Of Birds and Branches

by Frances Pauli

She needed time to get it right, but there was Kov’an puffing and clacking, taking something from his friends and carrying it forward. Mima ground the halves of her beak together and stared at his broad, feathered breast.

  “I have journeyed far, and far have I flown.” The ritual speech sounded course in his soldier’s tone, but she was moved that he’d taken the time to learn it. “Deep in the sacred forests have I found this branch. Returning in triumph, I present it to you.”

  He lowered as he rarely did before her, laying his gift on the tiles between them and quickly hopping back. His crest flashed up and down, hypnotic, the only feather on his body that didn’t look entirely at ease.

  Mima watched it dance. She kept her eyes on Kov’an’s crest and her throat continued to squeeze.

  “Highness.” Arli cleared the gravel from her throat. “The branch, Mima.”

  Pushing. All of them pushing her.

  Mima lowered her head and glared at the branch. It wasn’t fair to surprise her like this. They’d worked it out between them, Kov’an and her father, without even involving her.

  The branch waited before her, too soon, in the middle of her preparations, at the absolute most inconvenient time imaginable. She tried to see it, to find it anything more than a stick with some greenery sprouting from it.

  It was thick at its base. She tilted her head and noted just how fat it was. Longer than one of her wings too, but almost as stout at its end as its beginning. Smaller twigs grew from it, each tufted with needled greenery. They seemed sparse to Mima’s eyes. Sparse and chaotically arranged.

  “What’s that bump on it?” she asked.

  “Highness,” Arli hissed. “A rejection would permanently end the mating petition.”

  “I’m not rejecting it,” Mima said.

  “Then you accept.” Kov’an announced.

  “I just want to know what’s with that lump.” Mima poked her wingtip at the place where the branch bent most sharply. The bark bulged there, as if a twig had been broken and the wound healed over. “Is it a knot or a blister?”

  “It’s nothing,” Kov’an scuffed forward and bent down, looking at his offering from the opposite side. “It’s just a bump.”

  “If her highness refuses the branch…” Arli began, falling eerily silent when Kov’an’s head twisted in her direction.

  “It’s probably just bark.” The warrior reached for the branch with one foot, pinning it to the tiles. His head lowered, and he pried at the lump with his beak.

  “You mustn’t alter the—” Arli’s protest died in the sudden, sharp cracking of wood.

  “You broke it,” Mima said.

  “It was just a lump.” Kov’an stared at the branch, now in two pieces. The feathers all down his body rippled. “What’s the matter with you?”

  There was fury in those words, rage that Mima did not care to answer. She would be queen in a matter of weeks. How dare he speak to her in anger? For that matter, how dare he bring her an ugly, lumpy branch?

  “What do we do now?” He turned to the mistress of ritual, even in this not bothering to involve Mima.

  Irritation boiled inside her. She wanted to shout at both of them, to stamp and puff and scratch the stupid stick into even smaller pieces. Before she could act, a shadow crossed over the tiles. Her father landed in a flutter beside Arli, just as the old hen spoke.

  “There is no branch any longer, and so there can be no resolution.”

  Mima nodded agreement, ready to put the whole scene behind them and get back to her preparations.

  “What do we do, then?” Kov’an rumbled.

  “Unclear.” Arli shivered, hugged her frail wings around her body. “The incident is unprecedented.”

  “Can she just accept him without the stick?” Tal’pi, ever practical, ever blasphemous, asked.

  “No.” Mima spread her tail feathers. “We will not sully the rite further.”

  In this, Arli agreed. She nodded fiercely enough to throw herself off balance. Once the regent had steadied her again, she continued. “A second branch will be offered.”

  “Another one?” Kov’an flicked his wingtips out just enough to make his barbs rattle. “Fine.”

  “Very good,” Tal’pi said. “That settles it.”

  Arli, however, looked past them both. The old hen stared at Mima, waiting for her confirmation, waiting for her to honor the custom and agree to a continuation of the ritual.

