The Grand Tourney: Birdsong

     When the pennants and peaks of tents finally came into view, it was against a sky turned hazy gold in the wake of the storm
     In the end they had chosen to skirt around Mead, ranging out wide through the scattered forest and shrublands surrounding the Tourney Grounds rather than going through the town itself. Even the river crossing on the road there had been thick with other travelers, and neither of them had had any desire to try their luck in another inn after how things had gone during their last attempt; especially not here, where people were sure to be keeping a closer eye on a mage’s affiliation or lack thereof.
     As they made their way in, Wanderer carefully picking his way down a gorse-strewn slope with Cirrus keeping a watchful eye from above, he kept an eye out for hollows where they could bed down for the night at a safe distance. It was all too easy to be distracted by the distant murmur from the festivities up ahead, and he was admittedly not being quite as diligent as usual. Light, color, strains of music, and here and there a gout of flame or crackle of lightning burst into the sky– tournament-sanctioned combat, or just a demonstration of skill?
     He’d never faced the prospect of being around this many other mages. Certainly he had crossed paths with others here and there, solitary like him, but it was only ever brief; coming together to face a common threat in the wilds, or meeting momentarily in passing while in one of the small villages on the edges of the jungle. Truth be told, Wanderer wasn’t sure what they’d think of him, since his magic wasn’t particularly noble or beautiful. It was effective for what he asked of it. That didn’t mean that he had much desire to show it off. Not when corruption was the first thought in many peoples' minds when it came to mages of late.
     Any burgeoning misgivings were abruptly cut short when he nearly turned an ankle on yet another stone concealed under the thick golden grass, and cursed audibly. Overhead, there was a distant mental chuckle.
     You should fly.
     I don’t need to make a spectacle of myself.
     He wouldn’t be the only guest arriving on the wing, based on the wheeling shapes over the tourney grounds that were far too large to be birds, but he’d made this journey on foot for a reason.
     Why have wings you don’t use?
     We’ll fly when we don’t have hunters sniffing at our heels.
     It didn’t seem like he should be able to hear the dismissive noise his companion made in response–that certainly wasn’t a sound that their mental link should pick up–but he heard it nonetheless.
     The skies here are the only good since leaving our territory.
     We’re almost there. I’m sure you’ll find something to entertain yourself.
     With a heavy mental sigh Cirrus caught a breeze and went swooping off down the slope, tumbling and rolling in the breeze in a needless show of acrobatics with his white pinion feathers flashing in the last of the afternoon sun. Shaking his head, Wanderer returned his attention to the uneven ground underfoot. The old remains of a tree stuck up from the scrub just ahead, long-since stripped silver-bare by wind and weather, and on reasonably level ground besides; he tramped out a nest in the grass, shed the heavier saddlebag that carried most of his supplies–no need to unsettle others whose noses were sensitive enough to catch the scent of meat in his pack–and bowed deep, stretching his legs out.
     Alright, you feathered little show-off. NOW we’re ready.
     There was a delighted squawk from somewhere down the slope, and Wanderer shook his head as he followed steadily after his familiar.

*       *       *

     The Tourney Grounds didn't have any clear delineation, or at least not one he could see. Tents were scattered here and there anywhere a level spot was available in the waving grasses, with haphazard trails trodden down between them by countless sets of hooves. It was bustling even now as the light started to wane–more hooved in one place than Wanderer had ever seen–but thankfully nobody seemed to take note of his passing. How could they? Everyone was busy, almost overwhelmingly so, and the air was filled with a dull baseline of conversation interspersed with the thunder of hooves, the clash of steel on steel, vendors hawking their wares, announcements bellowed over it all…
     It didn't take him long to realize that wild mage or no, he was all but invisible among a sea of other faceless attendees.
     Perfect.
     He picked his way delicately deeper into the camp, ears twitching this way and that in response to the cacophony that surrounded him. There were rings of trampled dirt here and there among the assembly, surrounded by barriers low enough that even the smallest of hooved attendees could see over them comfortably, and in more than one of them he saw mages sparring; some with deftly wielded weapons, some with pure magic. And oh, the magic! Bolts of flame and explosions of radiance, music that tugged at him with magical compulsion and swirling swarms of insects that darkened the air… he hadn't had much occasion to see other mages, and he hadn't begun to dream of how many ways power could manifest itself. To see it being practiced in so many forms, so openly…
     He had to force himself to remember that it was only certain mages allowed this sort of freedom.
     An unexpected breeze of cold air caught him by surprise, the chill sharp enough to make the deer flinch and snap his head around for its source. It appeared he wasn't the only one; all around him, Wanderer heard sharp inhales and exclamations of surprise and annoyance.
