Fyrian's Fire Page 8

  “You seem worried, my prince,” he had said one morning as Linden fixed a grasshopper to his hook. “Surely at fourteen, life cannot be so burdensome?”

  Linden dropped his line in the clear water. “I don’t see why you must go to Atheos.”

  The king waved a hand dismissively. “I shall be gone but a month. Yuir admires our dione, my prince. It is a great compliment that he seeks my counsel. Relations with Atheos have not always been so cordial, you know. I cannot refuse his request.”

  “He is king. He should know how to rule his own people,” Linden muttered.

  King Antony raised an eyebrow. “How do you mean? All kings should know just what to do, is that it?”

  Linden shrugged, embarrassed. He thought his father would be glad to know how much his son respected him.

  “My responsibilities are light indeed,” King Antony said. “At your mother’s side, and in such a thriving land, where do my difficulties lie? Nowhere.” He glanced at Linden, then rubbed his son’s shoulder. “Except in pleasing you, it seems!”

  The young prince hesitated. “You are king, but not like kings in other nations. You rule, but not absolutely. Mother says you reign in her heart, but I think that’s nonsense.” Linden stopped himself, fearing he had gone too far. His father smiled calmly.

  “It’s all very humbling, isn’t it? But I’d not prefer another man’s kingdom. I feel quite sorry for King Yuir and his new bride. There is no balance, no harmony in that country. He has all the power you speak of my lacking, and yet he keeps it by the thinnest of threads. Is there any peace in that?”

  “Our history scholars are always talking of peace, and how grand it is,” Linden said. Something tugged at his line. He let the fish nibble at his bait. “Sometimes I find it maddening.”

  “Don’t say that, my prince.” King Antony hoisted Linden’s line in one strong, fluid motion. He pinned a speckled grayling to the boulder. “Never grow tired of peace.”

  That peace was surely in peril now, and Linden was in the uncertain position of trying to reclaim it, if only his mother’s message hit true. But as unswerving as he was in his devotion to his dione, he and his horse were not indefatigable. To his right, Linden spotted an inviting fallen trunk. Vowing not to spend more than a few minutes to have his supper, he staggered to the trunk.

  Linden chewed a cold potato from the castle kitchens and rubbed his sore legs. He wondered what his mother ate for supper, if at all. The last time he coaxed her to eat some corn cakes, trout, and greens, there were only a few gray strands at her temples. But since the assassin’s curse, it was as though all the youth was draining from her body. All her desperate entreaties to marry Lady Tessamine quickly, to secure Glademont’s next queen—Linden couldn’t stand to hear her talk of it. He agreed to it all only to see his mother rest, to watch her brow go smooth again with relief. How would he have gotten through the last few months otherwise? Urgency had colored his every decision. His mother’s health, the nation’s vulnerable state, secret pleas for a successor to the throne . . .

  She shan’t die. Glademont had a queen, the most honorable and wisest of any on the continent or indeed amid the continents. With the militia to defend Glademont’s borders, she would have time to heal. Talk of marriage and new queens had exhausted her to a perilous point. But Linden would make her see that there was no need to rush. He would protect her. Eighteen was too young to talk of marriage, even for the royal family.

  When Linden finally shook himself from worrying over his queen and dominion, the sun had begun to set.

  “Zere’s Peak, Casion.” He cursed. “You’ve let me delay. I’ll fetch my compass and perhaps we can walk another hour in the dusk. . . .” A rustle overhead set Linden’s heart pounding against his ribs. “Who’s there?” He retrieved an arrow and swung his back to his horse, searching the canopy. Something squawked to Linden’s left, and he pointed his arrowhead at a gigantic vulture.

  Casion squealed and bolted.

  “No!” Linden started for his mare, but the vulture flew in his face, forcing him to retreat. The light chuckle of a man drifted in the air. Linden scrambled for his arrow again and fitted his bow.

  “Is someone there?” he called.

  “Oh, most definitely.” Out of the dark trees came a young man—an Atheonian officer in full military uniform. His hair was light and he grinned at Linden, showing a deep dimple on his left cheek. “Lower your weapon, or Lady Tessamine dies.”