  The weight of a star.

  The hen’s eyes dragged at her, and Mima gave the only answer she could. “So be it.”

  The tension seeped from them all. Already, Kov’an turned to his soldiers. Already, her father prepared to launch himself back to his perch. Arli, even, turned to begin her march back through the sanctuary gates.

  A tickle of rebellion flared in Mima’s gullet. She clacked her beak once, loud enough to capture all their attention. Then she puffed out her cheeks and made her voice as steady as the stones below them.

  “Just make sure it’s not ugly this time.”

  Three of the books Ist’av had brought her mentioned the branching rite. Mima frowned at the latest text and flexed her hocks. She’d been perched beside the meeting table for hours, ever since her last scheduled duty for the day had passed, and she was no closer to understanding the ritual than before.

  Had Ist’av known about her father and Kov’an’s plans? She suspected as much, though it seemed her friend had believed her to have more time to read what they delivered. Sensibly, they would not have imagined such a rushed debacle.

  Mima read the passage in the latest volume for the fifth time. If the hen approves of the branch. She dragged her claws against the perch, leaving ugly scars in the wood.

  “What’s to approve about a stupid stick?”

  She slammed the book closed and hopped down, pacing between the chests while her mood flared again. It made no sense, in the end, and that flew in the face of all her beliefs, all her faith in the rituals that she loved.

  “Approve of the branch. Approve of it.”

  Mima knew the ritual had begun in the time of literal nesting. She knew what every hen knew. Once, she would have woven a structure of twigs and twine, one without solid walls, or a woven mattress on which to lay her head. Instead of just serving as a ceremonial basin for her egg’s arrival, the nest would have been shelter and home as well.

  She shuddered at the thought, couldn’t help but glance with gratitude at all of her room’s fine appointments.

  In that time, a cock would offer his would-be mate materials with which to build. Whatever served her nesting was incorporated into the weaving. And should he return from his foraging with anything less than worthy, the nest would be shredded, and the partnership dissolved.

  Was she supposed to approve only the strongest of branches, then? Mima stamped and shook her head. Too fat and the wood would break during weaving. Too slender and it might fail after, leaving gaps in the nest. She’d spent enough of her childhood learning to weave to know that much.

  Still, the rituals were never fully literal. Those which served only a functional purpose were lost as the function evolved. If it were simply about nest-building, the branching rite would have vanished into their history along with their woven homes.

  She needed Ist’av to sort this out. The librarian understood the nuance of ritual far better than she. Mima might school them on the symbolism, and she’d taken far more history than Ist’av’s studies required, but her friend possessed an innate grasp of the deeper purposes that brought them into sharper focus.

  Perhaps she should venture to the Receptacle this evening.

  A knock at her outer door stalled the plot. She’d never bothered Ist’av at work, had never needed to before. Their deliveries kept her fully occupied without her seeking out additional volumes.

  Mima bounced to the door, hoping that they’d returned to discuss the latest books, but her ritual greeting was met with only a stuttered, unfamiliar answer.

  “We’v
e been sent with a delivery, Highness.”

  “What is it?” Mima clicked and fluttered. “Who sent it?”

  “It’s a box.” There was a grunt, and something heavy banged against the door. The voice had mumbled too quiet to make out before continuing. “From regent Tal’pi.”

  “Fine.” She opened the door and came face to face with the box in question. “Just put it with the other chests.”

  Two short birds carried in the new crate. It had been fashioned of the same wood as the others, though instead of ornament it boasted a plain, utilitarian shape and surface. They set it down directly in the path to her table, and when she waved them away, departed without further comment.

  Mima waited until their steps died before stalking to the box and prying open the lid.

  Inside, a reel of golden wire waited. Silver thread and beads made of gemstone had been packed around the gold. There were bundles of filigree, little sacks of diamond and ruby. Every-thing she’d need to weave her nest.

