Chapter One
Sometimes secrecy required sneaking. Sometimes it meant hiding in plain view. Becka crept to the end of the alley and peered into the crooked street ahead to determine which one she’d use today. Two soldiers in chainmail obstructed her path through it. One interrogated an elderly fruit vendor while the other tapped his sword hilt and inspected the passersby.
Becka shivered and ducked back against a rowhouse’s rough timber-and-plaster wall. She’d dodged city guards before, but these men wore different tunics—not green but gray, with the symbol of the chained bear of the Stoneridge army on their chests. The same army that had chased her family from their village.
The same army that hunted her kind now.
Her heart pounded with the memory of the shouts and screams from that night a year ago. She pushed the recollection away and pressed her palms back against the wall, concentrating on the tiny plaster cracks to ground herself in the moment. She had to think. Uniforms aside, the soldiers behaved like the city guard, just fishing for anything suspicious. Which meant they must not have any substantial leads in their search.
She tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear with shaky fingers as she deliberated. The city gate lay a few blocks down this road. If she forsook this route to avoid detection, she would either have to circle around the long way—and perhaps take too much time—or cut through the taymakers district. Her gooseflesh prickled at what tay could do to someone like her—the dangerous secret it would reveal.
That decided it. Better to risk the soldiers’ questions before her loitering raised suspicions. With a deep breath and a prayer they wouldn’t take interest in a fifteen-year-old girl, she forced herself to move. Becka stepped from the alley, carrying herself tall and erect to project confidence. A year in hiding had taught her that, in most cases, the best protection lay in her ability to blend in, to appear ordinary.
The soldier watched the foot traffic with sharp, squinty eyes, as if analyzing each person in detail. Becka passed most inspections—she looked fully Human—but the trained eye could always find indications. Her hands stuck to the strap of her bag with sweat.
She approached until the soldier’s gaze turned to the elderly man shuffling along the dusty cobbles a few steps ahead of her. Becka lost her nerve. She veered to the side of the street opposite the soldier, intending to pretend interest in whatever wares she happened across, but found herself under Tomason’s bakery awning. She allowed herself a small breath of relief. Her thoughts had wrapped so tightly around the dangers that she hadn’t thought to look for a friendly stop along the way.
A short man with a round face under a mop of brown curls greeted her. “What for you today, Miss Becka?”
She approached the window but didn’t spare the menu posted above it a glance. By now, she’d memorized what few items she could afford. “Hello, Tomason. Two berry tarts, please.”
“Of course.”
The jovial baker made no friendly small talk or polite inquiries after her mother’s health today, but Becka took little note. She glanced back to find both soldiers questioning a woman with a basket of flowers—just the opportunity Becka had awaited.
She laid her meager coin on the counter and took her bundle of tarts, only then observing Tomason’s gaze also flickering to the uniformed men. What would a kind, cheerful Human like the baker have to fear from them? She didn’t have time to ask. With a hasty farewell, she made her way toward the gate.
She slipped behind the soldiers’ backs unnoticed and continued down the irregularly turning road. The houses leaned out over the streets at odd angles to each other, creating abstract corners of shadow from the noon sun. Within a few paces, Becka left the soldiers out of sight and forced herself to relax both her grip on her bag and her expression.
After a few more turns, she came to the western city gate. The least used of all the gates, it arched over an entrance the width of a single wagon. Beyond, the track running out into the fields sprouted grass between the wheel ruts. She took another deep breath before approaching this last checkpoint.
She’d dreaded passing the city gates even before she went into hiding. When they had come in the southern gate from the countryside for Market Days, the guards had always fussed over her family’s papers and searched through their wares for contraband, treating them like criminals when they hadn’t done anything wrong. But she didn’t have to show papers anymore—Humans didn’t need them. And above all else, she had to make herself seem Human.
As usual, two guards stood watch at the gate—or rather, one stood while the other sat on a stool, worn and rickety as the old guard himself. Becka smiled a little. She appreciated the times old Nevellroy presided over the gate. Unlike the patrolling soldiers, he knew her—and elicited no fear from her. He wouldn’t detain her or ask any of the worrisome questions.
