Shadows on the Stars (10 page)

“Cowards!” shouted Scree wrathfully. “Buzzards! Why don’t you fight with your talons, like real eaglemen?”

His cry, though, was lost in the sudden cacophony that rose on all sides. Just beyond the walls of Arc-kaya’s nest, he heard the shrieks and wails of many eaglefolk. The village, moments ago full of the sounds of ordinary life—laughter, debate, and tools at work—echoed now with howls of rage and agony.

Looking at the woman slumped against him, whose fluffy gray hair was now streaked with blood, Scree turned onto his knees. He grabbed the arrow and tried to pull it free. Arc-kaya moaned painfully, arching her back. But he wasn’t strong enough! The arrow just wouldn’t budge.

Leaning her gently against the cabinet, he started to get up.
At least I can fight them
, he told himself.
Even if I can’t change into eagle form, maybe I can
—

Arc-kaya stirred, opening her eyes. Though she clearly had trouble focusing, she recognized Scree and grabbed his forearm. “No,” she said hoarsely. “Don’t go. They’ll just kill you, too.”

He shook loose. Eyes brimming, he said, “I must go! Must fight them! To help somehow.”

Feebly, she brushed a finger against his jaw. “Help by living. Aye, Scree. Just stay alive . . . my son.”

She gasped, then whispered her final words, so softly that Scree could hardly hear. “Soar high . . . run free.”

8
•
Beyond Any Tears

By the time Scree left Arc-kaya’s nest and stumbled out into the village, the massacre was already over. Bodies of eaglefolk—children and elders, artists and vendors, women and men—lay everywhere, most of them struck by deadly arrows before they had even a chance to transform into their eagle forms. The few who had sprouted wings and tried to defend their village had been brutally mauled, their bodies slashed and their talons severed.

The communal cooking area, where many villagers had died, was a shambles. Scree found equipment and market stalls overturned, food scattered, and hearth coals smelling of burning flesh. Smoke, thick and dark, rose somberly into the sky, blocking out the summit of Hallia’s Peak. What few survivors remained were either wandering about in shock or weeping over the bodies of loved ones.

While most of the goods from the village market had been left behind, the attackers had taken all the jewelry, tools, and crystals—anything valuable. It seemed clear that the purpose of this brutal attack had been thievery. Scree felt sure that this had been done by the renegade clan that was in league with White Hands and Rhita Gawr.

And he felt sure of something else, as well. When he had glimpsed the haughty young warrior who murdered Arc-kaya, he had noticed his red leg bands and black-tipped wings: unmistakable markings of the Bram Kaie clan. He knew them from his travels across Fireroot. And he also knew their leader.

All too well. For he had been lured into trusting her, and that misplaced trust had very nearly cost him Merlin’s staff, which he had promised to guard, as well as his own life. He had never told anyone else about that terrible mistake, not even Tam, for some secrets were just too painful to share.

Yet he could never forget it,

For the rest of that heart-wrenching day, he set himself to the task of finding and helping the survivors. There weren’t many, fewer than a dozen out of the sixty or seventy eaglefolk who had lived in these nests. He found three women and two men, all wounded, along with one old fellow in winged form, who was so dazed he could only stumble around blindly, his wings singed and dragging. Five children had also survived—including Hawkeen, the golden-eyed eagleboy who had, that very morning, so enjoyed their game of catch-the-hare.

Using Arc-kaya’s supplies, and what little knowledge of healing he had learned from watching her, Scree tried his best to clean and bandage the wounds of as many people as he could. But the severest wounds, as he knew well, lay behind their eyes.

On the following day, the survivors began the most difficult task of all. Burying the dead, in the traditional fashion of eaglefolk, required building an earthen mound covered by stones. And in this case, with so many bodies, the mound would have to be an enormous one.

Though it tapped his strength to the limit, Scree joined the other villagers in hauling dirt and stones to a wide field near the now-silent nests. Throughout the day, the survivors did their best to help each other, although very few words were spoken. Even when they paused to sip from bowls of water or chew strips of smoked boar, they ate in silence, staring in grief at the rising mound. Like the others, Scree felt that he was burying more than just a village.

Nothing he carried that day felt as heavy as the limp form of Arc-kaya. She was the very last person to be buried. As he’d already done too many times, he placed her body on the mound, arms spread wide in the way of all eaglefolk. Gently, he covered her as best he could with a layer of feathers and dry grass.

