The king looked skeptical.

  “Do not fear,” the shaman minotaur said smoothly. “Before I depart, I will be sure to double the dose of his potion.”

  Chapter 11

  The Ancient Kyrie

  Although be bounced and jostled inside the sack, which withstood his repeated efforts to tear a hole in it so that he could see out, Caramon didn’t sense he was in any immediate danger.

  The Majere twin guessed he was being transported a great distance away from the minotaur prison, although who his rescuers were and why they had taken him remained a puzzle. As glad as he was to be free of the minotaurs, Caramon fretted about leaving Sturm behind, and he realized that he was someone else’s prisoner now. In effect, he had traded one captivity for another.

  His uneasiness wasn’t relieved, over the course of the next two hours, by the distinct impression that he was being swept through the air. Caramon could feel no hard surface beneath or on either side of the burlap sack. The only noises that reached his ears sounded like nothing so much as the steady beating of wings and the occasional caw of a giant bird.

  Somewhere in the back of his mind, the young warrior seemed to remember having heard a similar cawing once before.

  Eventually Caramon had the sensation he was descending from a great height, a descent that ended with the burlap sack, with him still curled up inside, bumping and scraping along rocky ground. Moments later, someone tugged the sack open. On wobbly legs, Caramon stepped out.

  A spectacular sight greeted him.

  He stood on a ledge in a high-walled canyon that wound out of sight to his left and right. The sides of the canyon were honeycombed with dozens of caves stretching as far as the eye could see. And perched in front of the caves, as if to greet him, were hundreds of an ancient and wondrous folk whose remote civilization few humans ever had been privileged to glimpse.

  A welcoming committee of these fantastical “bird-people” stood with Caramon on the ledge. They were a mix of hawk and human, walking upright on long, sinewy legs that ended in birdlike talons. Huge feathered wings sprouted from their backs and attached to their arms and hands. With growing excitement, Caramon thought, Why, they look just like…

  … like the broken man back in the prison cell. These were his people! Those terrible wounds on his back and shoulders, Caramon now realized, must have been where the minotaurs had ripped off his wings.

  The bird-man nearest Caramon was the one who had rescued the Majere twin from captivity. He was taller than Caramon, and leaner. His bronzed face, quite human in appearance, was fiercely handsome. Rather than hair, flowing golden feathers grew from his head. Fine brown pinfeathers covered his chest. He wore no clothing other than a waistcloth of leather.

  “Who are you?” Caramon asked his rescuer.

  “In your language,” the bird-man said with pride in the common tongue, “I am Cloudreaver.”

  Caramon fumbled for the proper words. “What are you?”

  Cloudreaver frowned and stepped aside, gesturing with his wings to one of the bird-people behind him. His pebble-black eyes watched Caramon haughtily.

  Following Cloudreaver’s gesture, Caramon saw an elder whom he had not noticed at first. Others grouped protectively around this venerable bird-man who shuffled forward on clawed feet to meet Caramon. In spite of his odd gait, he moved with dignity and grace.

  The elder bird-man’s feather hair was silver white and streamed down to his chest. Many year of exposure to the sun and elements had darkened and lined his face. In spite of his apparent age, muscles rippled across his chest and in his sinewy legs.

  Slightly bent over, his head cocked to one side, the elder bird-man approached Caramon with a glimmer of warmth in his clear yellow eyes. “We are the kyrie,” explained the elder, his speech clipped but precise. “I am Arikara-in your tongue, Sun Feather, leader of the people who inhabit the skies.”

  “Kyrie?” questioned Caramon.

  Sun Feather cocked his head, peering at Caramon. “A proud and long-lived folk,” the kyrie leader said softly. “You have not heard of us?”

  Caramon glanced at the hundreds of feathered kyrie who gazed at him from the high safety of their respective aeries. They murmured amongst themselves; some of them pointed at him. Raistlin may have mentioned the kyrie once. His twin read so many books, it was hard for Caramon to keep track. The burly warrior shook his head from side to side in response to Sun Feather’s question.

  “That is to be expected,” said Sun Feather, placing a huge wing over Caramon’s shoulder and leading him gently toward a shelter dug out of the canyon wall.

