Sword Quest (3 page)

And yet, while languishing in that fetid cage, Winger had thought it must be his fate to perish, and Wind-voice had changed that. Maybe Wind-voice’s fate could be changed as well. Winger knew he could not simply abandon his new friend, not after Wind-voice had saved his life. If there was any chance—the slightest ray of hope—that the strange white bird was still alive, Winger would peck and hammer with all his might, attempting a rescue.

I can’t do it alone, but where in these hills and dales can I find help?
he thought. He had been shipped here as a gift to Kawaka by a lesser official. That bird had thought the woodpecker’s musical talents were something to enjoy, but clearly Kawaka had not agreed. The knight had ordered a guard to break all the strings on the woodpecker’s harp and had tossed the prisoner into the back of the burrow.

A few days before, Kawaka had remembered him and decided he’d make a succulent meal. They’d tossed gigantic piles of potato peels into his cage hoping to fatten him up, but he had eaten none of it.

“Fate is good to me,” he whispered to himself joyously,
for suddenly he spied a small wisp of smoke in the cedar groves north of the battalion camp. Perhaps some other birds lived nearby.

But then his head snapped back at the faint croaks of “Hey ho, hey ho!” behind him. Down he dropped, his heart pounding fearfully. From the thorns of a hawthorn tree, he glimpsed Kawaka flying purposefully in the lead of twenty or so birds, all laden down with odd packages. They were heading northwest.

His fears eased as he saw the archaeopteryxes streak past, not veering a feather from their straight path. The sight of white wings straggling behind an archaeopteryx made his neck prickle again. “Wind-voice is alive! Where are they going?”

Winger leaped out of hiding and bolted toward the line of smoke. An egret armed with darts splashed out from a pond and ordered him to stop. Winger obeyed, pouring out a jumble of words so quickly that the sentry could hardly understand.

“I’ll take you to Fisher,” the egret declared. “You can tell your tale to him.”

Winger heard the camp before he saw it. The whetting of dozens of spearheads upon rock sounded like a brisk, deadly rain. Kingfishers, egrets, herons, and mynas
bowed before their work. They seemed to be preparing for battle. Some practiced moves, jabbing with their spears, leaping back, and jabbing again in time with the grinding. Winger saw a great blue heron erect on a rock, and a stout myna leaning on his staff.

The heron had the air of a leader, so Winger darted to the bird, gasping out his story. “My friend, he saved me. He released me from the lair of the archaeopteryxes. But they caught him, they kept him, he couldn’t—did you just see that train of birds? They were leading him away on a rope—”

The heron held up a wing and interrupted him. “A train of birds, you say? Were they carrying boxes and bundles?”

“Yes, yes!” Winger nodded eagerly. “And they are holding my friend captive. Please, can you—”

The heron looked down his long beak at the excited woodpecker. “My son, our goals are linked,” he said. “Kawaka has stolen the amber stone of the kingfisher tribe. If what you say is true, he is bringing our stone as tribute to the Ancient Wing, the emperor of the archaeopteryxes. We have prepared for weeks, and we plan to attack them today. You must show us where they were flying. Perhaps we can rescue your friend as well as our gemstone.”

Meanwhile, Kawaka winged on to meet his emperor. Hungrias had just arrived at his winter palace in the Marshes territory, where he went to escape the cold in the northern region of his empire, Castlewood.

“Hurry, hurry!” Kawaka called to his soldiers. He, as the regional knight, had to report to the emperor yearly with gifts and tributes. This year, twenty pack-soldiers accompanied him, some hanging onto barrels with hooked talons or clamped bills, others swinging silk stretchers, heavy with bales and boxes, between them.

013-Unidentifed seized a moment when his guard’s head was turned to try to untie his leash, but the burly soldier who was holding the other end noticed and gave a terrible flick of the rope, which sent the young bird tumbling. “Don’t you dare try anything like that once we arrive there!” The guard rushed the white bird along so quickly that he had no chance to try an escape again.

013-Unidentified was nearly breathless when they did.

The winter palace of the archaeopteryxes was a miniature forest on bamboo stilts. It rose out of the middle of a slimy pond. The platform above the stilts had been covered with earth, and plants that thrived in mild winters were planted in it. They grew in a thick screen
that hid the actual halls and buildings from view. As Kawaka and his train approached the palace, all 013-Unidentified could see was an arched opening between two trees, leading to a long, shaded green tunnel.