     "Keep it in the ring, Aliet," someone barked sharply.
     The ring– there was a Tourney ring nearby, and sure enough two mages were after each other in what looked like a truly lopsided matchup, by Wanderer's reckoning. One of the two, a towering bull half-armored in filigree bronze plate, was lunging and wheeling surrounded by a halo of flickering weapons. As he watched, the bull lashed out with a blade that seemed to shift and split into three as it swung… but only carved a single gouge into a hovering shield of ice shards that appeared abruptly in the air.
     "Enough of your fucking illusions," the emaciated-looking stallion in the ring snarled. He must have been the source of that chill breeze, since he wore his power obviously enough; rime was spiderwebbed thick across his body, white against the dull gray of his coat, and icicles hung from his mane and fetlocks.
     The bull laughed–and the sound seemed genuinely cheerful, Wanderer noted–and slammed his head forward in a blow that shattered the ice while his weapons wove graceful spirals around him. “Tired already?”
     “Against you? Hardly.” But the horse’s breath was coming hard, frosty and visible even in the warm air of late summer. He still moved nimbly enough, circling quickly out of range of his opponent and leaving a slick of obscuring ice on the ground underfoot. “Just sick– of your– fucking—”
     There was a sharp cracking noise, and for a moment Wanderer sucked in his breath because the mage–Aliet?–stumbled and went down sharply to one knee… but no, nothing broken, just a stumble because his opponent had slammed a sword down on that frozen ground hard enough to fracture it into shards. Before the frost mage could recover though, the bull had charged in and come to a halt, looming over him with a half-dozen swords poised and ready to strike.
     There, strike! Wanderer had been holding his breath without even realizing it. There was a coppery and familiar smell in the air; red was blooming on Aliet’s legs, scratched by splinters of ice.
     The world narrowed, flickered. Strike.
     Your prey is down. Strike. STRIKE.
     “Evren Aliet, do you yield?” The bull’s words were formal, but even from a distance there was no mistaking the enthusiasm on his face, the honest grin. “It was a good match. Nice to–”
     “I do not, Rathma,” the horse spat. “And you’re a fool.”
     The air was suddenly cold, crystals suspended like diamonds in the air. The sharded ice on the ground exploded upwards, lethal blades all convening on a single target’s exposed underbelly…
     And stopping short, breaking apart as they came suddenly into contact with a rippling skintight shield of light.
     “Enough!” A furious-looking ram was trotting onto the field, “Dishonorably done, Aliet, for godssakes this is the third time–”
     Dishonorable?
     The horse was climbing to his feet, a sour look on his face. “I fight to win, Magister. Which I believe, by all rights, I have.”
     There was a vague spluttering sound from the officiant. “Technically speaking–”
     “I suppose so,” Rathma rumbled. “Was a friendly match for once too much to ask?”
     “We’re not friends. Take something seriously for once. Monsters don’t care about your pretty honor and neither do I.”
     “You’re here as a representative of the Order–”
     “I’m leaving,” Aliet said curtly, cutting the ram off mid-reprimand. “Send my winnings to my tent.”
     “Your wounds–”
     “I’ll tend to the scratches.” He stalked off, leaving frost-tipped grass in his wake, and with a regretful shake of heavy horns Rathma moved off in the other direction.
     That was an Order mage? Cirrus’ s voice murmured in his head inquisitively.
     Wanderer hardly noticed the commentary, still trying to let his head clear. The fight had affected him more than he’d expected; maybe it had been the scent of blood, maybe the fact that he only ever saw fights that were deadly serious, but he’d felt his adrenaline rising in response.
     The frost mage, Order or not, had definitely been fighting with deadly intent. The same way he would have. So what made being a wild mage so different than an Order mage? Why did it matter so much that he wasn’t living under the yoke?
     Looking around, he peered out from underneath the folds of his hood. Come. We should keep– CIRRUS. He’d finally caught a glimpse of his familiar, some fifty feet distant down the gap between a pair of tents… and also caught a glimpse of what his familiar was doing. Stop that!
     He didn’t run–better not to draw attention, if he could possibly avoid it–but as soon as he managed to break free of the crowd he broke into a purposeful trot to where the feathered little troublemaker was sitting on top of a tough wood-woven kennel, industriously picking away at the bindings that held some of the bars in place. Some feet below, a trio of very large scalehounds were letting out a barely-audible growl that he could feel in his bones.
     They were also looking up at the crow.
     Could I ask that you not make mischief in situations where it may get us caught? Or get you eaten, for that matter?
