Shadows on the Stars

by T.A. Barron

  “Three days!”

  He started to sit up—but his head exploded with pain, as if a boulder had been dropped right on his skull. With a groan, he fell back on the feather-cushioned logs beneath him, his bare chest heaving from exertion.

  “Shackle my shells,” he panted, his head still pounding. “Hurts just to move.”

  “Patience, Scree,” said Arc-kaya, clacking her teeth, beaklike. “You’ll be weaker than a hatchling for several more days, if not weeks.”

  “Weeks?” His eyes flashed like golden orbs. “But I must—” He tried again to sit up, but fell back right away. “Must go . . .”

  “Now, now. You’ll not be going anywhere soon.”

  “But Tamwyn! He needs me.”

  “That dark-haired human who brought you? He’s gone now. Left yesterday, after he was sure you’d recover.”

  “Left? That stump-headed fool! He’s gone without me.”

  She began carefully peeling off the bottom layer of bandaging. “He did seem in a great hurry—like most humans. Though why anyone in his right mind would want to go anywhere with a crazy hoolah tagging along, I don’t know.”

  Her hands paused. “He did say something odd, though. About finding the route before it’s too late. Just where is he going?”

  “The stars,” groaned Scree. “He’s trying to find some way to reach them.”

  “The stars! That’s pure folly.”

  “And pure Tam. He left before I revived enough to talk, since he knew I’d do everything I could to—”

  “Stop him,” finished Arc-kaya. “That’s sensible.”

  “No, to join him.”

  She turned and peered at him with her large eyes. “Maybe you are still delirious.”

  Scree didn’t answer. What was the point? He turned his cheek against the pair of silver feathers that made his pillow. His fool brother!

  Outside the arching walls of the nest, he could hear the sounds of village life: eaglefolk laughing, arguing, or screeching as they landed; young fledglings scampering after one another; someone ruffling feathered wings, preparing to fly. Those sounds seemed so normal here, so ordinary. And yet they were so far away from his own solitary experience.

  Arc-kaya, having gone back to work on his leg, removed the last strip of bandage. She whistled with concern. “Such a savage wound you have here! What gave this to you? A barbed spear?”

  “No. A flower.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Either you’re toying with me, Scree, or you’re wounded even more badly than I thought.”

  He turned his head so their gazes met. “That’s the truth, Arc-kaya. You don’t have to believe me, but it is. There are new kinds of evil out there in the world, more than you can imagine.”

  She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “You know, for some reason I do believe you. Maybe it’s because you remind me of someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Someone I lost.”

  Though her words made him curious, he didn’t press her any further.

  Arc-kaya, meanwhile, reached for a stone vial, opened it, and poured some gray, oily ointment onto his thigh. Scree winced, less from the stinging sensation than from the pungent smell.

  “Smells awful, doesn’t it?” she asked, beginning to rub the ointment gently into his muscles.

  “Like troll turds.”

  “Crushed bark from the rancidnut tree, actually. The best thing for healing torn tissue.” She heaved a sigh. “You are right, I’m afraid, about new kinds of evil. I’ve even heard there’s now a renegade clan of eaglefolk, from some distant realm, that’s taken to attacking other clans, murdering their people and stealing whatever is valuable.”

  Scree’s whole body tensed. The vision! So it was true! “But why? That’s never happened before in the history of our people.”

  “I know, I know.” She sighed, reaching for some more ointment. “That’s always been the province of humans and gobsken, attacking their own kind.”

  “But why would they do it?” Scree demanded.

  “Well,” she replied grimly, “some say they are ruled by a leader whose greed knows no bounds. And some say they’ve been hired to steal as much as they can by a wicked sorcerer.”

  “Sorcerer?” Scree lifted his hand, which felt as heavy as stone, and squeezed her arm. “Does he wear a hooded cloak? And have pale white hands?”

  She stopped massaging his leg and squinted at him. “So you know of him? Kulwych is the name I’ve heard.”

  His hand fell back to the nest. “I know him, yes. And his lackey swordsman.” He ground his teeth. “What else have you heard?”

