Flight of the King (18 page)

Bailey leaned on the back of one of the wooden chairs around the study table. He still felt a little weak.

“You can't come,” he said. “It's too dangerous.”

“More dangerous than staying here, with Graves?” Hal asked.

“Find Tremelo,” Bailey said. “He'll take care of Graves, and then you'll all be safe here. What I find out there might be even worse than one spy. I'll be
better off on my own.”

“You're wrong,” Hal said. His tone wasn't argumentative or even defensive. It was clear and to the point. “It's too dangerous for you to travel alone. You
need me; you need my help. How will you find Taleth by yourself? And how will you travel? On foot or by train? Have you thought about getting money, so you can eat—or whether you'll be
able to scavenge? Who'll watch your back?”

Bailey had to admit he hadn't considered any of this.

“But who will find Tremelo?” Bailey said. “You need to warn him. If the Dominae knows about me, then they could know about him too.”

“The Dominae wouldn't send Graves after you if they already had him,” Hal said. “If they don't know who the Child of War is, then they don't know about him
being the True King. He's probably hiding out. Listen, Tremelo can take care of himself,” Hal continued. “And
your
kin was kidnapped, meaning
you're
the
one who needs the most protection. Tori's not safe here either—her name's on that list as well. Let us come with you. Let us help.”

Within five minutes, Hal and Bailey had made their way through the darkness to Treetop, with rucksacks packed with warm clothes, some food, and Bailey's only weapon: the Velyn tiger claw.
A bleary-eyed Tori met them.

“Are you insane?” she asked, as Hal laid out their plan to follow Taleth. “We can't all go disappearing. How will
that
look?” She raised an eyebrow at Hal.
“It makes more sense for me to stay here. Someone will have to fill Tremelo in on everything once he reappears—we can't all leave without him knowing about that orb. And I can
help him keep tabs on Graves.”

“But what if Graves comes after you?” Hal asked.

“I can handle myself,” she said. “And besides, what did you think you were going to do with
him
?” Tori pointed at Bert, who sat cradled in Bailey's
arm.

“We figured we'd just bring him with us,” said Hal.

Tori reached out her hands.

“Give him here,” she said. “He'd die out there with you two. Honestly. He's
cold-blooded
. He can't keep himself warm!”

“As soon as Tremelo comes back, stick with him,” Bailey said, after handing over Bert. He felt relieved that the lizard would be safe with Tori. “Tremelo won't let
anything happen to you. That is, if he's okay.”

“
I
won't let anything happen to
Tremelo
,” Tori corrected him. “I'll watch his quarters tonight. Bet you a snailback he comes home full of rootwort
rum. But be careful. For all you know, this could just be a big trap. Send word as soon as you can.…” But she was looking at Hal, not at him.

Hal managed a nervous smile, and the two boys took to the woods, out of sight of the sleeping campus. Bailey could see the moon reflecting off the grand windows of the library as they walked
quickly into the trees. He thought once more about the Loon's book, safe—he hoped—in its hiding place. Because of that book, he knew he had a role to play in what would come: as
the Child of War. But he hardly knew what that foretold for him, except that now it meant he had to run.

TREMELO ALSO RAN, SEARCHING
for something lost. He'd set out late that afternoon, and now had already passed the divide between the campus and
the Dark Woods. He had nearly reached the rocky hills that led toward the southern mountains. It was the path the Velyn had taken away from Fairmount, led by Eneas Fourclaw. Tremelo had questions
for him—most of which were contained in the leather-bound book tucked safely in his traveling bag.

The Loon's book, written in the Velyn's language, was much like the Loon himself: it asked more riddles than it answered.
The Child is both the reflection and the opposite of
evil?
What was he meant to understand by that? The Equinox was only a few weeks away; without knowing what to make of the strange orb in the center of the blueprint or what role Bailey would
play at the Reckoning as the Child of War, Tremelo had decided to seek out assistance. Perhaps the Loon's prophecies contained some hint that would help him. Eneas, he wagered, could give him
some sort of advice—but in truth the prophecy was not the only mystery that occupied Tremelo's mind.

He stopped to catch his breath, and Fennel, trotting alongside him, jumped ahead. The Velyn moved quickly, and they'd had several weeks' head start. He hoped to come upon them
camping over the ridge.

He fished the worn photograph of Elen Whitehill from his coat pocket, though he knew it by heart: her strawberry-blond hair, and her sharp Velyn features. She had been his first
love—murdered during the Jackal's massacre.

In the dozen or so years since her death, he'd become obsessed with finding anyone who had known her. He ached when he remembered her smile, and he wanted desperately to fuel that pain
with more stories of her life. But the only people who could know of her were now miles away, doing their best not to be found.

He still remembered taking the photo. Elen hadn't known what to do in front of a camera. She had lived her entire life in the mountains, traveling the Unreachable Road with her father,
Luca. A photograph was a luxury she was unfamiliar with. She'd laughed when he arranged her furs around her, and told her to sit very, very still.

