by C. R. Grey
Taylor piloted Bailey toward a babbling creek in the densely wooded north corner of the terrain, just a few yards away from his team’s gold flag. The flag was at half-mast, surrounded by a scaffold-like structure of wood and metal. Other students from Gold Squad were scattered around the flag at different points, anxiously awaiting the starting whistle. Once the signal came, these others—the Sneaks—would leave the home base to locate and infiltrate the opposing team’s base. Their goal was to capture the Blue Squad’s flag.
As a Slammer, Bailey got to have a Flick of his own. It was made of bristles and a handle that stored bits of paint. With the right movement of the wrist, he could send a blob of paint hurtling toward a target, making it impossible for them to capture the flag, or do exactly what their title said: sneak. Bailey had tested the Flick on the ground before the start of the scrimmage and was startled by the bright, sparkling gold paint that shot out of the end. Not even an Animas Chameleon could get away with hiding under that goo.
Hal’s job as a Squat was to protect the flag at all costs. It was a high-risk position, as members of the opposing team would almost certainly try to ambush and restrain him so that the flag could be stolen. As he moved into position, he looked like he wanted to duck under the nearest bush and hide.
A shrill whistle echoed through the woods, followed by various shouts and whoops. The flags were hoisted by automatic pulleys to the tops of their scaffolded poles. The Sneaks immediately dispersed.
The game had begun.
As Bailey ducked through the trees, out of sight of the flag, he stopped to listen. All he could hear was the wind, the burbling of the small creek a few feet away, and distant shouts from the spectators in the stands.
Now what? He had no idea which direction to go, or when the other players might attempt to get close to the flag. He guessed he should just stay put until there was a sure sign that the flag was in danger. He brushed some dirt off of a carefully placed log and sat.
Bad idea.
Above him, a falcon circled low, and gave out an earsplitting screech. It could only mean one thing. Phi knew where he was, and probably where the flag was too. In an instant, Bailey was back on his feet, on the alert. He leapt over the creek and ran through the low branches of the trees, keeping his eyes on the sky. He found himself in a clearing. From here he could see the high spectator’s seats of the stadium, and all the eyes watching him. He felt his stomach flop. Everyone was waiting for him to do something … but what?
As he stood there, too dumbstruck to know his next move, he heard a roar from the students who’d come to observe the tryouts. He looked behind him: Phi was running full-tilt from one end of the clearing to the other, north, toward his team’s home base. Bailey tightened his grip on the Flick and ran after her.
Bailey crashed into the bushes where he’d seen Phi disappear and looked around wildly. Nothing. The falcon had disappeared, and Phi might as well have been a ghost. Bailey figured his best bet was to head back toward the home base. But he felt so turned around it was hard to tell from which direction he’d come in the first place.
Bailey wished he had an Animas like Phi’s, an extra sense that could help guide him. But he didn’t. He would just have to do his best.
Focus. Think. Breathe. He closed his eyes, trying to visualize the terrain he’d already covered. He’d run both to the south and the east when he started following the falcon—that meant, he realized, that if he ran in a semicircle north and west, he’d be sure to come across the base, or at least get close to it.
Bailey took off running again. His heart pounded, his legs ached.
The terrain was rockier here, with more hills and slopes, and the fallen leaves made navigating these hills very slippery. His Flick at the ready, Bailey snuck under what few bushes were available, trying to remain as quiet as possible, hoping that Phi would be careless enough to make a sound.
He didn’t have to wait long. He’d been concealed beneath the bushes for less than a minute when he saw the flash of a blue canvas shoe just a few feet away. He crept slowly and silently out from under his cover, and watched as the quickly moving form disappeared over the next rise. Bailey ran at a crouch, thighs burning, in case Phi was waiting on the other side of the hill. At the top of the rise, he looked for footprints in the densely packed leaves on the ground. Yes—she’d gone in the wrong direction, heading down the creek away from where the flag waited at the top of the ladder. Bailey decided to head her off, and he ran straight ahead, to the ridge on the other side of the creek.
