by D. A. Metrov
No, it can’t be that. Get a hold of yourself.
Still, he’d never felt anything so incredible. His heart was aglow, like a blazing sun. It scared him. All of this. He was afraid to let it go on.
Out of nowhere, the force of a tornado slammed into him from behind. It drove him onto his face, and knocked the wind out of his lungs. Handower had answered his call, not as a meek and obedient steed, but as a deadly predator. The massive raptor stood atop his would-be master. Held him flat with one foot. It felt to Brighton like the broad, thick roots of an oak tree bearing down on him with its full weight.
Handower muscled him over. The giant’s head came toward his face. Brighton, who was still gasping for air, stared into Handower’s murderous eyes. He saw the falcon’s razor sharp beak open just slightly. He could smell the creature’s foul breath, its heat blanketing his skin.
“Get off me, you oversized canary,” he gasped.
Handower only glared at him. Brighton wished, in that instant, he’d been kinder to Handower. Wished he’d never used the crop. The bird had, after all, been his only companion for the last seven years.
But Handower wasn’t really bothered about the crop. He’d barely ever felt it. Brighton could see the bird’s deeper burden. The Magradore shared it with him in a vision—not the first time the bird somehow caused pictures to form in Brighton’s mind. It was the vision of Fumor and his mate, Handower’s parents, killed by poisoned goat meat. The vision of their carcasses crawling with maggots and rotting in the sun atop Mount Pegosa.
Brighton trembled as he stared at Handower’s face. He felt guilt and remorse for the first time since it had happened so many years ago. He closed his eyes. He was certain his life was now at a close. Nothing to do but accept it. And just as he was completely surrendered to his death, he received a message. It came not really in language, but in fleeting images and feelings. Brighton knew it was from Handower. And he knew exactly what it meant, as if somehow spoken from the mouth of a king.
My father was not at fault for your father’s death. The real killer is still at large. The only reason I will spare your life is because I am proud to serve your lineage—that of the great Falcon Riders of Perpetua. They were good and noble men. Fearless men who served and protected all creatures. I still have faith you will one day live up to your birthright.
Handower let him up. Brighton was shocked to see the monster drop to his belly. It was the position that would allow his rider to mount. The position Brighton had taught him before the bird was even able to fly.
Brighton got to his feet, his knees shaking. He tried to look into the falcon’s dark, shiny eyes—black as obsidian. But Handower would not look at him. Instead the bird turned his head the other way. Uneasy, Brighton climbed up into the saddle. He didn’t have to utter the command to fly. Handower took flight on his own. Before Brighton knew it they were flying over the tree tops, heading back toward the beach at Drakton.
After her bath, Bill wandered the beach in the direction Brighton had gone. She was wondering why he hadn’t returned. “Brighton!” She scanned the landscape. “Where is he, Mitor?” she said to her little wood and copper companion.
“There, master.”
She followed the robot’s gaze. She saw Handower’s mighty frame burst over the tree line, his long, powerful wings driving toward the beach. She saw a freshly killed deer hanging from his talons. And Brighton’s form hunched over on his back.
Handower landed in a rush of wind, and commenced to feed. Brighton slipped off his back. He walked, head hanging, toward Bill.
“He’d only gone off to hunt,” he said, then continued to amble down the beach.
Bill and Mitor watched him, sensing that some change had come over him. It was a change somehow brought about by his bird. She also caught a whiff of him, and realized he no longer smelled like old fish. She sat on a rock, propped her elbows on her knees, and held her chin in her hands. Mitor rolled up next to her, awaiting her command should she utter one. She stared out to sea and watched the gulls, some flying, some bobbing on the surface. She knew there was no sense arguing any further about what was next. Brighton had made up his mind with firm resolve. She would to return to Valkyrie to warn the citizens of a possible escalation of the war. And he would proceed to seek council from the legendary Seer of Buer. She wasn’t sure how she felt. But for now, she’d go along with his plan.