  “Not much,” she said, resuming her work. “Just what comes to me as the village healer, and it’s hard to tell what to believe. Why, I’ve even heard that Kulwych is using the treasures stolen by the eaglefolk to pay for all the weapons he needs for an army of conquest.”

  Scree grimaced. An army—one that would serve not just White Hands, but Rhita Gawr! He needed to tell Tam about this. But how could he? His brother was already on his way, and soon would be somewhere deep inside the trunk of the Great Tree, a region probably many times as large as all seven root-realms combined. And that wasn’t all: Once Tam found his way into the trunk, he’d be searching for an unknown route—if indeed such a route existed—that could take him all the way up to the branches, and then to the stars. Why, before long he’d be harder to find than a white feather in a cloud!

  In frustration, he groaned. For even if he knew where to find Tam, what could he do? He was too weak even to stand up, let alone change himself into winged form and take flight.

  “Here, Scree, taste some of this.” Arc-kaya held a feather quill, dripping with something that looked like mashed strawberries, over his mouth. “It will help you relax.”

  Somewhat warily, he licked the tip of the quill. It tasted sweet, like clover honey, so he licked some more. Just seconds after he’d swallowed, a heavy mist seemed to flow into his mind, dimming his thoughts. Soon he fell into a dreamless sleep.

  After he awoke, many hours later, Arc-kaya propped up his head and fed him a thin, tangy broth, one spoonful at a time. For the next several days, she almost never left his side, departing the nest only briefly to visit the communal cooking area, or to find some implement or ingredient that she needed.

  Scree watched, with growing admiration, how generously she gave of herself. When she wasn’t changing his bandages, applying new poultices, or massaging his leg muscles, she was busy making potions, creams, or splints for the variety of other eaglefolk who came to her nest. Whatever the time of day or night, she welcomed villagers young and old, whether their problem was allergy to weasel fur, swollen talons, infected gashes, or bad dreams. She treated everyone with care and patience, even when Scree himself was tempted to give them a good scolding for waking him and Arc-kaya up from a sound sleep. And if someone wasn’t able to pay, she’d merely wave her hand and say, “Just bring me a feather or two when you can.”

  In time, he grew strong enough to hobble over to her table and help her prepare medications. He sliced herbs, roots, and bark fibers with her flint knives; crushed seeds with her mortar and pestle; and (his favorite task) cracked basketloads of nuts with her quartz hammer. He learned how to make bone marrow paste, lemon balm oil, and tincture of carrot and aniseed for calming children’s coughs. All the while, he talked with Arc-kaya about village life and the history of her clan—but never about the loved one she’d lost.

  Finally, on the ninth day, he was strong enough to climb out of the nest with her. Together they visited the communal hearth, where he saw eaglefolk cooking rich venison broth, baking feather-light barley cakes, and steeping reeds to make baskets and rugs. At the village market, Arc-kaya inspected numerous dried herbs and flowers, but only bought a bundle of rosehips. On the way home, they paused to watch a group of children playing catch-the-hare, which looked like so much fun that Scree would have joined in if he’d had the stamina.

  More days passed. As
his strength increased, Scree ventured out for walks on his own around the village. He found eaglefolk practicing their talon-fighting skills, a rough sport that often sent men and women to Arc-kaya’s care. He discovered craftspeople who could feather-paint vivid pictures on polished eggshells, carve jewelry from purple amethyst and red rubies, and make all sorts of tools from sun-dried bones and crystals from the mountainside. Yet he enjoyed more than anything the warm welcome that Arc-kaya always gave him when he returned to the nest.

  In fact, he enjoyed it enough that he felt almost glad that, for now at least, he couldn’t go anywhere else. Tam, as well as Brionna, were often in his thoughts—along with the vision they’d seen on Hallia’s Peak. So he made plans for what he would do after his strength came back: Since finding Tam would be impossible, he’d try to locate Elli or Brionna and tell them what he’d learned about White Hands. But for now he was here. In a village, and a nest, that felt nearly like home.

  One morning, when Scree came back panting and covered with dust after a game of catch-the-hare, Arc-kaya nodded knowingly. “Well? How did you do?”

