Sword Mountain

by Nancy Yi Fan

  “Don’t know. It may be one of the princes,” said the soldier as he left. Tranglarhad closed the classroom door, his face solemn and glum as he latched it shut. As the confusion of shouts and fluttering wings and crackling torches went past, Tranglarhad bellowed to his class, “A shocking thing has happened on the mountain!”

  He stomped up and down the rows of the desks, piercing each pupil with his gaze. “Stealing is a treacherous, hideous, abominable act. Do you hear me? How many of you have stolen something, even a crumb of food?” Beneath his feathers, Tranglarhad’s face was dark red. “Be ashamed of yourself! It is wrong to take something that is not yours.” As he spun around, he could feel the weight of the gemstone against the secret pocket over his heart.

  “Tonight—this scandal—let this be a lesson!” A beat of the gong rang after his final word.

  It was easy to declare an emergency and end class early. None of the worried parents who swarmed into the classroom noticed or cared when Tranglarhad slipped away from the castle. Cauldron hanging from one claw, the Book of Heresy in the other, the owl turned his head around for a last furtive look at the summit. The layer of snow that covered Sword Cliff like a sheath had crumpled off. Underneath, the gray granite, sharp and shining and gilded with ice, blazed in the moonlight like a bared blade. Tranglarhad smiled a smile nobird saw. He and his gliding shadow on the white snow seemed to gradually merge into one as he descended toward the foot of the mountain.

  Sigrid kept close behind the flood of fear-stricken eagles. “Hoy!” shouted the guards, banging at the door to Fleydur’s study.

  “What do you want?” cried Uri.

  “Open up!” the crowd yelled back.

  The door creaked open, and Fleydur stood there, his face gaunt in the torchlight. “What?”

  “Search his room. Is he hiding the gemstone?”

  Fleydur staggered back, gripping the Old Scripture, as the eagles flew past him and started pulling out his drawers, yanking back the curtains, flinging books off his shelves, and rummaging in his closet. And still the gong rang on.

  Sigrid hung back in the shadows, clutching her shawl around her, her heart beating wildly.

  “I’ve found something!” called out one of the soldiers. All activity stopped. The soldier lifted a silk cloth from the floor behind Fleydur’s desk.

  “It’s the cloth that was wrapped around the gemstone!”

  Sigrid stepped up. “But where is the stone itself?”

  Fleydur shook his head slowly, not comprehending. “I don’t have it.”

  The strike of the gong was loud in the silence that followed.

  “You do. You should!” Sigrid accused him. “The cloth is here. The gem has to be in your room!”

  “He’s hiding it,” insisted somebird.

  “I took nothing; I left the gemstone in the rehearsal room, with the guards! Haven’t they taken it back?” cried Fleydur.

  Sigrid squinted triumphantly. “With your own trick, we’ll know if the gem is nearby. Tell the Leasorn to sing your heart!”

  Fleydur reluctantly did, but there was no response.

  “Fleydur didn’t do it,” added Uri. “It must have been that thief who planted that cloth here. I cut his talon, see?” The valet showed everybird the fragment of nail.

  Sigrid’s heart did a somersault. The gemstone was now truly gone. Things were beginning to slip out of her talons. But perhaps it was all for the better, she reasoned to herself. Now Fleydur would be truly condemned.

  “Your Majesty, what will we do? Shall we inform the king?” said one of the eagles.

  “No. Not yet,” said the queen.

  Then a messenger burst into the room. “The king!” he shouted, his eyes wide with horror. “The king is dead!”

  And then nothing. Nobird spoke a word. Even the air they breathed felt as if something was dreadfully amiss. And they realized that the one hundred beats were done, and the gong, like a heart, had gone silent.

  In the airless vacuum left by fear, reason suffocates.

  —FROM THE OLD SCRIPTURE

  21

  OUT OF CONTROL

  The banquet hall, as Dandelion flew past, had been abandoned. Only a few of the castle staff hurried here and there. The sound of their work clearing plates and forks echoed like the clattering of bones.

  She’d sensed the clamor wind its way up to Fleydur’s tower. After class had abruptly ended and eaglets had been whisked off by agitated parents, Dandelion had already started to hear piercing cries from the king’s tower.

