It’s a bright and cloudless day when the men travelled up the little dirt road to the thick-stoned house and tower, swaths of long grass waving to one another from either side of the dirt divide. A playful wind, mischievous and free, tugged and twisted at the men's long purple robes. From the tower, more than one pair of watchful eyes tracked their movement with an intense curiosity as the strangers in their brightly colored garments got closer and closer to the house and its inhabitants, sticking out like amethyst feathers blowing amongst the grass and open plains. The eyes tracked their movements as they grew ever closer before the lead traveler stepped up to the flat stone doorstep to rap on the front door. There was the low rumble of animalistic wariness throughout the tower but the travelers stood stalwart at the door, not fazed by the noise as they waited.
There was the quick march step of someone moving inside the dwelling before the door was thrown open to reveal a tan skinned woman with a hawkish nose and sharp amber eyes. Despite her petite stature, she managed to look down said nose at the men who towered over her. Her eyes darted from one semi-covered face to the next, not addressing any of them outright. Cautiously, the lead traveler held out a letter stamped with golden wax in the symbol of a bird with many feathers curling in on itself emblazoned in the seal. Though her face never changed from its stony set, the woman took a step back into the house, allowing the travelers inside.
The home was one large room with a fire pit in the center, a large pot bubbling over the flames that crackled and sizzled inside a circle of stones, its smoke and embers disappearing up through an open hole in the thatched ceiling. A small table was nearby, surrounded by pillows and set upon one of the many rugs that covered the packed earthen floor. In one corner, sacks of supplies, barrels filled with spicy smelling cured meats and grains sat waiting while various herbs hung drying from the wooden beams that ran the length of the home. To the far left were two palettes, one smaller than the other with a crudely stitched stuffed animal in the shape of a goat waiting on the pillow. Light streamed through the one open window that sat on the back wall above a water trough, the rays of light causing the dust to glow in an ethereal way as it danced and swayed to an unheard rhythm. On the right wall, the only other door swung open, a man with black hair just starting to gray and feathers stuck to the soles of his boots appearing in the main room. He shucked off a pair of thick leather gloves, shoving them into the wide belt worn around his waist before casting his own wary gaze over both the woman and the visitors in turn.
“I’ll start the tea,” the woman said, her voice low and brokering no argument as she jut her chin back towards the door the man had come through. “Fetch the hatchling, Corbin.”
The man, Corbin, returned the nod after a short pause, his hands twitching at his side before he retreated back into the second room, the door shutting with a heavy thud behind him. There was the same rumbling like a whirlwind trapped just beyond the other doorway before it all fell silent, leaving the woman alone with her strange visitors.
She gestured to the table and pillows with a brusque wave of her hand before she hefted the stew pot from the fire in favor of replacing it with a battered tea kettle that cast a copper glow across the floor. While she waited for the water in it to boil, she too took a seat at the low table. From her own belt she produced a knife with a bone handle, using it to crack open the seal in one swift cut. Her eyes darted across the page with only the sounds of the crackling fire and the distant braying of the goats in their pen behind the house to interrupt the silence. The youngest traveller twitched and fidgeted in their seat, eventually holding out a hand towards their hostess.
“If you require any assistance in translation -“
“I need no translation, Predictor,” the woman said in a clipped tone as she set the letter down. The title sounded more like a reprimand than an honorific in the woman’s mouth, the stern set of her lips causing the traveler to quickly tuck his offending hand back into his robes. “I take it one of the villagers told you?”
“It’s hard to keep a secret like that in such a small place,” came the reedy response from the head traveler, his purple robes trimmed with red to differentiate him from the lesser Predictors. “People talk, Citizen Ava.”
“My name is Ava,” the woman snapped, growing more irritated with her visitors and their assuming disposition with every passing second. “So long as you are in my home, you will have the decency to call me by it. I take it you’re here to administer the test.”
The Grand Predictors' wrinkled and spotted hands peeked out from the ends of his sleeves to carefully unwrap the scarf that covered the lower half of his face. His skin wasn’t the familiar tan of the prairie folk, and his romanesque nose spoke of someone who heralded from the north. His pale visage and light blue eyes would have been a marvel to the villagers, his purple robes with the three feathers of the Warden’s Crest emblazoned in fine gold thread across his back making anyone’s lips loose enough to tell the travelers about the little house on the outskirts of town with the rookery tower and the strange weather patterns.
“The tests are necessary for the protection of our nation from those who would do it harm,” the wizened man said as he used his spindly fingers to comb through a long goatee that grew from an even longer thin face. “You would be doing a great service.”
The word service itched at her skin like dry dead grass or the harsh blow of a winter wind coming down from the mountains. He meant for it to sound like an honor but all she could think was that it felt more like a yoke to weigh down a plow ox. But that gold seal on the letter was meant to serve as more than just a paltry symbol of state - to question it was to court destruction from the person who wielded it which was something she and her husband couldn’t afford. Not if they wanted to make sure she stayed safe.