Chapter Eighteen
RECONCILIATION WITH A GHOST
The next morning, Bill sat on Handower’s back. Brighton could tell she was doing her best to maintain her poise. The big Magradore was in squatting position. Brighton whispered in his ear.
“I want you to take her to Valkyrie, then return here with speed. Do you understand?” Handower glanced at him, a knowing twinkle in his massive eye. Brighton stroked the falcon’s neck and breathed in his smells. He felt a new affection toward the giant who could have killed him with little effort the day before. Instead, the falcon had expressed faith in him as having the potential to become a great Falcon Rider. Encouragement Brighton cherished dearly.
Mitor stood nearby. Brighton thought the little robot looked somehow nervous. He took Handower’s reins, and moved toward Bill. He looked up and admired her for her beauty and her bravery. “You rode horseback as a girl. Same idea.” He handed her the leather straps. He’d already taught her the basic commands of flight and the other principles of riding the falcon. There was no time to teach her more.
Neither of them were able to talk. They looked into each other’s eyes. Brighton could sense, they both shared the same discomfort about parting. In an act that surprised him, she bent over the saddle. He watched her eyes and they looked different—warm and more mature than usual. He realized her mouth was coming toward his. Before he knew it, she was kissing him. Surely, it only lasted a moment or two, but it seemed to escape the restrictions of time. He thought his legs would go out from under him. His head swam. Electricity shot through his body. It was his very first kiss. He didn’t want it to end. But somehow it did, though he barely knew it. It would change him forever.
Bill smiled, but only for an instant. She grew serious again. Brighton knew it was because she was about to embark on the 383 terrameter journey to the west coast of Perpetua. She would ride on the back of a giant Magradore falcon who might or might not be inclined to carry her all the way there.
“You’ll be fine,” Brighton said, barely able to speak. “He will obey you and get you there safely.” He unclipped the flying goggles from his belt. He slipped them onto her head so they sat just above her eyebrows.
“You’ll be fine, too.” She nudged the bird in his ribs the way Brighton had showed her. “Eee Ochk!” she yowled. Handower leapt into the air and took flight. The back draft from his massive wings threw sand in Brighton’s face. The falcon gyrated in a flash of feathers, and swept back around. With outstretched talons, he plucked Mitor up off the ground.
Brighton watched them soar away, over the water. They banked toward the south, which would take them along the coast the same way they’d come. He and Bill held each other’s eyes for as long as they could. Before he knew what was happening, Brighton was running after her. Wait! Come back! He didn’t know if the words were coming out of his mouth, or if it was just his soul, screaming inside him. His fiery heart pounded like it had the day before. His emotions were a geyser about to burst through his chest.
He ran and stumbled until he could run no more. He fell to his knees. He watched the speck that was Handower disappear in the sky.
Keep her safe, Handower. Please keep her safe.
An hour later, he was climbing up to the old Temple of the Mountain Gods. He’d given Bill his water bag along with their provision of redberries. His stomach was growling, but he didn’t notice. He was still drugged by Bill’s kiss, though the effect was wearing off. He carried his belongings—his crossbow, the Teidalbaden, and the rest of his falconer’s gear—in his rucksack. He knew he’d have to pass the place
where he’d buried his father as a child. Don’t think about it. You’ll deal with that when the time comes. Right now, find the Seer. Get his advice on winning the war. Time. Running out.
He picked his way, using his hands and his feet, up the steep, narrow trail. He took note of Pello’s and Biffee’s paw prints that had been made two days before. Amazing. They were running here. And I’m moving slow as a snail. He was now in plain view of the dirigible shipping docks way above, buzzing to and from the mountain top. He could be spotted by guards or workers should they scan the cliffs with their telescopes.