  Eagles were streaming in the corridors. The physician brushed past Dandelion and sped toward the king’s tower. “Can’t be, his health was better … can’t die …”

  When she had turned back to confront Tranglarhad, the owl had vanished. Now the next best thing to do was to find and inform Fleydur. She listened for noises from Fleydur’s tower. There was no more shouting. As she neared his study, Fleydur’s valet appeared in the doorway.

  “He’s been arrested, Dandelion,” Uri croaked.

  “What?” cried Dandelion. “You don’t mean for—”

  “Yes, they say he’s the gemstone thief!” said Uri bitterly.

  Dandelion threw her claws in the air. “How can he be? He has no reason to steal the gemstone! And he couldn’t have been the intruder in his own room. Tranglarhad’s the thief. Just now in class, one of his nails was missing. He’s left the castle.”

  “Nasty piece of work, that owl,” the valet said darkly. “But how can we prove he did it if he’s gone?”

  Dandelion needed somebird who had power to listen to her. Queen Sigrid hired Tranglarhad, she remembered. Maybe she’ll know where he might have gone. To be sure, Sigrid did not like Dandelion much, but surely the queen would want to find the true thief and recover the eagles’ Leasorn gem. “Do you think the queen will help me?” Dandelion asked the valet.

  “No, don’t go! The danger—”

  “I have to do something!”

  Dandelion swung around and flew down the hall toward the queen’s chamber, hoping to find answers. Entering without knocking, she peered about in the gloom of the antechamber.

  “Your Majesty?” Dandelion called out. She saw only abandoned teacups. She heard a sound behind her. The hummingbird handmaid was there.

  “Where’s Fleydur, do you know?” she asked. “I need to see him.”

  The hummingbird made a gesture of shackles and then pointed at the floor below. Dandelion’s heart sank.

  “Who’s talking in there?”

  Dandelion spun around. Sigrid was in the hall.

  “Fleydur’s innocent!” said Dandelion.

  “Get out,” said the queen.

  “He didn’t steal the gemstone, Your Majesty—”

  “Get out!”

  “—I know who did.”

  The queen froze. “What?” she said. Dandelion explained.

  “Impossible.” Sigrid’s eyes widened. She swayed on her feet.

  “But he’s disappeared. You know Mr. Tranglarhad, Your Majesty—”

  “Enough!” shouted Sigrid, her feathers puffed up in rage. “You accuse Tranglarhad, an esteemed educator, of such a heinous crime? Not one more word, you hear?”

  “But I—”

  “You have no right to talk back to me. Especially since you are no princess. Your title is revoked since the arrest of Fleydur.” The queen snatched the gold circlet from Dandelion’s head.

  “Your Majesty!” begged Dandelion.

  “You have no power or place here,” said Sigrid. “Whatever you know amounts to nothing.”

  Convinced that she’d get no help from the queen, Dandelion flew out of the room, banging the door behind her.

  “Leave this mountaintop once and for all!” screeched the queen behind her.

  Dandelion dashed up to her chamber. Injustice was not unfamiliar to her now. The only way to deal with it was to prove Fleydur was innocent. Though her heart was with Fleydur, she knew that even if she yelled herself hoa
rse and cried herself blind, she could not help him at all. She needed to take action on his behalf. If there was a trial, it would be impossible for her to testify for Fleydur effectively with Sigrid in control. Dandelion needed to track down Tranglarhad and retrieve the gemstone. It was the only way she knew out of this living nightmare.

  Dandelion considered asking Olga, Pudding, or some of the other eaglets to join her. But no, she thought. Though they love Fleydur, they aren’t trained to fight. It is too much to ask of them. I cannot lead them away from their families and into danger. As Dandelion tied Wind-voice’s sword to her side with Cloud-wing’s rope, she told herself that she was not afraid of what lay beyond the mountain. She would not hesitate to leave the safety of the castle, if she could save somebird’s life.

  She would go to Rockbottom. Cloud-wing was trained in swordplay and had friends there who could fight as well. He could help her rescue Fleydur.

  Sigrid flew toward the king’s tower. Emotions boiled inside the queen’s chest, but the dominant one was painful incredulity.

