There was absolute silence.
“Jhi,” whispered the porridge woman.
Meilin gestured toward Abeke.
Abeke released Uraza in another flash of green light. The massive leopard did look legendary, her violet eyes ablaze.
“Uraza,” murmured the porridge woman. “Impossible.”
The rubbery man held out the bracelet. Finn took it from him without a word.
Meilin smiled sharply at the Hawkers. “Spread the word. The Great Beasts are back.”
Then she turned to Finn and Abeke. “What are we waiting for? We have work to do.”
7: Trunswick
CONOR REALLY WAS DOING HIS BEST TO BE A GOOD PARTNER with Briggan. Sometimes it was easy. He’d grown up with sheepdogs, and Briggan could be quite doglike. He liked for Conor to toss clumps of sod for him to fetch. He played gleeful tug-of-war with vines. He always let Conor lead, to show that he trusted him to be in charge.
But sometimes he was nothing like a dog, and Conor was never sure if this was because he was acting more like a wolf specifically or acting more like a Great Beast in general. For instance, the family sheepdogs had always been eager to curl up to sleep beside Conor. But Briggan, no matter how cold the night, slept at least a few feet from him. The sheepdogs had absolutely hated to be stared at, but if Conor caught Briggan’s gaze, the wolf held it unblinkingly until Conor became uncomfortable.
And he really did howl at the moon.
Conor had spent so many nights being terrified of that sound. Wondering when the wolves would appear. Wondering if he’d be able to keep them from killing any sheep. Wondering if he’d be able to keep them from killing him.
If he was being honest, he tried so hard with Briggan to hide the fact that he was still a little afraid of him.
“Home sweet home, eh?” Rollan asked, shielding his eyes.
They had made it to Trunswick. Finally.
The others had never made it to the tower, so Rollan and Conor had started across the fields alone. They had walked and walked and walked, jumping at the slightest noise, fearing Conquerors, dangerous animals, or Conquerors with dangerous animals. They had stopped to snatch a few nervous hours of sleep — long enough for Conor to have a fuzzy dream of both Rumfuss and a large, wild-looking hare sleeping in a patch of wisteria — and then walked some more.
Now the town rose up above them; the castle stood at the highest point of the hill. Blue-roofed houses made of sandy-colored stone crowded below it. Brilliant blue flags and banners flew from nearly every roof, as if the town were waving a frantic greeting to the boys. Conor knew that all the standards would feature Briggan, Eura’s patron beast. He felt a warm flood of relief: It had been such a nerve-racking journey without either of the older Greencloaks. But now here was familiar old Trunswick. Everything would be all right, surely.
“So this is Trunswick,” Rollan observed. “Where you have fond memories of being sold into servitude by your father?”
Conor’s cheeks heated. “I wasn’t sold.”
“Loaned, then,” Rollan corrected warmly. “Oh, don’t look so beaten up over it. My father rudely up and died on me, so I reckon he’s the worse parent. Oh, hey. You did say ‘a warm welcome,’ right?” He pointed toward the town. “Did you mean warm like ‘burning’?”
A plume of smoke rose from the opposite side of the town. Vaguely uneasy, Conor said, “Sometimes the farmers burn their fields to kill the thistles and heather. Come on, we’ll go in a side way.”
A sandy-colored wall that matched the sandy-colored houses surrounded Trunswick. There were several unguarded gates. The main gate was always crowded, so Conor led them toward the nearly hidden one nearest to the castle. He paused, tipping his head back.
Two blue flags flew over the gate, just like before. But unlike before, Briggan’s silhouette was missing. In its place was the outline of a bulky black cat. The change was so absolutely unexpected and so wrong that Conor couldn’t immediately process the truth of it.
Slowly, he asked Rollan, “Am I awake?”
“Is this a trick question?”
Conor had grown up under the image of a gray wolf on a blue field. Briggan’s iconic image had flown over every state event. Every family had a wolf figure on their mantel or a howling wolf carved into the wood above the doorway. Briggan was Eura.
But now there was a blue flag with a wildcat flying over the gate.
It seemed like it should be a dream. Or a hallucination.
Rollan had noticed Conor’s goggling at the flag, so Conor stammered, “That’s supposed to be Briggan.”
“What? The cat? Looks a little like Uraza.”
This cat was far more muscled than Abeke’s leopard, but Conor saw the resemblance. If he hadn’t known any better, he would’ve thought it was supposed to be the silly wildcat from the children’s stories he’d grown up with. Hadn’t every child in Eura heard about the hero who would rise up with a black cat? It had been an inspiring sort of myth.
But Trunswick didn’t need a myth. They had Briggan. He was back. He was real.
Before Conor had time to wonder about this out loud, a huge mastiff burst from the other side of the entrance. It bayed, jowls slobbery. The noise rumbled in their feet. Its threatening bark called out a second dog. Conor knew these were no ordinary hounds. The Trunswicks’ mastiffs were infamous for their fight-to-the-death training. It wasn’t their bite that was deadly, although it was formidable. It was their hold. The mastiffs were trained to find a grip on their victims’ throats and not let go until a Trunswick guard gave the order.
“Brace yourself,” Conor warned.
“I don’t get along with dogs,” Rollan muttered, reaching toward the dagger he wore by his side. Briggan’s ears pinned and his tail dropped.
But the mastiffs merely circled and pushed them forward. This wasn’t an attack. It was an escort.
“Spirit animals?” Conor asked Rollan.
“Slobber animals,” Rollan replied, holding his hands out of the way of their drooling mouths. “What’s going on? Is this slimy greeting usual?”
Before Conor could reply, a guard shouted at them from his post at the gate. “Hey, you!” The mastiffs herded the two boys closer. A few feet away, Conor saw that the guard wore a blue Trunswick surcoat over his chain mail. But, as on the flag, the wolf insignia had been replaced with a black wildcat. Behind him, another three mastiffs emerged. The guard tugged Conor’s cloak, rubbing mud off between his thumb and forefinger and revealing the color beneath. “Greencloaks!” The contempt in his voice when he said the word was as shocking as anything else that had happened. “You can come quietly to the prison, or you can make this difficult.”