horses whickered.
In the other direction, Ovinus’s low voice chanted. The Revered Son prepared to greet the dawn, such as it was.
Ebonbane hissed back into its sheath.
“Early,” Cathan muttered. ”What’s the matter?”
Tithian tugged at the collar of his tunic. “The lookouts spotted something.”
“Something?” Cathan raised an eyebrow.
“In the sky, sir.”
That was interesting. Throwing off his bedroll, Cathan rose to his feet. He ached worse than when he’d gone to sleep; but he put it from his mind. His squire handed him a horn of wine, warm from mulling over the fire, and he gulped it down as he slung his baldric over his shoulder. Ebonbane bumped against his thigh, reassuring. Tithian offered his helm next, but Cathan waved him off.
“Which way?” he asked.
The boy led him south from the camp, to where the wood gave way to hilly grasslands draped in cords of mist. Two of Cathan’s sharper-eyed knights stood just inside the tree line, staring at the clouds. One, an amiable hulk named Sir Marto, glanced back, then raised his hand in salute. He put a finger to his lips as Cathan and Tithian crunched through fallen leaves toward them. His partner, a lean, flame-haired fellow called Pellidas, continued to stare skyward.
“Strange thing, sir,” Marto whispered, his voice thick with the accent of the jungle province of Falthana. He tugged at his beard, forked in the style of his homeland. “Pell saw it not long ago. It’s been circling ever since. I think it’s looking for something.”
Pellidas nodded, saying nothing. He had been born mute.
Cathan frowned, looking up. His eyes were not as good as they’d once been. He couldn’t make anything out against the slate-colored pall. He muttered a curse. “Tithian, get my farglass,” he hissed.
The boy cleared his throat, Cathan glanced at him, and saw the boy already had the contraption he’d asked for-a brass tube with lenses of Micahi glass at both ends. He’d been thinking ahead, evidently. With a sheepish smile, Tithian held out the farglass.
Cathan took it, and held one end up to his eye, peering through it at whatever it was Marto and Pell had seen.
There weren’t many flying beasts left in Istar. The dragons were long gone, and such-wicked creatures as manticores and wyverns were few, all but unknown in the northern provinces. Perhaps it was a griffin, like the tame ones the elves in the Kingpriest’s court kept. Maybe even a winged horse. Legend said such creatures had once run wild on the empire’s grasslands and in the skies above. He’d never seen one, and the thought that one of the beasts might be above him now made him shiver. He tracked the farglass back and forth, searching, searching…
Then his lips tightened with irritation. ”Jolith’s horns, Marto,” he said, lowering the farglass. “That’s a
“That’s what I told Pell,” the big knight said, “but he made me look again.”
Cathan glanced at Tithian, who shrugged, then looked at Pellidas. The redheaded knight was still watching the circling shadow, the one that had looked to Cathan’s eye like some kind of common raptor. Falcons were widespread in Istar, which was why the first Kingpriests had chosen one for the imperial emblem. Frowning, Cathan raised the farglass back to his eye.
He found the bird again and studied it more carefully this time. There was something unusual about it, something not quite right about the way it moved. Its wings moved jerkily, and its tail feathers didn’t ruffle on the wind. There was something else, too-an odd glint in the gray morning light. It was almost as if…
“What in…” he began, then stopped, frowning. “Is that thing made of metal?”
Pellidas nodded. Marto tugged his beard. “Looks like it, doesn’t it, sir? That’s why I thought you might want to see. I’d reckon the thing’s magical.”
“Good guess,” Cathan muttered. Metal birds were something new, although Cathan had heard tales of animals and even men that wizards made of bronze or iron. He shuddered at the thought. He’d never had much use for sorcery. Marto had even less and was biting the heel of his hand to ward against magic.
He gestured to Tithian, not taking his eye off the hawk, and the boy dashed off, back toward the camp. The bird
Tithian was back before long, holding a crossbow and a quiver of quarrels. He strained to cock the weapon, loading it before handing it to his master. Cathan shook his head, though. “I can barely see the blasted thing from here,” he said, and looked to the other two knights. “Which one of you is the better shot?”
“That’d be Pell,” Marto said.
Sir Pellidas took his eyes off the hawk long enough to take the crossbow from Tithian, then looked back up, sighting along its length. He licked his lips, tracking the hawk across the sky, tightened his grip, and squeezed the trigger.
The string snapped forward, and the quarrel streaked away. Cathan followed its flight until he lost sight of it- then there was a faint, high clang. Marto laughed, clapping Pellidas on his shoulder; the redheaded knight smiled slightly as he handed the crossbow back to Tithian.
Cathan saw the hawk again a moment later, without the farglass. It was dropping now, plummeting earthward like a spent arrow. He watched it fall, wings hanging loosely. It hit the ground with a thud, fifty paces away.
Ebonbane made it all the way out of the scabbard now. Pellidas and Tithian drew their own blades, and Marto pulled a beaked war axe from his belt. Together they crept out of the trees, toward where the bird had hit.
It was half-buried, having dug a furrow in the grassy earth. Now it lay motionless, one wing snapped off, the other bent out of shape. It was a falcon, Cathan saw, but its plumage was copper and silver, its beak made of gold. Its eyes were yellow gems-sapphires, maybe, or topaz. The quarrel, made of hard steel, had caught it mid-breast and punched out its back. Pellidas nudged it with his boot, then reached down and yanked the bolt free. As he did, more bits of metal spilled out of the hole: tiny, toothed gears and springs knocked loose by his shot.
“Karthayan clockwork,” said Marto, who would know. He was from a small town near the fabled capital of Falthana, a rich city known for its tiered gardens and fine tinkers.
Some said the Karthayans had gnomish blood, such was their fondness for mechanical inventions.
Never having seen one, Cathan doubted the existence of gnomes. The thought of a race of mad engineers was altogether strange to him. There was no doubting, though, that the bird wasn’t magical at all. It was some sort of curious machine.
“Have you seen anything like this before?” he asked.
Marto shook his head. “Haven’t been back to Karthay in ten years, though. Gods know what they’ve been up to there.”
“There’s something tied to its leg,” Tithian said.
Cathan raised his eyebrows, then looked closer. His squire was right. Affixed to the hawk’s leg was an ivory tube, the sort of thing couriers used to keep scrolls safe from bad weather. There was something more-a platinum plaque attached to it. Etched into the metal was a symbol Cathan knew well: a noble falcon, clutching Paladine’s sacred triangle in its talons.
Marto roared with laughter. “The imperial arms!” he bellowed. “Branchala bite me, Pell-that’s the Kingpriest’s toy you killed!”
Sir Pellidas winced, his ruddy face turning bright crimson. Cathan had to fight back a chuckle. “It’s all right,” he told the mute knight. “You did it by my order.”
He tapped the broken bird with Ebonbane’s tip, making sure it wasn’t going to spring back to life, then bent down and pulled the scrolltube from its leg. Even before he broke the seal that covered the cylinder’s cap-blue wax, with the falcon-and-triangle stamped in it as well-he guessed the missive inside was for him. Sure enough, it was.