  Morgan cannot be dead!

  She burst into the king’s room. The physician and the castle staff tried to dissuade her, but she pushed past. Morgan was perched by an open window, his back to her, leaning over a piece of paper on his desk. He had a quill in his talons. And blood, a thin trickle of it, dripped, dripped, dripped from his beak.

  A strange, twisted cry came from Sigrid’s throat.

  She rushed forward to touch Morgan on his shoulder. At the slight pressure he collapsed backward into her wings, his head lolling. His eyes were glazed, half closed, an expression of faint surprise in them.

  Sigrid hugged her husband’s body close to her. She glanced back at the blood-spattered paper and saw with shock what had been blocked from her sight by Morgan’s body. One word scrawled in hasty, slanted writing, in the agony of death: FLEYDUR.

  Was Morgan showing who had killed him?

  At the emergency assembly, snow lashed the windows. The dead king’s spirit seemed to linger and moan in anguish from every corner. Even through the walls, they heard a high singing noise, a horrible sound that went on and off like the whetting of a blade—the wind shrieking as the sharpened edge of Sword Cliff cut into it.

  Torchlight flickered. Fleydur stood on the black-and-white checkered floor. Faces of those in the Iron Nest were fixed upon him, glimmering with tears. Only fifteen advisers were present in their chessboard formation. A court replacement for Simplicio had not been found, but there was no gap—Sigrid stood, leading the Iron Nest. In a widow’s black satin dress and a black veil, with a coral brooch glittering like a drop of blood at her throat, the queen pointed an accusing talon toward Fleydur.

  “Let me see Father, please....” Fleydur was sobbing softly.

  “Are you happy now? With what you’ve done?” said Sigrid, gritting her beak.

  “Order!” shouted the secretary, Amicus. “Your Majesty, there are two charges made against Prince Fleydur,” he said, his voice shaking. He had to take a deep breath to continue. “First, the murder of the late king, a double offense: regicide and patricide. Second, the theft of the greatest treasure of the kingdom.” Through his own tears, he surveyed the members of the court. “As the king is no longer with us, by law we cannot hold trial for one as high as a prince.”

  “Continue on. Somebird else must become king,” said the treasurer.

  Another adviser spoke. “Who? The king left no complete will.”

  “Then the eldest son—” began the general.

  “No!” screamed Sigrid. “You cannot crown a crim—” She stopped herself, took a deep breath, and addressed Fleydur without facing him. “You are under suspicion, Fleydur. You cannot ascend the throne unless you are proven to be innocent.”

  Fleydur looked dazed. His beak opened soundlessly.

  Glancing at Fleydur, Amicus frowned with uncertainty. “Then in order for tonight’s trial to continue, we will ask the next in line for the throne, Prince Forlath, to assume temporary power.”

  “Yes,” said Sigrid.

  “No, I can’t! I won’t be able to …,” said Forlath. He lowered his head under Sigrid’s gaze. “If … if I must,” he whispered.

  Noting that the theft seemed to have occurred before the king’s death, the secretary turned to the subject of the gemstone, to get a better sense of how the night had unfolded. Like the snow heaping outside, evidence against Fleydur mounted. Numerous birds testified to his early departure from the hall, before the end of the birthday celebration. Two birds confirmed that they had seen Fleydur heading toward the rehearsal room.

  “Do you recognize these birds, Fleydur?” Sigrid asked.

  Fleydur nodded. “I saw them earlier this evening.”

  “We were guarding the gemstone in the rehearsal room, during the performance,” declared one guard. “At intermission, two other guards relieved us. Just as we were leaving the door and headed for the banquet hall, we met Fleydur going in the opposite direction.”

  “But I wasn’t going to the rehearsal room,” said Fleydur. “I was going to see Father.” He was met with disbelieving looks. “Why would I want to steal the gem anyway?” he pleaded. “Why would I steal from my own tribe?”

  A scholar beat his wings at Fleydur. “I overheard my grandson discussing Fleydur’s last music lesson. He said that Fleydur believed that the Leasorn gem is not ours and shouldn’t be in our treasury!”

  “Guards from the second shift, step forward,” ordered Amicus. “How was the gem stolen while you were on guard?”