     They wouldn’t catch me.
     They might not have to, if the dogs do first.
     Dogs won’t catch me either, the crow said smugly. No wings.
     They’re bred for crocodilians and swampwyrms. Do you have any idea how high they can jump when they’re trained for it?
     Technically speaking, they had tangled with scalehounds before; the heavily-muscled canines were used for dangerous hunts, and sometimes they survived their ill-fated masters and ran wild. But there was a big difference between scrawny half-feral dogs and the well-fed, well trained hounds that were currently growling up at his familiar.
     Come closer, little pesterbird, a snarling voice said on the edge of his thoughts. Come closer, and I’ll grind you between my teeth.
     Landbound little muddog.
     There was a sharp bark, and Wanderer sighed deeply as he watched what he assumed was the lead dog launch itself a good six feet straight into the air to snap sharply just shy of the kennel’s barred roof.
     Cirrus. Enough. Come away, there’s plenty of folk to ingratiate yourself to who are less likely to take a bite.
     The crow tilted his head to fix the dogs below with a beady, then flipped his tail dismissively at them and launched himself aloft. Once he’d put enough distance between him and the dogs, he added, Stupid. I was letting them out to play.
     I don’t think playing is what they had in mind. Try to stay out of trouble, please.
     Hmph. The bird disappeared out of sight over the tents, and Wanderer resigned himself to the fact that he was probably going to hear about more misadventures sooner rather than later.
     He meandered his way through the camp, enjoying the opportunity to pass thoroughly unnoticed among so many other mages. Nobody stared here, noticing the features he couldn’t easily cover like the feathers at the nape of his neck or his sharp teeth; if anything, he was probably more subdued-looking than most of his brightly-colored peers. And so he took his time, took the chance to peer at every stall and tent and table that he passed.
     It was like the whole world was for sale here, if you could afford it; he couldn’t, really, not with his scant funds, but there was plenty to catch his eye and he groaned internally when he noticed how many Shiny Things there were for a bored crow to take notice of. Plenty of the tables were filled with simple bits of vanity or memorabilia, but more people seemed to be catering to the audience at hand and there was no shortage of arms and armor and clearly magical items. After a life spent in the wilds and the small fringe villages, it was a staggering display of abundance.
     Night had fallen fully now, and the sun’s glow was only a vague afterimage in the western sky. Overhead, torches and spheres of cheery golden light lit up the Tourney with a pleasant radiance that was easy enough on his eyes. There was no indication that things might slow down anytime soon; if anything, it felt like the place had gotten even busier, and he found himself looking for an opportunity to slip away from the main thoroughfares just to catch his breath in a place he could halt without being jostled.
     It was only when he did that he saw her.
     It was just for a moment, and only a glance from some distance away, but he happened to look up just in time to see a slender figure picking their way between a set of tents. The stranger was cloaked like him, form and features largely obscured. But as he knew all too well, some features were hard to hide. An almost-bladed, curving horn rose from the distant figure’s brow, and for just a moment her features were illuminated by torchlight enough for Wanderer to catch a glimpse of dark, liquid eyes and a mane hung with feathers and a small flash of ivory.
     It was just a moment, and then she was gone, but he recognized her.
     Cirrus, I need you. There was a grumble down their mental link. There’s someone I need you to trail.
     The request must have sounded interesting enough to pique his familiar’s curiosity, because a moment later a dark shape floated overhead and came to rest attentively on a line of pennants strung between the tents.
     Hunting?
     Of a sort. I want you to follow a mage I just saw.
     He had never met her, but he’d seen her face before. Many times before, actually. It felt like her portrait–and the wanted notice it was printed on–had been hung on every signpost between here and the Sunless Jungle: Shira Birdsong, wanted for questioning by order of Archon Miriam. A wind mage. A wild mage. A rogue.
     He’d known that coming right into the heart of a display of the Order’s power was a poor idea for a wild mage like himself; he couldn’t begin to fathom what she might be doing here.
     And it was none of his business, really, but when had that ever stopped him before?
     She went that way just a moment ago. Follow her for me, and I’ll follow you.
     Cirrus dipped his beak in agreement, then dropped off of his perch and climbed into the air with labored wingbeats. At night, with the dark sky above them, it didn’t take long for him to vanish into the dark.
     And Wanderer followed behind him.
     He didn’t quite know what the plan was, but he was desperately curious.to know what had brought another wild mage right into the heart of danger… and maybe her answer could help him find his own.
