Sword Mountain (11 page)

We flock together when we share the inner plumage of the soul.

—
FROM THE
O
LD
S
CRIPTURE

F
leydur was walking down the staircase from the king's tower when a whisper flew at him from the evening darkness.

“Fleydur!”

“It is you, Forlath?” he said, straining his eyes.

“Yes.” His brother glided up from a lower landing.

“Why are you about at this hour?” asked Fleydur.

“Looking for you,” said Forlath. “Why are you?”

“Father called me in,” he said simply.

A glumness, like a dew-weighted spiderweb, hung in the dark gap between the two brothers. Fleydur listened to Forlath's breathing: in and out, in and out....

“How is Father? He hasn't talked to me the past few days,” said Forlath.

“He's better,” said Fleydur.

“Good,” said Forlath. But Fleydur knew he had something more in his heart. Somehow it seemed that Forlath was afraid to say what had prompted him to come searching for Fleydur in the first place.

Fleydur decided to ease the awkwardness. “I haven't seen you much either. Haven't been at the castle,” he said.

“You haven't been,” agreed Forlath. “Mother was thinking over it.” And Fleydur sensed a tenseness that he had never associated with his younger brother before.

“I see,” said Fleydur. “Want to go up to the base of Sword Cliff? Just like the old days, nobird but us two.”

Sword Cliff, that pillar pointing to the sky, seemed to be waiting for the two brothers to come to its base. From afar it looked a needle in the night, sewing stars into the sky. Once below it, however, its size and magnificence brought to mind a sacred staircase bridging the world above to the mortal world below.

At first Fleydur and Forlath spoke no word but simply gazed at the cosmos, feeling the wind ruffle their feathers.

“Tell me, Fleydur. What have you been doing?” asked Forlath at last.

“I'm going to … build a conservatory, a music school, on Sword Mountain,” said Fleydur.

“A
music
school?” Forlath's voice shook as if discussing contraband. “What do you mean for it to do?”

“Change things,” said Fleydur. “I will go where no eagle has ever dared to go before: anybird of any species, of any tribe, can attend if they love music, for free! It's a school where a valley eaglet won't feel bad. And once there are birds here who know how to sing, they will be able to use the Leasorn gem to summon Swordbird, the hero who helps others in need. I've already located building materials, found a good place midslope, and I've sneaked a load of music instruments into my room. I've submitted the paperwork. I just need official approval.”

But Forlath wasn't listening. “Anybird can attend?” he repeated. He squinted in the dark at Fleydur's face, to see if he was serious. “You know what that implies? Great Spirit, Fleydur.”

“Father allows music, didn't he say so?”

“A song or two, yes. Not a whole school. You can't. The court, the Iron Nest, will raise havoc! And my mother will be furious, aghast.”

“I've traveled enough to know that this is what Sword Mountain sorely needs.”

“But your plan would defy nearly a chapter in the
Handbook of the Feathered Aristocrat
.”

“What, you too, Forlath? The dotards who print that book spend their days cultivating a protruding stomach rather than a logical mind!” Fleydur threw open his wings. “Tell me, what wrong have I done? You tried to stop me from saving Dandelion, and now—”

“No,” said Forlath, pained. “We're just … we aren't ready for radical changes like this, Fleydur. Not yet.”

Fleydur stepped away, his sides heaving in the darkness.

Forlath followed. “Fleydur, listen to me. I am your brother, not your enemy. I've been at home ruling on Father's behalf all these years you were away, and I understand the court better than you do,” he whispered. “Your dreams, they're too idealistic for our kingdom. You can't tackle all the injustices of the world.”

Forlath squatted besides Fleydur. “I think your vision of a music school—well, it's like flying, Fleydur. We need to test the air and trust it before we dare to soar. Think of something smaller, Fleydur. Something to convince the court that your dreams are valid, so they can dare to let go and take the plunge.”

Early next morning, Dandelion, holding her candle, peeked through the curtains at the swirling clouds below her window. She'd waited long enough. Her bandages were gone, and her wings, though scarred, were healed. It was time to teach herself to fly.

She tucked her candle into her pocket and beat her wings as hard as she could. The second her talons rose from the carpet, though, her heart hammered, out of rhythm. A chain of images started in her mind, and once again, the archaeopteryx slashed.... Her mother, screaming in outrage, struck back, and the two, locked together, fell in an arc and the archaeopteryx suddenly turned to …

The strange, inhibiting fear yanked Dandelion down again; for a moment she could not breathe and could not see. As she picked herself up from the ground where she had fallen, she sickened to think she was rebelling against herself. She'd outwit her fears. Now.

Dandelion left her room and walked along the corridor till she arrived at a staircase. Twenty steps led to the landing below. She took a step back, and then dived.