  “Terribly! Some of those two-year-olds, only half my size, had me spinning in circles. Especially one golden-eyed boy whose name, I think, was Hawkeen.” He flashed her a smile. “But I had a great time.”

  She grinned, though not quite happily. “That’s just what Ayell would have said.”

  Scree lifted an eyebrow. “Was he . . .?”

  “My son. He lived with me until he was five, nearly a full-grown adult who could build his own nest, his own life. And then one day . . . he died.”

  Gently, he asked, “How?”

  She blinked and shook her fluffy gray hair. “By the arrow of a human.”

  He winced. Just like my mother.

  “We were flying together, over the northern ridge of Hallia’s Peak. Looking for cliff hares, we said aloud—but our real reason, we both knew, was just to fly together.” She sighed, remembering. “Ayell loved nothing more than soaring freely, his wings open to their widest.”

  “And then?”

  “Men. With bows and arrows. One of them aimed at me—why, I don’t know. Who can explain the vile acts of men? But Ayell saw him shoot. He veered instantly, and threw himself right into the arrow’s path.”

  Angrily, she raked the air with her fingers, as if she had assumed her winged form and was scratching out someone’s eyes with her talons. “Gave his own life for mine! Aye, if only he’d never done that, he could be soaring in the sky today.”

  Her shoulders drooped. “That is what I wish, with all my eagle’s heart.”

  Scree nodded, then said, “He died with courage.”

  She stared at him blankly. “But he died.”

  Abruptly, she straightened herself, marched over to the table, and started dicing some tubers. “What a foolish old bag of feathers I am,” she mumbled in embarrassment. “Burdening you with such prattle.”

  “Arc-kaya,” he chided. “That wasn’t prattle.”

  Slowly, she lifted her face, her yellow eyes now rimmed in red. “What was it, then?”

  “A memory, a cry of pain. For your son, who was your family. Nothing is more precious to have—or more painful to lose.”

  She pondered him, and a little of the bitterness faded from her eyes. “Something tells me you’ve had your own share of losses.”

  He swallowed. “That’s true.” Joining her at the table, he added, “But you know, in these days here with you, I’ve found a few things, too.”

  She gazed at him gratefully. “In just another week, Scree, you’ll be strong enough to change form and fly. To leave, if you like.” And then hesitantly, she added, “Or maybe . . . to stay.”

  His heart quickened at the thought, and he looked around the nest, at the piles of splints and bandages, the feathers scattered everywhere, the vials and bowls and colorful potions. Then he slowly shook his head. “I can’t, Arc-kaya. There are people I must find, and help if I can. Far from here.”

  Biting her lip, she nodded. “I understand, aye. Our clan’s oldest blessing, you know, is Soar high, run free”

  “I like that. It’s simple, strong, eagleworthy.”

  The corners of her mouth turned up slightly, as a breeze tousled her long gray hair. “I’m glad you came here,” she whispered. “Even just for a while.”

  “So am I.”

  Thhwaaack.

  A thick-shafted arrow struck her back, plunging deep between her shoulder blades. Her mouth opened wide, as if to scream. But no sound came. She teetered, glanced at Scree, and toppled onto the floor of the nest.

  “No!” shouted Scree as he knelt beside her, drawing her face to his chest. At the same time, he looked up to see who had done this terrible thing—just in time to see another arrow plunging straight at him.

  He rolled to the side, just barely in time. The arrow grazed his shoulder and buried deep into one leg of the table. Straining to the limit of his strength, he dragged Arc-kaya over to a sheltered spot between two of her potions cabinets. But not before he caught a glimpse of who had shot at them.

  It was an eagleman! He was young, but fully grown, and from the look of him already a seasoned warrior. His face haughty and sneering, the attacker grinned smugly as he swooped overhead, heavy bow clutched in one talon, before disappearing beyond the rim of the nest. Several more eaglemen, all bearing weapons, followed close behind.

  “Cowards!” shouted Scree wrathfully. “Buzzards! Why don’t you fight with your talons, like real eaglemen?”

  His cry, though, was lost in the sudden cacophony that rose on all sides. Just beyond the walls of Arc-kaya’s nest, he heard the shrieks and wails of many eaglefolk. The village, moments ago full of the sounds of ordinary life—laughter, debate, and tools at work—echoed now with howls of rage and agony.

