The Seven Songs

by T.A. Barron

  Rhia, who had followed us, gazed at the bricks in wonder. “I’ve eaten some hard bread before, but not that hard.”

  The rotund man turned to her. Suddenly he started to laugh, so hard that his belly shook and golden liquid sloshed out of his remaining pitcher. “A good one, forest girl.”

  She smiled. “You may call me Rhia.”

  “And me Merlin.”

  The man nodded. “And me Pluton.”

  “Pluton,” I repeated. “Isn’t that a Greek name? From the story of Demeter and the first harvest of corn?”

  “Why yes, boy. How do you come to know about the Greeks?”

  My throat went dry. “My mother taught me.”

  “Indeed, as did mine. No child is born in Slantos who doesn’t learn the tales of harvesting and baking from many different lands. And it’s not unusual to give a child a name from one of those tales.” He gave me an ambiguous look. “Of course, that’s not my true name.”

  Rhia and I traded glances. Remembering Urnalda’s comment about true names, I felt tempted to ask more. Besides, it troubled me that I could see no connection between the domestic art of bread baking and the magical art of Naming. But I held back. Things had taken a positive turn, and I did not want to alter that. Better to wait for another moment to learn about Naming.

  Pluton lifted the door latch. “Come on in, both of you.”

  As we started to follow him inside, I suddenly remembered Bumbelwy. Scanning the bustling common, I quickly found him, still standing by the bread fountain. He was leaning against its base, peering hungrily at the pool of golden liquid. Children, probably curious about his belled hat, were gathering around him. He seemed unlikely to get into any trouble, and I didn’t want to stretch Pluton’s hospitality any further than necessary, so I decided just to leave him there.

  As we entered the building, a new wave of aromas washed over us. I smelled roasting barley, some nectar as sweet as roses in bloom, and several spices I could not identify. The main room looked like the kitchen of a bustling inn, with pots boiling on the hearth, dried herbs and roots and bark shavings dangling from the ceiling, and bags of grain and flour sitting on the shelves. The room held six or seven people busily stirring, pouring, slicing, mixing, testing, and baking. From their expressions, it was clear that they both enjoyed their work and took it quite seriously.

  Sunlight streamed into the room through rows of narrow windows. Yet the main source of light was the hearth itself, a complex of stone ovens and fire pits that covered almost an entire wall. Rather than burning wood, the hearth’s fires used some sort of flat, gray cakes as fuel. No doubt they came from another mysterious recipe of the Slantos.

  Above the hearth, high enough to be well out of reach, hung a massive sword, its hilt blackened by many years of fires beneath it. The metal scabbard had rusted with age; the leather belt had been eaten away. Something about the old sword made me curious to examine it more closely. Yet with the swirl of activity in the room, I soon forgot about it.

  A tall girl, with apple cheeks and black hair that fell to her shoulders, approached Pluton. She looked quite different from anyone else I had seen in the village, partly because of her dark hair, partly because of her slender form. Her eyes, as black as my own, glowed with intelligence. The girl reached for the pitcher of golden liquid, then froze when she noticed Rhia and me standing to the side.

  Pluton flicked his hand toward us. “This is Merlin, and Rhia. They’re here to learn a bit about baking.” Indicating the girl, he added brusquely, or just distractedly, “This is my apprentice, Vivian. Came to me when her parents, whom I’d known from my travels in the south, died in a terrible flood. How long ago was that now?”

  “Six years, Breadmaster Pluton.” She took the pitcher, her hands embracing it with the care of a mother holding a newborn. Still watching us warily, she asked, “Are you not concerned about them?”

  “Concerned? My, yes.” He studied her inscrutably. “But no more concerned than I was about you.”

  She stiffened, but stayed silent.

  “Besides,” Pluton continued, “I heard a story in the common about a boy who beat off a huge warrior goblin with nothing more than his staff. Saved one of our own children, he did.” He cocked his head toward me. “Might that have been you?”

  A bit embarrassed, I nodded.

  He waved his stout hand at my staff. “And might that have been your weapon?”

  Again I nodded.

