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But a good deal of thornbush filled a gentler slope leading up to his vantage. He amused himself by relieving himself into it.
Wistala was downwind, and the odor struck her nose like a challenge, the clattering in her ears a rattle of an enemy drake’s griff. She crept slowly through the densest brambles, sliding around the clusters of branch with their pitiful clumps of earth held tight by roots, until his shadow practically fell on her through the thorny lattice.
She took two steps closer, marked the route she’d use in the final dash—
He saw her approach too late and extended his hand, not the one holding a weapon, but rather to show some kind of talisman.>She just got her hips through the window, at the cost of a slight scraping sound and a whisper of a creak.
The figure stirred a little.
Wistala took the doll out of its bag and unwrapped it, mindful of the ears at the bottom of the stairs.
Wistala came still closer, feeling her way across rough, dry wood. A washbasin bowl with a little water, a bit glass with a number of dried wildflowers in it, a half-finished woven basket, and a few odd and ends of clothing hanging from some pegs were all the room contained.
A foot with the five ridiculous, almost-useless hominid toes stuck out of the blanket. Wistala gave it an experimental lick.
The figure stirred again.
“Hsssst,” said Wistala, as quietly as she could.
A wide green eye opened.
“Don’t be afraid,” Wistala said in Parl.
The human figure sat bolt upright even as she scooted up against the wall, drawing the covers up with her and bunching them under her eyes. But there was no question, the eyes, forehead, and hair belonged to Rainfall’s granddaughter.
Wistala smiled and bowed. “I bring tidings—”
“Aaaaaaaaagh!” Lada shrieked.
“You don’t—,” Wistala tried, backing away. She held up the doll.
“Heeeeeeelp! Monster! Esithephe, your baby!”
A clunk and a bawling sounded from downstairs. Wistala advanced, tipping the doll right side up and upside down to prove that it was just a bit of craft, but Lada snatched up the waterbasin, and liquid flew.
“Aiiieeee!” the girl—no, young woman, Wistala could see the smallish protrusions wherewith mammals suckled their broods—shouted, throwing the basin. Wistala lowered her head, and it crashed into the pile of pegged and geared wheels, sprinkling her with water as it passed.
Wistala tried again: “No! Your name is—”
A mouthful of pillow cut off that sentence. Lada rammed it home as she fled in a jumble of knees, elbows, and white nightshirt toward the stairs down, still screaming her head off.
The pillow came out of her mouth with a tear, and feathers flew.
Now screams echoed up from the lower levels.
“Lada!” Wistala shouted, spitting feathers.
The girl screamed as she fled down the stairs.
Wistala heard footsteps, shouts from below caught up in a babble of voices and a screaming baby. She considered going after Lada, but a male voice bellowing questions made her turn back to the window.
A heavy tread on the stairs decided her. She squeezed back out the circular window.
Something gripped at her tail, and she pulled it away hard and climbed up the tower.
Up?
She checked herself. She’d instinctively headed toward the safety of the sky. If only she could will her wings into appearing.
