by Nancy Yi Fan
“There’s nothing wrong with being a valley bird at all. It doesn’t matter,” said Fleydur. “The summit can be your home as well. And you can be my daughter.”
Dandelion was stunned.
“How can I?” she said. “What about you? The court, the Iron Nest? The traditions?” Her gratitude was tempered by the gravity of what his offer meant and what it might bring.
“Don’t worry so much,” said Fleydur. “The Iron Nest can’t do a thing; this is a personal choice. The title of princess will protect you. I can’t bear to leave you here, Dandelion. You’re not well yet!”
“My wounds have scarred over already.” Dandelion pointed to her shoulders.
Fleydur traced the raised ridges beneath her feathers, and his eyes grew wet. “Physical injuries can mend in a guesthouse. But emotional hurts only heal in a home.”
He extended a wing. “Dandelion, will you come back?” asked Fleydur. “Will you make a new home with me?”
She cried.
“To fly well, you have to fall first.” She had fallen. But with Fleydur’s help, she must pick herself up again. The rough wind was not over. Fleydur doesn’t really know what the mountaintop is like, Dandelion thought. Maybe he’d been away too long; maybe he had never really known. But she did. She knew that the queen disliked Fleydur, and knew that eagles like Simplicio hated the idea of any change. She knew there were dangers Fleydur himself did not see. She would have to return. Not for herself, but for him. Once he had saved her life, and now she needed to look out for him.
As the orange dawn burnished the edges of the mountain, Dandelion realized that she no longer wanted to hide and be a peasant. With a pounding heart, she accepted the responsibilities of a princess.
Flattery can make even a statue smile.
—FROM THE BOOK OF HERESY
13
ON THE MAKING OF A TUTOR
We need to hire a new tutor for the castle eaglets,” said the king.
“Who?” cried Sigrid.
“Somebird new.”
“Who?”
“Somebird intelligent.”
“Who?”
“Somebird innovative,” said Morgan. “Now please, dear, you’re sounding like an owl. I can’t name the bird right this second.”
The queen’s beak trembled. “It matters very much to me, Morgan,” she said. “I do not know what Fleydur is up to—but the eaglets should study other subjects besides music. I must make sure of it. I will find the right bird myself.”
In the silence of evening, a hooded figure emerged from the shadows and glided toward a piece of parchment nailed to a tree. After reading it, he reached out and took it down, rolled it up, stuck it inside his garment, and vanished.
Kawaka was nearly bursting with delight. Making sure nobird had followed him, he returned to Tranglarhad’s lair behind the waterfall.
Inside, the owl was bent over tinted eyeglass lenses. “Either the glass is too opaque, or there are too many trapped bubbles in it!” Tranglarhad grumbled to himself. The ultimate pair of sunglasses eluded him, and with it, the dreams of a nocturnal bird hoping to blend into a diurnal majority. He stopped his work at the sound of Kawaka’s voice: “The opportunity has come.” The archaeopteryx handed over the paper.
Tranglarhad’s eyes shifted left to right, left to right. “Tutor! The Castle of Sky wishes to procure a tutor, with substantial age and experience, to be also a member of the Iron Nest....” Tranglarhad paused. “Hmm … minimal lodging provided within the castle; pay is three-fourths of a coin per week, maximum, nonnegotiable … interviews to be held tomorrow.” Tranglarhad looked hard at Kawaka.
Kawaka stared back, smirking.
“You mean me?” Tranglarhad blinked, pointing to himself.
“Naturally.” Kawaka nodded.
The owl considered his tattered figure.
“Aren’t you a master of disguise?” the archaeopteryx demanded.
There was a pause. “What about my dignity?” said the owl.
“There’s everything to gain, to learn, to find!” added the archaeopteryx.
And Tranglarhad stroked the bristles around his beak and murmured, “True, true. Children are the easiest to extract information from. And teaching is a good alibi. Draws the least suspicion.”
“Nobird will deny that an owl is wise,” said the archaeopteryx. “And wouldn’t it be nice to be somebird important among creatures of the day?”
