DISCLAIMER: I do not own Spirit Animals. I own only the plot and original characters in this fanfiction. I am not making any money from this story.

Words from the original book are bold. All rights to these words go to all of the authors of the Spirit Animals books.

(You can skip the bold words if you are already familiar with the story.)

ROLLAN LOITERED ON THE CORNER BY THE APOTHECARY, keeping his back to the store. Down the cobbled street, between buildings with thick plaster walls and rounded facades, Smarty and Red were looking his way. Rollan tried to convey with his eyes that they shouldn't draw attention to him. They got the message and faced elsewhere.

An orphan since age five, Rollan knew that stealing was part of survival. Even so, he avoided it whenever possible. He had no problem with claiming leftovers, since the owners were done with them. People with money abandoned all sorts of things. Rollan had found clever ways to lay claim to unfinished meals and discarded clothing. That was salvaging, not thievery.

But his current problem would not be solved through scrounging. There was no such thing as leftover willow extract. It was too valuable. He and the boys used to have some, thanks to Hands, but it had run out. And now Digger had a terrible fever. They had wasted the precious medicine on less serious sicknesses. Had they known this was coming, they would have saved some, but it was too late.

They wouldn't be in this mess if Hands hadn't gotten arrested. The boy had a gift for pilfering, and life had been much more comfortable with him around. But Hands got greedy and started going after real valuables. The militia caught him and locked him up.

Rollan glanced over his shoulder at the apothecary. As with many businesses in town, a banner emblazoned with Essix the Falcon, patron beast of Amaya, hung over the entrance. Digger really needed help. He was burning up, and it kept getting worse. Without medicine, he could die.

Folding his arms, Rollan scowled at the ground. He didn't like to steal, but it wasn't out of deep respect for the law. Many of the profiteers in Concorba made their fortunes on the backs of the poor, taking everything they could from people who had almost nothing, and the laws protected that system. Stealing was just too risky. When kids got caught taking even the smallest thing, the penalties were harsh, especially as you got older. Plus he had his honor. His own version of it anyway — never to take from the poor, never from the sick or infirm, and always to try other alternatives first.\

The other boys teased Rollan for his reluctance to pinch things. They had tried to nickname him Justice, but he had forcefully declined. Actually, he had dodged all of their attempted nicknames, which was why he was the only guy in the group without one.

No matter how he looked at it, stealing from the apothecary would be difficult. The owner had an unfriendly reputation. His employees were vigilant, and they turned troublemakers over to the militia. Rollan had warned the others not to go after the extract. Hands could have managed it, but nobody else had a fraction of his skill.

Rollan wasn't above asking for help. Begging had been good to him. Certain bakeries and inns didn't mind handing over stale bread or other unwanted food. But times were hard and getting harder. Amaya was a young continent, much of it still untamed, and even in a big town like Concorba, if a harvest went poorly or if pirates harassed the importers, pretty soon everyone felt the squeeze. Those at the bottom of the pecking order felt it the worst.

There wasn't time to beg for enough money to buy the extract. Rollan had decided he would swipe it if he could — after all, the life of a friend outweighed some rule. But after casing the store, he didn't think success was possible. Should he try anyway?

Rollan had asked for help from everywhere that made sense. Except at the apothecary. Unlikely as that option seemed, it might be more fruitful than the alternative. Steeling himself, he went inside.

The owner, Eloy Valdez, stood behind the counter in a white apron. He had bushy gray sideburns and a receding hairline. His eyes locked on Rollan, who always drew attention when he entered a business. Even in his best clothes, he was too young and too scruffy.

Rollan walked directly to the owner. "Good afternoon, Mr. Valdez." Rollan tried on his brightest smile. He knew beneath the grime he was a handsome kid, with his dark tousled hair and tan skin, but there was a lot of grime.

"Hello, boy," the man replied, his gaze suspicious. "Can I help you?"

"Not me so much as a friend," Rollan said. "He has a horrible fever. This is the third day and it keeps getting worse. I'm an orphan, him too. He needs willow extract. I don't have money, but I can work hard, help tidy up, whatever you need."

