Page 42 of Feathered Thief

The bird simply plucked the golden apple and fluttered to the ground. Lenka clawed at the wax plugs, terrified of missing something important. As the fabulous bird left the glowing apple on the grass and paced toward her, its tail feathers shimmering, exquisite music played in her head.

“Stopping your ears and mind to enchantment indicates wisdom.”

Lenka succeeded in pulling out one plug. “I . . . I . . .” Pausing, she realized that the bird’s beak hadn’t moved. “Oh. I heard you in my mind.” The beautiful being had a rich feminine voice.

The golden bird stretched her neck to inspect Lenka’s yew bow. “Did you intend to shoot me?” This time she spoke audibly.

“I did until I saw you. I hoped to stop a thief, but my tree called you a friend.”

“Indeed.” The fabulous bird continued to pace, moving her head in jerks, just like Papa Hrabik’s chickens . . . Lenka’s lips twitched. The golden bird would undoubtedly resent being likened to a chicken.

The bird missed nothing. “You find me amusing?”

“I find this situation difficult to believe,” she prevaricated.

“Few humans are truthful. Yet the tree trusts you.”

“Are all golden birds trustworthy?” She regretted the sharp words as soon as they left her lips. “I’m sorry. You’re right about humans. About me, anyway.”

The bird’s tone softened. “Dear child, seek truth and mercy, and you shall prevail.”

Suddenly wary, Lenka sat up straighter. “I’m just a simple gardener girl.”

The bird tilted her head. “Truth and mercy are simpler than you are.”

Lenka’s mouth closed for a good minute while she thought it through. The bird was right—she was terribly confused about pretty much everything.

Light from its feathers shimmered about like sunbeams in the night while the golden bird studied her. “You, child, are greatly loved by someone that I love. I remember you well, and now you shall remember my instructions. Give my feather to the greedy king. Follow the rising sun. Wisdom and guidance will find you. Again, let truth and mercy prevail.” In a whirl of wings and blazing gold, the bird mounted into the sky with the golden apple in her claws . . .

The next thing Lenka knew, morning birds were singing, pink streaked the starry sky, and she felt cold to her bones. Shivering and damp with dew, she sat upright, glanced around, then looked at her hand.

It wasn’t a dream!

She clutched the quill of a long golden feather.

12

QUESTIONS AND QUESTS

King Gustik could not deny that Lenka had identified the thief, so her position as apple-tree caretaker in the king’s private garden was safe, to Papa Hrabik’s relief. However, the golden bird’s plume alone convinced His Majesty that such a creature must permanently reside in his magical gardens.

Crown Prince Marek claimed the honor of bringing back the stolen apples and the bird, and he seemed focused on the project. Two days later, for what had to be the dozenth time, he visited the garden to question Lenka. “You’re sure it flew east?”

“Yes, into the sunrise, and perhaps a bit north,” she said. Again.

The prince grunted. “And how large was the bird?”

“It was the size of a raven. No, more like a pheasant. Maybe a peacock? I know it has a sharp beak and a long tail. And it flies.”

“Useless,” he griped while turning away.

She had to admit he was correct regarding her attention to detail, but no one seemed to notice that two nights had passed without a single golden apple disappearing. Only Papa Hrabik gave her credit for identifying the thief and deterring its raids.

With surprisingly little fanfare, Prince Marek set off on horseback the next morning. He and his party of cronies followed the northeast road toward the barony of Lómza, where the bird was rumored to live. Personal servants, several pack horses, and a unit of heavily armed guards rounded out his treasure-hunting party.

A week passed, then another, with no sign of Crown Prince Marek and no word from or about him.

But rumors of adventurers from other lands seeking a golden bird in southern Wroclaw began to reach the palace. Lenka could only imagine the rage emanating from Bolislaus Castle. King Gustik had to be furious, and he could fairly blame no one but his heir.

---