Legacy of the Claw

A LONELY CARAVAN TRUNDLED across the flat, brown terrain of the Dust Plains. In the back of one wagon, driven by two hunched men, a tarp covered a wealth of stolen goods: jewels looted from Gray City shops, two barrels of fine Parliament grog, and a girl with violet eyes.

The tarp stretched over her was backlit with sunlight and a shadow passed overhead. The girl heard a familiar squawk. A black carrion crow who followed the troupe was back from scouting. He was kin to the driver of the wagon, the man whom the girl understood to be the leader of this band of thieves.

The wagon soon came to a stop, and the girl could hear the sounds of a busy street. The wooden wheels creaked under her as the man and his companion stepped down from the wagon. Suddenly, everything was blinding light as the tarp was pulled back sharply. The girl shielded her eyes.

“Up. Up!” growled the man. He grabbed her arm and pulled her through a crowd, where he pushed her onto the center of a rickety wooden platform. There, he stood behind her with a huge hand on her shoulder. It wasn't a kind hand, or a comforting one. He was making sure that she didn't try to run.

The girl thought about the reassuring hands of her father. She remembered how his hands would move when he'd explain things to her or to his advisors in Parliament. Like the Animas bond. He'd placed one hand on his own chest, and with his other, he'd drawn a line from his heart to hers.
It's a vibration, a kind of knowing. It means that you're not just connected to an animal—you're connected to Nature, and to the world. The Animas bond is a force that connects every living creature. And a noble person, a noble ruler even, uses this force for good.

“Who'll take her?” the man shouted into the gathered crowd. “Only twenty snailbacks!”

She wanted to cry out—she wanted to tell everyone who she was, but she was too afraid. Her father was the king of all Aldermere. But the king was dead.

She was alone.

“Eighteen snailbacks!” the man shouted into the silence. Finally, someone raised a hand in the crowd. Suddenly, everyone was shouting bids. The auction had begun.

She clenched her fists. She wouldn't cry. She saw the crow, perched at the edge of the wooden platform, blinking his cold, black eyes at her. It wasn't fair. The leader of the thieves had kin here, in this terrible place, and she had none. She had always been embarrassed to be Animas Pig, but she'd have given anything for the comfort of having her own kin close to her now. Even the thieves in the crowd had their doggish companions with them. Coyotes combed the mob, lifting snailbacks from unsuspecting pockets. But she was alone, alone. The crow cawed, laughing at her.

Her anger burned hot inside her until she thought she'd scream. Like an electric current, a terrible force moved through her whole body. She took her grief and terror and threw it, pushed it outward onto the kin of another.

The cawing of the crow became louder, sharper, as two coyotes from the gathered crowd lunged at him, brought him flapping and shrieking to the ground, and began to tear at his flesh and feathers. Her hands shook as she realized that she had caused it. She'd created violence like the violence she felt churning in her heart.

It was power like nothing she'd ever experienced. She could feel the bond that connected her not just to her own kin, but to
every
creature, just like her father had said. She could control it. She could
use
it.

As the crowd backed away, horrified—as the leader of the thieves bellowed for his comrades to help him pull the beasts off of his kin—the girl with the violet eyes remained still. Her mind turned toward her father and her little brother, now dead.

Why use our bond with Nature for good? she thought, as the teeth tore and the claws grabbed. It didn't save them. This new way of using the bond made her feel powerful, and in a world in which no one she loved still lived, she needed every ounce of strength she could muster.

TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS LATER

TWELVE-YEAR-OLD BAILEY WALKER ducked as a huge brown goose flew just past his head, coming to rest on the awning over the rigimotive station platform. The dark tortoiseshell cat, that only a moment before had startled the fowl into flight, wove between the legs of its human companions, meowing with satisfaction. Bailey patted down his messy, hay-colored hair, making sure no feathers had gotten caught in it.

“Are you ready, Bailey?” Emily, his mom, asked. She squeezed his shoulders with both hands before brushing a spot of dust off of his best shirt. “Just remember, no matter what anyone says about you—you are fine. You're more than fine. You're exceptional.”

