He landed on top of Treewith Inn, wondering what to do next. He would alert the Shadowdreamer to Bel’s whereabouts, but doubted the dark lord’s operatives would arrive before Bel made it back to the Halls. Battu would be angry, but Iassia wasn’t worried. Even if Battu shadow-travelled to ask him questions, he would claim he’d only just stumbled across the lad tonight, and it was very sad there was no time left to take advantage of the situation.
After that, there was one more thing. He fluttered about the town, peeping through open windows, and soon found what he was looking for.
The small blond boy was stupid and easy to manipulate. He was also a clumsy writer and Iassia was growing frustrated. He hid it well, however, continuing to speak to the child in warm, soothing tones.
‘Come now, young Meriwan,’ he chirped from his place on the oak writing desk. ‘Surely parents wealthy enough to own a lovely house such as this have also seen to your education?’
‘Yes, birdy,’ said the boy. ‘Mr Neirdu is my tutor. He comes for lessons once a day, and I gotta practise an hour after too!’
‘Well, that sounds like fun,’ said Iassia.
Meriwan pursed his lips. ‘It ain’t,’ he said. ‘I hate it. It’s borin’.’
The child stomped across the study, which was located on the second floor of a large house. The parents, who were downstairs with guests, were obviously well-to-do. Paintings and tapestries hung from the walls, and the ledge above the fireplace was littered with jade statuettes. The child Meriwan had been asleep in his upstairs bedroom when Iassia had spied him through an open window. It seemed, unfortunately, that the child’s delight at meeting a talking bird was not enough to overcome his dislike of writing. Iassia was having to work harder than expected and he was getting a headache.
‘Now, Meriwan,’ he said, ‘the sooner you finish the letter for me, the sooner I can give you your reward.’ The child’s eyes lit up with excitement. ‘Just a couple more lines and then we can go. This boring work will be over very quickly if you just sit down and finish .’
‘Allllll riiiiiight,’ said the child, begrudgingly walking back to the desk and sitting down. He picked up the quill and dipped it in ink. ‘What next?’
Iassia dictated the last lines of the letter and the child struggled onwards, sometimes stopping to sound out longer words. Iassia was sure there’d be spelling mistakes, but it hardly mattered as long as the message was clear. Finally it was written, and Iassia had Meriwan read it back to him. This also took a long time, and his anger with the moronic man-child grew, though he was the picture of patience as he listened. Eventually the child finished.
‘That was very good, Meriwan,’ said Iassia. ‘Thank you very much. Now all we need is for the letter to go into one of these envelopes here …that’s right …now a wax seal like you’ve seen Papa do, I’m sure …wonderful …and now we address it.’
Finally the letter was written, sealed and addressed. ‘What a wonderful job you’ve done, bright boy,’ said Iassia, making Meriwan beam with pride. ‘You’ve certainly earned your reward!’
‘It’s time?’ Meriwan asked with eyes alight.
‘Oh yes,’ chirped Iassia. ‘It certainly is. Open the window, child.’
Meriwan went to the study window and creaked it open. Iassia felt sudden attention from downstairs. Someone had heard.
‘Now, child,’ said Iassia, ‘I grant you the magical power of flight!’ And he flew around Meriwan’s head, singing a soft and lilting song as he whispered softly into his mind: The power of flight is yours …the power of flight is yours …
‘That’s it?’ said the child excitedly. ‘I can fly?’
‘Of course you can,’ said Iassia. ‘What kind of magic bird would I be if my spells didn’t work?’
He swooped down onto the desk and snatched up the letter in his claws.
‘All right, my bright boy,’ he continued quickly, hearing steps on the stairs outside. ‘Let us go out together, soaring into the night! Think how jealous your friends will be!’
‘Mr Neirdu can’t teach me writing if I can fly away!’ chuckled Meriwan.
‘Indeed!’ laughed Iassia. There was a footstep just outside the study door. ‘Here we go, Meriwan! Follow me!’
As Meriwan’s father opened the study door, he cried out in horror to see his son leaping from the window, laughing happily. The sound continued downwards, stopping abruptly as Meriwan hit the paving below.
Twenty-three
What was Taken
Cold wrapped him like a second skin. Was he in the depths of the sea? Floating in the shadowdream? Both? How long had he been here? Hours, days …longer? Time had no meaning in this void. Sometimes he heard voices, and maybe he was spinning, as if being turned in huge hands …or claws? Then came one voice above the others, clear and silken.
‘Losara.’
‘Who is there?’ he asked, not exactly with words.
‘We are those who gave you your name. We are those who will ask you to serve.’
‘You are the gods.’
‘As you say.’
Something rose in the black and carried him along, though he could not tell where, or from where.
‘What is this place?’
‘No place. Between places. You are here while your body is mended. You are here to see.’
‘See what?’
‘What was taken,’ said the voice.
Darkness turned to light.
He was in a forest, creeping through undergrowth. It was like being in the dream, but this time he was not a floating observer, nor even himself. He was someone else. He was seeing through another’s eyes, running on someone else’s feet, thinking someone else’s thoughts. His own consciousness retreated into the background, a dim awareness only, as he became …
…Bel ducked under the frond of an enormous fern and glanced around through the trees. A tingle ran down his spine. Somewhere in Drel Forest there were huggers, and soon he would be fighting them. Here he was, on the cusp of battle – something he had imagined, played at and trained for almost as long as he could remember. Soon his sword would leap from its scabbard with real purpose, and perhaps it would never slide back in. Thrills went through him at the thought, every sense alert. He found, to his surprise, that he was not afraid. He felt like a boy again. He came upon numerous opponents, carved his way through, his blood firing at each blow landed, each attack dodged. He fought with sword and fist and bow, fought with rapture and a sense of purpose, until the battle was over …he put brittleleaf between Munpo’s dead lips …
Losara floated free, himself once more, a rude shock. Gone was the body of Bel, the thoughts, emotions and memories, all at once and without warning. He felt as if he had been inverted. For a short time he had been his counterpart. He remembered Bel’s feelings, but now only as words – they had none of their colour or taste. They were foreign, and he knew he could not manufacture them on his own. A sense of loss came over him, but his old calm returned and he put it aside. There was nothing he could do but seek to understand …
…‘If you’re to be a leader,’ Munpo said, ‘and Taskmaster Corlas assures me that the Throne is takin’ a personal interest in your military career, then the more you know the better.’
Leadership – there had been memories associated with that. Bel had often led his student peers to victory in mock skirmishes. He was popular and had become quickly respected within his new troop. The Throne himself had picked him out to lead. Losara knew that he too would have to lead one day. Did he possess Bel’s qualities? Would he be able to inspire? Would soldiers follow him because they wanted to, or because they had to?