Nevellroy creaked to his feet as Becka approached. Tall, thin, and angular as a crane, he grinned down at her under his beaky nose. “Hello there, Miss Becka. Out for your afternoon walk?”
“As always, Mister Nevellroy. But today is special.” She reached into her bag to withdraw one of the tarts from its cloth wrapping. Tomason had given her three instead of two—not the first time he had shown her a friendly kindness. Her heart warmed, and she hoped the soldiers wouldn’t give him any trouble. He certainly didn’t deserve any. She offered one of the tarts to Nevellroy.
A smile spread wrinkles across the guard’s face like rays emanating from the sun. “Oh-ho! A special day indeed. You are too kind to an old man.” He took a bite of the tart with a hum of approval, then said around it, “But you’d best be careful, Miss Becka. Those are Griffin woods.”
Becka chuckled at the man’s grandfatherly concern. She did need to take care, but not because of Griffins—she could probably reason with them. But the late kings had driven them out long before her birth. “Hardly. There haven’t been Griffins in this country for years.”
“Mm-hmm.” Nevellroy finished the last bite of tart. “Well, if you do run into any, give a holler and we’ll come help you.”
“I will.” Becka waved and passed through the gate with a nod at the younger guard, who stood in silence on the other side of the arch.
She cut across the fields with a quicker step, calling up her refrain: Today could be the day at last. Eagerness fluttered in her chest at the thought, but fear of one more disappointment fettered it. The uncut grass brushed against her skirt all the way to her thighs, leaving little seed burrs in the wool fabric. The road made for easier going, but she wanted to reach the woods faster without appearing to hurry. Walking on two legs slowed her unbearably, no matter what pace she set. She couldn’t afford to take any risks, so she followed her routine to bring no extra attention to herself.
Soon, she reached the shade of the pines, finding some relief from the warm spring sun and the eyes of the city watchmen. Still, she kept walking, eyes and ears alert for anyone in the forest. Each day, she varied her path between the trunks so as not to leave a trail. After ten minutes’ walk, she arrived at the same stately oak as always, hidden in a dense cluster of trees.
Becka took hold of the familiar branches and climbed to a large limb with a little hollow in the trunk next to it. For safekeeping, she tucked the tarts into the nook behind a little flat stone she’d found last fall and then listened again. The breeze rustled the leaves and pine boughs, obscuring other sounds, and she waited until the wind stilled to make extra certain no one else traversed the woods. If anyone discovered her, she would face jail, deportation . . . or maybe death.
Certain of her solitude, she closed her eyes—sensing the wind brush through her hair, the open space between her and the forest floor, the lightness and vastness of the air above her—and she transformed. Her clothes and hair smoothed into feathers as her body shrank to a fraction of her Human size in the blink of an eye. In the place of the girl now perched a blackbird, the second of her three component forms.
If not for the beak, Becka would have smiled. Now she could cover some real distance—after a few more precautions. She launched into the air, fluttering through the branches to emerge above the forest. A current buoyed her wings like a fresh hope and let her soar in broad, effortless loops over the woods, moving ever closer to the southern mountains. Her sharp bird eyes surveyed the area, again confirming the absence of any Humans. On a few occasions, she had encountered lone trappers or vagabonds making their way from the hills back to civilization, justifying her caution.
Satisfied, she winged her way over the first ridge. The familiar itch prickled under Becka’s feathers, the longing to return to her true form. With a few flaps, she dove toward a small clearing on the far side of the mountain. Before she even reached the ground, she relaxed her concentration and let her full form manifest—the Human head and torso of the young girl, and the broad black wings of the bird, which extended from the ebony body of a horse. Her great wings gave a flap to slow her descent, and then her hooves hit the grass at a gallop.
