Orphan's Song

by Gillian Bronte Adams

Birdie crawled to the front and slumped with her back to Nisus’s seat. Amos glanced at her, but didn’t speak. There was no need. She could read his disappointment in his gaze. He knew—or guessed—how she had known of the soldier’s presence.

  And he wasn’t happy about it.

  Her cheeks burned, and she hugged her knees to her chest. Amos could stew in his wrath, because there wasn’t anything she could do! She hadn’t asked for this curse, hadn’t asked to be the Songkeeper—or whatever she was or wasn’t supposed to be—and she couldn’t not hear the melody, so she might as well make the best of it.

  “Turn right here,” Amos said. “Head west.”

  Birdie glanced up as Nisus steered the wagon off the road into the woods. The horses were forced to move at a slower pace now, winding their way through thickets and stands of trees set so close that the wagon scraped bark on both sides.

  After a few minutes, the dwarf cleared his throat. “Care to explain what we’re doing?”

  “Gettin’ away with our necks intact. Those soldiers back in the woods—what did ye make o’ them?”

  “Sentries guarding the road. Common sense. Of course the Takhran would want to protect his route. We should have foreseen it—or at least my cohort commander brother should have. Predicting troop placements is his job.”

  Jirkar snorted. “Oh, if we’re going to point fingers, why not point at the Xanthen strategist steering the—”

  “I fear they had word o’ our comin’,” Amos interrupted. “If they placed sentries elsewhere ’long the border o’ the forest, we may yet have trouble. In any case, our best hope lies in headin’ west inside the forest, ’til we’re past their watch posts, then we can break out onto the Westway Road.”

  A thread of harsh music drifted toward Birdie and she tensed. It was distant, so faint that she could scarce hear it, but terrible nonetheless.

  Amos bent over her and whispered in her ear, “What is it?”

  The answer faltered on her tongue. It would only anger him further, and she had enough trouble to deal with.

  “Speak, lass. Our lives are at stake.”

  So now he wanted her to use her ability? Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, but she managed to get the words out. “Another one—”

  “Where?”

  “To our right. A good ways off, I think . . . maybe on the edge of the forest . . . I don’t know.”

  Amos straightened. “Keep heading west, Nisus. Don’t go any closer t’ the edge o’ the forest ’til I tell ye.”

  Over the course of the day, Birdie heard the dark melody five more times, none closer than the first, and most farther away. Each time she mentioned it to Amos, his scowl deepened, but he simply nodded. At last, as the shadows lengthened through the forest, Amos tapped Nisus on the shoulder, and the dwarf altered course to the right.

  Half an hour later, they broke out of the woods. The army was nowhere in sight. Rolling yellow dunes sprawled before them, miles upon miles of grass unbroken by tree or stump or city. The Westway road carved a dark line through the dunes. Far off, the dunes faded into a jagged blue mist—more mountains, Birdie realized.

  She looked back over her shoulder in the direction of the Khelari encampment. Surrounded, as she was, by the vastness of Leira, it seemed ridiculous to think that an entire army had been sent to capture one orphan. “Amos . . . the army? What is it doing here?’

  “Invading the Midlands. What else?” Amos shrugged, but the bitterness in his voice belied the casual gesture.

  No one spoke.

  In the sudden silence, the rattle of the wagon wheels seemed abnormally loud—a death rattle, it sounded to Birdie, like the noise Master Dalton had made when Carhartan stabbed him in the chest.

  Horrible images passed before her eyes. Smoke hanging over Hardale. The Sylan Swan burning with bodies scattered about the yard—Madame, Kurt, Miles, Master Dalton. Screams rang in her ears as soldiers streamed over the hills. Behind them, all was aflame, and everything in their path withered. At the front of the black horde, Carhartan marched with his red sword aloft.

  Birdie staggered to her feet to escape the choking melody that seized her head and tightened around her throat. “No, we have to do something! We have to stop them.”

  Amos’s firm hands settled around her shaking shoulders—strong, steady, comforting. But his gaze was as hard and cold as stone. “We’re doin’ the only thing we can, lassie. We’re runnin’.”

  18

  Amos was avoiding her. There was no other explanation.

