beginning to suspect that while titles can be impressive, they can also be a prison. Once you acquire a label, certain things are expected of you.

  Truth was, despite Khara’s praise, I still felt a little like a fraud. An imposter. “Ambassador” continued to ring false to my ears. Perhaps it always would.

  Nonetheless, I knew my mission to the natite queen had helped the Army of Peace. I hadn’t disappointed Khara, or my friends, or, most importantly, myself.

  And if Khara wanted me to continue as ambassador, then so be it.

  It was early, chilly and damp. The threatened rain had come and gone during the night. With some help from Renzo, I’d packed my saddlebags with food and warm blankets. Two waterskins hung on leather straps. Havoc even had new horseshoes, courtesy of a blacksmith who’d joined the army.

  Khara had given me a small drawstring bag of natite jewels, and Renzo was busy casting a theurgic spell over the bag. Supposedly, it would make it hard for people to see the jewels unless I wanted them to be seen.