He came to a section where the trail had eroded away completely. A steep gravel slide ran all the way down to the big rocks on the beach several hundred leapspans below. He was forced to stop and dig footholds with the tips of his boots. He moved with care lest he slip and end up down there—bruised, bloodied, and most likely dead. Rocks and dirt cascaded from under his feet. He clung with his fingertips and hugged the face of the cliff. As he pulled himself around a bend in the rock, he saw, in the distance, the ledge where Fumor had torn out his father’s heart.
The bloody event flashed into his mind so vividly, it was as if it were happening all over again. He felt something tighten in his gut, a feeling he loathed. A feeling he knew he had to endure until it went away on its own. Just as it had so many times in the past.
He slipped and slid several leapspans, clawing his fingers into the earth to stop himself. My fingers are bleeding. Damn, it hurts. Why am I doing this?
He hung there, helpless, trying to catch his breath. He managed to turn his head and look down at the waves crashing on the rocks. If he fell, that’s where he’d be. And if the fall took his life, the crabs would feed on his flesh. The gulls would pluck out his eyes before he was taken by the sea.
And so he closed his eyes. He slipped again. His lungs pumped like bellows.
Maybe I should have stayed with Bill. Gone with her back to Valkyrie. Let Wark and his fighters deal with this. When he tried to move again, he only slipped farther. I must be crazy.
“Brighton.”
The voice startled him so severely he nearly lost his grip completely. It was a voice he recognized. He turned his head. He saw something—hovering in the air behind him. A shimmering of light. But it had said his name. He slipped. He felt that searing pain in his fingertips as he tried desperately to stop himself. He heard someone breathing. The hair stood up on the back of his neck. He craned. Found that light again. He squinted his eyes from the ocean’s glare. And finally, he realized, what could only have been the ghost of Lord Aviamore was floating next to him.
The ghost was dressed in ghostly armor, including a helmet. It covered his face save for almond-shaped windows where his eyes would be. Brighton peered into the blackness looking for a glimmer of light. He could see none, only a hollow within that had no end.
“Vada?” He could barely breathe.
The ghost drifted closer to him, right next to his face. “Don’t be frightened, son. I’m sorry to appear to you this way.”
“Vada!” Brighton felt terrified and elated at the same time.
“Are you really having second thoughts?” the ghost said. “Wavering? About your duty?”
Brighton slipped again and slid several feet. The fall scratched his face, and drew blood from his chin. “Help me.”
“I cannot. I’m only spirit. You must help yourself!”
Brighton’s chest heaved for breath. Sweat ran down his temple. He dug his nails and knees into the dirt. He tried to inch his way forward to some secure position.
“I’m a fool,” he said. “I should have devised a better plan. Obviously.” He slipped again. Again he dragged his face across the rock to help brake his fall. Again, the blood trickled from tiny scratches on his skin. “I can’t imagine you in this situation. Sliding off the face of a cliff.” His voice quivered with fear.
Lord Aviamore whispered as if he were inside the young man’s head. “I’ve been in such situations more times than you’ll ever know.”
Brighton drove his fingers and boot tips into the dirt. He edged himself a few inches across the face of the cliff. He managed to glance at his father’s ghost.
“Vada.”
“You can make it, son,” said Lord Aviamore. His voice was as soothing as a brook flowing over smooth stones.
“I always felt responsible for your death.” The words had come out as if they were independent entities. Prisoners escaped from the dungeons of his psyche. The place where they’d huddled in terror and darkness for so, so long.
“Nonsense!” said the ghost. “I was responsible for my death. No one else.”
“But you were teaching me when it happened. Teaching me how to be a Falcon Rider. If you hadn’t—” Brighton slipped and slid a good ten feet. He felt his feet riding over tiny ridges and rock nubs, but couldn’t catch hold of them. Then somehow he stopped again. He hung there, hugging the rock. He realized he was trembling and sweating and losing the strength in his hands. He wondered if he could ever get out of this predicament alive.
“Brighton. You must let that go. Let it go once and for all.”