     The deer delicately picked his way through the shadows behind the tents, slipping past the gaps where light shone bright as quickly as he could in pursuit of a half-glimpsed Cirrus floating overheard. They were moving along parallel to the edge of camp, on the outer edge where it wasn’t quite so busy or loud, but that didn’t mean things were deserted; he caught snatches of conversation here and there as he moved along, caught glimpses through half-closed tent flaps of faces that sometimes were turned just right to glimpse him back. When he’d gained enough ground that he could see the distant form of the mage moving down the row ahead of him, he cut between another row of tents to parallel her instead.
     She moves like she’s hunting, Cirrus remarked from overhead.
     Does she?
     She stops and starts. Scents the air and keeps to the shadows.
     So do I.
     You ARE hunting. There was a pause. And so are they.
     Wanderer paused midstep. Oh?
     Guards, maybe. In armor. Closing in from around.
     A tightening noose, and not one he could afford to let catch him if it was meant for another. I have to fall back, then. Will you keep watch?
     Do I help her?
     A good question. Enough of one to give him a moment’s pause. If you have a chance to. Yes.
     He knew nothing about her. Nothing about why she was wanted, or what she was doing here, or what her intentions were… but without knowing anything else, Wanderer knew that he didn’t want to see another wild mage caught in a snare.
     As for himself, it was more than past time to blend into the crowd and make his retreat. At least for the time being.
     Wanderer made it almost halfway across the camp before there was an unholy clamor from somewhere behind him.
     Shouting. The sound of things being upturned, and as he whipped his head around he saw more than one peaked tent roof wavering drunkenly before coming down altogether. And through it all, brassy and furious, he could hear the bellowing yelps of hunting dogs.
     Oh no. You didn’t–
     A small feathery missile shot by overhead, sounding very pleased. TimetogotimetogoTIMETOGO–
     Deciding that most of the camp had bigger problems right now than one fleeing tourneygoer, Wanderer turned tail and bounded into the night.

*      *       *

     The chaos that Cirrus had caused took hours to quell, and even from the spot he’d chosen to bed down for the night Wanderer had been able to head the shouting long into the night.  Falling asleep had taken some time–and come after more than a little scolding, especially after realizing the crow had snagged himself a glittering brooch that thankfully looked to be more ostentatious than truly valuable–but in time weariness overcame him and he sank down in the grass with his familiar perched watchfully overhead.
     It wasn’t yet daybreak, however, before he was woken by the sounds of someone approaching.
     By all rights, he shouldn’t have heard them. Whoever it was was moving all but silently, picking their way across the treacherous footing with great care, and even Wanderer couldn’t be sure if it truly was a sound that had woken him rather than some instinct born of a lifetime in the wilds. But something roused him out of sleep. He cracked his eyes open, gold and owl-sharp in the darkness, and caught the faintest glimpse of movement outside of his encircling ring of gorse.
     His senses narrowed to a razor focus, and he was just beginning to feel his magic start to unspool from somewhere deep inside when Cirrus muttered sleepily overhead.
     It’s her.
     That brought his ears up, and he lifted his head from the grass with the understanding that she’d see him… and know that he saw her.
     The dark figure on the other side of the bushes came to a halt.
     “Do I have you to thank for that timely distraction?”
     Her voice was low, sweet enough that it wasn’t hard to tell why they called her Birdsong.
     “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m sure.”
     She chuckled. “That’s a very safe answer, isn’t it?. I can respect that.”
     “Whatever happened down there served us both well enough.”
     “It did, didn’t it? I hadn’t expected another wild mage here. What is it you’re after, I wonder?”
     He didn’t have an answer for her even if he wanted to give one, so he changed the subject. “You’re a wild mage, aren’t you. Shira Birdsong.”
     “You know of me?” She sighed. “Those damned notices.”
     There were things he wanted to ask her. That had been the whole point of keeping her out of the guard’s grasp. But in the dead of night, it all seemed less important somehow, and he was exhausted. “You should leave this place. Whatever brought you here, you’re too easy to spot. It’s not worth the risk.”
     “I could say the same to you, stranger.” For just a moment, he could see the glimmer of one dark eye as she turned her head to glance back down the slope. “I’ll leave when my work here is done, but for the meantime…. Well. Maybe our paths will cross again.”
     “Maybe so.”
     The shadow on the far side of the gorse moved out of sight, and now that he was listening for it Wanderer heard her hoofsteps retreating away. Not, he noticed, in the direction of the forest at the top of the slope.
     She’s going back, Cirrus remarked quietly.
     What’s she up to, I wonder?
     Not done hunting.
     Well, she’s not hunting US. Yawning, the deer laid his head back down in the grass and shifted his legs underneath him more comfortably. There’s a few hours yet until morning. Go to sleep, bird.