“Be careful, dear, watch the area between your chest register and head voice!” Rodmilla reminded her.
“I’d rather be watching the area behind my eyelids, Mother.”
“Shush up with the talking! No talking, I only want to hear the scales. Start again with F. Loose and open throat. And…”
Why must she make such a chore of singing? Brunwella thought. She loved to sing. Whenever she was alone or off hunting with Thora, she could barely stop herself from singing. It was just so uplifting, so freeing. This practice Thora was being subjected to was exactly the opposite. By the time Thora had gotten to scales in the key of A, Brunwella had drifted off to sleep.
As focused as Rodmilla appeared to be on Thora’s singing, her mind and her gizzard were straying toward other things. Rodmilla was determined to send the oldest of her stepdaughters to the great tree. What a perfect way to get that one out of the hollow—in fact, out of the Northern Kingdoms. That would solve half of her problems! Who would have thought that her plans would come together so quickly? Just when she was ready to go to extremes to get rid of Thora, the current Madame Plonk goes and drops dead. She must be careful now; this was big.
The next evening, before the sun had a chance to set, Thora and Brunwella woke up to their stepmother dusting under their nests.
“Time to wake up, dears!” Rodmilla said cheerfully. She nearly dumped Brunwella out of her nest. “Our honored guests arrive tomorrow. This awful little hole must be made perfect for Marquis Henryk VI and his lovely parents.”
“Mother, I don’t know why you’re so concerned about impressing them,” Brunwella complained in between yawns. “I’ve heard they’re boring fuddy-duddies, not to mention complete Snow snobs.” “Snow snobs” was the nickname given to Snowy Owls who only socialized with other Snowies. Of course, in the firths, where there were few owls of other species, it was not hard to be a Snow snob. Brunwella and Thora, however, made friends easily with owls of all species.
“They’re royalty, my dear. Their bloodline goes back to the H’rathian court. They have very close ties to those in power. And since the defeat of the Kielian League”—she shot her stepdaughters a hard look—“they’ve become very important. While this family is one of commoners, descended from gadfeathers, for Glaux’s sake. It’s an honor that the marquis and his family would even deign see us. We have to work hard to impress them. How else do you think we’re to get young Henryk to propose to you, hmm?”
“PROPOSE?!” Brunwella and Thora asked at once.
“Of course, dears! Oh, Brunwella, if we play this right, your chicks will have royal blood running through their veins.” Rodmilla was giddy, so giddy that she didn’t even notice that her younger stepdaughter was on the verge of going yeep. “Now, girls, lend a talon, this lemming feast won’t serve itself, you know.”
Brunwella was aghast. She couldn’t take a mate now, much less one like Henryk. If she did, her chances of becoming the next singer would be ruined. Tradition at the great tree demanded the singer be unmated at initiation. And Thora, the singer at the great tree? Unlikely, indeed. Thora would rather forge iron into Glaux knows what! Just what is going on here? Why is Mother so determined to get us out of the hollow?
The next night, their guests arrived. Henryk’s parents, a plump pair of old owls whose spots had all but faded to a dull shade of gray, arrived first. Young Henryk flew into the hollow after them. He was small for a male Snowy, and Brunwella towered over him.
“Welcome! Welcome to our humble home!” Rodmilla trilled, bowing deeply with outspread wings. “I trust your flight wasn’t too dreadful.” She stuck out her talon and prodded Thora, urging her and Brunwella to bow as well.
“It was as dreadful as dreadful can be,” grumbled Marquis Henryk V, father of young Henryk.
“Yes,” the portly marquise said, “my poor mate was just tossed around by these awful winds. It’s a good thing he’s such a strong flier, even at his age.”
“Oh, my dear Marquise Gertrude,” Rodmilla frothed, “I do apologize for the weather here, it is dreadful. So good of all of you to make the trip.” Rodmilla bowed again, so deep this time, she almost tumbled forward, head over tail.