He’d thought right—almost as soon as he crested the ridge, he saw Phi heading west. Wait. No. Not Phi. The player he saw wasn’t Phi at all, but a taller boy, another Sneak, he recognized from the lineup. He was sure he’d seen Phi earlier—where was she now?
There was no time to worry about it. Bailey careened down the hill to catch up with the new player and cut him off before he could double back to the other end of the creek, where the flag was hidden. The boy spotted him coming, and grinned as he started to run faster. Bailey sped up with all his might, dodging trees and bushes to keep up with the boy.
Suddenly, the boy veered sharply to the left, away from the flag again, and Bailey saw a flash in the tree branches above—Phi! He aimed his Flick at the branch where Phi had perched, but she dashed away and he missed her by a bare inch.
Bailey gritted his teeth.
She was scampering down the tree, still within range of his Flick. As Bailey rounded a trunk obstructing his sight line, she cut through a row of trees and ran beyond the clearing. Bailey followed, twisted his body to clear the tree, and shot the Flick. He hit Phi in her side, watching with satisfaction as, for just a second, gold exploded all over her back and shoulders, like newly sprouted wings—and then he crashed to the ground. His ankle gave out and, before he could stop himself, he was rolling down a short, steep incline toward the creek. He landed, sprawling, on a group of slick wet rocks. Lifting his head, he tasted blood. He’d bitten his lip.
Dazed, Bailey sat up, wincing.
It seemed quieter here, as though the game was something that was happening far away. Low-hanging branches surrounded the small curve in the creek where he’d landed. Though the short hills on either side of the creek bank made this spot cool and shady, the sun shone through the patches of leaves that hadn’t yet fallen.
Bailey limped toward the creek and splashed some water—clear and cold—over his face and on his lip. As he straightened, the end of a branch brushed his shoulder. He turned.
These trees weren’t like any he’d ever seen before. They didn’t have leaves—instead they had strange pod-like appendages, hanging down like fingers, full of tiny yellow seeds.
Just then, the whistle blew from the stands, and he heard the Coach’s gruff voice echo through a bullhorn.
“THANK YOU, ATHLETES! WE WILL BE POSTING OUR SELECTIONS IN THE DINING HALL AT THE END OF THE WEEK. YOU MAY LEAVE THE FIELD!”
Bailey looked back again at the strange tree before jogging back toward the stands.
“You think you impressed anyone?” a deep voice called out behind him. Bailey spun around to see Taylor stalking toward him. “Just wait. We’ll see what you can do off the field.”
Bailey looked around slowly; they were on an isolated part of the Scavage pitch and he had to admit he was scared. He straightened up to his full height and braced himself as Taylor approached—but Taylor only brushed past him roughly, throwing his shoulder into Bailey’s side so he stumbled as Taylor continued to walk away, and Bailey remained in the clearing, shaking.
“Hey!”
Bailey turned. Phi had appeared to his right, smiling despite the paint drenching her. “You did a great job,” she said.
“Thanks,” Bailey said, trying to compose himself from the run-in with Taylor. “You too. You were hard to keep up with.”
“I played some sports at home in the Plains,” she said, shrugging. “Well, not sports, really. More just like … running.” She bit
her lip, then smiled again at Bailey.
Bailey wanted to thank her for what her falcon had done earlier to distract Taylor—and to ask her whether it had been deliberate. But he couldn’t bring himself to say the words. Instead, they walked together in comfortable silence.
Seven
THAT EVENING, AS RAIN beat on the copper roofs of the grand Parliament building, the Elder at last returned to the Gray City after five days away. No one in the streets recognized the cloaked figure slipping into Parliament through the narrow door sunk into the cobblestone alley, and none of the guards took notice of him, either.
In the meeting hall, despite the late hour, the members of Parliament were clustered around a central table, illuminated by two gas lamps that flickered from the ceiling. The harsh wind had dismantled the main turbine, and the electro-current had sputtered and died only an hour into the meeting.
