David Farland - Nightingale

"I've never tried," he said shyly.

Olivia had him. "We all act, Bron," she said. "We're all playing roles, all of the time. Do me a favor. Imagine for a moment that you are a king. How would you stand?" Bron had been hunched over just a bit, trying to hide the fear that he must have felt at making this introduction.

Now he straightened his back, thrust out his chest, raised his chin. He still seemed nervous, but it was an improvement.

"Very good," she said. "Now imagine that you're not just a king by birth, but by nature. You're not a conquering hero—you're a kindly lord, one who seeks to rule with benevolence and wisdom."

Bron dropped his chin by a quarter of an inch, and the sparkle left his eyes. His irises widened just a fraction, and his entire expression softened. He transformed from a reluctant warrior to... something else, a wise and noble man, with just a hint of mirth.

The change was so complete that Olivia was taken aback. "Well," she smiled. "You do know how to take direction!" From a director, that was a huge compliment.

She had known of course that children who came from troubled backgrounds often had to learn to act. They learned to lie, to conceal their emotions. For them it wasn't just play, it was a survival skill. Bron had suffered more than a child should.

She felt more entangled by the minute. Bron wasn't just an abandoned and abused child, he was one of her own kind. Every mothering instinct in her was screaming. She wanted to pull him in, to gather him, as a hen gathereth her chicks, she quoted.

She continued peering into his eyes. "Now, Bron, you look like a king. You look as if you were born to rule here in this school. So here's a trick I want you to learn, for your own benefit: when you come to school on Monday, none of the students will know who or what you are. This is your chance to start over, to make an impression. So I want you to try something: I want you to hold the stance that you have now. I want you to act as if you were the king here, the rightful ruler, and I want you to carry yourself that way for the first three days. Stay in character!"

Bron dropped his chin a little, raised an eyebrow. "You want me to act like I'm the king of the school?"

"Something like that. You won't believe how much it will help. Long ago, there was once a playwright in Spain who worked as a political advisor. The king was a corrupt and wicked old man. So one day a merchant came to the playwright and asked for ideas on how to make himself look as if he were the rightful king—not because he wanted to be king, but because he loved his country. The playwright told the merchant, 'If you want to be a king, first act the part of the king. In time, the people will see you as such and grant your desire.' So the merchant acted the part, and eventually overthrew the king. The merchant's rule was long and prosperous."

"What if I don't want to be a king?" Bron asked.

"Well," Olivia said. "I suppose you could be the class jester, if you like, or you could play the part of a glum loser who doesn't have a future, or perhaps the dreamer—but if you do, you'll just be part of the crowd."

Bron looked thoughtful, bit his lip.

There was something worrisome about nightingales, Olivia remembered. She'd talked with her mother about them when she was very young. "None of the Aels would abandon a child like that," her mother had said, holding Olivia on her knee. "If you see a nightingale, you can be sure that it was left by a Draghoul."

Olivia tried to still her breathing. Was Bron a Draghoul, one of the Aels' ancient enemies? Could this be a trap?

She didn't doubt that he was born of the Draghoul, but being born to an enemy does not make one an enemy. Nor did she believe that this was likely a trap. Bron didn't have the superior smirk of a Draghoul, the dangerous swagger, the hungry gleam in his eye. He was all innocence and nerves.

He's just a nightingale, she thought. It's an accident that brought him to me, a fortunate accident.

She'd learned later in life that even the Aels sometimes had abandoned their children. In the old days, when they were burned as witches, the Aels had often hidden their young among humans, as a way to protect them.

As she had expected, a couple of teachers had found excuses to wander to the principal's office. As they came in behind, she was forced to crowd.

"Let's go down to my room," she suggested to Bron and Mr. Bell, thinking furiously. "I'll give you a tour."

She brushed past the other teachers without making introductions. There wasn't much to see on their school tour at this time of the year, just empty classrooms. Olivia pointed out the bulletin board where auditions for various clubs would be listed, while other boards would be filled with art projects. There were a lot of posters for plays, rooms for dance rehearsals, and the school featured four separate theaters.

At the center was the school's atrium. Its high windows let light shine in as if through crystal, accenting the southwestern art that graced the walls. It looked tasteful, and expensive. They strolled downstairs to Olivia's office, just off the stage area of the Hafen Theater. As they walked, Mr. Bell offered comforting assurances about Bron, as if to close the sale.

When they reached Olivia's office, she went to her computer. With a click of the mouse she opened a file. It showed a picture of a sculpture that Bron had made in white clay, a "self-portrait."

"You sculpted this?" she asked.

Bron nodded. He'd obviously spent weeks on the piece. It showed a human face from the front, flawless and serene: Bron, as he would have appeared at fifteen, eyes closed, lips pursed.

"You look like a Greek god in that sculpture," Olivia said. "You perfected your features." He'd also made himself look more human, creating a smoother skull.

"Thanks," Bron said. "So Mr. Bell sent you that one?"

She nodded. "What do you call the piece?"

"It was called 'Becoming.'"

She grinned at the double-entendre. His face in the sculpture was indeed 'becoming.' She scrolled her pictures to a side image of the bust. In it, one could see that Bron's head had something grotesque coming out the back, an oily alien with long tentacles that had appeared to be hair from the front. She scrolled to the complete back, and one could see another face—that of a strange squid-like creature, cruel and malicious.

"Is this how you see yourself?" she asked.

"Sometimes," Bron admitted.

Mr. Bell shifted on his feet, looking as if he was afraid that Olivia would send Bron packing.

Olivia sighed. No, she definitely couldn't turn this one away. Not with his tremendous potential. Not when she didn't even know what gifts he had yet.

She did know one thing: Draghouls were not like other brood parasites. They didn't abandon their offspring. They only loaned them out, letting humans do the hard work of raising them. In time the Draghouls would come to claim Bron, and if Olivia took him, the state's paperwork trail would lead them straight to her.

She tried to snap back into teacher mode, and asked Bron, "I noticed that you used the word 'was,' when you described your sculpture. Did you sell the piece, or give it away?"

Bron shook his head regretfully. "It got busted at my old school. Some kid busted it."

"But you have other pieces?"

Bron shook his head. "They always got busted. I quit sculpting."

"Jealousy," Olivia explained. "It happens often at other schools. You won't find it at

Tuacahn. All of the students are creative, and they'll respect your paintings and sculptures."

Do I dare take him? she wondered. Do I dare risk it?

Her people had been in hiding from their enemies for more than a thousand years. If a tenth of the stories that she'd heard were true, the Draghouls were unimaginably evil.