A Facet for the Gem

by C. L. Murray

  When Morlen awoke, he pushed himself upright with both arms to spare his back. But he was glad to find such precautions unnecessary when his muscles stretched more easily after a few hours’ sleep, though truly he couldn’t tell how long he’d been out. With hunger now refusing to be neglected, he strode eagerly to the kettle stationed in his quarters’ fiery hearth, and found its enticing provisions had changed from porridge to rabbit stew, leaving little doubt he’d indulged in more than a mere afternoon nap.

  Filling a smooth clay bowl with generous helpings of thick broth, tender meat, and carrots, which smelled so pleasingly different from the blood-building slop they’d fed Roftome, he sat and devoured one gulp after another. Nottleforf’s soft approach through the connecting passage diverted little of his attention at first, despite nagging curiosity as to the time of day. But more earnest concern for the eagle’s condition pulled his steam-soaked brow in the wizard’s direction.

  “Finally up?” Nottleforf greeted, visibly wearied by his exertion of energy in the healing effort. “Roftome improved so well over the day’s course, when night fell and still you slept I hoped he would stay until you had a chance to see him in decent strength.”

  Morlen could not help but sink, though thrilled by news of Roftome’s rejuvenation. Still, he would have wished to see him off, watch him take to the air and leave his small forest tent behind. “He’s gone then?” he asked glumly, though the answer already seemed apparent.

  Nottleforf smiled, leading Morlen to only guess what was so amusing in his sleeping for almost a full day, and missing the eagle’s return to health. “No, Morlen,” Nottleforf replied. “He hasn’t gone, not yet.”

  Unsure what exactly Nottleforf meant to convey, Morlen set his bowl aside and stood up. “I don’t understand,” he began, trying to bring himself up to speed. “He’s still here, but no longer in need of care?”

  Nottleforf appeared to enjoy his suspense, making him feel he grasped at something in plain sight. “I told him he was healed enough to fly hours ago, but he will not leave,” said the wizard. “He has been standing perched above the entrance for some time, and remains there still.”

  “Why won’t he go?” asked Morlen.

  “I believe that he is waiting for you.”

  “For me?”

  “Yes,” Nottleforf repeated. And then, studying him more inquisitively, he said, “Morlen, do you understand what you’ve done?”

  “I helped him,” he said dismissively. “But anyone—”

  “No,” Nottleforf cut him off. “Not anyone, Morlen. No one. No one before has ever done what you did.”

  “Done what?” Morlen asked, furrowing his brow.

  The wizard grinned more widely, intentionally letting Morlen’s curiosity build while withholding the answer. Raising shaggy gray eyebrows, he nodded encouragingly toward the stairway to the surface.

  Well-versed by now in Nottleforf’s nonverbal directives, Morlen did not need to be nudged twice. If the eagle was truly waiting for him, he would soon know why. Taking one last look at the wizard, who clearly found more delight in this than Morlen himself knew possible, he donned his cloak and made for the entrance passage. And when he emerged into the wintry daylight, even brighter were those two bronze eyes, cutting a path to his through the air.

  Morlen took a few short steps. Keeping a reasonable distance, he cleared his throat and tentatively asked, “You are healing well?”

  Like a sculpted cloud with earthy tones spread throughout, Roftome stood silently for a few moments, looking into him. The recognition in his voice was soothing as he answered, “Yes, Morlen. The wizard’s remedies worked quickly. But, it is because of you that I am alive, that I may fly and have not left.”

  “You don’t need to thank me,” Morlen quickly replied, anticipating the reason for his reluctance to depart. “There’s nothing you owe. But let me see you go free, now, while you still can.”

  Roftome beheld him again in a way that nearly made his deadliness easy to forget. “Many men have crossed my path. And my freedom is something they’ve never sought.”

  Then, releasing the earth from the grip of his talons, he stepped forward, closing the gap between them in one stride. “I do not linger here now because I wish to merely give you thanks, and I do not feel as though there is a debt I must repay to release myself from some sort of obligation, for none exists in my mind. As you say, I am free, and freely I choose to carry you, as you carried me, wherever you wish to go.”

