Part 5 (1/2)
”Of course!” Fleydur smiled gaily. A broad, braided band of ribbons interwoven with all sorts of beads and small medallions crossed one shoulder. On it hung cl.u.s.ters of silver bells.
”Fisher told us about you. He said you'd help us cross the river,” Wind-voice said.
”I know he did. I got a message three days ago. I suppose you've had to travel slowly and keep out of sight.” The eagle checked the position of the sun. ”Now, now...I imagine he meant for you to cross the Amali River into the Dryland. Archaeopteryxes are fewer there. Yes indeed, I will see you safe all the way.
Now,” he added, looking into a knapsack, ”the checkpoint is several miles east of here. You three wear these.” He produced several frills and bells to be hung over their shoulders.
Stormac saw a sack of tiny tinsel stars among the eagle's odds and ends. ”Those s.h.i.+ny things!” the myna exclaimed. ”What are they for?”
”To toss in my performances,” Fleydur said cheerfully. Then his eye fell on Ewingerale's harp. ”Just my luck! A harpist! A singer needs music. I'm not so good at instruments. I had a trumpet once, but it got broken in a scuffle. I haven't had the opportunity to make or get another one, but it will surely be good to have a harp along!”
”You sing?” Ewingerale seemed delighted. ”That's wonderful. I can play ballads to go along....”
Wind-voice felt his own tattered heart swell with joy and hope. Stormac grinned too. Later on he told Wind-voice, ”He may pretend to be a simple bard, but I can tell he's got some training under his feathers. It will be great to have an extra fighter with us.” He frowned. ”But still, I've never seen an eagle this far from the safety of the mountains. And I don't know why he claims he's an orphan. I'm sure Fisher said something different. I don't suppose it matters, but it's odd, don't you think?”
Seven miles farther they arrived at the river. A thick stand of willow trees, cattail banks, and bulrushes was filled to the brim with archaeopteryxes. Many armed birds patrolled the riverside, for this place marked the end of the territory that was firmly under the archaeopteryxes' control. Most of the birds allowed past the river were those who had special permission from a highly ranked archaeopteryx. Merchant birds, once they paid a tax from their wares, came and went a little more easily; bards such as Fleydur could travel more or less freely.
Wind-voice nervously tapped his claw. He looked around and saw birds waiting for their chance to cross, sitting in groups. Some seemed to have been there a long time.
Fleydur had made them wait, hidden in the cattails, until the sun set and a crescent moon was rising, casting only a faint light. Now the four friends stood in a line of birds. Colorful berry stains had been smeared on their feathers. Wind-voice was no longer white, and Winger's bright red head had been blackened. Each of their shuffling steps jingled bells.
Wind-voice saw a small finch yanked out of the line by a beefy archaeopteryx. The finch didn't return.
Wind-voice and his companions stepped closer to the light cast by a ring of lanterns. Ten pairs of eyes stared at them. Ten toothed beaks glinted at them.
”We are birds of the music trade,” said Fleydur. ”I have the best voice in the Forests and the Marshes, and my good fellow tradesbirds here...well, let us show you!”
Waveringly they broke into song, looking at each other, soon smiling as they trilled. Fleydur did a spectacular sword-swallowing feat while Stormac tossed sparkling tinsel stars into the sky. Somehow the song made them feel a bit more courageous. Ewingerale plucked at his little harp. The eagle and the myna started whirling in a circle. Every few seconds, the two spinning, dancing figures blocked Wind-voice's view of the archaeopteryx soldiers standing and hovering there. He sang numbly, almost mechanically, as he saw silvery bells move up and down in front of him...then the staring pale eyes of the archaeopteryxes, then the bells again, then the eyes, until he thought they were one and the same...
It was really only a matter of a few minutes, although it seemed like a lifetime. They were ignored and roughly pushed outward to the tossing air currents above the river.
They still sang a little as they flew, partly for the archaeopteryxes' hearing, partly for themselves. Then their song faltered and died. Wind-voice's heart felt hollow. They'd crossed the river. He should feel triumphant; but what could they do now? Where would their path lead them?
