Warrior of the Dawn

by M. S. Brook

  I clutched my tin cup in both hands to conserve its warmth. Though the day had been warm, the night was proving to be uncomfortably chilly. “I can’t shake the feeling that someone is looking over my shoulder,” I said in a low voice to Azar, who sat cross-legged on the ground next to me. “Perhaps we should have gone on and found a place that holds no bad memories for us.”

  “We have to camp where there’s water.” He rubbed the back of his neck and frowned. “I do know what you mean, though. I half expect Saduk and his vithons to come bursting out of that woods again.”

  “At least this time we’ll be ready.”

  “Oh, we’re ready. We’ve posted a large night watch. He’ll not catch us napping.”

  I pulled my cloak tight around my neck and stared at the dying flames until I had enough of my thoughts. “I need to talk to Nieve,” I said, getting up. “I’ll be back shortly.” But Nieve was already wrapped in her blanket, sound asleep when I found her.

  Bad memories or not, we awoke to a quiet morning. If there were vithons about, they stayed hidden in the woods. We reached the Balton Road before noon and headed due north into a more settled country. The road, a remnant from the days when Enfys was sovereign, was still in fair condition, allowing us to move at a good pace.

  Although they said nothing to us, the Dominians must have been talking about us, for hundreds of men, women, and children gathered along the browned hedgerows, watching us pass by. They showed no expression on their faces, and I wondered why. Why did they wear dark, dull clothing? Why did they stare at us, but refuse to speak or make any response to us? What had happened to make them this way? At least the children could feel surprise and wonder. They peeked out behind their parents’ ragged trouser legs, eyes bright and mouths wide open, enjoying the spectacle.

  “They must be thinking something,” I said to Rowland.

  “They almost look like they’re walking in their sleep,” he answered.

  “Mm…they do.” I studied the thin features, the hollow eyes, and torn clothing—so different from the prosperous villagers of Canwyrrie. “They must be afraid, but they’re hiding it, showing nothing on their faces. Perhaps they’ve been afraid for so long it seems normal to them. They’ve put their feelings to sleep.”

  Rowland shook his head. “It’s hard to believe life could be so different, here. We share the same ancient heritage, the same noble history. How could they settle for this?”

  I mulled over our questions all day. We stopped to camp by what must have once been a large lake, and my mind was still busy. Some good must be hidden in this dusty, dry place, but nothing I could see or touch or hear even hinted of it.

  I looked for Nieve again, but she was playing her flute with several of the Minstrel Company. I sat by their fire for a long while, listening.

  Chapter 33

  In the night I dreamed that a giant, golden key was placed into my outstretched hands. The key was so large that I needed both hands to grip its heavy shaft. And then I awoke, before I could find a use for it. It was early morning, and I soon lost hope of falling back asleep. I lay in my bedroll, trying to make sense of the dream and the fragments of a song that had accompanied it, but it was useless. I got up though it was still dark, walking carefully to avoid waking the sleeping men all around. The early morning watchmen acknowledged my presence with quiet nods.

  I made my way to the lake. The pale moonlight lent a silvery finish to the calm surface of the water. All was strangely quiet, unnaturally so. At this hour the air should have been filled with birdsong, but the silence had an empty feel to it, lacking the anticipation of dawn.

  I crouched at the pebbly edge of the lake and washed my face, trailing my fingers in the moonlit water, marveling that even a poor, drought-stricken lake could look beautiful in the right light. The song I’d heard in the night was still on my mind. Vague, elusive wisps of melody teased me to remember the whole. I splashed in the tepid water and hummed under my breath, but the more I tried to call it back, the more it slipped out of reach.

  I finished washing, relishing the cool feel of the wind on my wet face and arms. The sun was beginning to reach above the horizon, and the camp was awake. I hurried to pack up my kit and saddle Morningstar, then I went to the minstrels’ camp. Nieve was rolling her bedroll while Linden saddled her horse for her.

  “This is a nice arrangement,” I said.

