Sword Mountain (9 page)

Simplicio merely bleated, “Very observant, Master Pouldington. And Dandelion, please don't move.”

Dandelion felt tears sting her eyes. “Why don't you look in a mirror!” she lashed back.

“Oh!” The breaths of the young nobility were one swift, hostile wind, flickering the lantern.

Simplicio stumbled toward her, a willow rod in his claws, his raspy voice rising in a screech like chalk on a blackboard. “I advise you, miss, to wash your beak of that mud of the uneducated. Speak properly to the son of the treasurer.”

“But—”

“Enough!” Simplicio cried. “Life is not fair, and teachers are here to enforce that.” The venerable tutor, so rickety in his movements, hit with startling deftness.
Whack! Whack! Whack!
Thrice, hard, across her talons. Her toes now really swelled.

She held back the burning tears. If they thought they could gloat over her tears, they would be disappointed. She sat painfully straight, faced off to one direction, the lantern illuminating her stiffness.

“
If you stay, they're just going to make a fool of you. A
valley
fool
.” Olga's words rang in her ears. Olga, now, was smirking in amusement as she painted in the back row.

Tutor Simplicio weaved in and out of the rows of students, cackling, “Very good, very good!” like a gleeful merchant.

What in the mountain range makes them so terrible? And what is wrong with coming from the valley?
Dandelion wondered. After all, it was the mountaintop that was uncomfortable—rocky, cold, barren, and ever so windy, while the valley bloomed and flowered, lush and green.

It is me, then? What's wrong with me?

Suddenly the quiet was broken by a small clatter, as if somebird had dropped a paintbrush. It came from the dark side of the room, but when she looked over in that direction, she just saw Pudding. The noise hadn't come from him. Pudding was busy adding rough, broad strokes to his artwork, a horrid look on his pudgy face. In the shadows next to him, somebird moved and straightened, looking directly at her with a familiar, friendly smile.

Her heart leaped, and for a moment she felt joyful. It was Cloud-wing! She hadn't noticed that he was in the class. Then a small doubt stirred in her—was he as nice as he had seemed to her before, or was he really just another spoiled young lord? Cloud-wing whispered some words to her, but she couldn't hear. Since she wasn't allowed to move, she blinked a few times.

“Mr. Simplicio?” Pudding spoke out again, loudly, holding his palette. “I have a question.”

“Yes?” the tutor said.

“I painted next to her a scroll about the uses of manure in farming,” Pudding announced. “But can valley eagles read?”

“No, of course not,” said Simplicio crisply. “Get a scraper here, or some of this base paint, and cover it up!”

Cloud-wing frowned a little and watched carefully as Pudding squeezed himself out of his row. Cloud-wing hunched over and rapidly did something to Pudding's stool in the darkness.

The birds sitting behind Cloud-wing straightened, attentive, yet they kept curiously quiet. Dandelion was struck by a thought. Perhaps Cloud-wing was the son of a prestigious official as well, as high as Pudding's father, the treasurer, and lower-ranked court eaglets dared not offend them. Indeed, now that she was paying closer attention, she saw that Cloud-wing had four miniature gold acorns pinned around his collar, as did Pudding. Olga had only half an acorn pin.

So, the higher ranked the eaglets were, the more acorns pins they had
and
the closer they sat to the front, Dandelion decided. Olga, in the back, was not so important then, though she had put up such a grand facade. Then Dandelion noticed that there was a gap in the front row, where two or three stools might fit.
Places for the highest
, she thought.
Princes or princesses.
But neither Prince Fleydur nor Forlath had children. Dandelion looked back at Pudding's empty stool.

Oblivious, Pudding returned to his seat. Cloud-wing withdrew to his own painting. Pudding sat down, with a discernable
squish.
The birds nearby held their breaths. Yet he showed no sign of noticing. The whole class was tense, as if on puppet strings.

When Simplicio hit the side of his desk with his cane, class was finally over. “Bring your canvases to me if you are finished,” he called, drawing open the curtains of the room. The first to go up was Pudding. Everybird else stayed seated. Pudding held his painting aloft, immensely proud of himself as he ran up to display his work to the tutor.

“Oh!” Olga shrieked, bobbing her lace-capped head. “Look!”

Pudding's back was to the rest of the eaglets, and encrusted on the feathers of his behind was a huge circle of pink paint. The class erupted in laughter. “Look, a tutu!” And the son of the treasurer ran in circles, trying to see the pink paint, on his face a comical look of surprise.

Dandelion hopped off her stool and bolted outside. Cloud-wing brushed past her, smiling, and she tried to return his smile. He was clever and kind, trying to make her feel better, but it only made her suddenly realize how deeply wounded and confused and irritated she was. She left as quickly as she could and ran through the corridors, trying to hold back the emotions that now, when nobird was around, boiled over.

She sobbed with relief when she touched the crystal doorknob of her own door. Quickly she entered the room and shut the door behind her, leaning against the cool wood.
Nobird cares when somebird tramples upon dandelions. They're weeds, aren't they? And a tough dandelion doesn't cry.

 

Nothing is something.

—
FROM THE
B
OOK OF
H
ERESY

O
h, no. No, no, no,” said a gruff female voice. “You'd think Fleydur would sit still, grateful that he's escaped death for returning. But it's been just a month, and he already itches to mold the mountain like clay.” There was a sigh. “You know your father has never written a will and named his heir. When Fleydur was banished, you were the obvious choice for successor. But now Morgan confides in
him
, talking of reopening mines of generations ago, of allowing music, of other madness!”

Dandelion stumbled, alarmed. She had entered the wrong room. This was a small and dimly lit antechamber, and voices were coming from the crack of a door into an inner room. She must have gotten completely lost in the corridors and staircases. Dandelion was about to turn and leave but choked back a shout when the door she leaned on swept her into the wall.

Mashed in the tight space, she squirmed, her heart pounding. Whoever had entered remained standing in the entrance, his breathing audible.

“Message and delivery!” The voice boomed inches from her ear. “Here is a scroll from Fleydur to all of the court, outlining his desire to schedule a meeting with the Iron Nest.”

“Thank you. I shall get it,” said a familiar voice, Prince Forlath's.
Fleydur's brother!
Dandelion thought.
And the other eagle in the inner room, is she his mother, the queen? Where is Fleydur?
Forlath approached the messenger, but he continued his conversation with the queen. “Really, Mother, I feel that you're making a pebble into a mountain. It's no secret Fleydur wants to improve our kingdom. See, he is drafting a proposal.”

As Forlath's clawsteps receded again, the queen cleared her throat. “Oh,
is
that his intention? Is it really?”

As the messenger left, he jerked the door shut, exposing Dandelion.

She froze. The entrance to the inner chamber was wide open! Forlath's silhouette filled the doorway of the inner room. But his back was to her. “Fleydur's true intention? I do not know what you mean.” Forlath's voice was slightly trembling.

“You know full well what I mean!” The gruff voice abruptly changed to a pleasant, ladylike tone. “Or do I have to put thoughts into your head as well as words, dear boy?”

“Mother, I do not—”

“Fleydur is here, trying to get at the throne!” The queen's voice was shrill.

“So what?” asked Forlath. “So what if Fleydur becomes king?”

Dandelion finally succeeded in prying the door open a crack. She slipped out of the room, running in the direction she had come from.

“What's that?” she heard Sigrid cry.