Sword Mountain

by Nancy Yi Fan

  “What if we recite the passage perfectly?” Pudding croaked. “We get nothing?”

  Unruffled, Tranglarhad held up his cooked sausages and sank his beak into them. A burst of grease spattered the lapel of his coat. Silence consumed the class as they watched the owl chomp away at his sausages, his eyes and the grease spot both glistening dangerously. “You get the pleasure of watching the fate of those who did not—is that not enough?”

  Meanwhile, other ornate packages of all sorts began pouring into the castle, carried by swift falcon messengers, because the birthday of the king was fast approaching. Sigrid relished counting them, and the more she counted, brushing her claws over the ribbons and colorful wrapping paper, the wider she simpered. Her pleasure was interrupted by the sight of a plain brown package secured with yarn, somewhat dirty and wet with melted snow.

  “Who has the impudence to send such rubbish?” muttered Sigrid. She picked up the package, her eyes immediately drawn to the writing scrawled on one side: TO FLEYDUR, PRINCE OF SKYTHUNDER TRIBE, SWORD MOUNTAIN. It was from a woodpecker with a name that Sigrid found peculiar and unpleasant: Ewingerale.

  Why is this bird sending a package to Fleydur at the time of Morgan’s birthday? she wondered.

  Sigrid untied the yarn and opened the wrapping, careful not to rip the paper. She discovered a newly printed book whose green cover displayed the words Old Scripture. She opened it, held up the gold-rimmed glasses that had been Tranglarhad’s gift to her, and read cautiously. “Waste no time and effort blindly guarding what has always been, but devote yourself instead to new ways for improvement. For a lake to be sparkling, water must flow constantly, not be stagnant.”

  “I am not convinced!” Sigrid said. She thought back to the time when archaeopteryxes were at the height of power. She knew it was the discipline of the Sword Mountain’s rigid traditions that had helped eagles stay organized and avoid being enslaved, scattered, or forced to pay tribute. What worked well for us then, should work well for us now, Sigrid thought.

  More and more these days, however, it seemed to her that Fleydur’s popularity had robbed some eagles of their common sense. Fleydur needed to be shown that he was not infallible. Sigrid flung the book onto her table and instead read the letter in the package.

  It inquired if Fleydur’s plans were working well and if Fleydur would accept an invitation to celebrate the first Bright Moon Festival on the Island of Paradise. Sigrid was disappointed it did not reveal anything extreme.

  Sighing, Sigrid contemplated this package. She would not give it to Fleydur right away. It might still be useful to her. She locked it in her cabinet just as a knock sounded at her door.

  “Who is it?” said Sigrid with a start.

  “I, Tranglarhad, Your Majesty. I am here to give my nightly reading.”

  “Enter,” said Sigrid. She licked her beak to think of the soothing passages in the Book of Heresy as Tranglarhad opened the door and came into the room.

  “I also wish to express my good wishes to the king, for His Majesty’s birthday, as I, not being part of the court, have little opportunity to see His Majesty,” he said with a bow.

  Sigrid beamed. “That is very considerate of you, tutor.”

  “Hearing that His Majesty’s health is still uncertain, I thought to present something to him—a unique medicine,” said Tranglarhad. He handed Sigrid a beautifully wrapped present. She opened it and saw a small golden pill in a vial. “It’s no panacea,” he said, “but the wisdom of the owls may change the fate of the good king.”

  Knowledge acquired under threat of force can sleep in the inn of your mind, but will check out in the morning.

  —FROM THE OLD SCRIPTURE

  17

  TENSION

  On the day before the king’s birthday, Fleydur went to see Morgan. Sigrid intercepted him. “Your father is busy. What do you want?”

  “I want to borrow the Leasorn gemstone,” said Fleydur.

  “For what? The gemstone is a talisman for us eagles,” she declared. “It has to be kept safe.”

  “I only want to show it to my students during their last music lesson tomorrow.”

  Normally, Sigrid would have been appalled. But she paused and remembered some advice from the Book of Heresy: “Shoot your opponents with the proverbial arrows feathered by their own plumes.”