The tower door slowly creaked back open, a small face with a wide-eyed gaze peering out from around the door jamb. A larger hand came around the door to push it further open to reveal both Corbin and a small child with oversized eyes half hidden behind her father’s stocky leg. She stared down the newcomers with a penetrating gaze, but her hands were clenched tightly in Corbin’s thick pants, betraying her uncertainty. Ava held out her hand towards her daughter, her stony facade cracking imperceptibly at the arrival of her child into their midst.
“Hatchling,” she said in a soft tone. “Come here, come sit with me.”
The toddler girl scampered across the room in a flash of elbows and knees that jutted out from her skinny frame before perching upon the pillow beside her mother, abruptly fisting her hands into her tunic and half hiding behind her torso. Her large amber colored eyes once again focused in on the travelers, reminiscent of the birds of prey that glided through the valley in search of small vermin to snatch from their holes.
In the girl's unfathomable gaze, the men in purple robes were strange creatures. They lacked the sun-weathered complexion of the people in the village, their clothes too fine for a day's work in the fields and their hands too soft to be made for anything substantial like what her Mama and Papa did with the birds. Where her parents hands were marred by scabs and scars from talons and claws, the strangers hands were either eerily pale or wrinkled and covered in spots that reminded her of the mold she had seen on bad hay for the goats. The spotted skinned man with the long spindly white beard eyed her with a peculiar look, one reminiscent of looking into the eye of one of her Papa’s raptors before they had been fed - caught in the crosshairs of curiosity and hunger.
Mama rubbed her back in soothing circles but the little girl could sense the tension that rolled off her in the way her hand was clenched tightly on the table top. Behind them, she could hear her father take his time with the now boiling tea and the worn cups that her grandma had made back when Papa was her age. The air felt like it did outside when the thunderclouds came churning across the plains, filled with the promise of harsh weather and dread of what would come bursting forth from the sky. It set the little girls’ nerves on edge as she pressed her nose into her mothers tunic.
The cups were placed before each of their guests and it wasn’t long before the aroma of Mama’s favorite tea filled the space with hints of earthiness and toasted millet. The little girl drank hers greedily from where she was half hidden behind her mother while the adults left theirs untouched, choosing instead to stare one another down. The last time she had seen something like this, Papa had gone toe-to-toe with a mountain lion that had mistaken their goats for an easy snack. The lion had scampered back to the steppes it had come from, but Papa had spent the next few months with his arm wrapped up in a sling and in terrible pain. She hoped that the strangers proved to be less aggressive, but from the way her Mama’s jaw jut out, the meeting wasn’t starting off well despite nothing having been said.
“So,” the Grand Predictor wheezed, “this is Miss Corbingiin Peregrine from Rook.” The mention of her name, her true name no less, made the little girl tremble, her tiny hands twisting even more tightly into her mothers upper robe. Her full name sounded strange on the old man’s tongue, making the lilting turn of the patronymic sound harsh and grating like he had sticks in his mouth, not soft and flowing like the way her Mama and Papa said it.
“Tell me child,” the old man’s spindle-like fingers steepled together on the table before him, just peeking out from his red trimmed sleeves. “What do you know about storms?”
Storms. That was something Peregrine knew. Harsh weather was a closer friend than most of the village children, familiar as the goats and her parents' noble birds. But it was also something that her parents warned her against mentioning, the forbidden knowledge that they kept between the three of them in order to keep them safe. The men had come anyhow - who had told? Atlan? Cirina? Probably that pig-headed Sacha from the headman’s house, he never could keep a secret. She’d told them not to tell, but she bet Sacha did.
Gentle fingers carded through Peregrine’s muss of unbrushed curls, her Mama looking down at her with a strange expression. The only thing the little girl could equate to was when Mama had to finally give up on the kite she had been nursing after a bigger bird clipped its wing. Papa told her it was time to let it go knowing she had done all she could. Does this mean that Mama would be letting Peregrine go with these men? Off to the great sky like her Papa had said the bird had flown off too when she couldn’t find it the next morning? Her tiny hands fisted tighter into her mothers clothes, fighting to keep her lip from quivering because crying wouldn’t help her. It certainly didn’t help the kite that day.
Sensing her daughter's own distress, Ava fought to relax, pushing for a smile that would hopefully quell the little girl's fears about the strange turn the day had taken. “It’s all right, hatchling. You tell them what you know about the weather, alright? Remember what you told me and Papa about it? About the rain and storms?”
Peregrine nuzzled into the thick sleeve of her mothers tunic, taking a deep breath of her familiar scent of millet and bird to ground herself before she nodded.
