‘Wizards understand the nature of magic. They use magic to weave spells. So it is not a question of the bird making a choice to grant wishes. It is the wizards who take magic from the bird.’ He fell silent, thinking it through. ‘The eagle is not alive. It is merely a source of power for the wizards to call upon. It is silver,’ he went on. ‘Created. An artefact, just like the machines in the temple, and back at Landis Kan’s palace.’ He paused and shook his head. ‘What am I saying? A machine which floats in the sky and, somehow, sends power to the earth? It makes no sense. How would they send it into the sky? And why would it not fall back down?’
‘The why is not important now,’ she said. ‘Any more than your winged horse. The eagle is the answer.
And the egg that you must steal.’
‘Or destroy,’ he said. He swore softly. ‘There is something we are missing. Something central. If the eagle was placed in the sky by the ancients, and if all magic began in that moment, why is it only in this time that the artefacts of the ancients can be used again? We had a few Joinings in my day — Jiamads, as you call them. They were created by Nadir shamans. But nothing on the scale we see now.’
He paused by a fallen log and sat down. ‘This is making my head spin,’ he told her. ‘We are building theories about something implausible and impossible. A metal bird that had great power, lost it, and then had it returned. And what of the giants with golden shields?’ He suddenly froze.
‘What is it?’ she asked him.
‘The shield of gold. I have seen it. It is not carried by a mountain giant, but sits upon a giant mountain, above the Temple of the Resurrection. It is huge. The priests called it the Mirror of Heaven. It is coming back to me now. A young man I knew took me to the temple. He talked of it on the way, about abbots in the ancient days, and of the Mirror. They called it a mirror because when it first appeared lights blazed within the darkened halls. Lights with no flame, like captured sunlight. They believed the Mirror somehow reflected sunlight into the mountain. That was when the ancient artefacts had their magic renewed. I think I have it now. The metal bird always had magic, but only when the Mirror appeared did that magic flow freely back from the sky. It also explains the vanity.’
‘Vanity?’ queried Askari. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Landis Kan said the eagle was vain — in love with its own reflection. The eagle gazes at itself in the Mirror of Heaven. Only then does the magic flow.’
‘And it flows into the egg,’ she said.
‘Exactly. And it is from the egg that the artefacts somehow draw their power. If I destroy the egg, the machines will be useless again. No more Reborns. And the Eternal will be human, and face death like the rest of us.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I must find the temple.’
‘ We must find the temple,’ she corrected him. ‘How far is it from here?’
‘That is hard to say. I did not travel to it from this direction. I took a ship from Mellicane, a city on the eastern coast. It journeyed to an estuary on this side of the ocean, on the river Rostrias.’
‘Kinyon would know. Originally he came from the north.’
Another hunt had ended successfully, and Stavut sat contentedly by the fire, cutting slices of roast venison. Shakul and nine of his pack were stretched out on the ground nearby, bellies distended, and sleeping soundly. A second pack of eighteen Jiamads had returned earlier. Led by the small, mottled grey Grava, they had also been successful, though it had taken Stavut a little while to grasp this. Grava’s speech was horribly mangled by his overlong tongue and Stavut had to struggle to understand a word he said. It was no surprise, however, that yet again Grava had returned with two more Jiamads than he had started with. Before long, thought Stavut, every runaway Jem in the high country would be part of Bloodshirt’s pack.
He grinned. His fear of the beasts had long since departed. Indeed, he found he actually enjoyed their company, and had taken to wandering off with them for longer periods. In some ways this was good.
Kinyon and the villagers had become increasingly concerned, and, despite Stavut’s best efforts, remained frightened and wary around the huge creatures. There had even been some talk of returning to their village and taking a chance on the land’s not being invaded. Stavut had soon stopped this line of conversation. ‘Skilgannon says the enemy will come back. I don’t think he’s a man given to exaggeration.
The best way is forward. I am sure Alahir will help us.’
Surprisingly, there had been little argument. People just nodded and wandered away. In fact very few people argued with Stavut now. Probably, he reasoned, because he had proved to be such a good provider and leader.
When Grava returned with the two newcomers he had pushed them to stand before Bloodshirt. Stavut had stood and stared coolly at the Jiamads. It had become a ritual, and Stavut enjoyed the drama of it.
‘You wish to join Bloodshirt’s pack?’ he asked them.
They were a scrawny pair, one heavily round-shouldered, almost hunchbacked, the second tall and thin, his fur almost black. They stared at him, then looked at Grava, who said something unintelligible in a harsh growl.
‘Serve Bloodshirt,’ said the hunchback.
‘Your names?’ asked Stavut.
‘Ironfist,’ the hunchback answered. ‘This Blackrock,’ he added, pointing to his skinny, black-furred companion.
‘You will hunt with us. You will kill no Skins.’
They both nodded.
‘Do not forget it. Now go.’
They shuffled away. Grava said something else, which Stavut did not understand, but it ended in a gargling sound, which Stavut had recognized as laughter, so he had smiled and nodded. Then he had settled down by the fire.
Shakul awoke and stretched. Then he broke wind loudly.
‘Charming,’ said Stavut.
‘Good sleep,’ said Shakul. ‘No dreams.’
‘The best kind.’ Stavut scratched at the dark stubble on his chin. Normally he was clean shaven, but lately he had decided a beard would suit Bloodshirt. ‘Time to be getting back to the villagers,’ he said.
‘They will be glad of the fresh meat.’
Shakul lifted his head and sniffed the air. ‘They have gone,’ he said.
‘Gone? What do you mean?’
‘Head south.’
‘They wouldn’t do that.’
Shakul shrugged, then leaned down towards the joint of roasted venison. ‘Burned,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘When did they go?’
‘We leave, they leave,’ said Shakul.
‘That was yesterday morning. ‘Why would they do that?’ said Stavut.
‘Fear us,’ said Shakul. ‘Fear Bloodshirt.’ Stavut looked into the beast’s golden eyes, and at the huge fangs in the immense face. Suddenly he realized that the villagers’ lack of argument had had nothing to do with his leadership, but everything to do with their terror of the beasts, and an increased fear of Stavut himself.
‘I would never have harmed them,’ he said.
Shakul’s head came up. The wind was southerly, and he tipped his head, his nostrils quivering.
‘Many Skins,’ he said. ‘Horses. Jems.’
‘Soldiers?’ queried Stavut.
‘They hunt us?’ responded Shakul, his eyes glinting.
‘I wouldn’t think so. Where are they?’
‘South. Your Skins see them soon.’
Stavut swore. ‘We must get to them. If it is an enemy raiding party they will be in danger.’
‘Useless Skins,’ said Shakul. ‘Don’t hunt. Do nothing. Better without them.’
‘That’s true,’ agreed Stavut, ‘but, as you say, they are my Skins. We help them.’