The Bird Children

THE BIRD CHILDREN

A Novel by

Karen Nilsen

Copyright © 2013 by Karen Nilsen

All rights reserved.

Cover art © 1985 by Cynthia Nilsen

Published by Karen Nilsen at Smashwords

Smashwords edition published 2014

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To lose a child at any age, for any reason, is one of the worst tragedies that can befall someone. I dedicate this book to all families who have suffered such a loss.

Prologue

He first saw her in the springtime. When she leaned over the mossy bank of the stream in her world and gazed at her reflection rippling in the pool, she had no idea that she looked through a portal. When she sighed over her freckles, first touching her face and then touching the water wistfully, she had no idea he could hear her, that his fingertips met hers when his hand brushed the surface of his mother's magical mirror.

Or did she? There had been an instant when her eyes widened, a moment when she stared intently into the pool trying to see the bottom, finding darting shadows and tricksy visions where only stones and plants and minnows should be, a whole minute when it felt like their gazes connected.

Then someone called her name in the mortal world, and the connection broke as she turned her face away. Her lovely, fey face. He cursed, almost drove his fist against the mirror before a twinge in his knuckles reminded him how much that had hurt the last time. And how long his mother had forbidden him to gaze into the mirror afterwards--several mortal years at least. By then his first love had been lost. Much as he tried, he could no longer find her in the mirror. At the thought, he raised his fist to the treacherous mirror again.

You shall never master it while you are frustrated, his mother said as she sauntered through the archway behind him.

I shall never master it while you refuse to teach me.

She laughed lightly and joined him by the mirror, her violet-gray eyes half-lidded as always, beguiled into endless languor by the passing centuries. And no wonder--those eyes had witnessed the rise and fall of several mortal civilizations through her mirror.

You are too young yet to be detached. You must be calm to use the mirror. I shall teach you then. She stroked his shoulder. Usually he found this soothing, but not now. Not when he wanted to see the girl again, so like the last girl he had fallen in love with through the mirror, yet different . . .

They are related, his mother said, answering his unspoken question. She nodded toward the mirror. This one today is the daughter of the one you almost broke the mirror to reach.

She saw me, I know she did. There at the end, our gazes connected.

I am certain she did glimpse you. She is what the mortals call a witch--you have heard me speak of them before.

He made an impatient gesture. It was more than her catching a glimpse of me. Our eyes met, like my eyes met her mother's eyes that time. She is no ordinary witch. She could live in our world. The last one could have lived in our world, could have been my bride. He could not keep the bitterness out of his voice. Over two hundred mortal years old he had been when he had broken his knuckles trying to reach the last witch-girl in the mirror, the one with hair the copper of beech leaves in the fall and eyes the bright new green of spring. His mother had turned the mirror to the wall and sent him away, broken knuckles and all, to tame the nearest dragon. She had said it would teach him patience. All it had really taught him was that dragons did not like fresh fish (too damp) and that their breath could singe all the hair off one's head if one stood too close. And that it took a long time to grow back one's hair if one was immortal.

It had also taught him that his mother, although one of the Eldest and therefore wise, no longer understood youth. Hers had been so long ago, after all. If his father had been alive, he might have understood. But his father had passed to the next realm long ago, dead of old age while he was yet an infant. His father had been a mortal warlock his mother had fancied; she had enchanted him through the mirror to this place so she could conceive a child who could pass between realms. His mother, for all her power, could not pass between realms. She could spy on all the realms in her mirror, even the heaven where his father's soul now existed, and draw mortals, body and soul, to her from the other realms. But she could not send them back once she had taken them from their worlds. And she could not travel between realms. For all eternity, she must live in this place.

He, on the other hand, though immortal like his mother, possessed his mortal father's ability to pass between realms. At least that was what his mother had told him. But he had no idea how to use this ability, and she would not teach him even the simplest spells to begin to master it. Yet.

In time, my son. In time. She stroked his shoulder. This girl, the one you saw today--she is the one. You are right, she is no ordinary witch.

The way her eyes connected with mine . . .

That is because she has already tasted death.

He turned to stare at her. But she is mortal.

"Was mortal, his mother correctly gently. A holy man burnt her mother to death. The fire transformed her into a phoenix with this girl yet growing in her womb."

Her mother is a phoenix? That girl I loved, the one who had visions of our realm and limned it in her sketchbook better than any artist here, was put to the flame? His voice rose. Did you know that would happen to her when you refused to let me bring her here, sent me away so I could never see her again? Well, did you?

His mother's honeyed skin grew pale, and she glanced down at her clasped hands, her pearled fingernails catching the light in iridescent flashes. I did not tell you before because I knew you would respond like this. It was her fate to become a phoenix--the mortal realm is a better place because of her sacrifice. It was her fate to love a mortal man, not you, her fate to bear him children, one of whom is this girl you saw today, an immortal like you who can travel between realms . . .

I want her here then. Now. His loneliness ate at him like an ulcer, a wound that refused to heal but kept bleeding a few drops every hour that passed, slowly draining him of hope. Certainly, there were others besides him and his mother in this realm, but they were all of the Eldest except for a few fleeting mortal pets. And of course, the unicorns, dragons, and other beings the mortals considered mythical, but one could hardly play music, dance, or couple with a unicorn. Or a dragon. The other Eldest, though charmed by his enthusiasm, considered him an anomaly and kept him at a polite distance, which only added to his solitude. Their suspicion was natural, perhaps; his mother, a rebel fascinated with sorcery in other realms, had been the first of their kind to mate with a mortal and bring forth a magical half-breed child. He supposed one day he would be like the other Eldest, the fire of youthful passions quenched by the overwhelming flood of years, but now he felt desperate and grasping for any bit of brightness. Like that lively butterfly of a girl who had flitted through his mother's mirror today.

