Flight of the King (15 page)

“This belongs here,” she said as she placed the paw back onto its crumbled niche like a piece of a puzzle that the Elder had left for her to put back together.

From the statue, the highest peak lay to the southwest. She could see white patches of snow dotting the rocks of its side, many miles away. Shouldering her pack once more, she crossed the valley
and began the climb up the rocky ridge.

For days, she scrambled over rocks and behind trees. Still, she was nowhere near the highest peak, and she was exhausted. Sleep wasn't easy on the mountainside, where there was no shelter
from the cold winds. She made small campfires, despite her worry of being seen—freezing was more of a concern to her. The owls accompanying her had become more agitated as well. Gwen could
see it in their shuffling talons, and she could feel their anxiety in her own chest.

The owls sensed a new presence in the mountains, watching and tracking them from the air. Someone's kin, another bird, was pursuing them, and Gwen knew that an animal pursuer meant a human
one as well. She was being followed. Gwen climbed faster, and tried to stay hidden behind the thin trees of the mountain as best she could.

After many days, she reached a cliff that cut off the clearest path up the mountainside. Far below, a rogue tributary of the Fluvian river burbled. She needed to keep moving southwest; in the
distance, she could see the cliff she was meant to reach, just past another row of mountains before her. But to her dismay, the ravine was impassable.

Desperate, she scanned the edge of the cliff, looking for a place to climb down—but steep sides loomed up from the river like smooth glass. The owls swooped around her. She hadn't
stopped to think of what she might need before she'd left Fairmount. If she had rope…but that didn't matter. She needed another way.

“Help,” she said. It was a whispered hope, one that no human could hear and surely no owl could understand. She walked quickly along the edge of the cliff, searching for a path down
or a fallen branch—anything that could help her cross the ravine.

The birds did not come with her. In fact, they stayed at the tip of the cliff, hopping and flying in small, nervous spurts of energy.

“Come on,” she called. “There's nothing there.” She kept moving forward.

Behind her, she heard a series of excited hoots. The owls still hadn't moved. She searched the sky for signs of the other bird—for signs of their pursuer—but there was
nothing.

One of the smallest owls hooted loudly and flew forward off the edge of the cliff. Puzzled and frustrated, Gwen watched as it swooped away into the middle of the ravine—and then perched in
midair. The ground was hundreds of feet below, but the owl seemed to be sitting on something solid, and its wings were still. As Gwen watched, the entire flock of owls left their branches and
perched between the cliffs, seeming to sit and float on nothing but air.

“What in Nature…?” she breathed. She hurried back to the spot where the owls had taken off. “What have you found?!”

The clouds overhead thinned for a moment, and an orange ray of early-evening sunlight spread over the ridge. Gwen saw a shimmery outline of a bridge hanging all the way between the cliffs. She
bent down, crawled forward to the edge of the cliff, and put out her hand to touch it. It was made entirely of ropes: silvery, transparent threads that were almost sticky to the touch
.
They're spiderwebs,
Gwen realized with astonishment. As she pulled back her hand, a few small fibers of the iridescent material stuck to her fingers. She rubbed them together, and the
fibers fell away. Carefully, she stood and placed one foot on the closest point to the cliff. She heard the ropes creak beneath her, but the bridge felt solid, and she took another step forward.
The owls watched her, hooting in encouragement.

Looking down, she saw nothing but empty air and the white river flowing. She almost turned back in fear and panic. But the ropes underneath her held firm, and she was able to grip two ropes on
either side for balance. Carefully, she began to inch her way along the bridge. The words of the Elder's letter came back to her:
true sight is a light that grows—the physical world
is a limited thing, strengthened and made clear by what is stronger and unseen…
If the owls hadn't helped her, her journey would be at an end. All she needed to do was have more faith,
just as the Elder had said.

Below, rough rocks poked their heads through the rushing waters of the river; it was a long, long way to fall. But the height also made her wonder if this was akin to flying—the thrill she
felt being so high above the ground was intoxicating. She walked faster, and once she'd felt the courage build inside her chest, she began to run.

Suddenly, though, Gwen faltered. She grasped for the ropes near her hand but felt nothing at all—they must have torn. The bridge swayed and she lost her footing. She slipped, but held fast
to her pack while she grabbed desperately for the bridge with her other hand. She couldn't see it, but she felt the silky thread move across her slick palms. Clawing for her life, her left
hand finally tightened around the invisible thread, and she dangled over the side. Above her, the bridge swayed. The owls who had perched along the transparent bridge fluttered to her and flew in
helpless circles around her as she kicked her feet in the air. Sweat pasted her short hair to her forehead, even through the chill of the mountain air. She felt as though she were being torn in
two; with one hand she clung to the bridge, and with the other she gripped her pack. It was so heavy, and it kept her from pulling herself up. She tried to lift it over her head and swing it onto
the bridge, but she wasn't strong enough, and the bow and quiver of arrows she wore made maneuvering her arm next to impossible. She had to drop the pack, with the Seers' Glass inside,
or she would fall and be killed.

The owls clustered around her, beating their wings as they tried to take the pack from her. They were too small, though, and the pack was too heavy. Gwen couldn't hold on anymore, and with
a cry that echoed through the deep ravine, she let the bag fall.

The owls, not giving up, dove after it. One by one they tried grabbing at it with their talons, but they weren't strong enough. The bag plummeted toward the river as Gwen watched,
sorrowful but safe, with both hands holding tightly on to the rope bridge. Two small owls fell with the bag, still trying to lift it. Gwen begged them, without saying a word, to come back. Let it
go, she thought. No more deaths, I can't bear it.