  “Not much of one against a goblin,” he said casually. “Unless of course it’s touched by magic.”

  At that, Vivian caught her breath. Her coal-dark eyes fixed on my staff. Instinctively, I turned the shaft around so that the markings from the Songs faced the other way.

  Pluton reached out and took a steaming loaf of yellow-crusted bread from the tray of a man walking past. Breaking it into two halves, he filled his lungs with the freshly roasted smell. Then he handed the halves to Rhia and me. “Eat now,” he suggested, or commanded. “You’ll need your strength.”

  Without any hesitation, both of us bit into the crusts. As the warm chewy bread touched our tongues, tasting of corn and butter and dill and many things more, our gazes met. Rhia’s eyes sparkled, like the ocean sky at sunrise.

  Pluton turned to Vivian. “We’ll keep them to the simplest tasks. Stirring, mixing, slicing. No recipes.”

  He picked up a pair of wooden buckets, dusted with flour, and handed them to Rhia. “You can fill these, one with barley and one with wheat, from those sacks over there. Then carry them to the grinding wheel, in that room beyond the high shelves. You can learn a bit about milling and sifting in there.”

  He brushed some flour off his tunic. “And you, boy, can do some chopping. Over there at the table preparing heart bread.”

  Vivian seemed startled. “Really, Breadmaster?”

  “That’s right,” declared Pluton. “He can chop some seeds.” Ignoring her look of surprise, he turned to me. “If you do a good job, boy, I’ll show you more. Might even let you taste a little heart bread itself, which will fill your belly even as it fills your heart with courage.”

  Swallowing the remains of my crust, I said, “Thank you, but I need no bread beyond what you just gave me. It’s delicious.”

  His round face glowed. “As I said, it all comes from knowing your ingredients.” A secretive smile touched his lips, then vanished. “You’ll need a chopping knife for the seeds, and we’re quite short on them right now. Ah, good, there’s one left at the table. Vivian, why don’t you take him over there and show him how it’s done? I’ll come by to check on his progress shortly.”

  Hearing this, the girl brightened. Smoothly, she stepped between Rhia and me. In a voice far gentler than before, she whispered to me, “Most people call me Vivian, but my friends call me Nimue.” A warm smile graced her apple cheeks. “I’d be glad to help you. Any way I can.”

  “Ah, thank you, Viv—I mean, Nimue,” I mumbled. Was I merely flattered by her attention, or was there something else about this girl that made my heart beat faster?

  Rhia, the light gone from her eyes, nudged her aside. “You can start by getting him a knife.” She shot me a harsh look of warning.

  Her intrusion annoyed me. What did I need to be warned about, anyway? She was treating me like a child again.

  “Come,” said Nimue, brushing past Rhia. Gently taking my hand, she slowly slid her fingers up the length of my forearm. A new warmth filled me as she led me over to a table covered with vegetables, seeds, roots, and herbs. An elderly woman sat at one end of the table, deftly sorting the ingredients into piles. At the other end stood a young man, thinly bearded, peeling the skin off an enormous nut that looked like a giant acorn.

  “Let’s start here.” Nimue guided me to the middle of the table. She slid over a bowl containing a stack of square, purple vegetables, steaming from having just been cooked. Pulling a battered knife from a block of wood on the table, she deftly sliced open the vegetable and removed a flat seed tha
t glowed with a deep red luster. Then, laying her warm hand over my own, she showed me the sharp, twisting motion that would allow me to chop the seed into tiny pieces.

  “There now,” she said kindly, allowing her hand to linger on mine. “You are most fortunate, you know. Heart bread is one of Breadmaster Pluton’s great specialities. He hardly ever lets an outsider help prepare it, certainly not chop the essential seeds.” She flashed her most lovely smile. “He must see something special in you.”

  With a slight squeeze, she lifted her hand. “I’ll come back to check on you in a while.” As she started to step away, she pointed to my staff, propped against the side of the table. “That staff of yours is going to fall. Should I put it somewhere safe for you?”

  A vague shiver ran through me, though I wasn’t sure why. After all, she was only trying to be helpful. “No thank you,” I replied. “It’s fine where it is.”