  Birdie huddled beside the unlit campfire, arms hugged to her body in a vain effort to ward off the cold. Winter Turning was approaching—the season change would come in the next day or two. But even the chill northern wind seemed warm compared to Amos’s behavior.

  Three days had passed since the discovery of the Khelari army, when her curse/ability?—she still didn’t know what to call it—had enabled them to slip past the sentries undiscovered. Now, with the forest and Khelari behind them, they followed the Westway road toward freedom.

  There was so much she wanted to ask Amos, but he had become silent and distant. Even now, he stood across the fire from her as he snapped twigs and tossed them onto the stacked wood. For a moment, their eyes met, then he stumped off into the gray evening in search of more wood.

  “Ah, there’s nothing like a spot of hot tea to complete the day.” Nisus pottered past with his arms full of tea things. “Would you care for some, miss?”

  “No, thank you.”

  The peddler doesn’t want you to know, George had whispered.

  Didn’t want her to know what? And how did the cat know what Amos did or didn’t want, in any case? In the end, he had offered her even less than Amos, since he disappeared after their last conversation. Yet again.

  Amos trudged over and tossed another handful of twigs onto the pile. “Should about do it. Tinderbox, Nisus?”

  “My dear fellow, since when have I ever needed a tinderbox?” The dwarf reached into a pouch at his belt, pulled out a flint and steel, and sprinkled a pinch of red flakes onto the wood. He struck the flint and steel. A spark flew into the flakes, there was a puff of blue smoke, then the kindling ignited in a spurt of flame.

  Birdie jumped, barely suppressing a cry, and scrubbed at her eyes. Orange circles danced across a field of black, obscuring her vision.

  Behind her, Jirkar chuckled. “Startling isn’t it? Nisus never could light a fire without putting on a show.”

  She blinked and found to her relief that her vision was returning. “What is it?”

  “Ryree powder—made from the roots of the fire flower. Very flammable, very dangerous, and very handy. Now, stir your stumps.” He dropped a sword into her lap and grinned at her, wrinkles splaying from his eyes like clefts scaring the surface of a rock. “Time for practice.”

  She stifled a groan and pushed to her feet. Ever since sighting the army, Jirkar insisted on spending every spare moment in practice. Her back and arms hadn’t ached this much since Madame’s last beating. But still more painful was the knowledge that Amos would simply watch in silent disapproval.

  Even an argument was preferable to that.

  She refused to look at the peddler as she picked up her sword and followed Jirkar away from the fire. Thrusting her problems to the back of her mind, she fell into position and awaited the attack.

  Jirkar bowed, thumping a hand to his helm, and then struck. Not too fast, giving her time to respond. A slash at the head, then a downward stroke toward her side.

  She blocked both. After only three days practice, she could hardly be considered a swordswoman, but at least her weapon no longer threatened to fly from her grasp, and the basic guard positions felt less awkward.

  There was music in the clash of the blades, a rhythm hidden beneath the pattern of slash and parry, offense and defense, advance an
d retreat. The melody was faint, seeming just beyond reach. But Birdie sought it, and as she listened, her movements felt more fluid. Natural. Thought and action occurring in synchronized harmony.

  She attempted a slash of her own.

  Jirkar turned aside her blade, throwing her off balance. She stumbled and lost the rhythm. The dwarf winked at her, eyes twinkling in the shadow of his black helm. Then he pressed forward, forcing her to retreat, strokes coming faster and faster, until she could no longer see his face, only the black of his armor.

  The armor of the Khelari, of Carhartan, of murder and death.

  Hatred surged within her, and her hands shook with anger. She thrust blindly, sword stabbing the air.

  A jolt ran up her arms. She staggered back, her hands empty, the sword lying on the ground a few yards away, and glanced up at Jirkar’s smirking face.

  “Not bad.” He swaggered over to retrieve her weapon. “I’ve seen far worse—and that from a dwarf who’d been studying swordsmanship for three years trying to join the Adulnae. Poor Tymon. Terrible fighter, excellent chef.”

