Cry of the Nightbird

by Tirzah Duncan

  “Right, alright, quite alright, I see what you mean,” he sighed. There went the least expensive option, then.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked after another stretch of silence.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But don’t worry. I’ll figure it out.” He stared bleakly at the sky turning a wan muddy-blue as the sun ducked behind the mountains. It would be light for some while yet, but a dull and a grim light. “You get along home, Dania, get home and rest. I’ll tell you when I’ve figured it out.”

  The pale graceful figure rose from his side and slipped back towards the woods with a murmured goodbye that he barely heard over the figures desperately reworking their way through his head. Unless something changed, unless he thought of something creative, he could not both keep Cavernad up as a lord should and see Dania and his bastard justly done by.

  “Chance take all,” he moaned to himself. “I need to wed, rich and quickly!”

  Cavernad had only one town—Cavernad—and that town had only one inn, The Black Dove. Joreth had smiled wryly as he read the name. Not as though it were an unlikely name, or any such thing, but it still felt like one of Lord Chance’s little jokes.

  He’d lain low for three days, resting in his room, sending Wren out to fetch meals, see that the horse was being properly cared for, and figure out where Dania lived. His little bird was proving quite the invaluable asset, he had to admit to himself. He just sat, not showing his face and healing his wounds, while she came back with her scraps of fruitful espionage already pieced together to form map-worthy directions to Dania’s family’s farm, with a side serving of all the juiciest bits of small town gossip. By that third day, she could have been mistaken for a native, she knew the place so well.

  He left the room, that evening. Moving in the twilight, keeping his head down, hood up, and mask under his cloak as he made his way towards his target, secreting himself in a nearby stand of trees as the people went about wrapping up their workday. Catching Dania’s attention proved difficult to manage without calling himself to her family’s notice as well, and he was wondering if he was going to have to climb in their windows to find her, but she looked at last in the right direction, and he stood to his feet and beckoned.

  She stood staring for a long moment, probably incredibly surprised to spot him. Then she turned her head and called something, doubtless an excuse, to some family member, and made her way indirectly to him.

  “Nightbird?” she whispered when she reached the woods, peering around for him. He stepped back into what little light there was. “Nightbird! What are you doing here?”

  “How are you doing?” he asked.

  “I’m fi—I just—what are you doing here?”

  “I told you things were going to turn out alright. I was hardly going to snap my fingers and let Chance do the rest. No insult, Lord Chance.” He snapped his fingers. “But truly. How have things gone for you?”

  “Well…” she said slowly. “I spoke to him.”

  Joreth’s lips drew tight. “I see. And what did he say?”

  “He—he asked if I was going to lose it.” She drew her hands down over her stomach.

  “You don’t want to do that, right?” Joreth asked.

  She mouthed a no.

  “Then you needn’t. Did he say anything else?”

  “He told me to go home and not worry about it, that he’d figure it out. He said—he said it was his problem.”

  “His problem.” Joreth’s fingers coiled into claws. “I expect so. Was that all?”

  “Well…” She bit her lip. “As I was leaving, I heard him say that he needs to marry, rich and quick.”

  “I’m sure he does,” Joreth muttered. Forcing his voice into pleasantness in an attempt to avoid troubling the girl further, he nodded. “You go ahead and do that, then—head home and don’t worry. Trust me. Between myself and Lord Cavernad, everything will get sorted.”

  She nodded, her sweet round face so very much Caip’s for a moment that his knees went weak. He turned and glowered into the deeper shadows. “I must be off. Go on to bed, girl.”

  “Goodnight, Nightbird. It’s good to see you here.” He nodded, and listened to her footfalls fade into the distance. Slipping his mask off, he began to make his way back to the inn, cords of rage lacing themselves tighter across every twinging scar on his back with every step he took.

  Reaching his room, he slammed the door behind him, startling Wren. She stared up at him as he froze, hyperventilating, just inside the room, his arms almost spasming as he dropped his mask and let it roll across the floor.

