Shadows on the Stars

by T.A. Barron

  “Hmmmpff,” sneered Nuic, shifting his weight on the grass. “No portal is bound to work. See you in Airroot.”

  Brionna didn’t seem to hear. She was gazing thoughtfully at Elli. “Hear me, now. I know only a little about Shadowroot.”

  “You nearly died there, you once told me.”

  Brionna’s face tightened. “Yes. That horrible, unending darkness almost—but that’s a disease only found in elves. And truly, I would face that darkness again a dozen times over to help you! I would, if only I didn’t have to fight for the survival of my people.”

  “I know, Brionna.”

  “What you need to know, though, is this. Granda told me that even though Shadowroot has always been on the dark side of the Tree, long ago there was some light there, as well. Not much, perhaps, but still some. And remember? There was even a city there—founded by winged people from the stars, they say—called the Lost City of Light. Before the dark elves destroyed it, museos sang, gardens blossomed, bards performed, and bonfires burned endlessly. There was even a portal that brought people from all over Avalon.”

  “Then all that ended.”

  “It did end. But all? We can’t be sure.” Her green eyes probed Elli’s. “There are great dangers in Shadowroot. And terrible creatures—not just dark elves, but death dreamers and others who have not even been named. But there may also yet be, in some hidden corners of the realm, a sliver or two of light.”

  Elli’s hand wrapped around hers. “You’ve taught me something, you know.”

  Brionna shook her head. “It’s just a bit of history I learned from Granda.”

  “Not that,” said Elli with a twinkle. “I’m thinking of something else.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve taught me what it’s like to have a sister.”

  Together, they shared a look that was itself a smile.

  PART III

  31 • Final Battle

  Scree climbed the ridge of fire-blackened rocks. He moved stealthily, keeping to the shadows. For after three arduous days of trekking through the hills of the Volcano Lands—over charred vales, sheer cliffs, and scorched streambeds—he was finally nearing the nests of the Bram Kaie clan.

  Now only this last ridge separated him from the clan’s leader, Quenaykha. From the brutal warrior who had murdered Arc-kaya. And from what he knew would be his own final battle.

  He clacked his jaw, beaklike, as he moved, thinking of the village healer who had been so generous to him. Was it because Arc-kaya had lost her own son, and Scree his own mother, that they had bonded so readily? Whatever the reason, he’d felt a growing connection with her—until it was abruptly severed.

  A plume of sulfurous smoke blew past, making his eyes water. He stopped, leaning against a charred boulder, blinking to clear his vision. He could still see Arc-kaya’s face bending over him in the first days after his fever broke, her fluffy gray hair shining in the starlight. And he could still feel the weight of her lifeless body in his arms as he carried her to the burial mound. He glanced down at his anklet of gray hair, now blackened by the ash of Fireroot’s volcanic peaks. Soar high, run free . . .

  A flame vent erupted by his feet. With an eagleman’s reflexes, he leaped aside—though slower than usual because of his wounded thigh. Orange flames licked his leg, singeing some of his hairs that could become feathers at will.

  Upward he climbed, as his thoughts turned unexpectedly to that golden-eyed eagleboy he had met in Arc-kaya’s village. Something about that boy, whose pride and ferocity couldn’t hide how much he had lost in the attack, reminded Scree of his younger self.

  His sharp eyes spied, in the shadow of a rock covered with char-lichen, a lone blossom. Firebloom—the only flower that grew on these ridges, and yet another reminder of his younger self. For on the day he’d met Queen, he’d given her a blossom just like that one. Skilled actor that she was, she’d seemed enthralled by it, stroking those orange petals that fluttered like tiny feathers—just as she’d seemed enthralled by him.

  “What a broken yolk I had for a head!” he muttered angrily. “To think that I ever believed her for a second.”

  He scraped his sharply pointed toenails, so close to talons, against the sooty pebbles. Sure, he’d been fully grown physically when all that had happened, having reached adulthood at age five or six like all eaglefolk. But inside, he’d been just a fledgling. Queen, he was certain, had known that right from the start—but it hadn’t kept her from taking ruthless advantage of his naivete and, yes, his need for affection.