Becka breathed deep with exhilaration as the forest rushed past her. The ridge descended steeply, and the crash of water echoed through the woods, but she did not slow. On she raced, until the ground sheared off at the edge of a gorge. She sprang out into open air, wings unfurled. For a giddy moment, she plunged downward, but with a strong flap, she turned and soared through the canyon. The river cascaded white over its rocky bed far below, its rush reverberating off the stone walls.
Here, at last, she found freedom—freedom to be her true self, apart from anyone who would condemn or capture her. The sole foot crossing lay miles down the river, closer to the city, and people avoided the canyon since the princess’s husband had fallen to his death in it almost a decade before. Here, she could truly be alone. Yet one day—perhaps this day—she wouldn’t remain alone. The thrill of flight diminished beneath the anticipation. She peered more intently at the twists and turns of the canyon as she neared her destination. Would he await her there? She could hardly bear to ask anymore.
A roar of water grew beneath her until the river plunged over another drop. Just beyond the waterfall, a spire of rock hundreds of feet high rose from the edge of the river. Eyrie Pillar—the place he promised he’d meet her. Becka flew over the deafening waterfall, then descended through its mists. The river broadened and slowed here, as the slopes of the depression became less severe.
She circled around the pillar, eyes searching for any sign. A narrow arm of land reached out into the river to hold the base of the spire. A steep path led down to it—a path Becka herself maintained to ensure it remained passable on foot. It appeared unused, but she didn’t expect the rock and sparse, tough grass to show much, even if well traveled.
With a smaller loop around the pillar, Becka skimmed close to the surface of the water and alighted on the grassy knoll at the stone spire’s base. She folded her wings along her horse back and paused, taking in the area. Untouched—it looked, as always, untouched—not a single flower stem bent over or stone tumbled down from the weight of a footstep.
She flicked her tail. Her hopes had risen along with her in the canyon, and she would not drop them just yet. With a determined stride, she trotted to the pillar itself. A smooth, flat portion of the stone angled out into the grass. On it sat a hardened circle of sunbaked mud with a simple inscription: “M22.” Minoday, 22nd day of spring. Becka’s wings drooped at the tips.
She bent to pick up a flat rock she used to scrape off the clay each day, then turned back down the hill to the riverbank. She let her front hooves slip into the water as she scooped a handful of mud out of the river. The coldness from the winter melt made her skin tingle. Then she trudged back to the pillar, patted a flat cake of mud on the stone, and carved with her finger “P23”: Pegasday, 23rd day of spring.
“It’s been a whole year,” Becka whispered, gazing at the sky. The disappointment returned with a greater desperation each day. “Dad, where are you?”
Chapter Two
Becka’s mother had stopped voicing the question, but she still lifted her eyes with anticipation when her daughter returned home late that afternoon. Becka shook her head, unable to find the words. Her mother, Miryam, never let sadness show for longer than a flicker. Instead, she took her child in an embrace and said, “Welcome home, my treasure.”
Becka should stand strong like her mother and hold fast to the hope for as long as they had to stay here, but nevertheless, the whispered words slipped out, “But this isn’t our home.”
“I know,” Miryam said softly, then stepped back to survey her daughter. “The Spring Market is only a few days away. Perhaps Ranthalik will bring us word of your father then.” She gave a smile for Becka’s benefit, but the shadows under her eyes had grown darker all this winter, and the worry line in between showed more and more often. “It’s late. Close up the front, please. I’ll get dinner off the hearth.”
“I brought us dessert.” Becka offered her bag.
Miryam opened it to find the tarts and a few handfuls of wild berries. She truly did smile then. “What a special treat! How thoughtful of you. You’re my sweet girl.”
Some of the heaviness lifted off Becka’s spirit. So long as she and her mother had each other to share the small joys, all would be well.
Miryam turned to walk back into the kitchen with the bag, and Becka retraced her steps through the shop to lock the front door and secure the shutters. Woven wool goods—tapestries, blankets, bolts of fabric—hung from all the walls and draped over racks. Her mother’s master loom, tall as Becka in her true form, stood in the middle of the room. Becka’s own small apprentice loom occupied the back corner by the kitchen door, behind her mother’s various smaller looms with works in progress.
