Sword Mountain (22 page)

That evening, Cloud-wing sent his reply.

Dandelion
,

How is your sword training? I wish I could be there myself to watch and cheer you on. They may not admit it to anybird, but lots of the boys here were howling and crying when they first started to hold swords!

We had frost on our windows this morning, and it looked just like dandelion seeds blown from far away. Thinking of home, I started to sing the song Fleydur taught us, but the older boys shook me by the shoulder and asked if I was delirious!

Cloud-wing

Dandelion chuckled.

Cloud-wing
,

Next time you duel a bird, you can burst into song—your enemies will be so shocked, they might drop their weapons. Wouldn't that be a new strategy? Fleydur's Singing Troops!

Swordplay is as much of an art as music, after all. Today I howled a bit, too, but I hope someday I can reach Rockbottom level. I wonder if I could disguise myself as a boy and go to tryouts? Would I be admitted?

In Fleydur's class, everybird's practicing our special tune. The king's birthday is almost here. I can't wait to perform, but I wish you could be with us at the Castle of Sky, too. On that evening, open your window and listen carefully. We'll be singing as loud as we can.

Dandelion

When Dandelion entered the classroom that evening, everybird was seated, but there was no sign of Trangharhad. Instead, in the front of the classroom, over the fire, hung a covered cauldron.

“Is he cooking something for us?” asked Pouldington.

The cauldron bubbled ominously.

At that moment, Tranglarhad strode in, a paper-wrapped package in his claws. He placed it on his podium, then rummaged in his suitcase and pulled out a large fork. When he looked up, nearly all the class was leaning in, trying to guess what was in his package.

The owl tapped the podium with his fork. “On your perches, now. Class begins!” Instead of talking about the package or the cauldron, he pointed the fork at the
Book of Heresy
and said, “Take out some paper and get ready to write down what I read. We will begin with a philosophy lesson. Page 295, ‘On the Structure of Society.' ‘The pragmatic gentlebird might speak of equality. But actually to him, bias is beautiful, prejudice popular, discrimination divine …'”

Tranglarhad droned on for five minutes, but every eaglet in the classroom listened to the fire and the cauldron and wondered about the package. They were so curious they could barely stay where they sat. Dandelion made a sloppy attempt to write down what Tranglarhad said, but she couldn't focus and did not know what she wrote. Finally, when Tranglarhad finished reading, Pouldington raised his wing and blurted, “What about that cauldron over there? And what is in that package, sir?”

“I was just coming to it, Pouldington,” said the owl. “Now I hope you paid attention to the passage I just read. Because you will have to recite it another day.” Tranglarhad picked up his package and walked to the cauldron. He licked his beak, drinking in the fear of his students.

“I am all about fairness, opportunity, and wealth,” he said pleasantly. “I have in my possession several pennies. You are entitled to one if you fail to recite your passage; however, you must fetch it with your own talons.”

There was a moment of confusion.

“You're paying us to
not
learn our lessons?” Pudding was incredulous.

“Correct,” said Tranglarhad. He grabbed the lid of the cauldron and lifted it with a flourish, dropping a coin in. Crackling pops of heated oil sounded like explosions in the room. “It is my sizzling lose-and-gain philosophy.”

“Lose?” whimpered an eaglet. “Gain?”

Tranglarhad unwrapped his package, showing to the class two plump sausages. With great care, he skewered them onto the prongs of his fork and then, quite suddenly, plunged them into the pot of hot oil and held them there.

A beak-watering smell permeated the room. It was in stark contrast to Tranglarhad's next words: “You may lose some sense of touch, some skin definitely, from this ordeal. But, oh, you gain an unforgettable experience, and if you are lucky and your toes are not fried to crisp brown sausages, you are the owner of one cent.” Seeing the sausages done, Tranglarhad lifted them out of the oil. “I am sure everybird will recite quite well after a few lessons. Simple, yes?”

“What if we recite the passage perfectly?” Pudding croaked. “We get nothing?”

Unruffled, Tranglarhad held up his cooked sausages and sank his beak into them. A burst of grease spattered the lapel of his coat. Silence consumed the class as they watched the owl chomp away at his sausages, his eyes and the grease spot both glistening dangerously. “You get the pleasure of watching the fate of those who did not—is that not enough?”

Meanwhile, other ornate packages of all sorts began pouring into the castle, carried by swift falcon messengers, because the birthday of the king was fast approaching. Sigrid relished counting them, and the more she counted, brushing her claws over the ribbons and colorful wrapping paper, the wider she simpered. Her pleasure was interrupted by the sight of a plain brown package secured with yarn, somewhat dirty and wet with melted snow.

“Who has the impudence to send such rubbish?” muttered Sigrid. She picked up the package, her eyes immediately drawn to the writing scrawled on one side:
TO FLEYDUR, PRINCE OF SKYTHUNDER TRIBE, SWORD MOUNTAIN.
It was from a woodpecker with a name that Sigrid found peculiar and unpleasant: Ewingerale.

Why is this bird sending a package to Fleydur at the time of Morgan's birthday?
she wondered.

Sigrid untied the yarn and opened the wrapping, careful not to rip the paper. She discovered a newly printed book whose green cover displayed the words
Old Scripture.
She opened it, held up the gold-rimmed glasses that had been Tranglarhad's gift to her, and read cautiously. “Waste no time and effort blindly guarding what has always been, but devote yourself instead to new ways for improvement. For a lake to be sparkling, water must flow constantly, not be stagnant.”

“I am not convinced!” Sigrid said. She thought back to the time when archaeopteryxes were at the height of power. She knew it was the discipline of the Sword Mountain's rigid traditions that had helped eagles stay organized and avoid being enslaved, scattered, or forced to pay tribute.
What worked well for us then, should work well for us now
, Sigrid thought.

More and more these days, however, it seemed to her that Fleydur's popularity had robbed some eagles of their common sense. Fleydur needed to be shown that he was not infallible. Sigrid flung the book onto her table and instead read the letter in the package.

It inquired if Fleydur's plans were working well and if Fleydur would accept an invitation to celebrate the first Bright Moon Festival on the Island of Paradise. Sigrid was disappointed it did not reveal anything extreme.

Sighing, Sigrid contemplated this package. She would not give it to Fleydur right away. It might still be useful to her. She locked it in her cabinet just as a knock sounded at her door.

“Who is it?” said Sigrid with a start.

“I, Tranglarhad, Your Majesty. I am here to give my nightly reading.”

“Enter,” said Sigrid. She licked her beak to think of the soothing passages in the
Book of Heresy
as Tranglarhad opened the door and came into the room.

“I also wish to express my good wishes to the king, for His Majesty's birthday, as I, not being part of the court, have little opportunity to see His Majesty,” he said with a bow.

Sigrid beamed. “That is very considerate of you, tutor.”

“Hearing that His Majesty's health is still uncertain, I thought to present something to him—a unique medicine,” said Tranglarhad. He handed Sigrid a beautifully wrapped present. She opened it and saw a small golden pill in a vial. “It's no panacea,” he said, “but the wisdom of the owls may change the fate of the good king.”

 

Knowledge acquired under threat of force can sleep in the inn of your mind, but will check out in the morning.

—
FROM THE
O
LD
S
CRIPTURE