leader of the group of rebels, a young man called TitusMolde, bent to feel for the dagger he always kept in his boot, and smiled to himself. He wasn’t expecting any trouble, but
it might be handy. He had spotted the two men with her and didn’t know if they’d let her go easily. Number 102. At last they
had found her. It would make all the difference to the morale of the cause, so badly damaged by the death of Robert Fane.
And he’d be glad to be out of this place. It made Titus Molde uneasy: the trees like ghosts in the moonlight, the whining
of the wind. He was used to working in the night, of course, but he didn’t like it. He wasn’t devout anymore, but at times
he regretted he’d ever cast away his amulet.
Something flickered against the full moon. A large bird, neck outstretched. His hand went up automatically to his throat,
to the place where his amulet had been. What could it be? What Night Bird had that wingspan—or was it a trick of the moonlight?
And now another bird was following it, and another: a whole flock of great, white, long-necked birds, swooping low over the
dark blowing trees of the copse and flying through the wind toward the men.
Then Titus Molde smiled again, at his own stupidity, as he realized what they were.
But the men in charge of breaking down the door looked up at the white birds flying against the stars, muttered together,
and put down their axes uneasily. Those holding torches shifted closer together, the ring of men around the tower beginning
to break up. The dogs, sensing the tension, were barking, hackles up, and from far away in the Hall therecame an answering howl from the imprisoned guard dogs of Murkmere.
“What are they?” said one of the men, looking up at the great heavy birds and rubbing moon-dazzled eyes.
“An omen,” said another.
The youth standing next to him gave a frightened moan. “What do they mean in the
Table of Significance
?”
It was time to stop this, thought Titus Molde. He strode over. “They’re swans, can’t you see that? Wild swans. They breed
in the Wasteland.”
These recruits from the city!
Unfortunately, the local men were down at the gates. The birds made no sound, no cry, as they circled beneath the moon. The
wind buffeted the men’s ears and hissed through the undergrowth around them.
Then there was a crash from far above their heads, from the top of the tower. Something fell through the air. Nerves on edge,
the nearest men leapt back. One of them held the object up, turning it gingerly this way and that in the moonlight. “Broken
glass,” he said. “She’s trying to break the window!”
“We’ll be waiting for her if she jumps!” said another man.
“Be sure to catch her, then,” said Titus Molde. “I want to take her back to the Capital in one piece.”
Another crash from above, and another, and then something invisible came hurtling through the air, followed by a lethal rain
of smaller pieces. The men dodged back, but one brought his hand to his face with a cry of anguish and took it away, black
with blood.
“We could try shouting up to her,” someone said to Titus Molde.
“She’d never hear, not with this wind,” Molde said. He hesitated, then yelled over to the men at the door, “Hurry up with
that, can’t you?”
More shards of glass fell, the smaller ones blown in all directions by the wind. The men on the grass drew back hastily; those
at the door of the tower pressed themselves against the wood for protection. They waited speechlessly to see what would happen
next, mesmerized by the dark hole that had been the great window at the top.
Then they gave a low groan of amazement and fear. Something extraordinary was appearing out of the darkness up there, something
inhuman—like a giant moth, with an eerie glow to the vast, furled wings. And even as they thought it a moth, the pale wings
uncurled and they saw it was a bird.
It had not yet flown out. It perched,
it might be handy. He had spotted the two men with her and didn’t know if they’d let her go easily. Number 102. At last they
had found her. It would make all the difference to the morale of the cause, so badly damaged by the death of Robert Fane.
And he’d be glad to be out of this place. It made Titus Molde uneasy: the trees like ghosts in the moonlight, the whining
of the wind. He was used to working in the night, of course, but he didn’t like it. He wasn’t devout anymore, but at times
he regretted he’d ever cast away his amulet.
Something flickered against the full moon. A large bird, neck outstretched. His hand went up automatically to his throat,
to the place where his amulet had been. What could it be? What Night Bird had that wingspan—or was it a trick of the moonlight?
And now another bird was following it, and another: a whole flock of great, white, long-necked birds, swooping low over the
dark blowing trees of the copse and flying through the wind toward the men.
Then Titus Molde smiled again, at his own stupidity, as he realized what they were.
But the men in charge of breaking down the door looked up at the white birds flying against the stars, muttered together,
and put down their axes uneasily. Those holding torches shifted closer together, the ring of men around the tower beginning
to break up. The dogs, sensing the tension, were barking, hackles up, and from far away in the Hall therecame an answering howl from the imprisoned guard dogs of Murkmere.
“What are they?” said one of the men, looking up at the great heavy birds and rubbing moon-dazzled eyes.
“An omen,” said another.
The youth standing next to him gave a frightened moan. “What do they mean in the
Table of Significance
?”
It was time to stop this, thought Titus Molde. He strode over. “They’re swans, can’t you see that? Wild swans. They breed
in the Wasteland.”
These recruits from the city!
Unfortunately, the local men were down at the gates. The birds made no sound, no cry, as they circled beneath the moon. The
wind buffeted the men’s ears and hissed through the undergrowth around them.
Then there was a crash from far above their heads, from the top of the tower. Something fell through the air. Nerves on edge,
the nearest men leapt back. One of them held the object up, turning it gingerly this way and that in the moonlight. “Broken
glass,” he said. “She’s trying to break the window!”
“We’ll be waiting for her if she jumps!” said another man.
“Be sure to catch her, then,” said Titus Molde. “I want to take her back to the Capital in one piece.”
Another crash from above, and another, and then something invisible came hurtling through the air, followed by a lethal rain
of smaller pieces. The men dodged back, but one brought his hand to his face with a cry of anguish and took it away, black
with blood.
“We could try shouting up to her,” someone said to Titus Molde.
“She’d never hear, not with this wind,” Molde said. He hesitated, then yelled over to the men at the door, “Hurry up with
that, can’t you?”
More shards of glass fell, the smaller ones blown in all directions by the wind. The men on the grass drew back hastily; those
at the door of the tower pressed themselves against the wood for protection. They waited speechlessly to see what would happen
next, mesmerized by the dark hole that had been the great window at the top.
Then they gave a low groan of amazement and fear. Something extraordinary was appearing out of the darkness up there, something
inhuman—like a giant moth, with an eerie glow to the vast, furled wings. And even as they thought it a moth, the pale wings
uncurled and they saw it was a bird.
It had not yet flown out. It perched,
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