Birds of Paradise - 3. Chapter 3

The day quickly settled into a routine. Cy sewed a makeshift sling with which to carry the baby close to his skin for warmth. He tied the teat he'd made to the edge, and then, with the songbird draped over his legs and the old leather chair at his back, Cy managed to doze off to the patter of rain on the tile roof.

So alert was he for the slightest sound that indicated the baby's need for more milk, that the cottage door hit Cy's ears with the force of a cavalry charge. He startled upright as rain blew in from the storm outside, blinking dazedly to see the comfortable cottage fill with men.

There wasn't much time to react. They hauled Cy to his feet as he stared at the ball of feathers and teeth that took the songbird's place. The furniture smashed as the soldiers in their rain-soaked cloaks fought the weakened creature to a panting halt, binding him roughly and gagging him. Those giant, round eyes stared into Cy's a moment before one of the soldiers smashed a fist between the bird's eyes.

"Hey!" Cy exclaimed. His stomach fell with the songbird, slumped into a heap on the floor.

One last man entered the room and closed the door on the driving rain. He unhooked his cloak and tossed the sodden garment over the table. This soldier wore the blue imperial uniform of the army, with the addition of the red sash that denoted one attached to the palace. A large, shiny badge on his left breast declared him a Master Falconer, and he wore the black sash of the Shah's personal guard on his left arm.

"Well?" he snapped, as Cy stared, mouth agape.

The two men previously wrestling with the songbird flipped him over so that a third man could examine him. This man pushed back his hood to nod a blond head. "Quite alive. Drugged --"

The firelight sent shadows across the Black Guard's face, exaggerating the size of his nose and mustache, and giving him an evil glint to his eyes, at odds with his obvious youth. The man was no older than Cy.

His eyebrows drew together in a scowl as he turned his attention back to the gamekeeper. "What did you use?"

"I ..." Cy's mind went temporarily blank. No one ever wanted to cross a member of the Black Guard. Even the Temple Guard trod carefully in their territory. Laws and officials would not touch them; the Black Guard was an extension of the Shah and he alone commanded them. Rumor said they could detect false-hoods and ill intent at one hundred paces. The last man caught attempting to impersonate a member of the Black Guard took seventeen days to die.

The Black Guard's eyes narrowed. He took a step closer. "Did I ask who you were?" he asked quietly in a voice that sent chills up Cy's spine.

"Um, no." Not two minutes had passed and sweat ran down the sides of his face.

"Then answer the question!"

Cy jumped. "P-Poppy!" he got out, clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering, almost entirely forgetting about the man trying to wrench his arms off from behind his back. "I, um, the fire --"

"Shut up." The two men exchanged another glance. The drug would account for the lack of any real fight.

The one on the floor nodded. "Vital signs are good." he pulled a bag off his shoulder from under his cloak and set to work.

"Lucky," the Black Guard spat at Cy. He jerked his head at his men. "Check him."

"Wha -- hey!"

The man behind him jerked his arms back even higher until the bard was partly leaning forward, up on his toes to take the pressure off his shoulders. One second of thinking about protesting cranked Cy even higher until tears came unbidden to his eyes. He could barely gasp as one of the other soldiers ripped his pants off and grabbed his dick.

Then the soldier straightened and nodded to his superior. "Fresh, too."

"Idiot." The Black Guard shook his head at Cy's bewilderment. "Take him."

"Wait!" Cy tried to dig his toes in, but they weren't interested in leading him away just yet. The one who had relieved him of his pants pulled out a knife and grasped the sling.

Although Cy threw himself backwards, there was nowhere to go and his unthinking kick landed him a split lip in reply. His head cracked against his captor's shoulder as the sling fell away.

Only quick reflexes kept the tiny chick from plummeting to his death. The soldier's hands trembled when he turned to show what he held.

"Jyorn!" barked the Black Guard.

The man still fussing with the songbird immediately rolled the bird onto his back, the physician's hands conducting a quicker, well-practiced version of Cy's check that morning. "Pregnant," he declared, but then corrected himself: "No, not pregnant. Carrying, though, and premature from the looks of it." He examined the chick brusquely and shook his head. "I wouldn't believe it if I didn't see it."