Suddenly, another bird swooped underneath the bag and caught it with its beak. The bird began beating its wings, bringing the bag up the side of the far cliff. With a groan, Gwen swung her right
leg up onto the ropes, and pulled with all her might until she was back on the bridge. From here, she watched as the bird disappeared over the treetops at the other side of the cliff with the
bag.

“Wait!” she called in dismay. “Come back!”

She stood at the edge of the cliff, watching the darkening sky for a form that would not return. Her mind raced, calculating the supplies that she still had—matches in her pocket, a metal
bowl and spoon tied with cords to her belt, and a blanket, as well as the bow and arrows, on her back. But the Glass was gone. The thing she'd needed to keep safe was now gone, and the
presence of the unknown bird confirmed that someone was watching her. And now, the Glass could be in the hands of the Dominae and his or her well-trained kin. Either way, she couldn't be sure
of anything—except that she had failed.

BAILEY AND HAL SAT
in their common room in the Towers, where a pleasant candle glow lit the room. A half-dozen other nocturnal students were crowded
around a table, finishing their last hand of Rabbit Flash. Their good-natured jeers and shouts made the space seem homey and safe, although Bailey's thoughts were still on Gwen and
Phi—if Gwen was safe, and when Phi would come back. Without them around, Phi especially, Fairmount seemed to give in to the winter dreariness.

Hal, on the other hand, seemed oddly energized.

“That part that Lyle was waiting for came in today,” he told Bailey. “Just look!” He took a folded piece of paper out of his vest pocket and thrust it toward Bailey.
“I saw him drop this during class today.”

Bailey unfolded it. It was a note, written in sloppy handwriting.

We'll try it out in the small study room by the Science section tonight. Tell Nicolette and Simon too.—Lyle

“Was this for Tori?” Bailey asked.

“I don't think so, or he'd have just given it to her right there in class,” said Hal, staring out a window where a lone bat was flapping its wings against the glass.
“There's clearly a whole group of them. But whatever they're ‘trying out,' I bet Tori's in on it too. She and Lyle have barely been apart!”

“You would know,” teased Bailey. In truth, Bailey was worried about Tori as well—or at least disappointed. That afternoon had marked the third time in as many days that she had
failed to show up at Tremelo's workshop.

Hal poked his glasses into place.

“I've taken an interest,” he said, “and I think we should investigate.”

Bailey looked out the window, where the bat still hovered. He got up to open the transom and it flew in. It fluttered onto Hal's leg.

“Investigate?” Bailey asked. “It's a science experiment, not some top secret operation.” He folded the note and handed it back to Hal. The bat hopped up to
Hal's shoulder, hooked the top of its wings into Hal's collar, and settled itself comfortably there. With a careful finger, Hal petted the little bat's nose.

“
Our
science experiment is a top secret operation,” Hal whispered, looking around the common room. “Look,
you're
the one always raring to go poking
around. Aren't you the least bit suspicious?”

“It's interesting, I guess,” said Bailey. “But I'm not sure why you're so obsessed.”

“Lyle's no good for Tori,” Hal said. “In Biology and the Bond last semester, he didn't do any work, just sat there with his feet up all the time, cracking
jokes.”

“That
does
sound like Tori's type,” Bailey admitted.

“Exactly!” said Hal, exasperated. “That's the whole problem. She needs balance!” Hal threw out his arms, upsetting the frazzled little bat.

“I think if you ever tried to tell Tori what she ‘needs,' she'd punch you,” said Bailey. “But I'll go with you.” Spying on Tori's new
boyfriend was hardly the kind of adventure he'd been looking for. But the longer he sat still, the more his anxiety grew.

“Perfect,” said Hal, clapping his hands.

Bailey nabbed Bert from his slumber under the heat lamps, and the boys walked from the Towers to Treetop, the dormitory where students with bird and reptile Animas lived. Bert rode inside
Bailey's messenger bag. The sun had almost completely set, and the electro-current lamps along the campus paths began to flicker on.

“Look,” said Hal, grabbing Bailey's arm.

Hal pointed at the darkened entrance to Treetop, where Tori and Lyle emerged. Lyle held a small bundle of black cloth. As Tori followed Lyle onto the path, a crow flew out of the dorm entrance
and circled above their heads. Hal and Bailey ducked behind a hedge.

“Perfect timing,” Hal whispered. Behind his glasses, his eyes were lit with excitement—or jealousy. Bailey wasn't certain which.

Just then, Bert jumped out of the messenger bag and began side-winding his way across the lawn.

“Hey!” whispered Bailey, trying not to attract Lyle's and Tori's attention. Bert was heading in the same direction as they were.

“What's he doing?” Hal asked.

“Exactly what I'd be doing,” said Bailey, who stood up and began following the lizard.

Bailey caught up quickly. He could still see Lyle and Tori farther up on the path, heading toward the library and administration building. Bert trailed along after them.

The sun had set now, and the sky quickly shifted from a bluish gray to complete darkness, dotted with stars. Bailey and Hal hung back outside the entrance to the library as Tori and Lyle
entered.

“So, what's our plan?” Bailey asked Hal.

“I'm thinking.…”

“You don't have a plan?” Bailey nearly laughed. Hal
always
had a plan.

“I do,” said Hal, defensively. “Just figuring out how to execute it! For now, stay hidden and follow me. We don't know what Lyle's up to.”

“Lead the way,” Bailey said. He doubted that Lyle was “up to” anything more than making Hal jealous, but he followed Hal into the library atrium all the same.

As they walked past the bookcase that held the Loon's book of prophecies, Bailey paused to make sure it was still there. It was, camouflaged by the other bound volumes flanking it. A thin
layer of dust had even settled on the shelf, ensuring that no one had touched it since the Midwinter break.