by Ellias Quinn
The Eletsol musicians tentatively started up again. The barge-alva imitated them and then played their own music for a few beats. The back-and-forth went on until a new song emerged, a sprawling blend of tunes that came from uncoordinated musicians improvising with each other. The Eletsol sang even more loudly. Many flew and spun in the smoke from the campfires, their flower petal and leaf wings fluttering. Some Nervoda rose from their pillows, scintillant mist gathering around them as they floated and wove through the air to the music’s strong beat. All of the Ranycht whooped and danced on the deck.
Matil realized she was smiling and couldn’t stop if she wanted to. Dask laughed at the wild antics of everyone involved and Simmad was humming and swaying along. Matil turned to Khelya to cajole her into dancing together – copying the funny kicks and graceful hand motions – but stopped short of speaking. Khelya’s head was tilted to the side. She wore a slight cringe.
Matil tapped her arm. “What is it?”
Khelya startled out of her reverie. “Oh,” she said, “you know how it is between us Obrigi and this kinda artistical thing.”
Right. Obrigi saw no point in music or other arts. Apparently it had been that way since the Hibernation, when they lost the blessing of inspiration given to them by the Elder Falgar.
Khelya sighed. “The music wouldn’t bother me if I weren’t trying to listen.”
“You’re trying to listen?” Dask said.
“Yeah, I am,” she said defensively. “I just wanna…understand it, is all.”
He nodded, but still looked confused.
“It won’t work, anyway.” Khelya put a hand on her stomach. “Wonder when the food’ll be ready.”
Once the barge neared the dense forest beyond the campgrounds, the barge-alva waved and hollered goodbye. They passed behind a tree and now all that remained was their music, until that, too, was swallowed by the night.
Matil and the others were about to turn away when a voice rang through the campground. The Eletsol musicians stopped playing.
“Hey!” the voice said again. A Nervoda man swooped along the surface of the water. A curtain of mist swirled around him, droplets catching the light of fireflies and torches. He wore a leaf cap and well-worn jerkin and trousers. It was one of the barge-alva. He stopped and hovered at the shore, announcing to the Eletsol, “Thought we’d letcha know to keep yer eyes open! There’s word from upriver that Skorgon are about. Real mean ones.”
“Thank you for this warning,” Uro replied.
The Nervoda bowed in mid-air with a lazy grin and dove into the brook to catch up with the barge.
Matil turned to her friends, her insides tight with worry. “Skorgon?”
“Not all Skorgon are Nychta’s Skorgon,” Dask said. “This far east, they’re probably a gang of highwaymen.”
“I do hope there won’t be any fighting,” Simmad said.
Khelya shuddered. “Me too. To be honest, I never wanna see another Skorgon in my life.”
Matil stared at the ground, frowning. Dask came over and touched her arm.
“It’ll be okay,” he said. “You don’t sense Nychta, right?”
“No,” she admitted.
“So don’t worry.” Dask looked around. “You know, I’m with Khel. When’s the food—”
“Dels!” the group of Eletsol cooks yelled. “Dels! Dels!”
Teres had taught Matil and the others that ‘dels’ meant food.
Everyone piled their bowls with greens, berries, and a small slab of meat. Uro sat with the bearers of the sign for dinner. He spread his hand out toward the gathering. “All this you see…this peace is not ordinary,” he said. “Rather than eat together, these clans would war. The sign of Dyndal has united us more truly than when we have celebrated Velana Festivals at his tomb over the generations.”
“What is the pendant meant for?” Simmad said. “Why does it have such an effect on the Eletsol?”
“Dyndal promised.” Uro nodded, eyes barely showing under his brows. “Though dead, he would return to guide us.”
Khelya frowned. “Why didn’t he tell anyone else?”
“Because,” he said, using a knife to slice a chunk off his sizzling meat, “Eletsol are the best at keeping secrets.” He picked up the chunk and dropped it back on his plate. “Ah.” He blew on his burnt fingers. “Helkuum, helkuum.”