Yeah. Exceptionally weird, maybe, he thought. Bailey felt a sharp pang, but he nodded and smiled. He was leaving the Golden Lowlands and its pleasant farms, its rolling hills and sleepy, rambling towns—he was leaving his
parents
—for Fairmount Academy, the most prestigious school in Aldermere.

Where he would soon be labeled a complete freak.

“You listen to your mom, Bailey.” Bailey's dad, a lanky man with dark, curly hair, had dressed in his nicest trousers and donned a crisp wool flatcap, just to see Bailey off. Herman Walker had been speaking for days about the chance to see the towering, four-story rigimotive (the biggest in the Lowlands!) that would take Bailey to Fairmount. The rigimotive was the only available means of long-distance travel, but since neither Bailey nor his parents had ever left the Lowlands, they'd never had the opportunity to see it.

Bailey couldn't wait to board. The two rigimotive cars were like giant red metal houses, with four rows of copper-rimmed windows looking out on the plains. Gold-painted spiral staircases inside each car reached all the way to the top. The yellow dirigible, a huge oval balloon, floated above the rigimotive.

Bailey's father had explained how the floating dirigible would help the crew navigate the rigimotive over any broken-down track, as well as propel the heavy cars forward. His father's enthusiasm for the technology of the Age of Invention was infectious. Growing up, Bailey's dad had told him all about the Royal Tinkerers—a group of professors and engineers that had invented the rigimotive before Bailey had been born. His father said they would've gone on to create a faster, more efficient train—but like so many plans that were made before the murder of King Melore, these had died along with him. Bailey often wondered if his dad hadn't taken up farming, like his parents before him, if he'd have become a tinkerer himself.

Today, even Bailey's mom had put on her best hat, a purple felt cloche with a bright yellow flower on the brim, and a pair of clicking brown heels to take him to the station. His dad's life-bonded hare, Longfoot, was excited too—Bailey watched as he swatted at the cat with mottled black and brown fur.

“You put the past behind you,” his dad said, startling Bailey from his thoughts. “And don't worry about what other kids say. There's nothing wrong with you. Everyone moves at a different pace. You'll show them what you're made of.”

Bailey had heard this speech, or some version of it, a thousand times before. But he nodded. “Thanks, Dad,” he said, and meant it.

He would miss his mom and dad terribly. Emily and Herman Walker had adopted him when he was just a baby. Bailey had heard the story hundreds of times before: how he'd been found as a baby by his dad, crying naked underneath a raspberry bush, dangerously near the edge of the Dark Woods. He'd been underfed and very small. No one knew where he'd come from, or how he'd managed to survive on his own.

Bailey, of course, had no memory of being found. All he'd known growing up was that he was the adoptive son of an Animas Hare and an Animas Horse: both hardworking, kind, supportive  …  and, unlike Bailey, completely normal. They ran a wheat farm, and had raised him to work hard. Work hard, and never turn down the opportunity to learn. He would forever be grateful to them. They'd always been so patient and encouraging—even when Bailey had started to show signs of being  …  well,
different
.

“Take care of yourself, my lovey!” His mom dabbed at her eyes. Oh, no. She was about to cry. Bailey hugged her quickly before she could make a scene—or call him “lovey” again.

“I will,” he said. He disentangled himself from his mom's embrace and gave his dad a quick squeeze. His dad mussed Bailey's yellow hair, causing his mother to spring forward and comb it down again. Longfoot scurried over, and Bailey pulled away just before the hare could pee on his canvas shoe, which was the closest he came to expressing affection. “Bye, Mom. Bye, Dad. Bye, Longfoot.”

“Don't forget to eat your grains!” his mom called after him, as Bailey threaded through the crowd. He heard laughter coming from a group of older students boarding the rigimotive ahead of him. His ears burned and he kept his head down. Maybe no one would know she was talking to him.

He could feel his mom's watchful and worried eyes on the back of his neck. He knew why she was worried—this was his first time away from home. He was anxious too.

