Flight of the King (24 page)

TREMELO STEPPED OFF THE
path from the Applied Sciences building to let pass a line of students on their way to the dorms for evening curfew. By the
looks of the fading sunlight, the students had mere minutes to get to their dorms.

In the wake of Bailey and Hal's disappearance, the school was on lockdown. Ms. Shonfield had spoken to the boys' families, doing her best to keep them calm. Dr. Graves had also gone
missing, and had not been seen since the night the boys had left to follow Taleth's kidnappers.

Tremelo had wanted to track Hal and Bailey immediately; he blamed himself for Bailey's recklessness. He'd failed the boy by taking off that night, but leaving the school now would
only attract more questions. Tremelo was glad for the little bat who'd delivered a note a few nights after the boys' disappearance: they were safe. If Graves had gone after them, he was
doing a poor job of keeping up.

Unlocking the workshop door, Tremelo grimaced at the familiar sight of the Halcyon. The machine had seen countless iterations since he'd first shown it to Bailey. He and Tori had been
working nonstop—as much as the strict lockdown schedule would allow—and Tori's report about her friend Lyle's mysterious technology had been invaluable. Tonight, Tremelo
hoped, they would finally see results.

As he lit the gas lamp that hung over the workbench, he heard a light tapping on the workshop's door. Tori entered, with Fennel behind her.

“Is it finished?” Tori asked.

“Just this morning,” he answered, removing the fabric cover from a metal, egg-shaped orb nestled on the workbench next to the Halcyon. “I shaped the silver according to your
specifications.”

Tori stood on her tiptoes to see.

“It's almost exactly like Lyle's!” she said.

“Almost?”

“There's something different about the sheen,” Tori said. “I'm still not sure this is the right metal—but even Lyle doesn't know what the original orb
is made out of. And I didn't want to pry more than I already have.”

“Worth a try, anyway,” said Tremelo. “Want to do the honors?”

He moved aside so that Tori could maneuver the silver orb into a nest of wires in the middle of the Halcyon.

“There, now just attach that wire, there,” he said, pointing.

Fennel trotted over to the bench, and with a hop, positioned herself next to the machine. Her white-and-red tail swished on the worn wood. Tremelo placed his hands on the orb.

“All right,” he said. “Throw the switch.”

Tori pressed a brass lever on the top of the machine, next to the gramophone horns. Tremelo breathed deeply. He did feel a tingling in his hands—but his connection with Fennel seemed as
steady as ever. Nothing remarkable.

“Should we—” Tori faltered. “Should we try to make Fennel
do
something?”

Fennel cocked her head and then, losing interest, began to lick her paw.

“No, we shouldn't,” said Tremelo, disheartened. “And we don't need to. This isn't right.”

“What if I tried?” said Tori.

“We can't copy this,” Tremelo said, shaking his head. “It was made by a far more clever tinkerer than myself.”

“We need Lyle's orb,” said Tori.

Tremelo sighed. “Yes.”

“Lyle trusts me,” Tori said. “I could figure out some way.…”

“No,” said Tremelo. “You'd be easy for Lyle to identify to the Dominae if they suspected foul play. We'll think of something, but in the meantime, get some
sleep.”

“So soon?” Tori asked.

“Our experiment is at a standstill,” he said. “Back to your dorm with you. Take Fennel as lookout.”

“Yes, I know,” said Tori. “And take the woodland path, not the main path, and don't talk to strangers.…”

“I shouldn't be letting you come here, with the curfews,” Tremelo reminded her.

“Yep. You're a very bad influence,” said Tori. “But who else would I spend time with these days?”

As the door closed quietly behind Tori, Tremelo leaned against the workbench, trying to avoid his beckoning myrgwood pipe upstairs. Since the night he'd almost abandoned the school for the
mountains, he hadn't touched it. He'd even refused a fresh supply from Roger Quindley; they had exchanged letters about Hal's whereabouts. Roger had sounded equal parts distressed
and proud, referring to his nephew as “a revolutionary.” He promised to speak to both Hal's parents and Bailey's, and convince them that the two boys had merely snuck off
the grounds on a lark, and would return as soon as they'd had their fun. Tremelo was glad that the Walkers and the Quindleys wouldn't fret—and for now, Tremelo was the one to
shoulder all the worry. It was a role he didn't feel he fit into very well.

He rose from his workbench—a walk in the chilly air would do him as much good as a myrgwood pipe until he could get his hands on the Dominae's orb.

BAILEY ESTIMATED THAT A
week had gone by—he'd begun to lose count of the sunrises and sunsets that lit the rectangular hole cut high into
the wall of his room. The window taunted him; Bailey couldn't reach it, and he couldn't see outside.

Since that first disappointing morning, the Jackal had kept him on a steady routine: sleep in his lonely room, meals in the dining room, and hours each day of “practice.”

On this morning, Bailey was awake with the dawn, huddled in the corner and rubbing his arms to keep warm. He heard the guard approach his door, and steeled himself for what was to come.

“Let's go,” said the guard gruffly. Bailey followed him down a hallway, to the room where the Jackal waited.

“Good morning.” The Jackal smiled as Bailey entered the room. He was sitting in a wooden chair by a small metal table, which held a beaker of liquid and a few maps. He leaned back in
the chair, twisting the metal tip of his cane against the floor. “Ready for another try?”