Cy bit his bloody lip to stay silent, watching worriedly.

"Healthy critter, though," the physician commented. For the first time he looked at Cy. His voice took on a sharper tone. "What happened?"

"He's sick," Cy explained, shaky with relief when his voice came out steady. "There was an infection, I didn't know what else to do."

"Infection? Where?"

"The right side. He was in so much pain."

The physician's head started nodding as he inspected the songbird's pouch. "Hm, yes, I see."

The songbird whimpered and cried, tugging weakly on his bonds to little effect. He stared pleadingly at Cy who dropped his eyes uncertainly.

Finally the physician sat back on his heels and nodded unhappily. This songbird also had the disease decimating their breeding stock. He had read about songbirds forcing open their pouches to carry their mate's chicks. There was a greater-than-even chance of failure, but the babes would die for sure if they remained within their dead parent.

He'd never expected to see it, especially in a bird already weakened and sick. He sighed and shook his head. "The other has to come out, too."

"What?" Cy cried. He winced as the soldier nearest him raised his fist as if to cuff him again. "But he's -- oompfh!" The strength went out of his legs with the impact of fist to his stomach, leaving Cy dangling and gasping.

He missed the heated exchange between Black Guard and physician, but he did see the Black Guard stride across the cottage and fling open the door. "Mirn!"

"Sir!"

"Find the Lady Parisa and bring her and her gamekeeper in for questioning. I expect you there when I get back."

"Yes, sir!"

Stepping back, he gestured to the men still holding Cy. "Get him to the wagon and make sure everything's tied down securely."

"Hey!" Cy protested. They weren't going to drag him outside into the rain naked, were they? And what about the songbird? He knew it was foolish, but he couldn't help struggling. He hadn't done anything but try to help, and the songbird was sick!

"You can't do this!" he cried, grunting as the pain in his pinned arms increased. "I'm --"

This time the Black Guard punched him, another solid blow to the gut. He leaned in close to snarl, "I can't kill you, but I can certainly make you wish you were dead! Take him!"

The soldiers propelled Cy through the mud and the rain to toss him inside the back of a box on wheels. As the door slammed shut, he thought he could hear the songbird scream, and he threw himself against the barred door, shouting and banging upon the wood with his fist. Only the darkness and rain drumming upon the roof answered him.

There were no cracks to get his fingers inside, and no light penetrated from the outside, but there was fresh air coming from somewhere, he just had to find it.

On further investigation, the box showed itself to be a prison wagon with some alterations that could only be meant for transporting a songbird. Shutters covered the tiny, barred windows high up on the sides. Straw filled the base of the wagon almost knee-deep, and a hole in the floor was evidently meant as a privy. A sack of what felt like a mixture of wheat and corn hung from a peg on the wall. Another strange contraption appeared to be a bucket of water with a lid. Feeling along the wall, he could tell that the soldiers would be able to fill the bucket from outside. Given the amount of grain, the soldiers would be carrying them some distance. There would be no need to let them out.

His jailers had evidently arrived to fetch the songbird, but to what purpose? He'd never heard of the Shah recalling any of the birds he sent away from the palace.

Hearing voices once more, he rushed over to the back, ready to protest once more, but the soldiers anticipated him. The door opened downward and he leaned forward at once, only to be bowled over backwards when the door slammed shut again. Cy laid panting upon the floor while two other soldiers lifted the songbird inside.

They moved him with far more care than they'd shown Cy, bearing the bird on a litter made from the blankets inside. He was glad to see that they had tucked more around him as well.

He threw his weight against the door to keep the soldiers from immediately closing them in.

"I want my clothes! And you can't put him in here! Can't you --"

The ease with which they knocked him aside made Cy flush in embarrassment. This time when they closed the door, chains rattled after the bolt slid home. They were locked inside. Shortly after, the wagon began to move.

