Sword Mountain

by Nancy Yi Fan

  Simplicio merely bleated, “Very observant, Master Pouldington. And Dandelion, please don’t move.”

  Dandelion felt tears sting her eyes. “Why don’t you look in a mirror!” she lashed back.

  “Oh!” The breaths of the young nobility were one swift, hostile wind, flickering the lantern.

  Simplicio stumbled toward her, a willow rod in his claws, his raspy voice rising in a screech like chalk on a blackboard. “I advise you, miss, to wash your beak of that mud of the uneducated. Speak properly to the son of the treasurer.”

  “But—”

  “Enough!” Simplicio cried. “Life is not fair, and teachers are here to enforce that.” The venerable tutor, so rickety in his movements, hit with startling deftness. Whack! Whack! Whack! Thrice, hard, across her talons. Her toes now really swelled.

  She held back the burning tears. If they thought they could gloat over her tears, they would be disappointed. She sat painfully straight, faced off to one direction, the lantern illuminating her stiffness.

  “If you stay, they’re just going to make a fool of you. A valley fool.” Olga’s words rang in her ears. Olga, now, was smirking in amusement as she painted in the back row.

  Tutor Simplicio weaved in and out of the rows of students, cackling, “Very good, very good!” like a gleeful merchant.

  What in the mountain range makes them so terrible? And what is wrong with coming from the valley? Dandelion wondered. After all, it was the mountaintop that was uncomfortable—rocky, cold, barren, and ever so windy, while the valley bloomed and flowered, lush and green.

  It is me, then? What’s wrong with me?

  Suddenly the quiet was broken by a small clatter, as if somebird had dropped a paintbrush. It came from the dark side of the room, but when she looked over in that direction, she just saw Pudding. The noise hadn’t come from him. Pudding was busy adding rough, broad strokes to his artwork, a horrid look on his pudgy face. In the shadows next to him, somebird moved and straightened, looking directly at her with a familiar, friendly smile.

  Her heart leaped, and for a moment she felt joyful. It was Cloud-wing! She hadn’t noticed that he was in the class. Then a small doubt stirred in her—was he as nice as he had seemed to her before, or was he really just another spoiled young lord? Cloud-wing whispered some words to her, but she couldn’t hear. Since she wasn’t allowed to move, she blinked a few times.

  “Mr. Simplicio?” Pudding spoke out again, loudly, holding his palette. “I have a question.”

  “Yes?” the tutor said.

  “I painted next to her a scroll about the uses of manure in farming,” Pudding announced. “But can valley eagles read?”

  “No, of course not,” said Simplicio crisply. “Get a scraper here, or some of this base paint, and cover it up!”

  Cloud-wing frowned a little and watched carefully as Pudding squeezed himself out of his row. Cloud-wing hunched over and rapidly did something to Pudding’s stool in the darkness.

  The birds sitting behind Cloud-wing straightened, attentive, yet they kept curiously quiet. Dandelion was struck by a thought. Perhaps Cloud-wing was the son of a prestigious official as well, as high as Pudding’s father, the treasurer, and lower-ranked court eaglets dared not offend them. Indeed, now that she was paying closer attention, she saw that Cloud-wing had four miniature gold acorns pinned around his collar, as did Pudding. Olga had only half an acorn pin.

  So, the higher ranked the eaglets were, the more acorns pins they had and the closer they sat to the front, Dandelion decided. Olga, in the back, was not so important then, though she had put up such a grand facade. Then Dandelion noticed that there was a gap in the front row, where two or three stools might fit. Places for the highest, she thought. Princes or princesses. But neither Prince Fleydur nor Forlath had children. Dandelion looked back at Pudding’s empty stool.

  Oblivious, Pudding returned to his seat. Cloud-wing withdrew to his own painting. Pudding sat down, with a discernable squish. The birds nearby held their breaths. Yet he showed no sign of noticing. The whole class was tense, as if on puppet strings.

  When Simplicio hit the side of his desk with his cane, class was finally over. “Bring your canvases to me if you are finished,” he called, drawing open the curtains of the room. The first to go up was Pudding. Everybird else stayed seated. Pudding held his painting aloft, immensely proud of himself as he ran up to display his work to the tutor.

