Wing & Claw 3_Beast of Stone

  “Wait,” Fitzer growled low. “It could be a trick.”

  “So you know the code,” the scythe-man said. “Do you have any other way to prove that you’re solid?”

  The rider looked from face to face, clearly nervous. But when he spoke, his voice was steady. “She said that her son would be here and could confirm this: The last time he saw her, she was wearing a yellow tunic. He helped her dye it, using onion skins.”

  Raffa saw both Elson and Fitzer looking at him. He nodded: What the rider had said was true.

  “Good lad.” Elson clapped his shoulder, then strode forward, calling out, “Dismount, rider, and tell us who you are.”

  At a gesture from Haddie, the man with the scythe searched the rider for weapons, finding none. The council then ordered everyone else back to their work.

  “We’ll give a full accounting at camp meeting tonight,” Quellin promised. The crowd melted away, some people still looking back in curiosity. Both Raffa and Kuma stayed where they were. Haddie and Elson exchanged glances over their heads, but said nothing.

  The council formed a semicircle around the horse, far enough away not to spook the animal. The young man stood with one hand on the horse’s bridle.

  “My name is Callian,” he said. “Callian Marshall.”

  “Marshall!” Fitzer said in surprise. “You’re the Advocate’s son?”

  The Advocate! Raffa stared, his mouth agape. Advocate Marshall—that’s his name. This is his son?

  Raffa burrowed through his memory for what he knew about the Advocate’s family. His wife—she died years ago. When I was much younger. And they had a boy, and he was an only child, wasn’t he?

  Raffa saw surprise flash across Callian’s face as he noticed Fitzer’s skinstain, but he covered his reaction quickly.

  “Yes,” Callian replied. “I’m here because—because Senior Salima persuaded me to leave Gilden. My da, the Advocate . . . Something’s not right with him. She’s trying to figure it out, and she was afraid that I’d be next, so I—”

  “Hoy,” Elson said. “Next for what?”

  Callian swallowed, and for the first time, Raffa thought he looked more frightened than nervous. “We think my da’s being poisoned.”

  Sharp gasps all around, and in that moment Raffa felt the mood of the group shift, from uncertainty to sympathy. Elson came forward and raised his hand to match palms with Callian.

  “Steady yourself, son,” he said. “You’re among friends now.”

  Callian’s face tightened. “I don’t know exactly what’s happening, or when it started,” he said. “I blame myself for not noticing sooner.”

  He explained that over the past few months his father had become more and more withdrawn, staying in his quarters much of the time and neglecting his official duties. “Whenever I saw him, he seemed really distracted, not himself at all. His eyes don’t focus right, and when he talks, he can’t seem to finish a sentence. He’s all sort of vague and—and stupid.”

  Raffa remembered seeing Advocate Marshall at Mohan’s trial. In the midst of a commotion, the Advocate had appeared oddly detached.

  “I talked to his staff about it,” Callian went on, “but they brushed me off. So finally I went to Senior Salima.”

  Salima had explained to him that several weeks earlier she had been asked by the Advocate’s personal health tendant to prepare quantities of two different infusions. One was a sleep aid, to be taken at night, the other a calmative without sedative qualities for daytime.

  “She thinks he’s being given them together,” Callian said. “I searched his quarters, but I didn’t find the infusions. His tendants must be keeping them.”

  Raffa sucked in his breath. He knew the infusions that his mother would most likely have prepared—and that it was dangerous to take them both at the same time. The result would be symptoms like those being suffered by the Advocate.

  “Senior Salima said that if someone is trying to poison my father, then I might not be safe, either. I didn’t want to go—I wanted to stay with him. But there’s another reason I left. The Chancellor had all the messenger pigeons confiscated, so this was the best way to get word to you.”

  He shook his head. “What the Chancellor’s been doing—the Afters and the animals and everything—Senior Salima told me that, too. I didn’t know about any of it, and I’m sure my da doesn’t, either.”

  “The Advocate’s being poisoned to get him out of the way?” Quellin asked. “So he won’t stop the Chancellor’s plans?”