Mr. Valdez made the I-wish-I-could-help-you face Rollan had seen so often. "That's an expensive remedy. And it's in short supply these days, making it more costly still."

"I don't mind putting in a lot of work," Rollan offered.

Mr. Valdez sucked air through his teeth. "You know how times are. My two assistants already take care of everything. I have no spare chores, and plenty of qualified men waiting for a vacancy. Sorry."

Rollan's cheeks burned with shame, but Digger needed him. "Maybe you could get creative? You know, to help stop a kid from dying?"

"You want charity," Mr. Valdez said knowingly. "I'm afraid I have a strict no-charity policy. Medicines are pricey. If your friend were the only soul in town who couldn't pay, I'd surely lend a hand. But endless people have desperate needs and no money. If I give you a free remedy, I should provide for all the others as well. I'd be out of business in a week."

"I won't tell anyone where it came from," Rollan promised. "You might not be able to help everyone, but you can help him. Please, Mr. Valdez. He's got nobody."

"Secrets like free willow extract don't keep," Mr. Valdez said. "Besides, your tale may be true, but some such stories might not be. How am I supposed to tell the difference? I can't help you. Good day."

Rollan had been dismissed. What options were left? If he returned after this, Mr. Valdez would study his every move. Stealing the extract was no longer a possibility. "How would you feel if you were alone in some alley, sick, no place to go, and everyone ignored you?"

"That's why I don't live on the streets," Mr. Valdez said. "That's why I worked hard to get where I am, and why I intend to stay here. The needs of an urchin are not my obligation."

"Hard work doesn't always get you off the streets," Rollan said, frustration surging through him. "It won't always keep you off them either. What if your store burned down?"

Mr. Valdez narrowed his eyes. "Is that a threat?"

Rollan raised both hands. "No! I just mean bad luck can strike anywhere."

"Aldo!" Mr. Valdez called. "This person needs help finding the door."

The cause was lost. Rollan decided he could stop licking Mr. Valdez's boots. "You need help finding a heart. I hope you catch something without a remedy. Something besides old age."

A large man with his sleeves rolled back over thick, hairy arms strode in from the back of the store. He came straight toward Rollan. Behind him, Smarty ducked behind the apothecary counter.

How had Smarty gotten in here? Through the back door? What was he thinking? His nickname was a joke, not a compliment. He was going to get them both busted! Rollan tried not to stare at his friend. Instead he watched Aldo approach.

"You thick?" Aldo barked. "Beat it!"

Rollan sidled toward the door, trying not to move too quickly. He needed to get out of there, but if he ran off, Smarty would get nabbed for sure.

Aldo closed the distance, seized Rollan roughly by the back of his neck, and marched him toward the doorway. "Don't let us catch you in here again," the big man warned.

"Aldo!" Mr. Valdez cried.

Looking back, Rollan saw Smarty speeding toward the back of the store.

"He took a packet of willow extract!" Mr. Valdez shouted. "Santos!"

Aldo dragged Rollan toward the rear of the store. "Get back here or your friend gets it!" the big man yelled.

Smarty never glanced back. By the time Aldo reached the back door, Smarty was out of sight.

"Santos!" Mr. Valdez cried, joining them. "Where's Santos?"

"On that errand, remember?" Aldo said.

Mr. Valdez turned furious eyes on Rollan. "All that talk about working to pay off the debt — you were setting me up while your accomplice snuck in here! Very low, even for scum."

"He did it on his own," Rollan insisted.

"Save it, kid," Aldo said. "You helped steal the goods, you'll do the time."

Rollan kicked out at Aldo's knee, but the big man took it without a flinch. Rollan could feel the strength of the hand on his neck.

"Your next appointment is with the militia," Mr. Valdez said.

Rollan knew there was no point in arguing. At least Digger would get his remedy.

