Wild Born Page 5

  “Very funny,” Rollan said dryly. “Should we hunt for some spiders? Maybe a cockroach?”

  “People don’t bond with insects,” the Greencloak said, “although there is some precedence for summoning arachnids.”

  “I’ll bet a copper piece he calls nothing,” said the prisoner who Rollan thought looked like trouble. The man patted his pockets. “Wait, two.” He produced them. “Any takers?”

  Nobody agreed to the bet.

  “Should we do it?” Rollan suggested, breaking the awkward silence. For some kids the summoning ceremony was a big deal. They got all dressed up with their families, spectators attended, lectures were given, refreshments served. He was in a dirty jail with a rat, his guards, and his fellow prisoners. He just wanted to get it over with.

  The Greencloak produced a simple flask. She uncapped it and held it out to him. “Only takes a swallow.”

  “That was quite a speech,” Rollan said, accepting the flask. “Your talents are wasted in dank basements. You’re ready to work aboveground.” He took a sip. There was a restaurant that sometimes gave him sweetened cinnamon toast, his favorite treat. The Nectar tasted sort of like that, but liquefied.

  Rollan wiped his lips. As the Greencloak reached for her flask, Rollan swayed. Sparks zinged through his body. What was going on? He held out the flask, but his arm felt unsteady. The Greencloak took the flask and Rollan dropped to his knees.

  “What’s wrong with me?” Rollan slurred.

  The entire jail rumbled and the room grew dark. Or was his vision failing? A blinding light appeared, lingered for a moment, and then vanished.

  A falcon had joined them in the room, large and powerful, the feathers a brownish gold with white speckles on the breast. With a flurry of wings, the raptor leaped up to Rollan’s shoulder. When the claws pinched into his skin, the sparking sensation ceased. The others stared, dumbfounded.

  For a moment, Rollan’s eyes seemed unusually keen. He was able to see the porous textures of the stone floor and walls. He spotted a spider hiding amid the wafting cobwebs in a high corner and felt the startled moods of those around him with abnormal clarity. And then, all of a sudden, he was back to normal.

  “It’s a falcon!” the Greencloak marveled. “A gyrfalcon . . . with amber eyes!”

  “She’s a falcon,” Rollan clarified. “She’s a girl.”

  “How do you know that?” the jailer asked.

  Rollan paused. “I just do.”

  “She would be female, I suppose,” the Greencloak murmured. Seeming to snap out of a trance, she stared at Rollan searchingly. “How is this possible? Who are you?”

  “Just some orphan,” Rollan said.

  “There has to be more to it than that,” she muttered, half to herself.

  “I’m also a criminal,” Rollan volunteered. “The worst kind of criminal, actually.”

  “What kind is that?” the Greencloak asked.

  “The kind who got caught,” Rollan replied.

  The Greencloak glanced at the jailer. “Put him back in his cell. I’ll be back.”

  “The bird too?” the jailer asked.

  “Naturally,” the Greencloak replied. “It’s his spirit animal.”

  “Guess it was my lucky day,” mumbled the seedy prisoner. “Nobody took my bet. I get to keep my coppers.”

  It was not long before the jailer escorted a man to Rollan’s cell. The stranger looked like some sort of foreign lord. He wore high boots, leather gauntlets, a fancy sword, and an embroidered blue cloak that Rollan guessed cost more than a team of horses. The man had a neatly trimmed beard on his chin, and gazed at Rollan with interest.

  “Would you like to get out of here, Rollan?” the man asked.

  “I might miss the itchy mat and the black stuff that rubs off the bars,” Rollan said. “Sometimes we don’t appreciate what we have until we lose it.”

  The man smiled, but with the hint of a sneer.

  “Why isn’t your cloak green?” Rollan asked.

  “My name is Duke Zerif,” the man said. “I work with the Greencloaks, but I’m not one of them. They send me to help with cases like yours.”

  “Cases like mine?”

  Zerif glanced at the jailer. “Better if we converse in private. I’ve paid your bail.”

  “Fine with me,” Rollan said.

  The jailer opened the cell door. Rollan stepped out, the bird on his shoulder, and exited with Zerif, never glancing at the other prisoners, not saying a word to anyone. What did this guy want?

