Page 22 of Harnessed in Gold

We slow to a mosey as he squints up at the crows circling in the sky.

“Birds would visit me all the time,” he says. “Especially birds of prey. They’d fly close or sit on the fence beside me while I worked. Other times they’d just land on my shoulder and look at me.”

I laugh. “It sounds like they got in your way.”

He chuckles and shrugs. “Not really. Having them around made my work more fun.”

“And that’s how you knew they were the species you were supposed to weave with?”

“It was a strong indication, yes, but it was just the first step. See, when a species wants to weave with you, it gives you a piece of itself as a token to seal the bond.” He sighs and peers up into the trees. “For years, I waited, hoping every day was the day that would happen.”

“When did it finally happen?”

“When I was fifteen. One random summer morning when my brother and I were fishing in the creek.”

I picture two golden-haired, pointy-eared teen boys wading up to their skinny ankles in the sun-dappled water. “What happened?”

“Nothing extraordinary at first. Birds were singing in the trees like they usually do, but it wasn’t until I realized I was the only one who could hear them that I thought,this could be it.” He smiles, gaze distant and wistful. “I followed the sound to a half-dead yew tree, climbed it, and found a pair of goshawks and their nest.”

“Oh! Were there eggs in there?”

“Three,” he says with a nod. “I probably sat up there for an hour, just waiting, afraid to move or breathe. And then finally, the male plucked a feather off his chest, hopped to the edge of the nest, and placed it right on my shoulder.”

I glance at his nearest shoulder as though the feather might still be there. It’s nearly impossible to imagine a wild bird getting that close, or being that deliberate. If I hadn’t seen Rime with the kingfishers, I wouldn’t be able to fathom it.

I ask, “Do you still have the feather?”

He grins and holds up his right hand, pointing to his third finger.

“Seriously?” I stop short and snatch his hand. “It’s in yourring?”

“Yeah.” He laughs as I twist his hand this way and that, trying to get a good view of the silver band. “Not the whole feather, obviously, but a piece of it.”

“So that means—” I work this out embarrassingly slowly in my head, “Leo has, what? A hawthorn berry, or a leaf or something in his?”

“Berry.”

“And Topaz?”

“A black adder scale.”

“And these tokens give the rings their power?”

“Partly. There’s also a weaving ritual that imbues it and seals the bond. It’s the most important moment in a Nàdarian’s life.”

I drop his hand, seized by the conviction that I shouldn’t be touching his ring.

“It’s all right,” he says. “You can’t hurt it.”

Wanna bet? I’m human. We harm nature even while we’re sleeping.

We walk on in silence, thinking, but when we reach the retaining wall, I stop and sigh. I still have so many questions—questions upon questions upon questions. Questions I won’t even know exist until I ask more questions. I pause and prop a hip against the cold concrete wall while I piece together all that Rime told me.

Patiently, he waits.

Finally, I formulate something semi-coherent. “This weapon—you said its magic is unnatural, right? So would that mean that if it’s a ring, it somehow distorts the weaving bond?”

“Youareclever, aren’t you?” One corner of his mouth curls up. “That’s exactly what we think it does. See, during the weaving rite, we vow to never abuse the power given to us. I’m sworn to protect the birds and to only use my hawk’s vision for good.” He looks back across the river, in the direction from which the kingfishers flew. “I called the birds, I didn’t command them. We never try to force our will on nature.”