  At last, his thoughts settled back to where they had remained for most of the past several days: how to stop the murder and thievery of the Bram Kaie clan. That was the best—probably the only—way now he could help Tamwyn, Elli, and Brionna. As well as Avalon.

  The answer was clear. His only hope of success was to challenge the clan’s leader, and to prevail in a fight to the death. One of eaglefolk’s most basic traditions had always been that the policies of a leader, in this case Queen, would last until he or she died. And then only the person who had won the fight for succession could set new policies for the clan.

  Trouble was, what if the Bram Kaie, who valued so few traditions, no longer honored that one? Or even if they did, what if Scree somehow succeeded in removing Queen from power—and then was himself killed, before he could even begin to change the clan’s ways? What if he was killed by that brutal young warrior, who would have no trouble at all continuing Queen’s treachery?

  He shook his head, even as he neared the crest of the ridge. He couldn’t answer those questions. All he could do was try his best to stop Queen, as well as that warrior, from doing any more harm.

  Scree topped the ridge. Immediately, he crouched behind a boulder, scanning the clan’s village. Or, more accurately, fortress. For the nests of the Bram Kaie had changed greatly since he’d seen them last, being more numerous, more sturdy—and far more wealthy.

  Tall copper torches, bejeweled statues of soaring eagles, and silken flags decorated broad avenues paved with planks of black obsidian. Every nest—and there were now more than twenty of them—was fortified with iron bars; spiraling stairways of oak, elm, and mahogany allowed eaglefolk to enter and depart without climbing on the nests themselves. The spoils of raiding and plundering lay everywhere: Scree recognized a rocking chair carved in the elaborate style of the Mellwyn clan, a chest of shiny kitchen utensils that could only have come from the metalworkers of southern Olanabram, and a winged kite that he’d seen once being flown by several eaglechildren near the River of Fire.

  The whole village gleamed of new wealth—and also with the reddish glow of the clouds that always hung over the Volcano Lands. It looked as if the entire settlement had taken on the hue of molten lava. Or, perhaps, dried blood.

  Sentries, armed with bows and arrows as well as spears, patrolled the streets. All wore red leg bands, and grim expressions on their faces. They were gathering at one spot in particular, around a torch that stood just outside the village. A large crowd of eaglefolk had formed there, as sentries paced to and fro. What, Scree wondered, was going on?

  As he watched, trying to peer through the mass of eaglefolk milling about, a dusty brown snake slithered by him—and right over his foot. But Scree neither moved nor made any sound. If he was to have even a chance to succeed, he’d need to stay completely unnoticed until he suddenly struck, transforming into eagle form and attacking Queen before any of those sentries could loose their arrows.

  The crowd grew steadily more restless. Some people shouted angrily, and a few youths started shoving each other roughly. People were clearly upset about something. By the minute, the eaglefolk grew more unruly, and the guards more anxious.

  What’s this all about?

  Then Scree got his answer—as well as his opportunity. His whole body tensed as he saw an eaglewoman stride purposefully out from behind a nest, approaching the crowd. Tall and muscular, she wore dozens of golden rings in her flowing auburn hair.

/>   Queen. Scree immediately recognized her determined gait, her shapely form, and above all, her penetrating yellow eyes. He recognized, too, the way she held her head, and even the way she breathed. Suddenly, without warning, the memory of her breathing—so very close, chest to chest—flashed through his mind. It made him shudder.

  Focus, Scree! No time now for such nonsense.

  He studied her face. That had certainly changed, looking much more haggard than he remembered, a mask of unending worry. Her lips, once so full, so soft—now were pinched as tight as a closed beak.

  As she approached the crowd, the eaglefolk parted, though some needed a push from a sentry to stand aside. At last Scree could see, from his vantage point behind the boulder, why so many people had gathered there: Sprawled on the ground beneath the torch lay the blood-smeared corpse of an eaglewoman. The same one that Scree had seen being flown back to the village moments before, by a band of warriors.