  Morlen was held motionless by this declaration, oblivious to what could have inspired such devotion from the mightiest of eagles, known so well for his scorn of men. “Why is this your choice?” he asked.

  “Because,” said Roftome, “while all other men would force their weight onto my back and call me servant, you took mine onto yours, and called me friend. Unasked, and asking nothing in return, you lowered yourself for me in a way that I never would for another, until now. Now, and from this day forth, I am your friend, and you are mine. Your weight shall be my weight, and my speed shall be your speed.”

  Swaying just a bit, unsure how to show he accepted such an offer—though his heart filled to welcome it—Morlen found his stuttering response stifled altogether when Roftome swept an open wing and flipped him away from the ground. He grabbed on tightly for balance, dropping in a seated position on the eagle’s well-repaired back as though to ride a horse.

  But there would be no constricting reins to impose any course, nor any kick of heel against flank; there was only the mutual trust that now existed between them, and an understanding that the word “master” would never apply.

  Pushing away from the icy mire with one powerful flap of healthy, broad wings, Roftome blasted up out of the sheltered clearing and drove them higher like a great arching arrow to pierce wide skies. They soared far above the small green patch in which they’d seconds before been housed, no longer limited by the border of any realm, as all in sight was now theirs.

  Drunk on the lapping wind, Morlen marveled to see every territory he’d ever known, whether city or wood or sprawling frontier, surrounded by many more, which beckoned them now with no obstructions in between.

  He cared not in the least which direction they took, as long as they didn’t touch down, not for a long while, at least. There would soon be days for battle and blood and grief, but not today, as danger lay far on the horizon that stretched before them. Now there was speed and height and invincible pursuit, where nothing would be unreachable.

  So Morlen and Roftome embraced the greeting clouds, letting each gust bear them forward, together, and left all else far below.

  Chapter Twelve

  The King’s Fear

  VALDIS PEERED DOWN from the city walls with a pitiless expression, watching as his flock removed Felkoth’s slain troops to a mass pyre outside the capital. The bulk of them had fallen under the smothering assault of the mountain eagles, who had withdrawn at battle’s end after Roftome’s disappearance from the fray.

  Many underlying villages sat scorched and collapsing around the epicenter, while other homes farther across the city remained unscathed. Closer to the citadel on raised wooden altars burned the corpses of many young Eaglemasters, clad in the armor and red capes they’d only recently earned. All had their spears and swords crossed over still chests while their unmanned eagles called out mournfully above the rising smoke, departing with heads hung low for their ancestral home in the mountains.

  “Still no sign of him, Father,” Verald announced, swiftly ascending from the bloody streets atop his carrier. “He’s not among the rest, and we searched too for his sword near those who fell under the flames—nothing.”

  Ondrel replied, “The doorway that brought them here must’ve sealed behind them. Otherwise they all would’ve gone back as soon as they laid eyes on Roftome and the others coming down through the smoke.”

  “Agreed,” said Ivrild. “Even my stomach did a few turns when the entire flock shot past us. Imagine being u
nder them all at once—no wonder there’s such a stench down there now.”

  The king turned at the sound of nearing wings, seeing his daughter approach unexpectedly to join their huddle.

  “Did you really think I’d let you all bask in victory without me?” Valeine greeted with a smile. “As soon as the messengers flew saying Felkoth’s army had been crushed, I had to see it for myself.” She looked patiently at her brothers, and then her father, waiting for one of them to take credit for Felkoth’s death. But, when all remained uncharacteristically quiet, she realized the dread that pooled in their hearts.

  “How?” she demanded, trying to keep calm.

  Valdis stared out past the city limits, as though to trace a scurrying rodent before it returned to destroy his crops. “I know the birds well,” he began, with his children all watching him diligently. “If indeed he managed to harness one, it would not have gone willingly, meaning however far he managed to stray, his landing was likely violent, and low.”