But he was also excited. If there was ever a place that could give him, Bailey Walker, the hope of being normal—finally—it was Fairmount Academy, with the Animas trainer who might just have the answers Bailey needed: a man by the name of Tremelo Loren. His dad had scrounged some pamphlets on Fairmount's history from their local Lowlands library when Bailey had first been accepted. In one, which had been published quite a few years before, he saw mention of the young teacher, Mr. Loren, who had developed a reputation in the Gray City by training everyday people to develop stronger bonds with their animal kin. Bailey planned to seek him out as soon as he arrived.

There was a long line to board the rigimotive. The Lowlands was made up of small farming villages, and though it stretched over more than a third of Aldermere, this platform was one of the only rigimotive stops in the region. Some of the students in this line had traveled by cart and wagon for many miles already.

The stairs had once gleamed bright gold, but the rigimotive car showed signs of wear. The paint had flaked off significantly, showing dull, plain metal underneath. The stairs creaked under the weight of the students climbing up and down. Bailey reached the first floor of the second car, where his and the other travelers' trunks were being hoisted onto racks by two porters, and kept climbing. It was his first time traveling away from home, and he wasn't going to waste it by looking out the windows of the first floor.

Bailey wound his way up to the third floor. Stepping into the aisle, he scanned the wooden benches for a free spot. Bailey saw several older boys and girls sitting near the front, wearing telltale blue-and-gold ties loosely done under their collars. He suddenly felt very self-conscious, still in his linen shirt and his nicest pair of cotton work pants. A farm boy, at least until he got to Fairmount, where his trunk full of new school clothes and his official Fairmount blazer could finally be unpacked. He was about to slink quietly into a seat in the back of the car, out of sight, when he heard someone call his name.

“Bailey, right?”

The voice belonged to a familiar dark-haired, bespectacled boy, sitting alone on a bench with a thick book in his lap. He waved at Bailey.

“It's Hal, Hal Quindley.”

Bailey had seen Hal around his old school, but they'd never been in class together. He wore a dark formal vest with the pattern of webbed wings on the shoulders. It looked new, and a little too big for him. Instead of a tie printed with the Fairmount colors, he wore a maroon silk cravat that looked as though someone had tied it for him.

“Hi,” Bailey said. Relieved to see even a remotely familiar face, he slid onto the seat opposite, stowing his rucksack under the bench.

Hal stretched out his hand to shake.

“I'm glad you found me,” he said. “I saw all the Year Ones listed in the
Fairmount Flyer,
and yours was the only name I recognized. Fairmount only accepts a hundred new kids a year, and so there's only room for a couple students from our town. Some pressure, huh?”

“Yeah,” Bailey mumbled, impressed. “Wow.”

He glanced out the window. His mom and dad were still waiting for the rigimotive to pull away. He felt a sudden, wrenching pang of homesickness.

“It's more than
wow
,” Hal said, adjusting the thick, copper-rimmed glasses on his nose. “They say you've got to be pretty exceptional to get in. Makes me wonder how I managed to sneak by!”

Bailey smiled. He heard his mom's voice in his mind—
You're more than fine. You're exceptional
—and the momentary homesickness melted away into anticipation once more.

But before he could respond, a heavyset man in a bulging overcoat plopped down on the seat next to Hal, panting loudly. The man's coat had several cargo pockets lining the front and sides, all of them overflowing with cuttings of various plants. A portly badger sauntered into the row after him and curled up underneath the bench, his wet nose poking out through the folds of the man's coat.

“Third floor, Hal?” asked the man, out of breath. “Couldn't have given Dillweed here a little rest this morning?”

Instantly, Hal's face turned red. “This is my Uncle Roger, an apothecary. And that's Dillweed,” he explained, pointing at the snout on the floor. “They've got some business in the Gray City, and Fairmount's on the way. Uncle Roger, this is Bailey. He goes to my school—I mean, he
went
to my school. I mean  …  He'll be in Fairmount with me.”

Roger turned to Bailey with wide, interested eyes—eyes that peered through the frames of glasses as thick as Hal's.

