1st 5 Pages April Workshop- Jolley

Name: Mary Jolley

Genre: Young Adult: fantasy
Title: Gray Throne

I hated the Grays. I hated all the thugs from Alta Lang, but especially Bear Gray—my so-called king, and his son, Angus—my future king.

Not if I can help it.

Today was March nineteenth of the year one hundred and four.

Today was check up day.

Fiona and I bolted through the white hallways of Cromarty Institute. Up five flights of stairs, we emerged at the observatory. My long braid rapped my spine. I gulped air, pulse soaring with a mixture of exertion and anxiety.

Fiona twisted knobs as she looked through the telescope.

“Let me have a turn.”

“Hold on, Vera.” Fiona whistled. “There have got to be at least fifty of them.”

Fifty! Why? Last spring they’d come with only twelve of their terrifying warriors.

Fiona was twenty-two; the three years she had on me were the only thing keeping me from pushing her aside.

My sister stepped back and I stuck my eye to the lens. A pack of horsemen came into focus, trotting up the straight cobbled main street toward the Cromarty Institute. A dozen of the Lang’s frightening paxaro birds patrolled the skies. The Gray flag depicting twin trees waved from the front of the line, right in front of the king.

The tyrant wore a leather coat with fur trimming the hood and edges. In the temperate climate of Campbell, he’d opened the coat and pulled the hood back, revealing a brown bearded face, thick curling hair and deep-set eyes.

At Bear’s side, his son rode a black horse. Coatless and hatless, Angus sat almost lazily on his beastly mount. His tilted shoulders and loosely held reins exuded arrogance. My jaw tightened. Go away.

“Come on,” Fiona said, tugging at my sleeve. “They’re almost at the courtyard.”

We scampered down the stairs to our secret hiding spot in the storeroom on the ground floor. Dad would have lectured us for hours on propriety if he’d known the heirs of Campbell had stuffed into a closet to spy on our guests.

In my khaki skirt, lace-collared tunic, and cardigan, I climbed onto a barrel and propped open the glass. We pressed our cheeks together and peered through the narrow window at the granite-paved courtyard, now packed with ruffians. Horses steamed and grunted—more frightening than the district train.

His unwelcome highness, Bear Gray, dismounted from an enormous horse and took off gloves. A stable hand accepted the reins and the king’s coat. Worn leather pants wrapped thick legs. Like many of his men, Bear wore a red and blue plaid button up. A dagger hung from one hip, a pistol from the other. Only his air of cold authority distinguished him as the ultimate power here.

Dad strode into the courtyard wearing a pressed blue suit, broad smile, and Mom on his right elbow. Wolfton, the king’s regent to Campbell, glided at Dad’s left.

“Majesty.” Dad bowed his head to the king. “Welcome to Campbell.” The two men stood eye to eye, but Bear looked twice the weight and triple the strength.

Bear’s nose buckled in the middle and bent slightly right. He’d broken it three years ago in the uprising in Hogg and he’d never set it properly—a reminder to would-be rebels.

Rebels like me.

It reminded me how close Ian had come to killing the king.

He was not unbreakable.

Mom dipped into a graceful curtsey.

Prince Angus Gray strode from the pack of horses and warriors and stood next to Bear.

Like all elevated people in The Kingdom of Gray, the prince had been a student at Cromarty as a teenager. His four years here had failed to civilize the man outside.

At twenty-four, Prince Angus stood a palm taller than his father and had the same thick curling brown hair, although his was cropped short as his ears. His brow appeared permanently furrowed and his jaw remained clenched—as if his stony face would be enough to cow us into submission for another year.

Leave us alone.

“Well,” Fiona said. “Angus has improved over the last year. Much better without the beard.”

“Shush.” I was missing the outside conversation.

“We have the West Tower prepared for you and your party,” Mom said. “I thought you’d like to freshen up after your ride and enjoy lunch before our meetings.”

The travelers looked like they’d had a romp in brown paint. Animal stink puffed through the window.

“We’ll speak in private now,” Bear said to Dad.

Fiona and I shared a look at his ominous tone.

Mom directed servants to take the fifty filthy barbarians away. Dad lead a small group inside the East Tower, where we lived. A paxaro bird and its tender followed the king. Dad’s brow pinched in worry and his lips turned down at the corners.

Fiona hopped off the barrel, but I watched the Langs a moment longer—muscle, iron, and stench. We would never have any hope of removing them with our puny arms.

If only Ian were still here. He’d filled my head with dreams of revolution. He’d painted a bright future for Campbell and Hogg—without the Grays. He’d know what to do.

Ian died a traitor.

Fiona retreated upstairs to study, but I snuck out the back of the West Tower. Cutting a wide circle, I slipped into the East Tower and padded down a white plaster-walled hallway. A table bearing juice and pastries had been set up outside the meeting room doors, right below the air vent—my only chance of overhearing Dad and Bear.

Footsteps neared the corner ahead. Panicked, I dove under the table, smoothing my tablecloth shield into place.

“How many batches of the vaccine have you made?” Bear asked, his voice growing louder.

“Four successful rounds,” Dad said. “We’ve inoculated everyone here at Cromarty and we’re working our way through McAndrew.”

“You’ll want a tour of our new lab,” Wolfton said.

Hold your tongue, Rat.

Heavy boots stopped at my table. I caged my breath.

“Have some lunch brought up.” Bear’s low voice was tight with disapproval. “Something satisfying.”

Not a fan of our snacks.

Bear marched down the hall toward the doors.

That was close.

The tablecloth ripped down. I yelped.

Glass and chocolate splintered on the ground.

A paxaro landed on the tiles in front of my hiding spot. Beady eyes glared. I stifled a scream. The bird, as tall as a three-year-old, cocked its head.

“Spy,” the bird said, its voice a screech.

I held a protective hand up between the long sharp beak and my nose.

“No, I’m not,” I whispered to the bird.

“Liar,” the bird said in a loud crackly voice.

Angus’s dirty boots thumped in view. The tip of a knife appeared next to his calf.

He's going to kill me.

“Come out, spy.” The bird shifted onto one foot and held up a clawed hand as if it would pull me out—probably by the neck. Talons glinted.

“It’s just me,” I said in a loud voice. I scrambled out, empty hands up and hot face down.

“Vera!” Dad’s voice was a cocktail of shock (fake) and disapproval (real).

Angus’s blade had disappeared by the time I lifted my eyes to his big empty hands.

“Couldn’t wait to see us?” Angus asked.

I never want to see you. “Please excuse me.”

Bear’s chuckles crackled up my spine.

“What were you doing?” Angus asked.

“I dropped something under the table.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” Angus said.