She latched the shutters of the two front windows and then pinned the inner curtains tight over the openings. Night fell inside the shop. “All secured here,” Becka thought to her mother as she followed the light from the hearth fire back to the kitchen.
“Just a moment,” Miryam’s unspoken voice responded. All the Dynamic races could heartspeak—communicate without physical voices—in all their forms at close range. Humans alone, who lacked the ability to transform at all, could not detect or use the voice of heartspeak.
Becka closed the door between the shop and the hallway as an extra precaution.
“Ready,” her mother said just as she entered the kitchen. Miryam had already locked and curtained the back door and window. She now removed her shawl to reveal the low-backed wool dress underneath and transitioned in an instant to her true form—a Seraph. Her folded wings swept from her shoulders all the way to the floor, black with bright patches of scarlet near the top to match her auburn hair.
Becka released her own true form. Any material from a living creature—such as woolen or leather clothing—assimilated into the new form during transformation. Anything that could not integrate had to fall off or it would prevent the shift—the reason Dynamic peoples never wore anything made of metal, wood, or stone. Moreover, the entire piece needed to transform. Becka had to wear a separate skirt and shirt rather than the more fashionable single-piece dresses so that her skirt could disappear into the glossy black coat of her horse form while her shirt remained on her human torso.
Her blackbird wings came from her mother, but otherwise her appearance favored her Centaur father with his dark hair and eyes. She let out a long breath of relief as she returned to her true state. Maintaining the semblance of a Human took constant concentration and energy, so she could only hold it for so long. If she overexerted herself, she’d have no choice in transforming back to her true self.
By contrast, her true form brought effortless relief and rest, like loosening the tight strings of boots at the end of a long day of walking. She’d never seen a mixed-race child like herself. If not for the people back home always whispering like she had some strange disease, her true form would have brought her nothing but comfort. Still, her full size made the tiny kitchen even more cramped. Miryam slept in the narrow bedroom alongside the kitchen, while Becka’s quarters upstairs took up the full width of the house.
“There were Stoneridge Army soldiers on Westgate Street today,” Becka said, accepting a bowl of soup and carrying it to the counter, the one surface high enough for her to eat off comfortably while standing.
“What? Where?” Miryam paused in dishing up her own portion from a pot over the fire.
“By Tomason’s bakery. They were talking to a lot of different people.”
“Did they notice you?”
Becka burned her tongue on the hot broth. She winced and shook her head. “I can be quick.”
Miryam settled on a stool by the hearth. “I know you’re careful,” she said, even as her face conveyed the desire to urge Becka to even more care. They’d had that discussion enough times before. “Perhaps you should start leaving earlier in the afternoon—in case you need to take the long way to the gate. There seem to be more patrols every day. And now the army is patrolling even in the city . . . .” She frowned at her soup. “They’re looking harder for the rebels.”
“Do you really think there are any here?” Becka asked. The Uprising and the ensuing Purge had forced them from their home and into hiding here in the capital—had separated them from her father. The regent had forcibly expelled countless Dynamics from the country, but rumors of a hidden resistance still spread.
“I don’t know, Becka.” Weariness overlaid Miryam’s heartvoice. “Maybe they think the Spring Market would give an opportunity for the rebels to congregate here. I suspect Ranthalik is involved, but the less we know, the better.”
“You mean the less we can tell if we’re caught,” Becka responded with her heartvoice in kind. Even with walls of stone dividing them from their neighbors on either side, they couldn’t risk having a conversation like this one aloud. Now only another Dynamic could hear them—on the slimmest chance that one eavesdropped close by.
“I mean that it’s dangerous. The Uprising has destroyed countless lives already. But yes, that is the rebels’ perspective, I’d imagine.”