  Ivrild held up his bow with an eager hand. “Let me lead a hunting party, Father,” he urged. “I’ll draw him out and have his head on the wall by night’s end.”

  “No.” Valdis waved this off. “What does a rat do, but burrow deeper at any sign of danger?” They glared back with tongues held tightly while he concealed his worry for their shared ambition. “We will watch every path near the Speaking River, as his only remaining haven lies on the other side. Let him sniff apprehensively for our approach, and when he feels safe in assuming we’ve halted the search, he’ll crawl out from whatever shelter he’s dug and make himself known.”

  He needed not look twice to determine whether they accepted this answer; each of them knew their station well. He only hoped he’d been convincing enough in his tactical reasoning, when his plan was only to keep all of them close.

  “Do we move on Korindelf?” Valeine asked, leaning forward as though to forgo deliberation and simply lead the charge herself at his signal.

  Valdis admired her resolve, though he knew he could not yet act as she sought. “When Felkoth senses the shriekers have all been destroyed, that Korindelf has been stripped from his grasp, what incentive has he to emerge?”

  “You mean to wait for him to gather strength and make a run back to his kingdom, instead of taking it now while he lies beaten? To let those people linger in captivity as bait?” she seethed.

  “That is the only hope to keep him from stowing away so long that he cuts our throats in our sleep!” Valdis replied, leaving all four taken aback by the first distress he’d ever shown openly.

  He cast his gaze downward and slumped ever slightly as he relaxed a bit. “I suffer with those people, knowing what they face each moment we delay,” he said. “But I will give him no reason to hide so long that we forget the danger he still poses. If I must sleep with one eye open, I’ll wake with both inside our borders, and let neither wander until they fall upon him.”

  At this, all four avoided trading second glances or signs of defiance, and Ivrild hovered closer to him. “I’ll always follow you, Father,” he assured. “Though you’re not the fairest sight from behind. He’ll make his move soon enough, and when he does, rest assured that I and the hundreds flying behind me will be the last he sees.”

  Valeine shook her head in ridicule, making as though to depart, but Valdis lifted off as well, gesturing for them to follow. “Come,” he beckoned, and she reluctantly flew alongside her brothers.

  Flying wingtip to wingtip, they left behind smoke and ruin for brief serenity, together, as their wide open country stretched out below, and came to perch on one of the many hills that often provided them a quiet retreat.

  “I can’t stay long,” said Valeine. “I need to return to my city before sundown.”

  “Her city, Father!” shouted Ivrild. “Doesn’t she know you sent her there so her squawking voice would scare off every ferotaur within a hundred miles?”

  “You forget he first tried to sacrifice her for a few decades of peace,” Ondrel countered. “Only for them to give her back the next day.”

  Verald could not help but smile too. Being eldest, he’d always felt compelled to set a chivalrous example and refrain from all jokes at their sister’s expense, though he was hard-pressed to see if this instilled affection in her, or resentment. “I’d wager Father brought each of you as close to the ferotaurs as he could after you were born,” he laughed. “Their twisted faces no doubt made yours tolerable to look at, after he’d grown used to my perfection. It’s a wonder you’ve both attracted so many girls over the years.”

  Despite her brothers’ incessant jests, Valeine never felt short of loved or looked after in their presence, and she fought the urge now to laugh at the way they emulated their father’s regal composure. “No girl would go willingly to any of you in the first place, were it not for your tendencies to promise each of them a seat beside you at the throne.”

  “And I keep my promises, little sister; make no mistake,” Ivrild replied. “Which is why I’ll need you along with your loyal host to come and expand the great hall to a capacity that will accommodate those seats.”

  Unable to stay quiet between them any longer, Valdis declared, “There’s ample room even if you three were king jointly; fitting, as I’m wary to entrust the crown to any one of you.”

  Ivrild reared his head back at this notion. “The three of us might just make one competent king. Cross legs with one another to squeeze into the throne, just like old times.”

