Sword Mountain (5 page)

A
mid the jingling of bells, Fleydur the bard knelt and cupped his talons around the little bird's face.

“She will come home with us,” he said.

Prince Forlath uncovered the broken hilt of a cutlass from pine needles. The troops behind them grew quiet, and all watched as Fleydur wrapped the eaglet into a blanket.

“Fleydur,” murmured Forlath to his older brother. “You know you shouldn't.”

“Shouldn't take care of a little injured one like this?” said Fleydur.

Forlath turned aside, but an eagle warrior behind Fleydur said, “She doesn't belong on the mountaintop.” The troops mumbled in agreement.

“You know the customs....”

“There is no room for outsiders, not up there!”

“Fleydur, it'll be too risky for you,” said Forlath at last. “Bringing a valley bird to the castle will not help your cause.”

“My freedom. My life. Aren't those all I have to lose? I'm making the choice to come back home, and to face any risks I might find there,” said Fleydur. “This eaglet did not choose to suffer like this. I—we—have to help her now.”

Fleydur had not placed a talon in his birthplace for twenty seasons, but he felt that Sword Mountain had been suspended in time. As he led the procession into the audience chamber, he noticed in disbelief that the advisers of the court still stood in the same positions. Their faces, surrounded by a golden swirl of dust motes, bore fossilized expressions.

“You—” King Morgan stood up sharply and hobbled toward them.

The guards flanking the throne all stiffened, their eyes fastened on Fleydur, everybird recalling the last words Morgan had shouted at his minstrel son. “
Do you care so much for others, and place them before your own tribe? It's beneath you. Go, then. Go to your starving friends and throw your dignity to the winds. You are not my son anymore!
” Tension rose in the air, bordering on hostility.

Forlath looked at Morgan. “Father, surely—”

Morgan paid no attention. He rushed to Fleydur, his voice hoarse as he cried, “I expelled you from Sword Mountain. I had your name forbidden. I warned you that I never wanted to see you again, and you had the nerve to come back! This is your punishment—”

Fleydur shut his eyes.

“—come and give your father a hug.” Tears rolled down his cheeks as he extended both wings to Fleydur.

The tension shattered as the birds all around burst into applause.

Morgan reached up a claw to touch Fleydur's face. “I almost cannot believe it … is it really true?” He turned to his younger son, Forlath. “I'm so thankful that you have found and brought to me … my Fleydur.” The patriarch blinked waveringly. “Forgive me, Fleydur. The strains of keeping our kingdom out of the claws of archaeopteryxes made me overreact when I saw you stray from our traditions. I have realized I was desperately trying to maintain order.”

“And there shall be order, Father; worry no more,” Fleydur said. “Forlath and I have helped win the archaeopteryx war.”

Morgan snapped his claws for the attendants to bring over a wooden chest. “Fleydur, Fleydur. How you've changed. What travels you've been on! But now your journey's ended—you'll stay, surely you'll stay with your father now.” Morgan swallowed. “Won't you?” Abruptly he busied himself, opening the chest and pulling something out.

“I've come home so that I—” Fleydur started to say.

“Oh, Fleydur,” the king interrupted with a short laugh. “You know that whatever you may be, foremost, you still are a prince. By birth, by training”—he leaned forward and gently placed a gold circlet on Fleydur's head—“and by responsibility.” Morgan happily adjusted a red velvet cloak around his son's shoulders. “What can I say?” murmured Morgan. “Doesn't he look fine?”

Queen Sigrid stood up. “Surely, Morgan, you jest.” Unlike the king, who had withered since Fleydur's departure, she had grown taller, plumper, and fuller of life. “Fleydur should either wear the clothes of the prince or those of a musician. They don't go together. Red velvet with those loud stripes and polka dots. Ridiculous!” she cackled, fanning herself. “And in my frank opinion, Fleydur seems more suited to the latter.”

Sigrid threw a glance at Forlath. “You will support this, won't you, my dear son? Welcome back, Forlath. You were most sorely missed.” She paused long enough for all birds' smiles to fade except her own.

“Well, Fleydur?” Sigrid turned back to him. “You may change clothes as you see fit after the formalities,” she said, squinting. “But I believe I really must ask you to not break your father's heart again.”

“I will not,” Fleydur promised.

Morgan coughed. “How could he? The archaeopteryxes are defeated; our troubles are cast aside. To celebrate Fleydur's return, I will allow music.”

As he got the difficult, painful word out, tranquillity softened his features. “Ah, both my sons. Together at my side in the last few moons of my old age. Nothing is more important than keeping a family together.”

Fleydur raised his head at the word, for it was like a cue. “Father,” he said.

“Yes, my son?”

“What about a bird who has lost her family? Would you let me take in an orphan, Father?”

“What's this?” Sigrid's smile sagged into a frown.

Fleydur turned back. Two warriors edged forward, a sling between them. Gesturing at the small inert figure in the sling, Fleydur said, “We came across this eaglet below our mountain, unconscious. There has been an archaeopteryx attack.”

The birds of the court gaped as Forlath produced the broken cutlass for them to see. “A lone attacker. We've defeated the main army, but stragglers could cause trouble,” he said.

“No relatives, no neighbors? You bring
it
here?” Sigrid asked.

“None that we found.” Fleydur stroked the eaglet with a wing tip. “See, she's just an eaglet, and badly wounded. She probably spent all last night in the rain, and that didn't help.”

“Take in a valley bird?” muttered Sigrid to herself. Surely every well-bred summit bird knew the rule of the mountain.
Fleydur's become worse than bold
, she thought.

She glared at Fleydur, then at the waif wrapped in a blanket beside him. Only the eaglet's head was visible. Dirt freckled her face. Sigrid shuddered and rubbed her own claws, brushing away imaginary mud.

“Naturally it's suffering. Think of the hygiene of those eagles living down in the valley!” Sigrid attempted to look considerate. She then gestured to an attendant. “Put her in the dungeon. There's plenty of room there, if memory serves me correctly. She can have a ladleful of gruel.”

“But why not house her in the guest wing? She's done nothing wrong to deserve the dungeon. And she can't possibly survive there.” Fleydur's eyes flickered toward his father.

The king nodded. To the queen's chagrin, he agreed to Fleydur's request. “Of course my physician will treat her. She can remain until she is well.”

Sigrid sucked in her breath, looking as if she would pinch or slap somebird. Such an insignificant eaglet, enjoying such privileges! She shot a glance at her son Forlath. Forlath appeared neutral. She turned to her favorite advisers. They stood glowering, as if a bucket of rank mud had just been emptied over their heads, but they didn't dare contradict the king.

The veins on Sigrid's neck strained. Why had Fleydur staged such a show, saving a valley eaglet? What further breaches of their traditions would he attempt? The king, much too old and much too unquestioning, did not see the risks his wayward son presented. It would fall to Sigrid to make sure that Fleydur and his unconventional love of music could do no harm to the mountain.

 

You never know who will knock at your door.

—
FROM THE
B
OOK OF
H
ERESY