After dinner, which ended a long time after everyone had actually finished their food, alva dropped off to sleep here and there. A slow drumbeat began. It poured through the camp as everyone settled themselves either sitting or lying down. A few watchmen stood straight in the trees and among the alva on the ground. Khelya offered to take first watch for Matil, Dask, and Simmad.
A woman remained standing on a low branch in the center of the camp. Her yellow hair hung to her knees in two braids. She took a deep breath and, swaying with the drum’s pound, let loose a clear note. The song she sang had just the traces of a tune and didn’t sound like it was in any language. It was strange and lovely, reminding Matil of hooting owls and trees forever stretching higher in a midnight sky. The woman’s voice was the loneliness of being awake while everyone else slept. Matil lay underneath her blankets, staring up at branches heavy with darkness and patches of stars returning her gaze.
* * *
Matil and her rangy teacher, Etsel, strolled through a narrow street so deep in the city that there was no sky above them, only crisscrossing bridges and alva flying from level to level. They were surrounded by the wood, stone, and glass of run-down but warm storefronts. Low-burning braziers at street corners offset the dying year’s chill. The street was a bustle of Nuen Festival shoppers bundled in their wings and heavy coats.
“You do what you can,” Etsel said, pointing at the various busy shops. “Take work from the alva who’ll pay ya, but don’t get too enterprising or the gangs’ll feel your downdraft. They like keepin’ jobs to themselves.” He waved at a shopkeeper who had stepped out to empty a bucket of dirty water into the gutter. “Mr. Criffer! How’s life?”
Mr. Criffer wiped his hands on his apron. “Sorry, Ets, I don’t need nothin’ done today.”
“Hey, okay, I’ll see ya tomorrow.”
He squinted at Matil. “Who’s the kid? She yours?”
“Nooo, sir. This is Manners. Y’see, I finally picked up etiquette.”
Matil smiled shyly. “It’s nice to meet you.”
The older man wheezed out a laugh. “‘Bout time our Ets got some manners, huh? Listen, I think she could help around the store. Shora knows my apprentice needs a good example.”
Matil blinked and looked up at Etsel. Had Mr. Criffer offered her a job?
“How’s the pay?” Etsel said.
“Aw, don’t ya trust me?”
“‘Course I do, Mr. Criffer, but my little friend has a healthy sense of skepticism.”
Did she? Matil resolved to think more skeptically.
“Smart kid,” Mr. Criffer said. “Howsabout…five relds for a day’s work and seven if she’s good? S’all I can afford right now.”
Etsel nodded slowly. “She’s a hard worker and doesn’t eat much. You can feed her, right?”
“Yeah, sure. C’mon in, kid.” Mr. Criffer carried his bucket into the store.
“Don’t molt this one up,” Etsel whispered. “Do good and ya got yourself an income. I’ll be back here for you by the time he closes up shop, all right?”
A lump formed in Matil’s throat so she could barely talk. “Th-thanks, Etsel. Thank you so—”
“Ah, cut it out.” His wings twitched. “Just, y’know, uh…do good.”
“I will.”
* * *
“The Eletsol are still moving,” Crell said, “and more of them are joining every day.” He walked beside Nychta down the gloomy tunnels of their temporary base. “My scouts learned that they alread
y went to the tomb of Dyndal this year, so why are they going again? Do they know about us?”
“My leftover self went to Icto Lan, and I bet she’s with the Eletsol right now,” Nychta said. “Somehow she found out the hermit’s secret. They have to know about us.”
Crell remembered the girl, the one so much like Nychta used to be. Those purple eyes. He shook his head. “Then that’s why they’re gathering. They want to keep us out. Are we too late?”
“No,” Nychta said in an airy tone, “we’re just not early. The Book and I made plans. I’ll leave today to find Kanay’s prison and unchain her before anything else happens. Next, I’ll go to Igsun and Stal. Our enemies are so busy looking for the Heilar that they’ve forgotten about the Saikyr.”
“Kanay, Igsun, Stal,” Crell murmured. “Do you believe…the Elders really exist?”