  Mima breathed a long breath and pressed the lid down again. What was the point in her studying the branching rite? Whatever implications, whatever symbols she might discover, her father had already made this decision for her.

  Ist’av caught up with her on the way to the Temple of the Twin Moons. She’d fixated on Arli, as mistress of ritual, half because it was the hen’s job to interpret the mysteries and half because she’d been afraid Ist’av would not appreciate a surprise visit.

  When they joined her along the way, however, she felt an immediate sense of relief. The librarian fell in step at her side, and Mima’s plumage lost its prickle.

  “Where are you going?” Ist’av kept their gaze forward, but she thought she heard more than one question in their voice. No doubt the rumor already flew through the palace.

  “Something’s happened,” Mima said. “I’m going to see Arli for clarification.”

  “I did hear something about the Sun Service.” Nothing in that to give away exactly what they’d heard. “Something about a bungled ritual.”

  “Kov’an presented me with a branch.” Mima felt lighter just for saying it. Getting the words out lifted her, as if they’d been stones in her gizzard.

  “You’re mated.” Ist’av’s reply was flat as the tiles.

  “No.” Mima snapped her beak on the word.

  “You refused him?”

  Mima heard their shock, but she’d taken four more paces before she realized they’d stopped cold in their tracks. She twisted around and stared back at them.

  “No. Not exactly that either.”

  “What happened?” Ist’av still didn’t move, just leveled a stare forward that was as unreadable as their tone.

  “The branch broke,” Mima said. “He has to start over.”

  “What does that mean?” Finally, a hint of their usual lilt returned. They took a half step and shook themself until their olive feathers poofed.

  “Exactly,” Mima said. “That’s why I’m going to Arli. To find out what makes a branch worthy of approval.”

  “Or not,” Ist’av added. Their long neck unfolded, making them too tall, difficult to look at directly.

  “They didn’t give me any time at all to study.” She heard the pout in her own voice and hopped in place. “I don’t know a thing about branches.”

  “It’s not about the branch.” Ist’av’s voice came from a place above her. “It’s about the bird.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Mima shook herself and smoothed her feathers down, softened her voice and her mood in Ist’av’s shadow. “Come back down here. You know how hard it is to talk to you when you’re all stretched out.”

  Her own head sat inconveniently right upon her shoulders. Ist’av knew how annoying it was when they stretched so high. They were doing it on purpose. Most likely trying not to show how their dislike of Kov’an colored their words.

  “Never mind,” she said. “I’m going to ask Arli.”

  Mima turned away and hopped a pace forward before continuing her march to the temple. She’d avoided the Walk of the Winds specifically in an effort to hurry, and here Ist’av was slowing her down and offering her nothing more than vague and cryptic statements that were, to her mind, overflowing with their own bias.

  “Wait,” they called once. The slapping of their webbed feet pattered against the tiles.

  Mima puffed her cheeks and nodded. Good. Let them think she was upset with them if it got their legs moving.

  “Highness,” Ist’av panted as they scrambled forward. “Wait. I can help.”

  “Are you certain you want to?” Mima held her gaze forward and slowed just enough that they could reach her side.

  “Pardon, Highness,” Ist’av said. “I will find time to study the rite this evening.”

  “Good.” Mima nodded again. “Then we can discuss it when you stop by in the morning.”

  “Yes, Highness.” They fell behind again, fell back perhaps, unsure if that had been a dismissal or not.

  Mima considered letting them stew. She considered it, but the idea of parting while they believed she was mad at them sat sideways in her craw. She took another step, just the same, before twisting around to address them again.

  “Ist’av?”

  “Yes, Highness?”

  “Thank you for bringing the books this morning.”

  They dipped low, tilting their olive body, and folding their neck so that the bow honored her position. Their beak brushed the tiles, and Mima felt the sudden urge to run back to them, to drag their head up and let the neck stretch again. To not have to look too closely.