  When they reached the street, Zerif looked over at him. “That is a superior bird.”

  “Thanks,” Rollan grunted. “What now?”

  “Today your new life begins,” Zerif said. “We have much to discuss.”

  “Bail isn’t a pardon. What about Mr. Valdez?”

  “The charges will be dropped. I’ll take care of it.”

  Rollan gave a slight nod. “What about the girl who gave me the Nectar? Where is she?”

  Zerif flashed a cocky grin. “These matters exceed her expertise. You are no longer her assignment. Come.”

  The falcon gave Rollan’s shoulder a brief, painful squeeze with her talons. Despite her weight, Rollan had nearly forgotten her presence. Something about the timing of the squeeze, and the way Zerif had spoken about the girl, made Rollan uneasy. “Is she all right?”

  Did a trace of admiration creep into Zerif’s grin? “I’m sure she’s fine.”

  He was lying and Rollan knew it. Zerif even seemed to respect that Rollan suspected him. Rollan felt a disturbing certainty that Zerif had done something to the Greencloak. Just who was this guy?

  Zerif hurried them down the street. “Where are we going?” Rollan asked.

  “A quiet place to talk. Then far away from here, if you like. Have you ever yearned to see the world? That bird is your ticket.”

  The falcon shrieked loud enough to hurt Rollan’s ears. Zerif’s eyes darted between the bird and Rollan, his smile faltering a bit.

  “She doesn’t like you,” Rollan realized.

  “She’s just testing her voice,” Zerif answered. “I mean you no harm.” Rollan would have bet two coppers that he was lying. His response had almost sounded relaxed, but Zerif was definitely acting. And he was wearing a large sword.

  “What is that woman doing?” Rollan asked, pointing across the street.

  As Zerif turned to look, Rollan ran. They had passed an alley, and he turned and sprinted down it. Halfway along the alley, Rollan risked a glance back and saw Zerif in pursuit, blue cloak flapping behind him. The man had jerked his sleeve back and the mark on his forearm flashed. A canine creature landed in front of him, already running. What was it? A coyote?

  Rollan had hoped that the lordly stranger would be above chasing him. Apparently not. But the coyote proved that Zerif was one of the Marked. Maybe he was a Greencloak after all. Still, Rollan didn’t trust him and neither did the bird. He needed to ditch him fast.

  Rollan had some experience escaping down alleyways. He ran hard, and extended his hands to topple crates and rubbish bins into the path of his pursuers. In spite of his efforts, he could hear them gaining. Visions of coyote teeth and the thought of Zerif’s expensive sword impelled him to run faster.

  Rounding a corner, Rollan raced into another alley. He passed an occasional door, not daring to try it in case it was locked, or that whoever lay beyond might not aid him. He had learned the hard way that an orphan in flight had few friends. He glanced up, looking for a way up to the rooftops, but there was nothing in view. The man and the coyote kept gaining.

  Ahead on the left, Rollan saw a fence between buildings. He jumped, grabbed the splintery top of it, and kicked one leg over. With a snarl, the coyote leaped for his dangling leg. Teeth tore through his pant leg and scraped his skin, nearly yanking him from the wall.

  “Come down from there!” Zerif ordered, racing forward with his sword drawn.

  Rollan rolled over the top of the fence and fell into a weed
y lot with a shanty in one corner. A ragged man glared at him unwelcomingly from the shadows of his hovel. Springing to his feet, Rollan dashed across the lot. As he approached the fence on the far side, Rollan glanced back. The coyote streaked across the lot toward him, but there was no sign of Zerif. Had he tossed his spirit animal over the fence? Rollan scanned the scraggly ground ahead as he ran for something to use as a weapon but saw nothing. The coyote was closing in. He knew he would barely win the race to the fence. No way would he get up and over without getting mauled.

  When Rollan reached the fence, he jumped and grabbed the top with both hands as if he meant to climb, then turned in midair to kick the coyote springing at him square in the muzzle. The blow connected cleanly, and the coyote hit the ground with a yelp. Rollan was up the fence and over before the animal had recovered.