“Sir Kawaka, reporting for the annual tribute. I request an audience with the Ancient Wing.” Kawaka nodded at the gate guard. He felt the tension draining out of him now that he was safely at the winter palace. It was always dangerous carrying so many valuables across the Marshes. His train had been attacked this time by a ragtag band of herons, egrets, and kingfishers, although they’d beaten them off with little trouble.

The sentry at the gate looked over Kawaka and his officers and stepped back to let them pass.

Carrying the wooden box on his back, Kawaka, followed by his soldiers, passed through the green tunnel and into a bright hall filled with winter jasmine. He looked over his shoulder and gave 013-Unidentified’s captor a quick frown, and the bird dragged the prisoner faster. Behind them came the string of gift-laden soldiers.

When they were in place, they all crouched and waited, 013-Unidentified forced down by two other birds. Scholars of the court stood on the left, knights on the right.

Solemn expressions were pasted onto faces as a low drumroll issued from the royal orchestra. “His Majesty, Emperor Hungrias!” hailed a small archaeopteryx, followed by the tooting of a bugle.

A large archaeopteryx in silk ruffles and a velvet suit sewn with glittering jewels swept a curtain dramatically aside and landed on a high whalebone perch in front of Kawaka. A golden ring that dangled from a hole drilled through his beak glinted in the light. “So!” the Ancient Wing said throatily, his eyes sweeping across the tribute that Sir Kawaka had brought. “So!”

“I have things of great value this year.” Kawaka bowed down at the Ancient Wing’s feet, smiling. “Your Majesty, I have fans of egret feathers for you, and I have this slave, this unidentified bird, of no known species.” His claws rested on the wooden box, but he didn’t yet speak of the yellow gem, hoping to save the best for last.

013-Unidentified was prodded forward, and a chorus of oohs and aahs came from the scholars. “Really?” Hungrias studied the scrawny white bird doubtfully. “He is the only one of his kind?”

The chief scholar of the court fluttered forward, armed with rulers and little hammers, and did a lengthy examination. He flipped through a heavy tome labeled
The Complete and Thorough Record of the Class Aves.
At
length, he declared, “Yes, Your Majesty! This bird is not listed in the book! He resembles a dove, but has certain traits of seabirds. His feet are rather too muscled for a passerine, yet his head and neck clearly mark him as a woodbird…”

The Ancient Wing’s tiny eyes shut in bliss. “My, my, this is even better than the two-headed rooster that I got last year! Very tasty he was, too!”

013-Unidentified yelled in protest. He tried to leap toward the emperor. “You shan’t!” It was all he could think of to cry. His separation from his mother, Irene, his seasons of washing dirty dishes in the Marshes Battalion…had he suffered all
that
just so that this fat bird would have a content stomach? How many other birds had encountered the same fate?

Immediately two archaeopteryxes pushed him roughly to the ground. The Ancient Wing puffed up in anger. But then, a noise broke through the hallway.

Emperor Hungrias straightened as a spindly messenger burst from the hall. The bird’s long tail dragged behind him and the wet feathers on it were torn and broken. “Message, Your Majesty, from Sir Rattle-bones,” he gasped. Hungrias looked keenly interested, forgetting about the outburst of 013-Unidentified. Kawaka jumped.

“Go on,” Hungrias ordered eagerly.

“He is on his way back from inspecting the lands across the Augoric Ocean. He sent me ahead. I am to inform you that Sir Rattle-bones has succeeded in obtaining one of the Leasorn gemstones. It is red!”

“A Leasorn gemstone!” Hungrias nearly toppled off of his whalebone perch. Inside the ruff around his neck, the feathers of his head were standing on end with excitement. “From the lowly birds’ stories,” he mumbled to himself excitedly, “they say there are seven of them. Is he sure?” he demanded of the messenger. “It’s definitely a Leasorn?” “Yes, Your Majesty.” Hungrias had never recovered from the disappearance of his son two years before. He grieved and ordered a fitting punishment for Sir Maldeor, but his heart was not satisfied. He brooded on the gemstones and the lowly birds’ legends until an idea formed in his mind—if only he could find all the rest of the jewels, he felt, he would recover the young prince, too. He ordered his remaining knights to locate the gems and
they hastened to obey. Now finally a stone was on its way to him! Hungrias grunted with pleasure. “Yes, yes, my little son will be back soon!” He turned to Kawaka, whom he’d forgotten was still sitting there. “When is Rattle-bones coming? Is there an estimated time?”

“He shall arrive at Castlewood four weeks from now at the earliest, or two months at the latest.”

“Indeed! I must see to it that we depart my Winter Palace early this year, perhaps tonight.” The Ancient Wing waved a wing to dismiss the messenger.

