Breal of Kelleneur built a worthy vessel and sailed across the Ebring Sea in pursuit of the great serpent Wratheren.
—THE EPIC OF BREAL
“LISTEN,” SAID THE FALCONER. MILES STOOD WITH HIM on a platform. Darkness all around, but his teacher’s face shone lamplike in the gloom. In the distance a spinney bird sang, a clear-bright tune that rose and fell, and with the song Miles began to see, as if curtains were parting. He was on a stage in the middle of a great, round amphitheater, with long stone stairways coming out from the center like spokes in a wheel. Thousands of people filled the seats. And on his right the High King of Angalore sat in a favored spot, the king in red velvet robes, his wife in blue.
“Now play,” whispered the Falconer. Miles should have felt a rush of fear, but his heart was light, so light it seemed the stage was floating upward. He raised his flute and blinked. When had his teacher handed him his own silver ervay? It was a high honor indeed to be gifted with an ervay, and such an instrument was passed on only to a worthy musician. A warm pleasure filled him. He turned to thank the Falconer, but the meer had vanished, only a pale light remaining in his place.
Miles’s feet lifted off the stage, the air pierced with golden light as he played the silver flute. Joy spread outward from the song, to king and queen, to the people in the seats. As the melody changed, he saw the joy change colors: daylight blue, sea green, then red rose petals falling through the air. He would never leave this moment. He’d stay here forever… .
A strange voice awakened him. Miles sighed and lifted his groggy head. He blinked his heavy lids. Such a dream! He wanted to lie down and go back inside the song—to see the king smile, watch the queen nod in time to his music. He tried to move his fingers. No, they were paws now, not suited to play the flute at all. Paws. Strong, heavy weapons. He felt a sudden sadness. He should turn back into a boy again. He’d kept himself long enough inside the beast. A sudden sound nearby made him start. He was not alone.
Open wide now, his eyes slowly adjusted to a dim light, and the clearer the picture became, the more his horror grew. No wonder he hadn’t been able to move. His paws were bound up front and back. He was trapped in some rolling cage.
He peered through the bars at the two disheveled beings at the low fire. Sylths in ragged cloaks and patched breeches.
“We’re sure to get well paid,” said the sylth in green.
The other rubbed his chin. “Aye, we will.”
How could he have gotten here? He sniffed at the sharp pains in his side and found three arrow wounds. They’d shot him and put him to sleep with a potion. Tamalla, by the smell of it.
“She’ll restore our wings.”
The brown-cloaked sylth shook his head. “No, never that. Our wings are gone for good, Reyn, but she may let us live in Attenlore again.”
“Ah, well, Perth, I’d do anything to be free of the stink of Uthor Vale.”
Miles began to chew through the cords around his forepaws.
By the fire Reyn lifted his cup. “We owe the beast something for setting us free.”
“He didn’t! He only broke through the queen’s wind wall and made a way for us to escape from Uthor.”
“Us and others, I’m thinking.”
Miles cocked his ears. Wind wall? He hadn’t heard of such a thing before, but it was clear the Sylth Queen had tried to contain the Shriker, and still he’d broken free.
Perth poked the fire with his stick. “I say we don’t owe the Shriker anything. He escaped to please himself!”
“And now we’re pleasing ourselves,” laughed Reyn. He tossed more kindling into the fire.
Perth raised his cup. “Aye. No more skullen snakes hanging from the trees!”
“No more gullmuth beast hunting after us!”
“No more trolls anxious to dig our graves!”
“Hear, hear, I say to all that!”
Front paws free, Miles began gnawing the ropes around his back legs. He was groggy, so even this was hard work. His mouth was numb, and he couldn’t feel the rope on his tongue, but he chewed.
“The loot will do us good. And she’ll give us plenty for this monster. Three hundred years he’s savaged Attenlore, and as for his latest kill …” Reyn’s next words were a whisper. Miles heard the sound but couldn’t make out what he was saying under his breath.
“Ah,” sighed Perth. “You almost feel sorry for a beast who’s coming up against the queen’s justice.”
Miles’s ears pricked. So, he’d been captured for a reward! Why? What had he done? He’d misused the gift she’d given at first, and attacked Mic on the road, but that was long ago now. Since that night he’d shape-shifted for good reason. Shaleedyn wouldn’t blame him for fighting the Shriker to protect his sister. His head felt stuffed with cotton wool. He was dizzy, and his body felt heavy. With some effort he put out his right foreleg and tried to stand, but the tamalla still pulsed through his veins, and his paw slipped awkwardly on the floorboards.
“He deserves whatever Queen Shaleedyn dishes out for killing her unicorn,” said Reyn.
Miles started. He tried to call out, “I didn’t kill her!” but his words came out as a growl.
“Look sharp!” Perth leaped to a stand. “The beast’s awake!” There was a loud cracking noise as Reyn approached the cage with a whip. “Keep down, monster!”
Miles felt the stinging whip on his right flank. Leaping up with sudden fury, he turned about. The dizziness hit him square on. His head pounded as if he’d crashed into a stone wall.