Free The Bone Quill by Carole E. Barrowman, John Barrowman

their antlers shining like polished gems, the two beasts stood at the summit of each island and wept at their division. Their tears became a tidal wave that crashed on to the land, filling the crevices and rocky fissures with water, creating bays and channels and secret coves.’
    Brother Renard moved his hands restlessly. Solon knew that he was picturing the unfinished
Book of Beasts
lying in his lap.
    ‘According to our sacred teachings, the white stag could stand its loneliness no longer. It wanted to reunite with its twin. Unfolding a pair of great silver wings, it rose close to the heavens and swooped across the divide.’
    ‘The peryton?’ asked Solon.
    The old monk nodded. ‘Unfortunately, the black stag had grown bitter that it had landed on the smaller island. It did not want to share, especially with such a powerful beast as its twin. When the silver-winged stag landed, the black stag charged.
    ‘The battle raged for an age. Finally, exhausted and with its strength dwindling, the white stag did the one thing it had dared not do before. Under cover of the darkest night, the white stag lifted itself above the black stag, smashing the black stag’s antlers and splintering the pieces across the world. Then it lifted its twin into the air and carried both of them far away from the two islands.
    ‘The white stag carried the black one deep into the cold lands of the north, flying until webs of ice laced across its wings. When the ice thickened like leather, it could no longer hold on to its twin. The massive bulk of the black stag fell from the sky to the land of frozen mountains and ice castles.’

TWENTY-FIVE
     
    S olon reached for the jug of warm perry by the fire, made with pears from the monastery orchard. Carefully, he poured two cups: one for the old monk and one for himself.
    ‘Did the boy understand what his dream meant?’ he asked, passing Brother Renard his cup.
    Brother Renard smiled in appreciation, reminding Solon of the man he had first known: a grumpy yet generous monk with a quick intelligence. But his hands shook as he took the cup, and he seemed more frail than ever. He took a long draught before continuing.
    ‘The dream invaded the boy’s sleep more than once. He told his father about it. He hoped his father would understand what it meant, because what occurs when a person is asleep means as much as what happens when he is awake.’
    The world Solon lived in believed that ideas came in dreams, or were sent by witches or wizards, angels or demons, even gods or monsters. The origin of any idea or dream was important, making ideas either especially dangerous or incredibly brilliant. As he learned more about the world, Solon had begun to wonder: who decided which ideas were good and which were bad? Which held truths and which lies?
    ‘But although the boy’s father was a clever man, he was a poor, uneducated miller, and his son’s dream terrified him,’ Brother Renard continued, gulping the last of his perry. ‘At first, he ignored his son’s restless nights. But word began to spread that the miller’s son was having visions. The lack of sleep was making the boy weak. He was no longer any help to his father in the mill.’
    ‘Then what happened?’
    ‘Then it rained for weeks,’ said the old monk, exhaustion hunching his shoulders and weakening his voice. ‘The turnips, leeks and cabbages rotted in the fields. The villagers started to get hungry, and when a wolf carried off the village’s last healthy goat, anger set in like the chill in winter.’
    ‘They blamed the boy and his dreams,’ said Solon.
    ‘Of course they did. And they gathered at the well, deciding that something had to be done about the boy. The angry villagers marched on the miller’s cottage, wielding pickaxes and fiery torches, leaving the miller with no choice. He exiled his only son to the wilds of the Scottish forest.
    ‘The boy journeyed across the Highlands until one day he stopped to fill his water pouch