“True, true,” said the owl once more. “I’ll need an unstylish suit, some spectacles, I expect.... Something is still missing.” Tranglarhad paced restlessly. “A weapon for the job,” he muttered.
“A crossbow? An assassin’s blade?”
The owl laughed. “Holy hoot, no! I need,” said he, “a textbook.” Tranglarhad turned to Kawaka, reaching out a talon. “Give me the Book of Heresy!”
“What?” Kawaka leaped aside, hugging the book to his chest. “This is the life work of my emperor.”
Tranglarhad snatched again. “Only that book will do! Do you or don’t you want me to succeed in stealing the Leasorn gem from the eagles? I am risking a lot if I go to assume this paltry post of tutor and leave my mine to my underlings.” The owl glowered. “You, you who started our pact, are you not willing to make an equal sacrifice?”
Kawaka unclenched his talons and slowly handed the leatherbound book to the owl. “The moment you return, you give it back to me!” he growled.
Pleased, Tranglarhad left to prepare.
He unearthed an antiquated coat and shook its folds heartily, sending forth a moldy cloud of dust. As the initial odor cleared, he sprayed cheap cologne that only made it smell worse. Then he draped his attire over a stalagmite and crept to an underground pool for a bath. Tranglarhad did not recall ever having a bath in his life. I must rise—rinse—to the occasion, he thought, and dipped himself in. His feathers were a drastic shade lighter when he climbed out. As his plumage dried, Tranglarhad used a pair of tiny silver scissors to trim his bristles. He perched a pair of thick round spectacles upon his beak and looked at his reflection in a pool. Suave and debonair, as usual, he thought.
Satisfied, Tranglarhad put on the old coat and tied on the tackiest bow tie in his possession. He swept several other unfashionable outfits and a gift-wrapped package into a suitcase. “Ah! I almost forgot,” he muttered, and rummaged through his alchemist’s potions to produce a vial containing a single golden pill. This too went into the suitcase. Finally, Tranglarhad surprised Kawaka by packing a bottle of peanut oil and a small black cauldron.
“What are those for?” asked the archaeopteryx.
“I have my reasons,” huffed the owl. At length he stood up and tucked the Book of Heresy into the pocket of his coat.
“Good luck,” said Kawaka.
“Luck? I don’t need any.” The owl laughed. And on silent wings, he emerged from the bowels of the mountain and headed for its summit.
News spread through Skythunder mountain range so that before dawn, dozens of applicants were camped outside the castle waiting for their interviews. A spot in the Iron Nest! With all the bragging rights and privileges attached, it was a true once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
At noon, the hopefuls were allowed inside. The birds that strutted in with beaks overflowing with verse and poetry stumbled out again within minutes, their feathers quivering and their faces mournful. The line was fast dwindling, but as evening fell, a latecomer appeared. The last applicant sat on his suitcase by his cauldron and waited calmly.
“All right. Your turn!” shouted a guard.
The applicant sauntered in, ready to combat the chilling gaze of an austere bird who sat in judgment.
Queen Sigrid was slumped on her couch, a foot stuck out on a cushion for a pedicure. The applicant blinked with relief. He noted the hummingbird filing the nails on the queen’s toes and repainting them cherry red, and he knew the right words to say.
“Elegant choice of color, my queen! An educated, sophisticated choice.”
Sigrid preened at the flattery. Nobird has said anything so exciting today, she thought. She twitched her burly toes, but the applicant knew she was only waiting for more.
“Mature, stately, befitting a queen as yourself, yet with a subtle hint of youth.”
“Youth … quite.” Sigrid looked up from examining a red nail. “I am quite young! But my eyes are failing me....”
“Then allow me to present an example of my handiwork, Your Majesty,” said the applicant, opening his suitcase and drawing forth a package. “It’s the most exquisite, queenly type of spectacles, the lorgnette.”
Sigrid tore off the paper with unladylike zeal and gave a cry of delight. She held up a pair of gold-edged glasses to her eyes. Her beak hung slack. “An owl!” Sigrid nearly fell back on her couch. “And I thought you were an eagle with a big head,” she said. “You realize there has never been an … owl among our castle staff?”
“Then I shall be honored if I am lucky enough to be the first,” said Tranglarhad.