Bailey moved his head in the smallest suggestion of a nod. In the corner, Taleth lay with her head on the floor, exhausted.

“All right, then, let's begin,” the Jackal said coldly. “You know what I want—just make the tiger bow to me. Then I may decide
not
to kill you and your
friend tonight.”

It was the same speech he gave Bailey every morning, yet he was sure that Hal was alive—he hadn't seen him since that first night in the compound, but he'd heard the cook
shuffling down to the basement with food. But Bailey wasn't sure how long either of them could hold out. The Jackal demanded he use Dominance on Taleth, and with every day that passed he grew
more and more irate.

Without a word, Bailey stood facing Taleth. He felt trapped. He hoped Taleth understood. He wouldn't use Dominance on her—he wasn't even sure that he could—but he'd
need her help to keep the Jackal at bay, at least until the Fair, when they'd have a better chance of escape.

“What are you waiting for?” the Jackal demanded, hitting a fist against the table. His cup rattled. “A week of this nonsense! What's stopping you?”

“Sorry,” mumbled Bailey. He said it to appease the Jackal, but he was most sorry for Taleth. For what he needed her to do. It was too much to ask.

Just bow. Just once. He'll keep us alive. Please.

As he did each time, he pictured her bowing to the Jackal, hoping that she would understand. He imagined the Jackal's pleased sneer and the way his scar would curve up above the corner of
his mouth. He felt like he might throw up. Taleth rubbed the side of her face against the stone, and then dragged herself to her feet. Bailey held his breath. Their eyes met.

Please, he thought. Please.

Taleth growled, and lay back down.

“Mangy beast!” the Jackal shouted. “I'm tired of this—you disappoint me, boy. It happens today, happens
now
, or you
all
die, and the prophecy dies
with you.”

Bailey's desperation felt like a small animal clawing its way up his arms. He didn't know what to do. He was exhausted and frightened. They couldn't keep on like this, or
they'd never make it out of the compound with their lives.

“Do it, boy!” the Jackal snarled, mere inches from Bailey's ear.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Bailey thought. Taleth's fur shuddered. I'm sorry, Bailey thought again, deliberately forming each word in his mind as though he were carefully
writing her a letter. I'm
asking
you. Please do this. It's the only way we'll survive.

He tried a new tactic—he imagined the mountains where Taleth had come from, where Bailey's people, the Velyn, still lived. He pictured the soft, stately pines and the craggy rocks
covered with rust-colored moss. He visualized his bond with Taleth as a ball of light, growing brighter. He concentrated harder on his memories of the woods outside Fairmount. The sound of damp
leaves underfoot. The smell of clean, cold air.
We can go back there, but I need your help. Please…

Taleth turned her massive head from side to side as though protesting, and Bailey felt his heart sink. But then she got back to her feet and growled. Bailey felt his concentration falter. He
squeezed his eyes shut, refusing to let the humming he felt inside of himself die again.

“Do it,” he said out loud, his teeth gritted. The energy grew in intensity, so that Bailey felt as though his skin were vibrating. He opened his eyes. “Do it,” he
pleaded.

Taleth growled again, but then she backed away, never taking her eyes off Bailey. With a graceful arch of her back, she lowered her forehead to the floor in an unmistakable bow.

The Jackal clapped delightedly.

“Well done!” he cheered, slapping Bailey hard on the back.

Bailey watched, racked with shame and dizzy with relief, as Taleth padded to the corner of the room with her tail curled underneath. Her shoulders were hunched as she lay down, peering at him
with tired eyes.

As the guard walked Bailey back to the dining room, Bailey tried desperately to make sense of what had just happened. But he'd never felt his bond become so intense, just by his own will.
And he'd certainly never seen Taleth do anything that she so clearly did not want to do. He'd ask Tremelo, later, once they were free, how different the bond truly was from Dominance.
Because he couldn't use Dominance. He would never…

He tried to concentrate instead on the one piece of hope he had: his secret.

Just as he had every day for the past week, Bailey finished his food and waited patiently, silently, for the cook to take his plate away. As soon as the door closed, Bailey knew he had mere
seconds before it opened again, and a guard would enter to take Bailey back to his room.

Quickly, he dashed to the corner of the dining room, to the pile of broken, discarded Clamoribus parts he'd seen on his first night in the compound. He grabbed whatever he could and stuck
it into his pockets as he rushed back to his seat.

The door opened, and the guard shot him a blank, thuggish look.

Bailey stared at the table in front of him, taking care not to glance toward the pile of parts in the dim corner. It had grown smaller and smaller over the past week without any of the guards
noticing.

After being led to his room, he eagerly emptied his pockets. Several small gears and springs came out—and a polished metal button that Bailey instantly knew was the starter. He rummaged in
the darkest corner of his room and removed a loose stone from the bottom of the wall, then pulled out a scrap of fabric holding the other parts. The body of the bird was mostly
reconstructed—one wing still lay on the floor of the mess hall, waiting for him. He placed the polished black button in a circular space in the metal bird's belly, and felt a satisfying
click. The machine whirred, and with a burst of joy, Bailey heard the recording device inside the bird spin to life. Hope grew in his chest. He looked up at the window that mocked him, and, for the
first time in many days, he smiled.

EACH DAY, THE SEERS'
Glass glowed brighter.