The silence was broken by a distant, echoing shout.
“The Watch again,” said Ilia, standing. “Don’t worry, they’ve never found my treehouse.”
“But they’ll keep looking for me,” said Oliver. “And if they don’t find me, then the hunters will. It will be a lot harder to hide from them.”
It was true. The hunters would continue their relentless search, and eventually they would find him. He couldn’t protect the crimson kite forever, or his family, or his Windblowne. Wherever he flew, he would bring danger to everyone he met, just like he was bringing danger to Ilia now.
“Maybe we could hide from the hunters,” said Ilia, growing excited. “I could camouflage the roof, too. You could live in my treehouse! I could bring you anything you needed. They’d never find you!”
Oliver shook his head. “Thank you,” he said with regret. “But no. I can’t hide. I have to find Great-uncle Gilbert.”
Ilia opened her mouth again, then closed it and turned away.
She stepped over to one of the crates and rummaged. At last she found a piece of fabric, which she handed to Oliver. “If you ever do find my Oliver, will you give him this? It’s a piece of the tail from a kite his great-uncle flew to win the Festival Grand Prize, decades ago. It was a gift to him, and it was his proudest possession. I … I want him to have a memory of home. I want him to know that I miss him.”
Oliver accepted the aged piece of silk reverently. “I will,” he promised.
“One more thing,” said Ilia. She rummaged again. This time she produced a kite charm. “For luck,” she said.
Oliver looked at the charm. Ilia. “Thank you,” he said with the deepest gratitude, and put it carefully into a buttoned inside pocket.
He stayed at the treehouse until dark, he and Ilia taking turns watching the skies through telescopes. While he took a much-needed nap, Ilia ran into town for food to replenish his supplies.
“The whole town is in chaos,” she giggled when she returned. “They’re saying the kites are back, and everyone’s hiding indoors.”
Oliver laughed.
When night drew near, Ilia led him up through the oak to a place where he could climb onto the Crest Wall. “This is where I come to watch the sun rise,” she told him. “It’s where I first saw you.”
Oliver stood on the wall, shivering. He could feel the night winds coming. Because Ilia was watching, he took Great-uncle Gilbert’s handvane from his pack and snapped it on his wrist. Wearing it did make him feel better, even if it was pointing perpendicular to the winds. His kite seemed to sense the night winds too, its silks rustling as the winds grew stronger and whirls of oak leaves filled the purple twilight.
“You’d better go,” he said to Ilia.
She nodded and leapt into her oak, swinging down toward the safety of her treehouse as she went. “Goodbye!” she shouted over the rising wind. “Goodbye! Goodbye!”
Soon Oliver could no longer hear her voice, and then she was lost from sight. “Goodbye,” said Oliver.
He listened to the wind’s roar gathering around the edges of the Crest Wall, pouring up toward him with an animal howl. He shivered again. On his wrist, the handvane still pointed resolutely west, no matter how the winds shifted.
“West,” Oliver said to the kite. “Why not?” It seemed better to have some kind of plan, even if it relied on a broken handvane.
The kite shook and tugged, ready to fly.
Oliver faced west, kneeling, gripping an outcrop on the wall.
When the sun finally fell, and the full force of the night winds struck, Oliver cast the kite up and flew into the night.
FLASH
FLASH
FLASH
Just in time. The lone hunter had gathered two others, and they’d returned in force.
Together, the crimson kite and Oliver flew through inky darkness. As raggedly as it was flying, the kite still summoned the energy to wrap its tail around Oliver’s arm.
Soon they were descending into gentler winds.
He waited for it to get lighter, as it had for his other landings, but everything remained dark. When he glimpsed the grassy crest at last, it was alarmingly close. He lifted his knees and rolled, coming to a perfect sitting position on the grass.
The perfect sitting position did not last long. Night winds blasted, knocking him onto his hands, taking his breath away. He pressed flat against the grass, unable to stand, his arm pulled hard by the wildly bouncing kite.
And it was terribly dark, much darker than it had any right to be at midsummer.
He looked up, searching for a hint of sunrise … and gasped.
Above him, the stars winked in their familiar constellations in their midsummer array. Aspin, the small Second Moon, shone faintly down.
But Aspin was alone.
Nahfa, the larger First Moon and Aspin’s companion, was missing from the sky.
17
The night winds threw Oliver about as he tried to crawl in the direction of the oakline. He spent most of the time rolling helplessly. Fortunately, he could still feel his kite, tail tight around his numbing arm as he tumbled.
After a great deal of rolling and smashing, something occurred to Oliver—it didn’t hurt at all. So many other things had hurt, like getting knocked into trees and slashed by talons, that Oliver was becoming an expert on ways to experience pain. He would have guessed that getting rolled down the crest by the night winds would have ranked toward the top. But it didn’t hurt in the slightest.
The answer came when the winds picked him up and tossed him through two complete flips onto his back. By all rights, he should have broken something—his neck, his back, maybe a leg. But he noticed when he finished the second flip that he didn’t hit so much as bounce. He felt around with his hand and discovered that the grass, thin and tough on his own crest, was here thick, lush, and springy, so much so that you could really enjoy the experience once you got over the terror.