  “Oh!” Olga shrieked, bobbing her lace-capped head. “Look!”

  Pudding’s back was to the rest of the eaglets, and encrusted on the feathers of his behind was a huge circle of pink paint. The class erupted in laughter. “Look, a tutu!” And the son of the treasurer ran in circles, trying to see the pink paint, on his face a comical look of surprise.

  Dandelion hopped off her stool and bolted outside. Cloud-wing brushed past her, smiling, and she tried to return his smile. He was clever and kind, trying to make her feel better, but it only made her suddenly realize how deeply wounded and confused and irritated she was. She left as quickly as she could and ran through the corridors, trying to hold back the emotions that now, when nobird was around, boiled over.

  She sobbed with relief when she touched the crystal doorknob of her own door. Quickly she entered the room and shut the door behind her, leaning against the cool wood. Nobird cares when somebird tramples upon dandelions. They’re weeds, aren’t they? And a tough dandelion doesn’t cry.

  Nothing is something.

  —FROM THE BOOK OF HERESY

  6

  BETWEEN MOTHER AND SON

  Oh, no. No, no, no,” said a gruff female voice. “You’d think Fleydur would sit still, grateful that he’s escaped death for returning. But it’s been just a month, and he already itches to mold the mountain like clay.” There was a sigh. “You know your father has never written a will and named his heir. When Fleydur was banished, you were the obvious choice for successor. But now Morgan confides in him, talking of reopening mines of generations ago, of allowing music, of other madness!”

  Dandelion stumbled, alarmed. She had entered the wrong room. This was a small and dimly lit antechamber, and voices were coming from the crack of a door into an inner room. She must have gotten completely lost in the corridors and staircases. Dandelion was about to turn and leave but choked back a shout when the door she leaned on swept her into the wall.

  Mashed in the tight space, she squirmed, her heart pounding. Whoever had entered remained standing in the entrance, his breathing audible.

  “Message and delivery!” The voice boomed inches from her ear. “Here is a scroll from Fleydur to all of the court, outlining his desire to schedule a meeting with the Iron Nest.”

  “Thank you. I shall get it,” said a familiar voice, Prince Forlath’s. Fleydur’s brother! Dandelion thought. And the other eagle in the inner room, is she his mother, the queen? Where is Fleydur? Forlath approached the messenger, but he continued his conversation with the queen. “Really, Mother, I feel that you’re making a pebble into a mountain. It’s no secret Fleydur wants to improve our kingdom. See, he is drafting a proposal.”

  As Forlath’s clawsteps receded again, the queen cleared her throat. “Oh, is that his intention? Is it really?”

  As the messenger left, he jerked the door shut, exposing Dandelion.

  She froze. The entrance to the inner chamber was wide open! Forlath’s silhouette filled the doorway of the inner room. But his back was to her. “Fleydur’s true intention? I do not know what you mean.” Forlath’s voice was slightly trembling.

  “You know full well what I mean!” The gruff voice abruptly changed to a pleasant, ladylike tone. “Or do I have to put thoughts into your head as well as words, dear boy?”

  “Mother, I do not—”

  “Fleydur is here, trying to get at the throne!” The queen’s voice was shrill.

  “So what?” asked Forlath. “So what if Fleydur becomes king?”

  Dandelion finally succeeded in prying the door open a c
rack. She slipped out of the room, running in the direction she had come from.

  “What’s that?” she heard Sigrid cry.

  Did Forlath spin around and see her? Were clawsteps hurrying behind her? Dandelion didn’t wait to find out. She tore into a side corridor, taking turns and twists whenever available, knowing that if they saw her, it would only take a few beats to overtake her on wing.

  Oh, if I could fly now! she thought.

  To her alarm, a bird ambled around the corner just ahead. She skidded to a halt, ready to spin around, but it was none other than the physician who had checked on her earlier in the morning.

  “There you are, Dandelion,” the physician said. “I could not find you in your room. I was beginning to wonder if the castle walls had swallowed you up.”

  “I got lost.” She panted, keeping an attentive ear for any sound of clawsteps behind her. There seemed to be none.

  “There, there,” said the physician, patting her head. “This place does seem to spawn new corridors when your back is turned. But it’s all right now.” He gestured for her to turn around. “Come, quickly.”