The city militia kept a line of cells in the basement of their headquarters. Mildew thrived on the damp walls, and ancient straw littered the discolored stone floor. The interior barriers were composed of iron bars, allowing the prisoners to see each other. Rollan sat on a decaying wicker mat. Men occupied three of the other cells. One man was sickly and gaunt, another had slept since Rollan arrived, and the third looked like the sort Rollan had learned to avoid. He was probably in here for something serious.

A guard had informed Rollan that he would go before a judge tomorrow. He was young enough that they might send him back to the orphanage. The thought gave him shivers. There was no worse racket than the orphanage in Concorba. The head guy lived well because he fed the kids the absolute minimum, made them work like slaves, dressed them like beggars, and never wasted resources on things like medicine. Rollan had run off for a reason. He suspected he might actually prefer prison.

A door opened, and boots clomped down the stairs. Were they bringing in a new prisoner? Rollan arose for a better look. No, the jailer was alone. He was portly with a stubbly jaw. Holding a ledger, he came to Rollan's cell. "How old are you?"

Was this a trick question? Would it benefit him more to seem older or younger? Rollan wasn't sure, so he answered honestly. "I'm twelve next month."

The man made a notation. "You're an orphan."

"Actually I'm a lost prince. If you take me back to Eura, my father will reward you."

"When did you run away from the orphanage?"

Rollan considered the question, and found no reason to fib. "I was nine."

"Have you had your Nectar?"

The question mildly surprised him. "No."

"You know what happens if you don't take the Nectar?"

"A bonding could happen naturally."

"That's right. It's against our town statutes not to drink the Nectar within three months of turning eleven."

"Good thing I'm already behind bars. Want some advice? You guys should make a law against eleven-year-olds dying because they have no medicine!"

The jailer harrumphed. "This is no game, boy."

"Does it sound like a game?" Rollan said. "Have you ever played dying-alone-of-a-fever-because-willow-bark-costs-too-much? Look, just add my lack of Nectar to my list of charges. For the record, nobody ever offered me any."

"The militia gives Nectar to any children of age who haven't received it."

"You guys deserve more medals," Rollan said.

The jailer held up a scolding finger. "If you have the potential to summon a spirit animal, it'll happen on its own by age twelve or thirteen. But do you know what could happen to you without the Nectar? The bond is a gamble. Drives some people mad, others to illness. Some die on the spot. Others are fine."

"But with the Nectar it's always stable," Rollan said.

"The Great Beasts may not have done much for us lately, but we'll always owe Ninani for the Nectar. But to benefit, you have to use it."

Rollan huffed. "What are the chances I'd call an animal? Like a hundred to one? Less?"

The jailer ignored him. "I know a Greencloak who tends to orphans. I'll send her around by and by."

The jailer turned and climbed the stairs. Rollan stretched, pivoting at the waist, then raising his hands high.

"I didn't expect a show today," said the gaunt man in the farthest cell. "What do you think you'll call?"

"Nothing," Rollan said.

"I thought the same," the gaunt man said. "I was wrong. I called a hedgehog."

"You're a Greencloak?" Rollan asked, surprised.

The gaunt man snorted. His eyes looked lost, his posture exhausted. "You see any cloak? My animal got killed. The absence left me . . . I wish I'd lost a limb instead."

An hour later, maybe two, the jailer returned with a couple of uniformed militiamen and a Greencloak. She was in her late teens and of medium height. Her face wasn't very pretty, but it was kind.

The jailer unlocked the cell gate and beckoned for Rollan to step out. One of the militiamen held a small cage with a rat inside.

Exiting the cell, Rollan nodded at the rat. "Is that a joke?"

"They say folks bond more easily if animals are present," the miltiaman said with a jeering smile. "We caught him a couple years back. He's our mascot."

"Very funny," Rollan said dryly. "Should we hunt for some spiders? Maybe a cockroach?"

"People don't bond with insects," the Greencloak said, "although there is some precedence for summoning arachnids."

"I'll bet a copper piece he calls nothing," said the prisoner who Rollan thought looked like trouble. The man patted his pockets. "Wait, two." He produced them. "Any takers?"