Brighton had never thought about letting it go. He’d always felt it was his duty to hang on to the guilt and shame for as long as he lived. Felt it would be a dishonor to his father, and an even greater sin on his own soul, should he ever do otherwise. He felt responsible for bearing the burden of his father’s murder. He felt it was his punishment, and a deserving one.
“Your guilt is false. Self-imposed!”
The ghost was growling now, bristling with intensity. “If you don’t let it go, it will destroy you. And you’ll never live up to your true potential. This is the most important lesson I could ever have taught you. Guilt and shame will strangle the life out of you. Cut you off from the Dragon’s Breath!”
The ghost circled Brighton’s head, floating through the stone as easily as through the air.
“Dragon’s Breath, Vada?” He vaguely remembered his father using the phrase when he was still alive.
“What I’m about to tell you is normally taught on a Falcon Rider’s twelfth birthday. But my life was cut short. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Brighton clung to the rock with all his might. He realized he could barely keep his eyes open. The ghost of Lord Aviamore was beginning to glow with some strange, piercing light.
“The Dragon’s Breath comes from within. It creates all that is and ever will be. It animates the smallest particles of creation—every beast, all the planets and suns in the universe. Without it, life cannot be. Without it, life withers into something ugly and untrue. You must open yourself to it, son. Surrender to it. Become its instrument. Once you do that, nothing can hurt you. Nothing can stop you. It will do your bidding. You will enjoy victory, abundance, power, and love. Whatever it is you want. But you must know what you want! You must have a vision. A goal. And you must focus on that goal with unwavering confidence.” The ghost of Lord Aviamore was now glowing brighter than the sun.
Brighton hung there, his eyes closed. He knew he was hearing the wisest words he could ever possibly hear. He rejoiced in this wisdom. Yet he still doubted it alone would save him from falling to his death. He forced his eyes open, just a crack.
“How? How do I surrender to this Breath?”
“You only need to intend it,” his father said. “Say the words: ‘I surrender to the Breath of the Dragon.’ Say them with your whole heart and soul. Then appreciate yourself. Never harbor guilt or shame. Always make sure you feel good about yourself. Inside. Not proud and arrogant, but humble, worthy, and deserving. Do good, be of service. If you err, know that everyone errs. Forgive yourself, and move on. The Breath feels better than anything you can possibly feel. Embrace it. Become one with it. Stay positive and grateful for all your blessings. And the Breath of the Dragon will create through you a world beyond your wildest dreams.”
Though he was hardly aware of it, Brighton was already regaining his foo
ting. The next thing he knew, he was leaning back against the cliff side, his feet planted on solid ground. The ghost of Lord Aviamore hovered like a star over the ocean a single leapspan away from him now.
“It is the ultimate magic, son. It may be employed only by those who are deserving. Cast away your fears. Shine like the sun, the way you shone as my little boy. Know what you want in life, then know you will have it with absolute confidence. Smile in the face of evil, and offer it love. Then you will become the greatest Falcon Rider who ever lived.”
Brighton was so moved by his father’s words, he felt his eyes well. His vision blurred. He knew tears were coming, but blinked them away. No time for that.
The ghost began to grow faint. “I cannot stay here much longer. Assure me that you understand.”
Brighton wasn’t sure whether he completely understood or not. He sensed a realization, but it was not within his mind. It was something in his heart.
“I must know what I want with full resolve. Then I must allow the Dragon’s Breath to bring it about.”
“Excellent! You said it better than I.”
Brighton felt the tension abate from his body. “Thank you, Vada.”
“One more thing, my son.” Lord Aviamore now whispered into his ear. “When you look into the eyes of the Dark Lord, tell him… your mother will bring about his end.”
“My mother?”
The ghost of his father dissolved back into the ethers.
My mother. What did he mean? What could he possibly mean? Brighton stared into space, for how long, he didn’t know. Finally, he realized he was losing light. If he were to make it to the Temple of the Mountain Gods before nightfall, he had to keep moving. He climbed again, his spirit renewed.