This reminded him of the previous night, fleeing the hunters, throwing himself fearlessly into the night winds on his way to the peak. He might be able to do it again. The next time the winds flipped him, he landed on his feet and began running immediately, boots pounding grass, bouncing down the crest.
Oliver was beginning to laugh when he slipped and fell and the winds grabbed him and—
WHAM
Something cracked him in the small of his back. He screamed. The wind took his scream and carried it off. Little bright stars of pain sparked in his eyes.
He grabbed fistfuls of grass and clung stubbornly, waiting for dawn.
He did not have long to wait. The sky lightened, and with it the winds slacked and he was able to relax his death grip. He looked to see what had cracked him.
At first the thing was only a pale spot, buried deep under the thick, waving green. With a little more light, the pale spot became an old stone, an ancient piece of weathered granite. With a bit more light, he realized the stone was fixed into the ground.
The granite jumping marker, worn small and smooth by wind and time, and much too near the crest. By putting his face very close, Oliver could just make out what was left of the inscription:
WIL M STV
20
55
WIL M STV, Oliver knew, was a name. It was missing some letters, but in any case, it was a flier whom Oliver had never heard of.
2 0 was the record itself, which was definitely missing some numbers.
55 was the year. The year since the founding of Windblowne. This bit was less weathered, and none of the numbers were missing. In Oliver’s world, that number was 405—the date fifty years ago when the record had last been broken.
Here, it was 55.
Which was precisely four centuries ago.
Oliver shivered. In this world, no one had broken the jumping record in all that time. “They must be terrible fliers,” he said to the kite, trying to lighten the mood. “I’ll be right at home.”
Oliver rose to his feet,
still in semi-darkness, to see what this new world was like.
The stiff morning carried rich and familiar scents of forest and soil. He could not see the oaks yet, but he could smell them, strong and woody and alive. Just as the grass here was thicker, the smells were also more potent, more vital.
The sunlight grew, and Oliver saw the oaks. They were half again as tall as any oaks he had ever seen. Their leafy tops were lost in low clouds and whirlpools of mist.
Oliver fell to his knees in the grass, closed his eyes, and breathed.
Then he noticed other smells, scents of death and decay and things dark and distant. These smells brought to mind images of the riven oak and its odious, sick scent.
Sounds came on the winds too, but these sounds were very different from the keening cries on Lord Gilbert’s world and the hollow moan on the Crest Wall world. Was it music? Singing? Whatever it was, it was sad and sorrowful and it pulled tears from him before he realized it was happening. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve.
Pull yourself together, Oliver!
He got up off his knees.
“I’ve got to find the Great-uncle Gilbert who lives here,” Oliver said to the kite, determined. “I’ve got to warn him. I’ll make sure not to get arrested this time.”
The kite gave a tug so weak that Oliver thought he imagined it. Then it tugged again, and he looked down at his sore and burning arm, where the tail was still wrapped.
He took a couple of curious steps in the direction of the tug.
tug tug
The kite wanted to go somewhere.
Oliver took a few more steps in that direction, as the wind made long, rippling rows in the waving grass. But for the second time in two days, and in his memory, he felt lost. The size of the oaks seemed to have confused his map.
“Wait,” Oliver ordered. He turned in all directions, looking, listening.
In the light of morning, with the mist now dissipated, Oliver could see only the towering oaks and lush green grass and dark blue sky, and he could hear only twittering birdsong and windy sighs. There were no signs of any town whatsoever. Oliver had the feeling of being alone in a mysterious, primitive world. He felt a tingling on his skin, and the rich, potent air and the damp golden light seemed to be going to his head. His mind began to swim with wild thoughts that he could run as fast as the wind and stand as tall and as strong as an oak. That he could face down Lord Gilbert and his hunters and anything else that came his way. The air was filled with power, and so was he. He wanted to run and shout and—
tug
Oliver shook his head. He had to keep his wits about him. The truth was, he was wet, cold, lost, and entirely vulnerable should any hunters appear. Any minute now there could be half a dozen flashes and everything would be over for him and the kite and all of the Windblownes. He had to get off the crest, into the shelter of the forest.
“Fine, I’ll follow you,” he said. “But we have to be more careful this time.”
The kite only continued its gentle, wistful tugging.
Oliver allowed the tugging to lead him. He bounced toward the oakline, buzzing from the heady air.
When they reached the oaks, he crouched and peered around, chilled and shivering. Everything was wetter here too, and the rips in what was left of his flying outfit were letting in the water. He rubbed his arms for warmth and tried to get his bearings.
tug
“Wait,” whispered Oliver. He checked Great-uncle Gilbert’s handvane, still fastened to his wrist. It had survived the rolling without a scratch, though it still pointed off in its own direction, oblivious to the wind. His instruction to fly west did not seem to have produced anything useful. The last two flights had been short—perhaps the kite did not have the strength for a longer trip. His great-uncle could not be in this Windblowne. Lush, green, vibrant, this world was anything but a hell-world.