As much as the Purge had upended her life, she knew very little about the Uprising that opposed it. Little more than her own experience that evening in her home village, when the screams started, and the ground resounded with hoofbeats and footsteps of Dynamics fleeing the raiding army while a brave few tried to fight back. Smoke had turned the air bitter. Her family had received just a word of warning in time to run out the back door of their cottage, not pausing to grab more than the smallest bag of possessions on the way. They’d lived near the far edge of the village, by the forest—a close escape route in the growing night.
But their neighbor had cried for help—a Faun woman with her elderly father, who could barely hobble along on his aged hooves. Becka’s father had jerked to a halt, the desire to protect his family and his community warring in his dark eyes.
“I’ll catch up with you,” he’d promised. “At Eyrie Pillar, if not before. Don’t stop.” And then he’d turned back while her mother pulled her into the woods, both of them blinded by tears and the shadow of the trees.
They hadn’t seen him since.
Becka blew on her spoonful of soup, cautious against its heat as well as continuing the topic her mother so frequently closed down. But as long as they’d said so much already, she continued, “What if—what if Dad is involved with the rebels? He could be helping more people escape. He stayed behind to help. Maybe he’s making a difference out there.”
Miryam broke in, “He promised to meet us. I don’t believe he would put us at risk by making us wait so long if he had a choice to do otherwise.”
“Mom—”
“Let’s speak no more of this tonight, Becka,” Miryam said with sudden sharpness. “There is nothing to be gained by it until Ranthalik comes for the Spring Market.”
Yes, there is, Becka thought to herself, deflating. Just as she feared—each day her father did not come, her mother lost hope that he ever would. To keep their spirits up, Becka searched hard for reasons behind his delay that would also predict his imminent arrival, but her task grew more difficult day by day—and she dreaded what would happen when the last of the hope finally disappeared.
*********
A silent cry disturbed the next morning’s weaving song. Becka’s fingers tangled in the wool threads from her loom as she lost the melody. She scanned the shop, unsure if she’d truly heard.
Miryam dropped to an absent-minded hum as she worked at her own loom. Few visitors came in the morning—people lacked the money to buy a new rug or dress fabric every day—leaving the master weaver ample time to teach her daughter how to visualize her patterns and maneuver the weaving heddles, but now the stillness made Becka’s gooseflesh prickle.
Then a voice, faint with distance, froze them both in place. “Help! Someone, please!”
Becka tore her fingers from the knot of threads. She’d heard the words not with her ears, but with her heart. One of us!
Miryam rushed for the door, Becka right behind. They worked their way through the growing crowd in the street. A block away, soldiers—both in army gray and city guard green—blocked off an open ring of space in front of Tomason’s bakery. Becka’s heart caught in dread. The two army soldiers from yesterday pulled the baker from the threshold of his home to the center of the circle where the city guard captain stood waiting. An emerald tunic emblazoned with an oak tree draped over his glittering silver chainmail.
Miryam gripped Becka’s arm at the sight of the officer, as if ready to pull her away. Captain Calvincent. One of the most powerful men in the city—and one they should avoid at all costs. But neither Becka nor her mother moved. Perhaps because leaving now might draw attention to themselves—or perhaps because they couldn’t bear to leave one of their own in distress.
Captain Calvincent raised his voice for the crowd. “Baker Tomason, you stand accused of being a half-beast by informants who claim you transform within your home. Under the law of Regent Tobiashton, you will submit to a test before these witnesses to prove your true character.”
Tomason spoke in a breathless rush. “That’s absurd! These people all know me. There’s nothing to prove.”
“Which explains why you tried to flee out your back door?” The captain raised his eyebrows.
“Your—your men startled me when they burst in. I’m an honest member of this community.” Sweat ran from Tomason’s hairline down his red face.
“If you refuse to cooperate with the test, you will be subjected to a minimum of thirty days in jail with a daily fine for judicial expenses. Would you prefer to submit to the test?”
“Mom, what is this test?” Even in her heart, Becka used only a whisper.
“I don’t know. But if they take him to jail, they’ll see him as he is the moment he sleeps.”