  Caramon hadn’t spotted the cave before, perhaps because the hide that draped the entrance was the color of sandstone and blended in with the canyon wall. Some of the other kyrie followed, including Cloudreaver, another elder whose face was dotted with sun spots, and two females, one young, another older, both dressed in leather skirts and vests decorated with quills and beads.

  The entrance opened onto a spacious cave that vaulted upward into a high dome. Dried grass and twigs covered the floor of the tamped-down earth. A central fire pit, filled with heated rocks, gave off warmth. Weapons and cooking utensils hung from pegs in the walls. Animal furs, more than sufficient to ward off the desert night cold, were stacked near the threshold.

  Sun Feather took aside the two females and gave them some instructions in a language that Caramon could not decipher.

  Cloudreaver bade Caramon sit near the fire pit. The other elder, whom Cloudreaver introduced as Three Far-Eyes, sat opposite their visitor. Cloudreaver took a place next to Three Far-Eyes.

  Sun Feather sat down next to Caramon, moving gingerly. He picked up a stick and prodded the ground with it. It took Caramon a moment to realize he was outlining a rough map. “Centuries ago the kyrie inhabited many of the islands of Ansalon,” Sun Feather told Caramon. “We migrated around the world, never content to stay in one place. Our long flights over the oceans were made possible by a magical device called the Northstone. Because we grew to depend on the Northstone, we lost many of our natural instincts, including the ability to navigate. Then we lost the Northstone, and it fell into the possession of our dire enemies, the minotaurs.”

  The female kyrie hovered in the background, apparently busy with preparations for a meal. Now the older one circled behind the three male kyrie and Caramon, distributing stone mugs of a pale, flecked liquid. Caramon cupped his in both hands, sipping eagerly. The warm broth was like nothing Caramon had ever tasted before-rich, flavorful, and instantly nourishing. He could feel it course through his body, refreshing him and sating his hunger.

  The kyrie leader’s face hardened with bitter memories as he continued his chronicle. “Gradually we gathered here,” Sun Feather related, “most of us on the island of Mithas, other clans scattered on nearby islands. Although we can still take long, soaring flights, we no longer cross the oceans. Without the Northstone, we are stranded in this part of the world. We live here”-he gestured broadly-“as best as we are able, as peaceably as we are allowed.”

  Caramon had countless questions he wanted to ask. He sputtered out two: “What do you want with me? Why did you rescue me from the dungeon in Atossa?”

  Cloudreaver answered before Sun Feather could. “I saw you and your friend nearly drowning in the Blood Sea. I did what I could to alleviate your plight.”

  Caramon’s eyes widened. “So that was you!” he exclaimed. “You dropped some kind of bread to us.”

  “It was my own ration,” said the kyrie mildly.

  Impulsively Caramon reached across and clasped the kyrie’s hands. “You saved our lives,” the Majere twin said warmly. “Then you risked your own to help me escape from prison.” The young warrior spoke passionately, his words heartfelt. “I owe you more than I could ever hope to repay.”

  Cloudreaver looked a little uneasy at Caramon’s effusive display of emotion. Sun Feather beamed. “Cloudreaver is my son,” said the kyrie elder proudly. As Caramon gazed at the bird-man who had gone to such lengths to rescue him, Cloudreaver lowered his eyes. All the earlier traces of arrogance had vanished.

  “I have two sons,” added Sun Feather. “My firstborn…”

  His voice faltered. “My firstborn. Morning Sky, is the one who was… with you… being held prisoner in Atossa.” He bent his head sorrowfully.

  Caramon didn’t know what to say. Finally he had learned who the broken man was. Bowing his head, he was overcome with emotion at the realization that the man was Sun Feather’s firstborn. Morning Sky. Did Sun Feather know how close his son was to death? How Morning Sky had been tortured and abused by the minotaurs? Did Sun Feather know how brave and resolute his son was? How, even in his brief conversations with Caramon, he had shown no fear of his fate?

  Silence settled over the room, then was broken by the plaintive weeping of one of the females.