For a split second, Dandelion was flying—

“What are you doing!” screeched Olga as they collided. The teacup she was holding flew high in the air; an arc of amber tea cascaded down to douse them both. Dandelion crashed onto the banister and slid down another flight of stairs before she could stop herself.

“Ooh, you! Come back here, you!” Olga was leaning over the railing, tea dripping from between her narrowed eyes.

Dandelion stumbled up the stairs, dismayed. “I'm so sorry, Olga,” she said. “I was trying to fly. I didn't see you coming up around the landing.”

“You never do anything but cause trouble,” said Olga.

“Me?” said Dandelion, aghast. “Olga! I didn't mean to collide with you. I'll go get the physician if you need him. I'll get you some more tea. Really, I'll make up for it. What can I do for you?”

Olga closed her beak. And blinked. “Anything?” she said.

“Anything,” Dandelion agreed.

Olga's smile turned into an ugly smirk. “Good.”

She dragged Dandelion up the stairs and down a corridor. She went into a room and reappeared with a rose-scented envelope under one wing. “You'll deliver a letter for me to Master Golden, the general's son,” she instructed. “Say to him, ‘My lady, Miss Olga, sincerely wishes Master Golden the best of luck in his examinations!' Okay?”

“Sure,” said Dandelion slowly.

“And it'll be perfect. He'll be charmed by my letter, and he'll see that you're really fit to be nothing but a servant,” Olga said.

Dandelion was not sure who Olga was talking about. But she'd made her promise, and it was best to carry out the task in good will.

“Well, don't loiter. Hurry, before the examinations start!”

“What examinations?” Dandelion asked.

“The entrance examinations for the Rockbottom Academy. You know, the martial arts school way over on Double Pain Peak. They're this afternoon.”

“But wait, Olga,” Dandelion said. “I hardly know where to look for this eagle! I can't find my way around in the castle at all.”

“Everybird knows who Golden is and where he goes,” said Olga, shrugging. “Just ask whoever you see.”

Olga was not wrong. Golden was a magical word that animated old and young alike. To her alarm, every young female eaglet Dandelion came across giggled incessantly at the mention of his name. Older matrons sighed as if contemplating an ideal son. The castle staff and the guards nodded in admiring approval; one emotional bird even raised a cup of wine on the spot and toasted Golden.
How miraculous
, Dandelion marveled.
A bird loved by everybird!

What was more, everybird seemed eager to mention something about him, unprompted.

“He is going to finish first in the exams,” one said. “The pride of Sword Mountain, he is!”

“Had he been the son of one of the princes, he would be a marvelous ruler someday,” cried another.

“He's
so
charming!” cooed a third.

Is he perfect?
thought Dandelion.
I hope he isn't proud or haughty.
She was directed to the walled courtyard at the back of the castle. Some boys were there, practicing martial arts to prepare for tryouts later in the afternoon. Dandelion watched and waited, apprehensive.

Many of the eaglets wore leather armor; some had helmets with flaps that hid their faces. The sunlight flashing from their swords dazzled her, at first reminding her of the attacking archaeopteryx. But these eaglets' movements weren't crude or threatening; they were strong, synchronized, sweeping, like a dance.

She was fascinated by how secure the eaglets looked, for they knew how to defend themselves and their family against any armed foe. They needn't hide or flee, scream or be helpless. They could rise up and meet an attacker readily. If only that was something she could do! She'd have to fly, too, of course, but if she could only fly
and
wield a sword like that.

When practice was over, Dandelion walked to the nearest eaglet and told him of her search, and he called over one of the birds who was fully armored.

“Somebird asking for me?” said Golden, taking off his helmet.

Dandelion looked up and was astounded.

“What?” she gasped. “Golden? Cloud-wing? You're Golden?”

Tawny-feathered Cloud-wing looked embarrassed. “That's what they all call me. But I'd rather you call me Cloud-wing. It's my real name, after all.”

“But why don't the others call you Cloud-wing?” asked Dandelion, curious.

“Don't know,” mumbled Cloud-wing. Even his embarrassed grimace was a perfectly likable grimace. “Guess they can't see past my feathers,” he added.

Dandelion understood. In reality, golden eagles weren't golden but came in a palette of browns. Some even had plumage that was as dark as valley earth, like Dandelion herself.

Although all had at least a patch of tawny feathers on the back of their necks that justified the name, it was the goal of fashionable golden eagles to appear as “gold” as possible. Some wore dark blue scarves to bring out a yellower hue. Those who could afford it sported plenty of gold jewelry and cufflinks. The immensely wealthy, like the queen, sprinkled a metallic powder on their wings and faces.

But among the nobility, there were lucky families of birds whose feathers had just the “right” color. Cloud-wing came from such a family. He fairly glowed.

“What's wrong with Golden, though?” asked Dandelion.