Five Odd Honors (35 page)

Loyal Wind dropped slightly back so he could watch, utterly appalled by this lack of discipline, uncertain whether he should force the Monkey back into formation or wait for this—hopefully short-lived—spasm to wear off.

Bent Bamboo began slowly turning himself over in a somersault, investigating the limits between the motions that permitted the kite to rise and fall.

He was halfway into a turn when disaster hit.

In his effort to turn completely head over heels, Bent Bamboo had forgotten that what gave him the power of flight were not wings, but instead a kite. When Bent Bamboo turned his kite so that his head pointed straight down, rather than at an angle to the wind, that wind, magical although it was, could not drive the kite.

Bent Bamboo began to plummet toward the sea of burning coals, his delighted laughter transforming into a scream of raw terror.

Loyal Wind assessed the situation in less than a breath.

Flying Claw was the most experienced of their number, but he was hobbled by the kite train that carried their baggage. Even if he cut the train loose, valuable seconds would be wasted. The others were farther away. A few, Copper Gong and Gentle Smoke in particular, had been doing their best to ignore the Monkey’s antics.

Probably hoped,
Loyal Wind thought, angling his kite so that he could enter a controlled dive,
that they could discourage him by seeming uninterested. Since when has that ever worked with a Monkey?

There was no time, not even to listen to the shouts from the others. Loyal Wind spoke to the wind that drove his kite, telling it that stability could be sacrificed for speed. He shifted his weight, driving the kite down toward the sea of fire, toward the Monkey.

Bent Bamboo had stopped screaming and was wrestling with his kite, trying to return it to its proper orientation. His success was limited, but he had succeeded in breaking the speed of his fall. Now instead of plummeting arrow like, the kite drifted downward as a leaf would on a breeze.

But the yellow and white kite was still falling. The heat below was increasing. Sweat dripped from Loyal Wind’s face, stinging his eyes, running into his mouth, tickling his skin, the irritations changing with every shift of orientation he made. He did not pause to wipe it away, even when the sweat caused his vision to intermittently blur.

Loyal Wind swept in as close to Bent Bamboo and his foundering vessel as he dared. Releasing one of the handholds of his own kite, feeling every move he made shift his weight, the Horse reached out with his right hand and grasped some of the trailing, bright yellow ribbons of one of the Monkey-kite’s tails.

Shifting his weight left to compensate for the drag, Loyal Wind took a tight hold. The sweat coursing over him made the ribbons slick and hard to grasp.

Now Loyal Wind ordered the wind to give him as much lift as possible.

Yes, Brother Wind
came the faintest of whispers, so faint that Loyal Wind was uncertain he had heard it.

The force lifting his kite increased, enough to stop Bent Bamboo’s fall.

But there was not sufficient force for them to rise, not with Bent Bamboo’s kite confined to its awkward angle by Loyal Wind’s hold on the tail.

He was trying to figure out what to do next when Des spoke from slightly above and to the opposite side of Bent Bamboo’s kite.

“Bent Bamboo, balance yourself carefully. I can just get a hold on this other tail.”

A soft curse. A smell that took Loyal Wind a moment to place. Burning hair.

He shook his head to free his face from some of the sweat and looked down. They were far closer than he had realized to the sea of fire. Perhaps within a few yards.

Then they were rising as Des and his kite took up some of the burden. Once they were a good twenty feet above the fire—although still too close for comfort—Gentle Smoke and Nine Ducks joined them. Working in very careful concert, they helped Bent Bamboo right his kite so that the wind could once again give it proper lift.

As they rose in unison into the somber violet sky, Loyal Wind felt his sweat drying. When separated into their formation, he saw that the end of Des’s long braid had been burnt crisp.

So close,
Loyal Wind thought.
Too damn close.

When he managed a swallow from his water flask, the water was as hot as a cup of tea and tasted of sour leather.

It was the best drink he’d ever had.

In the
days following her introduction to Oak Gall, Brenda met several other of the sidhe folk. None of them were at all what she had expected.

Wasp was prettier than Oak Gall, a sharp-featured, vaguely womanlike creature with wings like a wasp’s and a temper to match. When she thought Brenda was being stupid—which was frequently—she spat tiny mud balls at her. Brenda thought it was fortunate that Wasp wasn’t much more than six inches long, otherwise her missiles would do more than sting.

Because no one ever seemed to notice her, Wasp most often spelled Parnell when the seeming young man couldn’t be with Brenda. Brenda had gotten used to feeling those little mud balls hit her at the weirdest times.

Nettle was taller than Wasp and slimmer than Oak Gall, but, like his fellows, he only resembled something human if Brenda stretched her imagination. He was covered in fine hair that shaded between pale green and paler yellow. Sometimes he wore a tunic made from what looked like two multilobed leaves, and a cap that resembled an elongated oval seed pod. Sometimes he didn’t bother with attire, and then Brenda did her best to not look to see if he was more like a man or more like a gangly plant.

