Windblowne

Give it to me.”

Oliver offered it sheepishly.

Two placed the spar on the bench. Oliver watched, feeling foolish, as the boy worked rapidly, making precise measures, then in a swift slice notching a tiny cut at the end of the spar.

“Now try it,” said Two calmly, returning the spar.

“Uh, better not,” whispered Oliver. “You do it.”

Two sighed wistfully. “No. It’s your kite. You have to.”

Surprised, Oliver accepted the spar. He leaned over his kite.

“Now gently,” instructed Two in a low voice. “No jamming.”

Gently, thought Oliver. With an echoing snap, he pressed the spine into place. A ripple flowed through the sails.

The Olivers stood riveted, watching intently.

But there was nothing else. No other ripple, not a tremble or a flutter. The crimson kite lay on the workbench, completely still.

The Olivers stood grieving and silent.

At last Two spoke, his voice plaintive. “What now?”

Oliver, devastated, tried to think. “You tell me,” he whispered. “You’re the kite expert!”

Two shrugged helplessly. “No, I’m not. I mean—not when it comes to this kite. I don’t really understand how it works. I just tried to copy what your great-uncle did. I used spars pruned from the same oak he used, an oak next to his treehouse—”

“Of course!” said Oliver impatiently. “The sick oak. The riven oak. The same tree.”

“What?”

“Oaks which dwell across the worlds,” Oliver recited. “The oaks in both our worlds are connected. The riven oak in my world is dying, too.”

The other boy looked alarmed. “You really meant that?”

“Yes,” said Oliver. “Why?”

“If I used a spar from the riven oak,” Two whispered, “then the hunters will be able to track the kite. Not its precise location, but they’ll be able to narrow it down to a handful of worlds. They’ll find you eventually.” He looked at the crimson kite doubtfully. “Although it doesn’t look like it can fly anywhere anyway.”

“Maybe it only needs to feel the night winds,” Oliver said. “Let’s take it to the crest.” He gathered the kite tenderly in his arms.

A soft bump came from the floor above.

Both Olivers turned and looked at the stairs leading up to Lord Gilbert’s room.

“Come on!” said Two. “The wind hatch.”

“Wait,” said Oliver. He reached for the cage. The hawk resumed its terrible noises.

“Leave it!” said Two, grabbing Oliver’s arm. “There’s nothing you can do—Lord Gilbert will just send the hunters to capture it again.”

“No,” said Oliver, yanking free. “At least it will have a chance. And I promised.”

They went into the kitchen, and Two pressed a button on the wall. The wind hatch in the floor rose silently.

Climbing proved difficult for Two in his weakened state, so Oliver descended twice, once with the cage and once with the kite. At the bottom of the lighted shaft was an enclosure, with a sliding door to the outside.

“Come on,” said Two, speaking loudly now so as to be heard over the wind. He reached for the door handle but had trouble pulling it open.

“Need some help?” asked Oliver, his arms full of cage and kite.

Two coughed weakly, shivering, sweat pouring down his brow. “No,” he said. He put both hands on the door and, with a great effort, slid it open.

Outside, the night was wild and frightening. The mad, raging winds were equal to the winds of recent nights in Oliver’s Windblowne, which had been the worst he’d ever seen. They almost seemed to scream at him. Oliver cried out and nearly fell.

“What’s wrong?” shouted Two.

“The winds,” hissed Oliver through clenched teeth. “Can’t you hear it?”

“Hear what?” said Two. “Come on, we have to hurry!”

But Oliver couldn’t hurry anywhere, not like this. The winds were somehow causing his headache, boring into his skull with an insistent, aching cry. He tried to focus his attention elsewhere, on the kite and his great-uncle and—

The hawk sensed open air and was battering at the sides of its cage. Oliver dropped to one knee and fumbled for the door latch, hanging on to the kite while trying not to lose a finger. At last the door popped open. There was a blur—a shriek—and the hawk was gone.

With a spinning heave, Oliver hurled the cage as far as he could into the forest, hoping that the winds would smash it to bits on an oak. “Let’s go!” he said. The headache was still there, but he’d been able to push it down to a manageable level.

Together, the Olivers pushed their way through the windstorm. The winds pulled at the crimson kite, but Oliver kept it close to his body. Not yet, he told the winds. Wait for the crest.

Oliver shuddered as they passed the riven oak. The gates had been left open, and the oak’s moonslit silhouette loomed over them like a beast with two arms, writhing in agony. The foul shadows of Lord Gilbert’s machines hunched around, clutching at the tree. Somehow the shadows seemed hunched around Oliver, too. He hurried past, shadows on each side, peering for a way through, and then he realized Two was no longer with him.

The boy had found a pocket of calm on the leeward side of one of the machines. His whole body was shaking, and tears tumbled down his cheeks.

“Come on!” Oliver shouted.

Two shook his head, struggling to speak. Oliver leaned in close, trying to catch his words, which were faint and whispery against the wind.

“… would have done anything for that. I’m sorry.”

“Anything for what?” said Oliver.

Two seemed to be drifting away. “It’s my fault—I helped him … but after today … I realized I couldn’t take your family from you.…”

“My family?”

“… yes … if I were there and you were trapped here …”

“That’s why you helped him kidnap Great-uncle Gilbert,” said Oliver suddenly. “That’s why you were making a kite to escape. You wanted my family. My life. You wanted to trade places with me.”

Two nodded. “I’m sorry.”

Oliver stood wondering. A few days ago, the idea that someone would risk dying so that he could have Oliver’s parents and Oliver’s life would have seemed like the most absurd idea imaginable. But now his parents looked pretty good, compared to a great-uncle who performed scientific experiments on you, who cut the brains out of hawks, and who planned to destroy the giant oaks on one world after another. And with Two’s kitesmithing talents, he’d probably be a big hero back home.

“You can still have it!” said Oliver eagerly, much to his surprise. “Sort of, anyway! We can both escape! My parents will help you!” Affection for his parents suddenly flooded him. He grasped Two’s arm. “Come on! You can make it!”

“I don’t think so,” sighed Two, shaking his head.

“You have to!” said Oliver, tugging. “What will Lord Gilbert do when he finds out I’ve escaped?”

“I don’t know,” said Two weakly. He reached out to stroke the crimson kite. “But even if the kite can fly, could it carry two of us?”

Oliver looked down at his poor, torn kite. He didn’t think it could carry even one. “I don’t know,” he said. “But we can at least try.”

Two shook his head. “I”—he coughed—“I can’t make it to the crest in these winds.” He slid down the side of