Danian licked his fearsome teeth. “Agreed,” he said.
CHAPTER 18
A NEW ORDER
Dusk dreamed of a tree with no low branches, taller even than their old sequoia. It stood alone, so that the felids wouldn’t be able to jump across to it. But even as he gazed at it in his dream, he knew it wasn’t good enough.
We need other trees to glide between for hunting, he thought.
You don’t, a dream voice told him. You can fly.
I know, but the other chiropters can’t. Anyway, there wouldn’t be enough food. The bugs like it best when there’s lots of trees.
As he said this, more trees grew up beside the first, equally tall, and without any low branches.
Yes, he thought, delighted, not just at the sight of this perfect little forest, but at the fact he’d conjured it into being himself. He could control something. This vista, he realized, bore a startling resemblance to the one the stars had made for him when he’d tasted the poisonous mushroom.
A hill, and on it, a tree, growing from the earth like a shoot from a seed, becoming a sapling, then thickening into a great strong trunk that branched into the sky.
This is the home you’re looking for, the dream voice told him. Yes, Dusk thought. It’s perfect.
It was still night when Sylph woke him. Dusk felt he’d scarcely been asleep, his mind was so glutted with images and urgent messages he couldn’t quite decipher.
“I think Dad’s really sick,” she said. She looked scared, and her voice trembled.
Panic seized Dusk. It had been two days since they’d fled the tree runners, and his father’s wound had become infected again. He moved his face closer to Dad’s, and felt the heat emanating from his fur. Muttering and flinching, Icaron slept fitfully. Dusk felt small and useless.
“Go wake Auster,” he told Sylph. “He’ll know what to do.”
When Auster arrived he looked closely at Dad and sighed wearily.
“How can we help him?” Dusk asked.
“We can’t fight the infection for him,” Auster said quietly. “That’s something only he can do.”
Dusk ground his teeth. “What about the stuff the tree runners used?”
Auster shook his head. “How do we know it was actually helping him?”
“Yeah,” said Sylph. “Why would they bother making him better if they were just going to feed him to that thing?”
“To make us trust them maybe,” said Dusk. “Or maybe the diatryma didn’t like wounded prey.”
“We’ve never used bark and leaves,” said Auster. “It’s never been our way. I don’t even know the ingredients.”
“I do,” said Dusk impulsively. “I watched.”
“You’re sure?”
“The bark anyway. I’ll go look.”
“It’s still too dark to see properly,” Auster told him.
“I can see in the dark.”
Auster stared at him, then nodded. “Go find some. Sylph and I will stay with Dad. Be careful.”
Dusk flew by echovision alone. He steered clear of branches where other beasts slept. Since leaving the sinister quiet of the tree runners’ forest, they had re-emerged into a world of beasts vying for territory. Finding an unclaimed space simply to spend the night had been difficult enough.
He’d seen the tree from which Adapis had stripped the healing bark—a dark twisting trunk with skinny branches and enormously broad leaves. There was no colour to his echovision, so he searched anxiously for the tree’s outline alone. What if he couldn’t find it? What if it didn’t grow anywhere else? The tree runners were so clever. But how could they be capable of such barbarity? Maybe it was because they were clever, and they’d realized that they could trade others’ lives for their own.
He spotted it. Landing on the trunk, he sank his claws deep and sniffed to make sure. With his teeth he gouged the bark and then tried to peel a strip back. It was difficult to get his jaws close enough, and he cursed his clumsiness, wishing he had the tree runners’ hands, just for a few moments.
There. A thin strip pulled free. It was enough, wasn’t it? Adapis hadn’t used any more than that. Clenching it between his teeth, he pushed off and flew. He’d never known what kind of leaf it was that Adapis crumbled into the bark paste, and only hoped that it wasn’t important. The bark would have to be enough.
When he got back, his father’s eyes were open but seemed unfocused. Auster and Sylph looked on in silence.
“I’ve led poorly,” Dad murmured. His flanks throbbed with his breathing.
