Firebirds Soaring

by Sharyn November

  As I thought this, glad shouts sounded from the courtyard below: “High king! High king!” Gwal Wredkyte and his heir Korbye and their royal retinue had returned from hawking.

  Although I seldom adorned myself, this day I took off my simple shift and put on a gown of heavy white silk edged with lambswool black and gray. I brushed my hair and plaited it and encased the ends of the braids in clips of gold. I placed upon my head a golden fillet. Around my neck I hung a silver lunula, emblem of the goddess.

  For a long time I looked at myself in my polished bronze mirror that had been Mother’s before she died.

  Finally I took my newfound treasure—a ring the size of a warrior’s armband, just as the black sow’s owner had said—and I slipped it onto my left arm up to my elbow, where it hid itself beneath the gown’s wide sleeve.

  Then I went down to dine with my father and my cousin.

  I found them in the best of spirits.

  “Wren!” My father stood up, tall and kingly, his bronze beard shining in the torchlight, to greet me with a kiss.

  “Cousin,” declared Korbye, rising also, with equal courtesy if less enthusiasm. A comely lout accustomed to having his way with any maiden he fancied, he took it ill that his gallantries could not deceive me. Nevertheless, he held my chair and saw me seated at the small table on the dais, apart from the long ones down below where castle folk ate by the dozen. All could see the high king and his family, but none could hear what we said.

  While the three of us ate mutton soup, pork in currant sauce, and oat scones with gooseberry jam, Korbye and Father told me of hawking, how well the ger-eagle had flown, and how Korbye’s goshawk had taken a brace of hares. Not until the cheese and biscuits were served did Father ask me, “And what heard you today in the court of justice?”

  “Little enough. A matter of swine.”

  A matter of a nose ring that had, I suspected, empowered an old sow mottled like a black moon to destroy an entire field of barley.

  In other words, to do what would otherwise have been impossible.

  Facing the high king across the table, I drew a deep breath, looked into his eyes, and spoke: “Father, if your only living child were a son instead of a daughter, would he be your heir?”

  And even as he opened his mouth to reply, my heart began to beat like a war drum, hard and fierce and triumphant, for yes, yes, it was true, the ancient ring thing hidden under my sleeve endowed me with a new kind of power: not just power to know truth, but also power to impose my will.

  This I knew because my father, High King Gwal Wredkyte, answered me like a servant, whereas he should have rebuked me most angrily for asking such an impudent question at such an ill-chosen time. He should have risen and roared and ordered me to leave the table. But instead, without so much as lifting his eyebrows, he replied, “It is the custom that the king’s sister’s son should be his heir.”

  Indeed, such was the very old tradition, a reminder of the time when kinship was reckoned through the woman. But now that men also laid claim to their children, this ancient way of thinking no longer held force of law.

  I demanded of my father, “And to this custom you cleave?”

  “Yes.”

  He lied.

  My sooth-sense told me: if I were a boy instead of a girl, I would be the next high king.

  But letting no emotion show in my face, I nodded and turned to my cousin, the sister-son, the chosen one. “Korbye,” I asked him, “when you are king, will you think more of the clansfolks’ well-being or of your own pleasure?”

  And quite tamely, as if I sat in judgment and he stood before me, he answered, “Of course I will consider always first and foremost the needs of my clans, my people.”

  He lied.

  He would consider always first and foremost his own greed.

  Why, then, should he be high king after my father?

  Why not I? With this ring of power on my arm, I could make my father do as I pleased. I could claim the throne. I could be the first high queen, Vranwen Alarra of Wredkyte, earthly avatar of the moon, and no one would ever again dare to cry at me, “Wren this” and “Wren that.” Embodiment of the goddess, I would rule my people for their own good. I would rid the clans of brigands and thieves, lying snakes such as Korbye—

  Kill him?

  Yes.

  How best to have it done? Behead him?

  Too noble.

  Hang him?

  Too gentle.

  Torture first. The thumbscrews, the rack. Next, burn him at the stake or rend him limb from limb with horses—

  And then such horror shook me that I am sure it showed on my face, for never before had such fancies manifested in me.

  Enormities.

  Cold as the moon.

  My own thoughts unnerved me so that I leapt up from my unfinished dinner. Gasping, “Excuse me,” I fled.

  Through the dark-timbered doorway to the shadowy courtyard I ran, across the cobbles to the postern gate, out of my father’s stronghold and away across the moors to the same place I had visited so sunnily earlier that same day, at the edge of the sea cliff.

  There I halted, panting.

  Not far away stood the tower of stone with the huge boulder rocking as gently as a cradle atop it.

  Overhead a full moon swam like a swan amid scudding clouds. The sea wind blew strong, lifting my gown’s wide sleeves as if I might take flight. Below, the breakers roared, gleaming silver-green in the moonbeams.

  I snatched from my arm the ring of that same sheen, the color of the moonlit sea. I lifted that circle of mystery metal in both hands, presenting it to the goddess in the sky. Surrounding her, it shone like her dark and hollow sister.

  It called to me.

  My horror had passed, seeming of no account. More than ever, I yearned to cherish my treasure and be powerful. Destiny had given this ring to me to make me a queen.