  A smile froze on her face. “Why, yes,” she said. “Yes, you may indeed. Tell the treasurer of your request tomorrow morning. Make sure the gemstone is returned without a scratch.”

  As Fleydur walked away, Sigrid’s claws twisted the chain that held her cabinet’s keys around her neck.

  “Smiles, anybird?” Tranglarhad shut the door behind him. “How many of you have memorized your passage? Or are you a bunch of eager little adventurers yearning for a penny or two?”

  Tranglarhad laid the Book of Heresy on his podium and pointed to Olga. “Please stand up.”

  Olga glanced frantically left and right.

  “Yes, you, Miss Olga,” said the owl. “You may start our delightful evening—I’ve heard that you have a lovely, loud voice.”

  Olga stood up unsteadily, touching her frilly cap.

  “Page 295, ‘On the Structure of Society,’” prompted Tranglarhad.

  Olga swallowed. “‘On the Structure of Society.’ ‘The pragmatic gentlebird might speak of equality,’” she said waveringly, “‘but actually to him, bias is beautiful, prejudice popular, discrimination … divine …’”

  “Ah, yes, praise be!” murmured the owl. “Do continue.”

  “‘The world must have a stratified order, as clear as … as clear as day and night. The detested spawn of those with low rank shall …’” Olga’s voice was shaking. Her eyes, downcast, were wet. She gripped the sides of her desk. “‘… shall remain servants. M-m-merit …’” She broke off, silently crying, as the cauldron crackled with oil.

  “‘Is nothing,’” snarled Tranglarhad. “Repeat this line again, clearly: ‘Merit is nothing. Birth is everything.’”

  Olga hid her face in her wing and shook her head. Tranglarhad’s face darkened. He opened the cauldron’s lid and beckoned to Olga.

  “Don’t move, Olga,” Dandelion said.

  “Oh?” said Tranglarhad. “Will you take her place, then?” He leered. “Will you stand up for a mountain topper? A summit bird?”

  Dandelion’s claws closed around the candle in her pocket. She stood up. Her heart hammered. “I will. We are all eaglets of Sword Mountain.” She swallowed. “Sir, do you believe what the Book of Heresy says?”

  Tranglarhad smirked. “Isn’t it what life on Sword Mountain’s summit shows?”

  “Do you believe that merit is nothing?” asked Dandelion. “Didn’t your merit as a teacher earn you this post?”

  Tranglarhad stared back at Dandelion.

  “Then do you believe in merit for yourself but deny it for everybird else?” she went on.

  Doesn’t everybird? thought Tranglarhad. For a moment, it was a relief to inflict on others the wounds he himself had suffered. But it was no time to let an argument with this princess take over the class. It might spoil his favor with the queen.

  Tranglarhad threw a piece of chalk into the cauldron.

  “Dismissed!” he shouted, and was the first to walk out.

  Cloud-wing, if you could see this now, Dandelion thought.

  She was still standing. And she realized that the eaglets stood with her.

  Making the most of every celebration? A piece of cake.

  —FROM THE BOOK OF HERESY

  18

  THE KING’S BIRTHDAY

  Winter clamped rows of glittering teeth over the castle’s windows. By day the icicles dripped slowly and sparkled under the cold white sun. By night they lengthened and sharpened.

  As the flags of the castle strained to be free, snowflakes fell and softened the edges of the mountain. Sword Cliff was covered in a sheath of immaculate snow.

  The king awoke and thought, My birthday! Tod
ay’s the only day of the year when a ruler can have fun.

  Then he thought, I am too old for fun. It was unhappy to be reminded of old age in such a dreary, cold season.

  “Morgan? Do you realize, it’s been a hundred—”

  “A hundred seasons that the mountain wind has carried me, yes,” he said with a sigh. “Oh, Sigrid, all is well! I am fine, the kingdom is recovering. Why the long face?” The king looked merry. “Somebird’s planning to send me a coffin as a birthday present, is that it?”