  “Well, yes,” Callian said, “most of all because the Advocate commands the guards. They’re only following the Chancellor’s orders now because my father’s not around. He’s under watch every minute, night and day. Senior Salima is working on a plan to get him away from his guards, so she can fix whatever’s wrong with him and get him back to himself. Then he’ll take command of the guards again. The Chancellor can’t possibly succeed without them.”

  “Wait.” Haddie put her hand up, although no one was moving. Raffa saw that beneath her kerchief her brow was furrowed deeply. When she looked up, her face was filled with such excitement that it seemed he could almost see sparks in her eyes.

  “That’s it,” she said. “He’s just given us the answer. We have to get word to Salima. She needs to cure the Advocate of—of whatever’s ailing him, and then bring him here. He’s the one who can order the guards to stop what they’re doing!”

  Fitzer’s voice was equally excited. “She might not even need to get him here. Couldn’t he just do it from Gilden—give orders from there?”

  “We can’t trust that the orders will go through,” Callian said slowly. “Nobody knows for sure anymore who’s with the Chancellor and who’s still loyal to my da.”

  “If the Advocate could get here before the guards, there might not need to be any fighting at all,” Quellin said. “Which is what we’ve been aiming for.”

  “Yes, but we can’t count on that,” Elson said. “We have to assume that the guards will arrive first, and plan tactics to stall them until the Advocate gets here. How can we get a message back to Salima without a pigeon?”

  “There’s a ferry rower named Penyard. I’ve known him all my life,” Callian said. “We can trust him. And Senior Salima introduced me to a girl who’s helping her—”

  “Trixin!” Raffa and Kuma said together.

  “Yes, that’s right,” Callian said.

  “Good, then,” Haddie said. “We’ll get a message to Mannum Penyard, for Trixin to take to Salima.” She turned and began walking back into the clearing, with most of the council following her.

  “I’ll put up your horse for you,” Fitzer said. “Raffa, Kuma, maybe you could see that our guest gets to eat and rest.”

  “Thank you,” Callian said politely. Before he handed over the reins, he spoke briefly to the horse. “Mal, this man is going to take care of you,” he said. “Go with him, okay?” The horse touched Callian’s arm with its nose and nickered.

  Callian gave Fitzer the reins, then said, “There’s one more thing.” He opened the nearest of the two saddlebags.

  Raffa was standing close enough to see an animal’s head emerge from the bag. At first he thought it was a cat, but then he saw the distinctive black-and-white mask around its eyes.

  A raccoon . . . ?

  Callian held out his arm, and the raccoon trundled right up to his shoulder, where it perched, looking around curiously and sniffing the air. It sniffed in Raffa’s direction, once, twice—and then let out a shrill squeak.

  “Twig?” the raccoon said.

  Raffa froze, his mouth a perfect circle of surprise. He stared and blinked and stared again, and finally managed to speak.

  “Bando? Is that you?”

  “Twig? Twig? Twig! Twig!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  KUMA was already off, darting between the tents and then into the Forest, to search for Twig, Bando’s twin sister. Raffa led Callian, holding Bando, to the pother tent. Garith an
d Jimble were not there; Raffa guessed that they were out gathering nettles.

  Once inside, Callian put the raccoon down on the floor.

  “Twig? Twig?” Bando said, looking at Raffa.

  Raffa smiled. “I think it’s my scent,” he said to Callian. “He remembers that the last time he was with me Twig was there. She’s his sister.”

  Then he paused for a moment, needing to ask a question but half-dreading the answer. “My mam,” he said. “When you last saw her, was she . . . all right?”

  Callian nodded. “She said I was to tell you not to worry about her. And that she’s being allowed to visit your da.”

  Raffa stood motionless, as if not moving would help him contain the feelings that flooded through him: Relief on hearing that his mother was fine coupled with an ache at missing both his parents that felt sharp enough to cut his insides.

  Callian waited in silence for a moment, then changed the subject. “I found him months ago,” he said, looking at Bando fondly. The raccoon had discovered a basket and was digging through it. “Last fall.”

