Sword Mountain (17 page)

As the orange dawn burnished the edges of the mountain, Dandelion realized that she no longer wanted to hide and be a peasant. With a pounding heart, she accepted the responsibilities of a princess.

Flattery can make even a statue smile.

—
FROM THE
B
OOK OF
H
ERESY

W
e need to hire a new tutor for the castle eaglets,” said the king.

“Who?” cried Sigrid.

“Somebird new.”

“Who?”

“Somebird intelligent.”

“Who?”

“Somebird innovative,” said Morgan. “Now please, dear, you're sounding like an owl. I can't name the bird right this second.”

The queen's beak trembled. “It matters very much to me, Morgan,” she said. “I do not know what Fleydur is up to—but the eaglets should study other subjects besides music. I must make sure of it. I will find the right bird myself.”

In the silence of evening, a hooded figure emerged from the shadows and glided toward a piece of parchment nailed to a tree. After reading it, he reached out and took it down, rolled it up, stuck it inside his garment, and vanished.

Kawaka was nearly bursting with delight. Making sure nobird had followed him, he returned to Tranglarhad's lair behind the waterfall.

Inside, the owl was bent over tinted eyeglass lenses. “Either the glass is too opaque, or there are too many trapped bubbles in it!” Tranglarhad grumbled to himself. The ultimate pair of sunglasses eluded him, and with it, the dreams of a nocturnal bird hoping to blend into a diurnal majority. He stopped his work at the sound of Kawaka's voice: “The opportunity has come.” The archaeopteryx handed over the paper.

Tranglarhad's eyes shifted left to right, left to right. “Tutor! The Castle of Sky wishes to procure a tutor, with substantial age and experience, to be also a member of the Iron Nest....” Tranglarhad paused. “Hmm … minimal lodging provided within the castle; pay is three-fourths of a coin per week, maximum, nonnegotiable … interviews to be held tomorrow.” Tranglarhad looked hard at Kawaka.

Kawaka stared back, smirking.

“You mean me?” Tranglarhad blinked, pointing to himself.

“Naturally.” Kawaka nodded.

The owl considered his tattered figure.

“Aren't you a master of disguise?” the archaeopteryx demanded.

There was a pause. “What about my dignity?” said the owl.

“There's everything to gain, to learn, to find!” added the archaeopteryx.

And Tranglarhad stroked the bristles around his beak and murmured, “True, true. Children are the easiest to extract information from. And teaching is a good alibi. Draws the least suspicion.”

“Nobird will deny that an owl is wise,” said the archaeopteryx. “And wouldn't it be nice to be somebird important among creatures of the day?”

“True, true,” said the owl once more. “I'll need an unstylish suit, some spectacles, I expect.... Something is still missing.” Tranglarhad paced restlessly. “A weapon for the job,” he muttered.

“A crossbow? An assassin's blade?”

The owl laughed. “Holy hoot, no! I need,” said he, “a textbook.” Tranglarhad turned to Kawaka, reaching out a talon. “Give me the
Book of Heresy
!”

“What?” Kawaka leaped aside, hugging the book to his chest. “This is the life work of my emperor.”

Tranglarhad snatched again. “Only that book will do! Do you or don't you want me to succeed in stealing the Leasorn gem from the eagles? I am risking a lot if I go to assume this paltry post of tutor and leave my mine to my underlings.” The owl glowered. “You, you who started our pact, are you not willing to make an equal sacrifice?”

Kawaka unclenched his talons and slowly handed the leatherbound book to the owl. “The moment you return, you give it back to me!” he growled.

Pleased, Tranglarhad left to prepare.

He unearthed an antiquated coat and shook its folds heartily, sending forth a moldy cloud of dust. As the initial odor cleared, he sprayed cheap cologne that only made it smell worse. Then he draped his attire over a stalagmite and crept to an underground pool for a bath. Tranglarhad did not recall ever having a bath in his life.
I must rise—rinse—to the occasion
, he thought, and dipped himself in. His feathers were a drastic shade lighter when he climbed out. As his plumage dried, Tranglarhad used a pair of tiny silver scissors to trim his bristles. He perched a pair of thick round spectacles upon his beak and looked at his reflection in a pool.
Suave and debonair, as usual
, he thought.

Satisfied, Tranglarhad put on the old coat and tied on the tackiest bow tie in his possession. He swept several other unfashionable outfits and a gift-wrapped package into a suitcase. “Ah! I almost forgot,” he muttered, and rummaged through his alchemist's potions to produce a vial containing a single golden pill. This too went into the suitcase. Finally, Tranglarhad surprised Kawaka by packing a bottle of peanut oil and a small black cauldron.

“What are those for?” asked the archaeopteryx.

“I have my reasons,” huffed the owl. At length he stood up and tucked the
Book of Heresy
into the pocket of his coat.

“Good luck,” said Kawaka.

“Luck? I don't need any.” The owl laughed. And on silent wings, he emerged from the bowels of the mountain and headed for its summit.

News spread through Skythunder mountain range so that before dawn, dozens of applicants were camped outside the castle waiting for their interviews. A spot in the Iron Nest! With all the bragging rights and privileges attached, it was a true once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

At noon, the hopefuls were allowed inside. The birds that strutted in with beaks overflowing with verse and poetry stumbled out again within minutes, their feathers quivering and their faces mournful. The line was fast dwindling, but as evening fell, a latecomer appeared. The last applicant sat on his suitcase by his cauldron and waited calmly.

“All right. Your turn!” shouted a guard.

The applicant sauntered in, ready to combat the chilling gaze of an austere bird who sat in judgment.

Queen Sigrid was slumped on her couch, a foot stuck out on a cushion for a pedicure. The applicant blinked with relief. He noted the hummingbird filing the nails on the queen's toes and repainting them cherry red, and he knew the right words to say.

“Elegant choice of color, my queen! An educated, sophisticated choice.”

Sigrid preened at the flattery.
Nobird has said anything so exciting today
, she thought. She twitched her burly toes, but the applicant knew she was only waiting for more.

“Mature, stately, befitting a queen as yourself, yet with a subtle hint of youth.”

“Youth … quite.” Sigrid looked up from examining a red nail. “I am quite young! But my eyes are failing me....”

“Then allow me to present an example of my handiwork, Your Majesty,” said the applicant, opening his suitcase and drawing forth a package. “It's the most exquisite, queenly type of spectacles, the lorgnette.”

Sigrid tore off the paper with unladylike zeal and gave a cry of delight. She held up a pair of gold-edged glasses to her eyes. Her beak hung slack. “An owl!” Sigrid nearly fell back on her couch. “And I thought you were an eagle with a big head,” she said. “You realize there has never been an … owl among our castle staff?”

“Then I shall be honored if I am lucky enough to be the first,” said Tranglarhad.

Sigrid peered at him through her new glasses. “I don't recall you telling me your name.”

“I am called Tranglarhad, Your Majesty.”

The queen shook her head. “Ridiculous. Your name does not sound intellectual enough for you to be qualified to teach here.”

“But, Your Majesty, it's an owl name meaning ‘one who has a triangular head,'” the owl cried, gesticulating at his face, pointing out three angles made by his ear tufts and his beak. “The triangle is the most stable shape in the geometric world. To have a head shaped thus is to have knowledge most securely stored within the skull!”

The queen considered, looking at her painted nails for a moment. “All right, then: What makes you think you're qualified?”