by Laurie McKay
“You’ll be sharing the attic room with Tito. He’s also twelve.”
Over her shoulder, Caden saw an irritated-looking boy hovering on the front steps. Tito was about Caden’s build and height but his black hair was long and shiny, his face was striking and sharp-featured. His eyes were intensely dark. When he frowned, his face looked lopsided.
“He’ll give you the tour while I talk to Officer Levine.” Rosa turned back. “Be nice, Tito.”
Tito didn’t look like he wanted to be nice. He looked Caden up and down, and his frown deepened. Caden took in his sour expression, worn-looking clothes, and long hair. It seemed he would be sharing a room with a peasant. Caden, too, frowned.
With a sigh, Tito motioned him to the house. “C’mon,” he said, and led him through a creaking front door. Inside, the walls were filled with pictures of boys and girls—former prisoners, or “foster kids,” as Tito called them. Every table had some knickknack displayed. There was dust and clutter, but it was reasonably clean for a prison.
“These are the main rooms. Kitchen is in the back,” Tito said, turning around and motioning around the first floor. “Dining room, living room, TV. Rosa’s got a computer in her office, but we don’t get to use it without supervision.”
“What’s a TV?”
Tito stopped. “You can’t be serious.”
“Answer my question.”
Tito pointed to a flat glass rectangle about the size of a small window on a table. “Um. It’s that.”
Caden frowned at the thing.
“You know,” Tito said, “it’s a thing that shows pictures and transmits information and stuff.”
Caden nodded, though he still didn’t fully understand. “So it’s like a Razzonian meditation disc? Only smaller and square?”
“Uh . . . sure. I guess?”
“And a computer, what’s that?”
“Just how long have you been living in the woods?” Tito said. “Actually, don’t tell me. First the tour. Then your issues. This way.”
Caden followed him up a rickety staircase. Tito motioned to the hall. “These are Rosa’s bedroom, the guest room, and the girls’ room when there’re girls around. It’s locked now.” He led him to a second staircase. “We’re in the attic.”
The attic room was large and divided down the center with black tape. Mismatched rugs covered the plank floor. The ceiling slanted, and two large windows were cut out of it. Outside, the mountain loomed high. Well, high for an Ashevillian mountain. In the Greater Realm, it would have been a hillock.
An unmade bed with purple pillows and purple blankets was pushed against the wall beside the door. Books were piled beside it, on top of it, and under it. The second bed was against the wall on the other side of the tape. It was draped with a pink and orange quilt.
Tito pointed toward the made bed, the pink and orange one. “That side’s yours,” he said, and walked to the purple part of the room. “This one’s mine.”
The rugs dampened the sound of Caden’s steps, but the floor still groaned as he walked. He glanced at the unappealing pink and orange quilt, at Tito’s challenging smile, and he sat on the bed. A prince was always polite, always honest. “I’ll sleep in it,” Caden said.
“Right, weirdo, that’s why it’s called a bed.”
There was something different about the sound of Tito’s voice. Caden peered at him. Tito’s voice had definitely changed somehow.
Tito gave him a look and backed up a few steps. “Anyway, Rosa says lights off at ten. No exceptions.” His voice was normal again.
Caden motioned around the room. “Why are we in the attic? There were empty rooms downstairs.”
“She keeps the boys and girls separate.”
“There are no girls.”
“Yeah.” Tito looked away. “But she’s worried you’re a flight risk. She figures if you’re up here, you’ll have more trouble sneaking out. I’ve been with her for three years. She knows I’d never leave. I’m stuck up here, you know, to help you adjust.”
“I don’t need to adjust,” Caden said.
They fell into silence. Tito rocked on his feet. “So,” Tito said, “you told the system people your father was king?”
“I did,” Caden said.
“Why?”
“Because it is so,” Caden said.
“Uh-huh,” Tito said.
“You don’t believe me.”
“Don’t really care.” Tito scrunched up his lopsided face. “But you were stupid to tell the police. And the social worker. You’re lucky they didn’t ship you right off to the nuthouse. Much worse than juvie, from what I’ve heard.”
