Kiran swung a staff in a wide arc. It felt good to be outside the towering Temple wall, walking through stubbled fields with Brock and Jack. They were taking the shortcut cross-country and would meet the main road farther on.
Jack took off at a run, chasing a gray rabbit. Kiran's staff whistled as he swung it again.
“Easy, Mox,” Brock said, taking a step to the side, trampling barley stubble.
Kiran grunted. “Have confidence, Owl-face. I may be thickheaded when it comes to math, but sticks I understand.”
“It's not your thick head that daunts my confidence,” Brock answered. “It's the thick arms that do its bidding. I wouldn't want to be on the wrong end of that stick.”
“It's never your head I imagine hitting.”
“I'm comforted.” Brock high-stepped over more stubble. “Whose head, then?”
Kiran looked sideways at his friend. He frowned. “Clea's.”
Brock chuckled. “Why does she trail you like a buzzard after blood, when you'd like to see her head on a stick?”
Kiran slashed at a dry barley stalk. “Like a buzzard after blood” was all too apt a description. Each time he paired with Clea, he could feel her seeking chinks in his inner barriers, trying to get more from him than he wanted to give.
And though he'd hoped to help Bryn, Bryn wouldn't let him help her.
Brock pointed ahead. “Trouble.”
They were approaching a stand of trees, and Gridley Laversham was leading a band of Wings out of the woods: Lambert, Haig, Everett, Leonard, and Fulton. All were sons of lords. Each carried a sturdy-looking cudgel.
Looking around quickly for Jack, who was nowhere in sight, Kiran planted his staff. “I advise you to run,” he told Brock. On a different day and in a different mood, he might have been willing to turn around and avoid a fight. But not today.
Brock folded his arms. “I stand with you, Mox.”
Gridley and his followers stopped when they were a few feet away, forming a ragged line.
“Is there something you want?” Kiran said, his deep voice rough with anger.
The peacock-chosen young man smiled nastily. “Don't want much,” he said, enunciating his words. “Something so simple even you should be able to understand it. Stay away from Clea. She's spoken for.”
Kiran gripped his staff harder. “Why not ask her to stay away from me?”
Lambert snickered. Gridley scowled, his finely chiseled features scrunching together. “What would she see in an animal like you?”
“She has no taste,” Kiran said.
The other Wings moved to surround him and Brock. Jack. Where are you?
Gridley's face flushed. He slipped a hand inside his silk shirt.
Kiran lifted his staff. He thumped it against Gridley's chest. “ You wouldn't be reaching for a peacock feather, would you?”
All the students had been repeatedly told that it was rare for acolytes or handmaids to be able to use their secret gifts before they went through the formal initiation to the priesthood. But Kiran knew that just as he himself could speak to animals without being a priest, other acolytes, including Gridley, might have active gifts. It would be stupid to assume that the leader of the Wings could not use whatever gift the peacock had given him. If he couldn't, why would he reach for his feather? Kiran had no intention of allowing an unknown gift to be brought against him in a fight.
Gridley grabbed Kiran's staff with both hands, pushing back. Just then Lambert, cudgel held like a sword, rushed at Brock, who ducked aside but wasn't able to avoid a glancing blow off his shoulder.
Kiran yanked his staff away from Gridley's grasp and swung it, hitting Lambert's arm. The dull thwack sounded very loud. Lambert dropped his cudgel and jumped back, rubbing his arm and groaning.
Gridley roared. Haig rushed forward, cudgel raised in both hands. Leaping, Kiran drove his staff into Haig's stomach. Haig doubled over, retching. Gridley scrabbled to open the feather case he'd succeeded in pulling from under his shirt. Everett and Leonard stood in front of him, swinging their cudgels.
Kiran jabbed Everett in the chest with the end of his staff. Everett tumbled back. Kiran barely had time to switch his stance before his staff met Leonard's cudgel with bone-jarring force. “Behind you!” he heard Brock yell as a blow hit his back.
Kiran whirled, swinging blindly. His staff struck Fulton on the knee. Yelping, Fulton hopped backward and then fell. Brock was on the ground, his lip bleeding. He scrambled to his feet, motioning frantically for Kiran to turn around.
Kiran did so just in time to jump aside as Leonard charged him. Leonard crashed into Brock and both fell.