Dusk glanced fearfully at Sylph. She said nothing.
“You’ve led well,” said Dusk, biting off pieces of the bark for him and Sylph to chew. He wasn’t even sure if his father heard him, or if he was still locked in feverish dreams. Dusk was afraid of what Dad might say next. What if Dusk didn’t know the right things to say to comfort him? Hurriedly he started working the tough, bitter bark between his jaws, mulching it.
“The island spoiled us,” mumbled Dad. “We’re ill-suited for this new world.”
“You’ve taken care of us all,” Auster assured him. Icaron grunted, and Dusk wondered if he was disagreeing. But when he spoke next, his thoughts had meandered.
“No such thing as paradise,” Dad said, slurring the words. “Dangerous to think so.”
“Rest,” said Dusk. “Please rest. Things will be better in the morning.”
It seemed an absurd thing to say, a childish thing, but it was all he could think of.
“I think it’s ready,” Sylph said. She moved over Dad’s wound and drizzled the slime onto it.
Dad flinched, and seemed to rouse from his half slumber. He twisted round towards his daughter and bared his teeth, as though Sylph were a malevolent tree runner. She shrank back in shock.
“What’s this?” Icaron demanded, craning his neck, tasting the slime and spitting it out. “It’s the healing bark,” Sylph said. “We found some—”
“Poison!” Dad said. “Trying to poison me again.” Dusk caught Sylph’s eye and shook his head. Dad wasn’t making sense. He was delirious.
“It worked before, Dad,” Dusk said.
His father turned and stared at him a long time, before finally seeming to recognize him. “Dusk,” he said.
“The infection’s come back,” Dusk told him. “It might help.”
“No,” he said.
“Dad—”
“No! I won’t have it on me. It’s poison.” He seemed exhausted by his recent movements, and sank back against the branch.
“He’s asleep again,” said Auster. “Do it now.” Dusk and Sylph crept forward and drizzled their paste onto the wound. Dad twitched and muttered, then made a loud exhalation. He began shivering, though it was a warm night, so Dusk lay down beside him, pressed close. Sylph snuggled up on the other side.
“There’s nothing more to do now,” Auster said. “Come get me when he wakes again.” He gave an approving nod. “You two are very capable.”
Dusk watched Auster return to his own family. He’d liked having an older brother nearby, and felt abandoned now. He closed his eyes, squeezing hard, and whispered to his father, “Rest. It’ll be better tomorrow.”
Something rasped against the bark. Dusk opened his eyes in fright. His father was no longer beside him.
The darkness was just beginning to leech out of the sky. Dad was hauling himself away along the branch. Dusk hurriedly woke Sylph and they caught up with him. His father’s eyes were no longer dulled and confused, but fierce with purpose.
“Dad, come back and rest,” he said, though instinctively he knew what his father was doing and where he was going. He felt his throat constrict.
“Go wake Auster,” he whispered to Sylph.
“There’s no need for that,” Dad said calmly.
“Go find more of that bark,” Sylph urged Dusk.
“No,” said Icaron.
He’d crossed over to the next tree now, and kept going, seeking out more distant branc
hes.
“Don’t go,” Dusk said. They were the only words he could clutch from the tumult in his head. His father paused and looked back at his son.
“I must go.”
Dusk knew it was the way of all creatures; some instinct that took them away from the living when they knew death was imminent. His father was leaving to die alone, and fear and anguish reverberated through Dusk’s body. He looked numbly across at Sylph.
Dad limped along, and Dusk and Sylph followed mutely, not knowing what else to do. They were shadows, the three of them, moving through a kind of limbo that was neither night nor day. The birds had not yet sounded the first note of the dawn chorus. When his father paused to rest, Dusk and Sylph paused with him, letting him set the pace of this dreadful journey. Finally he seemed satisfied with where he was, and settled himself into a deep furrow in the branch. It reminded Dusk a little of their old nest in the sequoia.
His father shut his eyes tight, as if concentrating. His tattered breathing seemed loud in the still of the forest.