  “Wren? ”

  A man’s voice, behind me. Turning, lowering my arms, I knew who it was.

  “Father.”

  He strode forward to stand beside me, shining golden even in the silver moonlight. Quite gently he asked, “What is that you held up to the sky?”

  I gripped the ring with both hands. Instead of answering my father’s question, I said harshly, “Korbye should not be king.”

  “Why so?”

  “He lied. He cares only for himself.”

  “Granted, he is a greedy young boar hog now, but do you not think he will change as he grows older?”

  “Think you so?”

  If he had said yes, he would have spoken untruth, and he did not dare. He did not know any longer what I would do, whether I might call him liar to his face. He knew only that something had vastly changed, and he guessed why.

  He said, “Give me that thing you are holding.”

  “No.” I stepped away from him so that he could not seize the ring.

  Never in my life had I defied him so.

  Always in his kiss on my face I had felt approval for my obedience.

  Which did not necessarily mean that he loved me.

  Or that he would not kill me if I threatened his power.

  He scowled fit to darken the moonlight. With perilous softness he addressed me. “Wren—”

  “Vranwen,” I ordered, clutching the ring, feeling its chill metal awake and puissant in my grasp. “I am Vranwen Alarra.”

  I think he tried to stride toward me but could not move. He gasped as if something strangled him. Three times he drew choking breath before he whispered in a ragged voice, “Vranwen Alarra, guard that ring well if you wish to keep your life.”

  “Seize it!” shouted another voice. Korbye’s. He lunged from where he had been hiding, listening, in the shadow of the stone tower.

  And because I had not known he was there, because I had not turned the force of my will upon him, he could have done as he said. Before I could face him he leapt toward me—

  Then without making a sound as it left its perch, as silently
as an owl in flight, the giant boulder stooped from atop the tower of rock.

  Fell.

  Thudded down upon him.

  Flattened him within an eyeblink. Took him. No part of him to be seen ever again.

  For all mortal purposes, Korbye was no more.

  Father stood as if he himself had turned into a tower of stone. And I heard a sound like the harsh cry of a sea hawk. Maybe from him. Maybe also from me.

  I know not how long we stood like wood before Father whispered, “Daughter, did you wish this?”

  “No.”

  “Did you—power of that ring—”

  “It acted of its own will.” And in that moment I knew what it might make of me.

  An avatar of the moon goddess, yes. One of whose forms was that of a black sow who devoured her own newborn babies.

  Trembling, I flung the ring away. Off the cliff. Into the roaring, all-grasping breakers of the sea.

  There I knew it would be safe. The sea needed no more power than it already possessed. Indifferent, it would drop the ring somewhere and forget it.

  I turned, once more only a stubby dun-skinned girl named Wren.

  Standing at the cliff’s edge, I said to my father, “Kill me if you will.”

  He faced me for a long moment before he said softly, “Daughter, I could never do you harm.”

  I breathed out.

  “But there is a fate on you that may kill you yet,” he said, his voice as taut as a war drum’s stretched dry pigskin. “What is it, my daughter? You wish to rule after I am gone?”

  I shook my head. “Should I attempt it, some clan chief will slay me and take the throne.” Just as someone might well have slain me for the sake of the ring.

  “What then? What is this destiny that mantles you?”

  I closed my eyes and let my mind search the night for the invisible sooth. And I found it.

  Indeed, I thought as I opened my eyes, I should have known it before.

  Slowly, gazing upon my father’s sober face, I told him, “I am to be your kingmaker.”

  On the moonlit heather a shadow moved. I looked up: low over my head an owl flew. Just an ordinary brown owl, most likely. I barely glimpsed it before it disappeared.

  At the same time something invisible winged between my father and me, some understanding beyond words but not beyond awe.

  And fear. Great fear.

  But I loved my father. I whispered, “Somewhere, growing pure like a golden rose in some hidden place, there is a true chosen one who should rule after you. I will quest for him. And I will find him for you.”

  And also for myself, for he would be my prince, my true love, and I would wed him even though I knew that thereby death awaited me. As clearly as if I saw it in a mirror of polished silver, I knew that on the day they placed the golden torc of the high king on his neck, I would die. In childbirth. Of a daughter, who would someday be high queen.

  Yet this was what I knew I must do. I told my father, “I will find him even if it means the oaken staff and the crown of mistletoe.”

  But Gwal Wredkyte did not, after all, completely understand, for he protested, “Some sacrifice, you mean, Wren? But already you have sacrificed—”

  I took his arm, clinging to the warmth of his love, yet turning him away from the cliff’s edge, guiding him past the boulder hunkering nearby like a mountainous dark sow wallowing in the night. “Bah. Nonsense,” I told him. “I have sacrificed nothing. That thing I threw away was best worthy to adorn the gruntle of a pig.”

  NANCY SPRINGER is closing in on the fifty-book milestone, having written just about that many novels for adults, young adults, and children, in genres including contemporary fiction, magical realism, suspense, and mystery—but her first fictional efforts were set in imaginary worlds, and writing mythological fantasy remains her first love. Just to make life a bit more like fiction, she has recently moved from her longtime residence in Pennsylvania to an isolated area of the Florida Panhandle, where she lives in a hangar at a small, reptile-prone airport in the wetlands.

