Songreaver

by Andrew Hunter

  She looked back at him over her shoulder with a trembling smile, her brown eyes glistening. She took the flower and clutched it to her chest. "Why were you gone so long?" she whispered.

  "Huh? Oh, I've been up North," he said, "We were fighting the Chadiri."

  Her eyes hardened as she turned to face him. "What strength did you encounter? How many legions and what casualties? What are the names of your commanders?"

  "What?" Garrett said. His mind suddenly filled with a strange, buzzing sensation.

  The girl blinked and shook her head. "Sorry," she said, "...old habit."

  Garrett's thoughts cleared again. "What was that?" he asked.

  She gave a sad sort of laugh. "Nothing," she said, "It doesn't matter... I'm glad you're all right."

  "Thanks," Garrett said. He smiled at her, and she smiled back.

  "Look," he said, "Why don't you come to see Annalien with us?"

  She shook her head. "No," she said, "I kinda want to be alone right now."

  "I guess I'll see you again sometime?" Garrett said.

  The girl in brown nodded.

  "I promise that I'll remember you next time," he said.

  "You promise?" she said.

  "Definitely."

  She leaned forward suddenly and gave him a quick hug before pulling away, looking around as if she were about to be caught at it.

  "I have to go," she said, then started toward a tunnel mouth.

  "Spiders that way," Garrett said.

  "Oh, yeah," she said, turning quickly and ducking into a different tunnel with an embarrassed wave of her hand.

  Uncle Tinjin stepped forward, relaxing his guard. "Who was that?" he asked.

  "I have no idea," Garrett sighed.

  "She seemed to know you quite well," Tinjin said, "and yet you say you have no recollection of her?"

  "No," Garrett said, "but it seems like I know her... we must have met somewhere before."

  "Obviously some sort of magic at work there," Tinjin said, "I remember reading once..." He stopped, overcome with another fit of ragged coughs.

  Garrett waited for him to breathe clearly again and asked, "What did you read?"

  "About what?" Tinjin asked.

  "I... you said you read something... about something," Garrett said, trying to remember what it was that he had wanted to say a moment ago.

  "I read a great many things, Garrett. You will have to be more specific than that."

  "It was... never mind," Garrett said, "I'll think of it again later."

  "What's wrong, Garrett?" Uncle asked.

  Garrett shook his head. "I don't know... I feel really sad for some reason, but I don't know why."

  Uncle looked around at the ancient runes carved into the pale stone of the tunnel walls. "Old ghosts perhaps," he said, "This was a happy place once, full of magic and life. The living don't come down here anymore, and, when we do, we stir up old memories. It's best we keep moving."

  Garrett nodded and pointed toward the shadowy mouth of one of the tunnels, then changed his mind and pointed at a different one. "This way," he said.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yeah, pretty sure."

  Garrett and his uncle followed the old thoroughfare, down into the subterranean heart of the Old City. Dark corridors and chambers opened off to either side, tempting exploration, but some nameless sadness hung heavy in the shadows. Garrett hurried past, anxious to reach their destination.

  At last, they reached the great hall that contained the house of Annalien the ghost. Uncle gasped when he saw it.

  Shimmering sunlight poured from the ovoid windows of the domelike building at the center of the vast underground chamber where the ghost lived. Garrett smiled, happy to return to the only place in the city where the golden light of the sun reached, through the magic of the ghost's crystal.

  Uncle approached the central dome, slowly, amazement plain on his face.

  "Annalien," Garrett called out, "It's me, Garrett. I’ve brought a friend. Can we come in?"

  The ghost appeared at the door of her home, a faint silhouette against the golden light that shone through her transparent body. She smiled, lifting the stump of her right wrist in greeting.

  "She lost her hands when she touched the crystal," Garrett whispered to Uncle Tinjin, "I don't know why she didn't get them back when she turned into a ghost."

  "My hearing still works quite well," Annalien called out, "though I can't imagine how you humans can hear anything with those tiny ears of yours."

  Annalien's long ears pointed out from beneath her gossamer hair. Her large eyes and heart-shaped face marked her elfin nature as well.

  "My lady," Uncle said, bowing before her, "Tannarael deis nendaa. Nas'bene tenne."