At first, Cy stayed huddled in the corner, but cold, and his concerns for the sick bird drew him back to the wounded creature's side. A bandage wrapped around his stomach, his wrists and ankles bound, and a gag tied to his mouth. The straps were so tight that they felt slippery and Cy spent the first long minutes struggling to free the songbird.

When complete, Cy gathered all of the straw into one corner and tucked the blankets down into a comfy nest. He leaned against the dubious, itchy comfort with the songbird in his arms. Mindlessly, he petted the songbird's feathers and listened to the uneven, panting mews the bird breathed against his chest.

The tail feathers flopped over one thigh, the bird's feet the other, hands in his lap and head tucked under Cy's chin. With one arm he could brace the bird's weight, which left his other hand free to wander.

He shouldn't, he knew he shouldn't, but he wanted to. The feathers along the arms were silky soft and covered an area about three fingers wide along the outside of the arm, like a stripe. The individual feathers were smaller than the ones on back and shoulders, and they grew progressively smaller until they ended at the elbows. Beneath, the songbird's arm muscles were lean and firm.

The stripes of feathers on the thighs were palm-width, the feathers a little rougher, but still soft. They ended at the knees. The skin not covered by feathers was softer than Cy expected, warmer than before, but still slightly clammy to the touch.

In the dark there was no convincing his body that he held a bird and not a human body. Male or female he couldn't rightly say. The bird had a penis, one that fit his hand as easily as his own, and with all the same parts. There was one anal opening, right where he would have expected on a man, so where did the babies come from?

Shifting uncomfortably, Cy drew the blankets in tighter and removed his hands to less tempting places. He sighed as he caressed the limp feathers on the songbird's crest.

He didn't expect the songbird to awake for several hours, but he came to singing with a real edge of panic as he clawed viciously at Cy. The bard shouted and tried to fend off the attack, but the blankets hampered his movements. He didn't want to hurt the creature, as he wasn't certain that the songbird was entirely coherent, and he was too distracted to make sense of the pounding rush of music.

Above his head, something solid thumped against the wagon's walls. What that was supposed to do Cy didn't know, but the songbird turned from trying to scrape him raw to scrabbling against the walls of their prison.

The bird hurt still, that much was obvious. He sat on his tucked-up legs, quickly running out of steam. This let Cy pull him close again. With the songbird a little calmer, Cy was able to hear what affected him so, and he grimaced with disgust for himself that he hadn't guessed right away.

::My baby, my babies!:: cried the songbird, and then something else that Cy couldn't quite understand, the complexities beyond his limited comprehension.

Cy pulled the songbird back into his lap, where he scrunched down and wept piteously. Singing or humming all the lullabies he knew, Cy coaxed the bird back to sleep. He didn't know what was in store for them, but he knew that the ill creature in his arms needed all the rest he could get, and so did Cy.

Things were a bit calmer after that. They slept in fits and starts with the motion of the wagon. There was nothing to mark the passage of time; they ate when they were hungry, and otherwise slept. Cy switched from comforting songs to more martial ones when he thought he might go mad from the songbird's deep melancholy. Then, in a fit of boredom and frustration, he decided to try and talk to him.

The fluctuations in the songbird's music had Cy mostly convinced of the creature's sentience, but he couldn't be quite sure he wasn't exaggerating in the stress of their circumstances. He hoped that talking would help get their minds off their troubles. That, and the songbird only seemed to grow weaker. Something needed to be done to convince the bird to live.

So the question became how to ask the songbird his name without words, using only tone and emotion. Songwriting was the hardest part of Cy's mastery. The other Master Bards' chief complaint was that Cy was too literal. He had no creative flair for poetry. Cy's music lacked subtlety and was far too direct to be politic. On the other hand, perhaps that would work to his benefit here.

"I can see sorrow," he sang, "in the shape of a blue bird." He could feel the songbird listening, as the incessant tears quietened and he shifted to set his chin on Cy's shoulder.