The morning birds obviously felt the same way. They had started in with earsplitting songs. Oliver was glad that they were happy, but they made it a little hard to think.
He was just wishing they would shut up—
when they did. They shut up instantly, but not before forming a huge black cloud, blotting out the sky, twisting like a tornado. Then the cloud evaporated, leaving an empty sky.
The world was dead quiet.
In the silence, Oliver heard a faraway sound. It was soft, but it had the feel of a sound that would be very loud if you were close by, like a slow, immense, and distant crash.
Something fell, he thought.
Oliver studied the leaves spreading out over his head. He knew this oak. He looked over at the next one—and in that moment, all the surrounding oaks clicked into place on his map. The oaks were far bigger than the oaks in other worlds, but they were still his oaks, the oaks of Windblowne. Oliver knew precisely where he was. He was at the entrance to the secret path.
Or at least, he was at the spot where the entrance ought to be. The path was not there. There was just more brush, and no sign that anyone had ever cleared away any of it to make his own private way to the crest.
tug
But that was where the kite wanted to go.
Oliver fastened the kite to his pack, leaving its tail on his arm for comfort. Then he drew a long breath—nearly tipping over from the dizziness—and started off into the forest.
That crash had probably been nothing. Nevertheless, he slipped quietly from oak to oak, through the dense, unspoiled forest.
After a while, he noticed he was bouncing again. He had started running and jumping, without being aware of it.
Slow down! he ordered himself.
The burst of energy this world had given him was surging back. He kept wanting to shout. He almost wished he had the Watch captain’s gag with him.
Silent, he thought. Quiet as a shadow. At least until he knew more about this world. Though his emotions were bobbling all over the place, he tried to concentrate on that single task.
He crept slowly and carefully through more wild forest. Soon he found his great-uncle’s oak—
and nothing else at all. He was not surprised to discover that there was no treehouse, of metal or wood. Nothing to indicate a great-uncle of any variety had ever lived here. Just more thick forest all around, and the mournful wind.
He walked closer to the oak. He peered up along the trunk, scanning … and then he saw something deep within the gnarled bark of the tree. He pushed his fingers in and felt something cold and rusty. It felt like the head of a bolt, the sort of thing that, once upon a time, might have been used to secure a set of steps.
Great-uncle Gilbert’s treehouse—no, this would not have been his treehouse, it would have been someone else’s, someone who died long before Great-uncle Gilbert was born. Which he had never been. Not in this Windblowne, anyway. Judging by the jumping marker and the ancient bolt, the Windblowne that had once inhabited this mountain had disappeared centuries ago.
He continued around the oak and saw, for the first time since his arrival, something not filled with vigor and life.
The riven oak.
In this world, it was withered, half the height of its neighbors and bent precariously to one side. Most of its leaves had fallen.
The riven oak in Lord Gilbert’s world must be very close to death. Oliver had promised to save the oak. He wasn’t doing a very good job.
On his back, the kite had begun to quiver, then thrash about in its straps.
Oliver pulled the kite free, and it flew up on the breeze, beating the air. Oliver had to snatch its tail to keep it from being carried away.
Oliver whooped with joy. He whooped again, his cry echoing through the silent mountain.
His mind raced. Something had brought the crimson kite back to life, but what? The crimson kite’s spars were made from the riven oak. Great-uncle Gilbert and Two had used spars from this oak to craft parts of the kite. Close to this oak in this strong, vibrant world, the crimson kite could fly, and who knew what else it—
The ki
te beat and thrashed, pulling at Oliver.
He whooped a third time, and a fourth, thrilled by the sound of his voice, thrilled at how powerful he sounded as his voice filled the forest, echoing between oaks, primitive and wild.
There was a distant crash. It was a little like the crash he had heard before, except closer.
Oliver went silent.
There was another crash, still distant—but closer still.
He looked around uneasily. He began to wonder why none of the birds had returned.
Another crash. This one even closer.
The crimson kite flew to his side.
Another crash, and something heavy, falling.
Oliver looked around wildly. He bent over and picked up a thick branch that had fallen from the riven oak.
A crash, a crack, and then—
BOOM
Oliver jumped. The smashing sound was steady now, and
SMASH getting
CRASH
closer. Something immense was coming through the forest, and it was coming fast.
18
Oliver hurtled through the oaks. Whatever was thundering after him was fast, much faster than he was, and it
BOOM
was gaining rapidly. Whatever it was, the thing
BOOM
behind him had to be the size of a treehouse—the crashing and cracking sounds
BOOM
were deafening. What could he do? Should he play dead? He remembered hearing that that worked with lowland bears. But the thing behind him was no bear. Bears probably played dead
BOOM
to escape from it. In between the sheer terror and ridiculous mental images of piles of bears playing dead, a desperate thought occurred to him. If it wasn’t a bear, then maybe it couldn’t climb trees, either. Oliver dodged between oaks, looking at their branches. All of the lowest branches were far above his head. He couldn’t possibly
BOOM
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