  The alley he landed in was wider. As he debated which direction to go, Zerif shot around a far corner, running with superhuman speed. Rollan couldn’t run half as fast as Zerif was moving. Zerif had gone around most of the block in the time it had taken Rollan to cross the lot. Rollan had heard stories about the powers the Marked could receive from their bonds. How could he escape from someone like that? He turned and ran the opposite way.

  Racing around another corner, Rollan found himself sprinting toward a large man in a forest-green cloak astride a moose. There was no time to digest the bizarre sight. The moose barreled toward him, its massive antlers spanning almost the full width of the alley. The gray-haired man astride it had a thick build and a fleshy face framed by a bristly beard. He clutched a mace in one hand. A mail shirt jangled under his cloak.

  “Out of my way, boy!” the Greencloak bellowed.

  Lunging sideways, Rollan flattened himself against the wall of the alley as the moose charged past. He heard a shriek above him and the scrape of talons on metal as his bird landed on the roof.

  Zerif and the coyote bolted around the corner, skidding to a halt when they saw the oncoming moose. The Greencloak gave a battle cry and raised his mace. Zerif shouldered through the first door he reached, probably the back entrance to some business. The Greencloak paused for a moment, as if about to give chase, before he rode back to Rollan.

  “What name did he give?” he barked.

  “That guy? Zerif.”

  “That much was true. Do you know him?”

  “I just met him. He bailed me out of jail.”

  The man dismounted. “What did he tell you?”

  “Not much,” Rollan said. “He wanted to take me away.”

  “I expect he did,” the man said. “We call Zerif ‘the Jackal’ after his spirit animal, a cunning creature native to Nilo. He works for our archenemy, the Devourer.”

  “The Devourer?” Rollan said. It seemed so improbable he almost choked. “Are you serious? Who are you?”

  “My name is Olvan.”

  Rollan glanced at the huge moose and back again. No way. It couldn’t be. “The Olvan?” he said, shocked into a whisper.

  “If by that you mean the worldwide commander of the Greencloaks, then yes, the Olvan.”

  The gyrfalcon shrieked and swooped down to land on Rollan’s shoulder. Rollan reached up to stroke her feathers. He paused a long moment before he spoke. “Suddenly everyone wants to be my friend. Both of you showed up so quickly. Is this about my falcon?”

  “She is not your falcon, son. She is the Falcon.” Olvan let the words sink in. “You have summoned Essix back into the world.”

  5 TRAINING

  ABEKE SAT ON THE EDGE OF A FEATHER BED. HER ROOM HAD a carved desk, an elaborate sofa, cushioned chairs, and a mirror framed in what she thought might be real gold — all for her personal use. Everyone she encountered treated her respectfully and a servant delivered tasty meals. Her leopard had turned her into royalty.

  The room gently rocked from side to side. To think such luxury was available on a ship! Abeke would not have believed it had she not seen it.

  She appreciated the courteous treatment, but did not feel comfortable in the fancy room. It was too different from home. There were no familiar faces or even familiar ways.

  Zerif had not joined her on the voyage. At the dock, he had explained that urgent matters called him elsewhere, and entrusted her in the care of a stranger, a boy named Shane. After everything she had lost, the extra separation had stung.

  Less than a week earlier, Zerif had convinced her father that Abeke needed to leave Okaihee, not just for her personal safety, but for the good of the village. Pojalo had promptly agreed. Part of Abeke wished her father had struggled more with the decision. She could not help wondering whether he would have relinquished Soama so swiftly. With the approval of her father, Zerif had smuggled Abeke and Uraza away that same night.

  Abeke regretted never talking to Chinwe before leaving. Chinwe had thought that Abeke would be the village’s new Rain Dancer. They certainly needed one. In the rush to heed Zerif’s advice, she had ignored the needs of her community. What if her absence meant the drought would continue? What if she had shirked her destiny? What if she had missed her chance finally to fit in?

  Despite the comforts aboard the ship, Abeke missed her father and sister. Back home, they had all shared one room. They had routines, meals together, and Abeke was used to falling asleep to the sound of her father snoring. Each night on the ship, Abeke struggled to find sleep. Nothing felt familiar.

