The Seven Songs

by T.A. Barron

  Urnalda pounded with her fist on the arm of her throne. The two dwarves guarding the entrance instantly lowered their spears, aiming the blades straight at me. Again she pounded. “Tell me why you did that.”

  I drew a halting breath, “Well, because even a cage of stone will eventually crumble. The best way to protect something is to set it free.”

  At that instant, blue flame erupted from my staff. The dwarf standing over it yelped and leaped his own height into the air. Even before he fell back to the floor, I could make out the new marking, etched in blue, on my staff. It was a cracked stone.

  20: RIVERS COOL AND WARM

  By the time I found the others at their camp by the headwaters, not far from where I had left them, we had been separated more than three full days. The meadow grasses, painted several shades of green, rippled in the breeze. Seeing me approach, Rhia ran to meet me. Her worried face relaxed as soon as she glimpsed the third marking etched on my staff.

  She touched my hand. “I was so worried, Merlin.”

  My throat tightened. “With good reason, I’m afraid. You told me I might get lost, and I guess I did.”

  “You found your way back, though.”

  “Yes,” I replied. “But it took me too long. Ten days, no more, remain.”

  Bumbelwy joined us, almost tripping on his cloak as he hopped over the splashing stream. Although he wore his usual stack of frowns, he seemed genuinely glad to see me. He clasped my hand and shook it vigorously, jangling his bells in my ears. Then, sensing that he was about to try again to tell his famous riddle of the bells, I turned and walked away briskly. Both he and Rhia followed. Before long we had put some distance between ourselves and the realm of the dwarves. Yet far more distance lay ahead.

  For the fourth Song, Naming, had something to do with the Slantos, a mysterious people who lived at the extreme northeastern tip of Fincayra. While to get there we would not need to climb any more snowbound passes, we would have to cross the entire breadth of the Rusted Plains. That alone would take several days. Then we would be hard-pressed to find a route past the sheer cliffs of Eagles’ Canyon, not to mention the northern reaches of the Dark Hills. And while I knew that danger lurked in all these places, it was the notion of crossing the Dark Hills that left me most unsettled.

  To cross the plains, we rose each day at dawn, when the first morning birds and the last evening frogs sang together in chorus. We stopped only occasionally to pick berries or roots—and once, thanks to Rhia’s ability to speak the buzzing language of bees, to eat a bit of honeycomb, dripping with sweet syrup. She also seemed to know just where we might find water, leading us to hidden springs and quiet pools. It was as if she could somehow see into the landscape’s secret mind as easily as she could see into my own. The moon offered enough light to trek into the night, so trek by moonlight we did, across the sweeping plains. Yet the moon, like our time, was quickly disappearing.

  Finally, after three long days, we reached the edge of Eagles’ Canyon. We sat on the rocky rim, gazing out over the broad stripes of red, brown, maroon, and pink that lined the cliffs and buttresses. Gleaming white pinnacles protruded from the opposite wall. Far below, a shallow river snaked along the base of the cliffs.

  Tired though I was, I couldn’t help feeling a rush of strength when I recalled the stirring cry of the canyon eagle that had marked the beginning of the Great Council of Fincayra. If only I could soar like an eagle myself! I could sail over this colorful gorge, as swiftly as the wind. Just as I had done, ages ago it seemed, on Trouble’s feathered back.

  But an eagle or a hawk I was not. Like Rhia and Bumbelwy, I would have to descend into the canyon by foot and find some route up the other side. With my second sight, I followed the line of cliffs, searching for some way to cross. We were, at least, far enough north that the walls were not completely impassable. Farther to the south, they lifted into a yawning chasm that sliced through the very center of the Dark Hills.

  Rhia, the most surefooted of the three of us, led the way. She soon discovered a series of narrow ledges that crisscrossed the cliff walls. By following each ledge until we found a place to drop down to the one just below, we gradually moved lower into the canyon, sometimes sliding on our backs, sometimes climbing over crumbly outcroppings. Finally, soaked with perspiration, we reached the bottom.

  The river, though muddy, was much cooler than we were. Bumbelwy, sweltering under his thick cloak, plunged straight in. Rhia and I followed suit, kneeling on the round stones that lined the river bottom, soaking our heads and rinsing our arms, splashing water on each other. Once, though I could not be certain, I thought I heard the distant screech of an eagle from somewhere above us on the cliffs.

