The Luck of Brin's Five (18 page)

“Soon . . .” I panted, “approaching the Fifth Mark!”

“None down?” panted Ablo. “Good, good, winds' favor indeed! Where is the
Tomarvan?
”

“Battling with
Dah'gan
and
Tildee
, last I saw.”

The voice of a marshal, with a speaking gourd, reported calmly from the pavilion. “Now at the Fifth Mark. All challengers approaching . . .”

There was a buzz of relief from the escorts.

“
Dah'gan, Tildee, Tomarvan . . .
followed high by
Peer-lo-vagoba
and
Hadeel
.”

“But how can they tell? How can they see so far? They must have a seeing glass!”

“They have something better, child, and could have told us the entire contest if they dared. There is a voice-wire stretched round the whole of the Great Circle, with answering places at every mark,” whispered Ablo.

“Fire-metal-magic,” said Brin. “And how do you know so much, Dorn Brinroyan?”

I looked at the brown turf. “I was on the tower with Diver's glass.”

Ablo grumbled at that, about mischief and taking risks, so I handed him the seeing glass. He puzzled over it a little, and I helped him. Then, as he exclaimed in wonder at the powers of the glass, the cry went up.

They flew in at some height on the long southern curve of the field,
Dah'gan, Tomarvan, Tildee
, in line, then with
Tomarvan
shifting up and back a little. The gliders were nowhere to be seen. Blacklock's escort raised a clamor, and the Mattroyan omor began to chant, waving their green branches. I shouted, but then fell silent, like the anxious escorts of
Hadeel
and
Peer-lo-vagoba
, but for a different reason. I knew what would happen. There was a landing target set down, a circular mat of white woven straw in the center of the field; the trick was to turn and land, facing the river. I knew, I knew that Blacklock must peel off his heavy machine to the east leaving a strip of sky; and surely, as we watched, the
Tomarvan
turned half upside down, stood on its wingtip in midair. I saw Brin raise both hands and shout, summoning the winds, as Diver came through. The
Tomarvan
slotted between
Dah'gan
and
Tildee
, like the shuttle on a loom, then turned as the crowd began to roar, cut under
Dah'gan's
runners with a hand's breadth to spare, turned again, and came down gently as a leaf, on the white mat in center field. Ablo seized my hand—he was weeping—and we ran, with Brin, to hold the wings. And that was how the Bird Clan was won.

I have thought of this moment and dreamed of it all my life since that time. I remember how the
Dah'gan
lit down beside us, how Blacklock ran to embrace Diver and call him friend and sibling. How the
Tildee
came in, red-hot in patches, and the pale young Mattroyan was lifted out by Diver and Blacklock to share the moment. Then the platform was wheeled up, the same one that had brought
Tomarvan
into the enclosure, but decorated this time with flowers of spring and blue green banners and tall silk lilies, the sign of victory. The
Tomarvan
was lifted aboard, and Diver, our Luck, unable to keep the smile off his face, stood beside his machine while silkbeam copies were made by the marshals. Then we climbed up beside him to share his triumph ride, and Blacklock himself stood to the flower-twined ropes with the cheering, laughing band of marshals and vassals. We were drawn towards the barrier and the cry went up, again and again, “Garl Brinroyan,”
“Tomarvan
,” “Brin's Five and Cullin.” Here my dream should end; here I should remember no further. I have awakened in the darkness or in Esder light, on land and on the ocean sea, crying out for the dream to stop, stop and show me no more.

We had reached the barrier when the cheering began to fade; I saw Blacklock check and look at the sky. The cheering dried up, ebbed away completely. Diver made an exclamation in his own tongue.
Hadeel
and
Peer-lo-vagoba
had appeared together high above the field, moving, both of them, with a strange shuddering motion. Then I saw that they were locked together. The slender wingtip of Jebbal had pierced the black glider behind the pilot's chair and would not come free. They swung down together, caught in one current that lived over the field, then were carried up in another; at the greatest height
Hadeel
wrenched free and came soaring down safely, far to the east, almost on the First Mark.
Peer-lo-vagoba
looped over, still graceful, and began to turn, to turn faster, to spin like an autumn leaf, spinning down, down, faster and faster towards the hard ground. I screamed but no sound came; there was a heavy silence over the whole of the field. The glider was a spinning blur of blue, a twirler; I could not take my eyes from it, but at the last Brin turned my head away and buried my face in her cloak. All I felt was a jarring thump, no more than the closing of a wooden door in a fixed house.