Sigrid peered at him through her new glasses. “I don’t recall you telling me your name.”
“I am called Tranglarhad, Your Majesty.”
The queen shook her head. “Ridiculous. Your name does not sound intellectual enough for you to be qualified to teach here.”
“But, Your Majesty, it’s an owl name meaning ‘one who has a triangular head,’” the owl cried, gesticulating at his face, pointing out three angles made by his ear tufts and his beak. “The triangle is the most stable shape in the geometric world. To have a head shaped thus is to have knowledge most securely stored within the skull!”
The queen considered, looking at her painted nails for a moment. “All right, then: What makes you think you’re qualified?”
Tranglarhad knew how to answer this question. “First and foremost, I am not from the valley,” he said. “I am a native of Sword Mountain, in fact. I look up to the Castle of Sky every day.”
“Good.”
“Second, I possess a unique book called the Book of Heresy,” said Tranglarhad. “Allow me to share with you a passage?”
Sigrid nodded.
Tranglarhad began. “Page 249: ‘Nothing will come of waiting alone. The best tacticians meticulously set multiple traps, all the while appearing quite friendly to their foes. Fatten up your enemies with your kindness, make them vulnerable so you can savor their demise....’”
Sigrid was mesmerized.
“My! I do believe you to be a fine candidate,” she said. “However …” Queen Sigrid frowned.
“What is it, my queen?” Tranglarhad murmured.
“You are a stranger. Not an eagle, and not of our tribe. The post of tutor, as you know, allows you a vote in the Iron Nest. It’s against the customs to allow a stranger into our government.” Sigrid looked torn. “I would still like to hire you, only as a tutor,” she said slowly. “I simply cannot give you a position in the Iron Nest assembly.”
“I would be honored to be a plain tutor,” said Tranglarhad.
“Then it is settled,” said Sigrid. “Will you be fit to teach tomorrow morning?”
“Will evening do?” asked the owl. “I am nocturnal.”
Sigrid nodded, beginning to trust the owl. “Evening classes shall be fine. Though you may see if the physician can prescribe medications for your ailment; being nocturnal is an unfortunate handicap. And after your classes, will you come to my drawing room to read me your philosophy book? I like it very much.”
“It shall be my pleasure, Your Majesty,” said the owl.
A handicap? he thought. Queen Sigrid, you are much in the dark.
Music is laughter in radiant feathers.
—FROM THE OLD SCRIPTURE
14
A LEGITIMATE SCANDAL
Dandelion was staring at a door that hid something she did not want to face.
“As a princess, you must formally greet and acknowledge the subjects of your generation, the children of the court. They’ve just been gathered a minute ago, waiting inside. They’ve been told they have a new princess, but they do not know who yet. You must greet them, show them who you are,” Fleydur was saying.
The door’s varnished panel reflected six glints in her image: her crown and the five gold acorns pinned on her collar. But there was neither window nor crack in the door to let her peek at the other side. “Greet them!” Dandelion said. But they … they hate me. And I hate them.
“Just as the king heads and cares for the court, so as a princess you must assume the leadership of the younger birds of Sword Mountain,” said Fleydur. “You have special responsibility—you must learn to love them, Dandelion.” He walked away, leaving Dandelion alone.
A lump rose in Dandelion’s throat. She could not love these eaglets. But she swallowed and made herself turn the doorknob and step in, shutting the door behind her.
The eaglets stood up, faces expressionless. They were dressed in ceremonial suits and dresses. So dizzyingly different from the last time she had seen them gathered together, snickering behind extravagant masks.
Dandelion approached them. “Hello,” she said.
For a moment, the eaglets seemed too stunned to remember their voices. “Hello,” they echoed, waiting. Cloud-wing smiled. Olga looked dismayed. Pudding eyed Dandelion. “The masquerade wasn’t enough for you? Do you want more?” he seemed to say.
She felt a sudden rush of defiant calm. “I chose to come back,” she told them. “I want to be friends with you.” Dandelion turned to Pudding and thrust her talons toward him, ready to parry malice with courtesy.
