Heart of the Moors

Chapter 21

For most of his life, Diaval had been a raven. He’d lived in a community of perhaps several hundred on the outskirts of the Moors, roosting in trees, hunting for food, and jousting in the air to show his daring.

He’d been a good thief. He had stolen fruit from the orchards of humans, earthworms from the beaks of his brothers and sisters, and carrion from wolves. He remembered the thrill of it.

And he remembered the terror of being turned into a man. A farmer had been about to kill him. The transformation had saved his life, but he no longer felt as though his life was his own. Not only did he owe an impossible-to-repay debt to the faerie standing before him with the curving horns and cold eyes, but his whole self was changed.

He hated being human, but once he was, he knew emotions he hadn’t known before—regret and contempt, jealousy and empathy. And he had words, which changed how he saw everything, including himself.

Then she turned him into a horse, which was distasteful, but he couldn’t forget the power of that body. That changed him, too. His mind had been simpler than that of a raven, more driven by instinct. And his instinct had been to protect his mistress.

Then she turned him into a dragon, which was powerful beyond all things. It woke an ancient hunger in him and a rage big enough to devour the world—and half the beings in it. Ever after, even when he was a raven again, he couldn’t forget that feeling. He felt bigger than his skin.

But what changed Diaval most of all was being by Maleficent’s side. He’d learned to care for her and Aurora, whom he’d adored since she was a fledgling floundering around outside her nest. Though he’d begun his service in awe, he now stayed by Maleficent’s side because there was nowhere else he would rather be.

He thought of all that as he felt a wagon lurch around him. He’d been thrown into a burlap sack, as though he were some game bird caught during a hunt.

His beak was sharp enough to wear through the cloth, so he started on that, rubbing it against the ground. It was slow work, but there was nothing else for it. He dared not move his wings to make sure they were unhurt, for fear one of the soldiers would see. He had to be patient.

Eventually, he wore a small tear in the fabric. Worming his beak through, he opened his mouth and tore the hole wider. Finally, he was able to get his head out. Then, with some ripping and wriggling, he was free. Diaval found himself in a covered cart with a back that was entirely open. Several soldiers sat on either side, their weapons pointed at two bodies on the floor. Bags were over both their heads, and Maleficent was wrapped in heavy chains.

He wanted to save her, but what could he do? If he tried to peck out their eyes, they would likely recapture him or kill him. And he couldn’t manage to blind more than two.

I expect you not to fail me.

Well, he didn’t intend to. He would go and find Aurora, and together they would save Maleficent.

With that in mind, he sprang up from the floor of the cart and hoped his wings weren’t damaged, hoped they could carry him into the air. And when they did, he gloried in the shouts of the soldiers below. They would see him again—and hopefully when they did, Maleficent would turn him into a dragon and they would know what it was like to run from his fire.

Flying back toward the castle, he thought of what it would be to lose her. He recalled his last sight of Maleficent, caught in the iron web of netting, her horns pulling against it, her eyes wide and bright with fury.

He would save her. He must save her.

For the first time, he would have traded away his raven-ness forever to be a man who could speak. Who could fight. Who could do something more than circle in the sky, searching for the gleam of a gold crown and hoping that somehow Aurora would be able to understand him.