Nobody agreed to the bet.

"Should we do it?" Rollan suggested, breaking the awkward silence. For some kids the summoning ceremony was a big deal. They got all dressed up with their families, spectators attended, lectures were given, refreshments served. He was in a dirty jail with a rat, his guards, and his fellow prisoners. He just wanted to get it over with.

The Greencloak produced a simple flask. She uncapped it and held it out to him. "Only takes a swallow."

"That was quite a speech," Rollan said, accepting the flask. "Your talents are wasted in dank basements. You're ready to work aboveground." He took a sip. There was a restaurant that sometimes gave him sweetened cinnamon toast, his favorite treat. The Nectar tasted sort of like that, but liquefied.

Rollan wiped his lips. As the Greencloak reached for her flask, Rollan swayed. Sparks zinged through his body. What was going on? He held out the flask, but his arm felt unsteady. The Greencloak took the flask and Rollan dropped to his knees.

"What's wrong with me?" Rollan slurred.

The entire jail rumbled and the room grew dark. Or was his vision failing? A blinding light appeared, lingered for a moment, and then vanished.

A falcon had joined them in the room, large and powerful, the feathers a brownish gold with white speckles on the breast. With a flurry of wings, the raptor leaped up to Rollan's shoulder. When the claws pinched into his skin, the sparking sensation ceased. The others stared, dumbfounded.

For a moment, Rollan's eyes seemed unusually keen. He was able to see the porous textures of the stone floor and walls. He spotted a spider hiding amid the wafting cobwebs in a high corner and felt the startled moods of those around him with abnormal clarity. And then, all of a sudden, he was back to normal.

"It's a falcon!" the Greencloak marveled. "A gyrfalcon . . . with amber eyes!"

"She's a falcon," Rollan clarified. "She's a girl."

"How do you know that?" the jailer asked.

Rollan paused. "I just do."

"She would be female, I suppose," the Greencloak murmured. Seeming to snap out of a trance, she stared at Rollan searchingly. "How is this possible? Who are you?"

"Just some orphan," Rollan said.

"There has to be more to it than that," she muttered, half to herself.

"I'm also a criminal," Rollan volunteered. "The worst kind of criminal, actually."

"What kind is that?" the Greencloak asked.

"The kind who got caught," Rollan replied.

The Greencloak glanced at the jailer. "Put him back in his cell. I'll be back."

"The bird too?" the jailer asked.

"Naturally," the Greencloak replied. "It's his spirit animal."

"Guess it was my lucky day," mumbled the seedy prisoner. "Nobody took my bet. I get to keep my coppers."

It was not long before the jailer escorted a man to Rollan's cell. The stranger looked like some sort of foreign lord. He wore high boots, leather gauntlets, a fancy sword, and an embroidered blue cloak that Rollan guessed cost more than a team of horses. The man had a neatly trimmed beard on his chin, and gazed at Rollan with interest.

"Would you like to get out of here, Rollan?" the man asked.

"I might miss the itchy mat and the black stuff that rubs off the bars," Rollan said. "Sometimes we don't appreciate what we have until we lose it."

The man smiled, but with the hint of a sneer.

"Why isn't your cloak green?" Rollan asked.

"My name is Duke Zerif," the man said. "I work with the Greencloaks, but I'm not one of them. They send me to help with cases like yours."

"Cases like mine?"

Zerif glanced at the jailer. "Better if we converse in private. I've paid your bail."

"Fine with me," Rollan said.

The jailer opened the cell door. Rollan stepped out, the bird on his shoulder, and exited with Zerif, never glancing at the other prisoners, not saying a word to anyone. What did this guy want?

When they reached the street, Zerif looked over at him. "That is a superior bird."

"Thanks," Rollan grunted. "What now?"

"Today your new life begins," Zerif said. "We have much to discuss."

"Bail isn't a pardon. What about Mr. Valdez?"

"The charges will be dropped. I'll take care of it."

Rollan gave a slight nod. "What about the girl who gave me the Nectar? Where is she?"

