Rocco's Wings (20 page)

Taking out his sooty cup, he did the same. Gulp after gulp of lovely soothing water coursed into his throat. He poured more over his face and neck: at last some relief. Sitting down on the side of the fountain, he watched the flashing swords and beating wings.

Would he have turned out different if he’d been living here the whole entire time? They all looked so bright and confident with their flashing swords and beating wings.

Their arrival hadn’t gone unnoticed. Some of the Shalites were giving them sidelong glances as they skipped forward and back, immersed in swordplay.

‘I can’t believe we made it,’ said Rocco, relaxing his wings. No one was charging over to tell them to get off the fountain, or that they weren’t permitted to drink the water.

‘There’s hardly any time left’ said Vesta, counting on her fingers.

‘Maybe Harpia cancelled the trials, what with the uprising?’ said Rocco.

‘Probably the opposite,’ answered Vesta. ‘She probably thinks it’s the very time to prove to everyone that she’s in charge.’

Iggy started shaking.

‘Ig, it’s okay,’ said Vesta, turning to Iggy. ‘I’m tired and not thinking straight. Rocco’s right, I’m sure. There’s every reason for the trials not to go ahead.’

Over her shoulder Vesta gave Rocco a dubious look. It was possible, thought Rocco. The rebels might be strong enough to throw the normal business of the palace off track.

‘We’ve been expecting you.’

An Air Marshal stepped into view, foreign-looking in a collar of tall spiky feathers. Gold buttons and coloured ribbons decorated his red jacket, which was shorter and cut differently than the black flying jackets worn by the Air Marshals of Krakatoan.

Rocco jumped up. He extended his hand, which is what the villagers did when they greeted the people of Gogogamesh. It was a sign of not being armed.

The Air Marshal didn’t respond, so Rocco bowed low. ‘Air Marshal.’

‘Vice-Air Commodore,’ said the red-jacketed urvogel.

Did he have a name? Apparently not, or at least he wasn’t going to say.

Two Air Marshals in matching red uniforms, their wings silvery with large iridescent dots like those Rocco had seen on butterfly wings, passed behind the Vice-Air Commodore. Their swords clattered as they paced left, then right. Their eyes were bright.

A whistle sounded. Clapping erupted.

‘Everyone’s looking at us,’ said Vesta.

Shalites

The Vice-Air Commodore expected them to follow. He was already striding away. Rocco hurried across the courtyard. They’d come all this way, they had to make a good impression, especially him, the outsider.

‘Come on, Vesta, Iggy!’ he called.

Vesta had stopped to pull a feather. As she reached up to stick it in her hair, she and Iggy began to run. Mid-stride, she reached forward to brush off the back of Iggy’s tunic.

They were all covered in dirt, grass and leaves, but what did it matter? Wouldn’t Belarica be happy to see them? The citizens of Krakatoan wanted her back as queen. Perhaps she already knew, thought Rocco, watching a small bird, a wren, fly up the wall of the palace. Awfully small for a spy bird, but perhaps they were the best kind – too small for anyone to notice.

Monkeys scurried across the paths. More sat along roof edges and in the trees. But as Rocco scanned the courtyard, not a single urvogel appeared to be missing his or her wings.

The Vice-Air Commodore climbed the palace steps. Intricate designs, variously sized circles, were cut into the stone façade. They passed into the cool dark interior. Slender trees rose into a sunlit dome. Far above their heads, song birds chirped.

‘You’re not to fly in here. Palace rules,’ said the Vice-Air Commodore, turning into a spiral stairwell. They climbed several flights of stairs, and proceeded along a broad hall, intersected by open archways designed in the shape of giant keyholes.

Finally, they came to a set of heavy wooden doors.

‘Wait here.’

Everything smelled different, dry like wood and sort of spicy. The Air Commodore hadn’t said who they were seeing. The Archurvogel of Shale? Or Belarica herself? Would she be happy to see them? What if she didn’t believe them?

Two urvogels in grey robes walked by. They both had their wings.

‘She’s waiting for you. Go in,’ said the Vice-Air Commodore, stepping out again.

Rocco, Vesta and Iggy stepped into a room, large already, but seeming more so due to the sparse furnishings. The expansive floor was bare, except for a fire blazing in a hearth at the far end.

‘Approach,’ said a female voice.

Near the fire was a set of shuttered windows. Light fell through the cracks onto a carpet next to a divan, on which reclined a figure, beckoning them forward.

‘Come on,’ said Rocco, walking across. The walls were decorated with gold trim and many heavily framed paintings, some of urvogels in flight, and one of a monkey sitting on a table.

As they neared the far side of the room, he could feel the heat of the fire on his face. On the divan, a figure dressed in a blue robe was smiling. Her wings were blue, and one of them fell over the side of the divan to the floor. A monkey jabbered from the foot of the divan.