  At last, feeling refreshed, we began the arduous climb out of the canyon. Before long I needed to use both hands, and thrust my staff into the belt of my tunic. As the slope grew steeper, Bumbelwy’s grumbling grew worse. Yet he struggled to keep up, climbing just below Rhia, finding his handholds in the footholds she had just vacated.

  As we scaled a particularly steep buttress, my shoulders ached from the strain. I leaned back as far as I dared without losing my grip, hoping to glimpse the top of the canyon wall. But I found only more layered maroon and brown cliffs rising far above us. Glancing below, I viewed the muddy river, which seemed no more than a thin trickle on the canyon floor. I shuddered, tightening my grip on the rock. For as little as I wanted to climb upward, I wanted even less to tumble so far downward.

  Rhia, who was slightly to my left on the buttress, suddenly called out. “Look! A sharr. On the pink rock there.”

  Careful not to lose my balance, I turned to find a light brown, kittenlike animal, basking in the sunshine. Like a cat, it lay curled in a little ball, purring quietly. Unlike a cat, it had a pointed snout, lined with soft whiskers, and two paper-thin wings folded across its back. The delicate wings fluttered with every purr.

  “Isn’t it lovely?” asked Rhia, gripping the wall of stone. “Sharrs are found only in high, rocky places like this. I’ve seen only one before, from much farther away. They’re very shy.”

  Hearing her voice, the sharr opened its blue eyes. It tensed, watching her intently. Then it seemed to relax. The purring resumed. Slowly, Rhia shifted her footholds. Then, grasping the crumbling cliff with one hand, she reached toward the creature.

  “Careful,” I warned. “You might fall.”

  “Shhh. You’ll frighten it.”

  The sharr shifted slightly, placing its furry paws on the rock as if it were preparing to stand. Each of the paws had four little toes. As Rhia’s hand came nearer to its face, the sharr’s purring grew louder.

  Just then I noticed something strange about the paws. At first I couldn’t identify what it was. For some reason, they seemed a bit . . . odd.

  All of a sudden, I knew. The toes were webbed. Like the feet of a duck. Now, why would a creature of the high, rocky canyons have webbed feet? In a flash, I understood.

  “Don’t, Rhia! It’s a shifting wraith!”

  Even as I started to shout, however, the sharr began to transform. Quick as lightning, the wings evaporated, the blue eyes reddened, the fur became scales, and the cat’s body changed into a serpent with daggerlike teeth. The air crackled as it threw off a brittle, transparent skin, like a snake that is shedding. All this happened in the blink of an eye. Hearing my shout, Rhia had barely enough time to duck before the serpentine creature, jaws open wide, leaped at her face, claws extended. With a savage scream, the attacker flew just over her head, plunging into the canyon far below.

  Although its jaws missed her, the shifting wraith’s tail whipped against her cheek. Thrown off balance, she lost her footing. For an instant she clung to the buttress with one hand, swaying precariously. Then the stone beneath her hand crumbled. She fell, right on top of Bumbelwy.

  Clinging tight to the rock face, his fingers turning white, the lanky jester howled at the impact. Yet somehow he held on, managing to break Rhia’s fall. Still, she wa
s left hanging upside down on his back, struggling to right herself.

  “Hold on, Bumbelwy!” I cried, watching them from above.

  “I’m doing my best,” he groaned. “Though that’s never good enough.”

  Suddenly, the stone supporting his hands broke loose, splitting into shards that clattered down the cliff. The two of them screamed in unison. Arms and legs flailing, they slid down the rock face, striking a narrow ledge that stopped their fall. There they hung, high above the canyon floor.

  Like an ungainly spider, I climbed down the cliff, my staff swinging from my belt. Rhia and Bumbelwy were sprawled below me on the ledge, moaning painfully. The jester’s bell-draped hat lay beside him, covered with red dust. Rhia tried to sit up, then fell back, her right arm dangling at her side.

  Working my way across the narrow ledge, I reached her at last. As I helped her sit up, she gasped when I brushed against her twisted arm. Her eyes, full of pain, searched my face. “You warned me . . . just in time.”