  Sigrid brought the king’s daily cocktail of medicines, along with the golden pill. “Take some medicine for your health, at least,” she said.

  Dandelion got up at dawn and opened her door to see the castle transformed.

  All the corridors were decked with purple banners that read HURRAH FOR THE KING! in gold letters. The faint buzz of voices coming from elsewhere in the castle thrilled Dandelion: The visitors had come. After donning formal dress, she flew down the spiral staircase, meeting Fleydur along the way. “It’ll be your first official appearance as the princess,” he said. “Come down to the hall.”

  Olga came by and approached Dandelion.

  “Dandelion, for what you did in class yesterday …” She looked at the ribbons tied on her feet. “I just wanted to say thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Dandelion.

  “And …” Olga’s voice trailed off. As they turned a corner, she blurted, “I’m sorry. For the things I did when you were sick. All of that, fake party and—”

  Dandelion extended a wing. “And now we’re going to a real party.”

  Olga touched her wing tip to Dandelion’s, and they flew side by side.

  “Are you nervous?” she asked Dandelion. “You know we’re going to perform this evening.”

  “I’m only excited,” Dandelion said.

  Eagles were packed into the banquet hall. The barons of other peaks in the mountain range were all there, and their children, who wore silver acorns on their collars instead of gold. Ambassadors from other tribes, and artisans, merchants, and farmers of Sword Mountain, mingled among them. Dandelion had never seen such a crowd before.

  Though the king had not yet made his appearance, the hall was full of activity. More birthday presents arrived by the minute, despite the mountains of gifts there already. Cooks bustled in and out with plates balanced on their heads. The castle staff rolled in barrels of cider and pulled a cart full of bottles of champagne. Watching everything, joy and excitement buoyed Dandelion so much that she felt she was rising to the chandeliers.

  It was truly a perfect day for Fleydur’s concert. Everybird was in a generous, merry mood. Even the advisers let the Handbook of the Feathered Aristocrat slip from their minds, for there was not one bird who was not grinning or laughing, and a lot of beaks were open wider than thirty degrees.

  A herald ran into the hall, cupped his talons near his bill, and shouted, “His Majesty is coming!”

  All the birds flew into the air. “The king! The king! Our beloved king!” they chanted.

  In a ceremonial gown of purple and white, a sword strapped to one side, a silver pen to the other, and a scepter in his claws, Morgan cried to the gathered crowd of well-wishers, “Thank you! It’s a day to remember!”

  He stood in the banquet hall, feeling the cheers fill his frail body with new life. He would need a lot of energy to get through the activities of the day. He’d had a headache earlier, after his talk with Sigrid, but he was feeling better at last.

  “Thank you all, birds of Skythunder, friends of Skythunder. I am honored that so many have come to celebrate my old age with me. I need not say more, for I know many of you are waiting for the cake!”

  Morgan gestured toward the center of the hall, where there was a chocolate cake.

  In truth, it was a mountain of goodness—a replica of Sword Mountain itself, crafted by a ten-eagle team of royal bakers and confectioners supervised by a sculptor. The day before, the undercooks had whitewashed the slopes of the cake with tubs of vanilla icing. They’d dusted green sprinkles on the base to mimic evergreen trees and capped the peak with shredded coconut that they’d bought from seagull traders. Ninety-nine candles of gold, purple, and green crowned its ledges. The hundredth candle, on the top of the cake, was shaped like Sword Cliff. So beautiful and beak watering it was that, for fear of thieves and pantry raiders, a platoon of guards had paced around the cake all night.

  Now it towered above everything else in the banquet hall, ample and majestic upon a platter as big as a fountain, and every pair of eyes in the Castle of Sky flickered to it longingly. Not only because the cake itself would be heavenly—

  “There is a wish coin baked into the cake,” Olga said in a hoarse whisper to Dandelion. “If your slice of cake has the coin, the king himself will grant you one wish! Anything, anything within his law and his power.”

  Dandelion was open beaked.

  “What would you wish for?” asked Olga.

