“The Great Beasts aren’t always right,” Karmo said. “They may mean well, but just like humans, their decisions are fallible. After all, aren’t you and I here in search of a Great Beast who flees us both?”
Abeke didn’t want to admit that he was right. But Uraza was not like Rumfuss. She’d died standing up for what she believed in.
“Abeke, I came to bring you back so that you and I could lead Nilo to a better future,” Karmo said. He held out a hand. “Come with me?”
He asked in such a mild, kind way. Not at all as if his hammerkop stood threateningly beside him, one foot raised, giant beak parted.
“I have chosen my side,” Abeke said harshly.
Devin shrugged. “Well, you’re coming with us either way. Karmo?”
Abeke swung the perfume bottle just as Uraza sprang at Elda. Devin let out a muffled cry as he blocked the blow. Karmo stood by quite calmly. As Abeke reached up to swing again, Impundulu flapped its wings. Lifting from the ground, the bird punched its legs into Abeke’s abdomen.
There was an arcing flash of light as the bird’s feet touched Abeke. The contact was more than a blow — it was a jolt. Her limbs suddenly went numb. Karmo was on her in a moment, pinning her arms behind her. Kunaya had appeared from nowhere and she wound around Abeke’s legs, mewing piteously. Uraza and Elda fought in the hall, making soft thumps when their bodies hit the walls. Elda was larger, but Uraza was greater. She would win a battle against the black panther . . . but then what? There were still two humans against Abeke, and another spirit animal with strange abilities.
Abeke opened her mouth to shout for help. Devin stuffed one of the cloths into her mouth.
“Put her in passive form,” he told Abeke, “or I will cut your throat.”
She had no choice. She held out her arm pleadingly, and Uraza disappeared in a blitz of light, forming a tattoo on Abeke’s arm, right next to where Karmo’s hand held her in place.
“There was an easier way,” Karmo said into Abeke’s ear.
Devin held out his arm, and Elda immediately vanished into passive form. It was like an instantly obeyed order.
“Don’t look so angry, Abeke,” he said. “You’re going home.”
13: Lord MacDonnell
BECAUSE MEILIN LIKED ORDER, SHE LIKED GLENGAVIN. Although the others were horrified by what had happened to the musician the night before, Meilin could see where MacDonnell was coming from. The harpist had known the rule. She could have approached MacDonnell with their predicament and asked for a solution.
“If you like him so well,” Rollan said over an impressive breakfast, “why don’t you convince him to let us go see Rumfuss?”
Meilin daintily bit into a crumpet. She chewed it and swallowed it entirely before answering, “That is my plan.”
Finn, on the other side of the long and mostly empty table, looked up from his own meal. “Hospitality is very important in the North, and if we hope to impress Lord MacDonnell into allowing us access to Rumfuss, we must convince him that we are worthy. Where’s Abeke?”
Meilin had just been wondering this herself. Abeke had not returned after going after Uraza this morning. It was possible she’d gotten into trouble. But it was also possible that Abeke was hunting for Rumfuss on her own or otherwise doing something for the Conquerors.
Meilin didn’t know how long it would take for her to trust Abeke. All she knew was that it hadn’t happened yet.
“She went out this morning and hasn’t come back yet.”
Finn narrowed his eyes. “That seems troubling. Meilin, why don’t you, Conor, and Rollan go speak to MacDonnell while I look for Abeke? I can move about the castle more safely than you three; I know more of the customs.”
“And what is it you want us to do?” Rollan demanded. “Be charming?”
As Lord MacDonnell entered the room, Meilin stood up and patted her hair. “I don’t have a problem with that.” She called loudly, “Lord MacDonnell! Good morning!”
Behind her back, she gestured for the others to join her.
MacDonnell seemed pleased to see them. He boomed, “How are you liking that kilt, Conor? It looks fine on you! You’d be a good addition to Glengavin. You and your wolf.”
“Briggan is not really mine, my lord,” Conor said. “If anything, I suppose I’m his.”
“Where is he at this fine morning?”
Conor held up his arm. Briggan was frozen in mid-flight in the tattoo.
“Let that wolf loose!”
Conor released the wolf with a brilliant flash. Immediately Briggan frisked around him. Playfully, the wolf took Conor’s hand in his mouth. He looked ferocious when he pretended to bite Conor, but he meant it all in good fun.
Meilin glanced up to MacDonnell to see what he thought of this.
The older man’s expression had gone very un-jolly, but it snapped back into good cheer when he noticed Meilin watching. “What’s your surname, boy?”
“You mean my last name?” Conor blushed, and Meilin felt bad for him. “I don’t have one. I’m just a shepherd’s son, my lord.”
“No shame in that,” Lord MacDonnell said. “What’s your father’s name?”
“Fenray.”
“If you were from Glengavin, you’d be Conor MacFenray,” Lord MacDonnell said. “Mac means son of.”
Conor tried it. “Conor MacFenray.”
“You could pick any old last name, you know,” Rollan said from just behind them. “Who says you have to have your father’s name? I’d pick something like SuperStrongGuy. Rollan SuperStrongGuy. Or Rollan FALCONMASTER.”
Both Meilin and Conor raised their eyebrows. Rollan was a long way away from being a falconmaster.
With a booming chuckle — always the booming! — Lord MacDonnell led them to an open courtyard in the center of Glengavin. On the grass and under the covered stone walkways, more than forty soldiers in kilts were training. Only, Meilin would not have guessed it was training if Lord MacDonnell hadn’t told them. Because instead of engaging in mock battles, the men copied music into decorated books, practiced harp and lute, and recited ballads at each other. Only a few of them had spirit animals, but when they did, the spirit animals seemed content to help them with these strange tasks. Next to one man, a shaggy Highland cow stood patiently as her human partner used her massive horns to hold her elaborate knitting. Another man was aided in his harp-playing by a stoat. It plucked the low notes. He plucked the high ones.