Both,
she decided.
Oak Gall, Wasp, and Nettle look like both. I wonder, does Parnell look like a plant, when he’s not looking like a human? Is he a tree, maybe? A sort of male dryad. That would explain why his blood is white, like sap. Didn’t the druids worship trees? And weren’t the sidhe sort of associated with old gods?

Brenda knew she was struggling to find logic where none applied, but she couldn’t help herself. Anyhow, the idea of Parnell as the human embodiment of some noble tree was better than thinking of him as something else: a dandelion, maybe, or a shamrock.

“Are you keeping up with your lessons now?” Parnell asked Brenda one evening when they’d taken their books out onto one of the greens to study in the pleasant ebbing heat of mid-September.

“Can’t you see I am?” Brenda said, indicating the books spread around her. “My Lit survey teacher seems to think we have nothing to do but read for her class. She’s completely impossible. Thank God my accounting elective is all stuff Dad taught me years ago.”

“No, girlie,” Parnell said with a chuckle, “I don’t mean your college classes. I’m referring to the important lore you spent all summer devoting yourself to learning.”

“You mean the Orphans stuff ?” Brenda asked, knowing perfectly well that he did.

“I do.”

“Well, a little. I’ve been trying to memorize some of the sequences, but it’s not as if I can sit and make amulet bracelets.”

She touched the two she wore, one on each wrist: a Dragon’s Tail for protection, a Dragon’s Breath for attack. These two bracelets and her notebook were all Gaheris Morris would let her bring away. When they’d left Pearl’s house, Brenda had been too crushed to protest. She wondered if Gaheris had even known about the notebook—such aids to memory weren’t usually permitted.

Besides,
she thought,
it’s not like I really need amulet bracelets, even if I did make a bunch. The other Orphans need them, not me. I’m out of it.

Wasp spat a disapproving mud ball. “Self-pity. It reeks to the heavens and of ends the angels, it does.”

“Angels?” Brenda said. “What do you know about angels?”

“That they’re with God in his Heaven,” Parnell answered for the annoyed Wasp, “or so the stories tell. Don’t try to change the subject, Brenda darling.”

“I’m not,” Brenda retorted haughtily. “And, no, I haven’t really been keeping up with my ‘lessons,’ as you call them. What does it matter? Dad’s sent me away. No one at Pearl’s talks to me.”

A mud ball hit her hand, mute testimony as to what Wasp thought of this excuse.

“And so you’re never going to be the Rat someday, are you?” Parnell asked. “And when you are, you’re content to be as useless as if you never knew about your heritage?”

Brenda frowned. “Dad’s not all that old. He’ll be around for decades. Probably by the time I’m the Rat, all this trouble will be over, and what I know won’t matter.”

“And who will teach the young ones?” Parnell persisted. “Are you thinking Pearl Bright will live forever? Are you thinking that Shen Kung will, too?”

“There’s Des,” Brenda said, but she knew this was a weak excuse.

“You’re the youngest of the Orphans who has any training,” Parnell said firmly. “That gives you responsibilities.”

“But how . . .” Brenda heard the whine in her voice, caught herself, and started over. “But I can’t possibly make amulets in my room. There’s no privacy.”

“Do you need the amulets, then?”

Brenda’s frown returned. “Theoretically, no, but realistically—yeah, I do.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know how to channel my ch’i, because the sequences don’t come to me fast enough. Because Des made it very clear that it’s dangerous to play around with the spells without proper wards.”

“But if you were not playing, Breni, how would that suit you? I could set wards for you, so you could practice. You wouldn’t even need to try the more lively workings. What about getting down the one that lets you see magical manifestations?”

“All Green? I’m pretty good at that one already. Since it doesn’t summon anything, I could practice that without heavy wards.”

“All right. Then why don’t you start with a simple attack, that and an All Green or so. I’ll provide wards.”

“Well, I don’t want to forget everything,” Brenda said slowly. “All right. I’ll do it.”

“Starting to night?”

“Just as soon as I run up to my room and get my notes.”

“I’ll be setting up a ward,” Parnell promised, “over by the tree where you met Oak Gall.”

Brenda started walking toward her dorm. Almost without conscious intention, her pace quickened until she was running.

Her heart felt lighter than it had for weeks, even though her soul was troubledat this latest intimation that, despite the recent quiet, Parnell still dreaded some occurrence and wanted her prepared.

Be prepared,
Brenda thought.
That’s somebody or other’s creed. I guess I ’d better make it mine, before I’m left with nothing but regrets.

“You took what was mine,” hissed the whisper.

Pearl looked around. She was sitting in the reading chair in her bedroom. Her book had fallen into her lap, but she didn’t think she’d been sleeping.

Of course, she’d been bone tired lately. She might have dosed off. Maybe that voice was from the tail end of a dream.

Drowsily, Pearl reached for the book—a charming little memoir one of her friends had sent her, seeking her opinion as to whether it could be adapted successfully into a movie.

Although it had been many, many years since she had acted, Pearl remained active behind the scenes in the world of film. She was frequently told she had a good sense of story and dramatic timing.