  “We’ll have to grovel at her feet every time she threatens to let the ferotaurs rush in to take our heads,” Ondrel scoffed.

  Valdis failed to hide a grimace that quickly withdrew beneath his hardening expression. His troubled heart settled down somewhat, as it always did whenever he could get lost with them. Gladly would he relinquish his high station, no longer to be king, only father. But, he knew such solace would crumble as soon as it was indulged.

  Even as one invading horde lay shattered in their wake, others marshaled, resilient and vengeful, at their quivering borders. Yet no rabble in plain sight threatened with such gravity as the single gnawing tick at the back of his mind, whose eager face he would seek among his own people if he had to, until it was extracted and crushed.

  Suddenly, blaring horns tremored through the wind, repeating a distress call from their farthest city. Turning to his daughter, he felt no surprise to find her attention already upon him, with no hint of trepidation.

  “I have to go,” said Valeine in a curt farewell, preparing to turn her carrier homeward.

  “I’m going with you,” Verald’s voice was lost beneath those of his two brothers, who emphatically declared the same.

  Finally allowing a broad smile at each of them, she said, “Sweet brothers, an overconfident fleet of ferotaurs prodding our defenses does not require the attention of busy princes such as yourselves. Quite a common occurrence really, at my city.” She made to veer off, when Valdis halted her, willing to take no chances despite her display of daring.

  “Verald, you go too,” the king said sternly, though it was more directed at her, while she made no secret of her scorn for the command. Nodding his goodbye, Verald hastened forward to catch up as she’d already bolted far ahead, leaving them in her trail.

  “What about us, Father?” protested Ondrel. “You think them better warriors?”

  Ivrild teased, “Well, better than you, most likely. He probably wishes to keep me close for his own sake, with Felkoth hiding under our feet and all.”

  Valdis rolled his eyes at them. “You’re both staying with me,” he grumbled. “If I can’t enjoy more than a few minutes’ peace with all four, I’ll at least settle for you two.”

  Grinning, Ivrild responded, “I didn’t know you held us in such high esteem. I always reckoned myself tolerable at best in your regard, with occasion to stretch toward potentially respectable.”

  “Rare occasion,” Valdis replied, driving them around. “Keep up,” he bade, and they continued
on together, sweeping back toward the heart of their kingdom, in which, somewhere, the enemy lay quietly.

  Morlen looked down on the highest peaks as Roftome defied repellant winds, carving their own undisputed domain above winter’s shroud, where all was blue and warm. Every tree or hill he’d ever climbed was a mere speck at such open altitude, where he could drink in each ray purely from its source, unfiltered by any cloud or flake. Filling his hands with the rising breath of all mortals inhabiting the earth below, he for one fleeting second counted himself apart from them, invulnerable to dust or decay.

  “Your wings swim the air well, Roftome,” he praised. “I’m soon to believe they were never broken at all.”

  “Nothing is broken that may heal, in time.” Roftome’s deep voice resounded over the underlying clouds. “My kind have endured far worse through the ages, whether biting snows or crushing tumbles of rock, or the arrows and nets of many intruders, and still we thrive.”

  Morlen felt disturbed by this, never before having heard of such atrocities perpetrated by men against eagles. “But I thought the Eaglemas—” He caught himself. “The city men never harmed your kind.”

  Roftome turned his white head sideways, with one eye aimed up like a spearhead in Morlen’s direction. “I spoke not of the city men,” he answered, holding course in silence for a moment, and realized he waited in vain for Morlen to acknowledge those he meant. “There are others who have come for us,” he said. “And they have taken many.”

  Blaming the cold of a turbulent breeze for his sudden inner chill, Morlen drew his cloak tighter while they skimmed the thinning outer reaches and asked, “What others?”

  Roftome had no fear of delving into memory of those who had come, and would again. “The pale men from the Mountains of the Lost,” he said. “Who fly atop those they took before, the Pyrnaq, no longer bright-feathered or singing our songs. They throw their nets over my brothers and sisters and bring them underground, and they are never heard or seen again… not as they once were.”