  Birdie’s hands were still shaking. The dark melody throbbed in her ears, and the world seemed to tilt, dipping first one way then the other. She sat down—hard—and clasped her hands in her lap to hide the trembling.

  Jirkar bounded to her side. “Did I frighten you, miss? I went a bit hard on you at the end, I know, but you handled it well—”

  “No, no, I’m fine.” Her tongue felt thick and clumsy, but she forced it to form the words. “I’m tired, that’s all.”

  A poor excuse, but how could she explain? She was frightened, but not of Jirkar. The depth of the hatred brewing within her was like a monstrous pit looming before her feet, waiting to swallow her. And in that moment, she knew she could kill . . . would kill . . . wanted to kill if it meant being rid of the Khelari.

  The thought sickened her. She hid her face in her hands lest the terrible desire be written on her face for all to read. Jirkar jabbered on, and though she couldn’t make out what he said, the relentless droning of his voice comforted her.

  At last, she spoke. “I didn’t think I’d care so much. I grew up in the Midlands, but it wasn’t home. Nobody cared for me, and I didn’t much care for them. But seeing that army . . .”

  Jirkar let out a long breath and sat down beside her in a clatter of rattling armor. “I understand, miss. Believe me, I do. The same sort of army marches on my homeland. Seeing it just tears your insides and sets your blood to boiling in your veins.”

  He fell silent a moment, then cleared his throat. “We split off tomorrow, Nisus and I, to head north and prepare our people for battle. You don’t . . . don’t have to run, miss. You could come with us. Do something. Fight.”

  Birdie jerked her head up. “What do you mean?”

  “With you on our side, the peoples would rally to our cause.” He pressed his sword into her hand and wrapped her fingers around the hilt. “The tribes could be united. We could defeat the Takhran.”

  “I told you, I don’t want to fight them.” Not before, and certainly not now. In Bryllhyn, Amos promised her a home. Safety. Freedom. “I want to be free of them.” She tried to release the sword, but he held her hand between both of his.

  “Up north, you can get your answers. The Xanthen are the wisest scholars in Leira—except Nisus, of course, but he’s considered a bit of a bad egg really, more strategist than sage. The Xanthen could tell you all you need to know.”

  Her throat tightened. If experience was any guide, no one would simply tell her anything. Even now, it was all secrets, mysteries, and promises, but no answers. According to George, information was currency.

  No doubt the Xanthen would have a price as well. “In exchange for what? Becoming who you want me to be?”

  “No, miss, becoming who you’re meant to be.”

  Birdie closed her eyes. Amos had been right all along. No one else cared for her, only what she could become. Jirkar had seemed different, treating her as a friend, not the orphan drudge, or mad girl with insane fantasies, or even the cursed Songkeeper. Yet the whole time, he’d been manipulating her to become what his people needed. “And who is that?”

  “The Songkeeper.”

  A frustrated sigh brushed her lips. “I don’t even know what that is, and none of you will tell me.”

  “It’s . . . complicated. I don’t fully comprehend it all myself. Not well enough to explain to you. That’s why you must come with us and speak to the Xanthen. I’ll tell you plain, miss, Amos will be difficult to convince. We’ve asked him to come along, but he’ll have none of it. He may be more reasonable now, seeing that you’re willing. Else you may have to come on your own.”

  And leave Amos behind?

  Never.

  Birdie pulled free and shot to her feet. The peddler might not have been himself lately, but he had followed her and rescued her from Carhartan. She couldn’t abandon him now, not even to get the answers she desired. Not when he alone cared for her. Not when he alone had followed her.

  The dwarf called to her, but she ignored him and stumbled away from the fire glow toward the wagon and the cover of darkness.

  The wagon came to a creaking stop, and Birdie peered over the side. Golden dunes surrounded them on all sides, rising ever higher to the north until they faded into the blue of the mountains. Ahead, the road marched west toward Tauros’s descending rays.

  “I’m afraid here’s where we part ways,” Nisus said. “Time Jirkar and I headed north.”

  Amos hopped off first and offered his hand to assist Birdie down. “Come, lass. Only a few more days o’ travel, then we’ll have hot oatcakes, warm fires, an’ motherin’ aplenty.”