As Cy continued, doing his best to build a picture of the songbird in the music, he heard the bird add little embellishes. When he adopted them, adding the notes to his song, the phrases got progressively more difficult, but the music reminded Cy of summer days spent high up in the treetops, the bark dry and scratchy through the rips in his trousers. The lazy breeze rustled the leaves around him, squirrels darted to and fro, beetles hummed from deep within the wood, clouds drifted by, birds chirped, voices laughed and called to each other in the distance, and all the pressure sitting on his chest evaporated in the sunshine. If there could be such a thing, the songbird's identity felt like lazy, peaceful joy.

Through it all, one phrase stuck out and Cy repeated it over and over again, adding a lilting, questioning tone.

The songbird nodded against Cy's chest, his feather's tickling his neck and face.

::Indivriar. My name is Indivriar.::

::Andrimar?:: Cy repeated.

::Yes. On-div-ree-ar. N'Indivriar:: The songbird corrected Cy's musical inflection, and then launched into a question of his own, stunning Cy with his ability to mimic the harp.

The new song was warmth, lying in the grass, with the scent of fresh-mown hay in the heavy air, the sun kissing his face and arms like the breath of a lover asleep in his arms. Cy felt himself blushing in the darkness for Indivriar's description. He was named for a hymn of greeting to the sun, and he added those notes to distract himself.

The songbird caught on very quickly. ::Cyrus,:: he sang. Then he made a small addition, a prefix that made the Loremaster sit up and take notice, and caused the man to blush even more furiously.

::Na'Cyrus,:: the songbird sang. ::Cyrus, my Cyrus.:: He caressed the bare skin of Cy's shoulder, nestling his head back under the human's chin.

Cy shivered and tried to hold still, but his body wanted to take that simple gesture much further. ::Indivriar,:: he murmured in protest, catching his wandering hand, but dry lips on his collarbone chased his mind elsewhere. "Ngh."

::N'Indivriar,:: the songbird corrected, its tone full of mischief. ::My Indivirar.::

"Nnn," Cy groaned as fingers sketched the skin along his ribs as the bird shifted in his lap. "Mn, you're doing that on purpose, oh, oh."

Indivriar shifted again, pressing against the growing bulge. He grinned wickedly, his kisses involving more teeth and using his fingernails to prick goosebumps and more shivers down his mate's spine.

His mate was featherless and smooth, a human, and while he knew he should be revolted, a being who could sing down the heavens could never be abhorrent in his eyes. Indivriar had never heard one of the humans command the Song the way this one did. With the odd, stringed wood, Cy almost sounded like one of the People.

He sang, ::I found him. My mate is mine. Na'Cyrus. Indivriar'an!:: He wanted to proclaim the news to the world, but the pain in his gut cut deep.

The others. He could smell them. He knew what they had done! His arms tightened possessively in renewed grief. After begging and pleading for so very long, Sunil had finally agreed, though he was old and they were not mates.

The first year they tried, the seed took, but they also felt the chicks fail and drop prematurely to be reabsorbed. They tried again when Spring came round again, but Sunil's heat never came, and so they waited again. This time, Indivriar forced Sunil to lie still and not exert himself. He did everything for the older songbird, so that he didn't have to move a muscle.

Sunil died in his arms, still fighting the loss of the early babies. Something inside the old bird just broke; Indivriar heard it in the song, which left him with only one option, if he wanted the chicks to live, and that was to force his body open to take them.

Now the chicks he'd wanted for so long, had worked so hard to obtain, were gone, and he and his new mate were being sent back to hell.

Cyrus winced as the songbird started wailing again, right into his ear. Indivriar's fingers dug hard into his back. Cyrus sang a counter-melody, soothing and comforting, but the songbird refused to be placated. His song bled grief and gained anger. Cyrus caught the possessive form of his name, and another reference to the babies, but the music was too complex to follow.

::You're my mate!:: Indivriar sang. ::You're my mate and I want my babies! I want my babies!::

The music moved too fast, too confused with emotion. The songbird became a writhing, clawing ball of motion. Curled over Cy's shoulder, as if he meant to crawl right over him, Indivriar bit down hard at the end of another bitter refrain.

Cy hollered, but the songbird only bit deeper, nails digging gouges into smooth skin. He wasn't really aware when the wagon stopped.