Thora was disgusted at her mother’s desperate attempts to charm the primaries off their guests. She clearly wanted Henryk to fall in love with Brunwella. That wouldn’t be too hard, Thora figured. Brunwella’s beauty and grace were well known in the firths. Henryk was not exactly a catch; he was neither attractive nor a genius. He would be doing very well for himself with Brunwella as his mate, despite her family’s connection to the defeated Kielian League. But would Brunwella ever agree to such a thing?
“Well, the weather need no longer concern us,” the old marquis piped up again. “Just point me in the direction of some strong bingle juice and I’ll recover soon enough.” He headed straight for the nut cups that had been set out, needing no direction from Rodmilla.
“And you must be Marquis Henryk VI. I’m honored, truly honored.” She bowed once again to the younger marquis.
“Yes, a pleasure to meet you,” Henryk said to Rodmilla, all the while not taking his eyes off Brunwella. “I assume these are your stepdaughters then?”
“Oh, yes, where are my manners?! Allow me to introduce you. This is Brunwella, the pride of the Firth of Canis, the one I wrote to you about. And this is…this is…”
“Thora, Mother. My name is Thora.”
Rodmilla let out an embarrassed churr and gave her oldest a hard stare. “Yes, my other stepdaughter, Thora.” Brunwella was sure she saw the young Henryk wince as he laid eyes upon Thora. It made her dislike him immediately.
“Brunwella,” Rodmilla said, quickly diverting her guests’ attention, “why don’t you show Marquis Henryk to the refreshments.”
Thora watched her stepmother’s awkward social maneuvering. Whenever Rodmilla was nervous she had a habit of tucking her left leg behind her right to hide a missing talon lost in some accident long ago. She was doing it now. In fact she spent much of the evening with her left leg behind her right.
The lemming feast went off flawlessly, exactly as Rodmilla had planned it. Thora and Brunwella had hunted enough lemmings to feed a battalion the previous night—no easy feat these days. They counted: The young marquis ate five. Marquise Gertrude ate four. The elder marquis, however, only had an appetite for bingle juice, it seemed.
Young Henryk chatted with Brunwella all night. First, it was about his friends, or “school chums,” as he called them. Then it was about his elite education: “Graduated from Featherston’s Academy. Did you know you have to have connections just to be accepted?” And finally, he went on and on about his royal lineage, and how proud he was of the history of his family: “We can trace our roots back to the H’rathian court, you know. Very few Snowies can say that.”
Brunwella was so bored she had to keep pinching her own leg with her talon to keep from nodding off. She and Thora exchanged exasperated looks, but even that got old as the night went on. Rodmilla, on the other hand, acted as if every word out of young Henryk’s beak was fascinating. If Brunwella had to hear her stepmother gasp “You don’t say!” one more time, she was going to yarp her lemming before it was fully digested. Thora was thrilled that she was largely ignored all night long.
When Rodmilla asked, or rather told, Brunwella to sing a song for their guests, she felt positively ill. She obliged, of course, and sang a traditional hymn called “Blessed Snow.” She considered, just for a second, belting out an old gadfeather tune, just to see what would happen. But she knew Rodmilla would be furious and she didn’t see the point of upsetting her. Besides, Thora seemed to think something more sinister was in the works, though what could be more sinister than selling your stepdaughter off to petit nobility for some paltry increase in your own social standing, Brunwella couldn’t imagine.
As the blackest part of the night approached, the feast finally began to wind down. The elder Marquis Henryk, who was now barely coherent, raised
his umpteenth nut cup of bingle juice and said, “Allow me to propose a toast! To our gracious hostesses: Rodmilla, whose bingle juice is delicious and whose stepdaughter is…I mean, whose stepdaughters are as lovely as she promised they would be.”
“Oh, how charming. Thank you, I’m honored, truly,” Rodmilla replied. “The bingle juice I can’t take credit for, but I will say that I am quite proud of my stepdaughters. I knew I had something special the day I met little Brunwella. She was the most beautiful little white chick you have ever seen.”
Thora had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. It was hard for her to believe that this foolish, fawning, portly Snowy, who was her stepmum, was capable of the deeds the rumor claimed. She would have to watch her—carefully.
Just then, young Henryk lifted his nut cup a little higher. “Well, then, allow me to propose a toast.” He winked at Brunwella, none too subtly. “To more little white chicks!”