  “Are you alright?” she gasped, jumping to her feet. He waved her back with a jerky motion, composing his twitching muscles enough to unhook his cloak and untuck his shirt. He couldn’t bring himself to raise his hands over his head as was needed to rip the shirt off as he wanted. He contented himself with untying the lacing down the front and letting it slip off his arms and join his cloak on the floor. Wren watched with worry written across her face, mixed with no small amount of guilty fascination.

  “Nothing,” he preempted her question as she opened her mouth. She closed it again.

  “Nothing,” he repeated in a growl, going to light more candles on the nightstand. He sat gingerly on the bed, not daring to lean his back against the wall, for bad injuries fresh and worse ones remembered. And for lashes laid far deeper than the back, there was no help at all.

  Well. Not none. There was some little salve left in the world for such burning scars as those. He reached down into his packs and dug about until he pulled out his sewing kit and a plain white kerchief. He took deep breaths, forcing his fingers to go calm enough for him to thread his needle. He couldn’t let his body rampage out of control like this. One stitch. One breath. With focus, his stitches and breathing gained steadiness.

  “His problem!” Joreth burst out. Wren politely ignored this, except for giving continual furtive glances.

  “His problem,” he growled. A kind, moon-lovely face and a babe-to-be—the lord who would consider them problems, now that was the problem to be solved. I’ll take care of it. The needle trembled as his head flickered with images of golden hair waving like waterweed under strong hands. He knew how the nobility solved their problems. He’d buried how nobility solved their problems in a wilderness grave.

  He would be faster this time. He would not stand by and wring his hands. “You know what’s the trouble with the world, Wren?” he asked.

  “Sir?”

  “People don’t get angry enough.”

  Her brow creased. “S—sir?”

  “Look around. Look around at what happens everywhere, every day, so much of it deplorable. And people just shrug. They should be wounded. What they see,” he pointed his needle at her, “should strike them to their heart. It should devastate them. It should hurt them. They should weep. And then they should get angry.”

  He went back to his stitches. “Not just angry enough to hate it. That’s useless. Not just angry enough to yell. Yelling is only useful in winter, when you just might come out of the experience a little warmer. I mean angry enough to do something. Angry enough to stand up for someone. Angry enough to make the world a less devastating place.”

  Wren only watched him warily from the corner of her eye. Joreth gave up, shaking his head. The girl was very helpful, but she wasn’t going to understand the Nightbird. No point talking at her. No better than yelling.

  He stabbed the needle through the cloth again, vindictively. The world would hear the cry of the Nightbird. He would make it listen. He would do what it took to strike it to the heart.

  Whispers. Ferlund rubbed his temples, failing to stave off a rising headache. His feelers had not been altogether useless, but neither had they provided him with what he’d been seeking: proof. Instead, they brought back whispers. Yes, there was suspicion in Rirsmouth that the lady Nanine’s death had not been an accident. Yes, there was the odd murmured rumor that Graeme wanted no connection between Ri
rsmouth and Cavernad. Though from the elaborately kind wording of the sent reply, Ferlund could not tell whether the duke was pleased by or objected to the idea of a connection between his own house and Cavernad; the rumors for who he had in mind for his daughter’s marriage ran in too many directions to guess at the reality.

  How he wished his father were alive—even were Ferlund somehow thrust into this selfsame troubling situation, his father would’ve been able to guide him through the political winds, instructing him on walking the “true nobleman’s high wire,” as his father called it… how to act for the highest interest of the people under your care, and still survive in the political world.

  “In the long run, one cannot last among one’s equals and betters without looking well after one’s subordinates,” he’d said. “Many ignore this in favor of short term gain, but though they may rush up the ladder swiftly, they will be shredding their support under them. If the ladder does not fall out from under them, it will fall from under their children, or their grandchildren. Look to the good of your people, and you look to the good of your house; all of Cavernad is made better.