“You think I should keep my birthright secret?”
“Yeah,” Tito said, then his tone changed—the pace of his words changed, the cadence shifted. “But I can’t believe I have to share a room with a nutcase like you.”
Caden crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. “Nutcase?” he said. He was certain that was insulting. “If you want to fight, we can fight.”
“Right. I’m terrified,” Tito said. Suddenly, his striking eyes widened. “Bro, you speak Spanish?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re speaking Spanish,” Tito said.
Caden was speaking another local language. He’d never used his gift of speech without knowing it. Not until Asheville. Not until right now, and his insides twisted. It had never worked like that. Although, he’d never used it as much as he had in recent days, either.
“Well,” Caden said, and shoved off his discomfort, “I speak most languages.”
Tito turned his mouth back into his lopsided frown. “Huh,” he said. “My advice, keep that to yourself, too.”
Caden crossed his arms. “You seem full of advice.”
“Yeah, well,” Tito said. “Rosa told me to be friendly—I’m being friendly.”
There was more to it than that. Caden could tell. He nodded toward the stairs. “You’re mad at her,” he said.
“So what if I am?” Tito said.
Maybe she banished him to the attic? Maybe she beat him and kept him from food and drink? “Why?” Caden said. “Is she violent?”
Tito scowled, and his voice came out furious. “Rosa’s the best person you’ll ever meet.”
The best person it seemed Caden would ever meet called them down for dinner.
Caden caught up with Tito on the second floor and stopped him. “If she’s so wonderful, why are you upset?”
Tito went still and stony. His gaze flickered to the locked girls’ room. Caden followed his gaze. The flier about the missing girl was still folded in his pocket. Officer Levine had said she’d been imprisoned here before disappearing three days ago. “Was that Jane Chan’s room?”
Tito flinched like he’d been hit. Caden recognized Tito’s pained expression. He was certain Tito’s anger covered a deeper hurt.
The king’s first wife, his brothers’ mother, died three years before Caden’s birth. One of her portraits hung in the Grand Hall of the castle—a place of great honor. Her hair and eyes looked golden like the sun, her head was crowned in a fine silver circlet. On each anniversary of her death the castle was draped in somber dark silks. His brothers and father became sullen and quiet.
Four years ago on that dark-draped day, Caden had found his seventh-born brother, Jasan, twelve years his senior and gifted in speed, alone in the Grand Hall. His eyes were red and his cheeks wet. His tall, lithe frame, strong and ever sure, shook like he was fragile.
Caden looked at the portrait. “It’s sad,” he said.
Jasan’s pain morphed into anger. He grabbed Caden by his shoulders. “You don’t get to look at her like that.”
Caden winced.
Jasan glanced down to where his fingers dug into Caden’s shoulders. Immediately, he gentled. “Go away,” he said with a sigh. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Jasan was right. There was no portrait of Caden’s mother in the Great Hall, no portrait of her anywhere. The only sign s
he’d ever existed was Caden.
Caden might not have understood Jasan’s pain, but he was good at knowing what to say to ease it. Despite his brother’s words, Caden glanced up at the portrait and then back to his brother. “You look like her,” he said.
Back in the present, here in the Ashevillian not-prison, Tito had a similar mix of fury and despair. What Caden didn’t know was why. “You know,” Tito said, “you’re only going to be here a few days, so mind your own business.” With that, he turned on his heel and stomped down the stairs.
Caden lingered on the second floor. Jane Chan had run away the same time he and Brynne had been brought here. Now Caden was imprisoned in her old foster home. He reached out and tried the door to her room. It was locked, but the metal knob felt warm like it had been exposed to some nearby magic. He needed to question Tito further about the missing girl. Again, his instincts told him there might be a connection between her and Caden being stranded.
Caden woke to the tink-tink of rain on the roof. He was warm and well rested in Rosa’s not-prison. There was no Brynne across the way, insulting Caden about the shelter he built and its ability to keep out the drops.
