Pirin pressed his elbows gently down on the back of Gray’s neck. It was the signal to take off. She bounded forwards and leapt off the perch, then fluttered her wings. Wind rushed around Pirin, and the air thrummed. He leaned forward into the saddle and gripped the nape of her neck, guiding her toward the stable’s main entrance—an open portcullis in the far wall, four storeys tall.
They shot out of the stable and into the night air.
The palace and its stable were in the middle of the city, but there was plenty of space around the stable’s opening for a bird rider to climb into the sky.
Pirin didn’t pull up. If they climbed too soon, there was a chance he’d be spotted. He needed to stay low and work his way south. Swooping around towers and dipping under bridges, he turned Gray slowly towards the Sheercliff. Windows rattled in their downdraft and shingles creaked.
Each turn made his stomach lurch and hands tighten, and adrenaline pulsed through his veins…and he couldn’t stop himself from smiling. They shot over a dark market and over an empty plaza. He let the wind blast around his head, no matter how cold. It made his heart pound and his blood stir, swirling together into a perfect blend.
Pirin knew it shouldn’t have made him feel calm, but it did.
They blasted out through the gate of Northvel’s inner wall. They dipped close to a street, so close that the tip of Gray’s wing stirred up a wake of loose snow, and even then, Pirin’s breaths didn’t speed up. He had been flying Gray for a few years, and he didn’t need his memory to know instinctively how she would react to commands.
Just before they reached the outer wall, Pirin tugged back on Gray's nape. They climbed past the ramparts, and her talons barely missed the sandstone ledge. A pair of guards patrolling the wall pointed and shouted, but it was too late now. Even if they did prepare a squadron of riders to pursue, he and Gray would be long gone.
Gray flew out into the open air past the Sheercliff. Now, she only flapped her wings periodically, and they descended until they were a few hundred feet above the forests and rivers below.
As they navigated over the wilderness, Pirin forced himself to breathe steadily. He imagined the icy power of the manabulbs shooting through his veins and circulating around his body, slowly purifying and joining with his own Essence. It wasn’t easy to concentrate on the cycling pattern while he flew, but there was nothing else to do—except watch the landscape. The further south they flew, the more the forests began to fade, replaced by fields of hardy borea-grain that grew year-round.
When the sun rose, they landed on a butte. Pirin surveyed the land from the vantage of an ancient, crumbling watchpost built into the butte’s side.
Swirls of mist rose above mostly-frozen ponds, where the southward-blowing winds caught them. They would be cold, but they would be at Pirin’s back. It would be the perfect day to keep riding—they could make great time.
He turned back to Gray and patted her side. Gnatsnappers weren’t long-distance fliers, and they needed to take breaks, but they were faster than horses.
Pirin took a half hour to wander around the broad, round top of the watchtower. It was twenty paces across, with tall merlons lining the edges. When Gray began to hop in a circle, chirping and pecking at the snow-covered ground, Pirin asked, “Ready to keep flying?”
He knew Gray didn’t understand what he was saying, but it still felt right to talk to her. She cooed and chirped, then lifted her head.
“We’ll find you something to eat tonight,” he assured her, climbing back into the saddle and placing his hand against her nape again. He leaned forward, until both of his arms—his good and injured one—brushed her feathers.
This time, there was no ledge to leap off of. With a heavy rider, no gnatsnapper could take off from a standstill. A dive was a good way to build speed, but it wasn’t the only way.
Pirin tightened his legs against Gray’s flanks—the signal to run. She sprinted back toward the butte, then across it. The moment Pirin felt the wind whistling past his ears, he knew they were moving fast enough. He set his elbows down and pulled up on Gray’s nape. She flapped her wings, and they lifted up.
For the rest of the day, they flew high above a trail of packed mud and snow. Every two hours, he and Gray paused for a short break. At noon, feathery winter clouds bloomed on the pale blue horizon. He watched them as he cycled his Essence, wary of an incoming blizzard. The clouds inched closer all throughout the afternoon.
By the time the sun set, the clouds loomed dangerously close, and Pirin could barely keep his eyes open. He hadn’t slept at all last night, and he was sure Gray was getting tired too. There should have been a village at the upcoming split in the trail, but the darker the sky got, the further away it seemed.
Then a patch of lights appeared on the horizon. At the edge of a pine forest, a collection of wood and daub houses perched on the banks of a frozen riverbed. They all had steep, shingled roofs, and at the peak, carved wooden leaves leaned outwards. Their chimneys puffed smoke, and the warm light of fires beckoned Pirin closer.
According to the map, this village was simply called Bent River. It was barely marked with a speck of ink—Pirin had to adjust his eyeglasses just to see it.
They landed just outside the village. Gray ran a few paces through the snow to slow down, flapping her wings and kicking up a flurry. Pirin gulped. People would have seen that, and he needed to keep a low profile. The chancellor had said something about enemies hunting them.
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He slid off Gray’s saddle, then looked down at his coat. It was too clean and well-made, and he wouldn’t fit in anywhere outside the central districts of a large city. He needed to trade it, then maybe, he could find them some place to sleep.
He clicked his tongue, beckoning Gray to follow. They walked down the village’s central street, a road of ice-glazed snow. People stared at him, even with his hood drawn over his head. He didn’t fit in yet.
After they passed a few buildings, he slipped into a dark alley between two ramshackle wooden huts. He nearly bashed his head on a carved deer ornament hanging off the eave of one of the huts, and again, he cursed under his breath, “Svague!” It wasn’t a word in the common tongue, and he didn’t know why he knew it or what it meant—only that it was a curse, and that it was very satisfying to say.
