The Griffin's Feather (Dragon Rider 2)

eemed to Guinevere that the newly hatched foals would be tiny, until Vita explained that Pegasus eggs didn’t stay so small, but began to grow larger after two months.

‘We could keep the eggs warm with electric blankets,’ suggested Ben. ‘Or in the incubator that we used for that abandoned clutch of wild goose eggs.’

But Barnabas shook his head. ‘That could be risky. Not just because, as you know, technology often fails in the presence of fabulous creatures. The eggs of certain winged species break if they come into contact with plastic or metal. That’s a risk we can’t possibly run. Twigleg, you were instrumental in putting this library together, and unlike the rest of us you’ve read every single book in it. Can you help us here?’

The homunculus obviously felt flattered. ‘I think I remember that we have the facsimile of an Italian manuscript mentioning Pegasus eggs, among other things,’ he said as he looked along the shelves. ‘Where was it? Just a mo. Ah, yes.’

He clambered nimbly down Ben’s arm and made his way over tables and the backs of chairs until he reached his own computer, which was no larger than a matchbox. Ben and Professor Spotiswode had built it for him. The manikin had learned to type on it as quickly as he picked up everything else that he was taught. He had even developed his own software, which no one else could understand.

‘Yes, here we are. Pegasus eggs, special features of, see seventeenth-century Italian alchemists’ manuscript, page 27, line 16.’

Twigleg closed the computer and climbed one of the tall bookcases as effortlessly as if he had been a fly. The homunculus loved his miniature computer. He wrote a blog on it, entering the name and species of every recent arrival in MÍMAMEIÐR, together with endless files of information about its description, origin and nutritional preferences, and he spent hours recording every new item of information about fabulous creatures and other rare beings. His great love, however, was still books. Twigleg’s sharp-nosed face lit up with childish delight when he was leafing through printed pages, and the older they were the more reverently he handled paper and parchment. Ben had already found himself fearing that one of the heavy volumes the homunculus took out of the shelves would squash him some day. And once again, the volume that he found after a short search was much larger than Twigleg himself.

‘Can I help you, my dear Twigleg?’ Barnabas obviously shared Ben’s concern. He took the book and the homunculus off the shelf, and put them down on a desk sheltering a hobgoblin who played his mouth harp, tunelessly, far too often for Ben’s liking.

‘Wait a moment… I’ll soon find it…’ Twigleg turned the parchment pages as carefully as if they might crumble to dust under his tiny fingers. ‘25, 26… yes! Here it is. The Italian is very old-fashioned, so I’ll give you a modern translation.’

He cleared his throat, as he always did when he was about to read something aloud. ‘“The egg of the winged horse, Pegasus unicus, is one of the greatest wonders of the world. Its shell, originally silver, becomes increasingly transparent as the foal grows, until it resembles the most valuable glass. Yet it is as hard as diamonds. Its most wondrous quality, however, is evident only when the foal reaches the age of six weeks, and the shell restricts its growth. At this point, the mare starts licking the shell, whereupon the egg begins to grow, while remaining as hard as ever. Although,”’ Twigleg raised his head and exchanged glances of dismay with Ben and Barnabas, ‘“only the mother’s saliva has that effect. If she comes to any harm, the egg will not grow, and the foal will stifle in the unbreakable shell.”’

Hothbrodd drove his knife so far into the desk under which the hobgoblin was sitting that its mouth harp fell from its furry fingers. Rain had begun to fall. Barnabas went over to the glass wall, where a dozen crystal snails were licking the raindrops running down, and looked out.

‘Hothbrodd, can you send a mist-raven to Undset telling her what’s up, and fixing it for her to be here when the Pegasus arrives?’

The troll nodded in silence, and disappeared outside, treading heavily.