  It prickled beneath her feathers, and she turned away, turned back to the temple and her task. Ist’av had meant to help her, hadn’t they? They’d brought the volumes to her room in time. If it hadn’t been for her schedule, they’d have spent the morning leisurely dissecting the branching rite.

  She was sure of it.

  What she couldn’t decide was why. The librarian detested Kov’an, had made no pretense about that. But they cared for her, and cared enough for the rituals that Mima could not imagine her friend doing anything less than honor them.

  It was that, then. Of course it was. Ist’av had heard about her father’s surprise and intended to prepare her for the sake of the tradition.

  A ritual that had been sullied through no fault of theirs. Time to prepare was all she needed to remedy the whole mess. Time, and a little guidance from Arli on the subject of branches.

  When she arrived at the Temple of the Twin Moons, Mima found only more frustration. The apses were packed with meditating birds, and she was forced to wander between the niches and columns in search of the mistress.

  The Moons’ Shrine stood vacant, waiting in preparation for her upcoming vigil, and the tall perch cast a long, chilly shadow over the temple floor. Unlike the Sun Sanctuary, the temple had high walls and an enclosed roof, and the chilly temperature inside caused Mima to lift the feathers all over her body for fear of freezing.

  It would be a long, uncomfortable vigil before her coronation, one more thorn to be wedged into her mood today.

  She found Arli in the round room behind the altar. The hen perched in front of one long window, bathed in sunlight that was considerably lower than it had been when Mima first decided to seek out the mistress of ritual.

  She waited, lowered and silent, for the hen to acknowledge her.

  “The queen will not bow to this one much longer.” Arli spoke without moving, without so much as riffling a feather. “But today I suspect she comes with a question.”

  “I do,” Mima said. She raised herself to her full height and shook out the shivers. “It’s very cold in here.”

  “You will not notice the chill if the trance is true.”

  If. Mima clacked her beak and tried to look less fluffy. “You are correct that I have a question,” she said. “About the rite which you all sprung upon me this morning.”

  “Sprung?” Arli turned from her window, hea
d sharply tilting. “I was told the branching was at your request.”

  “Mine?” Mima clattered out her irritation. “I knew nothing of it until the branch was at my feet.”

  “Typical.” The old hen shifted from one foot to another. “Already, it begins.”

  “What?” Mima shivered. “I don’t understand.”

  “What do you know of your mother’s rule?”

  “During the reign of my predecessor,” Mima shifted into recitation mode, repeating words that had been drilled into her since her hatching. “Our borders expanded to all sides, the lands prospered, and the palace grew fat with tribute from our allies.”

  “Do you remember her?” Arli’s tone shifted so quickly that Mima had to pause and repeat the question in her own mind.

  Did she? Flashes of memory suggested a shape, a soft blanket of crimson feathers, and a voice that sang low and sweet. But the last queen had passed before Mima’s first flight, and what dreams she had of her mother felt just like that: like dreams.

  “Barely,” she whispered. “I was very young.”

  “Yes. But I knew the queen, didn’t I? And I can tell you something of her.”

  Arli hopped from her perch and waved for Mima to walk with her. They entered a doorway off the side of the room, one that led to a narrow stair instead of out into the temple again.

  “Your mother was not a hen of war, yet wars were waged under her rule.” The mistress hopped from one step to the next, and though the stairway was solidly enclosed and so tight their wings brushed against the walls, Arli glanced from side to side as she spoke as if someone might be listening.

  “She was not a hen to raise riches above knowledge, yet during her rule our coffers swelled while the Receptacle dwindled. She cared little for expansion, yet we expanded. She valued tradition, as you do my young hen. But what is happening to the rites, when a future queen does not even know her own branching is at hand?”

  “I don’t understand.” Mima felt a creeping discomfort at the mistress’s revelations. It felt dangerous, in the narrow passage, and even when they emerged onto the temple roof, she couldn’t shake the feeling that they were watched.