Before pouring the first basketload of dirt over her body, he knelt beside her. Using one of her flint knives, he cut off a single lock of her gray hair. As soft as a fledgling’s tail feather it felt, and he studied it for a long moment before tying it around his ankle.

At last, when the final stone had been laid, Scree stood grimly facing the mound. He stretched his arms, stiff and bruised from the long day’s work, and rubbed the sore muscles of his thigh—muscles that she had worked so hard to heal. He lowered his head, and in a voice heard only by the wind, he whispered, “Soar high, Arc-kaya. Run free.”

Then, just behind him, voices suddenly lifted in song. He turned around to see the adult eaglefolk, arrayed in a line that bent like a wing, starting to sing the sacred chants of their clan. Surprised, Scree found himself caught by their music, and lifted by it, as if he were a feather on a breeze.

As the chanting continued, Scree realized that he’d never heard such beautiful sounds from the mouths of his people. Simple though this music was, and tinged with sorrow, it swept him up and bore him aloft, twisting on currents of feeling that had flowed through eaglefolk for generations.

In time, the children joined in, hesitantly at first, their voices broken with sobs. But soon they were singing clearly, their small voices blending with the others as smoothly as separate feathers merge into a single wing. And they added more than voices, Scree knew. They added a touch of hope. For the fact that there were still children left meant that this village, and this people, would live on.

He turned away from the body of Arc-kaya and looked at the faces of the children. They were, as he expected, full of grief and loss, for among those buried had been their mothers, fathers, sisters, and brothers. And yet, despite their youth, they also showed hints of the eaglefolk’s legendary ferocity, courage, and will to survive. Especially in the face of Hawkeen, Scree saw those qualities. And something else, too. For in that sad but sturdy youth, whose somber eyes glinted with gold, Scree saw a reflection of himself years ago. Such anguish and resolve, all bound together, seemed terribly familiar.

What he hadn’t expected was what Hawkeen did next. The lad lifted his chin toward the sky and started to sing on his own, his voice blending the plaintive call of a child with the screeching cry of an eagle:

High overhead
In islands of clouds
Sailed the good ship I knew best.
Her feathers so soft,
Her wings wide aloft,
She carried me safely to rest
Settled in our downy nest.

O Mother, my ship,
My vessel on high,
You have flown beyond sight, beyond fears.
I miss you beyond any tears.

Sleekness and strength,
So graceful in flight,
Eagle wings riding the sea—
You taught me to fly,
To sail in the sky,
And grandest of all how to be
Master of all that I see.

O Mother, my ship,
My vessel on high,
You have flown beyond sight, beyond fears.
I miss you beyond any tears.

Mere moments ago
You promised to take
Me flying above haze or cloud.
Two sailors we’d be
Afloat on the sea—
But our journey was never allowed:
The haze has become your death shroud.

O Mother, my ship,
My vessel on high,
You have flown beyond sight, beyond fears.
I miss you beyond any tears.

Silent you sail
Where I cannot go,
Behind veils of gathering mist.
Though hard have I tried
To stay by your side,
I must fly alone and exist
Far from the ship I have missed.

O Mother, my ship,
My vessel on high,
You have flown beyond sight, beyond fears.
I miss you beyond any tears.

As the boy’s voice trailed off, he started to walk back to the empty nests of the village. But as he turned, his gaze met Scree’s. For an infinite moment they looked at each other, one’s eyes flecked with gold, the other’s rimmed in yellow. Then, as if they had said everything they needed to say, they gave a simultaneous nod. The boy stepped solemnly toward the village, while Scree turned back to the burial mound.

While the other survivors continued to chant, Scree’s thoughts turned to Arc-kaya. To her kindness, her generosity, and her love.

Then, in his mind’s eye, he saw the sneering face of the young warrior who had murdered her. It was a face eager for battle. Hungry for blood. And also . . . something else, a strange quality that Scree couldn’t quite identify.

“I’ll find you, brutal warrior,” he growled under his breath. “You’ll pay for what you’ve done! By the Thousand Groves, you will.”

