Beyond, in the woods, Khittri’s melody flitted from tree to tree, backed by a chorus of other voices—some deep, some soft, some fierce, some fearfully joyful and free. They were the wild ones, the creatures of the woods. Quillan’s friends. And somewhere beyond them, no telling how far—miles and miles, perhaps, or perhaps no distance at all—a sickly sweet voice that slurred the notes of a discordant tune beneath the watchful stars.
A hound, perhaps. Or a soldier.
They must be wary. There might be strength in numbers, but there was also peril. Greater numbers attracted greater attention. Escorted as they were by woodland creatures, it would be clear that there was at least a Songling, if not the Songkeeper, present. Still, she could not fathom sending them away. Their melodies formed a comforting harmony. This night of all nights.
She whispered in Frey’s ear. “Did Quillan send them?”
A soft shake of the head sent his downy mane flying about her face. The strands were so soft, they seemed to float downward rather than fall back into place. “They are not here for Quillan, little Songkeeper. They are here for you.”
The truth of his words warmed her, and she wondered at them. It was a strange thing, being the Songkeeper and yet so much on her own. Never knowing what to expect . . . or what was expected. How could she hope to succeed without Gundhrold to guide her? Even Quillan knew more than she, and he was a Songling.
There was a thought there. The spark of an idea. But it was difficult to put it into words, or even follow to its reasonable end. At the thought of Gundhrold, her heart split with the weight of grief. She felt she wandered in an impenetrable fog that left her dizzy and reeling.
She strove to find her voice. “Frey, are we passing near Mogrinvale?”
The saif hummed, a throaty, nickering sound in his throat. “If you wish it, Songkeeper. I but follow your leading.”
And she but followed the course of the Song. “Is the vale near here?”
“Behind a little, and to the north of us, but not far for you and I.”
Meanwhile, the Song beckoned her onward into the east. Still, what harm could a short detour cause? She mulled over her dilemma as the eastern sky gradually paled and then became shot through with specks of a fiery sunrise. At last the Song led her to a stop in a little hollow concealed within the arms of two hills. The drizzle had long since petered out, but its dampness still clung to the earth. It didn’t seem to hinder the Underground. In a matter of minutes, all were fast asleep, save for Ky and another lookout who patrolled the perimeter while the wild creatures watched from concealment.
Later, as she and Frey stole away from the sleepers, she hoped it truly would be just a short detour. If there was one thing she had learned in the past several months of traveling, it was that detours rarely turned out as expected.
•••
The damp green hollow of Mogrinvale was deserted. No animals crouched beside the trickling stream or lurked beneath the dragon’s tongue vines or peered out between the limp petals of the moondrop flowers. Quiet consumed the place, eerie in the full light of day, lacking the sense of peace that she had felt before. The whole place felt wrong, somehow.
“Stop.”
At her breathless command, Frey came to an uneven halt, cloven hooves slipping on rain-slick stones. Before he could kneel to allow her to dismount, she slid off on her own and started toward the cave. Skin prickling. Every sense heightened. Eyes scanning the shadows. Ears straining for noises on both physical and musical levels. She longed for her axe, a sword, any weapon at all.
Quillan might be in trouble.
“Perhaps, Songkeeper, we should wait . . .”
She dashed aside Frey’s objections and slipped beneath the veil of moondrops overhanging the entrance. Inside the coolness of the cave, she paused to steady the rapid beating of her heart as she scanned for signs of enemies. Three passageways branched off from the entrance, each curtained with a woven reed hanging. As her breathing slowed, her hearing sharpened. That’s when she heard it—coiling from the rear of the cave, like a snake startled from its nest—the twisted strands of the dark melody. It emanated from the left-hand passageway that led to Quillan’s hearth. Muted, but unmistakable, and her ear was sensitive enough to distinguish two distinct voices.
Khelari.
Here.