  “We know how the minotaurs are treating Morning Sky,” said Sun Feather softly. “We know that he has been tortured to the point of death. We have little hope of ever seeing him free, among us, again.”

  It was as if the leader of the kyrie had read Caramon’s mind. Noticing the warrior’s questioning glance. Sun Feather pointed to his head, and Caramon remembered what the broken man had said about telepathy.

  “But why couldn’t you have freed your son instead of me?” asked Caramon earnestly.

  “My son is chained constantly,” replied Sun Feather in an even voice, “except when he is permitted to eat. Otherwise he would kill himself. The minotaurs know that about kyrie, even if they know little else about our kind. It is a disgrace for a kyrie to be captured alive.”

  Caramon drank from his cup of broth. It didn’t seem right. He was free, while Morning Sky was being tortured and beaten in prison. “Maybe,” the human warrior ventured, “if we were to storm the dungeon…”

  “It would be suicide for all involved,” put in Three Far-Eyes, speaking for the first time. The old one’s face was somber. “We are a courageous people, but we are not foolhardy.”

  “What about the tunnel?”

  Cloudreaver scoffed. “The tunnel is tight and narrow. It would take hours to squeeze even a small attack force into the prison through the tunnel, and there would be no fast way out. We would have a dozen guards to contend with, as well as the chains and bars of my brother’s cell. We have thought about all of this. We have discussed it, argued about it, and come up with nothing.”

  The kyrie frowned, a shadow darkening his face. “No, there is no way out for my brother. He is doomed.”

  From the other kyrie came murmured assent. Caramon sat silent for a long time. “Why do they torture him?” the young human from Solace wondered aloud.

  “We have pitted ourselves against the minotaurs for hundreds upon hundreds of years,” answered Sun Feather. “Over time, we have gathered in these and other mountain enclaves, living far away from the minotaur cities. Although we roam the valleys, foraging food and hunting small animals, we always retreat here. While the bull-men are adept in land battle or at sea, they are oafs when it comes to exploring the mountains. They cannot climb the high peaks to drive us out. To them, we are an alien presence in the midst of their homeland. To us, they are a scourge upon the earth. As they are determined to hunt and destroy us, so too are we sworn to kill them whenever they cross our path.

  “In recent months,” Sun Feather continued, “minotaur contingents have penetrated our territory and become more intrepid in locating our aeries. The bull-men have successfully raided some of our smaller outlying settlements, vanquishing our warriors, butchering scores of our women and young. It is said that, in some instances, they have been aided by scaly flying creatures who scouted the terrain in advance and carried weapons and supplies.”

  “Dragons?” It was Caramon’s turn to scoff. “Everyone knows there are no dragons in Ansalon. That is nighttime talk for children, for fables.”

  “Not dragons,” Cloudreaver cut in vehemently. “Flying creatures of a type that has not existed before this time.”

  Caramon looked skeptical.

  “Of course we have no proof,” said Sun Feather. “There are no surviving eyewitnesses. The minotaurs kill every kyrie and burn everything, leaving only scorched earth. They rarely take prisoners.” He paused, allowed himself a sip of hot liquid, and continued, choosing his words carefully and controlling his emotions. “My son, Morning Sky, is one of the exceptions. He was captured at an outpost that he commanded. They realized he is of high rank, possibly noble lineage. From him, they demanded information about our number, our customs and rituals, the whereabouts of our sanctuaries.”

  This soliloquy seemed to have exhausted Sun Feather, whose face sagged and shoulders drooped. He put down his cup of broth, then clasped his hands together and nodded to Cloudreaver.

  “They have not tortured any information out of him,” spat Cloudreaver, “nor will they get any, no matter how devious their cruelty. Morning Sky will expel his final breath without telling them so much as his name.”

  Caramon looked into Cloudreaver’s pebble-black eyes, grim and fatalistic, like his brother’s, the broken man’s. Sun Feather reached over and touched his son on the wrist. The older female kyrie came over and whispered something in Sun Feather’s ear. The elder kyrie nodded.

  “And what about you, my son?” asked Three Far-Eyes gently, breaking the silence. “What is your name? What is your story?”