“Your Majesty!” Kawaka said, agitated. “I must mention the most important of my gifts to you! Look at this.”

He opened the wooden chest that he had been holding. His hopes for making the last piece of tribute the best that the emperor owned had been dashed by the news from his brother, and it was all he could do to stop his teeth from gnashing.

“Oh!” all the scholars cried. The chief strode forward. “Is this what I think it is?”

Heads tipped forward at the glowing yellow stone nestled in the box. 013-Unidentified craned his neck to see as well.

“Your Majesty, the former knight Maldeor went miles out of the Plains territory to find a Leasorn gem that is orange, and now my dear brother Sir Rattle-bones has
crossed an entire ocean to find the Leasorn gemstone that is red. But I”—Kawaka allowed himself a humble bow—“a mere regional knight, have searched in Your Majesty’s own blessed territory and have found this beautiful yellow Leasorn.”

As proof, Kawaka flipped the gemstone over gingerly, and a facet with carvings was revealed. The chief scholar placed a small piece of fine birch bark over the stone, took out a tiny stick of charcoal, and traced the strange script on it. 013-Unidentified could see the lines clearly as the scholar held the bark up to the light, but the odd marks meant nothing to him.

“Indeed, indeed, Your Majesty,” said the chief scholar. “I do not recognize this script at all. Very strange, very strange indeed. I must study this further.”

“
Two
Leasorn gems!” Hungrias fanned his wings happily. “What a year for tribute this has been! We must celebrate. Tell the cooks to prepare a special meal. Oh, yes”—he pointed a wing at 013-Unidentified—“we shall see what this one tastes like tonight! Be sure he is still alive when he is placed on the spit. It improves the flavor so much.”

Dozens of pairs of hungry eyes fastened upon him as 013-Unidentified was dragged off to the kitchen,
where he was lashed to a metal pole over a fire. Slaves, turning their faces aside, slowly rotated the spit as flames crackled eagerly.

013-Unidentified fainted from the heat.

A righteous heart can beam a light in the darkest place.

—FROM THE
O
LD
S
CRIPTURE

G
radually 013-Unidentified became aware that a raven was clacking his beak loudly. “Come,” the raven rasped, beckoning. “Come, you don’t want to be late.”

“No!” 013-Unidentified whispered. For some reason, he didn’t want to go anywhere with this stranger.

“Come,” the bird insisted. “I’ve been ordered to bring you, and bring you I must. But if you ask, I must bring
you back again. Those are the laws I obey.”

Out sprang a claw that clasped around the white bird’s neck. He gasped. His conscious soul was being lifted out of his body! The raven flew out of the kitchen. Nobird seemed to notice. 013-Unidentified turned back to look, and saw his body still on the fire.

“Where are we going?” he asked the raven, choking.

“To Yin Soul.”

They flew over an endless stretch of gray, an angry ocean beneath them. It seemed only minutes before the raven dropped 013-Unidentified. He landed before he could open his wings.

He was in a small red room, the walls lined with looming bookshelves. On the far side was the red frame of a fireplace, surrounded with red incense and sputtering red candles. The sharp cinnamon perfume they gave off stung his eyes.

“Hello, dear 013-Unidentified.” The youngster jumped at the sudden words; they were whispery and thin. A scaly creature in a broad red manteau nodded slightly as he scuttled from behind a pile of books. He looked a lot like an archaeopteryx, except he was larger and had four wings. “I am Yin Soul. Come here, young one, and perch beside me.”

013-Unidentified obeyed in a dreamlike trance. The
carpet underfoot, woven with a design like red and yellow flames, felt so plush.

“I do feel very sorry for you.” The creature’s eyes softened with what looked like a fatherly fondness. “You were going to die. They wanted to cook and eat you; how
cruel! But now you’re here. You want to live, surely?
Everybird
wants to live!” Yin studied 013-Unidentified. He began again, quietly. “I like your spirit. Facing the reality bravely. But don’t you want to fight your enemies? Don’t you want to steer the flight of your life? I can save you from that fire. You’d be free.”

013-Unidentified gaped. “Free! I—”

Yin Soul’s eyes bore into 013-Unidentified’s. “But being free is not enough. You know that your enemies deserve to be punished. They deserve to be punished for causing you pain, for every injustice, for every feather they tore loose. Some even deserve death! I know a way for that. Hero’s Day is the day of the fifth full moon in a year and a half. You know the legends about a magical sword that can be found at Kauria, the Island of Paradise. If you find the sword on that particular day, you will have power over all your enemies. Then you can do what your heart tells you to do! All you must do is agree to swallow my essence.”