The knowledge pulsed through her head like the charge of a lightning strike, and close upon the heels of the shock came the tingling realization that the voices were not simply here but drawing closer. She shook herself alert. Two Khelari in Quillan’s cave—beside his hearth, no less—and she had no weapon.
She darted a glance to the left of the entrance. Three swords and a jumble of daggers were stacked against the corner. Pulse hammering in her throat, she reached for the nearest blade. Fingers brushed metal. The harsh bark of a human voice startled her. In a breath, she realized that the voice had come from another room, but it was a breath too late. She had already jerked back. The moment her fingers left the blade, she felt it starting to slip and lunged to steady it again.
Too slow.
It fell with a clatter—the sort of unbelievably loud clatter that sets teeth on edge and grates against bone. The blade clattered off the other swords, sparked against the cave wall, and skidded to the floor, taking the daggers with it. One dagger spun out into the middle of the passageway, the revolving blade flashing reflected daylight across the ceiling.
The conversation broke off.
“Hoi!” A deep voice barked. “What’s that?”
It was too deep to be Quillan.
Birdie froze, horrified by the ringing in her ears and transfixed by the slowly spinning dagger. Then a heavy boot step sounded within the left-hand passageway and she fled. Ducked beneath the right-hand hanging and crouched, stifling her uneven breathing behind her fists. She peeked through the slit between the hanging and the wall.
“Gern? That you?” The left reed hanging rustled, and then a burly figure clad in dark armor shoved his way through, shadowed by a second armored figure—a woman. The dark melody intensified with their approach.
“Baard.” The woman brushed past the man, warning heavy in her voice. “The weapons.”
The man grunted in acknowledgement and turned his hawkish face toward the entrance. Birdie bit back a breath as the two Khelari neared, moving with the sharp, measured tread of those on high alert. It had been foolish of her to barge in here. There was no sign of Quillan, but both Khelari bore the marks of a fight. The woman sported a sling on one arm and a bandage around her head, while the man favored his left side and walked with a pronounced limp. Could Quillan have done that? The old Songling might scamper along cliff faces in the dead of night, but it was hard to imagine him wielding a weapon.
But who was she to talk?
The woman paused to retrieve the dagger, spinning it thoughtfully through her fingers before settling it into an empty sheath on her belt. Only then did Birdie realize that they too were weaponless. Or had been. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than they gathered up the weapons and slapped them into place on their belts with military precision. One sword remained propped in the corner.
“There’s nothing missing.” The man—Baard—said. Hand on his sword, he exited the cave and then ducked back inside a moment later. “No one out front.” His stance relaxed. “What do you think it was?”
The woman shrugged. “Gern?”
“Highly unlikely, my dear,” Quillan called out from the kitchen, and Birdie’s heart rose at the sound of his voice. He was alive! That much, at least, was good. But since when had the Khelari left defeated enemies alive and well?
A moment later the familiar white-haired figure shouldered his way into the passage. He held a rag in one hand and a dripping ladle in the other, and he was still garbed in the same worn tunic and fearsomely cheerful yellow scarf. “Given the state of his wounds, our poor friend Gern isn’t likely to be emerging from his bedroll anytime soon. He needs quiet and rest. A healer can only do so muc
h.”
A healer?
Birdie jammed her fist against her lips, holding back the cry of frustration and rage swelling up inside. What on earth was Quillan up to here? Welcoming Khelari into his home, offering them healing and aid, calling them “friend”? They were the enemy.
Anything else was unthinkable.
“If not Gern, then who?” The woman demanded. She took a step inward, her back half blocking Birdie’s view through the slit, though both Quillan and Baard were taller, so Birdie could still see their faces over her shoulders. Unlike the man, the woman had not eased her stance. Every muscle in her body remained taut with a sense of underlying threat. Birdie seized the hope that it offered. Perhaps Quillan was not a traitor. Perhaps he was only a hostage.
