After the Brawl, the night’s excitement ended abruptly for Hyden. Gerard followed him back to the clan’s bonfire, which was relatively deserted at this late hour. A lot of other clansmen had attended the Brawl, but they were either still out among the crowds, or had already retired for the night.
Hyden presented Gerard with the pair of expensive horsehide boots he bought for him earlier in the day. Gerard thanked him, and gave him a long hug of appreciation, and then begged off, saying that he needed to go collect his winnings. Hyden figured that he just didn’t want to face their father, or any of the Elders, with his decision to leave yet.
Hyden didn’t mind Gerard’s departure. He was tired and his eyes ached. He still had to compete against that blasted elf in the morning, and he couldn’t get to bed until he cared for the hungry hawkling chick that he had neglected all evening.
He took the nest bucket from his tent and carried it over to the dying bonfire. The chick ate greedily, and Hyden saw that its eyes had finally cleared.
The memory of the old crone’s prophecy, and of his eyes zooming in on the tiny dart that the little witch-devil had shot into Lord Gregory’s shoulder came to him. His stomach knotted and churned, and he sat down hard in a cross-legged hunch.
He finished feeding the bird, and scooped it out of the bucket gently. He put it in his lap and began stroking its new feathers with his finger.
The feathers were brown, with traces of red and silver running through them. In the dim fire glow, they seemed to hold an illumination of their own. The bird’s beak and head had taken shape as well, but all in all, the little hawkling was still no bigger than Hyden’s hand.
“Are you really a gift from the gods?” Hyden wondered aloud.
As if in response, the young bird fluttered its wings and managed to fly a few feet. It didn’t land well. It toppled sideways on a half open wing and made a little shriek of pain, or maybe it was frustration, after righting itself. It turned around then, and leapt from the trampled ground. With a quick double flap of its wings, it flew back to Hyden, and landed almost gracefully on his knee. Hyden had to chuckle, for the bird seemed to be puffing out its chest, proud of the accomplishment.
Hyden stroked the back of its head with one finger, and put the index finger of his other hand out before it. Somehow, the bird understood his intent and stepped onto the offered perch. Hyden marveled at how strong its tiny claws gripped him.
“I suppose the gods didn’t name you yet, did they?” Hyden whispered. “Your tail feathers haven’t lengthened enough for me to tell if you’re male or female. We need a name that will suit you either way.”
The hawkling cooed at him, then dug its claws into his finger deeply. Instinctively, Hyden yanked his hand away, and shook it. The bird flapped and fluttered back to the ground awkwardly.
“Your talons are sharp!” Hyden growled, and then sucked a droplet of blood from his finger. The hawkling bobbed its head up and down, and then cooed again. Hyden froze.
“Talon?” he asked the little bird, as if it could understand him. To his surprise, the hawkling bobbed its head again, and leapt back onto his knee. Again, Hyden chuckled in disbelief.
“Talon it is then. We’ll call you Talon.”
While Hyden slept, he dreamed the dream of flight again. Distant mountains loomed ahead and field mice scattered in the pastures below him. Around his wing tips, cottony clouds floated on warm, uplifting air. It was a night of glorious dives, wild swooping attacks, and long, slow spiraling climbs. He slept as well as he ever had, and when he was finally startled awake, he could still feel the wind flowing over his feathers.
Several angry foreign accents, and his father’s voice barking out harshly from somewhere nearby jerked him from his dreams. He sat up and looked around, slowly forcing the confusion of waking from his mind. He’d fallen asleep outside by the fire pit. Already, the ways were crowded with people. He remembered that today was Summer’s Day, the day of his competition. A wave of nervous excitement washed over him. Talon was perched on the top edge of his nest bucket, with part of a grasshopper hanging from his beak. He had eaten most of it, and didn’t seem to know that he had missed the morsel. Hyden laughed, and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. From behind him, a small voice spoke.
“Hey Hyden.”
It was Little Condlin. The boy had become distant and reclusive since his two brothers had fallen at the harvest. Hyden had seen him hovering around the women mostly since they’d been at the festival. No one could blame him for wanting to be close to his mother. It was probably a good thing for her and him both.
“How are you?” Hyden asked, as the boy squatted down in front of Talon to look at the bird, eye to eye.
“I’m alright, I guess,” Little Con replied, before going into a nonstop series of questions.
“Does he have a name yet? Can I be your squire, or page, or whatever they call them, since Gerard has left us? What do you think it is? Is it a boy or a girl hawkling?”