You want her to hate you for an eternity? his mother asked dryly. She has no idea she is immortal--yet. And even if she did, she is still a child, barely on the cusp of womanhood. A precious, well-guarded child, snatched from the jaws of her mother's death. Her family watches her, frets over her constantly--even if you could seduce her and make her long to follow you here, they will not relinquish her anytime soon if they can help it. And her mother is a phoenix, her father now a weirhawk. They will not be so easy to fool. I am certain her mother knows of our realm, knows what a temptation her daughter will be for our kind.

Then how will I ever lure her here? He masked his face with his hands in despair, stared at the warm darkness there, tinged with rosy light glowing between his fingers.

There shall come a time soon when the phoenix is distracted, perhaps not watching as closely as she should, and that is when we will act. His mother smoothed his hair, calming him.

What do you mean, distracted? He dropped his hands from his face.

His mother smiled her beautiful, languid smile, the smile of one who had all the time in eternity running through her fingers like an endless stream of clear, cool water. All she had to do was cup her hands to catch a moment, the right moment to act. You shall see, my impetuous son.

But what if the phoenix realizes what we have done and comes after her daughter?

The phoenix cannot leave the mortal realm to follow her daughter here, and once the girl is here, she will not be able to find her way back home, not without someone showing her the way. We will turn the mirror to the wall, never let her see it, cast a spell to make her believe that she has died and this is heaven, and she will soon forget the mortal world.

His mother's voice, so certain, so sonorous, chilled him just a little, even as her words made him happy. His solitude would soon be at an end. It sounds like you have considered the matter at length, he remarked finally. I had no idea . . .

His mother stilled him with a tap of her pointer finger, her spell-casting finger, to his forehead. Of course I have. You are my only child. I would be remiss not to consider the best way to ensure your lasting joy, now would I not?

Chapter One ~ Mordric

Avreal can never know she hatched from an egg, started life as a bird, I said to the window and the mullioned October beyond, cut into neat-edged diamond panes of glass--how I wished the real world could be arranged with such precision and predictability. I would have smashed certain panes as being indelibly flawed before they could become part of the pattern, and I would have placed my family's panes in a safe, out-of-the-way corner in an orderly fashion . . . Avreal skipped across the yard then, the sharp merriment of her laughter piercing through the distance and glass between us. She held two maple boughs aloft, red leaves flapping and twisting like feathers in the wind. Then suddenly she was airborne, her feet leaving the ground with the ease of a bird's as she turned a flip and then a cartwheel, never letting go of the branches clutched in her fingers. She landed lightly, her skirts hitched at an unladylike angle that bared her scrawny legs and the lacy hems of her drawers. Where were her petticoats? Where were her hosen? I groaned to myself--I should have been grateful, I supposed, that she at least remembered to wear her smallclothes. Some of the academy pupils began to gather around her.

She didn't even touch the ground with her hands--not once, Artemious murmured behind me.

If we had been at home, I would have cracked the window open and yelled put on some damned clothes and Avreal would have stuck her tongue out at me before complying with my request. As it was, I didn't want to draw any more attention to her, so I turned to Dominic, lurking in the corner, and barked, Go look after your sister.

He nodded and ducked out of the chamber. I glanced back at the window in time to see one of the older boys imitating Avreal's acrobatics. The poor lad fell on his head attempting the flip, landing in a befuddled heap.

You better send one of your healers out there, Fraine. Artemious tugged on his beard, his brow furrowed.

Fraine Renfrew peered out the window, then cackled. It's just Durant--he'll be fine. He has a skull made of granite, that one. See--he just got back up, none the worse for wear. I side-stepped to put some distance between myself and Renfrew. He smelled vaguely questionable, a combination of burnt dinner and sulfur. Was I really going to leave my grandchildren here? How could Merius have picked him to be the witch and warlock academy headmaster? Renfrew wasn't even a warlock himself, just a scholar--and a madman. I shook my head as Avreal twirled and leapt in what some called her vagabond dance.

Why, look at her. You'd think those branches were wings. Renfrew cackled again, apparently undone by his own wit.

Or blades--she almost poked Durant's eye out. Why doesn't he stand back, give her a wider berth? Artemious had gotten more jumpy in his old age.

Renfrew waved a knob-knuckled claw, seemingly unconcerned. His brain's made of granite too.

Dominic's training her at the sword--she's well aware of the space around her, the length of a blade in her hand--or a stick in her hand, as the case may be, I said, more testily than I had intended. Durant's eye is safe, Artemious.

Renfrew pinned me with his overly bright gaze. You allow that, but you won't tell her she started life as a bird?

Learning the sword brought her out of her fit, helped her talk again. Of course I allowed it. I stared at my granddaughter, who now hung upside down from the limb of an ancient oak, knees exposed, drawers exposed, swinging back and forth with no more concern for modesty than a savage. I shook my head--she had seemed so human scant months before. Seemed so human before those murdering bastards had forced her father to become the weirhawk permanently. Sometimes I feared Merius losing his humanity had made Avreal lose hers as well. Dominic shouldered through the circle of open-mouthed pupils gawking upwards. He reached for Avreal, who took his hand and flipped herself down with fluid grace.

I took the opportunity of Dominic's absence to say, Neither Merius nor I would have considered sending his children here six months ago.

Because of the threat King Rainier posed to them while Merius was still human, Artemious finished for me, clearing his throat. He sniffed into a crumpled handkerchief and swiped at his rheumy eyes--sometimes I wondered if he missed talking to Merius even more than I did.

That was Merius's reason, yes. I leveled my gaze at Renfrew. I had my own reasons.