  Chapter 10

  I believe you have met one of our clan: Profigliano,” Wyndeling said. Several of the Seven Wise shook out their feathers at the towhee’s name. The round owl on the end shifted warily along his perch. “Be still, Buchanan of Westbend,” Wyndeling snapped.

  Ryon and Tess exchanged looks. Since Profigliano had already perched comfortably on Jesse’s back, it seemed unwise to deny their acquaintance.

  “There is nothing like a reunion to put some gusto back into the ole lungs.” Profigliano rocked to and fro on his little feet.

  “By the skies,” Tess whispered. “What kind of trouble have you gotten us into?”

  “You see, Lady Tessamine,” Profigliano said. “There is always a tale untold without me to tell it.” Hopping onto Ryon’s head, the towhee loudly cleared his throat.

  “I found your big rocky castle without the slightest difficulty,” began Profigliano. “‘Ho ho ho!’ say I, ‘I found it!’ And I’m bringing ’round the ole wings for a landing when I spy some vultures, which used to be pals of mine, but now they’re running with the muckety-mucks. So I change the course and I say to myself, ‘Let’s change the course, shall we?’ Now, I see a rocky castle window, and I fly to it with vim and vip. I’m not one to wax my own feathers, but my maneuvers elude all thug bugs, and I come in for a safe landing.

  “‘Anybody home?’ say I. ‘A messenger from Tessy Canyon calls!’ But then I notice with gleaming intelligence that I’m sharing the window with two or three testy vultures! Off I go again before they know what’s what, but as it seems to my keen eye, every window’s got a gaggle of thug bugs on it.”

  “Vermin and vinegar,” Tess said.

  “Then I get to noticing the whole place is crawling with muckety-muck human men. All over the front lawn, they’re setting up camp and stinking up the place. And not a peep from inside that mountain castle. No, sir, not a peep.”

  “Oh no,” Ryon said.

  “Don’t interrupt, please,” replied Profigliano. “Well, here I am, and it’s a mighty fine miracle, because those old friends of mine sure got mean in a hurry. See there? I’m missing a flight feather.” Profigliano proudly displayed a wing, which indeed lacked a feather. Then, looking around, he quickly folded the wing against his side. “Quit staring, you loons.”

  Tess massaged her forehead, evaluating the events recounted by Profigliano. So many things confused her already, and the way Profigliano told stories did not help. She turned to Jesse, her eyes pleading.

  He shifted his weight toward Tess in his familiar, comforting way. “Are these vultures of your clan?” Jesse asked the Seven Wise.

  Wyndeling the Red swiveled her head toward the rest of the Wise. “With the council’s permission, I will recount the events that have brought us to our current predicament.”

  “Proceed,” said the tall bluish owl.

  “When the moon was last full,” Wyndeling began, “a band of humans was spotted here in the wood. Their number grew by the day; some said dozens, others said hundreds. We feared humans would again bring violence to our forest.”

  “When have humans brought violence before?” Ryon interrupted.

  All seven owls went stock-still.

  Then Jesse spoke.

  “No Hinge Forester has lived long enough to know the truth of such things.” Jesse’s soft nostrils expanded.

  “Ha.” Another of the seven unfolded a speckled pair of wings
. “Fine and fit is the animal who flies and flits with brevity.”

  “Without the bond, I agree that a shorter life is preferred,” Jesse retorted.

  “I don’t understand,” Ryon said.

  Tess was equally confused. Was Jesse much older than they? What bond was he talking about? When Jesse referred to Hinge Foresters not living long enough, the red owl’s deep eyes had turned immediately to Tess. It was a conflicted gaze, but there was longing in it.

  “If you can explain, Rushing,” the speckled owl said, pulling Tess out of her musings. “I suggest you omit your superstitions.”

  Folding his ears against his head, Jesse continued. “Centuries ago, King Baasha of Atheos waged war against Glademont. Scholars call it the Forest War. Much was destroyed—even innocent animals.”