  Nieve laughed. “I’ve never been good with horses. And Linden is very kind.”

  “I’m sure,” I said, smiling. “Look, not that I want to change the subject, but I have a question. Are either of you hearing a song for Domaine?” I looked at Linden. “Like the song at Evergreen. Sometimes I feel like I’m hearing a song, but when I try to sing it, it goes away.”

  Linden fastened the bedroll behind Nieve’s saddle, giving the strap an extra tug. His face had the same look of melancholy he’d worn the day I met him. “I too am hearing a song, but it’s not like at Evergreen. I’d forgotten how desperately thin the children are here, how sad everyone is. I hear a song, but it would comfort no one.”

  I looked at Nieve, and she shrugged. “The same for me.”

  “I don’t know. What I’m hearing is different…hopeful even, but it’s only a glimmer.” Even as I said it, the horns blasted the call to mount up. I ran back to join Rowland at our place in the column. Our third day in Domaine had begun.

  As Captain Zerikon predicted, the word delivered by Evergreen scouts swept through the region. People came out from their villages to see us ride past, apparently believing us enough to trust that we intended no harm to them. They huddled along the road in silent clusters and watched us, but I was perplexed by their dullness. Even our host of warriors, with banners flying and drums beating, could not pry a response from them—as if the ability to be surprised, or even curious, had been beaten out of them.

  All morning I watched the Dominians watch us. I grew more and more uncomfortable as we marched on. “How have we allowed this to happen?” I asked Rowland. He raised his eyebrows, and I said, “They’re our neighbors, and they’ve spent their whole lives trapped in a dead world, knowing nothing but lack and despair. We’ve done nothing for them!”

  Rowland frowned. “What could we do? Worrgard broke the unity of our realm long ago and with the agreement of the Dominian people. King Alwyne tried to reunify the realm, but he failed.”

  “Yes, but after King Alwyne, we did nothing except in defense of our own land. We’ve permitted our peoples to be divided and Domaine to be held under a long succession of evil lords.”

  “Domaine permitted it! Look, the Northlands were defeated and occupied by Saduk. They resisted and were conquered. Here it’s different. There is no resistance. Saduk is lord of Domaine. He owns the people. He owns the land. He owns everything in it.”

  “If that is so, what hope is there for Domaine?”

  “I think that’s up to the people. We can remove Saduk, but they will have to choose where to place their loyalty.”

  We rode on through the dreary land, and I listened for that elusive fragment of song. Behind us the minstrels were playing the same mournful tune they’d played since the crossing. It rubbed at me like a boot that didn’t fit. “Why can’t they play something else?” I said aloud. “Always that sad little ditty. The least they could do is learn our marching songs.” Rowland looked my way, raising a reddish eyebrow, and I said, “Remember how singing always used to lift our spirits when we were on patrol?”

  “Yes.”

  I slapped myself on the thigh. “This dirge stops now! I can at least do that much. We didn’t come all this way to march to Saduk’s tune. It’s time we made some noise of our own!”

  Rowland gave me a perplexed look, but there wasn’t time to explain. “I’m going to ride with the Minstrel Company for a while,” I said. “I need to take care of something.”

  I pulled out of the
line and waited for the minstrels. They were riding all bunched together, intent on their rendition of the dirge of Domaine. I motioned to Nieve to join me along the edge of the road and asked her to have the minstrels stop playing. She looked surprised, but gave the hand signal for the playing to stop. Those who saw it quit in mid-stroke, and those who missed the signal came to an awkward stop when they realized no one else was playing. “Let’s be quiet for a while,” I said to the minstrels as they passed. “It’s time to listen.”