  At first there had been too many new experiences to get homesick — an exciting coach ride, a busy city, a sea of endless water too salty to drink, and then a ship big enough to hold most of the people in her village. It was only after they set sail that Abeke started to feel restless. She had time to think. She had time to miss prowling the savannah. She had time to wish for familiar faces.

  At least she had Uraza. Abeke rubbed the leopard’s neck and the big cat purred, the vibrations tickling her palm. Uraza was not particularly affectionate, but she never rejected Abeke’s stroking.

  A knock came at her door. It had to be Shane. He was the other pleasant part of the voyage. He had been helping her learn to improve her connection with Uraza.

  “Come in,” Abeke said.

  Shane opened the door. At twelve, he was only one year older than she was. He was pale, but handsome, with a sturdy build and a relaxed competence that she admired. Like her, he had a spirit animal — a wolverine.

  “Ready to go to the hold?” he asked.

  “I thought you’d never come,” Abeke said. “I’m not used to being penned up.”

  He stood in the doorway, considering her. “It’s hard to leave all you know behind. I had to leave my parents too. My uncle helped train me, and he’s not around either.”

  “My mother passed away four years ago,” Abeke confided. “She was the one who understood me. My father and sister . . . it was different with them. But I do miss them. I know they care for me, as I care for them.”

  Shane’s expression softened. “People here care for you as well, Abeke. We see great potential in you. Those of us with heavy burdens find family where we can. You have your spirit animal. You’ll learn to find a lot of solace there. Come.”

  Uraza followed them out the door. As they passed sailors and soldiers, all eyes furtively strayed to the leopard. Uraza walked with the sinuous grace of a natural predator, and nobody wanted to get too close. Even the bravest gave her plenty of space, while others changed their routes to avoid her entirely. After only four days at sea, Abeke had learned to ignore the attention.

  Shane had prepared the hold for use as a training area. Crates, bales, and barrels had been shoved aside to form a long open space. Nobody disturbed them there.

  “Have you spent time talking to Uraza?” Shane asked. “Showing fondness for her?”

  “Yes,” Abeke said.

  “Any spirit animal has unusual intelligence,” he reminded her. “Yours will have much more than most. She can’t talk, but that doesn’t mean she won’t understand.”

  “The Great Beasts could
speak,” Abeke said, passing through a door into the cargo hold. “At least they do in the stories.”

  “When she was a Great Beast, Uraza was larger than a horse,” Shane reminded her.

  “Does that mean my Uraza is a cub?” Abeke asked. The powerful leopard sure didn’t look like a baby.

  “Spirit animals always arrive as adults,” Shane said. “Whether Uraza will grow into everything she once was is hard to guess. We’ll have to wait and see.”

  Abeke turned to face Uraza. The leopard gazed at her, violet eyes bright.

  “Can you sense her mood?” Shane asked.

  “I don’t know,” Abeke said, staring hard. “Interested, maybe?”

  “That seems likely,” Shane said. “The more you practice, the better you’ll perceive her emotions. That’s the first step to borrowing her energy in times of need.”

  “What about the passive state?” Abeke had always been impressed by Chinwe’s ability to change her wildebeest into a tattoo on her leg.

  “That is more up to Uraza than to you,” Shane said. “You must gain her trust. She enters her passive state voluntarily, but she can’t emerge until you release her.”

  “You keep your wolverine dormant?” Abeke asked. Once, at her pleading, he had bashfully shown her the hint of a mark high on his chest.

  “Most of the time. Renneg is great in a fight, but doesn’t play well with others. When Uraza consents, you’ll get to pick where the mark will go. Many choose their arms or the back of the hand. It’s convenient.”

  Abeke had only seen the wolverine once, when they were boarding the ship. It was compact, but looked vicious.

  Shane held up a short wooden stick. “We did enough archery yesterday. You’re good, but I didn’t sense Uraza making you any better. I thought today we should try something more strenuous. We’ll pretend this is a knife. All you have to do is stab me.”

  He handed Abeke the stick. Abeke went and knelt before Uraza. The leopard lounged on the floor, body curled, head up, long tail swishing languidly. Abeke took in the spotted perfection of her pelt, the black around her vibrant eyes, and the muscular power of her sleek body. How could such a strong, wild creature be her companion? Uraza gazed at her, unblinking.