Sword Mountain (23 page)

O
n the day before the king's birthday, Fleydur went to see Morgan. Sigrid intercepted him. “Your father is busy. What do you want?”

“I want to borrow the Leasorn gemstone,” said Fleydur.

“For what? The gemstone is a talisman for us eagles,” she declared. “It has to be kept safe.”

“I only want to show it to my students during their last music lesson tomorrow.”

Normally, Sigrid would have been appalled. But she paused and remembered some advice from the
Book of Heresy: “Shoot your opponents with the proverbial arrows feathered by their own plumes
.”

A smile froze on her face. “Why, yes,” she said. “Yes, you may indeed. Tell the treasurer of your request tomorrow morning. Make sure the gemstone is returned without a scratch.”

As Fleydur walked away, Sigrid's claws twisted the chain that held her cabinet's keys around her neck.

“Smiles, anybird?” Tranglarhad shut the door behind him. “How many of you have memorized your passage? Or are you a bunch of eager little adventurers yearning for a penny or two?”

Tranglarhad laid the
Book of Heresy
on his podium and pointed to Olga. “Please stand up.”

Olga glanced frantically left and right.

“Yes, you, Miss Olga,” said the owl. “You may start our delightful evening—I've heard that you have a lovely, loud voice.”

Olga stood up unsteadily, touching her frilly cap.

“Page 295, ‘On the Structure of Society,'” prompted Tranglarhad.

Olga swallowed. “‘On the Structure of Society.' ‘The pragmatic gentlebird might speak of equality,'” she said waveringly, “‘but actually to him, bias is beautiful, prejudice popular, discrimination … divine …'”

“Ah, yes, praise be!” murmured the owl. “Do continue.”

“‘The world must have a stratified order, as clear as … as clear as day and night. The detested spawn of those with low rank shall …'” Olga's voice was shaking. Her eyes, downcast, were wet. She gripped the sides of her desk. “‘… shall remain servants. M-m-merit …'” She broke off, silently crying, as the cauldron crackled with oil.

“‘Is nothing,'” snarled Tranglarhad. “Repeat this line again, clearly: ‘Merit is nothing. Birth is everything.'”

Olga hid her face in her wing and shook her head. Tranglarhad's face darkened. He opened the cauldron's lid and beckoned to Olga.

“Don't move, Olga,” Dandelion said.

“Oh?” said Tranglarhad. “Will you take her place, then?” He leered. “Will you stand up for a mountain topper? A summit bird?”

Dandelion's claws closed around the candle in her pocket. She stood up. Her heart hammered. “I will. We are all eaglets of Sword Mountain.” She swallowed. “Sir, do you believe what the
Book of Heresy
says?”

Tranglarhad smirked. “Isn't it what life on Sword Mountain's summit shows?”

“Do you believe that merit is nothing?” asked Dandelion. “Didn't your merit as a teacher earn you this post?”

Tranglarhad stared back at Dandelion.

“Then do you believe in merit for yourself but deny it for everybird else?” she went on.

Doesn't everybird?
thought Tranglarhad. For a moment, it was a relief to inflict on others the wounds he himself had suffered. But it was no time to let an argument with this princess take over the class. It might spoil his favor with the queen.

Tranglarhad threw a piece of chalk into the cauldron.

“Dismissed!” he shouted, and was the first to walk out.

Cloud-wing, if you could see this now
, Dandelion thought.

She was still standing. And she realized that the eaglets stood with her.

 

Making the most of every celebration? A piece of cake.

—
FROM THE
B
OOK OF
H
ERESY

W
inter clamped rows of glittering teeth over the castle's windows. By day the icicles dripped slowly and sparkled under the cold white sun. By night they lengthened and sharpened.

As the flags of the castle strained to be free, snowflakes fell and softened the edges of the mountain. Sword Cliff was covered in a sheath of immaculate snow.

The king awoke and thought,
My birthday! Today's the only day of the year when a ruler can have fun.

