The Griffin's Feather (Dragon Rider 2)

The long arms winding their way over the beach were in all the colours of the rainbow, while Eight’s body – or what could be seen of it – was dark green, like the uttermost depths of the ocean.

‘You see?’ Firedrake whispered to Sorrel. ‘It’s sensible to be polite even to tiny four-eyed crabs. You never know, they may have powerful friends.’

One inky blue kraken arm wound over the sand to Eugene, while the others, to Sorrel’s relief, stayed in the water. The crab climbed up on the kraken’s arm, and pointed one of his claws at Firedrake and Tattoo.

‘Look at that, Eight!’ he called. ‘They really are dragons. Would you have thought there were still any around? No! So why wouldn’t there also be another nice Great Kraken somewhere or other?’

‘Oh, there definitely is,’ said Sorrel, who had quickly overcome her alarm at Eight’s size. ‘In fact, I’ve met him myself. Although I’m not so sure about the “nice” bit. Most of the time he acts…’

Firedrake cast her a warning glance.

‘The friend I’m looking for knows the kraken she mentions very well!’ he called to Eight. ‘And I’m sure he will help you to find him.’

The kraken’s huge eyes widened as if to take in the whole world. Eight raised two more arms out of the water, and passed them through the air as if he were writing invisible letters there.

‘Eight would like to know what ocean this kraken calls his home,’ Eugene translated. ‘The only one we know is a very bad-tempered one off the coast of New Zealand.’

‘This one lives off the north coast of Norway,’ replied Firedrake. ‘And the friend I’m looking for can certainly tell you more about his temper.’

That was putting it very diplomatically, and Sorrel bit back the comment that Hafgufa, the name of the Norwegian kraken, certainly had a temper every bit as bad as the one from New Zealand.

Eight’s arms wrote in the air again.

‘He will take you to the beach where he saw the wooden machine and the green man,’ Eugene translated. ‘But first Eight would like to know who painted your scales,’ he said, pointing to Tattoo. ‘He likes the pattern very much.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Synnefo, Chara, Ouranos

It takes a very long time to become young.

Pablo Picasso

Synnefo really was as white as her mother. Chara had his father’s copper-coloured coat, and Ouranos – yes, Ouranos was blue! Guinevere couldn’t have said which she liked best. All three were so beautiful! She and Vita spent every free minute in the stable, to catch a glimpse of the foals as often as they could, and Ànemos came too, to kneel beside the nest for hours, although his children’s feathered nursemaids were still very strict about visiting times.

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Even in the moments, only too short, when the eggs were not hidden under the feathers that kept them warm, the foals were already giving away a good deal about their characters. Synnefo was the calmest of the three. She drifted inside her egg as dreamily as if she were hardly aware of the outside world. Chara, on the other hand, often pressed his nose against his eggshell, which was clear as glass now, and always seemed glad if he could see more than just feathers! And Ouranos – he was always moving, beating his tiny wings, kicking his legs as if his hooves were already trying to find solid ground, or throwing his little head back and blowing miniature bubbles as he whinnied.

No, you could never tire of looking at them. Guinevere only wished they wouldn’t grow so fast.

When she caught Ànemos looking at the remaining blank spaces on the calendar, she took it off the stable door and hid it in her room.

Please, she thought as she hung the calendar over her bed. Ben! Dad! Hothbrodd! Twigleg! Lola! Tell us that you have the feather! Get in touch! But suppose they had bad news? Suppose they hadn’t found the griffins. Or suppose they’d found them, and… no! Guinevere wouldn’t think out that question to the end, even though she thought she saw it on every face in MÍMAMEIÐR.

Synnefo.

Chara.

Ouranos.

Their tiny mouths drank the shimmering liquid in which they swam. But it would soon be finished if the eggs didn’t grow.

Guinevere looked at the sky as she went back to the stable. She caught herself staring intently at the clouds more and more often, as if that would bring Hothbrodd’s plane back.

But the sky over MÍMAMEIÐR was still empty.

They would get back in time. And the feather would help.