Sword Mountain by Nancy Yi Fan Page B

the spot and toasted Golden. How miraculous , Dandelion marveled. A bird loved by everybird!
    What was more, everybird seemed eager to mention something about him, unprompted.
    â€œHe is going to finish first in the exams,” one said. “The pride of Sword Mountain, he is!”
    â€œHad he been the son of one of the princes, he would be a marvelous ruler someday,” cried another.
    â€œHe’s so charming!” cooed a third.
    Is he perfect? thought Dandelion. I hope he isn’t proud or haughty. She was directed to the walled courtyard at the back of the castle. Some boys were there, practicing martial arts to prepare for tryouts later in the afternoon. Dandelion watched and waited, apprehensive.
    Many of the eaglets wore leather armor; some had helmets with flaps that hid their faces. The sunlight flashing from their swords dazzled her, at first reminding her of the attacking archaeopteryx. But these eaglets’ movements weren’t crude or threatening; they were strong, synchronized, sweeping, like a dance.
    She was fascinated by how secure the eaglets looked, for they knew how to defend themselves and their family against any armed foe. They needn’t hide or flee, scream or be helpless. They could rise up and meet an attacker readily. If only that was something she could do! She’d have to fly, too, of course, but if she could only fly and wield a sword like that.
    When practice was over, Dandelion walked to the nearest eaglet and told him of her search, and he called over one of the birds who was fully armored.
    â€œSomebird asking for me?” said Golden, taking off his helmet.
    Dandelion looked up and was astounded.
    â€œWhat?” she gasped. “Golden? Cloud-wing? You’re Golden?”
    Tawny-feathered Cloud-wing looked embarrassed. “That’s what they all call me. But I’d rather you call me Cloud-wing. It’s my real name, after all.”
    â€œBut why don’t the others call you Cloud-wing?” asked Dandelion, curious.
    â€œDon’t know,” mumbled Cloud-wing. Even his embarrassed grimace was a perfectly likable grimace. “Guess they can’t see past my feathers,” he added.
    Dandelion understood. In reality, golden eagles weren’t golden but came in a palette of browns. Some even had plumage that was as dark as valley earth, like Dandelion herself.
    Although all had at least a patch of tawny feathers on the back of their necks that justified the name, it was the goal of fashionable golden eagles to appear as “gold” as possible. Some wore dark blue scarves to bring out a yellower hue. Those who could afford it sported plenty of gold jewelry and cufflinks. The immensely wealthy, like the queen, sprinkled a metallic powder on their wings and faces.
    But among the nobility, there were lucky families of birds whose feathers had just the “right” color. Cloud-wing came from such a family. He fairly glowed.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with Golden, though?” asked Dandelion.
    â€œHow’d you feel if you were called perfect and golden all the time?” Cloud-wing said.
    â€œI don’t know,” said Dandelion. “I’d be very glad at first, I guess.”
    Cloud-wing nodded.
    â€œBut it’s pretty tough keeping up with perfect,” Dandelion went on after a pause. “I guess you lose yourself.”
    â€œSee? That’s what I mean. You understand.” He waved a wing impulsively. “Isn’t it funny, I could send others reeling if told them I planned to dye my feathers dark. You’re the only one I bet who won’t.”
    â€œI won’t. But,” she said, thinking further, “you don’t believe that my feather color is what makes me think one way or another, do you?”
    â€œNo! Great Spirit, what a stupid thing I said. I was trying to say you understand me because you’re like me,” said Cloud-wing. A look of relief flooded his