“Oh, it’s quite all right, my dear.” Quillan’s voice assumed a soothing tone, as if he sought to pacify a frightened horse. “I’m sure there’s no need for alarm. Doubtless, one of the wild creatures dashed through and knocked the weapons over by accident—they do tend to race about. Terribly bad for the crockery since I’m always tripping over one or another of them and smashing things on accident, but otherwise, it’s not particularly dangerous.” He chuckled.
The woman did not join in. “And do those wild creatures of yours steal weapons too?”
“Delian’s fist!” Baard gave a longsuffering sigh. “Give it a rest, Nadina. There’s nothing missing—”
“But there might have been. You may trust him, Baard, but I do not. A healer who asks for nothing in return? Always smiling, always cheerful, always eager to offer a warm hearth and fix a hot cup? Use that thick head of yours. It does not even sound right.”
“Sounds like a worthwhile friend, if you ask me.” Quillan tested the dripping ladle with his tongue and pulled a wry face. “Hmm. It’s missing something. Needs a dash or two of something to spice it up. What do you think?” He held the ladle toward her with a guileless grin that might have charmed a karnoth from its perch.
Nadina did not budge. “This is war. Why should we trust you?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” For the first time, a weary edge crept into Quillan’s mild voice. “Because I bandaged your wounds, offered you a meal, and am attempting to heal your friend?”
“This is a safe place, Nadina. Must you be so suspicious?”
“Oh, it’s quite all right, my friend.” Quillan waved aside Baard’s objection without breaking gaze with Nadina. “Suspicion can be an effective tool, if a trifle misleading. It will serve her in good stead, I have no doubt. Help her stay alive in this bloody war you two are so intent upon fighting.”
“And which side of this bloody war would you be on?” Nadina’s words rang through the passageway. Then all was silent. So silent, Birdie could have sworn that she could hear them breathing. And still Quillan did not answer. He just stood there, scrutinizing the woman’s face with a thoughtful expression on his own. Nadina’s fingers hovered nearer the dagger at her hip.
Inhale. Exhale. Rapid, shallow breaths that barely stirred the air.
Birdie felt so helpless. Such a coward. Cowering behind a curtain, instead of meeting the enemy face to face. But who was the enemy? Nadina . . . Baard . . . Quillan? How could she know? Still crouching, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Her heel struck something. Her spine tingled. A shiver prickled her arms. She dragged her eyes away from the slit and the tension in the passageway and glanced back over her shoulder. At first all she could see was a thin line of fire that flashed before her eyes. Then her vision adjusted to the dimness.
It was a body.
The air fled her lungs.
Outside, Quillan spoke up at last. “My battle is with injury and illness, my friends. If you are wounded, I will treat you. If you are dying, I will comfort you. It is as simple as that.”
Birdie caught her breath and blinked again. Not a body. A young man. He lay only inches away from her, sprawled atop a woven reed mat, head tipped back to reveal a gaunt face and a bony stalk of a neck beneath a thatch of dark hair. Her heel rested against his hand. His fingers were curled in and contorted, as if he had been in pain. He wore only a pair of thin leggings. Bandages swathed his narrow chest. The faint rasp of breathing caught her ear, steadied her. He was alive.
It was his breathing that she had heard. And yet . . . A tremor of fear wormed through her stomach. She had not heard anything else. No scrap of melody or hint of a song that did not belong to the three in the passageway beyond. On impulse, she inched closer, and beneath the veil of bandages, she saw it. The dull flash of a crimson teardrop jewel.
A talav.
She gasped in a ragged breath and jerked away. Could not summon enough control over herself to maintain the silence. Her movement sparked a moan from the wounded man, but his eyes did not open. She would not have cared if they had. Could not bring herself to care. What could be worse than the knowledge that Quillan was sheltering one of the Shantren, one of the twisted creatures who served the Takhran and his work in the Pit?
The knowledge shattered her.
“Gern?” Baard called out. “Are you awake?”