“I don’t care,” Nychta said. “It doesn’t matter if Kanay, Myrkhar – any of them – are Elders or earthworms. The Book is powerful and it says that they’re powerful. We need them.” Her pale eyes seemed to shimmer in the dimness. “Crell, it’s working. Everything is starting to pay off. That fake thinks she’s fighting me, but all she’s doing is helping me. Helping us.”
Every step Nychta took and every one of her gestures was controlled and purposeful. Crell had always seen it in her, but it was different now. It was as if purpose had taken over her whole being.
He closed a hand around the hilt of his sheathed sword, trying to feel the same resolve. “I’ll gather the Skorgon.”
“Set the best ones aside for now,” she said. “The Book says you’ll need at least four hundred for this strike. Afterward, the rest of them will go on to Nychtfal. We have enough now to make the High Court listen to me.” She smiled. “Can you believe it? The magistrates…the magistrates will finally give us justice.”
The back of Crell’s neck prickled. Her plan would come true. Good. It was good because once they completed the plan, they could go back and start over. They could live a new life.
“Before we go,” she said as she stopped, “we need to get rid of the hermit. The Book’s done with him.” They stood right outside of the cave where they kept Hasyl.
“Yes, Nychta,” Crell said. Stepping in, he motioned to one of the Skorgon guards standing over the tattered lump on the floor. “Kill him.”
One of the Skorgon raised a hooked blade.
“Stop,” Nychta said. “Crell, you do it. Meet me in the map room when you’re done.”
Crell nodded before he could think too hard. As Nychta walked on past the hermit’s cave, he moved farther in, drawing his sword and stepping over the rocks littering the dirt floor. Hasyl’s slitted eyes flicked up at him. The once-heavy Kyndelin had diminished. His bony frame lay drawn in and breathing shallowly.
The physical torture had done much, but it couldn’t break him. After Crell oversaw Hasyl’s pain, he’d hoped that the Book of Myrkhar could get the information without further violence. Instead, the hermit’s screams had been worse. Nychta had held the Book in front of Hasyl, who twisted in agony. Crell had flinched and kept his eyes averted. Nychta and the Skorgon watched.
At least the hermit wouldn’t have to live with his wounds any longer. Crell raised the sword. Probably…he should probably cut off the head. Hasyl would die immediately.
Crell tried to steady his heartbeat. A thought crossed his mind before he could squash it: He should be holding a forging hammer instead of a sword.
“Don’t kill—” Hasyl inhaled raggedly, “—your own soul.”
He gritted his teeth. “Be quiet.”
Soft footsteps made him turn and lower the sword. Nychta entered the cave. Had she come to give him a different assignment?
“He’s still alive,” she said matter-of-factly.
Crell couldn’t respond. Nychta was right – she must be right. She must be right. She was Nychta. They had known nothing would come easily.
She nodded at the two Skorgon. “Stand him up.”
The guards grabbed Hasyl by his arms and pulled him almost to his feet.
“Look at him,” said Nychta. “He’s not even useful to his own side.”
She reached out and curled her right hand around Crell’s on the hilt of the sword. Her soft touch clouded his mind, and he wondered why she would choose to hold hands at a time like this.
In a swift move, she grabbed his arm with her other hand and shoved the sword through the hermit’s chest. Hasyl groaned and slumped over the blade. After a moment of staring, Crell jerked his hand from the sword-hilt. Nychta was left holding it alone.
She gave him a hard look, something he had seen from her only once before, and pulled the sword from Hasyl’s body. The two Skorgon dropped the limp corpse with a thud. As she roughly handed his sword back to him, the blood coating its blade dripped onto the floor. Crell fumbled with it, accidentally cutting himself in his attempt to keep from dropping the sword.
Nychta’s cold eyes searched his own. “You said you wanted to stick together.”
The words steadied him. “I do.” He gripped the hilt firmly.
“Then follow my lead. You’ve protected me, Crell, but now I need to protect you. Let someone live, and they won’t stop until they’ve taken you down. I learned that lesson the hard way. You get to learn it the easy way.” She looked beyond him at the Skorgon. “Take care of the body.” Without a second glance she left the cave.