Renfrew stared back at me, one gnarly brow twisted upwards. You think I'm cracked, don't you?

I always have.

He grinned. Yet you hired me to be the Landers tutor, teach Merius . . .

Your affliction hasn't affected your teaching--yet. I just want you to be aware I'm keeping an eye on you, Fraine.

For once, no mockery or merriment gilded his manner. I'll look out for them, you know, like they were my own, he said softly.

You better. I stretched out my hands on the window sill. An old warrior's hands, roped with veins and scars, liver-spotted, callused from sword practice (Dominic and I had taken a turn in the front hall at the House of Landers just this morning, the same place I used to instruct his father at arms.) I never planned to send them away like this, but I have no choice. Dominic sneaks down to the wharves and gets in brawls defending those dock rat friends of his. I thrash him for it at least once a fortnight, but it's pointless. He's like Merius--thrashing doesn't work. But if I don't thrash him, then the others-- namely Wylan, I added silently to myself --think they can get away with murder. And the brawls--seems like he's always itching for a fight ever since Merius transformed, and he could get seriously hurt. We've tried locking him away, but he invariably gets out. Then not even Safire can track him, he can block her so well now.

But Mordric, if you can't control him, what hope do I have? Renfrew held out his fingers, crabbed by rheumatism.

You can distract him, just like you did his father. I clasped my hands behind my back and stalked down the edge of the rug, each step as carefully placed as a move on the chess board. I never thought I would admit this, but your instruction gave Merius a focus for his energy and intelligence. He needed that--he was so high-strung and wild, especially after his mother died, and if some nitwit had been his tutor then, I don't know if he would have made it to manhood. Dominic's calmer than Merius--on the outside at least--but he still needs a serious challenge to keep his interest, distract him from his darker impulses. This--coming here, learning about his witch talents, being the one solely responsible for Avreal--this will challenge him.

Artemious nodded. Yes, just reading Merius's writing on witch and weir talents will consume his interest for some time, methinks.

He's never even studied his own father's books? Renfrew was aghast.

I shrugged. Merius felt it important that both Dominic and Avreal get a good grounding in the regular courses of study before exposing them to witchery. Now that they're here, they may study Merius's texts, but only as it relates to their particular abilities. And nothing about the weir talents. Merius wanted to protect them from their own past, particularly Avreal, until they were old enough to handle it, which is why I forbid anyone to tell her she started life as a bird. If she knew, she'd probably fly away, never to be heard from again, the wicked creature.

No one here studies the weir talents except me. We don't need a bunch of adolescents careening around, trying to turn into wild creatures when they should be primarily concerned with turning into adults. Most of what the pupils study here is reading, writing, and arithmetic, at least at first, Renfrew conceded. Dominic and Avreal won't need much of that, so they're coming at the ideal time in their studies.

I'll be interested to see what Dominic's and Avreal's main talents are, Artemious said, rubbing his hands together over the few flames crackling in the grate. I have my theories, of course, but . . . Merius kept them so sheltered. And rightly so, while Rainier still had his fangs. But now, now that they're free of the spider king's web--this will be an exciting time of discovery for them both, a good distraction from their grief. You and Eden were wise to think of it, Mordric.

Safire showed it to me in one of her visions. She and Merius will be flying over every night, Fraine, if you need any help with their fledglings.

As if my thought summoned them, Dominic and Avreal entered the chamber then. Avreal still held the maple boughs, whipping them about like blades in a battle until she caught my glower. She grew still, then huffed a gusty sigh that lifted one rogue curl off her forehead, her unblinking gaze meeting mine. Dominic rested his hand on her shoulder, whether in an impulse to restrain her or protect her was difficult to tell. Likely both. Certainly I often felt those two impulses in Avreal's presence.

What did you bring those in here for? I grumbled, gesturing at the branches.

Avreal compressed her lips together in a narrow line, her chin jutting out. Then she stalked over to the grate and cast the boughs on the smoldering coals. Sparks sputtered angrily at the green wood and damp leaves.

I shook my head but refrained from further comment. Renfrew started shuffling through some papers on his desk, muttering to himself. Ah, here we are. Dominic, Avreal, come over here. The formalities must be observed.

Dominic glanced at me in a silent question. The crown pays for your study here, I said. In exchange, you sign a contract binding your services as a witch or warlock to the crown for five years immediately following your graduation from this academy. It's like signing on as a king's guard.

His eyes narrowed. What kind of services?

That remains to be seen--it depends on your particular talent, and how King Segar best determines it should be used, Artemious answered.

What if I don't like the assignment His Majesty, Dominic paused, determines for me? What if I would rather be a king's guard than a warlock?

Shrewd questions, lad. Most who come here don't think to ask such questions. Most are too grateful to have a solid roof overhead and a warm meal to worry about whether they'll like the price or not. Most can't afford to worry about their likes or dislikes. Renfrew's eyes glimmered darkly. I had rarely seen this tough side of him and was glad to see it now--perhaps he would be able to handle Dominic and Avreal after all.

Dominic colored. I didn't mean to sound ungrateful, sir. I just want to know what I'm signing. Five years seems a long time.

Dominic, your father and I took great care with your weapons training. I held both his and Avreal's gazes with my own. I have full confidence you would make a fine king's guard. However fine a king's guard you would make, though, would be a waste. There are many fine king's guards, but none of them are children of the phoenix. None of them have your other gifts. Your privileged position means you're obligated to learn about those gifts and use them in service to your country if you can, whether you like it or not. Honor is never a matter of like or dislike; it's a matter of duty. And your parents sacrificed their mortal lives to protect you and others like you, and you better damn well appreciate it . . . I added under my breath, tempted to say it but knowing I shouldn't. I had already been blunt, as being blunt was often the quickest way to handle Dominic with his constant incisive questions; best not to add a thick layer of guilt to sour my speech. I could already hear Eden's mocking voice in my head: I never worry about the children missing the point when you talk to them--why use a subtle stiletto when you can hack their childhoods to tatters with a battleaxe?