“There’s something I must tell you,” he said, looking straight at Dusk.
Dusk waited, not knowing what he was about to hear, whether it would be lucid or incoherent. But his father’s voice was calm, and his eyes clear.
“The saurian nest you discovered on the island, do you remember?”
Dusk nodded. It seemed so long ago, and not at all important now.
“Nova didn’t destroy the eggs,” his father said. “I did.”
“What’s he talking about?” Dusk heard Sylph whisper beside him. But he didn’t turn to look at her. He just stared at his father, unable to speak.
“All those years ago, when we abandoned the Pact and the other chiropters drove us out, my dearest wish was to find a safe place for all of us. The island seemed ideal. When we first arrived we explored and saw no sign of saurians. We found the sequoia—and what a tree it was, a perfect home for a new colony. But later that same year, when I was off alone, patrolling the island, I spotted two saurians. They must’ve crossed from the mainland, maybe for the same reasons we did. Maybe they were banished; maybe they were just trying to find a good nesting place. The saurians were old; I could see they had the rotting disease on their flesh. They wouldn’t live long. But in their nest were four eggs.” Dad paused, taking long, slow inhalations. Dusk felt breathless.
“I knew their kind,” his father continued. “They weren’t flyers. Winged saurians would have posed little threat to us. These were land hunters, meat-eaters; and they could climb trees. Barat, Sol, your mother, and I—we all had newborns, just learning how to glide and hunt and take care of themselves. It changed how I felt about things. When I saw those saurian eggs, I didn’t want them to hatch. I didn’t want my own children to be their prey. I did the thing I’d sworn never to do again. I destroyed the eggs.”
“But … you lied to me,” Dusk said. For some reason it was all that his mind could grasp right now, and he felt terribly hurt. “When I told you, you seemed so shocked, and you said you’d find out who did it. But you knew all along.”
“I’m sorry, Dusk.”
Dusk stared at the bark. All his life there was no one he’d trusted more than his father. “Did Mom know?”
“I told no one. But some birds saw me do it. I could hear them shrieking overhead. I hoped they’d forget with time, but obviously they passed the story down to their hatchlings.”
Dusk lifted his eyes. Dad was watching him. “All the things you said, though, about how wrong it was—”
“He did it to keep us safe,” Sylph said sharply. “Can’t you understand that, Dusk? He wanted to keep all of us safe!” Dusk flinched at his sister’s exasperation.
“No, Dusk is right,” Dad said quietly. “You’re not to rebuke him, Sylph.”
Sylph sagged visibly, and Dusk saw some of the old resentment flare in her eyes.
“What I did was a terrible betrayal of my beliefs,” Dad said remorsefully. “But I did it nonetheless. And it makes me a hypocrite. What makes it worse is that I don’t even regret doing it, even though I knew it was wrong.” He nodded sadly at Dusk. “When you have your own children, maybe you’ll understand, and forgive me.”
His eyes were beseeching, and Dusk wanted to help him but wasn’t sure how, he was so overwhelmed by the whirl of thoughts in his head. His throat would scarcely let his words escape.
“Dad, it’s okay,” he breathed. “You took good care of us.” Icaron’s flanks rose and fell quickly, and he nodded. His breath had an unearthly odour that made Dusk instinctively want to draw away.
“I don’t want you to die,” wailed Sylph. Dusk watched in amazement as his sister pushed her head against Dad’s, trembling helplessly. “We won’t have anyone!”
“You have each other,” said Icaron with surprising sternness. “You,” he said, looking at Sylph, “are spirited and strong.” Dusk thought he heard his father chuckle. “You may drive others to their deaths, but you will live. And you,” he said to Dusk, “must help the colony find a new home. Fly high. See far.”
“I will,” said Dusk.
When they all made their final goodbyes, the words seemed blunt and small and utterly inadequate. Dad said nothing more to them after that. Still they would not leave, and only when he bared his teeth and snapped weakly at them did they scuttle back a few steps. But Dusk would retreat no farther.