Thora burst out churring so hard that she almost fell off her perch. Thankfully, the guests took her to be a tad tipsy, and let out uncomfortable little churrs of their own. Rodmilla was, of course, infuriated, but she would never let that show in front of these guests.
Brunwella was hyperventilating. “I can’t do it, Thora, I just can’t! I’d rather die!”
Thora looked down and read the letter that had just dropped from her sister’s talons. He must have had a scribe do this, was her first thought. She was surprised the young marquis could construct a coherent sentence, despite his education.
To my dearest Brunwella,
I have not stopped thinking about you since you sang “Blessed Snow” all those nights ago. I trust that you have not stopped thinking about me, either. After careful consideration, I have decided that you would make a suitable mate for me. Your beauty has truly bewitched me. While it is against tradition for a Snowy Owl of my social status to court a plebeian such as yourself, I believe that can be overlooked in your special case. I propose that we begin our courtship flight as soon as possible.
Yours,
Marquis Henryk, the Sixth of His Name
“I can’t possibly take this Snow snob as a mate. He makes me physically ill! I can’t become a part of his awful family. And the voice tryouts at the great tree! What about them?”
Thora had never seen her sister like this. She had wilfed to nearly the size of a chick. But she had to admit she was relieved by Brunwella’s reaction to the young marquis’ proposal.
Brunwella continued. “Mother had the nerve to keep this letter from me! Can you believe it?”
Thora took a deep breath. “She has been acting suspiciously, hasn’t she?” Then she added, “This whole thing with me and the voice tryouts is strange, too. I’m not sure where it’s all going, but I know I don’t like it. And frankly, I fear unwanted proposals are the least of it.”
Thora’s thoughts were growing darker, while her sister’s thoughts ran on to her dreams of singing at the great tree.
“Well, we have to do something about it!” Brunwella said. “The voice tryouts are tomorrow and I plan to be there, whether she likes it or not. And this business?” Brunwella waved Henryk’s letter. “No way is this going to happen!”
“You’re right, Brunie. You should be the one to go to the tryouts. I’ll simply refuse to sing, that’s all. What can she do, force me? And let’s see what Da has to say about this proposal. He would never let you marry an Ice Talon! I have a plan.” Thora got serious. “I say we go find Da tomorrow, after the voice trials; he’ll put an end to all this nonsense.”
“How will we do that? We have no idea where he is,” Brunwella argued.
“Actually, I do,” Thora admitted sheepishly. “Oh, Brunie, I didn’t want to keep it from you, but these things are always top secret…and I didn’t want to worry you.” Thora looked around to make sure they were completely alone. “Sigfried has just joined the Resistance. I’ve been meeting him in secret. The Resistance hideout is on Dark Fowl Island. He told me that Da has been visiting it almost every day. We are sure to find him there.”
Brunwella was taken aback. She knew he sympathized with the Resistance, but nothing as serious as this. Da, living a secret life, and everybody knew but me!
“Does Rodmilla suspect?” she asked.
“No, I don’t think so,” Thora answered. Then a grim thought clouded Thora’s mind. “For glaumora’s sake,” she whispered, “let’s hope not.”
“All right,” Brunwella said after she let it all sink in. “After the tryouts then, we’ll go find Da.”
The night of the voice tryouts would be the perfect time for their expedition. Rodmilla would be forbidden to accompany Thora into the cave where the tryouts were to take place—the singer must stand alone, no coach is allowed to be present. Brunwella would tell her stepmother that she would accompany Thora most of the way there, to help her with a little last-minute rehearsal. Then, unbeknownst to Rodmilla, Brunwella would be the one to sing at the trial. Afterward, she and Thora would fly due south together for Dark Fowl. They would be long gone before Rodmilla figured out anything was amiss.
Rodmilla had given Thora and her sister exact instructions about their behavior at the voice trials, but on the night of the tryouts, Rodmilla was nowhere to be found. Just as well, thought Brunwella. They flew without a word to the appointed place. Thora bid her sister good luck on a ledge outside the cave where the Plonk family selection committee had gathered for the occasion. She listened closely as Brunwella began singing an old gadfeather ballad that had been sung by Snowies in the Northern Kingdoms for generations. Her voice rang out with clarity and aching tenderness.