  “It was the last time a human set foot in the Hinge Forest,” Buchanan, the prickly round owl, bellowed. His voice was rusty and sharp. “The creatures of this sacred wood expelled your greedy lot once and for all. None has since dared to enter the Hinge until that shabby horde of twig-burners came clambering through the tree line.”

  Wyndeling spoke next, tearing her eyes from Tess to speak to Jesse. “The humans who appeared in the Hinge Forest a moon cycle ago were all males, despite their dull colors. This fact led us to suspect that an army was forming in our wood. We decided to wait out the danger. But then, a stranger came to us—a blind crow claiming to be an ambassador from Atheos.”

  Tess swallowed, shifting the copper orbs in her palm. It had to be the same bird, the one who burned her home and tried to claim the shenìl for himself. What had that Atheonian swine called him? Smooth Crow?

  “The crow made a proposal,” Wyndeling continued. “It would be in our interest, he said, to ally ourselves with the men already in our wood. In exchange for our cooperation in their war, these men would swear to leave the Hinge Forest in peace.”

  “Many were frightened,” added one of the Wise with a thin hoot. “Frightened the two kingdoms would again make war in our midst. Others were seduced by the crow’s promise of new powers for the wild.”

  “Red magic? Bah!” Buchanan laughed.

  “He had a smooth way of talking,” another said.

  “Who joined the crow?” Jesse asked.

  “Yes, I was getting to that.” The feathers around Wyndeling’s face quivered impatiently. “The raptors of our clan have mostly abandoned us—vultures, eagles, and hawks. But as you can see, the falcons of this wood have some sense.” Wyndeling swept her wing gracefully to acknowledge the thirty or so falcons perched inside the Council Nest. Tess had failed to notice them amid the array of stunning colors.

  “The crow and our kinsmen headed east not six days ago. It was then deemed necessary to establish the Fourth Council,” concluded Wyndeling.

  “May I venture a question?” Tess stepped forward.

  Buchanan of Westbend went so far as to shake his round head vigorously. Wyndeling ignored him.

  “You may,” she said.

  Tess smoothed her nightgown nervously. “What else do you know about this crow?”

  “He called himself Pider,” a snow-white owl replied. He clacked his beak with distaste.

  Tess’s mouth went dry. Pider, the assassin. Pider, the magician whose dark magic had reduced Queen Aideen to a dying ghost. Tess’s knees buckled as she pictured his talons, inches from her face.

  “We are eager to learn more,” one of the Wise said while Tess vainly attempted to adjust to this revelation.

  Wyndeling the Red heaved a sigh before saying, “This council is at a crossroads. An army of human men make camp in our forest, and many of our own kin have joined their ranks. We know little about the crow, nothing of the men, and we are forced to treat our own as the enemy.”

  Buchanan nodded wearily. “We want the lady’s magic.”

  Tess felt her face flush. She looked at Jesse, whose dark eyes remained steady.

  “Explain,” he said.

  A particularly distinguished-looking owl sat farthest to the left among the Seven Wise. Her perch was slightly lower than the rest, but her starry eyes and heart-shaped face gave the impression of a highly esteemed animal. Her voice, though like the lilt of a flute, was not inviting. “This girl has used magic that is neither red nor gold. Such magic has not been known since the Human War—or the ‘Forest War,’ as you call it. You humans are indebted to us for the innocent wild lives you took. We claim your ancient magic in payment of that debt.” Her head tilted toward the roof of the nest, where the moon’s light receded.

  “You are mistaken.” The arching walls of the nest seemed to swallow Tess’s thin voice. “I have no such magic.”

  “There has been too much talk tonight,” the owl sang out. “You, girl, possess the key to our survival. Aid us in defeating the human kingdoms and the crow, or you will not see your brother again.” She raised her wings to the multitude of birds along the nest walls. “Never again will we tolerate the depravity of human ambition. This time, we will snuff it out.”

  The nest erupted with the sound of a host of agitated birds.

  “Madame Theodora,” called Wyndeling. “Must we inflame the members of the council? Speak words of tranquility to them.” But the enraged owl paid Wyndeling no heed, and the din only grew stronger.

