“And next?” she asked warily.
He paused, trying to figure out what she was wary of and avoid it. “Well,” he said after a moment. “That would depend on your skills. What do you think you’d be good at, that you’d like to do?”
“I’m a good servant,” she said. “And…” She hesitated, a look of guilt flashing over her face. “I expect I’d be a fair hand at…” She glanced to see that the guard and the two armsmen he was tending to, who were beginning to regain consciousness, were out of hearing, and dropped her voice. “Espionage?” she finished.
Her guilt, her guilt, he had to determine the root of it and kill it… He considered all that he knew of the Nightbird and how this girl related to him. A misguided sense of justice and a loathing of the nobility, it was bound to have something to do with that.
“I’m glad to hear it. I’m a new lord, and my spies are, shall we say, as deeply inexperienced as I am. I’m just trying to do best by my people,” he said earnestly, “and I can’t do that without eyes and ears among my scheming cousins, to learn what damage they might try to do the fiefdom. I will be so glad to have someone on my side who’s long had an ear to the door of the underworld.”
He held out a hand to her, and she took it, mixed feelings flashing across her face. She’s young, remember. An underling. Treat her as a respected professional, and you’ll both defy the poor image of nobility and play to her underfed pride.
It worked. She lifted her chin, her face still pale, but with an almost aloof determination upon it. “We shall see. I will consider being a witness for you, in anonymity. And we’ll see where it goes from there. I shall at least stay around to see that Dania is done right by; Joreth will find a way sour Chance’s hand against my every roll if I don’t.”
It was done, he could see it. She just wanted to keep him dancing. Well, if that’s what she wanted to see, he would dance for her. He nodded solemnly. “Very well, then. You are free to do as you wish. But I know you’ll prove invaluable to Cavernad however long you stay.”
Wren cradled the black-feathered mask in her hands, sitting at the ravine’s edge.
“So you stayed.” Quiet granite-blue eyes stared down with her.
“No, flutterbrains, I spat on the earth, turned on my heel, and never returned.” She cuffed the young man’s tangle of blonde curls. “’Course I stayed. Didn’t want Chance’s hand soured against me.”
“But you weren’t the first Nightbird, then? I thought it was a play on your name. Was that his mask?” He tapped the mask in her hands.
“I’ve had to paste new feathers on, over the years. But it’s the original, yes.”
The lad frowned up at the sky. “Was he a hero?”
“Yes.”
“But he tried to kill M’lord Father.”
“Yes.”
He was silent a long moment. “Hero and all, first Nightbird and all, I’d rather have been named for M’lord, or his father, or Da.”
Wren frowned. “Can’t call the bastard after the lord,” she said, a bit harshly. “You know that. And your mum didn’t even meet your da ‘til you were weaning; a bit late to change it, eh?”
“I know. I’m only saying what I wish.”
She grunted. “Well. You shouldn’t wish it. Your namesake was a great man.”
“Hmmn.” He rubbed his chin, itching with fresh stubble. “Mum certainly must have thought so. I don’t imagine M’lord Father was too thrilled about the name?”
Wren gave a twisted smile. “Not exactly, but since he couldn’t offer his own name or his father’s, I expect he didn’t feel he had any right to say her nay on the third-place choice.”
Joreth the younger gave a grunt of assent. After another long moment—he was a young man given to silence and thought, one reason Wren knew she could educate him on a few facts of those storied days—he said, “I always thought whipping boys were a really idiotic idea, anyhow.”
“They are,” Wren agreed.
“Was he a good man who just went mad in the end?” Jor asked.
Wren considered. “He was a man,” she said slowly, “who’d been going mad for a very long time. He first went mad enough to be an assassin, and then he went mad enough to be a hero, and then he went mad enough to be a villain. A madman, a good man, a hero, a villain. You can’t say he was the one without also remembering that he was the others.”
“Will you go the same way, do you think?” he asked frankly.
Wren snorted a laugh. “Oh… probably. I’m a bitter old hen, anymore. I’ll probably fly into a rage over someone’s stupidity and stab their eyes out or some such.”
“You’re not old!” Jor protested. “You’re only just thirty.”