  Scree clenched his jaw. The woman, whoever she was, had been brutally battered, her wings broken, the talons severed from her legs. By the black tips still visible on her wingfeathers, he could tell that she had belonged to the clan. Yet, from what was left of her, she seemed too old and frail to fight—a most unlikely warrior.

  Who had done this? he wondered. It was one thing to be killed, another to be mauled so viciously. Had she been attacked in revenge for one of the clan’s raids?

  Queen bent over the corpse for a moment, inspecting it, even as several bystanders grumbled angrily. Then, with all the authority of the clan’s leader, she straightened and raised her hand for silence.

  “Kree-ella betrayed us all,” she declared. Waving at the crowd, she shouted, “Every last one of us! Traitor that she was, she slipped away last night to warn another clan of our attack. And if she had succeeded, it could have cost the Bram Kaie many lives, and many valuables. That is why I commanded that she be captured and killed.”

  And tortured, thought Scree grimly.

  As another wrathful murmur rose from the crowd, he suddenly realized something that made him catch his breath. All this anger wasn’t directed at the dead eaglewoman, but at Queen herself! Heads shook, faces scowled, and people pointed accusing fingers at their leader.

  But Queen hardly seemed to notice. Utterly unmoved, she showed not even a trace of fear or remorse. Strong, hard, and unforgiving, she stood before her people. Then, raising her hand again, she continued speaking.

  “Kree-ella was the mother of some of you, I know. And the teacher of many more, who learned the skills of flight under her care. But she deserved to be killed! As does anyone who betrays our clan.”

  She swung around and pointed at a pair of warriors. “Guards! Light this torch, then hang her body there for all to see.”

  As one warrior struck a flame and ignited the torch, the other thrust Kree-ella’s body upward, roughly impaling it on the torch’s decorative copper spikes. Meanwhile, the crowd’s angry murmurs swelled louder than ever. Fists clenched; feet scraped against the blackened ground. Yet for all the discontent, no one dared to challenge Queen directly.

  “Just look around you,” the leader intoned. “Everything our clan has gained in these years, all the riches you see, are here because I, Quenaykha, taught you about loyalty. To your clan, your cause, and your ruler.”

  A few heads bowed, though the angry chatter did not go away. “This woman,” she said with a final wave at the dangling corpse, “brought this punishment on herself, by her own disloyalty. And so she shall hang here, under this torch that will blaze day and night, as an example to all.”

  She gazed at the crowd, her face rigid. Finally, she started to turn away, when a tall young man stepped out of the crowd. Bare chested, in the custom of eaglemen in their human form, he looked lean but strong. He bowed to Queen—then abruptly whirled on her, drawing a dagger from his leggings.

  Queen clearly hadn’t expected the attack. She spun to the side, but the young man’s dagger plunged straight at her chest. Just when the blade was about to penetrate her flesh—

  Ffffffttt. An arrow pierced his neck. He gasped as blood spurted from his severed artery. Twisting, he collapsed and fell dead at Queen’s feet.

  As the crowd fell silent, another young man stepped boldly forward. Still holding the heavy wooden bow that he had just used, he faced Queen, his expression as grim as her own. Like the attacker, he was around seven years old, but fully grown as an eagleman, the equivalent of a human in his twenties. And he was powerfully built: Although shorter than the other young man, he was much broader in the shoulders and more thickly muscled. His mouth seemed twisted into a permanent, haughty sneer.

  Scree knew him at once. The brutal warrior.

  Crouching lower behind the boulder, Scree debated what to do next, his fingers drumming on the anklet of Arc-kaya’s hair. Should he attack both of them at once? Or wait for a chance to catch Queen alone? But what if that chance never came? He kneaded the sore muscles of his thigh. Already he felt stiffer than he should, to succeed at swooping down from this ridge in a surprise attack.

  Better wait and watch a little longer, he decided at last, shifting his weight impatiently. But not much longer. He turned his attention back to the scene below.

  “Thank you, good Maulkee,” declared Queen. “You have shown once again your loyalty to your ruler.”

  His broad back straightened. To the astonishment of many in the crowd, as well as Scree, he answered her in a rough voice: “Not to my ruler, but to my clan.”