Brunwella could not have sung more beautifully that night. Tears welled in Thora’s eyes as Brunwella finished it. As the sisters took off for Dark Fowl Island, Thora had no doubt that Brunwella would become the next Madame Plonk. She would find out later that the selection committee agreed.
The winds were rough and made for slow flying. As dawn threatened, Thora and Brunwella were dismayed to realize that they had only gotten as far as the Bay of Fangs, just off the H’rathghar glacier. Lighting down wasn’t a part of their plan, but they realized they would be forced to. There was no way they could reach Dark Fowl before first light at this rate. As they circled the bay, looking for a ledge or a cave to spend the day in, they spotted an owl, a Whiskered Screech whose labored wing strokes could only mean that he was injured. The Whiskered Screech had spotted them, too, and cautiously flew a little closer to investigate.
“Who goes there?” he called out.
That raspy voice sounded awfully familiar to Thora. She banked a little a closer to get a better look. “Torsten?” she finally asked.
“Thora?” The owl recognized Thora right away.
“He’s a friend of Sig’s from the Resistance!” Thora told her sister. The three owls landed on a ledge in an ice wall. Brunwella was nervous. She’d never knowingly associated with anyone actually in the Resistance.
“Am I glad to see a friendly face!” Torsten was breathing heavily. His port wing had a small gash where it joined his shoulder. He seemed relieved to stop flying for the moment. “I have bad news, I’m afraid.” His face turned grave as he steadied himself on the ledge.
“What happened?” Thora asked.
Torsten looked at Brunwella suspiciously. Thora suddenly realized that her sister was a stranger to this owl, and quickly made an introduction. “It’s okay, this is my sister, Brunwella. You can trust her.”
Torsten began his tale. “A small group of us raided the Ice Talons’ headquarters at nightfall. We were desperate for supplies, and thought we could get in and out of their storage hollow without much trouble. Well, we were wrong. For some reason, they had the place on lockdown and had doubled the guards. We tried to abort the mission when we realized, but it was too late. We took heavy casualties. I’m sorry to tell you this, Thora, but Sig was hurt, he was hurt bad.”
Thora wilfed. Her beak dropped open but no words came out.
&
nbsp; “Is he alive?” Brunwella finally asked the question that she knew Thora was trying to ask. “I mean, is he going to be okay?”
“I don’t know,” Torsten answered feebly. “We brought him back to Dark Fowl Island. There are Kielian snakes tending to him now, but he needs a healer. I was actually on my way to find your father.”
“So were we.”
The three owls had to think fast. It was Thora who came up with the new plan. Brunwella would accompany Torsten back north to find their father, Berrick, famed healer and, apparently, member of the Resistance. Torsten believed that he was back in the firths, finishing up a mission, so that was where they would go first. In the meantime, Thora would fly on to Dark Fowl to check on Sig. Then they would all meet back on Dark Fowl, hopefully with Berrick in tow.
“Right you are,” Torsten said. “Berrick will know what to do. Caches of weapons, areas of Kielian loyalists, slipgizzles; he’s got it all in his head.”
Thora and Brunwella shot each other stunned looks. Their father was no casual sympathizer treating the occasional wounded rebel. He wasn’t just a fighter, either. He was an organizer, a high-ranking commander! Thora’s gizzard soared. Their little expedition suddenly got a lot more interesting.
The sun had already edged over the horizon and painted the snowy landscape shades of orange and yellow, but Thora pushed on and arrived on Dark Fowl Island. She had been to this part of the island several times since Sig first introduced her to the Resistance, and found their hideout easily. What she saw inside the cave was devastating. Several owls were wounded, lying in makeshift nests and being tended to by a few Kielian snakes. Toward the right side of the cave, near the entrance, she found Sigfried.
“Sig?” She approached him. “It’s Thora, I’m here.” She saw the gash on his breast then. It had been covered with wet moss, but it still looked awfully painful.