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He lowers the shield.
The children laugh and clap. “Again, again!” one of them demands.
“No. Perhaps later,” he says with a forced smile. The man looks past the glow of the children’s torches to where their caretaker, an ancient and ever-patient woman, stands waiting in the doorway for them to finish with their amusement. “Besides, it is well past time for your dinner.”
They run away, the girl in the lead and well outstripping her friends, with only one boy pausing to thank him for showing off the mirror shield. The man watches them go and remembers when he was so young and fleet of foot. That had been a long time ago.
He goes inside. A few people greet him as he enters, but the man only nods politely and goes up to the dormitory where he and the rest of the men sleep. Tonight, he does not wish for company. There are too many painful memories that have been awakened for him to sit and laugh and be merry with his fellows.
The man sits by the window, under the light of the lantern, and studies the mirror shield. How many years has it been since he last held this artifact? Too many, he knows. And how many times has he thought about it? He has thought of it even more times than there are years.
“Ah, my Trico,” he murmurs, polishing the edge of the shield absently with the hem of his tunic. It resonates, ringing with a thin imitation of the note once played by the Master of the Valley. “How I wish I could see you once again.”
It is impossible for the man to explain to the others of his village the importance of the great beast he had, if only briefly, called his friend. In those huge eyes he had seen a reflection of a world that he had only dared to imagine. They had understood each other. Indeed, they had held a bond that needed no words to explain it. He had trusted Trico, and Trico had trusted him.
“Troubled?” the man’s friend asks, coming into the room. “I hear you found that mirror shield.”
“Yes,” the man says, holding it up for inspection. In the light, colors scintillate across its surface and for a moment both men are mesmerized.
The man’s friend shakes his head as he sits down cross-legged on his sleeping mat. “I remember the day you returned,” he says. “I thought the stories of those man-eating beasts were impossible.”
As he does every time they have this conversation, the man sighs. “They didn’t eat people,” he says again. “They collected them. There’s a difference.”
“A small difference,” the man’s friend says, but he says it warmly. This is a familiar argument, one they’ve had since they were boys and one they’ll have until they’re grandfathers. “Will you carry the mirror shield with you when we go hunting?”
“I think so,” the man says. After all, the great beasts are all dead. What can the mirror shield call when there is nothing left to be called? “I’ll draw some attention for it.”
The man’s friend laughs. “You’ll get to tell the story of your great adventure again,” he says.
“I’d like that.” The man looks down reflectively into the etched and polished surface of the mirror shield. He still does not know what the writing means, what the strange tattoos mean. And he will never have the chance to find out.
Soon enough, the rest of the men arrive. It is late, and rain lashes at the shutters and patters down on the thatched roof. Someone dims the lantern, and after a few moments of quiet conversation the room falls silent as one by one the men sink into sleep.
The man cannot find enough peace of mind to sleep. He tosses and turns, staring first at the ceiling and then at the walls. His mind is filled with wings and feathers and the purring of a friend.
It is near the middle of the night when the man thinks he hears something outside. The rain has lightened to a faint drizzle, and the man could swear he hears the sounds of heavy footfalls. He furrows his brow—what could possibly be making that noise? Has a wild boar come into the village again?
He rises and, stepping softly so as to not unnecessarily awaken the other sleeping men, goes to the shutters. The dim light of the lantern spills out as he opens the shutter carefully, peering out into the village green. There is certainly something moving there, something large.
A low growl ripples through the night air, and there is a stirring of feathers.
The man’s heart gives a great thump and he gasps. He hurries out of the room, still careful not to awaken the others, and down the stairs, through the common room, and out into the night.
“Trico?” he calls, half hesitant. If this is one of those others that attacked them atop that tower, he will be in dire trouble.
There is another growl, and suddenly into the faint light still falling from the open shutters overhead steps the familiar figure of the man’s greatest friend.
The man is only half aware of running forward, arms open wide, to embrace the great beast. It bends its head to receive him, butting its nose against his chest and mewling as he strokes its soft feathers. He is weeping, whispering over and over how he has missed his friend, his Trico, and it seems to have missed him.
It lies down in the grass, tail lashing, and purrs at him. It does not seem any smaller, though the man is certainly larger now than he had been the last time they met. But its feathers are sleek and glossy and thick, and its wings are full and long, and its eyes glow so brightly that the mirror shield is revealed to be no more than a pale imitation.
“You heard the call,” the man murmurs. “I thought you were dead.”
Trico blows warm air across the man’s face, chuffing at him. He laughs, delighted, and leans into its neck, just as he had when he was a boy.
Just then, he hears another sound from the darkness, a higher, squeakier noise. The man looks up, over Trico’s neck, and sees—another pair of eyes glowing at him out of the light rain.
Trico looks up, lifting its head, and growls. The man doesn’t budge as another of the beasts, much smaller than his Trico, pads cautiously forward into view. It squawks softly at him, cocking its head with much the same curiosity as the man remembers from the first time he met his Trico.