Zerif flashed a cocky grin. "These matters exceed her expertise. You are no longer her assignment. Come."

The falcon gave Rollan's shoulder a brief, painful squeeze with her talons. Despite her weight, Rollan had nearly forgotten her presence. Something about the timing of the squeeze, and the way Zerif had spoken about the girl, made Rollan uneasy. "Is she all right?"

Did a trace of admiration creep into Zerif's grin? "I'm sure she's fine."

He was lying and Rollan knew it. Zerif even seemed to respect that Rollan suspected him. Rollan felt a disturbing certainty that Zerif had done something to the Greencloak. Just who was this guy?

Zerif hurried them down the street. "Where are we going?" Rollan asked.

"A quiet place to talk. Then far away from here, if you like. Have you ever yearned to see the world? That bird is your ticket."

The falcon shrieked loud enough to hurt Rollan's ears. Zerif's eyes darted between the bird and Rollan, his smile faltering a bit.

"She doesn't like you," Rollan realized.

"She's just testing her voice," Zerif answered. "I mean you no harm." Rollan would have bet two coppers that he was lying. His response had almost sounded relaxed, but Zerif was definitely acting. And he was wearing a large sword.

"What is that woman doing?" Rollan asked, pointing across the street.

As Zerif turned to look, Rollan ran. They had passed an alley, and he turned and sprinted down it. Halfway along the alley, Rollan risked a glance back and saw Zerif in pursuit, blue cloak flapping behind him. The man had jerked his sleeve back and the mark on his forearm flashed. A canine creature landed in front of him, already running. What was it? A coyote?

Rollan had hoped that the lordly stranger would be above chasing him. Apparently not. But the coyote proved that Zerif was one of the Marked. Maybe he was a Greencloak after all. Still, Rollan didn't trust him and neither did the bird. He needed to ditch him fast.

Rollan had some experience escaping down alleyways. He ran hard, and extended his hands to topple crates and rubbish bins into the path of his pursuers. In spite of his efforts, he could hear them gaining. Visions of coyote teeth and the thought of Zerif's expensive sword impelled him to run faster.

Rounding a corner, Rollan raced into another alley. He passed an occasional door, not daring to try it in case it was locked, or that whoever lay beyond might not aid him. He had learned the hard way that an orphan in flight had few friends. He glanced up, looking for a way up to the rooftops, but there was nothing in view. The man and the coyote kept gaining.

Ahead on the left, Rollan saw a fence between buildings. He jumped, grabbed the splintery top of it, and kicked one leg over. With a snarl, the coyote leaped for his dangling leg. Teeth tore through his pant leg and scraped his skin, nearly yanking him from the wall.

"Come down from there!" Zerif ordered, racing forward with his sword drawn.

Rollan rolled over the top of the fence and fell into a weedy lot with a shanty in one corner. A ragged man glared at him unwelcomingly from the shadows of his hovel. Springing to his feet, Rollan dashed across the lot. As he approached the fence on the far side, Rollan glanced back. The coyote streaked across the lot toward him, but there was no sign of Zerif. Had he tossed his spirit animal over the fence? Rollan scanned the scraggly ground ahead as he ran for something to use as a weapon but saw nothing. The coyote was closing in. He knew he would barely win the race to the fence. No way would he get up and over without getting mauled.

When Rollan reached the fence, he jumped and grabbed the top with both hands as if he meant to climb, then turned in midair to kick the coyote springing at him square in the muzzle. The blow connected cleanly, and the coyote hit the ground with a yelp. Rollan was up the fence and over before the animal had recovered.

The alley he landed in was wider. As he debated which direction to go, Zerif shot around a far corner, running with superhuman speed. Rollan couldn't run half as fast as Zerif was moving. Zerif had gone around most of the block in the time it had taken Rollan to cross the lot. Rollan had heard stories about the powers the Marked could receive from their bonds. How could he escape from someone like that? He turned and ran the opposite way.