Icaron turned his back on them. He looked like a newborn nestled in the bark.
His body shuddered occasionally, and Dusk heard his father mumbling to himself, and realized he was reciting the names of all his children, from first to last. The whistle of his breath became fainter. Dusk wanted to draw closer, to lie beside him and give him some company to the end, but something prevented him. His father’s death was hovering all around him, and Dusk feared if he moved too close he’d be enveloped in its wings and carried away. He watched and waited. When he thought the night would never end, he heard the first clear notes of the birds’ dawn chorus. “Is he dead?” Sylph asked.
“I don’t know.” Hesitantly he moved forward to Dad’s right flank and touched his sail to his fur. It was cool. “Dad,” he whispered to his ear.
There was no reply, no movement. His father’s eyes were half open, but sightless. “He’s dead,” Dusk said.
Sylph hunched down against the branch, as if bracing against a strong wind. “We’re orphans,” she said.
For a long time they said nothing. Dusk felt numb and empty. He did not fear diatrymas or felids any more: the worst thing in his life had already happened, and nothing else seemed frightening.
Insects were already beginning to settle on Icaron’s body, and Sylph scrambled close and angrily shooed them away with her sails. It was futile. The flies came in greater numbers, settling around his nostrils, on the surface of his dull, misted eyes. Dusk did not want to see his father like this. “Come on, Sylph, we should go.”
She kept swatting at the flies in a fury.
“Sylph!” he said sharply, tugging at her with one of his claws.
“It was only you he cherished,” she shouted. “His eyes were always on you. I could never make him proud. But you with your stupid deformed sails—that was more impressive to him!”
Dusk sighed. He could no more stop her rage than he could a squall.
“Why should I care?” she said darkly. “He betrayed all of us.”
“How can you say that?” Dusk demanded.
“He broke his own rules, he killed the eggs. Don’t you see what that means? He was wrong all along. When it came right down to it, he killed the eggs—because he knew it was the right thing to do! And he couldn’t even admit it!”
“He was ashamed, Sylph.”
“No, he was too proud. He wanted everyone to think he was the perfect, noble leader. He could never admit he was wrong. He’d rather keep secrets and lie to everyone. He’d rather turn down a new home with Gyrokus, and make his whole colony suffer.”
“He made a mi
stake, one mistake twenty years ago! It doesn’t mean his beliefs were wrong.”
Sylph grunted. “I wonder what Nova would think.”
“You can’t tell her. Sylph, please.”
“You’re just as bad as him. Keeping secrets. What’s it matter now?” She looked miserably at her father’s body.
“Dad was a good leader. He tried his best. If you tell Nova, she’ll twist it all round and they might …”
“Think badly of him?”
“Yes. And they’d be wrong.”
“Fine,” she muttered, “I won’t tell. But you have to promise you won’t keep any more secrets from me.”
“I promise. We need to watch out for each other. Let’s make a pact. We’ll protect each other always. All right?”
“All right,” she said after a few moments. “But I wish I could fly too.”
“Me too,” Dusk said. “I really do.”
They did not want to return to the colony just yet, and as the dawn chorus built, they began to groom each other. They didn’t speak, but in their heads echoed memories of happier days.
“Where’s your father?” Nova asked when they finally returned to the tree.
“He died just before dawn,” Dusk told her. He’d expected grim delight to show in her eyes, but was surprised to see genuine shock. Barat and Sol were mute. Nearby chiropters overheard the news and sent it wafting through the branches.
“This is dire news for all of us,” Sol said.
“We will go on,” said Nova. “When one leader dies, another rises.”
“It must be Icaron’s eldest, then,” said Barat.
More and more chiropters gathered around, filling the branches. Auster struggled through the crowds.
“Is it true?” he asked, looking bewildered. “Is he dead?”
“The leadership must pass to you, Auster,” said Sol.
“The role of leader,” Nova remarked, “is one that Auster may not wish to take on in such extraordinary times.”