Artemious, the great diplomat (after all, he had been an ambassador) crossed the chamber and put his hand on Dominic's shoulder. Dominic cut those sharp eyes at him, brow furrowed.

You remind me of your father, you know, Artemious said. He wanted to remain a simple guard when he served in my household as a young man. If fate had bowed to his whim, we would have lost the insight of the keenest mind of his generation.

But Lord Rankin, we did lose it, lose him, Dominic muttered. Mother too. He heaved a deep breath, so deep it appeared he shrugged. I want to honor them, their human lives, as best I can. Suddenly he stepped forward and picked up the contract. He scanned over the few lines, then reached for Renfrew's quill pen. A warmth that felt suspiciously like pride swelled in my chest, watching him sign. With a great rattling of parchment that made me wince (she did so love being noisy), Avreal followed her big brother's example, scrawling her name under his. So they would both stay here, then, while I went home alone to Corcin. The heat in my lungs fled, replaced with a chilling emptiness, as if I drew breath high on a mountain in winter.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Before I departed, I took Avreal and Dominic out to the courtyard. This was the final test of whether I could leave them here or not, though neither of them knew that yet. Both Merius and Safire perched on the stable ridgepole, Merius a silver-edged shadow against the fading daylight, Safire's plumage glowing so brightly I had thought the roof was on fire at first. Renfrew had cleared out the courtyard and gathered all the other pupils for a lecture in a room on the far side of the house before Merius and Safire showed up. We should be alone when I told Avreal and Dominic this particular story.

I stopped at the edge of a huge black circle of ash marring the stones. It looked like the gateway to an underground cavern, perhaps hell itself. Certainly considering what had happened here, what had created the circle, made it a hell for our family.

The children halted beside me, Avreal's shoes almost touching the inky darkness. I noticed then she had intricate brass clasps (marching in insouciantly shiny rows) across the tops of the tongues. Brass clasps on a growing child's shoes? And leather dyed green? What had Eden the spendthrift been thinking? I shook my head. Of course, perhaps that was the only way she could get Avreal to wear shoes, appealing to the little bird's vanity and weakness for pretty things. But if Avreal had brass on her shoes, I could be certain that Evi and Nora had begged Eden for the same and likely gotten it--I knew how the youngsters could finagle when the mood took them, especially Evi.

Dominic jabbed his finger toward the circle, interrupting my contemplation of costly females and forcing my attention back to the unpleasant task at hand. Looks like they had a huge bonfire here, he remarked, his brow furrowed.

They did. Fourteen years ago.

Fourteen years? He stared at me narrowly. But shouldn't the ash have disappeared long ago . . . he trailed off, glancing around the courtyard. Wait. His gaze seemed to stop at the sight of his bird parents, still lurking silently on the stable ridgepole. Then he looked back at me. What was this place, before it became the academy?

I sighed. Always, he was too clever for his own good, just like his father. The House of Long Marsh.

Mother's maiden House, he echoed, his voice hollow. Then he gulped, touched the edge of the circle with his toe. So this is where they burnt her to death?

I nodded, gulping myself. We had even tried replacing the cobblestones, only to have the ash reappear in the same pattern on the new stones the next day. Avreal's fingers loosened in mine, slipped from my grasp as she stepped back, her unwavering gaze on the circle, the black reflected in her eyes as her face went white.

I reached for her arm. Avreal? I demanded. Look at me.

She raised her eyes to mine, and I could already see the gleam of tears welling. Was she merely upset at learning this was where her mother had been murdered and transformed? Or did part of her remember that this was where she had been murdered too, an innocent babe still growing in her mother's womb? We had always told her she had been born in October, right before her mother's transformation--she believed she had just turned fourteen, when in reality she would still be thirteen for another five months, if birds counted their age from the day of their hatching. For once, I wished I could see auras. Then perhaps I could ascertain more about my granddaughter's mental state. Maybe Dominic could tell me later, after Avreal was out of earshot. He could see Avreal's aura, and he knew that she had once been a bird. I glanced over to find him staring at me, his face pale and set.

Is that why Father never brought us here? he demanded.

Partly, yes. The one time he came here after your mother . . . transformed, he left with a badly burned back. It seems that the mind bond between them made him experience her memories of dying in a visceral way. I paused. Were they old enough for this burden? Especially little Avreal. Her quivering shoulders looked so . . . so frail suddenly. She was only thirteen, after all. She had started talking again a month ago. What if me bringing her here, showing her this spot forced her back into silence? I pulled her to me in a rough embrace, her sobs muffled against my midriff.

Shh, shh. I cradled her tangled curls with my hand. I'm sorry to be so blunt, but you need to know the truth before I leave you here, either one of you. After what happened at this spot, your father feared this could be a dangerous place for you.

Dominic hung back, his arms clutched across his chest as if to shield himself from his own grief and rage. I noticed his fisted hands. Likely he longed to run down to the docks this minute and punch someone who had it coming. Any blackguard would do. I knew that impulse, knew it all too well. Did he remember anything from that night? He had been almost two, a precocious spooky imp who had been hidden with the other children in the cellar of this very house when the bishop and his mob came for Safire. He had told me once he had brief sensory memories of his mother as a human, the silver ringing of her laugh, the copper blaze of her hair, her soft touch on his forehead.

