Sword Mountain (18 page)

Tranglarhad knew how to answer this question. “First and foremost, I am not from the valley,” he said. “I am a native of Sword Mountain, in fact. I look up to the Castle of Sky every day.”

“Good.”

“Second, I possess a unique book called the
Book of Heresy
,” said Tranglarhad. “Allow me to share with you a passage?”

Sigrid nodded.

Tranglarhad began. “Page 249: ‘Nothing will come of waiting alone. The best tacticians meticulously set multiple traps, all the while appearing quite friendly to their foes. Fatten up your enemies with your kindness, make them vulnerable so you can savor their demise....'”

Sigrid was mesmerized.

“My! I do believe you to be a fine candidate,” she said. “However …” Queen Sigrid frowned.

“What is it, my queen?” Tranglarhad murmured.

“You are a stranger. Not an eagle, and not of our tribe. The post of tutor, as you know, allows you a vote in the Iron Nest. It's against the customs to allow a stranger into our government.” Sigrid looked torn. “I would still like to hire you, only as a tutor,” she said slowly. “I simply cannot give you a position in the Iron Nest assembly.”

“I would be honored to be a plain tutor,” said Tranglarhad.

“Then it is settled,” said Sigrid. “Will you be fit to teach tomorrow morning?”

“Will evening do?” asked the owl. “I am nocturnal.”

Sigrid nodded, beginning to trust the owl. “Evening classes shall be fine. Though you may see if the physician can prescribe medications for your ailment; being nocturnal is an unfortunate handicap. And after your classes, will you come to my drawing room to read me your philosophy book? I like it very much.”

“It shall be my pleasure, Your Majesty,” said the owl.

A handicap?
he thought.
Queen Sigrid, you are much in the dark.

Music is laughter in radiant feathers.

—
FROM THE
O
LD
S
CRIPTURE

D
andelion was staring at a door that hid something she did not want to face.

“As a princess, you must formally greet and acknowledge the subjects of your generation, the children of the court. They've just been gathered a minute ago, waiting inside. They've been told they have a new princess, but they do not know who yet. You must greet them, show them who you are,” Fleydur was saying.

The door's varnished panel reflected six glints in her image: her crown and the five gold acorns pinned on her collar. But there was neither window nor crack in the door to let her peek at the other side. “Greet them!” Dandelion said.
But they … they hate me. And I hate them.

“Just as the king heads and cares for the court, so as a princess you must assume the leadership of the younger birds of Sword Mountain,” said Fleydur. “You have special responsibility—you must learn to love them, Dandelion.” He walked away, leaving Dandelion alone.

A lump rose in Dandelion's throat. She could not love these eaglets. But she swallowed and made herself turn the doorknob and step in, shutting the door behind her.

The eaglets stood up, faces expressionless. They were dressed in ceremonial suits and dresses. So dizzyingly different from the last time she had seen them gathered together, snickering behind extravagant masks.

Dandelion approached them. “Hello,” she said.

For a moment, the eaglets seemed too stunned to remember their voices. “Hello,” they echoed, waiting. Cloud-wing smiled. Olga looked dismayed. Pudding eyed Dandelion. “The masquerade wasn't enough for you? Do you want more?” he seemed to say.

She felt a sudden rush of defiant calm. “I chose to come back,” she told them. “I want to be friends with you.” Dandelion turned to Pudding and thrust her talons toward him, ready to parry malice with courtesy.

After a pause, Pudding shook her claws, his meaty grip crushing her talons till tears sprang in her eyes. She stood firm, and she shook talons with them all, one by one.

Though parents objected to Fleydur's radical teaching, nobird could hold back the children from missing out on a potentially juicy scandal.

When Fleydur announced that he would hold his music lessons on the very top of Sword Mountain, every member of the class was present and, in fact, early, waiting near the base of Sword Cliff.

And so were the eight members of the Iron Nest who had, along with Simplicio, opposed Fleydur. Since it was hard to be inconspicuous among the barren piles of rock, they gave up trying to pretend they had just happened to be there and hunched matter-of-factly in a half circle around the children.

