Windblowne

the machine.

“Come on!” ordered Oliver. “You can!” He fought to pull Two to his feet.

“No!” croaked Two, his eyes wide with fear.

Oliver began to argue, then realized Two was not looking at him; he was looking at something over Oliver’s shoulder.

Oliver turned.

High in Lord Gilbert’s treehouse, windows blazed with light.

12

“Go!” screamed Two. He pushed Oliver’s hands away and struggled to sit up, hands slipping in the grass.

Oliver hesitated.

Two shouted furiously. “Go, or I’ll—” He punched weakly at Oliver.

Oliver stood. “I’ll come back for you! I’ll find Great-uncle Gilbert and—”

But Two was crawling now, crawling back toward the treehouse, whose windows were flaring up one after another. Lord Gilbert’s treehouse was waking.

Oliver took a last look at the riven oak. I’ll come back for you, too, he promised. Then he was running as the treehouse came alive with blazing lights, sending beams stabbing through the nearly leafless oaks, illuminating their bare branches, making an eerie labyrinth of unnatural shadows. Somehow he felt that Lord Gilbert was watching him, and maybe he was, with mysterious machines like eyes glaring down. As Oliver ran, he felt more and more like a tiny mouse, escaping from a—

A hawk. Oliver realized he had completely forgotten about the hunters.

Something heavy and hard slammed into his back. A flash of pain tore across his shoulder, and he crashed to the ground. Fear flashed through him too—the crimson kite!—but the impact had knocked it away. He rolled over in agony, his breath gone, groping for his kite, but it was nowhere to be felt.

Through the haze of pain he heard a vicious whish as another hunter shot past. He struggled to his feet, shoulder screaming, looking around wildly for anything crimson. A chorus of screeching warnings cracked the air.

“RETURN AT ONCE!”

A booming voice—Lord Gilbert’s—seemed to come from everywhere. It boomed up the mountain, drowning out even the winds, making Oliver clap his hands to his ears. Somehow Lord Gilbert could project his voice like thunder, rumbling over the oaks and into the moonslit sky.

Oliver spied a burst of crimson smashing helplessly out of control between oaks, at the mercy of the winds. He chased after it as a hunter whizzed by the edge of his vision, black and low, and pain tore through his arm. He ground his teeth to keep from screaming. He ran onward, then dove for the kite just as another hunter swooped in, talons raking. He could hear it shriek as it struck him.

He had the kite in his hands.

The oak in front of him had distinctive branches, dipping just so, as if to point the way. It was one of the sentinels. The oak next to it, the second sentinel, was also pointing. His map of the mountain clicked into place. He started toward the crest.

Out of habit, he glanced at the handvane on his wrist. It looked undamaged, but though the winds were swirling all around, the pointer did not waver. It pointed resolutely in one direction—west.

It’s broken, thought Oliver. In these winds, the pointer ought to be spinning like mad.

The pain in his shoulder and back and head began to be a lesser concern than the pain in his chest. Oliver had never run like this, and he could not seem to get enough air. Blurs came down from the sky, some missing, some hitting, as though he were in a hellish hailstorm.

Still he ran, at last reaching the oakline.

Ahead lay the tempest—the night winds.

For an instant he was afraid to release the wounded kite, afraid the winds would destroy it, but then shadows flicked across the moons, and he knew he had no choice. He gripped the torn tail.

“Take me home,” he gasped.

He tossed the kite aloft.

BANG—the winds caught the sails, whirring through the rips. Somehow the sails didn’t tear further, and captured enough wind to jerk the kite up—

And Oliver with it. He leapt forward, throwing himself fearlessly into the winds, he and the crimson kite at one with the maelstrom. Last night, he had resisted the night winds, but tonight he allowed them to hurl him toward the peak, reveling in their power and fury. His boots pounded the grass, his strides lengthening as his speed increased.

Three more hunters dove, silhouetted by the moons.

They buzzed past, talons slashing, but all three strikes missed as Oliver raced up, up, up, staggering to the peak as his lungs wept for air and his legs begged for mercy.

They reached the peak. The ascent continued without pause.

Now Oliver was flailing above the ground toward the oakline. He caught a glimpse of circling hunters, but their strikes were hopeless now, hurtling by above and below but not managing another hit. Oliver would have screamed in triumph if he were able.

But as he banged along at the end of the kite’s torn tail, he realized that they weren’t rising fast enough. The oaks and their hard, mostly bare branches were approaching alarmingly fast. And he realized, from the way the kite flew and the way its tail had not wrapped around his arm, that the kite did not have the strength to carry him much higher.

Oliver’s shin struck the first branch with a thundering crack.

Then the winds blew in and seized them and threw them higher, above the oaktops. They flew over Lord Gilbert’s treehouse, ablaze with light. Oliver could see hunter silhouettes firing past below. They had abandoned the hunt. In the open winds, he was safe. He managed a grin through the horrible pain in his shoulder, back, legs, arms, and head.

I did it! he thought triumphantly.

FLASH

Uh-oh, he thought less triumphantly.

FLASH

The hunt was not over.

FLASHFLASHFLASH

Each flash shot a bolt of agony through his skull.

FLASH

In the blazing lights of Lord Gilbert’s treehouse, Oliver could see the hunters firing in straight lines, directly at the disc beneath the riven oak.

He hadn’t escaped at all, not yet anyway. Lord Gilbert was sending the hunters after him.

He clung to the kite’s tail with both hands, wishing he could feel it wrapped around his arm again. The kite flew raggedly as the night winds carried them ever higher. He worried that the crimson kite, in its damaged condition, might not find its way into the void between worlds. But soon they entered the mist, and then its cold damp added a chill to the list of Oliver’s discomforts.

He looked automatically at the handvane. It insisted on pointing in the wrong direction, directly opposite the flow of wind. Useless, thought Oliver. He gave it an awkward shake, but the pointer was adamant in its wrongness. He’d have to get Great-uncle Gilbert to fix it too, once he found him.…

If he found him.

He noticed something dismaying.

He seemed to be a little farther away from the kite than he’d been before. His hands, slick with sweat, were