Then he thought,
I am too old for fun.
It was unhappy to be reminded of old age in such a dreary, cold season.

“Morgan? Do you realize, it's been a hundred—”

“A hundred seasons that the mountain wind has carried me, yes,” he said with a sigh. “Oh, Sigrid, all is well! I am fine, the kingdom is recovering. Why the long face?” The king looked merry. “Somebird's planning to send me a coffin as a birthday present, is that it?”

Sigrid brought the king's daily cocktail of medicines, along with the golden pill. “Take some medicine for your health, at least,” she said.

Dandelion got up at dawn and opened her door to see the castle transformed.

All the corridors were decked with purple banners that read
HURRAH FOR THE KING!
in gold letters. The faint buzz of voices coming from elsewhere in the castle thrilled Dandelion: The visitors had come. After donning formal dress, she flew down the spiral staircase, meeting Fleydur along the way. “It'll be your first official appearance as the princess,” he said. “Come down to the hall.”

Olga came by and approached Dandelion.

“Dandelion, for what you did in class yesterday …” She looked at the ribbons tied on her feet. “I just wanted to say thanks.”

“You're welcome,” said Dandelion.

“And …” Olga's voice trailed off. As they turned a corner, she blurted, “I'm sorry. For the things I did when you were sick. All of that, fake party and—”

Dandelion extended a wing. “And now we're going to a real party.”

Olga touched her wing tip to Dandelion's, and they flew side by side.

“Are you nervous?” she asked Dandelion. “You know we're going to perform this evening.”

“I'm only excited,” Dandelion said.

Eagles were packed into the banquet hall. The barons of other peaks in the mountain range were all there, and their children, who wore silver acorns on their collars instead of gold. Ambassadors from other tribes, and artisans, merchants, and farmers of Sword Mountain, mingled among them. Dandelion had never seen such a crowd before.

Though the king had not yet made his appearance, the hall was full of activity. More birthday presents arrived by the minute, despite the mountains of gifts there already. Cooks bustled in and out with plates balanced on their heads. The castle staff rolled in barrels of cider and pulled a cart full of bottles of champagne. Watching everything, joy and excitement buoyed Dandelion so much that she felt she was rising to the chandeliers.

It was truly a perfect day for Fleydur's concert. Everybird was in a generous, merry mood. Even the advisers let the
Handbook of the Feathered Aristocrat
slip from their minds, for there was not one bird who was not grinning or laughing, and a lot of beaks were open wider than thirty degrees.

A herald ran into the hall, cupped his talons near his bill, and shouted, “His Majesty is coming!”

All the birds flew into the air. “The king! The king! Our beloved king!” they chanted.

In a ceremonial gown of purple and white, a sword strapped to one side, a silver pen to the other, and a scepter in his claws, Morgan cried to the gathered crowd of well-wishers, “Thank you! It's a day to remember!”

He stood in the banquet hall, feeling the cheers fill his frail body with new life. He would need a lot of energy to get through the activities of the day. He'd had a headache earlier, after his talk with Sigrid, but he was feeling better at last.

“Thank you all, birds of Skythunder, friends of Skythunder. I am honored that so many have come to celebrate my old age with me. I need not say more, for I know many of you are waiting for the cake!”

Morgan gestured toward the center of the hall, where there was a chocolate cake.

In truth, it was a mountain of goodness—a replica of Sword Mountain itself, crafted by a ten-eagle team of royal bakers and confectioners supervised by a sculptor. The day before, the undercooks had whitewashed the slopes of the cake with tubs of vanilla icing. They'd dusted green sprinkles on the base to mimic evergreen trees and capped the peak with shredded coconut that they'd bought from seagull traders. Ninety-nine candles of gold, purple, and green crowned its ledges. The hundredth candle, on the top of the cake, was shaped like Sword Cliff. So beautiful and beak watering it was that, for fear of thieves and pantry raiders, a platoon of guards had paced around the cake all night.