Equo, Varlesh and Si remained separate beings. That song could not be sung by one voice, and could not be undone by one, either. Instead, they arose from the music as three creatures, but different.
Behind them they heard the cry of the warriors, shock or outrage it was hard to tell. Three dragons, tiny replicas of the Named Kindred only as large as a human, leapt into the sky. Varlesh wore the pale green, Equo the scarlet red, and Si was the velvety black of deepest night. They would not rival the dragon of Ellyria Dragonsoul, but they claimed the air as easily as she had. Below, Conhaero was laid out like a detailed map, one where the line of the Road cut through like a knife.
The three dragonets screamed and spun around each other in delight. The air, Equo thought to himself. They had forgotten the joy of the air. This was the domain of the Swoop and all the other birds of the Lady of Wings.
It was freedom.
They passed over the forming hills and mountains, hearing the call of their kin ahead of them like a beacon flaming on the horizon. They could no more ignore it than they could the breath in their own bodies. Still, they took the chance to experience the measure of the land, too.
As Ahouri, they could feel the people below, flesh crying out to theirs. So much pain in the world, and some of it was completely unnecessary.
Equo’s sadness was mirrored in his brothers’ hearts too. Once the Ahouri had been healers, beloved and cherished. Now they were fearful and fewer than ever.
The lure of place, of permanence in people’s hearts was strong, and the Form Bards spoke to change and impermanence. The other tribes who had come later to Conhaero were not as in tune with it as even the Ahouri had become; they feared that change.
The three tiny dragons flew on, knowing that anything they offered to help ease suffering would be viewed with fear and disgust. Equo for one could not understand it, but it was not their goal tonight to right all wrongs, merely to find those that they had lost.
A lake had formed on the spot of the Ahouri’s last meeting. It had been all manner of things before: a desert, a tall spire of a mountain, even a spouting volcano. Today it was a lonely island in the middle of a vast lake that ebbed and flowed with tides. Long amphibians that would travel with the water, existed beneath the surface—the Form Bards could feel them—but they were the only creatures in this lonely portion of Conhaero.
Certainly there was nothing to mark this spot as sacred to them, but then, that was what made it sacred. The dragonets flew to the island, and found they were the last to arrive. Not that it was a vast gathering.
Twenty or so Ahouri waited on the island, in over sixty forms. All of them were triumvirate beings, so their numbers looked greater than they actually were. They stood on the green slope of the island and looked at each other. Many wore the shape of humans, but there were a number of bird forms, and even another group of dragonets.
All of them looked concerned and wary. Varlesh began the song of change, and the throats of their forms changed to human. As wonderful as it was to wear other shapes, the human form was best for communication in groups.
The odd sensation of nerves washed over Equo. These were his people, but he had not seen any other of his kind since just after the Harrowing of the Vaerli. Their own particular destructive event had happened shortly after, but was far less known to most folk. The Ahouri had been a small group even back then.
“This cannot be all,” he whispered to Varlesh, who was standing next to him eyeing the rest of their kin with something close to anger on his face. For a Form Bard he was not prone to diplomacy.
“It is all.” An Ahouri who wore the shape of a tall dark-haired woman, stepped forward. Her others remained in the shadows. “After all these years, these are all of us who remain. Many, of course, are crippled and cannot take shape.”
Equo bowed his head. He did not like to think of it, but it was true; if one member of the trio was killed, then the others could go on. These cripples, however, would never again know the joy of the change. They were Ahouri in name only. Given the choice, most of these Form Bards chose total death.
Time had not been kind to his people.
“Then, there are those that will not come,” a man with more gray in his beard than Varlesh said, sitting on a rock and looking Equo up and down. “But even they would not double this company.”
Varlesh folded his arms over his chest. “Once when one of us called, all of the Ahouri would answer!”
“Those times have passed,” another near the back of the group shouted, and his voice was full of anger. “Since the Caisah fell on us, it has been each for ourselves, surviving as best we can.”
At that, Equo’s heart did sink. They were right. The Form Bards were nothing like they once had been. Any call to arms was going to run straight into their own desire to survive.
“Think of something else they want more,” Si whispered into his ear. When he pulled back his eyes remained locked with Equo’s.
The other felt the tug of loss at that. Once they had stood tall, stronger and better than they were now. They had been whole and it had been magnificent. They’d stood for something, been useful, and friend to the Vaerli. Most of all, they had a purpose.
Now looking out over the shattered remains of his people, Equo began to see it. What they wanted.
He stepped forward and held up his hand. “You are right, we have been surviving as best we can, but the time has come to point out that survival isn’t everything.”
A murmur passed through the audience. The trios drew together fractionally, perhaps worried that one of the Ahouri had succumbed to final madness. It would not be the first time for that either. An insane Form Bard could cause untold devastation.
He looked over them and felt genuine pity. They had sung the song of separation as a way to avoid the Caisah, and had never thought of the consequences. They had lost far more than just their unity, they had lost the will to be who they were always supposed to be.