  Dandelion sighed in relief. “Thank you, sir,” she said. They walked in the direction she’d come from. She couldn’t wait to be inside the safety of her room and figure out her next step—how to find Fleydur. “I didn’t mean to be troublesome,” she added.

  The physician led her around a corner. “Not at all. I don’t suppose you’d find the queen’s chamber by yourself anyhow.”

  Dandelion stumbled to a stop. “What?” She must have heard wrong.

  “We are going to Her Majesty Queen Sigrid’s drawing room. Did I forget to tell you this morning?” he answered cheerfully, assuming Dandelion’s wide eyes and open beak were signs of awe. “For some days now, she has been looking forward to conversing with you privately.” He gestured to the door he’d stopped in front of. It was the door she’d fled through only minutes ago.

  “Why?” Dandelion cried, edging backward. The door was shut tight, as if the queen’s conversation with Forlath hadn’t happened at all.

  “The queen wants to get to know you, I believe.”

  “Can’t I go back to my room right now, please, sir?”

  “Oh, don’t be shy. The queen is a sensitive and caring lady.”

  With that, the physician opened the door and shoved Dandelion in.

  The door to the room beyond the antechamber was still open, and Dandelion could see inside. The windows were flung wide, the curtains open to let afternoon sunshine pour in. Forlath, it seemed, had left.

  “Come in.”

  Sigrid’s eyes were black, shot with flecks of gold. Her feathers shimmered with yellow powder. She lifted a set of talons to motion to her hummingbird handmaid, and Dandelion noticed that Sigrid’s toenails were filed to sharp points and painted bloodred.

  The hummingbird brought a plate of cookies to Dandelion.

  If the queen gives me a cookie, she can’t have seen me, Dandelion thought, and picked a small one.

  “Pour some tea for the child, too,” Sigrid said to her handmaid as she got up and walked to her window. “Whoever do you think was listening at my door a moment ago? I feel it was Fleydur. Thinking he’s so sly and clever. He can’t even talk to me face-to-face!”

  Dandelion nearly dropped her cookie.

  “Or maybe it was his valet. It shows how uncouth Fleydur is. He puts up one face for the court, but inside, he’s plotting something else altogether. I don’t care how much he’s overheard. I don’t care what he would do about it—”

  “He didn’t!” Dandelion said.

  Sigrid turned around, huge and frightening in her regalia. Ornate lace-edged sleeves only emphasized her bulk as she towered over Dandelion.

  “Fleydur didn’t listen,” Dandelion whispered.

  “Why do you vouch for him, sweetie?” said the queen.

  Does she know? Does she know? Dandelion’s mind was paralyzed by fear. Sigrid didn’t wait for her answer.

  “Does he treat you so well? Is that it?” Sigrid ventured. “I’m puzzled why he would. Come closer,” she said. “My eyes are not as good as they once were. I cannot see you well.”

  Sigrid’s strong clutch pulled Dandelion forward till they were nearly beak to beak.

  “A true valley child,” Sigrid said. “Your feathers, not golden, not caramel, not mahogany, not coffee, not chocolate—just about jet black. A whole bathtub of gold cosmetic powder wouldn’t lighten that up.” Sigrid cackled.

  Dandelion tried to break away. “Fleydur is good to me because he is kind,” she protested.

  “Is he?” Sigrid took a sip of tea.

  The calm before the storm, Dandelion thought.

  “Do you know why Fleydur was exiled in the first place?” asked the queen. “A good, virtuous bird isn’t threatened with the sentence of death if he returns, for nothing.”

  Dandelion shook her head.

  “It was for his music and his attitude. In the beginning, Fleydur was restless and secretive, sometimes slipping into the treasury, other times disappearing from Sword Mountain for hours at a time.”

  Sigrid banged her teacup on the table at the memory. “Who finally caught him fooling around with one of the kingdom’s most important treasures? Me. Then Morgan suspected Fleydur of stealing funds for the enemy, but I knew Fleydur was dabbling in music. When the court investigated where Fleydur sneaked off to, who decided to follow him? Me, with my courtier Simplicio. For the greater good of the mountain, I hardened my heart and went to spy on the stepson I had raised. It was I who presented the indisputable evidence that earned him his exile!”

  Dandelion saw a terrible mixture of pain and pride on Sigrid’s face.