  Annalien laughed. "Tannarael nan'dene, maravaen," she said, "Your guest has good manners, Garrett. Who is he?"

  "This is my Uncle Tinjin," he said, "He's studying some sort of glowy sand that he found, and I thought it reminded me of your crystal. I was hoping you wouldn't mind showing it to him."

  Annalien's eyes narrowed. "Come in, Tinjin," she said, "if you aren't afraid of ghosts."

  "Thank you, my lady," Tinjin said. He stepped forward and ducked his head as he stepped through the low doorway of her home.

  Garrett followed him in and found Tinjin frozen, mid-step and staring at the sunlight crystal at the center of Annalien's garden. There, atop a stone pillar, in the center of a blue pool, sat the crystal shard that had once fallen from the sky in a distant age. All around the room, plants of every color and variety bloomed and flourished in the warmth of its light.

  Annalien lifted her arms and gave them a crooked smile. "Here it is," she said.

  Tinjin fumbled with his satchel for a moment and pulled out the thick glass jar, into which he had poured the precious lake stone sand. He held it up in the light of the crystal, comparing the light of each against the other.

  "Where did you get that?" Annalien whispered, moving closer to have a look.

  "I believe..." Tinjin began, then a fit of coughing raged through his lungs, leaving him unable to speak for a long while. "I believe it comes from a lake somewhere above the river Neshat."

  Annalien gave him a critical look. "You're sick half to death, dear," she chided, "What are you doing up and about?"

  Uncle Tinjin shook his head. "I'll be fine," he said.

  "Nonsense," the ghost said, "Garrett, go fetch me three leaves from that tall plant with the red berries over there."

  "Yes, Ma'am," Garrett said, hurrying to comply.

  "Don't touch the berries though," she called after him, "They'll make you itch."

  "I have gloves," he said.

  "Then your hands will be perfectly fine when you forget and rub your eye later and go blind for a week!" she said.

  Garrett reached carefully around the clusters of red berries and plucked out three of the largest glossy green leaves from the plant. He jogged back with the leaves in hand.

  Annalien looked around and pointed her wrist at a chipped ceramic mug that lay on the floor nearby. "Clean that out and put the leaves in the bottom," she said.

  Uncle Tinjin looked concerned. "That's wertroot, isn't it?" he asked.

  Annalien nodded. "Ugly sort of name you give to something that's older than your race. We called it xanarael, when we were in charge of such things, but, yes, you call it wertroot now."

  Garrett dumped a clump of dirt out of the bottom of the old mug and dusted it clean before putting the leaves inside. "Now what?" he asked.

  "Find something to grind them up," Annalien said, "We'll have your Uncle better in no time."

  "Ah, wert... Xanarael is poisonous, is it not?" Uncle asked.

  "The berries, mildly, the roots, deadly," Annalien said, "I take it you know something about herbalism?"

  "I dabble a bit," Tinjin said.

  "You'll learn something new then," she said, "Are you finished yet, Garrett?"

  "Almost," he said, crushing the three leaves tog
ether with a smooth stone he had found beside the fountain, "but they're not really breaking up. They're just kinda smooshing together."

  "Perfect," she said, "Now fill the mug with water, but don't spill out any of the leaves."

  Garrett knelt and dipped the rim of the cracked mug beneath the surface of the pond, watching it fill with cool, clear water. The crushed leaves swirled in the bottom, staining the water a rich, lime green. He stood up and carried the mug over to Annalien, careful not to spill a drop.

  "Well done," she said, "Now hold it steady for a moment."

  She reached out with her handless wrists and waved both over the top of the mug, whispering something in Elvish.

  Garrett felt the container growing warmer through his gloves, until at last a little wisp of steam rose above the trembling surface of the green water.

  Annalien smiled. "Care for some tea, Garrett's Uncle?"

  Uncle Tinjin gave her a wary smile in response. "You may call me Tinjin," he said.

  Annalien laughed, "Well, Tinjin, are you going to drink it, or do you still think that I'm trying to poison you?"

  Tinjin started to protest, but another coughing fit cut him off. Afterwards, he wiped his lips and shrugged hopefully. He put away his jar of sand and passed Garrett his staff. He took the mug between his hands and drank.