  The queen listened as her hired birds rehearsed the answer she concocted. “We believe we were tricked. Fleydur’s valet acted as the decoy, by crying about an intruder in the castle and begging our help! When we returned, the gem was gone. We were lured.”

  “And don’t forget, the gemstone cloth was found in Fleydur’s room,” Sigrid added.

  “Now answer me truthfully, Fleydur,” said Amicus. “Where is the gemstone now?”

  “I don’t know,” said Fleydur.

  “He won’t admit to the theft.” Sigrid turned to the secretary. “Ask him about King Morgan’s death!”

  “The staff in the king’s tower said that you came over to see the king tonight, correct?” said Amicus.

  Fleydur nodded.

  “They tell us that you and your adopted daughter visited the king after he left the banquet hall. The king was fine before you came. They say he died shortly after you left. What went on between the two of you?”

  “He told me how he loved the music. He wanted to know if I would stay.”

  “Oh, really?” Sigrid said. “Then what about this?” Sigrid showed the court the paper she had taken from Morgan’s desk. “See? Morgan himself named his killer!”

  “Perhaps our late king was only writing Fleydur’s name to announce His Majesty’s heir. King Morgan did say he’d start on his will tonight,” said the general.

  “Tell me, then, why is the paper bloodstained?” Sigrid raised the sheet high for all to see.

  Birds murmured, frowning.

  “And you promised,” whispered Sigrid to Fleydur. She turned to the court. “Check his words! You all heard him promise he wouldn’t break his father’s heart.” Sigrid placed a set of talons upon her own chest. “But now our king’s heart is broken, utterly broken.” Her words turned into sobs.

  “Let us vote. Is Fleydur guilty of the two crimes, yea or nay?” said Amicus. He turned to the bronze scales. “O founder eagle of our mountain, who sees truth and falsehood alike, show us which direction now the Skythunder tribe is to fly.”

  Fleydur had known he would hear those words again. But, instead of an assembly to vote on his dream of a music school, there was an assembly to try him for atrocities committed against his own father!

  He lifted his eyes toward the bronze eagle of the balance. The eagle that had seemed so kindly to him before this now stared emptily ahead. The advisers placed their voting stones on the scale.

&nb
sp; How the bronze eagle groaned, tilting far to one side, as if it had been stabbed in the back. Fleydur listened to the staccato of yeas.

  Ten yeas. Five nays.

  Then Forlath, holding the king’s three-vote stone, chose nay, but it was no use: with his vote it was still ten to eight. The vote was close—yet this time, the king’s stone did not shift the balance.

  “Prince Fleydur,” boomed the secretary. “The Iron Nest has found you guilty.”

  “An eye for an eye, a feather for a feather, a death for a death!” the Iron Nest chanted.

  Sigrid flung the black veil from her face. “Nothing less than death!” she agreed. The shouts grew to a feverish pitch, nearly drowning out Forlath’s voice:

  “No!”

  Sigrid glared at Forlath, who was gripping Morgan’s scepter tightly.

  Forlath did not look at Fleydur. “Father’s funeral must be attended to first—that is the law. You cannot tarnish a king’s burial with the death of a criminal. The execution will be postponed.” He struck the ground with his scepter, his face a cold mask. “Till then, throw him into the dungeon!”

  It had been generations since the dungeon had been inhabited, years since it was last opened. Many did not know what it looked like, so they crept to the padlocked entrance and watched the guards oil the rusted locks and push open the creaking, heavy iron door. A foul wind of mildew and rot blew out.

  Fleydur glanced back once, as the two guards steered him down into the dark mouth of the dungeon. His heart tore against his ribs. Never had he imagined anybird accusing him of killing his father. He had done nothing! No, he corrected himself. He had done something. He had returned home when nobird wanted him to.

  Hurry, scurry, work and worry: helter-skelter, hurly-burly.

  —FROM THE BOOK OF HERESY

  22

  HURRYING

  It is done,” Tranglarhad said, slamming the iron door behind him. Silence filled the vast space in the Castle of Earth, for all the owls there knew what he meant. Tranglarhad hurried toward his laboratory in the depth of the caverns. There, Kawaka stood up, angry. “Finally you return!”