  “Me?” said Dandelion. “I … I’d wish for …” She was already so content it was hard to think of anything more. She had friends, like Cloud-wing and Olga here, and family, like Fleydur. She had a home. She could wish for Fleydur’s music school to become permanent. However, she remembered that the Iron Nest also had a say in the matter, and Morgan couldn’t grant that by himself. If she got the wish coin, she could ask for a chance to go to the Rockbottom Academy.

  “Shut the curtains! It’s time for the lighting!” Everybird quieted as various birds of rank were given the honor of lighting the many candles on the mountain.

  Dandelion’s eyes slowly drifted down the miniature mountain as, one by one, the candles glowed, and she found the familiar outlines of the cliff where her family’s cave was. There was a candle there, too! She touched her own candle in her pocket, and it seemed to feel warm as well.

  Morgan flew around the cake, spiraling to the very top. All the birds sucked in their breath with the king. He blew at the Sword Cliff candle. The flame merely flickered. Morgan frowned. He sucked in a deeper breath and puffed. In the middle he suddenly broke off, coughing painfully.

  “Are you all right, Your Majesty?” asked the physician.

  “Just the chill, just the chill,” insisted the king, finally puffing once more and blowing out the candle. He looked dubiously at the ninety-nine candles left. Then he raised his head and said with smile, “Come, let us do this together.”

  Dandelion felt a glow in her heart. In this moment, the hundreds of eagles gathered here were like one huge family. They pressed up close to the cake, and all their breaths combined into one gust that put out the flames. The curtains were opened again. Tendrils of blue smoke curled toward the ceiling.

  “Announcements, Your Majesty?” said Amicus, the secretary of the court.

  “I declare,” said King Morgan, “I am starving!”

  The eagles could already imagine the first bite of cake melting deliciously on the tongue.

  Sigrid twitched nervously as she observed the distribution. The top layer went to the king. The rest of the cake was divided up and served according to rank, or birds received the slice of the mountain corresponding to where they actually lived.

  Sigrid wanted the wish coin so much that her talons made indentations in the plate she clutched. She knew what she’d wish for; she’d already written it down on a slip of paper—“Let Forlath be the heir to the throne of Sword Mountain, and let Fleydur go elsewhere to spread his ideas.”

  Sigrid grabbed a trident-sized fork and ate her slice voraciously, crumbs clinging to her feathers. But her piece was a generous portion. She picked up a carving knife and hacked the rest of her slice into crumbs, trying to find something solid. Nothing!

  Oh, who has the coin? thought Sigrid, desperate. Is it that valley bird, Dandelion?

  The only comfort was that Fleydur did not seem to have the coin either. The tradition was that the lucky bird would step forth sometime during the party to present a wish to the king. Many bird
s ate leisurely as they conversed, a nibble every few sentences.

  The wait was driving Sigrid crazy.

  Music makes a thousand hearts beat in rhythm together.

  —FROM THE OLD SCRIPTURE

  19

  THE COMMON THREAD

  Can you believe it’s over?”

  “The last music lesson.”

  “And then the performance.”

  “And then …”

  “Nothing. Nothing till tomorrow, when the Iron Nest votes.”

  Dandelion listened to the eaglets around her whisper. They were all gathered early in the small rehearsal room for a brief meeting, a short final lesson, before mounting the stage and singing to the king.

  “Do any of you have the wish coin?” asked Dandelion.

  “We can wish something for the music school,” added Olga. Everybird shook their heads.

  “The king can’t make that kind of decision without the Iron Nest,” said Pudding.

  “Oh, surely, surely we could wish something—to continue our music lessons, at least!” said Olga.

  But since none of them had the coin, it didn’t matter what they might have asked for.

  When Fleydur entered, the room fell into silence. He was clutching a small box, and two armed guards of the king stuck their heads into the room before nodding and closing the door.

  Pudding recognized the guards as those of the treasury. He pointed at the box. “Fleydur, is that …”

  Fleydur opened the box and took out the Leasorn gem, whose light bathed the faces of the students in wavering ripples of indigo, violet, and lavender.

  “The stone that belongs to no treasury, but to everybird,” he whispered.