After a silence, Yin glanced into the distance and sighed. “I am like you. I know how it feels. Truly.” He smiled sadly at 013-Unidentified.

“Why do you want me to swallow your essence?” the white bird asked at last.

Yin Soul closed his eyes. “Then I would be able to
guide you from inside your body.”

013-Unidentified peered at Yin Soul, confused. Suppose, just suppose it was real. Then his troubles would probably end here and now, but…was his conscience telling him no? Was it the same thing that had made him say his long-ago name, Wind-voice, instead of 013-Unidentified when he spoke to the woodpecker captive, Ewingerale?

You are Wind-voice, not 013-Unidentified,
a voice deep inside him said.
Think like Wind-voice.

For a split second, everything in the room changed. Red blurred to gray. The flames went out; the candles were pools of wax. The cinnamon scents of incense soured into those of spoiled fish.

The old, kind bird was transformed. The eyelids were gone, and Wind-voice could see his eyeballs, dark yellow as rotten plums. The gentle chuckles of Yin Soul changed to a dreadful sound, as if somebird was vomiting. This was what Yin Soul was truly like. The feathers on Wind-voice’s nape rose and he gulped. He was chilled with fear. It was suddenly very cold.

The next second everything returned to the way it had been.

“013-Unidentified, will you agree?”

Wind-voice didn’t dare to look into Yin Soul’s face,
but he knew what he wanted to say. “No. Take me back! I want to go back.” He rose and looked around. He saw the raven who had brought him here lurking behind a bookcase and stepped toward him. “Take me back to the archaeopteryxes.”

“You cannot,” Yin Soul taunted. With a whirl of his wings, the shadows of ghostly birds, screeching unearthly sounds, appeared out of nowhere and moved swiftly toward Wind-voice. “You cannot. It is against your instincts to go willingly to your death. Come to me!”

But Wind-voice knew—he had seen, in that brief moment of true sight—that Yin Soul’s apparent kindness could not be trusted. Whatever he offered, whatever he planned, Wind-voice knew he wanted no part of it—even if the other choice was death.

Wind-voice faced the raven. “No! I want to go back! You said you must take me back!

“I don’t think so. Stay.” Yin Soul rose as well and reached out a rootlike, quivering claw.

Wind-voice flung a red blanket at Yin Soul. Then he grabbed hold of the raven’s feet and shouted, “Fly!” The raven cawed in surprise. The mangy bird dragged Wind-voice into the air as Yin Soul yelled below them, “Soon you’ll wish you had listened to me!” The ghost birds
wailed along with their master. Wind-voice didn’t see Yin Soul shaking his balled claws, didn’t hear him whisper, “At least there is the other one.”

Wind-voice closed his eyes tightly and could hear only the beat of the raven’s wings, which soon turned into the crackling of wood.

To his horror, he could smell salt and pepper on his body. Had it all been a dream? Coughing, he opened his eyes. His smothered skin was flushed to a reddish pink, and his lungs felt as if they had collapsed. He was still over the fire. Tears burst into his eyes as sparks leaped up and scorched him. But the tears quickly evaporated in the heat.

Wind-voice realized that there wasn’t much smoke around him. But the smoke had to go out somewhere. Craning his neck, he squinted at the ceiling above. Cold air blew through a jagged hole. He looked around. No archaeopteryxes cared to be near the heat of the fire. The fire tenders were all away on errands for the cook at the moment. He peered down into the flames. There was only one way, and that was the fool’s way. He opened his beak, sucked in a deep breath, and blew with all his might at the fire. Shutting his eyes tightly, he waited for the flames to flare back at him. He felt his ropes starting to char. But his feathers were burning as well.

One rope fell. He fluttered the freed wing awkwardly and leaned forward to peck at the ropes around his other wing. The ropes dropped into the flames and withered to ashes.

Summoning his ebbing strength, Wind-voice beat his wings and flitted toward the hole in the ceiling.

It was a tight fit, but he struggled madly. There was a rip. He was in the air, in the night air! The bitter wind welcomed him.

“It escaped!” cried an archaeopteryx below.

Wind-voice’s body was blazing as he flew. The long sweeps of the flailing wings were sweeps of flame. He looked like a firebird.

The archaeopteryxes shot a volley of arrows at him, but they fell short.

He knew he could not last long in the air. His past was burning away. He could be what he wanted to be.

013-Unidentified is truly dead,
he thought as his scorched body faltered and plummeted down.
Wind-voice is reborn.