  “Oh, but I wouldn’t want it to get damaged. It’s so very . . . handsome.”

  She reached out to touch it. Just then the elderly woman happened to bump her knee against the table. The staff slid sideways along the edge, falling against my hip. I grasped it by the shaft and slid it into the belt of my tunic.

  “There,” I said to Nimue. “It’s safe now.”

  For the briefest instant, her eyes seemed to flash with anger, though the look of kindness returned so swiftly that I couldn’t be sure. In any case, she quickly turned and walked away. After a few paces, she looked back, smiling warmly.

  I could not help but smile in return. Then I turned back to the table and took one of the purple vegetables. Still steaming, it sliced open easily. Carefully, I removed the lustrous seed. As I started to chop it, however, the worn blade suddenly split into shards. Rotten luck! I cast aside the useless knife.

  I needed to perform my task well, not to bungle it! Pluton, I felt sure, was testing me. Why else would he have given me such unusual responsibility? He had even promised to show me more, if only I did my job well. And if I failed, I couldn’t possibly gain his trust. Frantically, I cast about with my second sight, searching for another blade that I could use.

  Nothing. Every single knife in the room was being used by someone for carving or slicing. I rose, still carrying my staff in my belt, and looked again. On the shelves. By the hearth. Under the tables.

  Nothing.

  No blade of any kind.

  Then my gaze fell on the tarnished sword hanging above the hearth. It would be clumsy to wield, and grimy to hold. But it was at least a blade.

  No, I told myself, the idea was ridiculous. I had never seen anyone use a sword for chopping. I chewed my lip, searching the room again. No knives anywhere. And time was wasting. Pluton would be checking on my progress soon. I turned again to the grimy blade.

  Spying a small ladder leaning against the tallest set of shelves, I placed it next to the hearth. Climbing up to its top rung, I reached as high as I could. Yet . . . I couldn’t quite reach the hilt of the sword. I looked around for someone taller who might be able to help, but all the people in the room were deeply immersed in their own tasks.

  Standing on tiptoes, I tried again. Almost there! I stretched even higher. Almost, almost . . . but no. I simply could not reach it.

  I glared at the sword, cursing to myself. Why had it been placed so high, anyway? To be of any help, it needed to be reachable. And I could certainly use its help now. Not just for chopping the seeds for heart bread. Much more was at stake. If I couldn’t win over Pluton, I couldn’t possibly save Elen.

  I concentrated on the old sword, searching for some way to reach it. If only I could make it fly to me, as I had done long ago with Deepercut. But, as Urnalda had taught me, that had been possible only because of Deepercut’s own magic.

  At that instant, I noticed some very faint scratches on the hilt. They could be nothing but random marks . . . or, perhaps, they could be something more. Runes. Letters. Could this sword, like Deepercut, possess some sort of magic? Yet even as the thought struck me, I knew that the chances were extremely small. Why would a magical sword be hanging, rusted and unused, in a remote village devoted to baking bread?

  Still, the runes seemed to beckon to me. Perhaps they described the sword’s history. Or, if indeed it were magical, perhaps they gave instructions on how to use it. How to make it fly to me!

  Straining to focus my second sight, I tried to make some sense of the scratches. Beneath the layers of dust and soot, I detected a rhythm, a pattern, to the marks. There were straight lines. And curves. And corners. Throwing all my power into the task, I followed the hidden indentations.

  The first letter came clear. I could read it! Then . . . the second. And the third. The fourth, the fifth . . . all the way to the end of the word. For that was all the hilt contained. A single, unusual word.

  I spoke the word, not out loud, but within the walls of my mind. Pronounced it slowly, carefully, savoring the richness of the name. And, in return, the sword spoke to me. It declared its grand past, and its even grander future. I am the sword of light, past and present. I am the sword of kings, once and future.

  Suddenly, the sword detached itself from the wall. At the same time, all the grime vanished from the hilt, revealing the brilliant silver forged beneath. Scabbard and belt were reborn, transformed into polished metal and sturdy leather, studded with purple gemstones.

  As gracefully as a leaf borne aloft by the wind, the sword floated over the hearth and into my hands.

