Revenge of the Wingkeepers

Kingdom of Talvoria

Pine Forest beyond Portavella

15th Day of Caelen, Year 1123, Dravwen

Ithar-Caevron & Rothar-Caevron

The Uillichán and their kin, the Cairán, had gathered amid the tall pines that, alone or in loose groups, ruled this outlying stretch of the forest. A ring of torches lit almost the entire clearing. At its center stood Gualtiero Narvardo, the master of ceremonies of the local clan, and beside him the great egret. The long-legged bird with silvery white feathers reached up to the Elder’s shoulder.

Beyond the torches, the others formed a second circle. The night was warm, bright, and clear. The men present wore trousers and the women skirts of thin linen or cotton. The grass tickled their bare feet. Their upper bodies were adorned with colored symbols that stood for their lineages, the moon phases, and their tribe. The signs gleamed in the torchlight on the fur of the wolves as well.

They howled. Humans and wolves. A song that carried far through the night, into the forest and out over the sea. Among them were their Soul Animals. Large and small, with feathers, fur, or scales, on two legs or four or none at all. They filled the space between the individuals, close beside their companions, on their shoulders, or even on their heads.

The first Uillichán transformed, leaving their hairless skin behind, growing taller, gaining mass, fur, claws, and teeth.

Not only the humans but the wolves too took on another form, grew beyond themselves, left the wild beasts behind. The song became unbridled, primal, and not a single Uillichán could resist its pull. Soon they all stood in their sacred form, as the Moon Goddess had gifted it to them, among their human and wolfish siblings, who seemed tiny and slight beside them.

The howling resounded even into the world of spirits. From there they came.

First the rat, glowing silvery white and many times larger than her cousins of the real world. She leapt out of nowhere from one spot to the next, and wherever she landed, a cloud of mist formed, only to vanish again as soon as the spirit being had left the place. She circled the open center of the gathering and came to rest in midair across from the master of ceremonies, plainly visible to all.

From the light of the two moons, a double roar rang into the many-voiced howling. Out of Ithar’s silver glow stepped a mighty lion, golden white. His enormous mane looked as if it were made of flowing light and smoke at once. His eyes shone like two suns, warm and piercing. His roar passed through the bodies of the howling Uillichán and Cairán and set the very air vibrating.

From Rothar’s red glow, the bear followed him. With dark, moss-covered fur that looked like bark, he towered over the lion, and his rumbling reached deep into the earth. His eyes shone like liquid amber.

The lion and the bear circled the inner ring of those gathered, and as the primal animal set one foot in front of the other, it seemed as if the forest itself were moving.

A shriek pierced the howling of the Uillichán, and down from the sky glided the ghostly silver heron, a perfect likeness of the bird standing beside Gualtiero and yet different – more sublime. He circled above those present, bathed in their howling, and left damp dew in fur and hair before he found his place in the inner circle.

The howling fell silent, and most of the Uillichán changed back into their original form.

Gualtiero raised his arms in an all-embracing gesture. Although the skin hung wrinkled and slack from his upper arms, he radiated the energy of youth.

“There is no more beautiful place in all the wide world than in the very lap of Mòrah Talen,” his rough voice rang out into the night. “Here we hear and smell the nearby water. We feel the wind caressing us, the warming fire, and the earth beneath our feet. Perfection, protected and guarded under Naraya’s eyes.” Smiling, he pointed up at the two half-moons and then at the ghostly creatures in the inner circle. “And by our spirit guides.”

“And once again he forgets us,” a cheeky voice called out from the crowd.

Gualtiero smirked. “And by our Soul Animals, who accompany us at all times.”

He paused, took a breath, and for a moment it seemed as if the forest itself drew a deep breath. “It is the perfect night to welcome a child.”

The master of ceremonies beckoned the young parents to him. The circle of onlookers closed again at once as Kharenna and Mavaro di Caerano stepped through between the torches.

The mother was accompanied by her vixen. With a smile on her lips, she laid her son, wrapped in blankets, in the old man’s arms. The vixen watched attentively as the child was handed over.

Enraptured, Gualtiero gazed at the little being in his arms, which exactly fourteen days earlier had first seen the light of the world under half-moons much like those now visible above them. While at the child’s birth the silver moon Ithar and the red moon Rothar had been waxing, now both stood waning in the sky.

Gualtiero’s windows to the soul glided over the open, toothless mouth and the clear blue eyes that returned his gaze full of curiosity.

“I welcome you, Valeno di Caerano. You are a special child.” With one finger he traced the newborn’s forehead and the bridge of his nose. “You are not only a Talvorian. The blood of the Caerwyn’sair slumbers within you. One day it will awaken in you. In your eyes I recognize the heritage of the di Caeranos, and I tell you, you are destined for great deeds.”

As if to underline his words, Naeryskor, the shimmering rat, leapt in between the parents. Floating, her whiskers of silver thread glided over the child’s body, and wherever they touched him, they left dark speckles. Naeryskor sprang through the air, circled the Elder and the parents, and took her place again.