As Equo began walking among them, he looked into their eyes, and what he saw told him the real truth. “We are already dead,” he said, touching a hand or a shoulder as he went among them. “We are the broken pieces of the Ahouri, remembering what it was to be whole and real.” He touched his throat. “When my brothers and I were forced to sing one of the songs to save innocent lives, I was terrified.”
“We all were,” Varlesh continued, finally understanding what was happening. “But it felt right.” He pointed to the tall woman and the older man. “And you know what we mean, because you felt it again tonight, when you took the form that brought you here.”
Many of them hung their heads or looked away. Equo felt his anger finally begin to kindle. The Ahouri had suffered so much, but he had never thought they would lose their strength. Even when the Harrowing had come upon their allies, and the Form Bards had been so few in number, they had still stood with the Vaerli. Now they were saying that they would not risk it. He knew there were few of them, but if they surrendered now, then there was no point in going on.
Despite the rightness of what they felt, they were going to turn away—he could see that. Coming here tonight was as far as their bravery would take them.
Equo was just sinking back into despair and frustration when Si rose to his feet. He was their soul, their conscience and their compass. Equo expected there to be nothing that he could say that would move the remainder of the Ahouri to action.
“When we came through the White Void,” Si began, his low voice surprisingly resonant around the hill, “we were forged like steel. We wandered through the terrors for longer than any other race that came to Conhaero.”
These were by far the most eloquent words Equo had ever heard his brother utter, and they sang with deep truth. He shared a shocked look with Varlesh, who only shrugged in disbelief before crossing his arms, sitting on a nearby log, and watching.
For Si was not done. “We were few, but we were powerful. All the forms of life we encountered in the Void we learned,
and there were many. We understood there was always more to learn, so we avoided arrogance, which is the danger of all powerful people.” Now their brother turned and pointed up. “So, we did make one mistake. We forgot about the White Void.”
Every eye on the hill followed where he pointed, and every one of the Ahouri gasped in horror. Lights were pouring across the heavens, like a child’s paint box spilled on a wide canvas. Rising to his feet, his body tight with wonder and horror, Equo now understood why his brother had insisted on tonight.
It was beautiful, eerie and terrifying. All of those who had passed through the White Void knew it well. They had tasted its power, and seen its coming before. When One-eyed Baraca had lifted his eye-patch and a portion of the Void looked back, Equo had been delighted. A scion returned, but he had not wondered overly on how that had happened.
The scions were creatures of the White Void; leaders hammered and forged by the space between worlds. Magnificent, yes, but also storm crows. It was the uncomfortable truth about why they had been gone for so long.
Now as the Ahouri craned their necks upward and looked on the trickle of light running across the ceiling of the world, they had plenty of cause to recall those things.
Si’s voice, so seldom heard, seemed a perfect portent for the end of things. “We must learn to be strong again, because the Void is coming, and no song we make can change that.”
The Salt was pushing them forward and Byre knew he could not resist it for long. The gathering that was emerging from the haze of the Salt Plain vision was just as he recalled. Those memories he had of his family he had kept extra safe.
He wondered if what was ahead would enhance or perhaps destroy his childish recollections. Pelanor, his new lover and blood partner, was at his side, and he could feel her now in his bones. Vaerli sharing blood with one of her kind was something he had never heard of—let alone lying down with one.
What would his mother have thought? A shudder ran through him at the idea, but it was done now. There could well be stranger things in the future for them both.
The first sound to reach them was the singing; the Vaerli had made magic with their art and music was a very popular choice. Pelanor tilted her head, and one of her rare smiles flickered over her lips.
“That is so beautiful,” she murmured, “but I don’t understand the words.”
He was ashamed to admit he did not either. The ancient language of the Vaerli, the one learned in the White Void, he had not yet learned before the Harrowing. He did not want to risk a sad discussion, so he waved his hand and dissembled. “It is about the joy of the gathering . . . they don’t even suspect a thing.”
Shortly, he was able to make out figures moving about among the tents and wagons, their dark skin standing out amongst the glare. Some were standing on the outskirts of the gathering, looking at him and Pelanor with hands providing shade above their eyes.
So many Vaerli, and all of them together, was an almost physical shock. His pulse raced, and he thought of the burnings he had witnessed when his kin tried to touch each other, but here they were, before all of that, kissing, rubbing each other’s backs, clasping hands. A hundred little gestures that they couldn’t know would soon be stolen from them.
He let go of Pelanor’s hand. “If you were my mate, then we would not be holding hands,” he said to her before she could get offended. “A Vaerli woman stands on her own with no man required.”
His eyes flickered over her. She was dark enough to pass as one of his people, but she would stand scrutiny. She had no Gifts . . . how to explain that?
Then it came to him. “Hold your hands around your belly, Pelanor. Act as though you are pregnant.”
She blinked at him. “You don’t think that you have . . .”
“A pregnant Vaerli appears as a blankness to others—since she cannot use the Gifts without harming her child.” He could feel that he was reddening slightly, especially after what had passed between them, but it was the only thing that would protect her.
