Mason Crafton's Arc

Chapter 7 of 15

Mason lay flat behind the log and watched the sky turn from gray to pale blue. The birdbath sat in the clearing below, its stone rim wet with dew. Then the birds came. Three of them dropped out of the pines and circled low over the bowl, wings flashing like cut glass. Signal birds. The princess's eyes. Mason pressed their cheek to the dirt. If the birds stayed until sunrise, the prince would see them, and any stranger near the bath would be seen too. Mason counted the birds again and thought fast. They could not fight the birds. They could not outrun them once the sun cleared the ridge. But the birds were couriers, trained to carry and to follow. Mason remembered the cloth in their shirt, the one with the blond hairs still caught in the stitching. The prince's scent. The birds knew that scent. They served the pair who kept the forest, the golden princess in her tower and the blue-coated prince who walked the paths at dawn. If the birds smelled him, they would go to him. Mason tore a thin strip from the cloth and rolled it around a pine cone. They crawled to the edge of the clearing, staying under the low branches. The nearest bird landed on the birdbath rim and dipped its beak. Mason tossed the bundle underhand. It struck the moss ten paces past the bath and rolled. All three birds turned their heads. One lifted off, then the next, then the last. They circled the bundle, dropped, and one caught it in its claws. The three rose together and flew north, away from the clearing, toward wherever the prince slept. Mason did not wait. They slid down the bank and reached the birdbath in six strides. The stone was cold under their good hand. They crouched behind it and pulled the rest of the cloth from their shirt. The hairs were still there. Now they only needed the words. The prince would still come. The birds would reach him and turn back, and he would follow them here to see what they had found. Mason had bought minutes, maybe less. They wedged themself against the base of the bowl where the shadow fell longest and waited with their breath held tight. Footsteps came sooner than Mason expected. Boots on wet leaves, steady, unhurried. A man's voice hummed low, a tune Mason did not know. The prince stopped at the bath and set his hands on the rim. He leaned close to the water and whispered three words into the stone. Mason heard each one clean. The prince straightened, looked north where his birds were still returning, and frowned. Then he turned back toward the pines. Mason stayed still until the boots faded. They had the words. They had the hair. The mountain was next.