“Well, well! Making fast friends already, are we!” he exclaimed. Dillweed's protruding nose huffed under the coat. “Doesn't get better than that. You'll have plenty of time to chitchat before we get to Fairmount. Two whole days on a rigimotive! When I think that it would take only half a day if we were allowed through the Woods to the mountains, I tell you  … ” Roger threw up his hands. “Well, well. We'll just have to get cozy.” He turned his attention back to Hal. “I don't suppose you've seen your brother yet, have you?”

Hal made a face and pointed over his shoulder to the group of older students Bailey had noticed earlier. They were clapping and laughing loudly as one boy, with dark hair like Hal's, played keep-away with another boy's rucksack. The same tortoiseshell cat from the station platform sat nestled in the compartment overhead, batting at the rucksack as it passed. Roger rose from his seat with an exasperated sigh, and waddled over to put a stop to the game.

“That's your brother?” Bailey asked. Hal nodded, obviously annoyed.

“Taylor. He's Year Three, thank Nature, so I'll only have to put up with him for two years at Fairmount. He's a Scavage player,” Hal said matter-of-factly. Scavage, a game in which members of two opposing teams had to find and capture the other team's flag with the help of their kin, was the most popular sport in the kingdom. Bailey had watched some Scavage games at his school, and his dad liked to listen to the big tournaments on the radio.

“Scavage is the
only
reason he got into Fairmount,” Hal continued. “Taylor has one other talent and that's being a jerk.” Hal removed his glasses and scrubbed at the lenses vigorously. Without them, his eyes looked almost crossed. “I'm Animas Bat, like my grandfather. And Taylor's Cat, so we don't exactly get along. They're
all
Animas Cat”—Bailey assumed Hal meant his family—“and that's why I live with Roger.”

Bailey nodded. It wasn't uncommon for families with different types of kin to have problems, especially when one type of Animas was more aggressive than the other. Bailey remembered now why he'd seen so little of Hal at school. His wealthy uncle Roger lived near the periphery of the Dark Woods, and Hal was always whisked away right at the end of the last class, so they would get home before nightfall.

Looking at Hal now—his skinny arms, his outdated haircut and formal attire, and the thick glasses that made him look constantly surprised—Bailey found it hard to believe that he lived so close to the edge of the Dark Woods. For most citizens of Aldermere, the Dark Woods were forbidden, and the only people brave enough to live within its shadow were Animas Bear or Wolf.

The dirigible suspended above the car caught a gust of wind and pulled the rigimotive forward with a start. Bailey waved to his parents. Roger huffed as he settled back into his seat. Behind him, Taylor and his friends returned almost immediately to their game.

“That must have been your folks I was speaking to outside,” Roger said to Bailey, as he returned to his seat. “Nice people.”

“Thanks,” Bailey said.

“So which are you,” Roger asked, “Horse or Hare?”

This was it: the one question Bailey had been dreading. His Animas. Most people inherited from one parent or another, though a few skipped a generation. Roger clearly wasn't aware that Bailey was adopted, which meant that he didn't have
either
a Horse or Hare Animas.

And that wasn't the worst of it. He'd even considered lying about it, telling everyone who was sure to ask at Fairmount that he was a Bear or a Snake—even a Possum! Anything was better than the truth.

“I  … ” Bailey could feel his palms begin to sweat.

“You don't have to say, Bailey,” Hal jumped in quickly.

“Say what?” Roger asked, looking confused. “I merely asked—”

“Roger,
he's  … ” Hal began. Roger looked from Hal to Bailey, blinking with confusion. “He's the adopted one,” Hal said, looking down at his shoes.

Bailey felt himself blushing. Something about the hushed way that Hal had said “the adopted one” made Bailey think that Hal knew something more than he'd said. That was only to be expected, really. There was no way Hal wouldn't have heard the rumors, the taunts on the school grounds. He just hoped that Hal, the only other kid he knew from his town, would be decent enough not to blab about it once they got to Fairmount—at least until Bailey had a chance to ask for help from Mr. Loren, the trainer he'd read about.