“Well, you tell them about that alright? Papa and I will be right here so there’s no reason to be afraid.”
On the little girl's other side, Papa ran his hand down Peregrine's back like he always did whenever she woke him because she had a nightmare. She looked back towards the purple robed travelers and their elderly leader with his knobby fingers and watery gaze. Maybe if she does what Mama said, they’ll go away and never come back. Yes, that would be much better, if they left their house so they could once again be alone with the birds, the goats and the whistling wind that wound its way through the prairie.
“The storms laugh, Elder,” Peregrine explained in her small voice. “The thunder laughs like Old Man Erdem, and rain can sound like Mama when she shushes me.”
“What about the lightning, hatchling?” Mama prompted, her fingers still massaging at her daughter's scalp.
Peregrine frowned, her lips in a firm pout. “Lightning feels itchy like the goat’s wool and hisses like the barn cat that lurks behind Atlan’s Papa’s shop. I don’t like it very much, it’s always so angry.”
“And the wind?” Papa rumbled, his voice low like distant thunder but soft like a gentle breeze.
A smile tugged at the little girl's lips as if she were divulging a favorite secret, and a favorite it was for the wind was as close to her soul as the clothes on her back were to her skin.
“It’s my friend,” Peregrine said simply. “We play chase and it likes to tickle. Wind doesn’t play much with the other children, only with me but that’s okay. It likes to tip the goats when it thinks Mama and Papa aren’t looking!”
The old man tilted his head in consideration of the small child, his icy gaze feeling as if it saw through her rather than looking at her. His fingers slowly tapped away on the wooden table top like the rain that dripped off the eaves when it stormed. He was thinking on something, and when his spidery fingers stilled, Peregrine guessed he had made some sort of decision.
“Can you introduce us?” The old man’s head tilted to the side, his expression turning a touch mischievous like when all adults thought they knew something that Peregrine didn’t. What was it that he expected of her? Why did they have to come and ask all these strange questions in their absurd clothes with their too soft skin and far too clever expressions? Her mother seemed to have picked up on the same idea as she cast her gaze over the old man.
“Haven’t you tested her enough? She can obviously communicate with the elements in a way that other children can’t.”
“Yes, but hearing isn’t enough,” the old man countered, his playful mischief from before hardening back into stiff formality as he looked back at Ava. “Every child we talk to can hear at a basic level, but in order to see if she is worthy of the Academy’s attention, we need to see if she is better than a basic child.”
“She is no basic child no matter what you say,” Ava hissed, her hand coming to rest protectively on her daughter's back, Peregrine nuzzling into the crook of her mothers arm. “This test will not define her.”
“No but it could change her life,” the old man retorted. “Think about it. Opportunities to travel, to learn and to experience things far beyond what this corner of the kingdom could offer. You would be providing her with a limitless future, we need only to see her do the most basic of elemental control. If she cannot manage it, we will not darken your doorway again. But if it is there at all, she can be trained and that will open so many doors. You want that for your daughter don’t you? A hope for a better life?”
Words sharpen like knives on Ava’s tongue, ready to take deadly aim at the Grand Predictor and his assumptions about the life they led here at the foot of the mountains among the birds and the tall grasses. At her side, Peregrine could feel tension build in her mother’s straining muscles, in the way her jaw tightened and her hand stilled protectively on her daughter's back. Bracketing their daughter in from the other side, Corbin’s weather worn face was sculpted into a frown, his own calloused hand resting against Peregrine’s lower back while he stared down the strangers with enough weight that the lower Predictors fidgeted instead of making eye contact with either parent. Peregrine turned her head from her Mama to her Papa, panic rising in her throat the way the creek threatened to burst its bank after snowmelt. These men needed to leave so they could go back to normal.
“If I show you my tricks,” Peregrine said, her voice shaking though she tried her best to look brave like Mama and Papa. “Will you leave?”
The old man seemed surprised by her directness, his bushy white eyebrows creeping like caterpillars up his wrinkled head. He cleared his throat, schooling his expression back into a passive professionalism that made the little girl squirm in her seat. “We will.”
Peregrine gave her mothers tunic one final squeeze where her tiny fists were twisted into the fabric before she broke away from her parents hold, scrambling away from the table towards her palette. She scooped up her precious stuffed goat, sewn by her mother to look like her daughter's favorite kid from their herd. Subconsciously she ran her fingers over the worn ear she was fond of chewing on from time to time before she scuttled back to where the keen eyed adults were waiting. She stood at the end, her parents on her left while the strangers were to her right. The little girl's wide eyed gaze darted from one side to the other before pausing on her parents. Their hands were intertwined now on the table, the veins prominent on the back of Papa’s hand as he held tight to Mama's while Mama’s mouth was pressed into a tight lipless line. She managed to give her little girl a small nod, the motion jerky and truncated but enough to encourage Peregrine over the threshold of her hesitation.