For his plans had changed. Knowing that he had no hope of finding his brother Tam, who was probably now deep inside the vast expanse of the Great Tree’s trunk, and also knowing that he could spend weeks searching for Brionna and Elli, who could be anywhere in the Seven Realms, he had hit upon a new course of action. It was highly risky, and bold to the point of moronic. But if it worked, it just might give him the chance to upset the wicked plans of White Hands—as well as his master, Rhita Gawr. And if he succeeded, he would be helping, in his own small way, to save Avalon from the gathering storm that would strike very soon.

He would return to Fireroot—and find the Bram Kaie clan. Whatever it might take, he would track them down and kill their leader, who had made the gruesome pact with White Hands. And, if he could, he would kill someone else as well: the young assassin who had stolen Arc-kaya’s life.

His eyes glinting like sharpened blades, Scree nodded gravely. Dangerous as this idea was, he knew it was the right thing to do. Even though he couldn’t actually join Tam on his quest, they would at least be working toward the same goals. So while they’d be separated by enormous distances, they would still, in this way, be together. Doing their parts for Avalon.

He swallowed hard, realizing that this plan appealed to him for other reasons, as well. For one, whether he succeeded or not, he would seem like less of a buffoon. To himself—and maybe also to Brionna. And for another, he could win a small measure of revenge for Arc-kaya.

For a moment he seemed as hard as the stones that he had carried to the mound. He’d find that brutal warrior, all right. Find him and kill him. And he’d do it the old-fashioned way, with no weapons but wings and talons.

He glanced down at his anklet of Arc-kaya’s hair. In the late afternoon light, it glowed like a radiant ring of silver. He thought of the truly loving welcome that she’d given him—so very different from the welcome he’d received that day, six years ago, from Quenaykha, the leader of the Bram Kaie clan.

When he first met her, among the flaming cliffs of Fireroot’s Volcano Lands, it was entirely by accident. They had both been flying low, hunting the same pack of wild boars, when they nearly flew into each other because of a crag that blocked their vision. Right away, he’d found her beautiful—with streaming auburn hair, a shapely form, bright yellow eyes, and a sense of enormous power that guided her every movement. But while Scree was himself a powerful figure, brawny and skilled at hunting beyond his years, down inside he was still just a boy.

For all his life, he had lived on these cliffs, cut off from other eaglefolk. Because of his promise to Merlin, he had stayed hidden away, especially after murderous ghoulacas had killed his adopted mother and separated him from his brother Tam. So without any family or friends, he lived all alone, sleeping in remote caverns, avoiding contact with others.

Then he met her. Even in those days, as the newly chosen leader of her clan, she preferred to be called simply Queen. Naive as he was, Scree didn’t understand what this said about her—nor what her true motivations might have been for luring him back to her village.

He’d been easy prey for her. He understood that now. She had seemed so strong, attractive, and completely self-assured. And also so drawn to him, which had felt as intoxicating as the richest mead. Scree, meanwhile, was lonely, confused, and desperately craving affection. While she had given him that—leading him to a hidden grove of ironwood trees and wrapping him in feathery softness beyond anything he’d ever dreamed—she hadn’t done it out of love.

No, she had done it out of greed. For she had seen Merlin’s staff, sensed its power, and wanted to own it. When they returned to her village, she had kissed him warmly and promised that he’d be safe, even as she was stealthily signaling to her guards. Bathing in her affection, he hadn’t suspected a thing—until, all of a sudden, he was viciously attacked.

Only thanks to his superior strength and speed, and his experience battling ghoulacas, did he escape with the staff. Not to mention his life. And from that day to this, he’d cursed his gnome-headed foolishness. For he had made, he knew, the worst mistake of his life, almost losing everything he valued in a single mindless moment.

Scree straightened his back and turned away from the mound. Raising his gaze to the ridges above the village, he scanned the windblown summit of Hallia’s Peak. And then, peering beyond, he traced the dark brown ridges that rose in the distance.

Those ridges lifted steadily starward, climbing higher and higher until they vanished in ever-swirling mist. Scree knew that none of his own people, not even the legendary flyers Hac Yarrow and Ilyakk, had ever flown as high as the places that his brother was now seeking. They hadn’t even attempted to fly up to the branches of the Great Tree, considering such a journey beyond the natural reach of their kind. And yet that was just what Tam was trying to do—to voyage not just to the branches, but onward to the stars.