Gualtiero raised his head and regarded the shadowy shapes of the onlookers through the torchlight. “Who is the boy’s godparent?”

“I am,” a voice called, and a woman with a wiry figure and a rounded belly stepped into the circle. “Selvara di Valtena, sister of the father.”

Gualtiero looked at her with a gaze as solemn as it was earnest as he continued: “And do you, who call yourself godmother, swear in the name of the divine Sisters? Do you swear to protect this boy, to warm him, to nourish him, to comfort him, and to give him your unconditional love? Do you swear to take the place of his parents, should they be unable to fulfill their duties?”

“I swear in the name of Mòrah Talen and Naraya,” Selvara answered.

The Elder nodded, satisfied, then raised his gaze to the onlookers again and asked: “Who is the boy’s mentor?”

“That is I, Valkiro di Caerano, the boy’s grandfather,” he declared as he stepped forward, a long-eared owl on his arm.

The master of ceremonies regarded the Uillichán critically before he went on: “You are Caevron, born under the half Ithar, as it stands above us. Do you swear in the name of the divine Sisters? Do you swear to teach this boy, to pass our legends on to him, to awaken and nurture his talents? Do you swear to show him the path, as it is destined for all Caevron?”

“I swear in the name of Mòrah Talen and Naraya,” the wolf-human answered.

With his oath, Solaryn Caevrah, the lion, and Thuran Vethkar, the bear, stepped up to the child. As gently as one would hardly have thought possible for these gigantic spirit forms, they touched the baby with their paws and left tiny prints on his body. Then they stepped back to their places in the circle.

In awe, the Uillichán and Cairán around the boy watched the totems go.

Gualtiero’s rough voice rang out once more in the night: “Valeno, as Airthan you have seen the light. As Naraya wishes it, your parents are Uillichán and Cairán, both Airthan themselves.” While the old man spoke, Caerthyn, the silver heron, stalked closer.

“Kharenna, Mavaro, do you swear in the name of the divine Sisters to teach your son the ways of the humans among the Uillichán, to guide him and protect him until he no longer needs your protection?”

Mother and father looked at each other with a smile, gazed at their son, and gave their oath.

At their words, Caerthyn raised a wing and left fine dew on the boy’s almost hairless head. The child stretched and reached out his hands, trying to grab the feathers, and brought a smile to the lips of those around him. Then the silver heron stepped back into the circle of totems.

Gualtiero looked down, smiling, at the newborn, who had wrapped his tiny hand around the old man’s wrinkled index finger.

“Join hands. Form a circle.” He waited until the parents, the godmother, and the mentor followed his instructions, as did the witnesses in the outer ring.

The long-eared owl rose from Valkiro’s arm and found a place in the lower branches of the nearest pine.

“In your hands rests the responsibility for a life. So many hands, different experiences, different paths with other thoughts. Which one will be the true one?” Gualtiero’s rough voice could be heard. Rocking the boy in his arms, the old man slowly turned in place, fixing his attention on each of the four in turn.

“There is none. Each of you can only give your best. It cannot always be the right thing in the eyes of all of you. How can a warrior understand when his blood seeks peace? Does a Cairán understand the heritage of the Uillichán? Does an old man grasp all the ways of youth?” Gualtiero shook his head. “You cannot consider everything. It is good that you are different, for only in this way can you give your ward your most valuable experiences, and with them a wealth of knowledge. Remember that always when you do not agree. It is not the path that stands at the center, but the child you have sworn to protect and to teach.”

Gualtiero let his words sink in for a moment before he went on with a smile: “Enough of warnings. Let me tell you something about our child.” He lowered his gaze into the blue eyes of the baby in his arm and took a deep breath.

The onlookers behind the torches began a monotonous chant that rose above the lapping waves and the rushing wind. Lost in the windows to the soul, Gualtiero’s voice sounded slower and stronger at once.

“Valeno di Caerano, you are blessed by Caerthyn, the silver heron of the Airthan, by Solaryn Caevrah, the lion of the Ithar-Caevron, by Thuran Vethkar, the bear of the Rothar-Caevron, and by Naeryskor, the rat of the Caerwyn’sair. You will bear their marks forever and always honor them. You were born under two half-moons. A judge slumbers within you. Will you become a mediator, or will you always seek the detail in the truth? Perhaps you will walk the paths of peace? Most certainly you will follow your own head. And who could keep you in check, when you carry your father’s stubbornness and your mother’s willfulness within you? You will be a protector; you seek the ideal path. And doubts will find you. You are drawn out into the world; far from home you will make a name for yourself. Sorrow will follow you and let you grow. Strong you will become, wielding your sword beneath Naraya’s eyes. You carry our heritage in your seed.”

Many-voiced howling ended the speech as Gualtiero lifted the boy high, into the light of the half-moons and the totems. They rose silently and followed their paths. Outside the ring of torches, the Uillichán stood towering in the form of the Draegarth. Naraya’s champions had thrown back their heads. Howling, they thanked the Goddess for her blessing upon the child in their midst.