‘Hush now, Rummy.’

Rocco, Vesta and Iggy stopped a wing’s length away from the foot of the divan.

‘I am Belarica.’ She had woolly hair like his mother, only white and stirring loosely around her face. She could have been any age. Her skin was smooth. Her eyes were startlingly blue.

The monkey chattered, hopping back and forth over Belarica’s feet until she pulled it into her lap.

‘I’m Rocco. This is Vesta and Iggy.’ Rocco knelt. Vesta and Iggy fell on their knees beside him.

‘Yes, yes, we are already somewhat acquainted.’ Belarica nodded, stroking the monkey’s back. ‘Come here. Let me have a view of you.’

Dropping their gear, Rocco, Vesta and Iggy shuffled forward.

A sound of chanting was coming from outside, through the shuttered doors.

‘Rise, my true and faithful flock,’ said Belarica, smiling again as they stood up. ‘You’ve done well to have fled Krakatoan and arrived here, alive and apparently in good health. Do you remember that your wings were once yellow, Vesta? They’ve reverted, I see.’

‘They were yellow
before?
’ Vesta’s eyes turned angry.

‘Why, yes, all urvogels have coloured wings. Didn’t you know?’

‘We were just figuring it out, Rocco and me.’ Vesta pressed her lips together. Her voice grew agitated. ‘Harpia treated us like – like we were nothing. She forced us to frenzy against our wills and – and she turned our wings white, too?’

‘It would appear so,’ said Belarica.

‘It’s not fair!’

‘Yes, I agree,’ said Belarica. ‘How old are you now?’

‘Thirteen.’

‘You would have still been a hatchling when I was driven out. All queens use their wing dust to create union and harmony in the colony. But Harpia has long experimented with chemicals and pheromones and cruel mixtures. She was determined, from the beginning, to gain a tighter control and rid the colony, its citizens, of individual identity. Turning everyone’s wings white was part of her plan.’

‘She had no right to!’ said Vesta. ‘Plus she made us forget! Why – why would she do that? Turn us into something we’re not?’

A musky scent, like woodland trees, filled the room. Rocco sniffed.

Belarica smiled demurely. ‘I’d forgotten. Mudrocks smell so keenly, don’t they, Rocco. I’m still a queen. It’s the regal scent of my wings. Go now to the window, and say good morning to the Shalites. We shall talk more in a moment.’ She rang a brass bell that was sitting on the table beside her. She glanced at Iggy who was standing beside Vesta with his head down.

An urvogel in a grey robe entered the room.

‘Take them out to the balcony, Trachyte. Then bring us some tea and lemon cakes.’

Trachyte stepped over to the shutters. Her wings were turquoise, double-breasted and heavily speckled near the tips.

The chanting outside was loud.

‘Go, see. You are heroes.’

The shutters were actually a door opening onto an outdoor balcony. Rocco, Vesta and Iggy stepped into bright sunlight. They moved to the railing. Air Marshals and the urvogels who had been practising earlier were gathered in the courtyard below. Their multi-coloured wings vibrated in the sun, creating a hum.

‘Rocco, Rocco, Rocco,’ they chanted, raising their swords. ‘Vesta, Vesta. Iggy.’

‘Look! Look! They’re waving blue feathers!’ said Vesta.

One of the Air Marshals in the front row was wearing a blue feather in his topknot. Another had a blue feather stuck in the lapel of his jacket. Others were waving their feathers, all blue. Was it really for them?

Rocco waved. A wave of cheers arose.

‘Say something, Rocco,’ said Vesta.

Rocco cleared his throat. ‘We’ve travelled far –’

The crowd roared.

Rocco glanced at Vesta. They were tired, dirty, their hair and feathers in disarray. Did the Shalites really want to hear from them?

‘Just tell them what we did,’ said Vesta above the din.

Rocco focussed on a female Air Marshal in the front row. ‘We left Krakatoan because we wanted to keep our wings.’

More cheers went up.

Clearing his throat, he raised his wings and shouted. ‘We were five in the beginning: six, if you count Pyroxene –’

The audience fell silent. He told his story, not all of it, just the main points: how they’d escaped by hiding in the Badlands; how the white robes had almost died of separation sickness; and how Cirrus and her gang had saved them, not once but twice.

Whenever he paused for any length of time the spectators applauded, shouted words of support, or waved their blue feathers. He had just come to the end of the story, when Trachyte touched his shoulder.

‘You’d better come in.’

Belarica’s room was dark and pleasant after the brightness and noise outside. Trachyte directed them to a padded bench that had been pulled up on the carpet opposite to Belarica’s divan. Once they were comfortably seated, Trachyte handed them each a saucer with a cup of tea and a small round cake.

Rocco sipped the tea.