  Caramon told them, leaving nothing out. The trip to Southern Ergoth, the magic storm, the capture of Tasslehoff, his and Sturm’s trial at sea, their imprisonment. Although the kyrie were exceedingly interested in the role the minotaurs played in Caramon’s curious saga, they could add little to the mystery of why the minotaur kingdom would be so preoccupied by a single kender, much less the herb, jalopwort.

  “Except,” pointed out Three Far-Eyes, “do not forget one thing. Jalopwort is common on Mithas and Karthay, but quite rare, if not altogether absent, from other parts of the world. And like other things on Mithas, the minotaurs define it as their own, sacred, with certain ritualistic uses.”

  Sun Feather nodded sagely.

  Time passed. Now the young female kyrie-her face strikingly beautiful, her red hair flecked with gold-brought out cups and bowls, setting them before Caramon and the others.

  Following the example of the kyrie, Caramon dipped his fingers into a basin of cool water, then washed and dried his hands. From the serving bowls, he chose an assortment of nuts, berries, and greens. The older female appeared behind his shoulder and ladled several small cubes of raw red meat onto his plate.

  After some minutes, during which they all ate hungrily, Cloudreaver spoke. “A sentinel stays in the tunnel at all times,” the young kyrie said, returning to the topic of his brother. “He watches over Morning Sky, hoping against hope for some change in his circumstances.

  “We speak to him only a little, always furtively. It would not be wise to take chances. When Morning Sky is able, he speaks to us. Even if the minotaur guards overhear a few words, they do not understand our native language, so they think it is delirium. That is how we were able to tell Morning Sky about the two humans who had been captured and brought to the prison. After talking it over with him, we decided to risk liberating you.”

  “Why?” asked Caramon thoughtfully.

  “For one thing, I saw how you behaved toward my brother,” answered Cloudreaver.

  “You saw me?”

  “I was in the tunnel. That close to my brother, I could see through his eyes, through the walls of stone. My heart beats with the same rhythm as his. My head shares his thoughts.

  I listened to your words and saw and believed you to be a good and compassionate human.”

  Caramon was silent. He was thinking about his own brother, Raistlin. Wasn’t it that way between him and Raist? That they could see with each other’s eyes sometimes? That their hearts also beat as one?

  “We do not have much experience with humans,” interjected Sun Feather diplomatically. “I myself have never before been face-to-face with one in my three hundred years of life on this earth.”

  “Three hundred years!” exclaimed Caramon. The young warrior knew that dwarves and elves were long-lived, but already Sun Feather had lived more than three times the span that Caramon would in his time.

  “Yes,” admitted Sun Feather, chuckling. “I am old and past my prime. When I am gone, it will be up to Cloudreaver-“

  “Father!” cried Cloudreaver, bringing up his arm and making an angry gesture.

  The female kyrie looked upset. Three Far-Eyes dropped his glance. Sun Feather looked chastened.

  “Cloudreaver is right,” the leader of the kyrie said in a low voice. “It is not right to speak of Morning Sky as if he is already dead. Morning Sky is the firstborn and blood heir to the leadership. But-” His voice broke.

  Three Far-Eyes hastened to change the subject. “Most of the humans we know of,” said Three Far-Eyes softly, “are brigands or slaves. But our legends tell us that humans can be intelligent and sensitive and loyal. Besides, we felt that it was worth the risk to bring shame down on the bull-men. They will be greatly dishonored by news of an escape from their prison at Atossa.”

  “Won’t they punish Morning Sky?” worried Caramon.

  ‘They will never execute my brother,” said Cloudreaver grimly. “They will keep him alive as long as they can.”

  After the meal was over, the female kyrie brought out pipes, chewing tobacco, and a bowl with thick, cut-up pieces of some kind of gummy root. Cloudreaver chose a long-stemmed pipe, filled it with some substance from a pouch, and puffed on it contemplatively. Three Far-Eyes chewed on tobacco. Sun Feather reached for the root, and Caramon politely followed suit.

  Outside, darkness had fallen and quiet reigned. Inside the cave, the elder female moved about the room, reaching for a half-dozen small spheres set into the wall, which by her touch were magically lit and cast a pale blue light.