He stepped behind a barrel, marked with the Leth rune for preservation. It had no power if it was just a carving, but when the barrel and the rune moved through the natural energy fields of the world (be it on a boat or a wagon), it would activate and preserve the barrel’s contents. Pirin pressed his hand against the rune, taking a bit of its warmth—it had been used recently.
Gray tucked into the alley behind Pirin and lowered her neck, watching over his shoulder. He rubbed his hands together, then stared out into the street. There had to be someone who he could use.
No, use was the wrong word. He’d be giving them a gift. Just…he couldn’t be recognized or remembered.
Snowflakes began to fall, and the evening crowd dispersed, save for a few older elves with graying hair, who sheltered under the eaves of the houses and smoked on pipes. Pirin adjusted his eyeglasses and chose his target, a lone elf across the street from him in a tattered, brown coat. Perfect.
“Alright, let’s do this,” Pirin muttered to himself. Putting a full, sapient elf asleep? It’d take more effort than he could usually muster, and it surely would take a few attempts.
He set his gaze on the elf’s eyes and held out his hand, as usual. This time, though, when he began to breathe and circulate his Essence, the power in his veins felt…more pervasive. It wasn’t by a lot, but there was more of it, waiting to be put to use.
Holding his gaze steady, he reached into the elf’s mind. Having more Essence, however, was only like trying to pour a river through a cracked pipe. When he tried to prod the center of his target’s mind with a thin tendril of Essence, his body fought back. Shards of invisible glass stabbed into his hand and scathed his muscles.
Hissing in pain, Pirin pulled his hand back into the shadows. Gray chirped softly, then nuzzled his shoulder.
“Sorry, sorry,” Pirin whispered. “Didn’t mean to alarm you.”
If nothing else, he’d build up a better pain tolerance. Gritting his teeth, he tried again. He located the elf’s eyes. The snow had begun to fall so thick it looked like fog now, and he could barely see across the street.
After two more failures, Pirin managed to hold the elf’s thoughts steady in his hand and, with a push of his own mind to drive the Essence, he put the elf to sleep. The elf’s body slumped down against the building behind.
“Quick,” he whispered to Gray. They ran across the street and knelt beside the body. By now, the snow was falling so thick and fast that he couldn’t see the other side of the street, let alone anyone else. No one would see him, either.
Pirin scavenged the old, mud-stained and tattered coat, then took off his own pristine blue one and pulled it over the fallen elf’s shoulders. When the elf woke up, he’d have the best change of clothes ever.
Pulling up the stolen coat’s collar and fastening the buttons, Pirin marched off down the street. At the end of the street, a glimmering sign shone through the snowstorm. The letters were purple—lumawhale oil glowed naturally, even when it was painted on a sign. In a simple script, it said, INN. It was the only two-story building in the village, and the only inn by the looks of it.
Pirin stepped up to the door, leaving Gray on the porch—she was too big to fit through the door. He made sure his hood covered his hair, then approached the front counter, where he found the innkeeper scrubbing a mug with a rag.
“What can I help you with?” the middle-aged elf asked, his ears twitching beneath his long hair. “You’ve been out in the storm for a bit, by the looks of it.”
“Some food, a room, and shelter for a gnatsnapper.”
“The first two, I can do,” said the innkeeper, raising his eyebrows. “I can even throw in some birdseed for your feathery friend.” He tilted his head towards the window. On the other side of the glass, Gray paced in a circle, her breath steaming. “But I’m afraid, if you want shelter for the bird, it’ll have to sleep in the horse stable.”
“That’s fine,” Pirin said. He reached into the front pocket of his haversack and produced a couple silver Sirdian coins. They were round disks marked with a simple symbol of a tree. “This cover it?”
“More than enough,” said the innkeeper. “Wherever you’re headed, friend, you’d do best to keep your head down. A gnatsnapper isn’t common, nor is a bag full of silver coins. One would think that coat’s just a disguise.”
“I’m not worried about being robbed here, sir, nor in Sirdia,” Pirin whispered back, and he was confident in the statement. The winter elves weren’t disposed to robberies—even the most desperate of them abided by a strict, honourable code. “Can I pay you to forget me?”
Certainly, there was a magical technique that Pirin could use to make someone forget him, but he didn’t know it.
“I won’t tell any shady folk about you, and you have my word on that,” said the innkeeper. “Besides, by your rations, I’d say you’re headed abroad.” He paused and set down his cup. “But that’s no matter. Come, let’s handle your bird, then we’ll see about something to fill your belly.”
They stepped back out into the blizzard, and the innkeeper led them to the horse stable nearby. It was warm enough inside for Gray to sleep. The innkeeper brought a bucket of grain for her.
Once Gray was settled, they returned to the inn. While the innkeeper prepared a room, Pirin sat at one of the tables in the inn’s first-floor tavern, enjoying the warm hearth and candlelight. All around him, elves drank ale and ate simple food—unleavened bread, sausage, and biscuits.
Pirin didn’t join them. He sighed, then looked down. This quest was more important. He pulled out the map and the note he’d written for himself, then set them side-by-side. The library of Tallas-Brannul…library of Tallas-Brannul…library…
He ran his finger back and forth across the map, searching for it among the scrawled ink lines. He traced rivers and streams, searching the parchment. Finally, he found it, at the center of an inland lake miles across. He gulped, then folded his fingers together. Gray couldn’t cross even half of the lake on her own—not in a single flight.
But that, he decided, was a problem to solve in the coming weeks. There would be plenty of time to make a plan before he arrived. He tucked his supplies back into his haversack then stood up. Right now, he needed to catch what little sleep he could.