  That made sense. Raffa had left Gilden in the fall, along with Garith and Kuma, accompanied by Echo, Roo, and Twig. Bando and the mother raccoon had been with them at first, but had gotten lost along the way.

  “Was his mother with him? Or did you see her nearby?”

  Callian shook his head. “He was alone and scared. Crying. I wouldn’t have taken him if he’d been with his mother.”

  Then he gave Raffa a look. “You’re not asking the right question.”

  Raffa stiffened a little. “What do you mean by that?”

  Callian was studying him intently. “You don’t seem the least bit surprised that he was saying ‘Twig.’ He can say ‘Mama,’ too, and a few other words, but I have a feeling you already knew that.”

  “Oh.” Raffa blushed. “Um. Well, it’s an awfully long story. . . .”

  “And a good one, I’m sure upon certain. You don’t have to tell me now, but I hope to hear it someday.” He spread his hands in a gesture of good-natured patience.

  Raffa relaxed a little, and squatted down on the floor to watch Bando. The curious raccoon was pulling items out of the basket one by one: a strainer, tongs, some clay jars.

  “He can say ‘eat,’ and some food words,” Callian said. “Grubs—he loves grubs.”

  Bando’s head swiveled toward Callian, eyes bright with interest. “Grub?” Bando asked. “Grub?”

  Raffa smiled. “Twig loves grubs, too.”

  “Sorry,” Callian said to Bando, “no grubs now. But we can try to find some later.” Bando chirruped and went back to examining a jar.

  Kuma burst into the tent, Twig on her shoulders. Panting, she reached up to disengage Twig’s paws from her hair.

  “I had a bit of a time,” she said. “She didn’t want to leave Roo.”

  “Roo?” Callian asked.

  “Er, part of that same story,” Raffa answered. Kuma’s friendship with the giant golden bear wasn’t easy to explain quickly.

  Fortunately, a welcome distraction was at hand. Kuma put Twig on the ground. Bando was on the other side of the tent; he had not yet noticed his twin sister’s arrival.

  Twig sniffed the air, looking around. Her head stopped moving abruptly as soon as she caught Bando’s scent.

  “Bando? Bando?” she squeaked, and trundled across the floor in his direction.

  Then she stopped short and cocked her head. “Bando?”

  All three humans shouted with laughter, for Twig was staring in puzzlement at a furry creature whose head was a clay jar.

  After Callian extracted Bando’s head from the jar, the twins’ reunion was a joyful flurry of squeaks and chirps, pawing and wrestling, nuzzles and cooing. But it ended almost as quickly as it began. Bando went back to the basket, and Twig started a tour of the whole tent.

  “I guess she’s more attached to Roo now than she is to him,” Kuma observed.

  Callian nodded. “And he— Well, I guess we kind of adopted each other,” he said. “We’ve been together every day since I found him.”

  Raffa saw that the eyes of both raccoons still had the same faint purple sheen as Echo’s. All three animals had been treated with the scarlet vine, which had turned their eyes purple. The violet hue had faded with time, but could still be seen in the right light.

  “Was he ever sick?” The question came to Raffa abruptly, surprising even him. “Bando, I mean.”

  “Sick? Not really,” Callian answered. “Once he had some tummy trouble—he found a stash of dried plums and ate too many. Otherwise, he’s been really healthy.”

  Raffa looked at Kuma, who nodded; she knew what he was thinking. Animals treated with the scarlet vine eventually suffered from life-threatening side effects. But the raccoons seem to have been spared this fate because they had been dosed with the vine infusion only once, not repeatedly.

  Raffa felt himself teetering on the brink of an important revelation. Wordless, indistinct, the thought might well vanish into nothingness. He held his breath, unsure whether to focus or to let his mind drift.

  Echo and Bando and Twig. The scarlet vine. Purple eyes . . .

  Realization struck him then—so hard that he caught his breath and choked, coughing several times.

  “Raffa?” Kuma turned toward him in concern.