  "All of it," Annalien said.

  Tinjin coughed once, part way through, spilling a little that dribbled down the sides of his stubbly chin, but he finished the rest. He handed the mug back to Garrett, fighting to keep the disgust from showing on his face.

  "I suggest you add some honey next time," Annalien said, "Garrett, go pick him enough for three more doses, and see that he takes them before bedtime every night."

  "Yes, Ma'am," Garrett said. He handed Uncle back his staff and hurried to comply.

  "And remember not to touch the berries!"

  "I know."

  Tinjin slowly regained his composure. "Thank you, my lady," he said, clearing his throat, "I think that may have helped a little."

  "You're welcome," she said. She lifted her chin toward the iron staff in his hand, her eyes on the horned skull at its top. "Are you a death-worshipper?"

  Uncle Tinjin laughed. "No," he said, turning the staff in his hands to study the battered iron skull, black and pitted with age, "I think of it more as a warning to others."

  "To fear you?"

  Uncle shook his head. "To look elsewhere for their hope."

  "What's wrong with hope?" Annalien asked.

  "Hope is for the future," Tinjin said, "It is to be sought among the bright, growing things of the world... in the laughter of children and the promise of spring rains. You will not find it among the dead, and those who seek me out for what I am... well, they should harbor no illusions about what I have to offer."

  Annalien laughed. "So the dead have no hope?" she said.

  Tinjin looked hurt. "I am sorry... I did not mean to offend you, my lady," he said, "My wits are not as sharp of late, and sometimes such thoughts escape my lips without sufficient polishing."

  "I'm teasing you," she said, "I have so few opportunities to sport with strangers, I perhaps take too much advantage."

  "Are you then bound to this place?" Tinjin asked.

  "Yes, beyond the light of the crystal I cannot pass," she said.

  "What if the crystal were moved?" he said.

  Annalien shrugged. "Perhaps I could follow it," she said, "or perhaps I would blow out like a candle. Who knows? I have no desire to put it to the test. I am happy enough here."

  "It is a lovely garden," Tinjin said.

  Annalien smiled. "Thank you," she said. She studied his face for a moment. "Am I the first ghost you've met?"

  Uncle looked down and remained silent for a moment. "No," he said.

  Annalien did not press the issue. "Where did you come by that sand?" she asked.

  Tinjin lifted his face and cleared his throat again. "Ah, the sand," he said, pulling it from his satchel once more, "The vampires use it in certain processes. I overheard one of them call it Ter'akane."

  "And where does it come from, this lake stone?" Annalien asked.

  "My guess would be that it originates at the headwaters of the river Neshat," he said, "Do you know of the place?"

  Annalien shrugged. "Human names don't concern me, and whatever little I knew of geography before I died was rendered irrelevant by the same cataclysm that rendered me irrelevant as well."

  "But what if this sand and your stone share a common source?" Tinjin said.

  Annalien looked at the crystal in the center of her room. "The fallen moon," she said, "Perhaps not all of it was scattered and burned away. The lost treasure of the dragons, the Betrayer's gift, could be buried in a hillside somewhere, being slowly ground to dust and sold by the handful."

  "I don't understand something," Garrett said.

  "What is it? Uncle Tinjin asked.

  "It's just that vampires don't like sunlight," Garrett said, "I mean Marla couldn't come anywhere near Annalien's house because of the light here. Why would they use something that makes them sick just to look at?"

  Uncle shook his head. "Because it has power, and a man, or vampire for that matter, will seek out power even when he knows that it is poison to him."

  "How do they use it then?" Garrett asked.

  Uncle smiled. "Very carefully."

  "What do you hope to gain from this?" Annalien asked, "If the vampires do know the location of the fallen moon, they won't likely share it with you. The very knowledge of it might prove as poisonous to you as the sunlight is to them."

  "You're right," Tinjin said, "This does complicate things. If it were only another power source, they might be reasoned with, but this... the very treasure that their queen gave her life to possess..."