Becka bit her lip. Their true form always returned when they ran out of energy and concentration to sustain a partial form—illness, sleep, or even exhaustion forced it to manifest. She searched the street with her eyes, taking in the press of people halting all movement, the dozens of soldiers with weapons at the ready. “Can’t we do something?”
Miryam likewise surveyed the area before meeting her daughter’s gaze. “If we vouch for him, they’ll suspect us, too.”
The silence stretched tight like the string of an instrument, then vibrated with the squeak of Tomason’s muted voice. “I submit.”
Captain Calvincent motioned forward another guard, who brought forth a canteen. The officer smiled. “Don’t worry. If you are innocent, you will suffer no harm. In fact, you’ll feel quite relaxed for the rest of the day.”
The solder pulled off the little cup of a cap and poured a measure of dark green liquid. “Drink it.”
The soldiers released Tomason, although they still stood close on either side. The baker’s hands shook as he took the tiny cup.
Becka inhaled sharply. “It’s tay. It has to be.”
“Tay takes a while to work.” Yet Miryam’s worried eyes confirmed her suspicion. Tay—a common infusion meant to aid with sleep and relaxation, utterly harmless . . . except to a Dynamic in hiding.
Tomason took a small sip, eyes on the ground.
“All of it,” the captain prompted.
The accused man tipped back the rest of the liquid.
“Don’t swallow it,” Becka said softly, but one of the soldiers squeezed Tomason’s nose to force him. Tomason choked a little, swallowed, and coughed once the soldier released him.
The crowd stood quiet and unmoving. Becka shifted her weight from foot to foot, uncertain. If there are any rebels here, where are they? Why don’t they help?
Tomason swayed a little.
Miryam shouted, “Tomason! Don’t give in to the drug. Concentrate! Stay awake! Hold on to your form!”
His eyes scanned the assembly, but by the time they caught sight of her, they began to lose focus.
Miryam called again, “You can resist! Remember your danger! Stay alert!”
To Becka’s ears, her mother’s voice reverberated through the stillness, but no one else could hear. For a long moment, nothing happened. The spectators held their breath.
Then Tomason changed— scruffy hair replaced the flour-dusted woolen breeches, his legs bowed backward, and his feet contracted into a goat’s cloven hooves. The small horns extended from above his ears as naturally as a flower opening to the sun, yet the people around gasped in horror.
Captain Calvincent showed no surprise as Tomason slumped limply into the soldiers’ arms. Another soldier came forward to shackle the Faun’s wrists and ankles.
Becka swallowed a lump of dread. Iron—the inorganic material would not shift forms, and the tightness of the bands would not allow them to fall off. Tomason could not transform in those bindings. He was trapped.
“Take him away,” the captain ordered. “And let this be known to all of you: we will not permit these half-beasts to deceive us, to hide in our likeness while they wait to strike. We will find these rebels—each and every one—until our land is pure and rid of them!”
The soldiers dragged Tomason down the street, his hooves scraping along the cobblestones. The people pressed back out of their way as if fearing some dreadful communicable disease. Becka could have reached out and touched his shoulder—a man who had always shown her such kindness—but fear pinned her arms to her sides and rooted her feet to the ground. She felt sick.
Tears misted Miryam’s eyes, though she held them back. “Inside, Becka. We’ve seen enough.”
She took her daughter’s hand to return home with the same urgency as when they had left. Becka withheld tears of her own with less success, hurriedly wiping them away and letting her black hair drop forward to conceal her face. Miryam hurried them inside and slammed the shop door against the people’s applause for the soldiers.
Becka stood trembling in the middle of the room, flinching at the grating of the bolts and shutters closing. She lifted her head, cheeks wet. All the months she had lived here, she had never heard Tomason’s true voice—and now she would never hear it again. “Did you know he was one of us?”
Miryam turned slowly from the door. “No,” she said simply. “No, I always thought we were alone.”
Go back to the New Classics Book Excerpts ➡️