  “But ware! You are a lord; do not be a hero. Heroes fall faster still, and that does Cavernad no good. Do not thrust your hand or opinions into the governance of other fiefdoms, however unjust or foolish. Always agree with your betters, whether you agree or not, whether they are your betters or not. Ware pride; ware stubbornness; ware a hot head. Be good, and be strong, and one day people will see the great House of Cavernad and say that strength lies in being good. But if you want to be good to your people and strong against any threat, you must politic without pride or pity. Cavernad is your friend. Every other man is your foe, until you have forced friendship upon him. With all delicacy and all appearance of decency, you must be ruthless in the making of friends.”

  Ferlund took a deep breath, massaging the back of his neck. This situation could no longer be remedied by the answer to the farmer-to-farmer contention he’d dreamed up for himself. For one, he could see that proof would be impossible for one in his position to come by. For another, this was a lord-to-lord trouble. He needed to turn the duke into a friend, and to be merciless in the attempt.

  What did he have, what assets were his? He had rumors, the embers of which needed only fuel and a fan. He had his spylets, for what they were worth. He had a bit of coin in his personal treasury. He had what looked to be a good harvest tax coming in. He had a letter from the duke that at least implied that said duke desired to keep his options open. He had his father’s advice ringing in his head; thank Lord Chance he had listened well.

  What, then, were his needs? To establish Cavernad as a strong and stable house. To gain more coin. To ally with a strong house. To get an heir. To see bastard heir and mother taken care of. To force friendship upon his foes. To avenge his father.

  And which of those elements doesn’t match the others?, asked a stern voice in his head. Which would not support peace and strength for Cavernad?

  But Father, Ferlund protested silently. They killed you. Killed you. How is it right to let that lie? What does that say of the strength of our house?

  A wise lord can use everything handed to them, even a knife in the back. Use the fact of my assassination to strengthen Cavernad.

  But how, how, by Chance, to do that? Ferlund snapped his fingers.

  Lord Cavernad will find a way. Do not ignore my death. But do not make vengeance your objective, or you will sacrifice the strength I built up over my lifetime. Use it as a stepping-stone to greater heights. Look you; you are a young lord. Everyone expects hotheadedness and panic and failure. Do me proud; prove them wrong. Put aside vengeance; it is a pastime more draining and dangerous than the gaming house.

  Ferlund rubbed his temples, chaffing at the idea even as he knew the wisdom of it.

  Come, son! The voice chastised more sternly. How you already waste your resources of thought upon it! Leave be. Your mind has enough to do, figuring out how to turn loss to profit and foe to friend. Spend your attention wisely.

  His father was right. Even dead and imagined, his father was always right. He dragged his aching head around from thoughts of vengeance, and turned it to wrestle the mountainous puzzle of using what little Cavernad had to get what much it needed.

  Wren pulled her hood down further over her face, this time not out of any need to conceal identity, but to shield it from the day’s insistent sun. On her arm she carried a basket, orders of Joreth, and headed towards a specific farm on the outskirts of town, again, orders of Joreth.

  She wasn’t sure how she felt about his mission—what he’d told her to do, and what she’d thereby gathered he intended to do. He was supposed to be on holiday from being the Nightbird. He was grievously injured, by all Chance! He shouldn’t be getting up to heroics just now, if ever! But he was the master, she the servant. She should have known from the moment he’d taken that feathered mask.

  But she was coming up on her destination, and she could spot her target—thank Chance—in the shade of a scraggly stand of trees, working in a small corner of a large garden. The girl looked up as Wren approached. Her face looked wan and weary, her pale blonde hair sticking in sweaty strands, as she sat without a care to her dress, listlessly pulling weeds, clearly not eager to work her way out of the shade.

  Wren pushed her hood back as she drew nearer, and Dania’s brow furrowed. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  Well, that’s just a bit rude, isn’t it?, Wren thought. “The Nightbird said you’d be looked after, didn’t he?” she said instead, using an arch and knowing tone. She savored a taste of satisfaction as the girl’s blue eyes widened at the name-dropping.