  He twirled her through the air, then set her down with a wink and a grin. For the first time in days, the peddler seemed his old jovial self, and Birdie couldn’t help staring as he trotted to the front of the wagon to bid Nisus farewell. She didn’t know what had caused the change, but it was nice to have the old Amos back.

  One of the horses nickered, drawing Birdie’s attention. It tossed its head, dark mane flapping against its muscled neck, and whinnied. It was a pity she had never been able to discover if the horses could—

  “Little Songkeeper,” a husky whisper interrupted the thought.

  Birdie gasped. Intelligence flooded the horses’ faces. Their eyes were bright and clear, so different from the dull, empty gazes she had seen before.

  The closest one nodded at her. “May Emhran be with you.”

  She started toward the horse, still too stunned to speak, but Jirkar’s voice stopped her.

  “Miss . . . wait!” He slipped over the side of the wagon and set two bulging packs at her feet. “I meant no offense last night. I didn’t mean . . . well, that is . . . I packed supplies for you and Amos—food, warm cloaks, and the like. A spare pair of boots for you. Might be a bit large, but you’ll want something with Winter Turning just around the corner.”

  Her hurt and frustration melted before the kindness of the deed. “Thank you, Jirkar, for everything.”

  “Please, miss.” He shuffled his feet, pulled something from behind his back and pressed it into her hands. “I thought this might come in handy, in case you run into any more of them wretched varmints. Don’t misunderstand me—don’t mean to change your mind—just reckon it might be useful.”

  He stepped back, relinquishing the object to her grasp, and she saw that she held a short sword. A brown leather sheath, complete with a belt, concealed the blade. Her hand settled on the carved wooden hilt, and she slid the sword halfway from the sheath. A scale-like pattern scrawled the length of the blade, while the hilt and crossguard were engraved with intricate figures. It was oddly beautiful, in a harsh, deadly sort of way.

  “Oh, Jirkar, I can’t—”

  “Of course you can, and you will, else I’ll be very much offended. And
miss,” he lowered his voice, “it’s not a curse. Remember that.”

  Jirkar pulled away and scurried back to the wagon, pausing beside Amos to thump his fist to his helm and say farewell before he climbed aboard and sat beside Nisus.

  It’s not a curse.

  Even at a whisper, Jirkar spoke the words with such conviction that Birdie wanted to believe him. But if the Song wasn’t a curse, then what was it?

  “Farewell, friends.” Nisus snapped the reins and shouted to the horses, “Hy-hup!” The wagon lurched off the road into the dunes. “Amos, tell your mother the Creegnan brothers send their greetings.”

  “I will.” Amos laughed. “And be sure ye stop by next time ye travel through the Westmark, or she’ll ne’er forgive me!”

  A flash of yellow slipped over the side of the wagon and vanished into the golden grass, then the wagon jolted over the top of one of the dunes and disappeared from sight. Apparently George had his fill of a stowaway’s life. She wouldn’t mind the cat’s company, so long as he kept his presence a secret. Amos would hardly be pleased at this new demonstration of her curse.

  “Ye ready, lass?” Amos hefted the larger of the two packs and slung it over one shoulder. He took a deep breath, puffing out his chest. “We’ve supplies aplenty, the wind at our backs, an’ the open road before our feet. What more could a man wish for?”

  Nothing. Nothing at all. Birdie smiled as she buckled the sword belt around her waist. With Amos she was free to be just Birdie. He didn’t care about the cursed Song, or forcing her to become one thing or another. She was just his wee lass.

  Of course she still had questions, and she didn’t doubt that Amos had answers, but that could come later. For the moment, she was content.

  She tugged her pack up on her back and tried to settle it into a comfortable position, a task made more difficult by the unfamiliar bulk of the sword strapped to her side. “Where to, Amos?”

  A grin tweaked the corners of Amos’s mouth, and he took off down the road at a half jog, calling back over his shoulder. “How d’ ye feel about inns? Stayin’ in one, I mean—not slavin’. If we hurry, we can shelter from the Winter Turnin’ in Kerby tonight. I know the perfect place—the Seaman’s Chase—has the finest brew this side o’ the forest.”