Kiran faced Gridley. The leader of the Wings was holding up a blue-green feather.
“Don't look!” Brock called out.
Too late. Kiran looked straight into the feather's shining eye, and suddenly, that eye was all he could see. He struggled to focus, blinking furiously, but each time he blinked, the peacock's eye multiplied until he was looking at a great fanning tail of blue-green. He held out his stick, groping blindly, and heard triumphant laughter as the other end of the stick was seized by his invisible opponent.
Panic surged through Kiran as he jerked his staff violently; just as he did so, whoever had hold of the other end let go. Kiran landed on the stubbly ground.
Brock's voice next to him spoke quietly. “Stay down. Keep your eyes closed.”
Kiran took a deep breath, puckering his lips to whistle for Jack.
“If you call your dog, I'll smash your mouth,” said Gridley's voice above him.
Jack, Kiran called silently. Help us. He aimed his thoughts at the surrounding woods.
Footsteps crunched close to his head. He strained to see, but his vision filled with swirling peacock feathers.
“Keep your eyes closed,” Brock said again, whispering beside him.
Panting, Kiran shut his eyes. The glittering fantails disappeared even as he heard Brock groaning.
“One more word from you, Smith-boy, and you'll pray you were in your father's forge.” Gridley's maddening voice so near made Kiran's urge to open his eyes nearly overpowering. “Get up!” Gridley was yelling now, but his shouts seemed to be directed away from Kiran and Brock. Must be calling his followers.
The end of a cudgel thunked Kiran's chest; he made a grab for it and missed, involuntarily opening his eyes. Immediately, the peacock fantails reappeared, blue-green and dizzying. He shut his eyes, throwing himself sideways. He heard the cudgel hit the ground where he'd been moments ago. Arms protecting his face, he rolled onto his side. Jack.
A booted foot crashed into his ribs. “Stop trying to get away,” Gridley said. “ You can't.” A blow struck Kiran's side. He gasped in pain, kicking out in the direction of the voice but meeting only air. Blows began to come at him from every direction. “What do you want with me, Gridley?” he yelled.
Another kick bruised his back. “ You don't belong in the Temple.”
And then the sound of ferocious barking split the crisp air. Kiran imagined the Wings, startled and frightened as a large speckled dog burst upon them, running at full tilt. Jack. Watch yourself. Take down the leader if it's safe. Scare his wits away, but don't hurt him.
Sudden pandemonium. Fierce snarling, mingled with shouts. “Look out!” Kiran heard scuffling sounds and growls he knew couldn't be coming from Jack. If only he could see.
“Give me back my sight, Gridley,” he shouted through the noise.
Snarls.
“Lie still!” one of the young men cried. “The bear won't attack if you lie still.”
“Call them off!” Gridley yelled, panic-stricken. Kiran opened his eyes upon clear sky. He sat up painfully and looked around. Nearby, Brock was getting to his feet. His mouth streamed blood. A few paces away, Jack had Gridley pinned. Growling deep in his throat, the dog was plainly enjoying himself, with his forepaws braced on Gridley's chest, slavering jaws dripping on Gridley's chin, mismatched eyes menacing.
Just beyond Jack,
a huge brown bear wagged its massive head from side to side, watching the other five Wings, who cowered in the barley stubble, trembling and sweating. Kiran smelled the spiky scent of terror. He waited a few moments before communicating with the animals. Thank you, my friends. These men have been defeated. You can safely let them live.
The bear looked at Kiran. With a shambling gait, it set off for the woods again.
Brock extended a hand. Rising, Kiran groaned. His ribs were very sore. “Jack,” he said aloud. Jack, let him up.
Jack backed down. He sat on his haunches, grinning widely enough to show all his teeth, while Kiran and Brock stood over Gridley. The rest of the Wings stayed on the ground, looking nervously from Kiran to Jack.
Brock dabbed at his bleeding mouth with the edge of his sleeve. “ Your feather looks the worse for wear,” he said to Gridley. “Put it away before it loses all its beauty.”
Gridley slowly sat up. He stared at the feather he still clutched. Dirt dusted its flanges. “ You're not going to take it?” he asked, chin quivering.
“ You agree to let us alone?” Kiran demanded.
Gridley nodded yes.