A loud ting-ting-ting startled Crell. He looked down to see that his hand was limp and empty. The sword lay on the ground, its blade vibrating from impact with the rocks.
Chapter 22
The Young Spirit
Two days passed since the travelers crossed the brook, and alva continued to join their number. There was tension and hostility with some of the clans, particularly the reddish-skinned Eletsol who had come from the east. The western Eletsol almost turned them away because the easterners didn’t believe that the Elders were dead. Their beliefs and presence made Khelya hopeful, but Dask reminded her what Uro had told them: That the easterners had never before been allowed to see Dyndal’s tomb.
On the morning of the third day, Matil, Dask, and Khelya – the bearers of Dyndal’s sign – rode in an open wagon driven by a dozing Eletsol man and pulled by a mouse. Dewdrop and Olnar were tethered to either side of the wagon and bore weapons, food, and blankets on their ample shells. The sign-bearers’ wagon was near the front of the procession, after about four rows of three wagons each. Behind their wagon, the line of alva and animals curved away into the undergrowth. Magicians sat interspersed among the wagons, moving plants out of their way and sometimes using stems or foliage to lift the wagons over rough terrain.
The morning sun made it through in some places, warming the path. The sign-bearers’ wagon bumped over grass roots and dirt while Matil and Khelya chatted idly. Dask lay stretched out on the bench beside Matil, shading his eyes with one hand.
Simmad flew up and alighted in the wagon. A thin old man with wrinkly yellow petal wings followed him in. Matil, Dask, and Khelya looked up at them.
“I found a storyteller!” Simmad said. “He speaks fluent Alvishu, and he would be honored—”
“I would be honored,” said the old man, “to share a tale of Lord Dyndal.”
“That’d be great, sit down, uh…” Khelya pulled a blanket off of the bench beside her.
The old man sat. “I am Likku of clan Heiga.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Matil said cheerfully. “I’m Matil.”
“I’m Khelya.”
“And I’m Dask,” he said, sitting up.
“Excellent!” Simmad took the space next to Dask. “Are you ready?”
Dask slid away from Simmad. “Does it have to be about Dyndal? Why not a wizard fighting monsters?”
“I thought it would make an excellent introduction for all of you considering wh
ere we’re headed,” Simmad said.
Dask folded his arms in curt acceptance.
“This is a story of Lord Dyndal the Young Spirit,” Likku said in a sonorous tone. “When Dyndal became a man, he wished to find a wife. Among daughters of the Elders, there were great beauties, great minds, and great hearts, but he met none who could laugh and sing and dance as though no one else in the world mattered.”
“I’ve read many variations of this story,” Simmad whispered. “Each one is the same up till about this point. I haven’t yet heard an Eletsol version, so even I don’t know what will happen next!”
Likku blinked slowly at Simmad and then said, “One day when Dyndal was going deep into Valdingfal, the only place he had not yet looked, he found himself flying with the sky below him. He turned right-side up and was suddenly flipped over again. A woman’s voice burst out in a waterfall of laughter.”
“Waterfall?” Simmad said. “Do you perhaps mean ‘cascade’?”
“Waterfall,” Likku said. “Dyndal tried twisting and turning to see this woman, but he kept on being twisted and turned the other way round. At last he stopped flying and dropped. He landed on a tree branch. But this tree branch began to move, and then another branch on the same tree moved. The branches cradled Dyndal like a child in its mother’s arms. ‘Teeli reeli roo,’ the woman’s voice sang. ‘How tired are you?’
“Dyndal said nothing. He lay there with his eyes closed. The woman said again, ‘How tired are you?’ Two bright yellow eyes looked down through the leaves at Dyndal. ‘Very tired,’ she said. ‘My lullaby worked!’ She appeared from out of the leaves, a beautiful woman with dark hair and a joyous smile. She had sharp teeth like a snake’s and wings like a carrion-bird’s. When she flew down to Dyndal, she reached out to touch his face. His eyes flashed open and he took hold of her wrist.”