The Black Guard looped one hand in crest and tail feathers and yanked hard to dislodge the songbird. A hood, liberally coated with sleeping dust, went over the bird's head, and his hands were once more tied behind his back. The man looked up to meet the shocked gaze of the songbird's chosen mate, Lady Parisa's young gamekeeper, and almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

"Leave him bound this time," he suggested, and turned to leave.

"Wait!" called Cy, as his limbs broke free of their dazed immobility. He scrambled through the discarded blankets and strewn hay. "Give them back."

"What?"

"You took his chicks," Cy stated. "They're his. Now give them back."

The Black Guard frowned. "Indi is not capable of --"

"You don't know that. He was doing just fine. You don't separate a mother and child --"

"They're not his," the Black Guard returned coldly. The blue songbird was sick, with the same contagion as the rest. Maybe he would live, maybe not, but giving the chicks back to the parent would do none of them any good.

"They will whither and die unless the chicks are given to an appropriate surrogate."

"Then let me --"

"You?" The Black Guard's laugh turned into a foul sneer. "You know nothing about songbirds, or we wouldn't be in this mess!" He leaped out of the wagon. "By the end," he added, with the chill of truth, "you'll be wishing we'd have just killed you."

"I don't understand!"

The moon hid the Black Guard's face in shadow, but Cy thought the man's voice held sympathy. Or if not sympathy, then pity. "No, I'm sure you don't, but don't think that ignorance will save you. You can't hide what you are, and there's no escaping. Songbirds mate for life."

The door shut once more. The wagon moving again jolted his mind back into motion. Mated? To the songbird?

"I ... no. No, no, no, no, no, no ... This is impossible."

He couldn't see the bird, but he could feel Indivriar's feathers against his bare feet. It would make sense with the possessive connotation now associated with his name, but mated? To a bird?

"I can't be married!"

How did everyone else know this and he did not? What did they know that he didn't?

Cy sank down to his knees. "Oh, what am I to do?"

Still his treacherous hand reached out to run his fingers through the long, soft feathers and make his skin tingle. It didn't help that Cy was attracted to the creature, to Indivriar, or that the songbird's delicate features and obvious distress didn't provoke every last protective streak Cy had. How did he get out of this mess? he couldn't be stuck watching over the songbird forever, he had a job! There were expectations! He was the first Bard-Loremaster in three hundred years, surely that had to count for something?

Yes, yes, of course. If he could get word to the temple, perhaps they would -- no ... No, he was in the hands of the Black Guard. The temple would not intervene. The only available recourse was to somehow flee (a chancy affair not likely to end well), or to somehow persuade the Shah to leniency.

"Oh, Sun and Stars, treason! Of course." He swore again, quieter. Strict rules governed the care of songbirds. Only the Shah's Gamekeeper was permitted to breed them. He groaned.

Illegal breeding, though?

His eyes opened wide. The birds! They were all male, right? But if a male could bear young, what exactly did that mean? And Indivriar was obviously intelligent, and that couldn't be a fluke.

It was the language! The songbirds didn't recognize speech, and their music was too complex to be seen as language by humankind.

If Cy could convince the Shah that the songbirds were sentient creatures ....

He paused. Then what? Songbirds had no skills or crafts to trade, there was still a huge language barrier, and they had no home. What would happen to them? Where could they go? The only thing that came to mind was the jungle, but these birds had lived sheltered, pampered lives for generations. They wouldn't be able to survive in the hostile environment, and, besides, there was still a war going on.

A war that Cy still had not discovered the cause of. He hadn't the slightest idea even where to start. He had the backing of the Temple of the Sun, a sacred task, but without royal support he could not hope to barter for peace. That was why he had come home, to speak politics with Lady Parisa, but such was not to be.

Now there was ... this, and the lady was also being summoned, most likely to share in Cy's guilt. She might have pull with the Shah, but would that be enough to save her?

He sighed, and hooked his fingers under the hood to slide it from the songbird's head. He caressed Indivriar's smooth cheek.

::Indivriar,:: he murmured the rich song. "You are a beautiful creature, but what am I to do with you?"