Racing around another corner, Rollan found himself sprinting toward a large man in a forest-green cloak astride a moose. There was no time to digest the bizarre sight. The moose barreled toward him, its massive antlers spanning almost the full width of the alley. The gray-haired man astride it had a thick build and a fleshy face framed by a bristly beard. He clutched a mace in one hand. A mail shirt jangled under his cloak.

"Out of my way, boy!" the Greencloak bellowed.

Lunging sideways, Rollan flattened himself against the wall of the alley as the moose charged past. He heard a shriek above him and the scrape of talons on metal as his bird landed on the roof.

Zerif and the coyote bolted around the corner, skidding to a halt when they saw the oncoming moose. The Greencloak gave a battle cry and raised his mace.

Rollan desperately hoped that Zerif would be unwilling to face the great moose and its large rider, but he had no such luck.

Smirking, Zerif raised his sword, and just...stood there, waiting for something to happen.

Suddenly, Rollan understood.

Zerif's spirit animal had disappeared, seemingly sneaking up on the Greencloak.

Rollan opened his mouth to shout a warning to his would-be-saviour, but he was too late.

The coyote pounced from the shadows, a blur of fur, and tore a large gash in the moose's side.

The poor animal panicked, making a horrible sound, and shaking. It ran away as fast as it could, taking its rider with it, though Rollan could see the man trying desperately to turn it around.

Smirking, Zerif turned back toward Rollan.

"Well, that was exciting." He said, his coyote coming to stand by his side.

Rollan glared at it. "Who are you?" He demanded, his falcon fluttering down to rest on his shoulder.

"I am Zerif, but you know that. I am called the Jackal, after my spirit animal." Zerif gestured to the coy-jackal. "I am here to... collect you and your spirit animal."

His glittering eyes studied the falcon. "You two will work well together with Uraza and her partner. Isn't that right, Essix?"

Rollan's confusion grew as he felt Essix shift on his shoulder. "Uraza? Essix? Like the great beasts?!" He asked incredulously.

"Yes." Zerif seemed to find Rollan's disbelief amusing. "That Falcon is not yours. That Falcon is the Falcon. Essix herself."

Rollan's mind whirled with confusion, and yet... it made sense.

"What do you want?" He questioned tiredly.

"I told you already. I am here to collect you and Essix. I had hoped you would come willingly, but..." Zerif smiled cruelly. "I am more than willing to take you by force."

Rollan was running once more before he fully comprehended what Zerif had said, but his flight was short lived, even as he felt Essix pouring speed into him, a fact that he would be shocked over later, though in the moment it felt normal.

The jackal had gotten Rollan's leg in its jaw, and was biting just hard enough to hurt.

Rollan kicked its jaw away, and ran again.

The jackal tried to pounce on him again, but Rollan dodged, and the animal flew past him.

Rollan turned to start running again, but then heard a screech.

The jackal had pounced past Rollan right to where Essix was perched on the ground, and she couldn't move in time.

Rollan didn't think. He didn't have to.

He jumped to where the jackal had almost reached Essix, and shoved the falcon away, right before the jackals jaws clamped around her.

Rollan sagged with relief, but then looked down at his stomach.

To see blood dripping from a large, claw shaped gash across his chest.

The world went dizzy. Rollan could vaguely hear Zerif shouting at his animal, something about needing him alive, but his mind was too foggy to focus on anything.

Using all his strength, Rollan heaved his head up, and squinted at Zerif, who was standing over him.

The man addressed Essix. "Go into passive state, or I will let the healers keep him awake when they fix that."

Even in his delirious state, Rollan knew the pain from being awake during an operation like that would be the equivalent of torture.

Rollan felt a flash of fear, and... worry? He knew it wasn't from him, so...

It must have been from Essix.

She shrieked, the sound hurting Rollans ears, and disappeared in a flash of light. Rollan looked down at his chest, and, above the wound, right by his heart, was a tattoo of a falcon, still glaring the same way Essix had been glaring at Zerif.

Speaking of which, Zerif knelt over Rollan.

The last thing the boy heard was "See you when you wake up."

Then Rollan passed out.