“Let's forget it, then.”
Gridley put his feather back in its case. Kiran helped him up. The leader of the Wings looked him in the eye for an instant, grudging respect on his face. Then he turned to his followers and began urging them to their feet.
Jack had followed Kiran's instructions to leave Gridley unhurt; despite having been tackled, Gridley, unlike the other Wings, had no injuries except his battered pride. Haig's face was badly swollen, and Kiran wondered if he might have been swatted by the bear—if so, the bear had been quite restrained, for there was no blood. Fulton, nursing his knee, leaned on Lambert's good arm.
Kiran sighed as the Wings limped out of sight. “Sorry you took a beating on my account, Owl-face. That lip looks bad.”
“ You didn't leave much for me to do,” Brock answered, making a show of talking out of one side of his face.
“Not true. How did you know I should close my eyes? How did you keep your head?”
Sweat shone on Brock's deep-brown skin. His swollen lip was still bleeding, but his black eyes were calm. “Owl's gift,” he answered absently.
Kiran looked closely at his friend. “It's the owl's gift to keep your head?”
Brock didn't answer.
Kiran narrowed his eyes. “Owl's gift?” His mind raced. “Somehow, you used your gift to help me. I know Gridley didn't confide in you how to defeat the peacock's weapon.”
Brock stood quite still, uncharacteristically quiet. Kiran became aware of the slight noises around them: Jack snuffling, the rustling of orange-veined leaves on the trees beyond, the buzz of insects and cries of unseen birds.
“Brock. You know the secret gifts?”
Brock sighed. “And now you know mine.”
Kiran gaped at his friend. “It's the owl's gift to know the other gifts? But you didn't take out your feather.”
“Nor did you,” Brock answered. “ Yet you called Jack without a whistle. And did that bear turn up by coincidence?” His lopsided grin was so comical that Kiran felt a laugh trying to push its way out. When he swallowed, he choked. He began to cough, his bruised ribs aching. Jack barked in sympathy.
“ You must admit,” Brock said wryly, “that what we learned here could help us another day.”
“What more did you learn, Oh sage Owl-face,” Kiran said, “beyond what it's like to have a split lip?”
“Important things, Oh Bear-caller. You and I can both use our gifts without touching our feathers— something we've been taught only a Master Priest can do. Also: it is wise to befriend dogs and bears.”
Jack yipped sharply and Kiran broke into ragged laughter. He shook his head at Brock. “So will you tell me the gyrfalcon's gift?”
Merriment drained from Brock's face. “The Master Priest's choosing bird?” He eased himself down on the ground. “I can't tell you,” he said.
“Why not?”
“He isn't endangering you now. And if I revealed gifts willy-nilly, Winjessen would not be pleased.” Winjessen, Lord of Thought, looked after the owl-chosen.
Kiran thought hard. He had to concede that it might be wrong to spread sacred secrets. What a fool Gridley had been to expose his gift out of pride.
Brock looked suddenly older, black eyes deep and wise as he stared up at Kiran. “Besides,” he said, “I don't know another's gift unless that gift is used in my presence.”
Kiran hunched his aching shoulders. “Now that I've done combat with another gift,” he said, “I see how dangerous they can be.” He looked uneasily at Brock. “Whatever the gyrfalcon's gift is, the Master Priest doesn't need his feather in order to use it.”
“It's sure to be a fearful power,” Brock said. “I've seen gyrfalcons attack their prey.”
Kiran thought of all the hours he'd spent alone with the Master Priest. In his mind's eye, he saw the peacock's dizzying fantail again. He shuddered.
Unaware of Kiran and Brock's battle, Bryn sat with Dawn and Alyce on the east side of the Temple pond where the weeds grew high. The three young women had created a nook by tramping down weeds and then spreading their cloaks. Dense stalks of wild grass and weeds topped by seed pods taller than Bryn formed a makeshift enclosure.
Bryn breathed deeply through her nose. “I love the scent of late summer,” she said. “Like stored-up sunshine.” She lifted her cider glass and took a sip.
Dawn stretched her lanky arms. “Always the poet, Bryn. To me, it smells like dead grass, and besides, it's the day of the equinox so we've entered autumn.”
