Page 1 of Changelings
Prologue
The air across the savannah crackled with latent sparks and choking smoke, the kind that invaded the lungs and stayed there for days. Balar’s throat burned with it, but it was nothing to the firestorm in his chest.
“Amat,” he implored, “it was an accident—”
“Enough!” his mother spat. Turning her angry gaze onto the young male knelt before her, she raised her arm and before Balar could stop it—down came her claws in a vicious blow.
Soren rocked back on his heels from the impact, his face whipping to the side. Blood and fur flew through the putrid air, carved from his very flesh. Soren slumped forward, blood dribbling from his ruined cheek onto the ashen ground.
Heaving, his mother, theerezof their pride, spat on the ground before Soren, her spit mixing with his blood. Lips pulled back to reveal her yellowing fangs, she hissed, “It isunforgivablewhat you’ve done. My sister’s blood in your veins is all that spares you,utun. Be grateful for exile.”
Soren said nothing, as was his way.
The pride stood on, the many brothers, sisters, cousins, anduncles resigned. Theerezhad spoken. That was the manticore way.
Females were precious; leaders, mothers, artisans, they were the lifeblood of the mantii tribes. Especially after the treacherous Pyrrossi had ensured plague swept across the savannahs, impacting mothers and infants most, females had become rarer, more powerful. Their word was law. Sacred. Final.
His mother often said Balar was everything a manticore male should be—a provider, protector, dutiful to the last.
Perhaps that was true.
Today, it wasn’t.
Balar strode to stand beside the kneeling Soren. His mother’s lips curled back. “Don’t,” she growled.
Balar laid his hand on Soren’s shoulder. Although one of the strongest in the pride, Soren trembled beneath his paw pads. A cousin and brother both, the son of his aunt and his father, Soren shared more of Balar’s blood than any of his other brothers.
Close in age and in bond, they had passed through this life together, taught to hunt in the wide grasslands by their father. They had defended the pride against wild beasts, mercenaries, and Pyrrossi, standing shoulder to shoulder in their boiled leathers. And most important, as their father had laid upon his death shroud, Balar had promised—he would always look after Soren.
Life and the pride hadn’t been kind to Soren. His birth had brought about the death of his mother, the favorite sister of theerez. Some whispered that his dark mane, so unlike the golden mantles of their tribe, was stained by her blood. Small and sickly as a cub, their brothers and cousins had picked upon him like buzzards.
He’d grown into a strong warrior, one devoted to the pride, dutiful to the point that Balar thought him overzealous—and yet,when Balar looked down upon him now, all he saw was that small cub. The one he’d promised hisabbathe’d protect.
“I beg you to reconsider,amat. It was an accident. You know he meant no malcontent.” Although the ensuing wildfire raged in the grasslands to the south, it hadn’t yet jumped the river to threaten the pride. It was a simple error, one any of them might have made.
Soren wasn’t one to make mistakes. He’d never endanger the pride, intentionally or accidentally. Yet they saw what they wanted to see; it was an easy excuse to blame the dark-maned runt. Anyone with eyes could see that Soren shielded someone else, taking the blame for—
“Malcontent or fool—both are dangerous and neither belongs in this tribe,” his mother growled.
“It was a mistake—”
“Mistakes kill people!” she cried, her golden-green eyes, Balar’s same eyes, narrowing. The way she glared at Soren left no doubt over what mistake she spoke of.
“Allow him to atone. Seek penance and forgiveness,” Balar implored. “Our numbers dwindle with every dry season. Don’t weaken us further.”
“You would call us weak?” An unhappy murmur went through the pride as the big body of his elder brother, his mother’s firstborn, pushed forward. Artash came to stand just behind their mother, crossing his arms over his wide chest. A smirk pulled at his lips. No doubt he enjoyed seeing Soren punished and Balar denied—he always had enjoyed the dismay of others.
Family lines were important, none more so than the matriarchal line—Balar and Artash, sons of the same mother, may have been considered true brothers—but Balar carried no love in his heart for Artash.
It was mutual. Balar represented competition to Artash, adivision in their mother’s affections and the loyalties of their pride. To Balar, it was far simpler; Artash was an ass. He’d been cruel and petty since they were younglings, and Balar disliked him.
Balar’s truest brother knelt in the dirt, facing exile. But Soren wouldn’t face it alone.
Turning away from Artash, he met his mother’s gaze. She’d led their pride ably for many years now. She was a steely matriarch, one who could remember when the rains came predictably and the Pyrrossi were but myth. In her time, the gazelle herds ran in their hundreds of thousands, the rivers were full of fish, and gold nuggets could be plucked from the riverbanks to trade.
So much had changed in her time—Balar saw it all reflected in her gaze. Her golden mane had long since gone pale, bleached of color and luster by age and the sun. Gold hoops and rings adorned her ears, wrists, and neck, signs of status thaterezhadn’t needed before the Pyrrossi came.
He looked upon his mother and saw an old queen. One who’d faced too many troubles.