Belarica stood up. She patted Iggy’s shoulder, nicely as if she was trying to comfort him, or urge him to speak. She was tall and narrow, and she moved with ease around the room.

‘This is excellent, excellent. More than I’d hoped for.’ Her eyes were shining. ‘This level of enthusiasm over your arrival may be just what we need to convince Flaminca – the Archurvogel of Shale – to support the rebellion that’s growing in Krakatoan.’

‘We have friends back in Krakatoan that are about to have their wings cut off – if – if it hasn’t happened already,’ said Rocco.

‘Our hatch-mates,’ said Vesta, lowering her cup of tea to her lap.

‘Yes. I will arrange to have you join us for the evening meal. You must tell Flaminca everything you just told the crowd. She needs to hear it from you directly!’

Belarica sat down again. ‘Come here, Iggy.’ She stretched out her hand.

Iggy had been listening as well as watching, but he’d not said a word. He got up, as Belarica directed, and settled into the crook of her arm. Rummy, the monkey, moved up to Belarica’s shoulder.

Belarica’s eyes were alarmingly blue, like the mountain lake. Her wings were almost the same colour.

A painting, in a heavy golden frame, hung over the fireplace. In the centre of the picture a blue-winged urvogel was falling, or perhaps being pushed off the top of the cliffs. A white-robed urvogel hung over him.

Belarica caught Rocco’s eye.

‘Ah, yes, an early epoch painting. The larger version hangs in the Archives of Natural Avian History, just off the central square. Quite dramatic, isn’t it. In the beginning, or at least as far back as urvogel history is recorded, there were ten urvogel troupes. Each had a different wing colour, according to the region of Terrakesh that the troupe occupied.

‘The whites and blues occupied the North which is reputed for its great beauty. It’s a land of snow and ice and the bluest water in all of Terrakesh. Reds came from the south where the soil is red and it seeps into the feathers. Greens were settled west in the mountain forest where they consumed primarily
dandydium
, a plant that gave their wings their emerald colour.’

‘So my – my father’s ancestors – were from the north?’ asked Rocco.

‘At one time, yes. The whites lived inland. Their wings were white like the polar bears, polar foxes and snow geese that live there still. The blues lived in a sea colony, high on a precipice overlooking the North Sea.’

Belarica continued. ‘As urvogels learned the air currents, more travel between the colonies occurred. Over time the urvogel troupes intermingled. One clutch of hatchlings could have any combination of wing colours in it. Urvogels naturally diversified, until Harpia started manipulating things.’

‘Did you – did you know my father?’ asked Rocco.

‘What was his name?’

‘Milos.’

‘That’s a human name, I daresay. What was his hatchling name?’

Rocco shook his head. ‘I don’t know. That’s the only one I know.’

‘Get up. Walk a bit. Let me see your gait. As you entered, there was an aspect of your carriage that looked familiar.’

Could she really remember his father from the way he walked? It sounded absurd.

Rocco walked to the door and back again. Belarica watched him closely, frowning as he wheeled around for another lap of the room. This time when he returned to the padded bench, Belarica nodded knowingly. ‘I wasn’t sure at first, but now I’m certain.
Kyanite
was your father.’

Kyanite
. Rocco held the word on his lips. He said the word aloud. His head began to buzz.

‘Are you certain?’

She didn’t look as if she was making it up.

‘Yes.’ Her face turned serious. ‘It’s the way you hold your wings, slightly back away from your shoulders. And also your confident stride, longer than your height should permit. You probably can’t see it, but as a queen, I have long been a student of urvogel forms.

‘How you hold yourself says a great deal about you. Part of your stature is conscious – if you walk with your head up, that sort of thing. But other aspects of your carriage are unconscious, revealing good or ill intent. Evil urvogels have trained themselves to go against nature – to look directly into a face while telling a pack of lies. Some demeanours, like those I’ve just described, are simply bred in the bone. Inherited, like your blue wings.’

As Belarica spoke Rocco had been walking around pulling his wings forward and back. He’d also been practising his step. His father,
Kyanite
, was in the room, watching him walk, or so it felt; his mind spirit was whirling with desire. His heart thumped fast.

‘Air Marshal
Kyanite
was one of my loyal guards. I was proud to count him among the troops who stayed with me to the end. He and his flying troupe delivered me here, to Shale. All queens have immunity in other colonies, but such privileges do not extend to the ranks. Your father was forced into hiding.’

‘He –
Kyanite
,’ said Rocco, the word soft on his lips. ‘He died when I was little.’

‘I am sorry, Rocco.’

Rocco was about to say that Harpia’s Air Marshals had killed his mother, but Belarica had turned to the shuttered windows again. Someone else, a deep baritone voice was speaking.

‘It’s the Air Commodore,’ said Belarica as she stood up to open the doors. ‘He’s the Chief Defender of Shale. He keeps the Air Marshals in top form, even during times of peace.’