  “I wish it had been a few seconds sooner.” A sudden flurry of wind sprayed us with dust from the cliff wall. After it subsided, I took a pinch of herbs from my satchel and dabbed the scratch on her cheek.

  “How did you know it was a wraith?”

  “The webbed feet. Remember when we found that alleah bird in the forest? That was when you showed me that shifting wraiths always have something odd about them.” I indicated myself. “A lot like people, I suppose.”

  Rhia tried to lift her arm and winced painfully. “Most people aren’t that dangerous.”

  Moving carefully on the ledge, I came around to her other side to get a better view of the wounded arm. “It looks broken.”

  “And let’s forget about poor old Bumbelwy,” the jester whimpered. “I did nothing useful. Nothing at all.”

  Despite her pain, Rhia almost grinned. “Bumbelwy, you were wonderful. If my arm weren’t ready to fall off, I’d give you a hug.”

  If only for a moment, the dour jester stopped moaning. He blushed ever so slightly. Then, seeing her injured arm, he frowned with his brow, cheeks, and chins. “That looks rather bad. You’ll be incapacitated for life. Never able to eat or sleep again.”

  “I don’t think so.” Gently, I laid the arm across Rhia’s lap, feeling for the break.

  She winced. “What can you do? There’s nothing—oh, that hurts!—around here to use for a splint. And without two—oh!—arms, it’s going to be impossible climbing out of here.”

  “Impossible,” echoed Bumbelwy.

  I shook my head, knocking some pebbles from my hair. “Nothing is impossible.”

  “Bumbelwy’s right,” protested Rhia. “You can’t fix this. Oh! Even that satchel of herbs . . . can’t help. Merlin, you should leave me here. Go on . . . without me.”

  My jaw clenched. “Absolutely not! I’ve learned more about Binding than that. We are together, you and I, like those two hawks on the wind.”

  A frail light flickered in her eyes. “But how? I can’t climb . . . without my arm.”

  I stretched my sore shoulders, then drew in a deep breath. “I’m hoping to mend your arm.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Bumbelwy crept closer on the ledge. “To do that you’d need a splint. A stretcher. And an army of healers. It’s impossible, I say.”

  Feeling the break, I placed my hands gently on top of it. Although it made no difference to my second sight, I closed my eyes in concentration. With all my power, I imagined light, warm and healing, gathering within my chest As my heart brimmed with the light, I allowed it to flow down my arms and into my fingers. Like invisible rivers of warmth, the light flowed out of me and into Rhia.

  “Ohhh,” she sighed. “That feels good. What are you doing?”

  “I’m just doing what a wise friend once told me to do. Listening to the language of the wound.”

  She smiled, leaning back against the rocky ledge.

  “Don’t be fooled,” warned Bumbelwy. “If you feel better now, it’s only because you’re going to feel ten times worse later on.”

  “I don’t care, you old bother! It feels stronger already.” She started to lift her arm.

  “Don’t,” I ordered. “Not yet.”

  As the warm light continued to pour out of my fingertips, I concentrated on the bones and muscles beneath her skin. Patiently, carefully, I felt each strand of tissue with my mind. Each strand I touched with gentleness, coaxing it to be strong again, to be whole again. One by one, I bathed the sinews, smoothed them, and knitted them back into place. Finally, I removed my hands.

  Rhia raised her arm. She wiggled her fingers. Then she flung her arms around my neck, squeezing with all the strength of a bear.

  “How did you do that?” she asked as she released me.

  “I really don’t know.” I tapped the knotted top of my staff. “But I think it might be another verse in the Song of Binding.”

  She released me. “You have truly found the soul of that Song. Your mother, the healer, would be proud.”

  Her words jolted me. “Come! We have less than a week left. I want to get to the Slantos’ village by tomorrow morning.”

  21: THE SHRIEK

  By the time we finally pulled ourselves over the rim of the canyon, the sun had just set. Shadows gathered on the sheer buttresses, while the Dark Hills rising before us looked almost black. As I gazed at the hills, the lonely cry of a canyon eagle echoed somewhere nearby, reminding me of the eagle’s cry that had begun the Great Council of Fincayra. And of the fact that those hills would have been restored to life by now had I kept my promise with the Flowering Harp.