Gwen was sitting on a bench in the shadows, next to the other assistants and apprentices. She was trying to take notes, but was having trouble following the heated debate. Once again, talk in the Parliament meeting hall was of Viviana and the Dominae.
“Everyone knows we’re loyal to the old king,” one Parliament member, Animas Robin, was saying. “How can we reject Viviana, his daughter, and still remain loyal to the Melore bloodline?” This question was met with boos from the fifty or so men and women gathered in the hall. Three of the Parliament woman’s kin fluttered above the meeting table anxiously, and the rustling sound of their wings echoed against the marble walls.
“The bloodline was broken when Melore was assassinated!” another senator said. “Viviana hasn’t been raised to rule. She’s a pretender, just like the Jackal was! She says she wants progress, but what has she offered besides this backward philosophy of hers? Dominance—”
“It’s heinous!” someone yelled. “Encouraging humans to force their kin to work, or worse! It’s almost as if she doesn’t believe that animals have their own free wills!”
“But she’s the rightful heir,” said the Animas Robin. “The people might embrace her return. And once she’s with us, we could encourage her to soften her philosophy.”
“The people don’t know what’s good for them! We’ve ruled ever since the Jackal was deposed! What does this woman from the Dust Plains know about running a kingdom?”
“I beg your pardon!” someone shouted.
“The people think we don’t know how to rule; what’s to stop them from supporting her? They have no love for us!”
“And why should they? If you’d resolved to pass my laws, we wouldn’t be in this mess!”
The grumbling rose in volume and pitch, and Gwen quickly lost track of individual voices. A throng of birds and rodents chattered on the marble doorframes that surrounded the main room.
Gwen closed her eyes and tried to focus on the image of an owl on a moonlit branch, alone, hearing nothing but the sound of its claws against the bark. Gwen could hear her own soft breathing, and the ruckus of the meeting room began to fade away … only to be replaced by another, urgent sensation. She felt the presence of a very familiar owl and the hurried, anxious approach of wings, pulling her attention toward the hallway outside …
She opened her eyes, shocked. Grimsen and the Elder were close.
The door to the meeting hall opened loudly, and immediately the noise in the meeting hall subsided as everyone squinted in the low light to see who had entered. The Elder stepped forward. Gwen’s heart leapt.
“Forgive my tardiness,” he said, addressing the now-silent room. He was holding an oddly shaped bundle, wrapped in a rag. “I hope to be quickly brought up to speed, but first, I must show you what I’ve found.” He strode to the center of the room, and placed the bundle on the wooden table. Grimsen flew from the Elder’s shoulder to join a hawk over the main arch. “You may tell me what you believe it means.”
As the Elder unwrapped the bundle, Gwen made out a large piece of what seemed to be solid granite: the stone shape of a paw, weathered almost featureless by time and the elements.
“Some of you may recognize this stone,” the Elder began. “For those of you who do not … this is part of the rubble that remains of the Statue of the Twins, the most important symbol of the ancient Animas bond.” Gasps sounded sharply throughout the room.
“Several days ago I ventured to the Seers’ Land, only to find the statue destroyed. Do we interpret this as the action of the Dominae, at Viviana’s request? The Dominae are for much more than the enforced servitude of animals—they seek to pervert the Animas bond, twisting it into something dark and terrible that will give humans all power over animals, without empathy. I have no doubt that this is their work, and a sign that more violence is to come. Some of you have been unwilling to declare Viviana a threat to Aldermere. But we must know what storms are brewing, and we must face them united.” The Elder’s speech met with an anxious silence from the fellows of Parliament.
Gwen held her breath.
Finally, one woman sitting several rows away from the central table stood. A baboon clung to her leg like a small child, and she shook it off impatiently.
“Can we take this—this … demonstration as a declaration of intent?” Mutters and whispers followed her question. “You would have us declare the only child of King Melore a traitor to the kingdom? You are treading on thin ice, Elder Finn.”
Several people booed and banged the table forcefully. The Elder raised his hand.