Peregrine took a deep breath, holding her little goat stuffed animal in her flat palms. When she released the air from her lungs, the little goat twitched where it lay before, ever so gently floating up to hover above her hands. The wind twirled and spun the little toy, making it look as if it were galloping where it floated, its ears flapping in a breeze only it could feel. Peregrines’ finger tips twitched and buzzed with the power she wielded over the doll as her closest friend and ally, the very air that surrounded them, enacted its little show. The lesser Predictor’s eyes widened at the sight, still not used to the display of power demonstrated by children being tested while the Grand Predictor’s mustache merely twitched, admittedly impressed by the skill shown by the little village girl and her galloping goat toy.
Eventually, weariness pulled at Peregrine’s muscles and thoughts from keeping up the display, the little goat's movements becoming jerky and sinking lower and lower until it rested lifeless in her hands once more. Papa slipped his large arm around her waist, bringing Peregrine and her stuffed animal to his chest as she fought to keep her eyes open. Mama brushed her curly hair from her forehead, the sad but proud smile on her face now preferable to the defeated look from before her demonstration.
“You did good, hatchling,” Ava whispered to her daughter as her eyes finally drifted shut. “We’ll celebrate with your favorite dumplings later.”
It didn’t take long for the little girl's breathing to even out into deep sleep, clutching both her fathers shirt and her goat close to her. Corbin tucked her curly head beneath his chin, wrapping his larger form as much around her as he could while his wife once again confronted their visitors.
“You’ve seen what she can do,” Ava stated plainly. “Now keep your promise and leave.”
The Grand Predictor didn’t seem fazed by his hostess’ sudden hostility, instead looking thoughtfully at some unfixed point swirling along with the dust motes in the open windows light. He stroked mindlessly at his beard.
“Is this all she has demonstrated? An affinity for weather?”
Ava frowned, obviously bordering on throwing them out in the pen with the goats, when Corbin took over, his voice low as he spoke over his daughter's sleeping head.
“She can manipulate the water in the creek and has been known to shock one or two village kids who cause her trouble,” Corbin explained. “The wind, however, is her favorite. She treats it as if it were another child.”
“And has she demonstrated anything beyond just… storm proficiency?” The question was heavy with unspoken threats and the gazes fixated on Peregrine were full of the kind of hunger that set Ava’s teeth on edge and made her blood start to boil.
“No,” she snapped. “Just the ‘approved’ powers. That is what you wanted to hear, right?”
“I believe it would be more along the lines of what you would want to hear, Ms. Ava, given the alternative,” the Grand Predictor said mildly as he drew himself up off the pillow along with his associates. “When she is ready to start school, we will see that she is educated somewhere more… established than this little place. We shall provide all the paperwork, don’t worry.”
“And a translation for it, I’m sure,” Ava spat. “You’ve got what you came for?”
“Yes, I believe we have-“
“Good,” the herdswoman replied curtly as she scooped her daughter up from her husband's arms. She gave them a haughty nod. “Then you can leave. I have dumplings to make and birds to feed.”
Without another look their way, Ava spun on her heel to return her sleeping daughter and her stuffed goat to her palette, tucking a light blanket over her form before abruptly heading for the rookery door. Though she was careful to close the door quietly, the heavy stomps of her feet up the stairs followed by the angry cries of many birds spoke volumes.
Corbin’s gaze lingered for a moment on the closed tower door before he rose to his feet, wordlessly gesturing for the men to follow before pulling open the front door. The younger men headed back out into the prairie sun quickly while the Grand Predictor lingered on the stone doorstep. He squinted back at the falconer, once again drawing his scarf up around his face to help block out the midday sun.
“Your daughter will do great things, Mr. Corbin. I’m sure of it,” the older man said, though the words sounded more like empty platitudes than genuine belief in the future of a stranger's child.
“She’s already great,” Corbin responded plainly. With his final word spoken, the falconer closed the door on a man who held the third highest position in the known world. The wind whipped and swirled in an almost petulant way around the doorstep of the little house, climbing, cresting, falling and twisting all around where the Grand Predictor and his assistants stood fumbling with their robes. It seemed to push them back down the little path back towards where their steeds were waiting at the village hall, driving them through the long grasses, past watchful prairie mice and flighty sparrows. The wind did not calm until the three men were ensconced by the village huts and wide-eyed prairie folk who regarded them with fearful reverence.
As the Grand Predictor and his assistants climbed onto their steeds, great birds known as Rocs and only used by the members of the Storm Guard, the old man couldn’t help but feel that maybe he had been right in his final statement about Peregrine Rook the prairie child.
Maybe she truly would do great things.