After a pause, Pudding shook her claws, his meaty grip crushing her talons till tears sprang in her eyes. She stood firm, and she shook talons with them all, one by one.
Though parents objected to Fleydur’s radical teaching, nobird could hold back the children from missing out on a potentially juicy scandal.
When Fleydur announced that he would hold his music lessons on the very top of Sword Mountain, every member of the class was present and, in fact, early, waiting near the base of Sword Cliff.
And so were the eight members of the Iron Nest who had, along with Simplicio, opposed Fleydur. Since it was hard to be inconspicuous among the barren piles of rock, they gave up trying to pretend they had just happened to be there and hunched matter-of-factly in a half circle around the children.
Their rheumy eyes glinted suspiciously, and their faces were grim; each held a notepad, leaning forward, posed to scribble atrocities. “You won’t mind, prince, our monitoring your lesson?” thundered one. “As the Iron Nest, it is our firm duty to control and guard the egg of Sword Mountain’s future.”
Fleydur swept his wing in a gesture of welcome. “Delighted.”
As for Dandelion herself, she was looking at Fleydur intently. She thought he was nervous and feared that he would say something rash. The members of the Iron Nest were only too ready to misinterpret if not outright twist his lessons in their notes.
But Fleydur started from the beginning and taught them the notes and the names of the scale. The children chanted the unfamiliar syllables: “Do, re, mi, fa, so, la, ti, do!”
“Very good, very good!” said Fleydur. “Now sing loudly; don’t be afraid, there’s hardly anybird to hear you, other than the Iron Nest. Call out in a clear, loud voice—try to match the sound of my trumpet!” Fleydur brought his silver trumpet to his beak and blew slowly, a note at a time, a lively, simple tune.
“Olga?” said Fleydur. “Why are you not singing?”
Olga fidgeted, and she did not open her beak for some time. “I’m just worried, Prince Fleydur,” she said. “I remembered that you can’t open your beak wider than thirty degrees!” Olga was acutely distressed. “It’s in the Handbook of the Feathered Aristocrat.”
“You read that thing?” said Pouldington, tugging at his collar, so that the four fat gold acorn pins there clacked against one another. Olga ducked her head, more uncomfortable than before, aware of her half acorn.
�
��You remember. ‘A refined eagle should at all times position the two mandibles of his or her beak at no greater than a thirty-degree angle.’” Olga tilted her head and gravely turned her profile to the group to demonstrate. “Twenty degrees for eating everything except caviar, for which twenty-five is permitted.”
“But your voice is truly beautiful, Olga,” said Fleydur. “You should open your beak wide and sing.”
At this, Olga burst into tears.
“The prince harshly coerces a well-bred young lady, who is versed in the fine literature of our traditions, to ‘sing,’ against her wishes!” whispered an old scholar to a colleague.
Fleydur looked very concerned. “Olga? Are you all right?”
Olga nodded through her tears. “Yes. Nobird … nobird has ever told me that I am beautiful!”
She sang the tune again, exactly as Fleydur had played upon his trumpet. Though her talking voice was deep and hoarse, when she sang, it was a surprisingly sweet soprano. Her song lingered, echoing faintly in the valleys all around.
All the children flapped their wings furiously in applause, and Fleydur clapped the hardest of all. The eight members of the Iron Nest frowned at one another.
“Tell me, Prince,” demanded one of the scholars. “What significance has this fooling around?”
“Why, sir, can’t you see how happy music can make us?” exclaimed Fleydur. “Music can brighten our lives every day. It’s all around us!”
“Even in the Castle of Sky?” Olga exclaimed.
Fleydur’s eyes twinkled. “I’ll show you. Class, we’ll have a music tour!”
Wiggling with anticipation and curiosity, the eaglets leaped up from the boulders and followed Fleydur back down to the castle. Fleydur fished drumsticks out of his pockets, which he twirled as he flew.
On the metal gates, the wooden doors, the glass windows he beat as he hummed a tune. Down the Hall of Mirrors he gently tapped his reflections, one after another. In the castle kitchens he swept past the cooks, drumming a hearty symphony on the pots and pans. He tapped the glass pitchers filled with water, appreciating their lingering pure notes.