  Tess turned to Profigliano, who was still perched on Ryon’s head.

  “Profigliano, what did you tell them?” she shouted frantically.

  Profigliano tapped the end of his beak with a wing and shouted back, “Not a word, my lady! Don’tcha know I’d remember a solemn pledge before nosin’ up to these feather bags?”

  “What do we do?” Tess cried. The walls of the giant nest creaked and shifted from sheer noise. Terrified, Tess pulled Ryon to her.

  Then Theodora left her perch and stretched her elegant wings over the members of the Fourth Council of the Nest. All the while, her great black eyes were fixed on Tess.

  “The time has come,” Theodora hooted, “for the council to prove the worth of the wild animals—animals whose lives are brief but whose hearts are free!” Cheers resounded throughout the leafy walls.

  The moon had almost completely deserted the nest, leaving only a faint glimmer of light reflecting on the pool of water. As the din escalated, Tess clung all the more fiercely to Ryon. Theodora dropped straight for the boy like a rock. She cut through the air in a matter of seconds, and soon her talons were upon Ryon’s arm. Ryon floundered for his sling, crying out in pain.

  But as he swatted at the creature clinging to his arm, a flash of gold appeared. It splashed into Theodora’s surprised face, knocking her backward and forcing her to release her grip. The flash became a stream, and the stream seemed to gurgle as it spread itself thin between Ryon and the fallen owl.

  Tess looked on with amazement as a small golden barrier took shape. Quickly, quietly, the barrier curved upward then downward again, melting over an invisible curved roof, which hovered above their heads. Soon, a small golden dome had completely surrounded Tess, Ryon, and Jesse. The dome hung over them in perfect stillness, yet its surface shimmered and moved, like a transparent, golden planet buried halfway in the ground.

  “Well smack my beak and call me a beaver,” Profigliano said. The towhee landed on Jesse’s haunches, with a light cloud of shimmering gold dust curling around his wings. Sticking his head between his feet, then inspecting his feather tips, Profigliano whistled in amazement. “If I had known I could do that, I would still have all my flight feathers,” he said.

  Bewildered, Theodora careened back to her perch among the Seven Wise.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Buchanan squawked. His circular head swung left and right. “Profigliano, you slimy centipede, what is the meaning of this?”

  “Now, now, now. There, there, Your Wiseness.” Profigliano retreated down Jesse’s broad back. “There’s not
hing to see here. Where were we? Miss Theodora was giving a rip-roarin’ speech and we were all feelin’ hunky-dory.”

  Tess and Ryon stood awkwardly inside the golden dome, observing the aggravated owls.

  “You dare threaten our clan with your magic,” Buchanan cried. And, with all the abandon of a bloodthirsty warrior, he exploded from his perch.

  “Run,” Wyndeling called to the Glademontians as she sailed toward Buchanan, brandishing her talons.

  Tess and Ryon leapt onto Jesse’s back, and the dome floated higher to adjust to their combined height. Jesse sped toward their exit. Although the nest opening was too small to fit a horse and rider, the magic dome cleared a way, folding branches and brambles backward as the prisoners of the council launched through.

  Once in the open again, Tess chanced a look over her shoulder. Through the swirling wall of the magic dome, she could just make out Buchanan and Wyndeling locked in battle. A bundle of feathers and ferocious talons tumbled into the now-dark pool of water.

  “This way,” Profigliano sang. “Follow the magic bird.”

  Forgetting about the chaos behind her, Tess concentrated on Profigliano’s white underbelly. He darted out of the magic dome, which slowly began to dissipate. Tess led Jesse through the low, gnarled branches of the red trees. Ryon wrapped his arms around Tess’s waist and buried his head in her cloak. Aideen’s words rang in Tess’s ears.

  Keep it safe.

  Tess heard a sound to her left. Wyndeling had somehow broken from the nest and was gliding unsteadily nearby. Clumps of feathers were missing from her bloody, wet breast.

  “Wait,” Wyndeling cried, breathless.