The silence was shattered after a few pulse beats; it was a scene of dreadful confusion. I saw Diver leap down and run, followed by Blacklock; the Launcher was roaring somewhere; the crowd broke the barrier and swarmed onto the field. Brin and Ablo had to stand to the
Tomarvan
on its triumphal platform to protect it. I saw a tall ancient rush past, tearing the clothes from his back and scratching his face in token of mourning: it was Jebbal's chief officer. I had only one thought. I leaped from the platform and ran and fought and burrowed through the weeping, jostling crowd until I came to Jebbal's fine silken tent, where the children were waiting. There was a clear space all around it; the escort were not there, except for two body servants, one an ancient sitting on the ground, tearing the flax flowers of Luntroy from its cloak, the other a young officer rifling through a kitbag. The ancient shrieked at me as I went to the tent flap that the place was accursed. Would I draw down the winds' bane?

“I carry the winds' favor!” I shouted.

I stepped into the darkness of the tent and waited, searching the darkness until my eyes became accustomed to it. They sat there on the cushions, pale as ever: Valdin and Thanar. They were richly dressed in honor of the day; the bead game lay between them. I saw myself in their silvered mirror, wild-eyed, dirty, full of the fear and excitement that made up the Bird Clan. I felt sure they had not watched the race, that no one had told them how it ended, and at the same time I was sure they understood what had happened. For four years, until this time, they had waited in the dark tent; and they knew the worst, although no one had brought them word. I stumbled forward and sat by them; Valdin moved a bead on the board, and Thanar clapped her hands silently and took four of his beads. Valdin sighed and handed me a beaker of honey water. “She is a baby,” he said, “she likes to win.” I sipped and choked.

“Has anyone . . .?” I gasped.

“Not yet,” whispered Thanar, “you are the first, Dorn. You are our officer.” She replaced the beads carefully, every one in its correct socket, then began to move about the tent, collecting their belongings.

“You must make a report,” said Valdin. I stared at him, dry-mouthed.

“Is the Bird Clan won?” he prompted.

“Yes, by Garl Brinroyan.”

“And Jebbal?. . .”

“The winds have taken her.” I hated this empty formula but I was glad of it; I could not tell them any more.

Thanar brought Valdin his cloak and he put it on, as she had done with her own; scarlet lining turned out, in token of mourning. I talked with them about sailing. We sat there for what seemed a long time, and the eddies of sound from the field became fainter, as order was restored.

“What will you do?” I asked.

“Go to Salthaven,” said Thanar. “Some clan folk will see to it.”

There was a faint hail from outside the tent, and I went to the doorway. I saw that the escort had all returned, shame-faced and weeping; they sat in a circle, giving the tent a wide berth. In the midst of them stood the hawk-faced old scribe with the Wentroy pectoral, first officer for the pilot of
Utofarl
.

“Who is that? Who has braved the winds' bane in that tent?” he demanded.

“Dorn Brinroyan!”

He took a few steps towards the tent and said, “Aren't you afraid, child?”

“No, I am not,” I said truthfully, “for I carry the winds' favor. We have a Great Luck, victor of this Bird Clan, and besides, I have a special duty to their highnesses Valdin and Thanar.”

“Well, you have taken the edge off this accursed place.” He stepped into the tent and bowed sorrowfully to the children, who stood together, holding their velvet satchels. “Highnesses, my liege of Wentroy has your barge ready.”

I cannot remember what we said in farewell, but the ancient took them away, quickly, by the back flap of the tent and bade me stay longer. I looked out and saw the two scarlet cloaks heading a slow and melancholy procession towards the river. Jebbal's escort trooped silently among the tents and stalls to the Bird Clan stockade and crept out through a broken place onto the bank of the Troon, where the barge was waiting.

