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

at a rocky shore. There in front of him was the recognizable outline of an island. The island of the silver-winged stag. He was able to fend for himself there, for the island was rich in fruits and the soil moist and fertile. Over time, the boy became a man. And when he did, he built a fortress, establishing the monastery on the island of Auchinmurn: a safe haven for those who dream and the things they dream about.’
    Solon gaped. This was the story of the first monk of the Order of Era Mina.
    The old monk paused, staring distractedly at the fire blazing in the hearth.
    ‘What happened to the white peryton in the boy’s dream?’ asked Solon at last.
    The old monk leaned towards the boy. The fire spat and crackled between them.
    ‘It returned to its island and looked across the divide. It watched in grief as what remained of its twin’s shadow crawled into a hollow in the earth at the centre of the smaller island ... and disappeared.’
    Outside Brother Renard’s tiny cell, Solon heard the screech of gulls. He thought of the winged stag’s mournful cries. His peryton.
    ‘The white stag ached with loss,’ the old monk whispered. ‘So one night it flew high into the heavens above its twin’s island, Era Mina, beating its silver wings so fast that it sounded like swarms of bees.
    ‘And across the water in a thatched hut, the sleeping boy heard it call to him in his dream.’

TWENTY-SIX
     
    T here was a loud rustling in the trees outside the old monk’s window. A snapping of branches, then mumbled voices and running footsteps.
    ‘Someone’s been listening to us!’ exclaimed the old monk. His panic played like the tight strings of a lute in Solon’s head. ‘See who is lurking out there. This story is not for everyone’s ears. Even among my brothers, there is a small number who would do their worst to get their hands on this manuscript. Especially before it is completed.’
    ‘Why do they want it before it’s completed?’ asked Solon, confused.
    ‘This book and Era Mina hold the keys to everything I’ve been telling you!’ Brother Renard’s voice rose an octave with agitation. ‘Haven’t you heard anything I’ve been saying, my boy? The darkness! The black peryton’s shadow! It is seeping towards us!’
    Solon unlocked the shutters and flung them open. A rush of sea air whooshed into the room as he squinted against the late afternoon sun, searching for the eavesdroppers, looking first in the trees beneath the window and then farther in the distance to the water’s edge.
    He thought he saw two hooded figures hurrying away.
    He dropped down from the stone sill and pulled out the key hanging around his neck on a ribbon of leather. ‘I must go,’ he said as he prepared to unlock the door. ‘But I’ll return soon.’
    ‘But the rest of what I must tell you cannot wait,’ said the old monk fretfully. ‘I may not have much time left.’
    ‘What I have to do cannot wait either. I’ll return as soon as I can.’
    Solon pulled the heavy door shut and turned the key, dropping it back underneath his tunic. He leaped down the stairs, careening clumsily off the walls in his rush to get outside and down to the cove after the disappearing figures. At the door, he unlatched the hook and charged out into the fading daylight and the thick canopy of the forest.
    He made his way quickly to the water, dodging round brothers working in the fields and gardens. The monastery’s numbers had held steady at thirteen for as long as Solon could remember. Most of the work of the farm that surrounded the monastery was done by the monks themselves, with help from one or two men and women from the villages. The two monks tilling the kitchen gardens stared curiously after him, and a brother drawing on a bench near the Abbey’s stables greeted Solon with a wave as he sprinted past.
    At the water’s edge, Solon hopscotched along the rocky shore, but he had lost them. Disappointment flooded through him. He slumped on the