  “That was him? I mean, you were from him? You’re his…”

  “Partner,” Wren lied only a little bit, smiling as she took a cross-legged seat beside Dania, settling the small basket she’d been carrying onto her lap. “He’s sent me to look after you. I imagine you’re in a bit of a rough way, just now.”

  “I—yes—you could say that. But why? Why has he taken such an interest in looking after me?” Dania asked, her grimy hands swiping the hair from her face and leaving it dirt-smudged.

  I’ve wondered just the same, Wren thought but did not say. Instead she gave a knowing smile. “The Nightbird always has his reasons. But you may know this much of it: because injustice does not sit well with him, and because he is kind.”

  Dania gave a small laugh. “I’ve noticed his kindness, yes. And yours! You palmed me that copper, didn’t you? I hadn’t guessed that, but I already thought it was good of you to take such an interest in me that day, a stranger and a country girl.”

  Wren couldn’t help but feel a touch pleased at that. “It was my pleasure.” Mostly to do Joreth a favor. But you weren’t half bad to spend an evening with, now I think on it.

  “Well, he suggested I talk to you about it—said I’d probably be better at that sort of thing, being a girl and all.” He’d actually said that he’d be busy with more important matters, but that Dania still needed a shoulder to cry on. Hey, Joreth had said never to lie to him—he’d said nothing of little white lies about him. “Also, we thought you might appreciate this.” Wren passed over the small basket with its kerchief tucked securely over the contents, neglecting to mention her ignorance of said contents.

  Dania took the basket into her own lap, looking down at it for a long moment before peeling back the kerchief’s corners. Swaddled in cloth that muffled the sound, there lay a small purse. The girl loosed the ties with slightly trembling fingers. She peered inside, then looked at Wren in bewilderment. “Why would you do this? Why would you people spend this kind of coin on a… a knocked-up country girl? What business of yours are troubles of mine? Who are you people?”

  Wren paused, trying to figure out a suitably impressive answer. “Heroes,” she said simply. Watching as tears began to fill Dania’s eyes, as the girl pressed the purse to her heart, she thought she might be beginning to understand just
a bit of the Nightbird’s madness. “That is, he’s a hero,” she burst out, suddenly too guilty to continue the illusion. “I’m just his servant, really. But him? He—” She swallowed. “He’s wonderful. And mad, no doubt about that, but he cares about people, and he’ll do something about that, when no one else in the world will. He cares about the servant girls and the farmers’ daughters, and he doesn’t just talk, he puts his coin and blood on the line. He says I don’t understand him, and he’s right, I don’t, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think he’s wonderful.”

  Dania was nodding, nodding, and Wren felt a spike of jealousy rise up. She quelled it by reminding herself that Dania only knew the Nightbird; Wren knew the Nightbird and Joreth both.

  “So,” she said, leaning forward and putting a hand on the girl’s knee. “Do you want to talk about it? I imagine there aren’t many you can talk to here; small town and all.”

  Dania kept nodding. “No… I hadn’t been able to talk to anyone at all until your Nightbird,” she confessed.

  Wren bit back a smile. Her Nightbird.

  “I wasn’t even able to talk to anyone about it before I knew there was a baby,” the girl went on. “Though it was easier then. It wasn’t a… problem, then.”

  Wren frowned. “I’d say it was a problem, actually.”

  Dania looked down. “I… I suppose most folks would see it that way. Especially with him being the lord’s son and all. But he was so—” Her breath caught.

  “Go on,” Wren encouraged, voice low and compassionate.

  “I mean, he was charming from the first,” she sniffed, picking up the kerchief and swiping her eyes. “Though I don’t half know how it even started. I’d always thought he was handsome, riding through the roads on his horse, his back straight as a rod like the nobles do, his face so pretty with his hair drawn back in a tail, and his legs fine and lean. And he’d smile a pretty smile and wave and stop and chat, but he did that with everyone. Then one day…”