Dominic, your parents have long since had their vengeance--your mother's transformation obliterated the bishop and his mob, your mother and father destroyed Peregrine of Bara's fleet, killed the pirate and his men, and your father bested King Rainier in a battle of wits that left the spider caged and with a traitor as his only heir. There is no more vengeance for you to seek. What would please your parents most would be for you and Avreal to grow strong in your talents and lead long, honorable, happy lives. Do you understand?

His head jerked in a nod. A flap of wings, the whisper of wind through giant feathers, and both Merius and Safire landed in the courtyard, Safire already cooing a soft melody to match the gentle descent of dusk around us. Avreal, her arms slackening around my middle, turned her tear-stained face toward her mother.

I patted her shoulder, then gently nudged her in Safire's direction. Go to your mother, sweetling. She can comfort you better than anyone else can right now.

Avreal didn't need any more prompting. She ran to Safire and threw her arms around Safire's neck. Safire nuzzled the back of Avreal's head with her beak, Merius drawing so close to both of them that Avreal could hardly be seen for all the feathers surrounding her.

I gripped Dominic's shoulder, and he looked at me. An odd shock ran through me, paralyzing my tongue momentarily. The boy was almost as tall as me--how could I not have noticed until now? Probably because he seemed to grow an inch a day lately.

You'll be the same height as your father when you're full grown, maybe even taller.

A faint half-smile tugged up one corner of his mouth. You think so?

I know so. I gestured toward Avreal and lowered my voice. You know why we sent her here with you? He kept watching me, gaze intent, as if his life depended on what I said next, so I continued, Now that your father is a hawk, you're the only human left who understands her, who can help her stay human. I know it's a heavy burden to lay on a young man, certainly not what your father intended for you, but I also know you're up to the challenge. You've already proven yourself as the best older brother Avreal could have hoped for. Your parents will be within close call, should you ever need their aid. And don't hesitate to write to me--or your Aunt Dagmar. She can be here in an hour from Landers Hall once she receives your summons. He nodded, and I rumpled his hair. Good lad. And stay clear of brawls, all right? Unless there's truly no other way out aside from fighting.

Yes, sir. His smile deepened, a dimple appearing in his left cheek, the only facial feature he had inherited from Safire. I'll watch out for Avreal--always. You can be sure of that.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

When I finally climbed into the carriage, I was surprised to find Artemious sitting on the forward-facing seat, reading a book so ancient the leather was crumbling at the edges. Dust motes floated in the lantern light as he snapped the book closed and set it aside, then sneezed loudly.

"Renfrew's copy of Tabor's Mythic Creatures." He wiped his watering eyes with a huge handkerchief, sneezing again.

I settled onto the seat across from him, secretly glad not to be alone on the return journey home. I usually treasured any moment of solitude I could snatch for myself, especially now that my life ruptured at the seams with rowdy adolescents. However, leaving two of those adolescents here, the two who reminded me most of Safire and Merius, had proven more difficult than I had thought it would. When Safire had first shown Eden and me her vision for the children, when we had discussed the possibility over a month ago, it had seemed like such a perfect solution. As Artemious had said earlier, a way to distract Avreal and Dominic from their grief and provide them with a purpose that would tap their witch talents.

Now, though, I felt the phantom tug of slender arms around my waist. I touched the front of my shirt, still damp from the storm of her tears. Poor little bird. I even still smelled a tartness like summer apples, apparently the scent of Avreal's aura ripening as she grew up. I had thought I was off kilter or Eden was spending an atrocious amount on hothouse flowers when I first detected the faint aroma of apple blossoms in the library one winter years ago. When Merius caught me sniffing suspiciously at the air, he had assured me I wasn't going mad, that the springtime smell was from Avreal's aura, just like the smell of wine evaporating I sensed sometimes was from Dominic's. Apparently, their growing power made the scent of their auras evident even to those with only a smidgeon of witch talent.

The carriage jerked forward, interrupting my thoughts, and I glanced at Artemious. Hmm. Thought you were staying here tonight.

I didn't relish the idea of eight hours in a carriage with no conversation, he said. Besides, I figured you would be an able companion if ruffians ambush us.

I glanced down at my vein-snarled hands, a bit rueful. Not as able as I was. But I suppose that's true of all of us.

Who's going to train Dominic at weapons now? His question surprised me--Artemious usually concerned himself with the more sedentary forms of education, not athletics.

I grimaced. As you know, Renfrew has a couple king's guards on duty at the academy. Dominic will practice with them, but I doubt he'll learn anything new from them. Don't misunderstand me, they're fine guards, men Merius and I trained, actually, but . . .

They're not Merius, Artemious finished for me with a sigh. Renfrew mentioned it today, when he ransacked his library for this. He pointed at Mythic Creatures. Anyway, he stacked Merius's books one on top of each other, then waved his hand over them, and said something like 'These books are excellent, the best words ever penned about witches and warlocks and weirfolk, and I'm pleased to be the first to share them with Dominic and Avreal. But even though he wrote them, these books aren't Merius. That weirhawk is, and he's not very chatty. That's what I want to know--where did all his wit go, his jests, his verbal fidgets, his wild philosophical rants? Into thin air, the thin air of our dotard memories and a hawk's fearsome cry, my old friend. And we'll never see another pupil like him again.' Then he laughed--you know how Renfrew cackles about everything--and was on to the next task as if nothing had happened.

I swallowed, stared out at the dense trunks of the forest, flashing in wild yellow shapes as the carriage lanterns bobbed to and fro. In some places, the trees stood sentinel only inches from the gravel of the road. I wish I could talk to both Merius and Safire, just once, just to make certain we're interpreting her visions correctly about how they want us to finish raising their children. I worry about them, especially Avreal.