She looked sideways at him. “I notice you’re not saying I wouldn’t stab someone’s eyes out.”
“Well.” He bit his lip. “You do hate a stupid person.”
They laughed a laugh together, and then went abruptly solemn once more.
“So,” he ventured after a while. “The Nightbird. When you went down there… down there,” he gestured towards the cliff’s bottom. “Did you pull the mask off him, then? Or was he not dead yet? Did he pass it to you?”
“He’d dropped the mask at the top of the cliff, remember, rotskull? Threw it down. I told you.”
“Ah, right.” He turned his head. “But was he dead a’ready? Did he say anything to you?”
“Shut your gob and go away.”
“My! Odd last words,” he teased.
Wren frowned, her eyes going narrow. “Shut your gob and go away.”
Jor’s face lost its jocularity, and with a nod, he got to his feet and walked away up the cliff from the sometimes taciturn woman. Wren shook her head as she heard his footfalls fade. Was it a mark of the young man’s easygoing forbearance, his readiness to know when go meant go, or was it a sign that she’d been growing madder for so long that he was simply used to it?
She stared down silently at the mask, as she had done on the dusk of that day, going back to retrieve it. The Nightbird had not been dead when she’d reached him; not entirely. He knew how to fall, after all, but the girl could see from the brokenness of his body that such knowledge had not been enough against the rocky drop.
The arrow shaft had snapped off in the fall, but he was bleeding fast from the wound. From his shallow, wheezing breath, she was sure it had punctured at least one, possibly both lungs. He reached up, not towards her, just towards the sky, with one broken arm.
Reaching his side, she pressed the grasping arm back down. “Just sit quiet, sir, there, sir, we’ll get it taken care of. Just like last time. Nothing to worry about,” she lied. Not even magic could mend this fast enough to save him. He looked to have but seconds.
He opened his mouth wide, so wide, and blood was gurgling at the back of his throat. Sickened, Wren wondered if she should turn him so he could spit it out, and decided that would only hurt him the more. She kept murmuring she-knew-not-what, though he seemed not to hear her.
He coughed, coughed, and gulped, and he looked right at her then, though she didn’t think he saw her, with his face so full of pain and fury. Not the bitterly twisted face she had seen as he held the blade to Lord Cavernad’s throat, but a younger face, blood-drenched, horrified, and pure wrath pale.
“Nightbird,” she whispered. “Nightbird. You were right to be angry. You weren’t right to be angry at him, but—you were right, and I wish more people were this sad, and this angry. Do-something angry. You hear me?” She leaned forward, taking his hand and holding it tight. “I don’t want you to die. I don’t—” She swallowed, knowing that she would cry in a moment if she didn’t get ahold of herself. Come now. She got ahold of herself.
“But I know why the Nightbird must live. Joreth, I know why the Nightbird must live. And it died up there on the top of that cliff. It died for a moment, because holding a sword to innocent necks is not the Nightbird. That’s the opposite of the Nightbird. That’s not even Joreth.”
He let out a strangling, gurgling cry. An anguished cry, an angry cry, a cry that crumpled halfway through, and to Wren’s mind, a cry of sorrow at itself for not rising high enough to be heard.
“I hear you,” she whispered. “I heard you, Joreth. I heard you, Nightbird. And I will not forget it. I will not let it fall silent. I will see that the cry of the Nightbird is heard.”
And then he’d died, and she’d wept. Then after a minute, she’d dried her eyes, and made her way back up the ravine with a heavy heart, not knowing where she was going to go next.
She’d looked back on those moments often enough over the years, shook her head at how they’d shaped her. It must have been madness, she supposed. The madness of a poor girl of thirteen and her first infatuation. If it had been the scullery boy, or the butcher’s handsome son with the bulging muscles, or any other of the assassins, how different her life might have been—but no, it had been a crazy vigilante dead-bent on justice, and by the time she got over Joreth, she’d too long been the Nightbird to give it up.
And she called herself a fool for it, but… she didn’t want to. She didn’t want to give it up. A teenaged girl’s oath to a dying madman had changed her life, and she didn’t mind. He had shown her a grief that drove men to anger, and an anger to drive men to act. Sorrow and fury and not standing still, that was the cry of the Nightbird, and he could curdle Chance’s hand against her every roll if she didn’t see that cry set down in the scrolls of history.