Remorse for the past enables us to do better in the future.-FROM THE O OLD S SCRIPTURE
7.
SECRETS R REVEALED.
Maldeor sat back in his newfound throne and gave a throaty chuckle. His army had captured a strange traveler. Soldiers had searched him and found a silver badge. It had a curved P surrounded by flowing tropical flowers. None of his officials thought it worth much attention, but the design of the badge had sparked an idea in Maldeor's head. Could P stand for Pepheroh, the ruler of Kauria?
There was a hubbub among the archaeopteryxes, and even the dignified officials stretched their necks to get a clearer view as the prisoner was brought before the throne. The bird had blue eyelids, a black nape and back, and a face and bib the color of a ripe banana. He was stocky and thickly muscled. The beak, or whatever it was, was shockingly ridiculous: Not only did it look heavy and was as long as the rest of the creature's body, but it also had a green base that merged into yellow with a magenta tip. ”Is it painted?” somebird whispered.
”What is it?” Maldeor said.
”Your Majesty,” declared a scholar as he took out a piece of rope and measured lengths, then looked through his copy of The Complete and Thorough Record of the Cla.s.s Aves The Complete and Thorough Record of the Cla.s.s Aves, ”this is a toucan.”
Maldeor held the silver badge in his claw. The toucan immediately focused on it, his blue-rimmed eyes steady.
”Where are you from?” Maldeor asked softly.
”Nowhere,” the toucan, who was Ozzan from Kauria, answered.
”Nonsense!” Maldeor leaned forward on his perch. ”Where, exactly? An island, perhaps?”
After a pause for thought, the toucan nodded.
”Tell me its name.”
There was silence.
”Speak up,” Maldeor ordered. ”There's plenty to talk about today. The island that you come from. The gemstones, the sword, and the legend.”
”I will not,” the toucan said after a long silence. His heavy accent grated the air.
Maldeor shook his head slowly as if confronted with a naughty hatchling. ”I'm afraid,” he said almost sadly, ”that you will certainly reveal everything you know.”
”So,” said Fleydur once the traveling companions had found a safe perch for the night, ”now that we are across the river, what are your plans? Where will you go?” His silver bells glowed in the moonlight as he settled in the lee of a cactus.
Stormac looked up from the beechnuts he had been roasting. ”Back to the herons, I suppose. They are my tribe now.” He popped a kernel into his beak and swallowed dejectedly.
Winger was writing in his diary. He closed it carefully and put it into his large pocket, then looked sadly into the distance, strumming a few chords on his harp. ”I'm not sure. Where can we go? Wind-voice, what do you think? Should we try to find the rebels here on this side of the river? Maybe we can still join the fight and make some kind of difference.”
Wind-voice was looking into the flames of their fire as if he could find an answer there. ”I wish...”
”Wish what?” Stormac said. ”Wishes find no beetles for breakfast.”
”Don't say that.” Winger leaned forward to look at Wind-voice. ”What are you thinking?”
”I wish that we could do something to find the hero Fisher mentioned,” Wind-voice said. ”We need him so badly. How much longer can we wait?”
Winger shrugged. ”But what can we do?”
The coals glowed peachy orange and fiery vermilion, but the flames flickered a bright, clear yellow hue. The color reminded Wind-voice of something. He had seen it in between the claws of the archaeopteryxes' emperor. Yes, a s.h.i.+ning yellow stone, the amber gem of the kingfishers.
”The Leasorn gemstones,” he said thoughtfully. ”Fisher said that some birds believe they have clues. Clues about where the hero's sword might be hidden.”
”Huh,” Stormac snorted. ”Made-up clues about a mythical sword. What help would that be to anybird?”
”Don't be so quick to dismiss the idea,” Fleydur said, considering. ”I've heard the same thing from bards of every land. Even my own tribe of eagles in the Skythunder Mountains has a gemstone, and it's true, there were strange markings on it in some language-Avish, I think.”