His stomach turned in a twist of guilt. His willful ally and his horse were stuck outside in the cold rain. Truly, he needed to speak to Brynne and make her aware of what he’d learned. He pushed his pink and orange quilt away and sat up.
Across the taped line, Tito was dressed in gray, shabby clothes and sitting on his bed. His hair was tied back with a band. “You awake?” Tito said.
“I get up at dawn,” Caden said.
“Why aren’t I surprised?” Tito said.
Caden, however, was surprised Tito was awake so early. “Why are you awake?”
Tito put on some worn-looking shoes. Sneakers, he’d called them. “Rosa makes me run in the morning, thinks it helps me release anger or some crap like that.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Caden said.
Tito snorted and tied his shoe. “Of course you don’t.”
Caden looked at the shadowed mountain out the window. Brynne was somewhere out there. Certainly, she’d be drenched and difficult already. The sooner he found her, the better. “You run out there?” he said and pointed outside.
“Up to the edge of the property and back down. Fun, fun, fun,” he said, but he didn’t sound like he found it fun.
Caden decided. “I’ll run the mountain with you.”
Tito looked up incredulously from his shoe. “She hasn’t made you. You don’t have to.”
“Does that matter?”
“I guess not,” Tito said. He looked Caden up and down and scrunched up his face. “Didn’t you wear that yesterday? Did you even shower?”
Caden bristled. True, he’d first been confused by the small, closet-size room Tito had called a “bathroom.” It was nothing like the baths of the Winter Castle. They were tiled in Razzonian marble and filled with hot spring water and snowmelt transported downslope to the castle by great stone aqueducts. The waters were always clear and steaming. Then he’d noticed the strange spigot and wash basin. “I’m clean,” he said. “I rinsed my clothes and person in the tiny washroom.”
Tito rummaged around in his pile of unfolded, wrinkled clothes. “Here,” he said.
Caden caught the wad of clothing that flew at his face. “What’s this for?”
“You don’t wear good clothes to run the mountain. Especially in the rain.”
Maybe not, but Caden didn’t wear other people’s clothes, period. Nor would he wear this cheap scratchy fabric. He sniffed the clothes and frowned.
“Look, your royal highness,” Tito said, “they’re old but they’re clean.”
Caden had promised to be gracious, but he couldn’t bring himself to say thank you when he wasn’t at all thankful for the worn pants and shirt. His clothes were of higher quality and better fit. He rubbed the thin fabric between his fingers.
“I’ll wear them,” Caden said.
“Whatever,” Tito said and stood up. “You coming or what?”
Caden quickly changed into the peasant’s garb. The material hung loose around his shoulders. He pulled at it, but it remained poorly fitted.
Tito seemed amused. “You gotta eat more,” he said. “At least try to bulk up.”
Caden was tall for his age, and, no doubt, would grow to be as tall as his brothers. “I’m the same size as you.”
“Almost. But you’re gonna shrink if you don’t eat.”
“That’s nonsense.” Caden grabbed his coat and traced the embroidery with his finger. Legend was that the Winterbird, the symbol of Razzon and the royal family, was one of the eight Elderkind that formed the lands and magic of the Greater Realm.
Four were said to have formed the lands. The Kingdom of Razzon, the whole of the Winterlands, was built where the Winterbird had come to ground. Razzon’s great peaks were the outline of its frozen wings, Razzon’s deep-blue twin lochs, its ever-watching and protective eyes.
Next was the Walking Oak, which rooted to form the Springlands. Third was the great Sunsnake, whose movements turned the sands of the Summerlands’ deserts. Last was the Bloodwolf. Its red and brown fur could still be seen in the Autumnlands’ great prairies and red-leaved forests.
The other four Elderkind were the powerful and fickle Elderdragons. Two of them—the Gold Elderdragon and the Silver Elderdragon—were charmed by man. In return they taught strategy, medicine, and magic to the peoples of the realms. It was said that magic with the most altruistic of motives often glowed in silver and gold in memory of their teachings.