  It felt good to have the mesmerizing rhythm stop, but not everyone was comfortable with my order. Some of the minstrels appeared puzzled and a few angry that I had taken them from their purpose. When we stopped for the midday rest, I gathered the minstrels around me so that everyone could hear. “I believe we need a change in course,” I said to them. “Ever since we set foot in Domaine we have listened to Saduk’s song. We are trained as healers to play what we hear, and that is what we’ve done. We’ve picked up the false song that Saduk and his fathers have spun over this land, and we’ve repeated it over and over on our own instruments. Without knowing it, we are reinforcing Saduk’s voice with every note we play.” I paused and looked at their bewildered faces. “The more we sing the false song, the stronger it becomes. We stop believing that another song could exist.”

  I stopped, wishing I could say it better, but how could I explain something that I was only beginning to discover, myself?

  “Do you see what I’m saying? We are playing the wrong song!” They all stared at me, not seeing at all. “Look, I know everyone is uncomfortable here in Domaine, and that’s natural, we all feel it. We are in Saduk’s territory. But that doesn’t mean he owns us—and it most certainly does not mean we must listen to his song.”

  I struggled to pull my thoughts into something that would make sense to them. “See, if we fill our mouths with Saduk’s song, we leave room for nothing else. We drown out the true song that still lives in this land, the ancient melody, first sung when the earth was new. It was planted here—in this soil—at the beginning of time. It is the song the Maker sang when he formed this land, and it’s not been heard in a very long time. But if we will quiet the clamor of our hearts, we will hear its echo.” I laid my hand over my heart, my fingers reaching for the smooth edges of my pendant.

  “Listen for it!” I urged them. “Open your ears! The true song is waiting to be sung.”

  I waited for my words to settle in. It was hard to be quiet. None of us were used to doing nothing. Our horses stamped and fidgeted and flicked their tails at imagined flies. I felt a sudden, urgent itch in the middle of my back, but I forced myself to stay still, watching the discomfort of the healers. I saw on their faces that they did not understand and were wondering what to do next. But we could not give up. We would never give voice to the true Song of Domaine until we heard it clearly for ourselves.

  After an unfruitful wait, I said, “I must ask you to believe. We will wait for the song to come to us. Do not play a single note from now on unless it is one that the Songmaker gave to this land.”

  We ate a quick meal from our packs and moved on, but I did not go back to my place at the head of the column. The minstrels rode in silence, no one daring to make a squeak after what I’d said, and all the while I felt that strange quaking in my gut, as though the foundations of the earth were trembling. I leaned forward, knit my fingers into Morningstar’s mane, and closed my eyes. A fire blazed in my chest and a wild wind roared in my ears, but there was no song in it. I quieted my heart and listened all the more.

  For an eternity we rode like that, waiting for something to break free. Unbidden, a voice inside my head began to ask questions—fretful, worried ones. Had I said the wrong thing? Had I discouraged them? Put them off trying? How would they recognize the true song if it came? I wondered if they thought I was mad, especially those Guardians who’d overheard what I said. They were used to the practical. Weapons and armor and horses concerned them, not the talk of songs and airy things they couldn’t hold in their hands. But then I realized that I was doing what I’d just told the healers not to do. I was listening to the wrong voice. So I refused to give ear to that voice and went back to waiting and listening. Go below what lies on the surface, I kept telling myself. It must be true.

  Still, nothing changed.

  Just a little longer, I promised myself—and then it happened. All at once there came a welcome breath, a melody so pure and sweet that my heart swelled to hear it. The song came like the slow awakening from sleep, like birdsong at the break of day, clear and fresh as a cold, bubbling stream rushing down from the mountains. It was strong like the wind in my face, but gentle as warm sunlight on the buds of spring. Familiar, yet never heard before, calling to the deepest places inside of me. I listened, so lost in the sound that I thought I was the only one hearing it. The words began:

  “We journey far to find your song;

  Around us grows a rising throng.

  Like sunlight at the break of day,

  Your rays will shine upon our way.”

  I opened my eyes and realized that it was Linden who was singing in his honey-sweet voice for all to hear.

  “On wings of song we rise to thee;

  Our mouths are wide, our hearts are free.