  “We caught him squawking ‘songs’ with coarse beggars. It was shameful! Yet when I listened to the words, I knew that the ideas swarming in his mind were more dangerous than the tunes themselves.” Sigrid pointed at Dandelion. “Now that you’re healed, I can tell he’s up to something again. That’s why I summoned you here. I know what he’s conspiring to do has to be bigger than getting the right to sing, but I cannot lay my talon on it.”

  “But I barely see him, Your Majesty,” said Dandelion carefully.

  “You silly child!” All vestiges of courtesy disappeared from Sigrid’s face. “Still backing Fleydur, are you? He’s sly enough to save you, so you are obliged to be grateful to him; he’s even slyer to bring you here, where everybird else loathes you, so you’ll stay loyal to him. Do you think he cares for you? He cut himself off from family values, long ago. But I,” she said, “I am a mother.” She set down her teacup with finality. “Let me know then if Fleydur acts strangely. Come to me, and for every report of Fleydur you give me, I will give you flight lessons.”

  At that moment Dandelion remembered a nugget of truth about Fleydur’s thoughtfulness that made her doubt the queen. “Fleydur wished me happy birthday. He sang me ‘Happy Birthday.’”

  Sigrid recoiled.

  “He lies,” she whispered. “Ask him about when you’ll see your parents again. Watch him stall. Watch him lie.”

  The hummingbird opened the door for Dandelion.

  Dandelion discovered the physician several corridors away, chatting with a guard. “Wonderful day for you, isn’t it, Dandelion? Going to school and meeting the queen?” he said. “And the housekeeper brought new dresses for you, too, courtesy of the Castle of Sky; now won’t you like that?” He led her back toward her room.

  Dandelion said her thanks and followed. Deep in her thoughts, she didn’t notice when the physician left and she entered her sickroom.

  “Dandelion? What’s wrong? How did your classes go?” Dandelion jumped as she saw that Fleydur himself was sitting in the room in the noon warmth, waiting. It was his first visit in several weeks now. A smile graced his face.

  “I don’t want to return to the tutor’s class,” said Dandelion. “I want to see my parents. I want to go home.”

  “I will personally bring yo
u to your family’s cave someday. But now we need to take care of you, too,” he said. “Why don’t you want to go to class with Simplicio?”

  “I’m a valley weed,” she said, and shut her beak and inspected her feet.

  Fleydur paused at this, frowning. “You don’t need to go to Simplicio’s class, then,” he said gently. “Dandelion. Look at me. You are fine the way you are, understand?” His words were quiet and deliberately restrained, but Dandelion could see his feathers quivering. He cares, she thought. Anxious that she sounded like a childish tattler, she tried to say something else. Stirring up trouble or making the prince do anything more for her was the last thing she wanted to do.

  She thought of the queen. “Fleydur, I have something important to tell you.” Fleydur looked concerned. “When I got out of class, I got lost in the hallways and went into the wrong place. I thought it was here, the doors were so alike.” She swallowed. “I went into a room and heard the voice of the queen. She sounded angry about you. Then later she actually talked to me and … I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but Fleydur, you should be careful!”

  To her horror, Fleydur relaxed, and he even gave a light laugh. “I was worried my mother had turned too sour for eaglets’ company. She’s got room in her heart for youngsters after all.”

  He shook his head merrily. “And nobird is going to say anything about you just because you accidentally went into the wrong room, Dandelion. And Sigrid, though hot-tempered and stubborn sometimes, gets along fine with me.”

  “But—”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Fleydur shook his head again, as if trying to get Dandelion to understand something. “My own mother died of an illness when I was quite young,” he said gently. “It was Sigrid who raised me all those seasons and preened my feathers when I had a fever. Her love for me and her love for the mountain show in different ways.”

  Dandelion closed her beak. He made her sound unreasonable, suspecting one’s own mother, and for a moment she felt absurd. Could the queen be right? Dandelion contemplated the thought. Fleydur had been kind to her, but could he have had some ulterior motive, as Sigrid had claimed? Did Dandelion truly know what the prince was like? He was young once, she thought. He had a tutor. He was a prince who sat in those empty places in the front row of the class. Was Fleydur a Cloud-wing or a Pouldington?