The Griffin's Feather (Dragon Rider 2)

Lola took the binoculars back and looked down through them again. ‘Not just one. I can see three more. Monkey skeletons, if you ask me. And they didn’t die of old age.’

She pulled the radio set out of her belt.

‘Barnabas?’ She pressed Receive, but only the voices of birds and rushing water came over the transmitter.

‘Barnabas!’ Lola tried another half a dozen times.

Then she turned abruptly and stalked back to her plane.

‘Why do you think they’re not answering?’ called Twigleg, hurrying after her. ‘Lola!’

The rat turned around. ‘It’s that troll interfering with reception! I did warn Barnabas, but he insisted on taking him on this mission. Let’s hope the blockhead can make himself useful in some other way. I suggest we fly back to the beach and follow their trail from there. Who knows, maybe they’ll be back already.’

The doubt in Lola’s voice worried Twigleg badly. And there was another thing he didn’t like. Okay, so Hothbrodd interfered with radio reception, but Barnabas and Ben hadn’t even tried calling them. Usually at least their distorted voices could be heard.

Lola’s route back to the beach took them over the crowns of the trees. Seen from above, the jungle of Pulau Bulu was a carpet of green – emerald, olive and dark green – peppered with thousands of flowers. But Twigleg hardly even glanced at the glorious sight. The wrecked nests and his master’s radio silence were far too alarming.

It took them less than an hour to get back to the beach.

Hothbrodd’s plane was drifting on the waves, but there was no sign of the troll, or of Barnabas and Ben.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

A Tiny Wing

The birth of all things is weak and tender, and therefore

we should have our eyes intent on beginnings.

Michel de Montaigne, Essays

The two geese sitting on the nest this morning had the chequered blue plumage seen only in nightingale-geese. The song that they coaxed from their golden beaks was so beautiful that Guinevere stopped in the stable doorway for a few moments to hear it before going in. Sometimes they sang all night long, but when she knelt down beside the nest they cackled as disapprovingly as ordinary geese. Twigleg would probably have translated the cackling as, ‘Oh no, here comes the girl with the cold fingers again!’ Following that up with, ‘Why all this taking of temperatures? Does the little human think we don’t know how to keep a nest warm?’

‘We’re so grateful to you!’ said Guinevere, as the geese reluctantly got off the eggs. ‘And your singing is really beautiful.’

That mollified the two birds a little. Compared to wild geese, nightingale-geese are very vain. All the same, they watched Guinevere suspiciously as she bent over the nest. In the pale morning light that fell in through the stable windows, the eggs shone like fallen stars. The branches from which Hothbrodd had built the nest were reflected in their shells, and a pale blue goose-feather clung to one of them like a piece of the sky. Guinevere gently removed it from the eggshell – and withdrew her hand in such surprise that the nightingale-geese moved their heads in alarm. The shell had changed! It looked as if someone had polished it so thoroughly that in a few places the silver had worn off. In those places the shell looked like cloudy glass, and behind it – Guinevere almost stopped breathing! – behind it something was moving. She bent her head lower over the nest, although the two geese hissed their disapproval. There were marks like that on the other eggs as well! And Guinevere thought she could see a tiny wing behind one of them. Oh, how wonderful! She must tell Ànemos! Her heart was in her mouth as she straightened up and hurried out of the stable.

Ànemos was standing under the tree where the mist-ravens usually perched, receiving his instructions for the day. By now the ravens left it to the Pegasus to shoo any bears and wolves who failed to observe the peace of MÍMAMEIÐR back into the forest. They also trusted Ànemos to deal with the ever-hungry impet-eaters and shark-men who hid away in the fjord during the day, coming to MÍMAMEIÐR by night in search of easier prey. The Pegasus was already spreading his wings to set off when Guinevere came running towards him. The red of his shining plumage was as dark as if it were still tinged with the Medusa’s blood.

‘Ànemos!’

The Pegasus turned around.

‘They’re turning translucent!’ Guinevere had been running so fast that she had hardly any breath left for talking. ‘The eggs!’ she managed to say. ‘You can see the foals inside!’

Ànemos folded his wings again.

‘Please!’ Guinevere stammered. ‘Come with me!’

For a moment she thought that he wouldn’t follow her, but one of the mist-ravens came to her aid.

‘You’d better go with her, Ànemos!’ he croaked. ‘She carries on like that only when it’s important.’

The others nodded in agreement. Guinevere was very glad to hear that the ravens had such a good opinion of her.

In spite of their backing, Ànemos came towards her only hesitantly – and every step he took as he came closer to the stable was slower. But in the end he followed Guinevere through the narrow doorway.

The nightingale-geese thought it was a great nuisance having to get up again, even for the father of the foals.