As the dusk took its steep turn towards true nightfall, Wren lifted the black-feathered mask from her lap and settled it over her head, securely buckling the thrice-replaced chinstrap. She leaned back and gave a slightly-mad chuckle.
“Look—it’s a shadow, creeping on the wall.
Look—it’s a nightbird, feathered, black, and tall.
Look—o’er your shoulder; think ye twice,
Look—out, ye wicked rats, pray he finds ye nice.”
About the Author
Tirzah Duncan is not yet insane enough to don the vigilante mask, but she is enough of a madwoman to write stories and, dear me, sometimes even poems, and to think she can eventually make a real-actual career out of it.
When she’s not writing (which is a sad amount of the time) or working, she’s practicing hand-to-hand and knife fighting, hanging out at her awesome church, hanging out with her awesome friends, hanging out with her awesome God, and geeking out over select British television shows.
Sneak preview of upcoming novel
Ever the Actor
“But why?” I demand, scrabbling to climb out of the message trunk. “I’m six, I can fight—” Mother tries to close the lid, to shut me away, but I shove back and it opens again.
“Flood and drought, boy, do as you’re told!” She seizes me by the arms and thrusts me downward, forcing me to a seat inside the message trunk, but I’m leaping up again before the lid fully closes. It bangs my head as I squirm out, almost tipping the trunk over.
Across the room, Father steps around the doorway. His blond curls are sweat-matted, and his knives and hands are bloody. “Have you—Syawn!”
I draw my own knife from its sheath and point past him, towards the growing racket of battle in the narrow corridor. “Let me help,” I plead. “You know what I can—”
“Sy.” His tone alone is enough to silence me. His brows draw down. “You. Are climbing in that trunk. And I will not hear another whimper.”
He’s using his Thief Lord voice. I close my mouth, sheathe my knife and climb into the trunk.
I see Mother’s hair, a darker, browner orange than mine, sweep down past her face as she leans over the trunk. Then the lid lowers and shuts, burying me in blackness that smells of parchment and wood. Shouts and the stamps of boot and foot keep coming down the corridor. My fingers tighten around the hilt of my knife as the trunk’s lock clicks into place.
The noise is coming closer. I think they’re fighting in the doorway, now. This is so stupid. I lie silent, cursing my luck. I’ve never gotten to do a real live fight. Why won’t they let me? They know I’m good with my knife; Mother’s been training me forever, and even she says I’m good. But every time there’s a fight, it’s go-hide-kit-we’ll-take-care-of-it. How much longer till I’m seven?
Long minutes pass. It sounds like the battle is spilling into the room now. I reach upward through the dark to touch the smooth, stupid lid. The air is stale and close in here, and I can’t uncurl my legs. I have nothing to do but read the noise of the battle, the yells and groans and the soft whistle of flying knives. Surely Father isn’t falling back? He must have some reason to retreat. Mother says he always has five reasons for everything he does.
Even with all the noise outside, it feels quiet in here. The parchment is silent beneath me, the ink bottled and wordless. The trunk is a dark, square bubble, barring me from the fight. I sigh softly. I don’t even get to see it.
Sounds like Father is falling back even further now. Why would he have left the doorway? He says tight spaces are easier to defend. Maybe he’s going to jump out the window and lead the fight away from here, over the roofs.
Yes, I can hear people jumping out the window now, landing heavy against the roof of the next building. The sound of battle moves away, grows fainter. Now it’s gone.
I’m still quiet. I can hear little sounds, the whines and groans of the wounded. Father will come back soon to see to the injured. And then he’ll get me out of the trunk.
With no more fighting to listen to, I have nothing to do but wait till either Mother or Father come back. I’ve been in this trunk a long time, and my legs are starting to hurt. I close my eyes. It makes no difference in the darkness.