  Visit her Web site at www.nancyspringer.net.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Oh, give me a home where the water snakes roam, where the pilots and the alligators play. . . .

  But “Kingmaker” was written years before any of that happened. The story developed from a fortunate fusion of a daydream I’d been having ever since my divorce—a fantasy about magically knowing whether people are telling the truth or lying; gee, wonder where that came from—and my longtime interest in legend and mythology, particularly Celtic. Too disorganized and enjoyable to be called research, my reading takes in many things odd and antique, such as the usages of nose rings in swine.

  Given my Celtic bias, in “Kingmaker,” the setting is sort of Welsh, almost Tintagel, with the crashing sea, the cliffs, the huge rocks left behind by playful giants, the logan stone balanced and rocking atop its pillar. I can’t think of any detail in the story, including the sister-son as heir or the moon mythology of the old sow who eats her farrow, that did not come straight out of some nonfiction book I’d read sometime in the past, um, forty years. The legend of the wren is straight out of—somewhere; it’s beyond me at this point to give credit where credit is due.

  I can credit myself only with naming my youthful protagonist Wren, giving her the gift to know sooth, placing her in the judgment chair of her father the high king, and staying out of the story’s way. In other words, don’t ask me, I just live here. Now reading up on boiled peanuts, blue-tailed skinks, Catahoula curs, bromeliads, cottonmouth moccasins. Whatever.

  Nancy Farmer

  A TICKET TO RIDE

  The lights in the library flicked on and off, and Jason knew it was time to go. The librarians already had their coats on. One of them, Mike, was waiting impatiently at the door.

  Mike patrolled the stacks, pouncing on readers with cell phones or those who had too many books piled in front of them. “You’re making work for the staff,” Mike would say accusingly. “We have to reshelve those, you know.” He prowled the library like a guilty conscience, taking books on sex away from teenagers, removing large-print novels from readers who had perfectly good eyesight, and evicting homeless people from the restroom.

  Mike stood at the door with his keys. Jason slunk past, avoiding eye contact. He knew he was out after curfew and that Mike had the right to call the police. Twelve-year-olds weren’t supposed to be on the street. But Jason had learned how to creep into his group home after hours. If he was lucky, he would miss getting beaten up by the older boys.

  Rain was pouring down outside, and Jason pulled the hood of his poncho over his head. He knew he looked weird with his skinny arms and legs and the backpack of books sticking out like a hump. But the books were more important to him than anything. If need be, he would wrap the poncho around them and let himself get soaked.

  He saw a dark shape under a tree and prepared to flee—but it was only old Shin Bone bedding down for the night. The hobo spent his days on the lawn of the public library, playing a flute and stopping people for conversation. He treated Jason seriously, speaking to him adult to adult, and the boy liked him.

  Jason suddenly became aware that Shin Bone hadn’t put up his tent. The rain had overflowed the gutters and the lawn was flooded. The old man lay in the water like a stone in a river.

  “Wake up!” shouted Jason. He grabbed the old man’s coat and tried to rouse him. A light in the library switched off. Now all the boy could see was the slick of a streetlamp reflected on the rain-filled gutter. Shin Bone’s chest heaved and his breath rattled in his throat.

  Jason ran to the library door. It was dark inside, but he pounded on it anyway. Mike was always the last one out, and he didn’t go until he’d checked the locks. “Mike! Mike!” screamed Jason. After a long moment a light came on and the surly librarian approached the window by the door.

  “I’m calling the cops,” he said, his voice muffled.

  “Yes! Call the cops! Call an ambu
lance! Shin Bone’s dying!”

  For a moment Jason was afraid the librarian wouldn’t do anything, but at last he said, “Oh, bother,” and picked up a phone.

  The boy went back to Shin Bone, wishing Mike would open the door and help drag the old hobo inside. But perhaps it was dangerous to move him. Jason didn’t know. He held the man’s hand and felt a slight squeeze. “The ambulance is coming,” he told him. “They’ll fix you up. Just hang in there.” Jason heard a siren wail in the distance.

  A scrap of paper floated down the gutter, winking and turning in the light of the streetlamp. Points of light fizzed all around it like bubbles in a glass of soda. Jason felt a whisper of alarm.

  It washed out of the gutter and swirled across the lawn. Jason reached for it and then drew back his hand. He didn’t like the paper. It was up to no good, moving like a live thing, coming straight at them. It slid past his legs, turned two or three times in an eddy, and made its way to Shin Bone’s side. The old man, with great effort, moved his hand. “I’ll get it for you,” said Jason, picking the paper out of the water.

  The fire engine roared into the parking lot, sending out a tidal wave of water. The fire department was always the first at an emergency. The cops would be next, followed by the ambulance. Jason had seen the procedure at the group home, when someone had a drug overdose or got stabbed. He scrambled out of the way as the firemen bent over Shin Bone.

  Mike came out of the library carrying a large black umbrella.