“Friend,” he said softly, “my time in this palace reaches its fingers far back into its past. I have learned that ignoring warnings can be a dangerous practice. I merely bring before you a sign. Choose to ignore it at your own risk.” He wrapped the stone in its rag again, and walked toward the door. He stopped just before passing through the arch, and turned to face the assembly once more.
“And before you dismiss this omen as the mere ramblings of an old man, know this: the fallen statue is just the beginning. Viviana may appear to be merely a nuisance, but her followers are growing daily. A band of Animae Coyote and their kin from out of the Dust Plains are making their way along the Fluvian. I have learned through Grimsen that a pack of Weasels—humans and their kin—mean to join with them at the crossing of the Dark Woods. In fact, it is very likely that the horde is already met, and making its way north. To us.”
Gwen looked around the hall at the faces of the assembled representatives. All were ashen and frightened.
“We banded together once, nine years ago, to depose the murderous Jackal and end his reign. We are not without strength— and we will need to use that strength again. The Dominae are powerful, and they are bending the Animas bond into something unrecognizable. I’m warning you, friends: we will soon be fighting for our lives.”
Eight
THAT NIGHT, BAILEY LAY awake in the Tower bedroom. It had been a long, strange day, and Bailey wondered how much harder things would be if—he hated the thought, but couldn’t shake it— he didn’t Awaken to his Animas before leaving Fairmount. He’d been hoping Tremelo would help him. But Tremelo, it seemed, was completely crazy.
Bailey heard a tiny scraping sound from the door, and sprang up onto his elbows. There was a piece of paper stuck under the door. He got up, moved quickly across the room, and opened the door. No one. He strained to listen for the sound of footsteps, or even paws, but whoever had left the note had crept away quickly.
He unfolded it carefully and held it up to read in the moonlight.
The note was short. Bailey: Flagpole. Midnight.
Bailey sat down on his bed, his heart pounding. The clock on the washstand in the room read 11:40 p.m. He wondered if he should go down to the common room and show the note to Hal—maybe he would know who had delivered it.
Then again, reasonable, cautious Hal might try and convince him not to go.
Bailey pulled on his work pants and farming boots. He tiptoed out of the room and crept silently by the door to the common room, where he heard the soft shuffling sounds of a game of ches
s being played. He caught a quick glance of Hal engrossed in his Latin homework. Pete, another Year One, was showing a group of boys how his kin, a possum, could dangle from the room’s rafters by its tail.
The Towers resident assistant, a Year Four named Benjamin, lived in a private room across the hall from the common area. Bailey thanked Nature that Benjamin’s door was closed, and no light shone underneath. Still, he tried to stay as quiet as possible. Bailey held his breath as he slid silently past the doorway, down the rest of the hall, and out into the night.
To reach the flagpole in the center of campus, he’d have to pass the night guard’s post—he remembered seeing that much on Hal’s map—but he thought if he cut north to the dining hall, past the Garrett, he could circle back around by the administration building in the center of campus. The only question was whether or not a guard—or worse, a teacher—might also be out on the grounds. He would have to stay alert.
As Bailey cut through the herb garden behind the dining hall, a twig snapped behind him. He froze. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He was being followed. Could Taylor be planning to ambush him?
He spun around. “Who’s there?” he called out.
He heard a footstep crunch in the gravel. Then whoever it was stopped in his or her tracks behind the corner of the greenhouse.
“I know you’re following me,” Bailey said. “You might as well show yourself.”
“I heard you sneak out,” said the voice behind the greenhouse, and Hal emerged from the shadows.
Bailey grinned. “I thought maybe you were your brother,” he said, relieved.
Hal made a face, as though he’d just been forced to swallow turpentine. “Never say that again!”
“How did you see me sneak out? You were nose-deep in a book when I passed the common room,” said Bailey.
Hal shook his head. “I didn’t say I saw you. I said I heard you.” He shoved his hands in his pockets as he approached. He was wearing his pajamas under his sweater, Bailey noticed, and had shoved on a pair of loafers. “What are you doing out here?”