Much later, I think I open my eyes again. Have I been asleep? For how long? I don’t hear the wheezing of the wounded anymore, and noise is beginning to build in the tavern below the inn, so it must be nighttime, or getting there. Where are Mother and Father? Why haven’t they let me out? The muffled sounds from the tavern grow until I can hear drunken laughter and song. The din sounds happy. Triumphant. Is that Father’s voice? Surely he doesn’t mean for me to be silent even now. The battle is so long over.
My fingers find the trunk lid. It’s still solidly locked. I pound my fist against it, kick up at it hard, but the wood is thick and sturdy. I wriggle to turn over in the tight space, clinking bottles together and crumpling parchment as I move. Pounding my fist against the paper-laden trunk bottom, I yell as loud as I can. No one comes. I can yell pretty loud, but so can the drunks. Probably nobody hears me.
My lip trembles as I wonder what I should do now. I bite it, hard. Hunger begins to throb high in my belly, and I realize I have to pee. Why does Father leave me here?
I’ve got to keep my head, like Father does. Like my namesake. I once asked Father why I was called Syawn instead of Yaawn. Why name me after the little fox when I could be named after the wolf? Wolves are scarier. “You’re big and strong, like a wolf,” he told me. “But big and strong or not,” he said, tapping my forehead, “cunning is more important. Be a fox. Keep your head. Always.”
I must keep my head. I must forget the growling hunger and the panic that tries to take over my body. I must be clever and calm. But it’s hard! Why doesn’t Mother come get me?
It’s too much to stand. I’ve got to get out! I draw my dagger and stab at the paper beneath me, trying to keep my body from writhing. It doesn’t work. I scrabble, hand and blade, digging furiously at the supplies beneath me, digging towards the tavern, towards Mother and Father and light and laughter and all that lies below. My throat is tight and my breaths quick and painful and I know I’m thrashing now but I can’t stop.
My dagger’s spiked hilt crunches into glass, and the smell of ink fills the close darkness. It chokes me, but I lie still now, and careful. If I panic, I’ll cut myself on the glass. The thought helps quiet my panic. I sheathe my blade and inspect my hand. It’s slick with thick liquid, but it doesn’t hurt; just ink, no blood. That’s lu
cky. I mustn't be stupid again.
I turn slowly to face the top of the trunk, ink-soaked parchment crinkling and tearing beneath me. I bite my lip. I'm going to get beaten for this; parchment and ink cost a lot. I hope not as bad as the time I broke a bottle of Sividon wine. But this isn't my fault! Mother locked me in here; she knew things in the trunk would get messed up, even if I held as still as still.
“I better not get in trouble for this.” My voice is loud in the trunk, angry and defiant. But it’s also high and choked and almost whining. I feel even more alone. I decide not to speak again until I’m out.
Something shifts in the room outside. I freeze, listening hard. Maybe a wall creaked. Things move a little, even when nobody touches them, Mother says. That's what makes sounds at night, so I don't need to worry. But Father says it's always best to check, just in case it's a rogue thief or a sneaking assassin. He says to listen to where the sound came from, and if I hear it again closer, I should quietly draw my knife and get up.
The sound comes again, closer. Creaking wood and the shuffle of cloth, a moan. I draw my knife. I’m not worried; it’s probably someone coming to get me out, finally. I wish I hadn’t thrown such a fit. They’re going to laugh at me, all ink-drenched. Still, I hold my knife.
A pause, panting. What’s the matter with them? More shifting, shifting, shifting… This is taking forever! I start to squirm with impatience, then stop. Broken glass, I remember. Now comes a metallic clicking. Someone is picking the trunk’s lock. I tense, holding my dagger point-up. If this person doesn’t have the trunk key, they’re probably an enemy.
Another click, more solid than before. I know the sound. The lock is open. I swallow, ready to strike. I hear shifting, grunting. The heavy lid rises a fraction, enough to let in a sliver of soft light, then falls back with a thud. I raise my eyebrows. Must be a wounded foe, if they can’t even lift a lid.
Another grunt. The lid rises, stops, then rises the rest of the way. There, in shadowy silver light, is my uncle, his face twisted in a grimace. I relax and sit up, sheathing my blade as Uncle Klep slumps over the rim of the trunk, breathing heavily.
Cry of the Nightbird Page 8