  Queen stiffened. The light from the torch that burned above them was no brighter than her savage yellow eyes. “So,” she growled, “do you dare to challenge me?”

  “I do,” he declared. “Not in the cowardly way of an assassin,” he said with a kick at the body of the man he’d just killed, “but in the long-standing tradition of our people. Talon-to-talon combat.”

  So, Scree thought to himself, the tradition has survived.

  “To the death,” she snarled.

  He dropped his bow and tore off his quiver, facing her squarely. “To the death.”

  Queen’s eyes blazed. “I expected that someday I would face a challenge from you, Maulkee. But not so soon! How convenient for you that the people are so angered by Kree-ella’s death. They’ll be less likely to see this as the raw treachery that it is.”

  “The way you gained power,” he spat back at her. Then, his sneer broadening, he added, “You taught me long ago to surprise my prey, didn’t you? Just like a good mother.”

  Scree pushed back from the boulder, astonished. His mother? He would actually kill his own mother?

  Below Scree’s hiding place, the crowd buzzed with anticipation. Eaglefolk called to others, still in their nests, that a battle for the clan’s leadership was about to begin. People hurried down stairways and dashed through the obsidian streets, eager to witness the fight.

  A swirling spiral of dust lifted off the ridge, sped through the village, then died. Above, rusty red clouds rolled across the sky, seeming to darken steadily.

  Queen, meanwhile, put her hands on her hips and scowled at her challenger. “You may be my son, but you were never any smarter than a cliff hare.”

  “Is that so?” he said, starting to circle her.

  “At least,” she taunted, “you won’t live long enough to do much damage. Today, in fact, will be your last.”

  “We’ll see,” he retorted.

  All at once, they leaped upward, instantly transforming into winged warriors. The villagers fell back, leaving plenty of room for the battle. Talons slashed the air, and the shrieking cry of eaglefolk—half human, half eagle—echoed across the volcanic ridge.

  Several people’s height above the ground, they flew straight into each other, swiping wildly with their talons. As their powerful wings collided, several black-tipped feathers tore loose and drifted slowly downward.

  Queen suddenly flipped over in midair. Her talons raked Maulkee’s ribs, drawing first blood. But in that same instan
t he rolled aside, spinning through the air, and bashed her jaw with the bony edge of his wing. She screeched and fell back to the ground, sending up a cloud of soot and ash.

  With a cry of vengeance, he followed. Swiftly, he plunged out of the sky and landed right on top of her. Pinning her with his weight, he raised a deadly talon to swipe at her throat—when she unexpectedly arched her back and rolled, throwing him off. He slid across the rocks, barely missing a pit of bubbling, steaming lava. Instead, he slammed into the post of the flaming torch. The dangling corpse broke loose and fell on top of his chest.

  In the split second the warrior needed to hurl the corpse aside, Queen pounced. She slashed his face, trying to cut his throat. But he caught her leg with his powerful wing and jerked down with such force that her limb snapped. She hobbled backward, wincing in pain, trying desperately to stand on her one unbroken leg.

  Maulkee made short work of her. Throwing her to the ground, he brutally stomped on her wings, breaking them under his weight. With a savage slash, he cut her neck, severing muscles and tendons so that her head drooped helplessly. Then, with a mighty kick in the chest, he sent her hurtling outside the awestruck ring of villagers.

  Queen lay in a heap of bloodied feathers on the ground. Unable to move, bleeding profusely, she couldn’t even lift her head in defiance. Maulkee kicked some ashes into her eyes, then walked away, leaving her to die in slow agony.

  “So much for the reign of Quenaykha,” he sneered as he strode away.

  Scree watched, his heart pounding. He waited as Maulkee, followed by most of the villagers, moved off, quickly disappearing into the maze of nests. Of those who didn’t follow, nobody—not a single one of her former subjects—went to tend to the fallen ruler. Cautiously, Scree stepped out of the shadow of the boulder and clambered down the ridge, avoiding flame vents, pits of molten lava, and fire plants along the way. A moment later, he was kneeling over Queen’s broken body.