The Book Gatherer

Chapter Six

His flock hadn't come.

Firek sat tied to a tree, just outside the warmth of a small dying fire, and thought it out. The girl had traveled at a pace slower than Firek had thought she would take, considering the cargo she possessed. Despite that, his flock had not arrived. Either they hadn't yet recovered enough from the incident, or the girl truly had lost them.

Not that he doubted his flock's capability. The lackey gatherer would never succeed in delivering the Holy Book to her band. Once they had recovered and found the giraffe's tracks, they would attack from both the sky and in the trees. Perhaps that had been their mistake the first time. Flying was so much better than riding.

They would get the Holy Book, the girl would be dead, and they would fly to the nearest cloud-city or mountain town with their prize. Nobody would ever doubt Firek's loyalty again, no matter his cowardly father.

Firek fingered the stitching of his empty sheath, a soothing motion he'd made a habit of, but the rest of his body was still, tight, ready for anything. Just in case. Though it would be difficult to get comfortable anyway; the girl had proven to be surprisingly good at tying knots—tight. No matter how much he'd strained and flexed and cut his wrists up against the ropes throughout the day, they hadn't yielded. Later at night when the gatherer girl had decided to make camp, she'd tied him to this tree, but had paused at the sight of dried blood on his wrists and the rope. She'd given him a strange look, one he hadn't understood, before scuttling away to wake a fire.

The lackey slept now, stretched out on the side of the fire opposite of Firek, her head propped up on a saddlebag. She slept deeply, heavy enough that he would've been confident in figuring out the knots and untying himself before the night retired. Then he would snatch the Holy Book—still tucked underneath the girl's arm in its satchel—and melt into the forest, never to be found by her again. He could do that, and would have if it weren't for the giraffe.

For a dumb land beast, it didn't seem to need much sleep. Instead it grazed quietly from the trees, stripping leaves from branches with its lips and a freakishly long black tongue. Disgusting, certainly, but it also kept a good watch. Its ears—long and twitchier than a fledgling—turned this way and that every few seconds, seemingly picking up sounds even Firek didn't hear. Whenever he so much as shifted his weight the giraffe would swing its head around and stare at him, waiting, daring him to try that again. He had no doubt it would sound an alarm and wake the lackey girl if he so much as sneezed.

He eyed the beast. Had it not been for it, he would've had the Holy Book and been halfway back to his flock's camp by now.

But it is here, Firek, it's your problem—deal with it. Come up with a new plan and make sure it works. Well, if his flock didn't come within the next few days and if the giraffe kept up a watch as constant as it did now, Firek could turn to other methods. Sabotaging the girl's ability to travel would suffice, giving his flock time to catch up and possibly opening an opportunity for him to escape with the Book. To get close to the supplies he would need to manipulate the girl into trusting him. That meant cooperating. Not total obedience—that would make her suspicious—but grudging compliance would work.

A good plan. Firek nodded to himself—the giraffe jerked its head out of a tree to stare at him—then sighed and leaned his head back against the tree trunk. He gazed up, ignoring the black, twisted branches of this diseased tree, seeking the night sky shown only in leafy patches. Night was the best time for flying. Harder without drafts warmed by the sun, but so much fuller. The quietness, the stillness, the darkness, the stars teasing all that, it all sung something in his bones.

He wondered if Krunin had made it back to his nest safely. He hoped so. The albatross was a good bird, the best he'd ever worked with—and he was not biased in any way from hatching the bird from an egg himself and learning how to fly on his back, guided through it all by Firek's mother. His mother . . . she'd bought him his first saddle. Taught him how to safely pull out of a dive. Flown with him during his first summer storm, caught him when he fell. Shown him all the constellations in the skies to keep him alert through long night flights. His mother . . . it was dangerous to think about her. Remembering her always brought back memories of him.