Their rheumy eyes glinted suspiciously, and their faces were grim; each held a notepad, leaning forward, posed to scribble atrocities. “You won't mind, prince, our monitoring your lesson?” thundered one. “As the Iron Nest, it is our firm duty to control and guard the egg of Sword Mountain's future.”

Fleydur swept his wing in a gesture of welcome. “Delighted.”

As for Dandelion herself, she was looking at Fleydur intently. She thought he was nervous and feared that he would say something rash. The members of the Iron Nest were only too ready to misinterpret if not outright twist his lessons in their notes.

But Fleydur started from the beginning and taught them the notes and the names of the scale. The children chanted the unfamiliar syllables: “
Do, re, mi, fa, so, la, ti, do!
”

“Very good, very good!” said Fleydur. “Now sing loudly; don't be afraid, there's hardly anybird to hear you, other than the Iron Nest. Call out in a clear, loud voice—try to match the sound of my trumpet!” Fleydur brought his silver trumpet to his beak and blew slowly, a note at a time, a lively, simple tune.

“Olga?” said Fleydur. “Why are you not singing?”

Olga fidgeted, and she did not open her beak for some time. “I'm just worried, Prince Fleydur,” she said. “I remembered that you can't open your beak wider than thirty degrees!” Olga was acutely distressed. “It's in the
Handbook of the Feathered Aristocrat
.”

“You read that thing?” said Pouldington, tugging at his collar, so that the four fat gold acorn pins there clacked against one another. Olga ducked her head, more uncomfortable than before, aware of her half acorn.

“You remember. ‘A refined eagle should at all times position the two mandibles of his or her beak at no greater than a thirty-degree angle.'” Olga tilted her head and gravely turned her profile to the group to demonstrate. “Twenty degrees for eating everything except caviar, for which twenty-five is permitted.”

“But your voice is truly beautiful, Olga,” said Fleydur. “You should open your beak wide and sing.”

At this, Olga burst into tears.

“The prince harshly coerces a well-bred young lady, who is versed in the fine literature of our traditions, to ‘sing,' against her wishes!” whispered an old scholar to a colleague.

Fleydur looked very concerned. “Olga? Are you all right?”

Olga nodded through her tears. “Yes. Nobird … nobird has ever told me that I am beautiful!”

She sang the tune again, exactly as Fleydur had played upon his trumpet. Though her talking voice was deep and hoarse, when she sang, it was a surprisingly sweet soprano. Her song lingered, echoing faintly in the valleys all around.

All the children flapped their wings furiously in applause, and Fleydur clapped the hardest of all. The eight members of the Iron Nest frowned at one another.

“Tell me, Prince,” demanded one of the scholars. “What significance has this fooling around?”

“Why, sir, can't you see how happy music can make us?” exclaimed Fleydur. “Music can brighten our lives every day. It's all around us!”

“Even in the Castle of Sky?” Olga exclaimed.

Fleydur's eyes twinkled. “I'll show you. Class, we'll have a music tour!”

Wiggling with anticipation and curiosity, the eaglets leaped up from the boulders and followed Fleydur back down to the castle. Fleydur fished drumsticks out of his pockets, which he twirled as he flew.

On the metal gates, the wooden doors, the glass windows he beat as he hummed a tune. Down the Hall of Mirrors he gently tapped his reflections, one after another. In the castle kitchens he swept past the cooks, drumming a hearty symphony on the pots and pans. He tapped the glass pitchers filled with water, appreciating their lingering pure notes.

“What, my prince, what are you doing?” demanded the chef. “This is a serious job, the feeding of a whole castle of dignitaries!” However, soon he laughed and joined in, banging a soup cauldron; the undercooks, too, rattled forks and spoons together.

“I bet you can't make music from this!” Pudding challenged Fleydur, grabbing a carrot from a basket.

Fleydur examined the carrot carefully, then, borrowing a knife from the chef, hollowed it out and carved holes along its length. He lifted the carrot to his beak and blew a silly tune.

Everybird laughed as Pudding squealed in astonishment. When Fleydur handed the carrot to him, he huffed and puffed and could only make sputtering sounds. Shrugging, Pudding crunched the carrot in his beak and ate it instead.

“Did you see that? The prince even crusades against table manners,” a member of the Iron Nest observed to another.