he felt a strange change, as if a trusted friend had placed a hand upon his shoulder.
Remember how you were shielded from the enemy at Barnashum
.
He was alone. Yet the haze felt charged with energy, just as it had when figures of light stepped out of the air and watched him trying to save his mother.
Remember how you were given all you needed
.
“Go away. You’re not welcome here.”
Remember how you were saved from slave traders. How you returned from captivity to lead your people again
.
The room rocked. He fell forward, almost tumbling into the slick of sizzling debris. The empty barrel hurtled off the platform into space. There was a sound like boiling stew below, intensifying.
He clambered up the tilting floor. Gripping the edge of the bedframe with one hand, he seized the sputtering torch with the other.
The Underkeep was alive with motion. Limbs flailing over limbs, a rising flood of Deathweeds climbing up to tear him like an injured bird from its nest.
“Why do the worst rumors always prove true?” he muttered.
As Deathweeds coiled again about the stairway, their bristles and thorns scraped against each other with a searing sound that made his teeth ache. He gripped the torch and readied for the onslaught.
The stairway shattered, disappearing in the sea of oily tentacles.
The platform groaned, tipped, and began to tear from the wall. He lost his footing. The back of his head hit the floor. Stripes of light crisscrossed his vision. His boots kicked at the oil slick. Furniture slid toward the edge, the bed pushing him into the swath of oil. Deathweeds thrashed, rising to seize him.
Something struck the floor beside him. He felt a firm grip on his forearm. He lashed out with the torch, but a hard kick struck it from his hand.
An aroma of damp leaves and treebark, the scents of deep forest, enfolded him. Those perfumes thrust a distinct memory to his attention—Obsidia Dram, the woman who had governed Abascar’s breweries.
But it was a man’s arms that embraced him, and a brusque voice said, “Will you let me carry you?”
Cal-raven’s body answered before he could speak. He wrapped himself around the stranger. The man—sturdy and almost as stout as he was tall and clad in rough garments that were, indeed, the stuff of the forest—reached up and tugged twice on a silver line.
The floor fell away. They rose swiftly.
Cal-raven heard his chamber disintegrate below.
They ascended through the pillar of smoke. His thoughts lost their outlines. All he could perceive was the costume of his rescuer, the thin cord that drew them up, and then the heron shadow sweeping against the light of the afternoon sky.
A rain shower later, beneath a canvas shelter draped between open-armed cotton-beard trees, Cal-raven held his hands out to the crackle of a smokeless fire and tried to absorb what had happened.
I’ve heard children speak of a sky-man. I never gave it more than a laugh
.
The sky’s grey shell was cracking. Streaks of blue shone through. Rainwater, falling from the leaves and the ladders of branches above, drummed the canvas until the ceiling hung low.
An enormous kite the shape of a blue-winged heron slumped on the grass in front of him. Rain pinged against the heavy fabric stretched tight across its frame. Its body was an intricate spring-rigged mechanism—a coil of wire connected to a harness of leather belts.
Clearly it came from the same inventor who had designed the tiny paper bird.
Old Soro
.
This kite had suspended Cal-raven’s rescuer, and its coil had retracted the lines, pulling both men up into the sky. They had flown in a graceful escape from the crater, soaring off the edge of Abascar’s stone plateau and descending toward the Cragavar forest, which was green and gleaming in the morning light.
“I knew you were a kite … a kite-maker,” Cal-raven stuttered. “The woman youwere helping at Mawrnash—I don’t even remember her name—she said you made kites. I saw the
Remember how you were shielded from the enemy at Barnashum
.
He was alone. Yet the haze felt charged with energy, just as it had when figures of light stepped out of the air and watched him trying to save his mother.
Remember how you were given all you needed
.
“Go away. You’re not welcome here.”
Remember how you were saved from slave traders. How you returned from captivity to lead your people again
.
The room rocked. He fell forward, almost tumbling into the slick of sizzling debris. The empty barrel hurtled off the platform into space. There was a sound like boiling stew below, intensifying.
He clambered up the tilting floor. Gripping the edge of the bedframe with one hand, he seized the sputtering torch with the other.
The Underkeep was alive with motion. Limbs flailing over limbs, a rising flood of Deathweeds climbing up to tear him like an injured bird from its nest.
“Why do the worst rumors always prove true?” he muttered.
As Deathweeds coiled again about the stairway, their bristles and thorns scraped against each other with a searing sound that made his teeth ache. He gripped the torch and readied for the onslaught.
The stairway shattered, disappearing in the sea of oily tentacles.
The platform groaned, tipped, and began to tear from the wall. He lost his footing. The back of his head hit the floor. Stripes of light crisscrossed his vision. His boots kicked at the oil slick. Furniture slid toward the edge, the bed pushing him into the swath of oil. Deathweeds thrashed, rising to seize him.
Something struck the floor beside him. He felt a firm grip on his forearm. He lashed out with the torch, but a hard kick struck it from his hand.
An aroma of damp leaves and treebark, the scents of deep forest, enfolded him. Those perfumes thrust a distinct memory to his attention—Obsidia Dram, the woman who had governed Abascar’s breweries.
But it was a man’s arms that embraced him, and a brusque voice said, “Will you let me carry you?”
Cal-raven’s body answered before he could speak. He wrapped himself around the stranger. The man—sturdy and almost as stout as he was tall and clad in rough garments that were, indeed, the stuff of the forest—reached up and tugged twice on a silver line.
The floor fell away. They rose swiftly.
Cal-raven heard his chamber disintegrate below.
They ascended through the pillar of smoke. His thoughts lost their outlines. All he could perceive was the costume of his rescuer, the thin cord that drew them up, and then the heron shadow sweeping against the light of the afternoon sky.
A rain shower later, beneath a canvas shelter draped between open-armed cotton-beard trees, Cal-raven held his hands out to the crackle of a smokeless fire and tried to absorb what had happened.
I’ve heard children speak of a sky-man. I never gave it more than a laugh
.
The sky’s grey shell was cracking. Streaks of blue shone through. Rainwater, falling from the leaves and the ladders of branches above, drummed the canvas until the ceiling hung low.
An enormous kite the shape of a blue-winged heron slumped on the grass in front of him. Rain pinged against the heavy fabric stretched tight across its frame. Its body was an intricate spring-rigged mechanism—a coil of wire connected to a harness of leather belts.
Clearly it came from the same inventor who had designed the tiny paper bird.
Old Soro
.
This kite had suspended Cal-raven’s rescuer, and its coil had retracted the lines, pulling both men up into the sky. They had flown in a graceful escape from the crater, soaring off the edge of Abascar’s stone plateau and descending toward the Cragavar forest, which was green and gleaming in the morning light.
“I knew you were a kite … a kite-maker,” Cal-raven stuttered. “The woman youwere helping at Mawrnash—I don’t even remember her name—she said you made kites. I saw the
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