The other two—the Blue Elderdragon and the Red Elderdragon—were angered. They punished the lands with disease, war, and dark magic. Magic of hate, magic of anger spurred whispers of their influence, destructive dragon-shaped energy that still echoed their true forms.
Tito coughed and startled Caden from his memories of myths and home. He pointed to Caden’s coat. “That’ll get messed up on the mountain,” he said.
His coat was enchanted. It bore the symbol of the royal Winterbird. It stayed clean, always; it stayed the opposite of “messed up.” “We’ll see,” Caden said.
“No, we won’t. Rosa won’t let you wear it.”
Caden pulled his arms through the sleeves and grinned. “How’s she going to stop me?”
Rosa was waiting on the front porch. Her clothes were layered, her outer shirt green with strange writing, her pants a bright purple. She looked Caden over with a furrow in her brow.
“He wants to run,” Tito said.
Rosa paced and the porch creaked. “Why?”
Tito rolled his eyes. “Beats me.”
Brynne and Sir Horace were somewhere on the mountain. Caden needed to run so he could contact Brynne, then he needed to return to Rosa’s prison afterward so he could learn more about the missing Jane Chan.
Rosa walked up to him. “It’s not easy.”
Well, better the training then. “Good,” Caden said.
“Leave your coat. You can’t run with it.”
“Yes, I can,” Caden said.
In the gray morning light, it was hard to make out her expression. She was either angry, amused, or both. Not that it mattered. Caden wouldn’t give her his coat. He crossed his arms and waited.
“Let me rephrase,” she said. “I don’t want you to get your coat dirty. It’s muddy and still drizzling, and your coat is wool. If you want to wear it, you can just watch with me from the porch.”
Caden needed to run. The simple solution was to leave his coat. Still, he hesitated.
His sword was taken, his horse a fugitive. Brynne was in the mountains, hiding from the police. While he believed that he, Brynne, and Sir Horace would get back and that he’d complete his quest and make his father proud, at this moment, his coat was all he had of his home.
Rosa softened her expression. “It’ll be here when you get back.” She pulled off the green garment. Her undershirt was a bright orange and looked like a
mini sun against the gray morning. “Here, you can borrow my army sweatshirt. It’s special to me.”
Caden didn’t want to give her his coat, yet he needed to get to the mountain. Slowly he took his coat off, folded it, and handed it over. The sweatshirt she gave him in return felt nothing like it. He pretended not to care.
“The more difficult the training, the better,” he said.
She tucked his coat under her arm. “If that’s what you want,” she said. “Run at least to the orange tape. It’s the property line.”
“I’ll run to the peak,” he said. The longer run would give him more time. And if he were to talk to Brynne, he’d need it.
“Fine,” she said. “But I expect you back in twenty-five minutes.”
Tito groaned, and mumbled that he was stopping at the property line, but Caden ignored him. Besides, running a mountain was good training. Dragons lived in rugged terrains. Well, not in Asheville it seemed, but in most other places with steep slopes, rocky paths, and fiery names.
Beyond the protection of the porch, the drizzle and air were cold. Caden’s boots squelched in the mud as he dashed past Tito, into the forest, and up the path. He ran past a pine tied with orange tape, and was high uphill when he stopped. Both Brynne and Sir Horace knew the signal—two quick whistles—and Brynne certainly had used magic to track Caden and would be near.
Caden whistled, but it wasn’t Brynne who answered by whistling back or Sir Horace who answered with a loud whinny. Instead, Caden heard a whisper rustle through the trees. “I’m here.”
Caden froze, unsure of what he’d heard.
“I’m here, little brother.” The voice was soft and strong, and sounded like his slain brother, Chadwin. It called to him like a warm fire on the coldest of days. It smelled like his father’s castle. Caden felt hope blossom in his soul.
Caden had seen Chadwin bleeding with a dagger in his back, and, later, cold and still in the Winter Castle tomb. Yet, unknown magic had brought Caden to Asheville. Perhaps it had also awoken Chadwin, and he had become stranded here, too. Maybe he wasn’t dead. Maybe it’d been a mistake. It could’ve all been a mistake.