  The three of us trekked in the deepening dusk. The flat rocks under our feet quickly turned into dry, flaky soil, the kind of soil that I had learned to identify with the Dark Hills. But for the occasional rustling of leaves from withered trees, we heard only the crunching of our boots, the rattling of Bumbelwy’s bells, and the rhythmic punching of my staff on the ground.

  Darkness pressed closer. I knew that whatever brave animals might have returned to these hills since the collapse of the Shrouded Castle must have found secure places to hide after sundown. For that was the time when the warrior goblins and shifting wraiths—and whatever other creatures lived beneath the surface—might be tempted to emerge from their caves in the rock outcroppings and crevasses. I shuddered, remembering that at least one such creature had dared to appear in broad daylight. Rhia, uncannily aware of my feelings as usual, gave my arm a gentle squeeze.

  Night fell as we continued to ascend the Dark Hills. Twisted trees stood like skeletons, their branches rattling in the wind. Staying on our northeasterly course was made more difficult because heavy clouds obscured most of the stars and the remaining moon. Even Rhia walked more slowly in the gloom. Although Bumbelwy didn’t complain openly, his mutterings grew increasingly fearful. My own weary legs tripped often over stones and dead roots. At this rate, we were more likely to get lost than attacked.

  When at last Rhia pointed out a narrow gully running down the slope, all that remained of a once-surging stream, I agreed that it would be wise to rest there until dawn. Minutes later, the three of us lay on the hard soil of the ravine. Rhia found a rounded rock she could use as a pillow, while Bumbelwy curled himself into a ball, declaring, “I could sleep through an erupting volcano.” Given the danger, I tried my best to stay awake, but was soon slumbering along with the others.

  A high-pitched shriek rang out. I sat up, fully awake, as did Rhia beside me. Both of us held our breath, listening, but heard nothing beyond Bumbelwy’s snoring. A feeble glow behind the clouds was all that we could trace of the moon, and its light barely brushed the surrounding hills.

  The shriek came again. It hung in the air, a cry of sheer terror. Although Rhia tried to stop me, I grabbed my staff and stumbled out of the gully. She followed me onto the darkened slope. Searching the shadows, I stretched my second sight as far as I could, trying to detect any movement at all. Yet nothing stirred, not even a cricket.


  Suddenly I spotted a hulking figure traversing the rocks below us. Even if I had not glimpsed the pointed helmet, I would have known instantly what it was. A warrior goblin. Over the goblin’s muscular shoulder writhed a small, struggling creature whose life was clearly about to end.

  Without pausing to think, I dashed down the slope. Hearing my footsteps, the goblin whirled around. He tossed aside the prey on his shoulder and, with amazing speed, drew his broad sword. As he raised it over his head, his fiery eyes narrowed with rage.

  Weaponless except for my staff, I planted my feet and hurled myself straight at him. My shoulder crashed into his armored chest, throwing him backward. Together, we rolled and bounced down the rock-strewn slope.

  I came to a stop, my head still whirling. But the warrior goblin had recovered faster. He stood over me, snarling, his three-fingered hand still grasping the sword. As the moon above us broke out of the clouds, the blade gleamed darkly. Just as he brought down the sword, I rolled to one side. It slammed into the ground, splintering an old root. The warrior goblin growled wrathfully. He raised the sword again.

  I tried to stand, but tripped on a gnarled stick. My staff! In desperation, I lifted it to shield my face, even as the goblin’s sword came slicing toward me. I knew the thin shaft would hardly slow the blade at all, yet I could do nothing more.

  As the blade struck the wood, a sudden explosion rocked the slope. A tower of blue flame soared high into the sky. The goblin’s sword lifted with it, spinning like a branch borne aloft by a gale. The warrior goblin himself roared in anguish. He stumbled backward, collapsing on the hillside. He wheezed once, tried to raise himself, then fell back, as still as stone.

  Rhia ran to me. “Merlin! Are you hurt?”

  “No.” I rubbed the shaft, feeling the slight indentation where the sword had struck it. “Thanks to this staff. And whatever virtue Tuatha gave to it.”

  Rhia kneeled, her curls frosted with moonlight. “I think it was as much you as the staff.”