  Annalien made a rude noise. "Do not call her their queen!" she hissed, "They have perverted every blessing she left for them and warped the very fabric of her tapestry to their own dark designs. They are parasites, clinging to the branches of her creation and draining away its lifeblood, one red sip at a time!"

  "They aren't all bad!" Garrett said. His cheeks flushed hot as Annalien turned to face him. "Some of them are good," he added, quietly.

  Annalien's face softened. "You are true to your friends," she said, "and that is an admirable trait. Yes, some of them are good."

  Uncle Tinjin put the jar away and placed his hand on Garrett's shoulder, smiling.

  "What will you do?" Annalien asked.

  Tinjin chuckled. "I suppose that I will do what I always do," he said, "hide from danger behind a book and tell myself I'm just being cautious. In short, more research."

  "That would seem a prudent course of action," the ghost agreed, "as long as you keep quiet regarding the focus of your research. If they learn of your interest..."

  "Agreed," Uncle said, "I trust we can all keep this a secret for now?"

  Annalien gave a merry laugh. "I will avoid the topic at my next dinner party," she said.

  Tinjin laughed as well. "Thank you," he said.

  "I won't tell anyone either," Garrett said.

  Tinjin patted him on the back.

  "Oh!" Garrett said, looking at Annalien, "I wanted to ask you about the goblin's flower."

  Annalien winked at him. "The blood rose is enjoying a brief visit to the goblin's garden, if you can call it that," she said.

  "Thanks," Garrett said, "it really means a lot to him."

  "Now I do intend to steal it back the moment it starts to wilt again," she said, "but, for now, I think he will protect it well enough."

  Garrett nodded.

  "Blood rose? Goblin?" Uncle Tinjin muttered, "Garrett, what have you been up to?"

  "Um... I'll tell you about it on the way home," he said, "Thanks, Annalien!"

  "Don't forget the tea, just before bedtime," she said.

  Garrett patted his satchel and grinned. "I'll make him drink it!"

  Uncle Tinjin tapped his staff aga
inst the flagstones and nodded toward the ghost. "A pleasure, my lady, and thank you."

  Annalien lifted her wrist and smiled. "You are most welcome, Garrett's Uncle."

  Chapter Twelve

  Uncle Tinjin cleared his throat again as they left behind the last of the elvish architecture. They emerged once again into the brickwork tunnels of human make. He hadn't coughed more than once or twice since drinking Annalien's tea.

  "Can we check on the ghouls while we're down here?" Garrett asked.

  "An excellent idea," Uncle Tinjin agreed, "It would be good to speak with Bargas again and let him know I've returned."

  "I hope he's back," Garrett said, "The last I heard, they were still in Astorra."

  "What is Bargas doing in Astorra?" Uncle asked.

  "Rescuing Lady Ymowyn," Garrett said, "She's some kind of fox-ghoul that helped Warren save me from the Chadiri after the Astorrans handed me over to them for killing their king, which I did not do!"

  Uncle Tinjin stopped walking and stared at Garrett. His lips moved, silently for a moment, and then he shook his head, raising one hand between them. "I don't think I'm ready to hear this story quite yet," he said, "Perhaps after I've rested a bit more."

  Garrett gave him a nervous smile.

  A sound rang out through the tunnel like a stone banging against brick, repeating rhythmically with regular pauses between short, concussive bursts.

  Uncle cocked his head to the side, listening.

  "What is it?" Garrett asked.

  "A ghoul alarm," Uncle Tinjin said, "Some danger to the nest. We should go."

  Garrett followed close behind as Uncle stooped to climb up a sloping, low-ceilinged tunnel that led toward Marrowvyn, the subterranean home of Wythr's ghoul community.

  By the time they reached the buried town of Marrowvyn, every ghoul in the city had gathered in the crumbling ruins of the old town square where Garrett had first met the goblin king so long ago. The little goblin was nowhere to be seen, but nearly two hundred ghouls milled about in the square or perched atop ruined buildings, some with makeshift clubs or other weapons in hand.

  An initial wave of panic swept through the ghouls as Garrett and his Uncle came into view, but many of the ghouls knew them well enough, and the attention turned back to the conversation between an aproned Chunnley and an exhausted, mud-caked ghoul kneeling in the center of the square.