Elizabeth Haydon - Destiny - Child of the Sky

He sat down in the wooden chair and opened the lowest drawer, withdrawing some tiny oilskin sheets, then felt around inside for his tinderbox.

A warm glow appeared as he struck the flint and lighted the oilpot below the frozen inkwell. His quill was gone, probably a casualty of the wind that blasted down through the open eaves. Llauron rose testily and went to the rookery, searching for a replacement.

“By your leave, madam,” he said to the nesting raven who was eyeing him suspiciously. He withdrew the loose feather from the nest quickly to avoid disturbing her and returned to the desk, where he took out his quill knife. After a few whittled cuts the quill was ready; he dipped the end in the thawing ink, shook loose the icy overage, and began to write in a tiny script.

King Achmed of Ylorc

Your Majesty:

In great sorrow I have heard R’s tale of the terrible illness that has befallen your people and the tragic loss of your army. I extend my condolences and offer whatever assistance you may need in medicines or burial herbs.

Satisfied, he copied the message seven times over, then blotted the oilskins dry.

When the ink had set he extinguished the oilpot and rolled the messages into tiny scrolls, transferring them to his pocket. He returned to the circle of cages and stood for a moment, considering.

Each cage held both nesters and messenger birds, trained to fly to the building or structure that their cage had been designed to represent. The messengers homed to specific perches where they were fed and rested and ofttimes refitted with a return message, while the nesters only sought to roost within the eaves of the buildings.

The use of nesters had an ignominious history. Anwyn had employed them to great effect in the war against Gwylliam to carry disease or vials of poison, and in one hideous battle, burning embers that had engulfed the thatched roofs of the outer villages of Bethe Corbair, burning it to the ground. The weapon was doubly effective because Gwylliam had loved the birds, and knew that she was employing them to destroy his holdings. It was a shameful episode in a shameful era, and Llauron was well glad to be rid of that use, though what he contemplated now had some of its hallmarks.

The avian system worked well to carry messages of importance to other heads of state or religious leaders, though in winter it was less reliable than in the warmer seasons. With the advent of the guarded mail caravan that Achmed had instituted some time back, the avian messenger system had fallen into disuse, if not obsolescence.

Llauron peered thoughtfully into the cages that meticulously resembled each of the duchy palaces of the provincial states—the Great Hall of Avonderre; Haguefort, Lord Stephen’s keep, in Navarne; High Tower, where Cedric Canderre held court, in the province that bore his name; the Judiciary of Yarim, home of Ihrman Karsrick, its duke; Greenhall, the provincial seat of Bethe Corbair; and the Regent’s Palace of Bethany, where Tristan Steward lived. One cage was also a representative model of Sorbold’s Jierna Tal, the Place of Weight, where the great scales of justice stood and the crotchety Dowager Empress lived with her pantywaist son, the Crown Prince.

He had long suspected that the F’dor’s host was one of these men, or someone high up in their ranks, though after all his years of searching he had not been able to discern which one. The writer’s cramp he had just earned would be worth the pain and effort if the false message found its target, though these first seven birds were not the crucial ones. Llauron grasped a handful of leg containers from the shelf below the cages.

Quietly he reached into each house, selecting roosting nesters, who squawked and chirruped in protest at the disturbance of their slumber. Llauron gently billed their necks with his finger, clucking softly to settle them down.

“I do most sincerely apologize, dear lady, for disturbing your sleep and warmth,” he said to the first, a snow dove, as he affixed the leg container. “’Tis unavoidable, I fear.”

He carried her carefully to the window that faced the Great White Tree and stood for a moment, watching the snowflakes writhe on the dark wind. Then he opened the window, bracing himself against the cold blast, and tossed her out into the night, closing the window quickly behind her.

He repeated the process until each of the buildings of state had a roosting bird winging its way toward it. Then he went to the vast cage that had been rendered to look like the mountainous realm of Canrif.

The messengers in this cage were black martins, tough little winterbirds with a remarkable range, plain of plumage and unremarkable to the eye. They were tried and reliable, having been used frequently for correspondence with Rhapsody while she was still in Ylorc.

Llauron choose Oberlan, a cock, his favorite of this nest, and took him to the window. He looked the bird squarely in the eye.

“You alone must find your way without fail, old boy. Can I rely on you?” The bird’s eyes glittered in the dark. Llauron smiled. “I thought so. Now, go to Rhapsody’s aviary—I doubt whoever receives you will spoil you as she did, but you will be welcomed; I have no doubt about that. Firbolg hospitality! Oh, my. Aren’t you the lucky bird.” He released the messenger and watched it catch a warm updraft, then bank east into the night, where it disappeared from sight. He waited, nonetheless, until he could no longer feel the bird within his lands, then went back to the wooden chair, where he sat down brokenly.

The Invoker reached into the folds of his robe, and slowly pulled forth the key ring on which hung Crynella’s candle. The tiny globe of melded fire and water gleamed gently in the snowy darkness. “I am so sorry, Rhapsody,” he whispered.

It seemed to take an inordinate amount of time to find clothing to dress the gladiator in; there didn’t seem to be much in the room besides a silky shirt and a few long muslin scarves Rhapsody ultimately realized were to be tied into loincloths.

Finally under the bed she discovered some discarded trousers and a heavy wool shirt, as well as a carefully folded handkerchief tucked beneath the edge of a braided rag rug. She was terrified he would come around while she was prone on the floor, looking under the bed, and she kept darting furtive glances up at the silent figure in the crumpled sheets. Despite her worry he remained unconscious, even as she dressed him, bound his hands and feet, and wrapped him in the heaviest of the blankets from the bed.

Rhapsody pulled his silk shirt on herself and finally worked up the courage to look into his face, hoping she had not injured him with the pillow. A small trail of saliva had escaped his mouth, and in his stupor he seemed much less frightening than he had been moments before. Her stomach was still heaving, and she took shallow breaths to try and maintain her calm. Now was not the time to lose control.

Despite everything that had happened, she felt pity for him. None of the people she had seen in this place, with the possible exception of Treilus, were here of their own volition, and knowing where he had come from made her wish his circumstances were different. Still, she had no doubt that if she didn’t get him out of here, and into the care of her reinforcements waiting just beyond the borderlands, he would be willing to show her none of the mercy she extended to him.

She dabbed the saliva off his face with the handkerchief she had found under the bed and rose to go. As she did a silvery flash fell from the folded linen, and she stooped to retrieve it. It was a woman’s necklace, crudely wrought of silver, without a charm. A love token, perhaps, from a slave girl? Rhapsody remembered the way the women had become silent when Treilus had called his name, and decided her thought was unlikely. Whatever it was, it would have to wait. She slipped the necklace into her bag, along with the remains of the liquid, and crept to the door again.