  Only then did I realize that the entire room had fallen silent. No one moved. No one spoke. All eyes were trained on me.

  My heart sank, for I felt certain I would now be labeled an infiltrator. Rhia and I would be banished. Or worse.

  Pluton, looking either annoyed or astonished, stepped forward. Hands on his wide hips, he regarded me for a while. “Didn’t think much of you at first. That’s certain.”

  “I—I’m sorry about your sword.”

  He ignored me, continuing his thought. “Still, like a good lump of dough, you have risen, boy. Beyond anything I ever expected. You just needed time enough to rise.”

  “You mean . . . I can use it?”

  “You can keep it!” thundered Pluton. “The sword is yours.”

  I blinked, trying to take all this in. I caught sight of Rhia, watching me with pride. And Nimue, hands on her hips, watching me with . . . something else. Something more like envy.

  “But all I did was read its name. It’s called—”

  “Hush, boy!” Pluton held up his hand. “A true name should never be spoken aloud, unless it’s absolutely necessary. You gained power over the sword by recognizing its true name. Now you must guard that name faithfully.”

  I scanned the room, aglow with light from the hearth, rich with the smells of freshly ground flour and baking bread and a thousand spices. “I think I understand,” I said at last. “Here in this village you learn the true names of each and every ingredient before using them. That allows you to master their powers, and release them in your breads. That is why your breads are so full of magic.”

  Pluton nodded slowly. “Ages ago, that sword came to this place carried by a flock of enchanted swans. It was foretold that it would one day, fly like a swan itself into the hands of the one person who could read its true name. Because we, of all the peoples of Fincayra most value the power of true names, the sword was entrusted to us. Until this day. Now it is entrusted to you.”

  He swiftly affixed the belt around my waist and adjusted the scabbard. “Use this sword wisely and well. And keep it safe. For it was also foretold that one day it would belong to a great, though tragic, king—a king whose power would be so profound that he would pull the sword from a scabbard of stone.”

  I looked into Pluton’s face. “Then he, too, will know its true name. For a true name holds true power.”

  At that instant, my staff sizzled with a burst of blue light. A new marking appeared, in the shape of a sword. A sword whose name I knew well.

&nbs
p; 24: NO WINGS, NO HOPE

  Only after Rhia and I had sampled nine different varieties of bread (including ambrosia bread, even better than I had remembered), did we finally extract ourselves from Pluton’s kitchen. At last, the master baker stuffed some freshly baked heart bread in my satchel and sent us on our way. No sooner had we stepped out of his door, rejoining the bustle of the common, than we found Bumbelwy, slumped against the base of the great bread fountain.

  The lanky jester was holding his swollen belly, moaning painfully. His face, down to the bottommost chin, looked blueish-green. Lumps of golden dough streaked his hooded cloak and clung to his hair, his ears, and even his eyebrows. His three-cornered hat, also clogged with dough, sat soundless on his head.

  “Ohhh,” he moaned. “Death by overeating! Such a painful end.” Despite myself, I almost laughed. Remembering my pledge about my boots, however, I caught myself.

  As he explained to us in halting phrases between moans, Bumbelwy had stood by the bread fountain, watching and smelling the rich, thick liquid flowing out of its spout, until finally he could stand it no longer. He had leaned closer, drinking in the aroma. Then, with both hands, he had scooped some wondrous dough straight out of the pool and into his mouth. Liking the taste, he had taken some more. And some more. What he hadn’t realized until too late was that the dough had only begun to rise. So then rise it did—in his stomach. The result was a bellyache too horrible for even him to describe.

  Leaning my staff against the fountain, I sat down beside him. Rhia joined us, wrapping her arms around her knees so that she resembled a bundle of green and brown vines. Slantos villagers scurried past, pursuing their tasks with all the speed and purpose of an army.

  I sighed, knowing that while we had purpose aplenty, we had no speed. And we still had very far to go.

  Rhia reached a leafy arm toward me. “You’re worried about the time, aren’t you? The moon is waning fast.” She hesitated. “No more than five days left, Merlin.”