A week passed and the throng in Dreamdark thinned. The Rathersting hunted down escaped devils in the dark corners of the forest and found many of the sniveling, mild snags from the catacombs in Rome. These they put in the dungeon and fed on leftovers while they decided what to do with them, but as for the more fiendish devils, these they recaptured in bottles the Magruwen crafted for that purpose. They didn’t know how many still lurked in the great wood, and kept searching.
Talon, returning after dark from a day spent casting a human phantasm to guide the lost mannies to the hedge, found the crowd in the Great Hall composed mostly of Rathersting for the first time since the battle. He piled a plate with mushroom sandwiches and blackberry pie and plunked it down at the chief’s table. His father wrapped his arm around him and left it there, periodically squeezing his son’s shoulder or tousling his hair. Talon beamed and told his father stories as he ate, but as soon as he was done he pushed back his chair and went to his room. All night his knitting needles could be heard clicking unsteadily as he maneuvered them with his bandaged hand. The dawning of the new age might occupy his days, but his nights were for creating, and he worked in secret with a single-mindedness that was driving him to exhaustion.
Orchidspike and Poppy worked side by side day after day, mending old wounds from the devil wars, administering potions and poultices, and reweaving all shapes of wings. The healer was each day more astonished by the lass’s gifts and each day more delighted with her sweet nature and surprising twinkling of mischief.
As for the young Rathersting warriors who took to offering the healer their help—something that had certainly never happened before—Orchidspike attributed that to Poppy’s uncommon loveliness. But her new apprentice seemed to have no mind for flirtation and paid the lads no heed at all.
At Hai Issrin Ev the great work had begun. A tent camp had sprung up at the mouth of the Deeps as faeries and imps from across Dreamdark came to throw their energies into building the new temple. And folk and creatures began to arrive from farther afield too. The Magruwen had given a message to the web-toed, eyeless imps who swim the labyrinth of dark springs underlying the world, and they carried word to hundreds of faerieholds that the Djinn King was returned to his temple. Each day the news spread farther. From one hidden village and clanhold to the next, all across the world, wonder was blooming in the hearts of faeries.
They came day by day, pilgrims and artisans from other forests hauling the tools of their trade, the masons’ hammers and chisels, glaziers’ kilns, weavers’ looms, and many other things too, and the new temple began to rise on the ruins of the old.
The Magruwen himself was often away. He’d forged two new pairs of knitting needles, one for Talon and one for himself, and with his own he’d followed the lad’s example and knit himself a disguise to cloak his fireproof skin. Now as a great horned owl he explored his world, learning it anew.
The falcon skin, meanwhile, was far from Dreamdark. The world’s only flying imp was skulking steadily back toward Rome to fetch his wheelbarrow from the catacombs, and he spread his own legend at every opportunity. He sang, “All through the silvery treetops he twirled, the first, and the only, winged imp in the world. . . .”
Every creature he’d met throughout Dreamdark and Iskeri had been treated to wheezy songs of his flying adventures, though the songs, truth be told, were more numerous than the adventures. Though he’d never admit it, deep in his crusty heart Batch missed the faerie’s floating spells and being hauled through the air by crows, and the Djinn’s silver bat wings had not been forgotten, either. The falcon skin was a keen disguise, but the flying wasn’t working out exactly as Batch had hoped. Even if it hadn’t been unraveling, it was too much for his poor arms. After just a few short minutes of wing flapping they hung so heavy at his sides he could scarcely lift them to pick his nose! Mostly he scampered along, wheezing his glorious songs and dreaming of silver wings.
Still camped on the green above Snoshti’s village, the crows were no use to anyone. They didn’t even hunt down snags with the Rathersting but just huddled miserably around their fire, puffing smoke rings and waiting for their lass to come back to them.
They weren’t the only ones waiting. The Magruwen visited his champion in her dreams but her friends weren’t so lucky. Like the crows, Poppy and Talon could only wait, though they put their energies into work instead of smoking and did a little better job of hiding their longing.
FORTY-ONE
When Magpie finally opened her eyes, Bellatrix was by her side. “Child of my heart,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
Kipepeo stepped up and placed a hand on his bride’s shoulder. “Blessings to you,” he said.
Magpie knew the traditional Ifrit greeting from her time excavating the temple of the Ithuriel, and she told him, “And to the fire that kindled you,” her voice hoarse after such long silence.
Pleased, Kipepeo knelt beside her and took her hand. “Thank you, little one,” he said, “for guiding me out of the darkness.”
“I should thank you,” she told him with a weak smile. “If Lady Bellatrix didn’t love you so awful much, she’d never have meddled with the Magruwen’s dreams, and I might not have been born.”
He raised an eyebrow and looked at his lady. “Meddled with the Magruwen’s dreams?” he repeated.
“I’ve much to tell you,” Bellatrix said, biting her lip and laughing. A look of mischief transformed her features so that she seemed very young, as indeed she had been when she’d died. Remembering the terrible despair she had seen so recently on that same face, Magpie was nearly overcome with a wave of emotion to think that she had played a part in Bellatrix’s happiness and Kipepeo’s freedom. Joy was bright in their eyes, and Magpie smiled, feeling warm and calm.
“Dreamdark is eager for your return, Magpie,” said Bellatrix. “The new temple is begun and many have come from afar who are eager to see you.”
Magpie knew of the temple from the luminous dreams the Magruwen sent her. She’d seen a tent camp and cook fires and faeries of every shade from golden to ebony to snow, gathered together to work. She’d glimpsed Poppy, laughing and alive, and Maniac, as grim and fierce as ever. Indeed, all her crows were mighty grim, and now that she was awake, Magpie felt a deep pang of yearning for her clan, both her feathered family and her parents and grandmother, and the West Wind too. And, she realized when a tracery spinning in her vision turned out to be not a glyph but a tattoo, for Talon.