Bryn laughed. Dawn poked Alyce, who was lying back staring at the sky. “Isn't it a shame to be stuck inside the Temple wall while the acolytes can go to Amarkand on their own?” Dawn asked.
“If you wanted to go to the festival, why didn't you go into the city with Jacinta and Willow?” said Alyce.
“And be herded like sheep by the Temple guards?” Dawn snorted. “Much rather be here with all of you. I wish the Temple would celebrate the equinox. This day is sacred to Vernelda!” She took a gulp of cider. “And I have something to celebrate. I think I've finally stopped growing.”
They congratulated her. “ You're the Queen of Tall,” Alyce said.
“How deep shall your subjects bow?” Bryn asked. She leaned forward to clink her glass against Dawn's. “ You and I have a most holy reason to celebrate, don't we?”
“No more scrubbing latrines!” Dawn whooped. “Unless, of course, I open my mouth to the Sendrata again. Vernelda forbid.”
“Or I stand up at the wrong time,” Bryn answered, smiling.
“I still say the Temple should give the equinox a grand celebration,” Dawn grumbled.
Alyce crushed a dry seed pod. “Because of the equinox, or because of the Gilgamell Troupe?” She scattered fine powder from her hand. “Only think, soon it'll be winter. No more warm days like this.”
“ You'll be cozy enough, standing next to the ovens,” Dawn said. Alyce had been permanently assigned to the Temple bakery, as she had hoped. “ You won't have to endure Ishaan's temper as you try to comprehend why Keldes at the midheaven means long life but Keldes on the horizon brings nothing but gloom.”
Alyce snickered contentedly. “I don't care about the Lord of Death. Tell me when Marvin will ask me to marry him.”
Dawn threw up her hands. “ You're asking about Vernelda, Goddess of Love,” she said glumly. “Inscrutable. She's supposed to be foremost in my chart, but she neither answers my prayers nor favors me.”
“Maybe you need to fall in love before she'll favor you,” Alyce said.
“I'm too tall for love to find me,” Dawn answered. She twitched her black braid forward and played with the tassel of hair at its end.
Alyce tickled Dawn's nose with a fuzzy weed stalk. “Isn't there anyone you fancy?”
Before Dawn could reply, rustles were heard among the weeds. She rose like a lookout
tower, hand shading her forehead. “Blast,” she said, sinking back down. “Clea and Eloise. I shouldn't have stood up— now they'll know where we are.”
“What are they doing here?” Alyce complained. “I thought they'd gone to Amarkand.”
Bryn looked up to see Clea framed by weeds, her shining hair twined with ribbons, her richly embroidered robe belted with silk. “Sorry, Clea, but there's nothing dead and rotting here to tempt you into staying,” Bryn said, surprising herself. She'd fallen into the habit of avoiding Clea and never speaking to her. But what more could she do to me? She's already taken the wind. And why would she risk cursing my friends? I'm nothing now—nothing to the Temple and nothing to her.
Clea dropped gracefully onto Bryn's cloak. Eloise remained standing, looking on with a sneer.
“Did you know,” Clea said, pinning her blue gaze on Bryn, “that Kiran meets with me secretly?” She smiled the same smile she'd worn in the desert when she lifted a full water bottle to her lips while Bryn had nothing to quench her thirst.
“What nonsense!” Dawn said.
Clea ignored Dawn, kept looking at Bryn. “He holds the most famous feather among the acolytes,” she said. “It's only fitting he should be mine. Your darling Kiran is quite a different man when he's alone with me.” She smirked.
Your darling Kiran. Were her feelings obvious to everyone, or did Clea possess some uncanny ability to see into her heart? Turning red, Bryn hoped that Dawn or Alyce would say something. Nobody said a word.
Clea gave an elaborate sigh. “Well, this little place you've made in the weeds has charm,” she said. “It's a step up from a sinkhole, at least. But the conversation is rather dull.”
Bryn rallied to say, “Because you did most of the talking.”
Clea's blue eyes glinted coldly. Her robe whispered as she stood. She and Eloise stepped out of the weed enclosure, and soon their scornful voices faded away.
“May she fall in a sinkhole,” Bryn muttered. “Carrion creature.”
Willow and Dawn sniggered.
“Do you suppose it's true about Kiran and Clea?” Alyce asked, looking at Bryn.