  Injustice falls and wrong’s made right,

  Above the night we soar to light…”

  We listened in wonderment, every heart awake to the melody. And then I lifted my face and began to sing too. The shell of the sky seemed to open above me, growing larger and yet nearer at the same time. I felt the song well out of my chest, rising upward, as if it were alive. And then, for a moment, I knew that I was the song, so deep it was inside of me.

  Slowly, timidly, the other healers joined in. The flutes picked it up first, followed by the pipes. The drums found the new heartbeat of the song and repeated its pulsing rhythms. The singers added the richness of harmony, and the song began to ebb and flow like waves over the land.

  The troops around us craned their necks to see what was happening, for it was like nothing any of us had ever heard. We sang and played until fingers and voices grew tired and then took turns to keep the song going, but we never once let the precious notes fall silent through the rest of the day. And it wasn’t long before the song began to transform our march, infusing its fragrance into every step we took. It was on every heart and in every thought, and the lightness of spirit we’d experienced on the Emerald Road came rushing back to us. The warriors hummed the tune while performing their duties, laughing easily, making light of the hardships of the road. I fancied that even Morningstar’s hooves were lighter. The dark, heavy feeling that had hung over us since crossing the Plevin was gone.

  Nothing had changed around us. The sky was still harsh, the grass dried up, the road dusty and hard, but we were listening to a different voice now.

  We passed a village, and more people came out to stare, but something new happened—children, lots of them, began following us. At first they ran in a cluster behind us, but when we stopped for a rest, the children came up to where the Minstrel Company was positioned. Several Guardians chased them away, shouting that they were to go home. The children ran into the thicket along the road, giggling and singing as if they were playing a game, but when we started again, they came out of hiding and ran alongside the minstrels, their skinny arms and legs pumping to keep up. We stopped for rest several times that day. Each time, our officers sent the children away, but there were even more of them when we stopped for the night.

  We set up camp as usual. After we’d eaten, Rowland picked up his lantern, and we walked back to visit the minstrels’ camp. The children were grouped around the campfires, quietly singing along with the minstrels. I noticed several of the healers were carving wooden whistles, showing the children how to blow across the opening and how to place their fingers over the holes to change the sound. We found Nieve in earnest conversation with Linden, f
air head and dark, nearly touching. Linden’s low chuckle mixed with Nieve’s bell-like laughter. Linden saw us coming and smiled in welcome.

  “Aren’t all these children amazing?” Nieve said.

  “Truly,” I said, “but the day is done. Their families must be looking for them.”

  “I could only wish it,” Linden said. “These children have lost their families. Saduk has killed them one way or another, sending them to war or starving them to death. They live as you see, begging and scavenging what they can.”

  I stopped and watched them, listening to the sound of their laughter and happy little voices. Their clothes were torn and dirty, exposing thin arms and legs to the night air, but their faces were alight. They didn’t seem to notice that they were out of place on our war march.

  “They can’t stay with us,” I said, “it’s far too dangerous.”

  “You’re right, of course,” Nieve said, “but let’s not tell them now. Let them enjoy tonight. We’ll make sure they go in the morning. The healers will share their breakfast portions. That way we can send them off with full stomachs.”

  I couldn’t help but notice the glance that passed between Nieve and Linden. “Nieve, as soon as this is over, I expect to have a very long chat.”

  Nieve’s happy laugh sounded wonderful in our strange surroundings. “I’m looking forward to it,” she said. “I’ve much to tell you.”

  Rowland and I took our leave, walking back without haste toward the Guardian campfires that spotted the darkening hills. Seeing the children had done me good. No matter how I worried for their safety, their delight in the song, and in being with our company, warmed my heart.

  “Do you think we could ask the quartermaster to supply the healers with extra rations in the morning?” I asked Rowland.

  “I’ll be happy to take care of it.”

  Our steps slowed then, and we walked close together, the lantern making a warm glow around us in the thickening darkness. Rowland caught my arm as I was about to trip over a rock, and we slowed our pace even more. “I don’t know what will happen when we get to Bal Zor,” he said, “but this march has already been the most amazing thing I’ve ever done.”