“Why do you ask the impossible?” she'd said. “Sitting still for five whole minutes! I'll turn to stone!
You
couldn't do it, I'd bet a set of
claws.”

“That's why I'm
here
,” his nineteen-year-old self had said from his place behind the camera. It was a pity, he thought now, that she hadn't smiled. But
then, a smile was hard to keep for five whole minutes while the image set into the film. It was almost as hard to keep a smile in one's memory for over a decade, but somehow Tremelo had
managed to do it.

His fingers grew cold. He placed the photograph back in his pocket. A few yards ahead, Fennel stood as still as a statue. She crouched, and the fur along her back stood on end. Her nose sniffed
the air. Tremelo tightened his grip on his walking stick and moved toward her, climbing over a large boulder that reflected the full moon overhead. When he arrived at Fennel's side, Tremelo
could sense it too—something had happened here. The snow up ahead showed signs of a struggle: scattered footprints and what looked like a large animal dragged on its back and side.
Tremelo's heart began to pound. Fennel circled the area, her ears twitching back and forth.

There were claw marks in the nearby trees: so deep they tore through the bark and exposed the raw wood of the trunk underneath, and as wide as a grown man's hands—even wider.

“Taleth,” Tremelo breathed. He looked again at the snow-covered ground, and saw the huge cat's paw prints.

Fennel whimpered. Tremelo looked to the nearby slope of the southern hills, just once. Then he ran back toward the school.

ON THE OTHER SIDE
of the spiderweb bridge, the terrain quickly became rockier. Gwen's shoes slipped on the stones, and she had to crawl across
sharp formations jutting up from the ground. Without her pack, she missed something soft to lay her head on at night, as well as her dry socks and packaged food inside. She'd had a few loose
matches in her coat pocket, but they wouldn't even last her a week, and she'd never learned how to start a campfire using only stones and tinder. She was hungry and cold, and she
agonized over the bird flying away with the Seers' Glass.

After two more days of climbing, she decided to take shelter for the night against a stone wall. Although she was high in the mountains, the land had flattened here into a rocky plain, with
patches of wild thistles. The sun began to set, and the color of the rocks deepened to purple, then finally to dark, midnight blue. The landscape was bleak and empty, and Gwen felt lonelier than
she ever had in her life. She wished she could have stayed at Fairmount, with her new friends. She wished the Elder still lived. She wished to feel the weight of the heavy Seers' Glass in her
hands.

But wishing would not bring anything back. Tremelo had given her one task: to keep the Glass safe. And she had failed. The prophecies in the Loon's book could only be read by using it.
What if now they were lost forever, undeciphered?

If only she had gotten a closer look at the bird that had swooped in and grabbed the Glass, she thought. It might have been a vulture, like Sucrette's—or even worse, one of
Viviana's horrifying Clamoribus birds, all clockwork and menace. But she knew better than to follow it and risk running into its kin. Her only choice was to continue to the highest peak, as
the Elder had instructed her, and find the Instrument of Change.

At least the wild thistles were familiar to her. They were similar to the cast-off roots she'd cull from the market sidewalks as a child, and she remembered how to boil them down into a
gruel that was filling, if not very tasty. She used one of her precious matches to light a fire and cooked herself a small supper of thistle-root gruel in the small metal bowl she'd tied to
her belt.

The gruel was warm, at least—though she wished she had a pinch of sugar or something sweet to liven up the tastelessness of the thistle root.

The sun set over the mountains, and a bitter cold set in quickly—a harsh reminder that winter was not over, though Gwen had noticed some early-blooming berries at the edge of the plain. As
she walked over to the bushes, the smallest of the owls half hopped, half flew to the berry bushes and hooted.

Gwen plucked one of the small red berries from its branch and sniffed it. She hoped they were sweet. She squeezed it carefully, splitting its red skin. Orange-pink flesh burst from it and
trickled down her fingers. The small owl screeched, surprising her.

“What was that for?” she asked. She looked around the grove nervously. For the last two days she'd sensed she was being followed, but nothing stirred around her camp.

She lifted her hand to her mouth to taste the liquid from the berry. The owl suddenly leapt from the ground and batted its wings in her face.

“What are you doing?” she cried.

Then something extraordinary happened. Her vision clouded, and was replaced by an image of herself—but not as she was now, standing in the mountain plain, holding a burst berry on her
fingertips. She saw herself lying on the ground, motionless, with traces of red juice on her lower lip. She realized that she was looking at herself from the owl's perspective as it hopped
around her face, trying to revive her. The berries, the owl knew—and now Gwen knew as well—were poisonous.

Gwen gasped as the vision disappeared. The little owl, who was still sitting on the ground between her and the berry bush, hooted at her.

“How did you do that?” she whispered. Her hands shook. She had never been so connected to her kin that she could see through their eyes. Even stranger, she saw something in her
kin's eyes that had not yet happened. Frightened and awed, she threw the crushed berry to the ground and carefully wiped her hand on her pant leg. She wrapped herself in her cloak and waited,
unsleeping, for the dawn.