Don't you think Safire would have bitten you by now if this wasn't the right course? Artemious's voice was dry. Even though she doesn't speak in words anymore, she's become quite talented expressing herself in other ways.

Safire the phoenix knows the right course for birds. I'm questioning, though, whether she still knows the right course for human beings. I want to talk to human Safire, human Merius. You know, Merius kept Dominic and Avreal far away from the place of Safire's transformation, and after seeing them today when I showed them where she died--where Avreal herself died--I wonder if human Merius understood something that bird Merius doesn't anymore.

Artemious frowned. Perhaps, but where else can you send them to learn about their talents? Where else can you send them to be surrounded by others of their kind? They have to learn about their talents, Mordric--can you imagine either of them going out into the world as untutored and unguarded as Safire was? That's how Jazmene and Rainier got their claws into her in the first place and set this whole tragedy in motion, because she was so ignorant of her gifts that she didn't realize her own sketches had come alive until it was too late. She and Merius didn't realize they had a mind bond until it was too late. Merius and Safire might still be human if Safire's parents could have enrolled her at an academy where her talents would have been recognized and trained.

That argument sways me when it comes to Dominic--after all, he was never a bird. He didn't die at that place. But Avreal did, and we still don't know the full ramifications of that event for her. No, the only one who knows is Safire, because she experienced the same event herself, and she's a wild, wordless creature . . .

Who loves her children and would never harm them, he finished for me.

"Deliberately harm them, I added. We're all capable of harming our children whether we mean to or not, Artemious, even those of us who are immortal, mystical, mythical firebirds. Safire's a bird now--she's not aware of the world in the same way human Safire was, and you can't tell me that her feathered influence won't skew Avreal's view of things . . ."

There was a loud screeching chatter overhead, like an army of raucous crows all quarreling amongst themselves as they descended for the kill, then a fierce pecking on the roof of the carriage. I rose and rapped on the ceiling with my knuckles, only to be answered with a note so piercing, so high-pitched, that Artemious and I both clapped our hands over our ears. The carriage stopped so abruptly that I stumbled, almost hurling face-first into the seat cushion.

Damn witch bird, I muttered.

Sir! came the driver's muffled voice. Sorry, sir--she startled me. He sounded a bit panicked, as anyone would be after having an angry phoenix suddenly drop down like a cannon ball and deafen all ears within a mile radius.

I grabbed the latch and threw open the door. What the hell do you think you're doing?

Sorry, sir, I didn't mean to . . . the driver gibbered, his round face pale as the moon's around the side of the carriage, a few scraggly blond whiskers giving his chin a gold-spotted sheen. Good God, how old was he? Sixteen? Trust the impractical Renfrew to hire a babe-in-arms to look after the horses and drive the carriages.

I wasn't speaking to you, I shot at the driver. I was speaking to her. I looked up. Huge, blazing, green eyes glared back at me, ringed with thick eyelashes that resembled tiny flames whenever she was mad. She appeared ready to incinerate me.

That's what you get when you eavesdrop, I told her. Nothing good.

She rose to her full height, a raging, rainbow-colored inferno on the carriage roof, and began hopping from foot to foot in a rapid flurry of glowing feathers. She lifted her beak skyward, her throat trembling in several harsh caws. The horses whickered and pawed a bit at the racket, but otherwise remained calm. Most animals basked in Safire's presence, even when she was angry.

Artemious stepped down on the road beside me, his face first bathed in purple light, then orange, then red as Safire flared her plumage. I think you upset her, Mordric, he said in a mild rebuke.

Then she shouldn't have been eavesdropping. I infused my voice with all the righteous indignation I could muster. Really, why was I bothering? My guilt hung around my neck like a rough rope tied to a lead albatross, a sea ready for me to drown in. Safire could sense my aura. She could sense my feelings. Likely that was what had drawn her down here--she had sensed my worry for the children and wanted to reassure me they would be fine. Instead, she had come close just in time for my unkind remarks about her feathery mothering.

How did she sense what we were saying? Rankin sounded befuddled. I thought she had to be in close proximity to ascertain our thoughts and feelings from our auras.

Safire paused in her rant, blinking down at us. Then a rogue gust tossed away my hat, snapped the folds of my cloak like sails, and I cursed, shutting my eyes as road dust blew in them. When I opened them again, hell-bent on retrieving the damned hat (that fad-mad Eden had bought it, forced me to wear it, and would probably kick me out of bed if I lost it), I discovered it was nowhere to be found. In fact, the ground was nowhere to be found either. At least until I looked down and realized it lay at least a hundred feet below, undulating in moon-tipped folds of hills and fields and forest. The wind whipped past, cold against my face and hands. For an instant, I panicked, kicking at the air, trying in vain to find my footing. Then I glanced over and saw Rankin beside me, doing the same thing--he shook one boot back and forth, then rubbed the edge of one sole against the other like he'd stepped in manure. He glowed with an otherworldly light, and I looked to my other side, already knowing I would see Safire flying nearby, just from the quality of that light. Only her plumage emitted such a peculiar glow. This was one of her witch visions, I was sure of it.

All right, witch--you've had your fun, I said.

She warbled a long, rolling chirp that sounded suspiciously like laughter, then pointed her beak downwards and lifted it again. Observing her gesture, both Artemious and I looked down. A white line twisted through what looked like a black cloud. I soon realized the white line was the road lit by the moon, the black cloud around it the forest. A dark dot traveled along the road, a dark dot pulled by four smaller dots and with a pinprick of yellow light bobbing on each side--our carriage and horses and lanterns.

That's how you knew what we were saying--you were flying over our carriage, watching over us to make certain we returned home safely, I said to Safire, who nodded. I had felt guilty before--now I felt like draining a whole bottle of whiskey, recalling what I had said about her and her warped influence on Avreal.