  “The animals . . . ,” he croaked. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat. “They must all be addicted now, right? Like the fox at the settlement? So they’re being dosed, again and again, to keep them under control until—until they’ve done what they’ve been trained to do.”

  He didn’t have to say it; she and Callian both understood. Until they’ve attacked as many Afters as they can, and driven the rest away.

  “Then what?” Raffa continued. “The dosing has to stop sometime—there isn’t enough of the scarlet vine. Without being dosed, the animals will all be twitchy and—and unpredictable, like that fox at the settlement. And that will make them dangerous.”

  He put his hands to his head and tugged on his hair in agitation. “So the Chancellor could order that they all be killed. And even if they aren’t . . . if they’re released, they’ll be so sick, most of them probably won’t make it.”

  Kuma was staring at him in horror. “Are you saying that . . . they’re all doomed?”

  Raffa took a breath to steady himself and his voice. “No. But their only chance is for us to succeed. To delay the attack, to stall the guards as long as we can, so the Advocate can get here.”

  He raised his hands in a half-shrug. “We’re trying to save people, and if we do, we might be able to save the animals, too.”

  He left unsaid the other possibility: That failure would be disastrous for both.

  “I understand what you’re saying,” Callian said slowly. “But the timing matters, too, doesn’t it? If the guards get here before my da does, they’ll send the animals to attack. We’ll have no choice but to kill or at least injure as many as we can—even if we eventually end up winning.”

  “You can save them, can’t you?” Kuma said, her voice pitched high in anxiety. “With the antidote? Remember the fox? He ran off—he didn’t want anything to do with humans. If we could get all those animals to do the same—”

  “How?” Raffa snapped, cutting her off. “How can we dose them in the middle of a battle, for quake’s sake?”

  “You’re the pother. You figure it out,” she snapped right back at him.

  Raffa knew that he wasn’t really upset with Kuma, but it felt like she was putting too much pressure on him, to solve a problem that had no solution. They glared at each other for a long moment. He could hear his own angry breathing.

  Then Callian said, “This is where I clear my throat to break the awkward silence.”

  He cleared his throat, exaggerating the sound for several counts. Raffa and Kuma both blinked—and laughed.

  Callian grinned. “Whew. It worked.”

  Raffa looked at Kuma. “Dosing them wi
th the antidote—that’s the answer. I have no idea how, but I do know one thing: We can’t do it without the cavern plant. . . . So I have to go back to the gorge.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  RAFFA went first to the council. He explained the need to travel to the gorge to collect the cavern plant. Not only did he receive permission, but Fitzer volunteered to drive him.

  “Where is it you’re headed?” Fitzer asked.

  “Just beyond the Southern Woodlands,” Raffa replied.

  “If I can borrow a second horse for the wagon, we should be able to get there by late afternoon,” Fitzer said, “and there’ll be a moon, so we can travel back tonight. Are you ready?”

  “Almost.” They agreed to meet in the area where the wagons and horses were being kept—a stable constructed of canvas and poles at the edge of the clearing near the path.

  Raffa stopped at the pantry tent to fetch some food, both for his trip to the gorge and for Callian. When he returned to the pother tent, Jimble and Garith were back from their nettle-gathering expedition. Garith was already applying a poultice to Jimble’s hands, where he’d obviously been stung several times by nettles.

  “Weren’t you wearing gloves?” Raffa asked.

  “I was!” Jimble said. “But I took them off—just once.” He mimed taking off gloves, then held up his index finger. “I never been stung by a nettle before. I figured I should know what it feels like.”

  Raffa had to smile. He’s so eager. He’s like a puppy bouncing around—a really smart one. That has thumbs.

  “Garith, will you make the combination for the antidote?” Raffa asked. “Mellia, ranagua berries, panax root.”

  “Stimulant proportions?” Garith asked.

  Raffa nodded. “Powder, not liquid.” He made sprinkling motions with his fingers. Although he still didn’t know how he would dose the animals, it would be easier to transport in powdered form and could always be turned back into a liquid if necessary. “I hope you won’t have trouble finding the panax.”

  “I can help with that,” Kuma said. “I know where it’s likely to be growing.”