  Looking at the woman slumped against him, whose fluffy gray hair was now streaked with blood, Scree turned onto his knees. He grabbed the arrow and tried to pull it free. Arc-kaya moaned painfully, arching her back. But he wasn’t strong enough! The arrow just wouldn’t budge.

  Leaning her gently against the cabinet, he started to get up. At least I can fight them, he told himself. Even if I can’t change into eagle form, maybe I can—

  Arc-kaya stirred, opening her eyes. Though she clearly had trouble focusing, she recognized Scree and grabbed his forearm. “No,” she said hoarsely. “Don’t go. They’ll just kill you, too.”

  He shook loose. Eyes brimming, he said, “I must go! Must fight them! To help somehow.”

  Feebly, she brushed a finger against his jaw. “Help by living. Aye, Scree. Just stay alive . . . my son.”

  She gasped, then whispered her final words, so softly that Scree could hardly hear. “Soar high . . . run free.”

  8 • Beyond Any Tears

  By the time Scree left Arc-kaya’s nest and stumbled out into the village, the massacre was already over. Bodies of eaglefolk—children and elders, artists and vendors, women and men—lay everywhere, most of them struck by deadly arrows before they had even a chance to transform into their eagle forms. The few who had sprouted wings and tried to defend their village had been brutally mauled, their bodies slashed and their talons severed.

  The communal cooking area, where many villagers had died, was a shambles. Scree found equipment and market stalls overturned, food scattered, and hearth coals smelling of burning flesh. Smoke, thick and dark, rose somberly into the sky, blocking out the summit of Hallia’s Peak. What few survivors remained were either wandering about in shock or weeping over the bodies of loved ones.

  While most of the goods from the village market had been left behind, the attackers had taken all the jewelry, tools, and crystals—anything valuable. It seemed clear that the purpose of this brutal attack had been thievery. Scree felt sure that this had been done by the renegade clan that was in league with White Hands and Rhita Gawr.

  And he felt sure of something else, as well. When he had glimpsed the haughty young warri
or who murdered Arc-kaya, he had noticed his red leg bands and black-tipped wings: unmistakable markings of the Bram Kaie clan. He knew them from his travels across Fireroot. And he also knew their leader.

  All too well. For he had been lured into trusting her, and that misplaced trust had very nearly cost him Merlin’s staff, which he had promised to guard, as well as his own life. He had never told anyone else about that terrible mistake, not even Tam, for some secrets were just too painful to share.

  Yet he could never forget it,

  For the rest of that heart-wrenching day, he set himself to the task of finding and helping the survivors. There weren’t many, fewer than a dozen out of the sixty or seventy eaglefolk who had lived in these nests. He found three women and two men, all wounded, along with one old fellow in winged form, who was so dazed he could only stumble around blindly, his wings singed and dragging. Five children had also survived—including Hawkeen, the golden-eyed eagleboy who had, that very morning, so enjoyed their game of catch-the-hare.

  Using Arc-kaya’s supplies, and what little knowledge of healing he had learned from watching her, Scree tried his best to clean and bandage the wounds of as many people as he could. But the severest wounds, as he knew well, lay behind their eyes.

  On the following day, the survivors began the most difficult task of all. Burying the dead, in the traditional fashion of eaglefolk, required building an earthen mound covered by stones. And in this case, with so many bodies, the mound would have to be an enormous one.

  Though it tapped his strength to the limit, Scree joined the other villagers in hauling dirt and stones to a wide field near the now-silent nests. Throughout the day, the survivors did their best to help each other, although very few words were spoken. Even when they paused to sip from bowls of water or chew strips of smoked boar, they ate in silence, staring in grief at the rising mound. Like the others, Scree felt that he was burying more than just a village.

  Nothing he carried that day felt as heavy as the limp form of Arc-kaya. She was the very last person to be buried. As he’d already done too many times, he placed her body on the mound, arms spread wide in the way of all eaglefolk. Gently, he covered her as best he could with a layer of feathers and dry grass.