This makes me dizzy. Rankin clutched his head, gaping downwards.

It's not real, you know--just one of her vivid visions.

Of course I know it's not real, he snapped. It's just hard to convince my senses of that.

Safire gave a sharp twitter, and the ground was back under our feet so abruptly that I rocked on the balls of my heels and Artemious toppled into me, pitching like a mast in a gale. He grabbed my arm to steady himself, somehow remaining upright.

Are you all right, Lord Rankin, Sir Landers? The driver peered at us like he thought we might be drunk.

We're fine, I barked, reaching up to touch my hat. It was still on my head. Even that had been part of Safire's little illusion. Wicked witch bird. She fluttered down from the carriage roof and landed on the ground beside Rankin, her coo a soft and solicitous dove's--apparently she worried her antics had made him ill. Slowly he reached out, ran one finger over her crest, still hesitant as a man touching a queen even after all these years.

Then something tapped my shoulder, and I jumped, drawing my sword and whirling around, my back against the carriage in defensive posture before I could even consciously register that I had moved. A tall shape emerged from the shadows at the edge of the road, a man in a long, silvery-gray cloak, with wild white hair like tufts of grass covered in hoarfrost.

Merius? I murmured, thinking for one blessed instant that he was human again. But no, the treasured illusion dissolved as he spread his wings and fluffed all his feathers out, an explosion of silver sparks lighting the air and making the horses chomp and stamp and whinny--Merius did not have the same calming effect on other animals that Safire did. I supposed the dagger-like talons and beak, the outright aspects of a predator, made potential prey nervous, although Safire could be just as lethal, if not more so, than her hawk husband. My hawk son.

What did you sneak up behind me like that for? I might have stabbed you, I grumbled, only to be rewarded with Safire's cheeky laughing chirp and a deep, rollicking hoot from Merius himself, a hoot Eden had speculated replaced chuckling as a way for him to show amusement. He had been slowly learning different sounds over the summer to expand his repertoire from the eardrum-splintering hawk's cry, and although no gifted singer like Safire, he at least managed not to deafen us now every time he opened his beak. I shook my head, sheathing my sword. I supposed he thought it was funny, making me jump like that. Immortal he might be, but he could still be an ass sometimes.

Rankin tugged on his beard, a gesture indicating he was deep in thought. Fraine is wrong--Merius does still have his wit, doesn't he? He used to hate how quietly you could come up behind him, you know--said you could probably dissolve into mist like a vampire, you moved so silently. Now he does the same thing to you, makes a joke out of it. How fascinating.

I suppose that's one way of looking at it, I said through gritted teeth.

That's a big bird, sir--don't think the horses like him much. The driver's mouth hung open.

Can you keep a handle on them for a minute or so longer? I nodded toward the team--the roan gelding in front reared a little and pawed at the gravel, the white of his eye showing as he rolled it in Merius's direction.

The driver nodded and leaned forward, holding the reins tight as he spoke softly to his charges. They settled down for the most part--maybe I had been too hasty judging him so harshly earlier. Despite his youth, he seemed a decent horseman.

I wonder how Merius landed without alerting us to his presence? Artemious wondered out loud.

Well, we were lost in Safire's vision, and the lad here was watching his team. Merius doesn't make much noise usually, unless there's a lot of stone nearby for his wing beats to echo off of. And being gray, he does tend to blend into the night shadows fairly easily.

Artemious nodded, apparently satisfied with my answer. Suddenly he extended his hand and touched the edge of Merius's wing. Merius started, his crest bristling. Then, seeing it was Rankin, he cheeped softly and lifted his wing, showing his former mentor and comrade-in-books his flight feathers. Dear God, I should have known this would come one day. Rankin's scholarly curiosity knew no bounds, and Merius had been almost as bad when he could still read. Grief had kept Artemious from openly showing his inquisitiveness this past summer, and Merius and Safire had been away quite a bit anyway--Eden figured they had gone off on a series of brief bird honeymoons. But now that they were back, Rankin had recovered enough to be curious. And of course Merius was all too happy to aid and abet this curiosity, perhaps so Rankin could build a glider for himself. In the middle of the road. In the middle of the night.

Could this wait, maybe, until we get back to Corcin? I asked. Safire chirped what sounded like an agreement. A brief vision of Avreal and Dominic in the academy courtyard crossed my mind--likely she wanted to go check on her fledglings before catching back up with the carriage to escort us the rest of the way to Corcin. I sighed and tried not to think any more traitorous thoughts about my phoenix daughter-in-law and her ability to mother humans. She loved those children more than life itself--she had proven that the night she sacrificed her humanity to protect Dominic. However, she also loved Merius more than life itself, and look what had happened to him because she was a phoenix--he had aged decades over the course of three days, then King Rainier's men hounded him for years, eventually murdering him, which was when he had transformed into a giant hawk, a hawk who was immortal and thus stuck here with Safire until the end of the world. Was it any wonder I feared her influence on Avreal?

The scar on my chest flared briefly, burning a path to my heart, the self-inflicted wound Safire had healed and cauterized so long ago. Then I looked up, caught Safire glaring at me again, so I quickly said, Merius, Artemious, we don't have time for this.

Rankin and Merius ignored me, of course--Merius had his wing sideways now, showing Rankin the curve underneath. Safire chirruped loudly. When they both finally looked at her, she reached up into the carriage and pulled out the book Rankin had been reading with her beak. She tossed it at his feet, then chirruped again.

He bent down and picked up the book, dusting it off with the edge of his cloak. What is it, Safire? he asked.