The last Pegasus, here in MÍMAMEIÐR… Ben was glad that they could trust Undset. He dared not think what would happen if the world knew about the existence of a winged horse. In the past Barnabas had openly admitted to believing that fabulous creatures really did exist, but by now the Greenblooms were convinced that secrecy gave those beings their only chance of survival – secrecy, and a network of initiates who weren’t accepted into it lightly. These days FREEFAB consisted not only of those who protected Great Krakens, sphinxes and stone-dwarves, but also many men and women who campaigned for the conservation of other threatened species – whether those were gorillas, grey seals, lynxes, sea turtles, or one of the countless other extraordinary animals that now risked extinction.

Hothbrodd returned. The troll had to stoop to fit through the doorway. When Twigleg had once asked him why, in view of the very different sizes of all the inhabitants of the house, the door frames were designed for human dimensions, the troll had only growled, ‘Not human dimensions, homunculus. They’re designed for Barnabas.’ Guinevere suspected that Hothbrodd owed his life to her father, but neither of them could be induced to say exactly how they had met one another.

‘Any idea how we can get those eggs to grow without the mare, Barnabas?’ The troll often said straight out what other people were only thinking. Barnabas thought highly of that quality.

‘I haven’t the faintest notion, Hothbrodd,’ he murmured, staring out into the rain. ‘And we can consider ourselves lucky if the stallion doesn’t die of grief as well. I admit it, I just don’t know what to do. But then again,’ he added, turning to the screens that looked down from the wall like sleeping eyes, ‘what are friends for?’

CHAPTER THREE

The Conservators

The world is a dangerous place, not because of

the people who are evil, but because of the people

who don’t do anything about it.

Albert Einstein

A few hours later, a number of anxious faces were looking out of the screens in the library of MÍMAMEIÐR.

Among those at the gathering was Jacques Maupassant, a specialist in fantastic water creatures (of course including whales, dolphins and corals). Sir David Atticsborough, one of the most highly respected makers of wildlife films in the world, advised FREEFAB on the filming of videos to put hunters and animal traders on the wrong trail and lead them away from their intended prey. November Tan organised worldwide protection patrols against poachers, and conducted research for FREEFAB on the nutritional habits of fabulous creatures. Inua Ellams, the world-famous advocate of African birds, was FREEFAB’s specialist on winged fabulous beings. Maisie Richardson had a great reputation for her work in protecting grass fairies and fern fairies, and Jane Gridall could not only converse effortlessly with any primate, but had devised a sign language that made it possible to communicate with almost every species on the planet.

Soon a heated debate was in progress on the best way to save the foals. Maupassant suggested rubbing the eggs with dragon-spit as soon as they grew too large for their shells – all the members of FREEFAB knew that Barnabas Greenbloom had a very close relationship with dragons. November Tan wondered whether there had been any experiments with the saliva of seahorses. Maisie Richardson offered to ask the fairies in her garden to sprinkle their pollen over the eggshells in the hope that it would make them grow. Jane Gridall talked about her experience of elephant-ostrich chicks that had hatched prematurely, and Inua Ellams suggested that the song of the Healing Bird of Heaven (which he could imitate very impressively) might fortify the foals.

Barnabas nodded with interest to all these ideas, but Ben saw that the lines on his forehead were getting deeper and deeper.

‘My dear friends and colleagues,’ he finally said, ‘I thank you very, very much, particularly on behalf of the desperate father. I assure you that we will think about all these proposals. We have a Bird of Heaven as one of our guests here, and there are even dragons available, but their s

aliva is so fiery that I don’t advise trying it. I’m afraid it will be impossible to break the eggshells before the foals are the right age to hatch. No, we must think of something else that will make the eggs grow. But what?’ Barnabas heaved a sigh that brought a dozen nisses out from among the books. ‘And how can we find it in less than two weeks? One thing is certain: if we don’t succeed we are going to lose the last Pegasus foals in this world, and that presumably means the end of the species itself.’

‘But that would be a disaster, Barnabas!’ cried Inua Ellams.