I drew back into the empty tent and sat on the ground. I was alone and in an accursed place, but I did not want to be with anyone at that moment. Even the winds' favor weighed heavily upon me; I could not think of our good fortune. I could not wish myself back on Hingstull; for the Dorn who had run about on the mountain was gone forever. I would meet that child, become that child again, only in dreams.

“So you have seen the Bird Clan,” said a dry whisper inside my head.

“I have seen it.”

“Then you know that the winds can dash every hope to the ground.”

A beam of sunlight, the rich light of the two suns, blazing outside for the New Year, struck the silver mirror left on the tent wall. My eyes were dazzled; a figure dark and bright grew in shadow at my side. I caught a movement of the green-hemmed robe.

“Do you hate the Bird Clan then?” I asked aloud.

“It is a testing ground, no more,” said the Maker of Engines.

“Our Luck flew well . . .” I said defensively.

“Too well!” the voice was harsh. “Now he is known, marked down for the strange creature that he is. He must come to me at once or my protection will have no power.”

“Someone is coming!” I said.

“Those I have summoned.”

There was a muffled shout of “Winds' Favor!” outside the tent, and Blacklock strode in followed by Diver.

Blacklock checked in his stride at once for he saw who was there, a familiar presence to him. His handsome face wore a rueful expression. “At your call,” he said.

“Another victory for the Bird Clan!” said the Maker of Engines sadly.

Diver came on into the tent completely unaware of any other presence. “Are the children taken care of?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, “but Diver . . . hear me . . .”

“Dorn, poor fellow . . . my dear sib . . . come up off the ground!”

“Diver . . . someone else is here,” I said.

“What?”

“Garl Brinroyan,” said Blacklock. “Meet this other, whom I call ‘teacher,' ‘guide,' even ‘my liege.'”

Diver looked carefully round the tent and said in wonder, “Some other person . . . here in this tent?”

Blacklock waved his hands in exasperation. “There! I've never seen a better demonstration of thought-blindness! By the fire, I believe what Antho, our wise old bird, says of you, Garl Brinroyan. You are not of this world!”

The Maker of Engines said in that dry inward voice, “Thought-blind indeed! Yet, I wonder. Dorn, ask your Luck to stand still and take off those flying goggles.”

I was about to pass on this message when to my surprise Diver did as he had been asked.

“Why did you do that?” asked Blacklock slyly.

“No reason,” said Diver, “or perhaps . . . I felt . . .”

The Maker of Engines uttered a sighing laugh; that radiance I had felt on the rock grew very strong. I saw the Great Diviner in and out of my head, everywhere around me, as if reflected in a hundred mirrors, so clearly that my head ached. Tall, narrow-faced, with a great fall of dark brown hair held across the high brow by a band of green brilliants. The eyes were black and piercing; I shut my own eyes and seemed to fall into a deep pool of black light where there was only this dazzling figure.

“Enough, Nantgeeb! You will have us entranced!” cried Blacklock. I dragged my eyelids open and saw Blacklock reeling back, an arm before his face. Diver suddenly cried out in his own language.

He took a step forward, his face very pale, his blue eyes staring, for he was very much afraid. “There
is
something . . .” he whispered. He mastered his fear and stepped forward again into that light, which we could scarcely bear, peering warily like a hunter entering a cave.

“Commend me to the Maker of Engines, Dorn,” he said.

“Commend me to your Luck, Dorn Brinroyan,” said Nantgeeb.

The light had already faded, and the Maker of Engines was a more comfortable presence. “This Luck—what is his true name?—is certainly very brave. The report I have from the Ulgan of Cullin does justice to him.”

“He flies as well . . . as well as I do,” murmured Blacklock. “And I smell more fire-metal-magic about the
Tomarvan
than any other machine in the Bird Clan.”

“Murno, my firebrand,” said Nantgeeb bitterly, “I have given my time, my riches, even those I might call my kin to this Bird Clan, and I grow weary of its wretched excesses. Remember where you stand . . . if this place is accursed it is because I curse it. Once, long ago, I was an officer in the escort of Jebbal Faldroyan Luntroy.”

“We are all sorrowing,” said Blacklock, “and at least our team came through without accident. Will you speak with Antho and Spinner . . . and take comfort from their safety?”