She blinked in response, a long blink that left her eyes dimmed, a magical fire that had been banked for the night. Her gaze still mesmerized though, the eerie green glow of witch coals in an otherwise dark chamber, a subtle enchantment even practical me had a hard time escaping. I glanced around and saw Artemious, Merius, and the driver all staring at her, apparently waiting with bated breath for her answer. The horses appeared asleep in the harness, they were so calm. So I looked back at her, her old woman eyes, and waited with the rest of them to hear how the siren might lure us next.

She began to sing, a low melody that seemed to echo from some glade deep in the forest rather than from her. Listening to her, I had a sudden vision of a vast stretch of pines, spruces, and cedars, some towering hundreds of feet into the noonday sky. Beyond them, dwarfing them, were mountains whose sharp-edged peaks reached to the clouds. The only mountains I had ever seen that tall and craggy were the Carnith Mountains between Marenna and the SerVerin Empire, and there were few trees there. Just plains and desert. So where was this mysterious place Safire showed us?

The foliage of nearest cedar rustled and parted, revealing a curved beak the same shape and size as Safire's, except Safire's beak appeared made of ivory, whereas this beak had the black sheen of polished ebony. Two dark blue eyes emerged from the shadows above the beak, then a sweeping crest, black as a raven's. Suddenly the mysterious bird leapt from its branch, revealing indigo and purple plumage and a long, black tail to match its crest, the feather tips touched with fire as it flew into the sunlight. It had the rounded form of a pigeon, just like Safire.

That looked like another phoenix, I said.

The vision dissolved into the nighttime reality around us. Safire chattered happily and arched her head under my palm, her earlier anger seemingly forgotten as she rubbed her cheek against my wrist and sleeve. One would have thought we had been playing charades (silly game), and I had just won.

Methinks you guessed correctly. Artemious smiled, then frowned down at the book Mythic Creatures in his hand. Other phoenixes? He tapped the book against his palm, stared dreamily off in the dark distance down the road. Hmm, I wonder . . .

Merius leaned over and nibbled Safire at the nape of her neck, his huge, razor-sharp beak within inches of my arm. I stuffed my hand in my pocket, safely out of the way. He was much more at home in his new body than he had been when he first transformed, but he still had moments when he seemed to forget that he could snicker-snack off someone's arm with a snap of his beak or knock someone out with one flap of his wings.

Safire straightened. She and Merius gazed at each other for a long moment, the air thick with the silence between them. Then she opened her beak, her throat shimmering with another song, this one louder and faster than the last, a lively tune like an army fife.

Rankin shook himself like a man waking from a dream, just in time for us to plunge into another vision. Or memory, rather, though not one of my memories . . . maybe one of Merius's. There he was, human again, stretched out on the settle in Rankin's study, his hair still reddish-brown except for the gray streaks across the temples--so that would have been soon after Safire transformed into a phoenix, before his hair turned white. A less wrinkled Artemious sat at the cluttered desk, hand fisted under his jaw.

. . . Safire can't be the first phoenix in existence, vision Merius said, and my lungs collapsed at the sound of his voice as I stopped breathing. What the hell was wrong with me? Then I realized--I didn't want even the whisper of breath to disturb me hearing him speak again. Good God, old age really had turned me into a maudlin fool. Where else did all the legends come from? he continued. Hawk Merius nudged my shoulder then, and I resumed breathing, my chest burning.

Witches' prophetic visions perhaps. If there are other phoenixes, where are they? Rankin asked.

I wish I knew--likely hiding in some far-flung forgotten corner of the world, now that all those they loved are long since dust in the wind . . . Merius's voice faded in a long sigh, and the vision ended.

Rankin started, then held the book up, his hand trembling. You're telling me you think there's a clue in this? About where to find other phoenixes? he demanded.

Safire's head bobbed in a nod, Merius following her example like an eager foreigner learning the native language.

Other phoenixes? What do we need more for? One's quite enough, especially when she's such a cheeky wench, I said, which earned me a pinch on the wrist from Safire. She always aimed for the cuff when she nipped like that, which I appreciated--for all its pearly sheen, her beak was as sharp as Merius's. I tousled her crest and slipped my hand around what used to be her shoulders when she was human. The driver openly gaped at us as I pulled her warmth close and she huddled against me with a drowsy tweet, our earlier fracas forgotten for the moment. What most people saw when they looked at her and Merius were immortal creatures to be feared or worshipped; what I saw were the two most grievously injured members of my family.

Beings who have been alive for thousands of years, witnessed history we couldn't even begin to imagine, have knowledge that's long since been lost to us . . . the possibilities are endless. Artemious was still rhapsodizing about these other mythical phoenixes, having missed my wry comment entirely. One of the horses neighed and pawed at the road, sounding restless.

Indeed. Well, I don't think we're going to find them in this forest, not tonight. The only phoenix I see out here is Safire, and I think she's eager to go check on her children.

Artemious's brows snarled together in a deep V across the bridge of his nose and his eyes widened, a sign he thought I was being most dull-witted, though he was far too polite to say so out loud. I didn't expect to find them here tonight, Mordric, he said, quietly puzzled.

My point exactly. Perhaps we could resume our journey? Eden expects me home soon.

Oh. Oh yes, that, he muttered vaguely. He glanced around at the antsy horses, the yawning driver, and Safire, who had left my side to crouch down in the middle of the road, wings outspread, clearly ready to spring upwards in flight. She chirped at Merius, then took off with a whispered flutter of sound. Merius ruffled all his feathers at once, apparently waking from the same reverie Artemious was still having. Then, his plumage sticking out in all directions, Merius followed his wife into the night sky, her silver-edged shadow. Her song drifted back to us, soft as a cloud, a slew of golden notes telling us farewell for now.

Artemious stared after them until they were mere stars winking on the horizon. Then he