The man lifts his hand in greeting. “Hello,” he says. He looks up at Trico. “Is this your baby?”
Graceful as ever, Trico rolls to its feet and nudges the littler beast forward. It sniffs the man cautiously, and in return he gently strokes its oversized ears. Its eyes and ears and paws are bigger than its parent’s, and its legs seem strangely gangly and clumsy. It is definitely a youth.
“You did more than simply live alone,” the man says in awe, looking up at Trico, hand still on the baby’s ear. “Your whole species will live!”
Trico flicks its tail and ears, and the man could swear it looks proud.
“Will you stay?” he asks frankly, staring up at his friend. “I cannot bear another separation, not knowing whether you live or die.”
The great beast snorts, ears lying back flat. It takes nervous steps back and forth, not quite pacing, but uncertain.
“I will protect you,” the man says, holding out his hands. “I swear. I swear to you, Trico, that no one will harm you. Not this time.”
Trico bends its head and nudges at his hands. It whimpers, staring at him with huge dark eyes. He knows what it means. It can’t stay here. It isn’t safe. The other villagers would never understand.
Behind him, a door creaks. Trico jerks upright, taking a step back and hissing defensively, as its baby backs up, hiding behind its parent. The man turns and sees the girl who earlier watched his mirror demonstration standing in the doorway, eyes as wide as Trico’s.
“Is that it?” she asks breathlessly. “Your friend, the great beast?”
“Yes,” the man says. “Please, don’t be alarmed.”
She takes a few steps forward, out into the wet grass. Her hair, tangled and snarled from sleep, begins to flatten out as the rain falls upon her. “I’m not,” she says, staring past the man at Trico. “It’s really beautiful…”
“Trico is the most beautiful of creatures,” the man says, looking back at his friend.
Trico snorts, pawing at the earth nervously.
The girl stops just shy of the man, letting him stand between her and Trico. “Why did it come back?” she asks him.
“It heard the call of the mirror shield,” the man says, turning to look back at the great beast and its baby. They are both watching now, two huge pairs of glowing eyes in the darkness. To some, that might be an eerie sight, but the man finds infinite comfort in it.
“Oh,” the girl says, and is about to speak again when the baby daringly steps out from behind its parent and creeps forward, peering curiously at her. She freezes as it leans forward, sniffing at her.
“Don’t worry,” the man says. “You can try to pet it, if it will let you.”
She hesitantly reaches out with one hand and strokes the baby’s nose. It snorts and yanks its head back, but then puts its snout back, realizing that it rather liked the feeling. The man chuckles and Trico purrs, bending down to nuzzle the top of the man’s head.
“From one generation to the next, eh, old friend?” the man asks, looking up at Trico. He rests a hand on its leg, leaning against the solid warmth of the great beast as he watches the girl and the baby playing together.
Suddenly, there is a yank on the back of his tunic and his feet abruptly leave the ground as Trico scoops him up and swings him around to drop him on its back. He lands in a pile in between Trico’s wings and scrambles for a handhold, trying not to pull too hard on Trico’s feathers. “Ah! I think I’ve forgotten how to ride you,” the man says breathlessly when he finally finds a good seat.
Trico just growls with amusement and lies down with the man on its back. He can smell the ozone on its feathers, untainted by the smell of whatever the strange substance was that had lurked throughout the ruins. It must all be gone, then.
He felt that no time had passed at all before he began to hear sounds in some of the dwellings. A few others must be awake, then, preparing for early-morning chores. Trico’s ears prick up and it looks around. The man senses his friend’s discomfort and slides down onto the ground. “You should go,” he says quietly, unwilling to take his hands away from Trico’s side.
The great beast hums its distress, looking down on him with sad eyes. But it rises to its feet and calls its baby, who is busy chasing its tail while the girl rides on its back, trying to muffle her shrieks of delight. The baby bounds to its parent’s side, cooing its delight as the man helps the girl down from its back.
“They aren’t evil at all,” she says breathlessly as her feet touch the ground.
“I know,” the man says, looking up at Trico, now grooming its baby’s mussed feathers. “I know.”
Trico turns one last time and presses its nose against the man’s chest. He tries to fight back tears as he embraces his friend. It purrs, as if attempting reassurance, and then looks to its baby and chirrups. They take a running start, the two of them, sprinting down the village green and leaping at the last second into the air, huge wings arcs of black that shimmer in the faint light of the stars.
All too quickly, the great beasts fade from sight.
The man presses his palms to his eyes and stifles a sob.
“It’s all right to cry,” the girl says quietly. “They’re your friends.”
He swallows his sadness, wiping the tears from his eyes, and smiles at her. “They are yours, as well,” he says.
She scuffs her feet in the wet grass, staring up at the empty sky. “Will they come back?”
“I hope so,” the man says.
“I think they will,” the girl says. She smiles up at him, full of the confidence of youth. “And we’ll show everyone that they’re good beasts, the best of friends.”
As if in reply, from across the vast sky, the man hears the distant cry of Trico.