When she bit her lip, Pelanor looked so much younger than she was, but she nodded, wrapping one hand protectively around her stomach. The Blood Witch was admirably brave to follow him like this. He doubted his sister had all these things in mind when she sent Pelanor to protect him, but she was becoming much more than that.
Byre tried not to think about her supple flesh wrapped around him, and the explosion of his senses that occurred when they shared blood as well.
Three women stood on the outskirts of the gathering, and he struggled to remember what the welcoming trio were called in his language. He cursed—not for the first time—that he had been so young when the Scourging had happened. So much of his education had been lost.
“Maybe I can pick up a bit of it here,” Byre muttered to himself. The aethai. The memory darted up from his dim consciousness just as they came up on the women.
The overlay of memory and reality was hard to pick apart. These were not just any aethai—these were the exact same women who had greeted his family when they came to the gathering. They would already be there. He was already here.
How the Kindred managed to live in this curious flux world where past, present and future meant nothing was a total mystery. The aethai began to sing: a young woman with the glow of the very young on her, a second with the smile of a mother, and the third a silvered-haired matron.
It was hot on the Salt, and they wore little in order to make up for that—a loop of leather around their waists, and not much else. Byre had forgotten about this custom.
However, he had not forgotten about the other one. He sang back, just a few notes of thanks. They did not need much in the way of identification, since the Salt protected this place, but they smiled none the less, stepping away and trailing in their wake.
Byre had to keep his jaw tight, lest he exclaim every few steps. Pelanor kept pace with him, her head turned resolutely forward, though he knew that she had to be longing to peer about.
The tents and wagons smelled of cooking and spices, and his mouth watered at the recollection of his kin’s food. He heard, mixed in with the laughter of children and the low murmur of folks inside the tents, sounds of animals, but not any animals that the Manesto would know of.
They passed a nykur, standing patiently at the rear of a tent, its long green hair blowing in the warm wind, and he thought of his sister. Yet this could not be her beast, it was someone else’s. He almost ducked when a griffin screamed above, and couldn’t help sneaking a look. The black shape was startling against the bright blue sky. Pelanor flinched slightly, since she must have heard many terrifying stories of the Named.
Luckily, no one was taking particular notice of them, and Byre led them confidently forward, though he had no real idea where they were going. Ellyria had only told them to discover the truth about the Caisah. She had given them no instructions on how to act, or what to do in the meantime.
Byre had thought that he was leading them in a directionless manner, but as soon as he saw the tent directly in front of them, he realized that he had been very wrong. Some strange beacon had drawn him here.
He stopped and could not help but stare. He didn’t care in that moment if he drew attention, or what anyone thought about him. Pelanor was somewhere at his side, but the rest didn’t matter. It was his family’s tent, and he couldn’t decide if he should turn and run, or turn and run inside.
The Blood Witch at his side made a strange hissing noise, as if she was trying to get his attention, but he ignored that, trapped in indecision.
“It’s theirs, isn’t it,” she said, and then her fingers wrapped around his arm. She was trying hard to tug discreetly at him, but he was a rooted tree.
“Come on,” she whispered. “We have to find the meeting.” He could feel his blood racing in her veins. It was an odd, but decidedly erotic sensation.
Finally, Byre let her pull him away from the tent with its flapping red banner, and back toward what they had come for.
Pelanor was trying desperately to keep his attention on her. She squeezed his hand. “So, tell me what you know of the Caisah’s coming. I know you were only a child, but . . .”
Byre closed his eyes and thought back. He had been small, yes, but he had also been a child of the Vaerli. His memory was perfect back then, like a crystal pond before the Gifts came. As he sorted through those recollections, he felt the disconnect of reality and the past. The sounds and smells he was experiencing now were exactly the same ones he had experienced then. It made the line between memory and now blurry.
He saw his mother’s face as she had turned to leave the tent. Her words echoed back from then. The meeting has started. You have made me late, Retira. Then she had bent to kiss his father on the brow, a genuine smile of love and respect on her lips.
With a lurch of his stomach, Byre understood his mother. She had loved them. He had always been so wrapped up in the memories of her leaving them that he had been unable to see past to those other, just as important moments.
“Mother left,” he muttered under his breath to Pelanor. “She headed . . .” he opened his eyes and oriented himself within the scope of the camp once more. “In that direction.”
Pelanor followed his finger, and they both saw the huge green tent that stood a little apart from the rest. It had been set up near the wide entrance to the underground part of the Salt Plain. The Blood Witch rolled her eyes, and he understood. They had both been so consumed by the chaos and heartbreak of the gathering.
They stood there for a moment, hands pressed together, and must have looked like a bonded couple. “You two lovebirds, out of the way!”
And there he stood: Drynis Alorn, the centaur. Pelanor blinked up at him, and Byre felt her whole body go stiff. She had faced Alorn in another, similar gathering place. She had told him it all, in those days trapped by flame.
He was certainly an impressive Named; thick, muscular horse-like legs, attached to an equally massive human torso. He’d been Named many years before Byre had been born, and as a child he had actually been terrified of Drynis Alorn. As a little boy he’d run screaming for his father even just hearing the crash of his hooves on the ground.
Kindred and Wings Page 14