Birdie slumped with her back to the wall. Panic clawed at her throat. Not only was this one of the Shantren, he was a songless one. Like Inali and Zahar. It was significant, somehow, but she did not know what it meant. Like everything else, it only served to highlight how little she knew about this world of magic and music that was supposed to be her realm.
“Gern?” The woman’s voice this time. Uncertain steps turned toward the room.
“Let me.” Quillan forestalled her. His sandaled feet made short work of the distance. The hanging slid to the side to admit his head. Birdie froze in the sudden stream of light. Like a dune rabbit shivering beneath a bush, hoping in vain that the burrow cat won’t spot it and pounce. His eyes flickered past her to the injured Shantren with scarce a pause. But he had seen her. She was convinced of it.
Seen her and given no sign.
“Poor fellow is sleeping still, I’m afraid.” Quillan observed over his shoulder. “And he needs it. Dwarf axes are a nasty piece of work.” Was it just her imagination, or did his eyes flicker back to her then? “You can leave him in my care. I assure you he will be well tended to.”
“You are certain?” Baard asked.
“Of course. It is my pleasure.” Quillan allowed the hanging to fall back into place, leaving Birdie stranded alone in the dark with the injured Shantren. The voices in the passageway gradually faded out into a pleasant sort of jumbled chaos as Quillan bid the two Khelari farewell, speeding them on their way with promises of scones and clotted cream on their return and wishes for their safety in the meantime. It sounded like a friendly exchange between neighbors, such as she might have heard in that simpler time back at the Sylvan Swan, when the world might have been at war but she didn’t know it.
Before she understood the curse and the blessing in her blood. Before she witnessed the horrors of the Pit and knew the madness of the Takhran. Before Amos fell and Gundhrold died and the Khelari laid waste to the land.
She clenched her jaw.
How could one be friends with monsters?
•••
“You can come out now, Songkeeper.” Quillan drew back the hanging, flooding the small chamber with muted daylight. For the first time, Birdie fully glimpsed her surroundings. The chamber was even more cramped than she had expected, little more than a cut in the rock with just room enough for the bedroll . . . and her. Narrow shelves filled with all manner of bottled herbs, bundled leaves, and rolls of bandages lined the wall, starting at chest height and extending upward. A healer’s tools.
Even with the light falling across his face, the injured Shantren did not stir. The gleam of fever dampened his brow. He had a sort of vagueness about his features that made it difficult to pinpoint a description. Hair somewhere in the muddy shade between dark and light. Neither a sharp face nor a round one. The only truly distinctive aspect was the sharp knob of the Adam’s apple in his th
roat. It wasn’t easy to determine his age either. The sparse beard shadowing his jaw seemed to mark him as a fair bit older than Cade, but his straggly hair and skinny frame marked him as a good deal younger than Amos. Perhaps about Inali’s age.
She steeled her heart to pity.
“Songkeeper?” Quillan ducked his head into the room. “They have gone. It is safe.”
Safe? Everything within her scoffed at the word. She could not recall the last time anywhere had been truly safe, and now even this damp, green vale had been tainted by the Khelari. She shoved up to her feet and pushed past Quillan into the passageway. The old Songling did not follow. He remained standing in the doorway, gazing at the injured Shantren with the dripping ladle still dangling from one hand.
At last he spoke.
“My gift is the language of the beasts, Songkeeper. Not healing. I do what I may, of course, with the natural remedies the Master Singer sang into existence. Some live. Some die. And still they come to me, desperate for healing. But herbs cannot grant the healing they truly need. And this one . . . This one . . . he is far gone . . . Herbs are no use.” Quillan turned his eyes toward her, and there was pity and sorrow in his gaze. But there was also an irrepressible gleam of hope. “But you, Songkeeper, you are gifted with many things.”
His words hung there, an expectant weight upon the air.
It took a great effort to steady herself and respond. “I have questions.”
“But of course. Of course.” His voice bled sincerity. “And I will answer as best I may. But the dying cannot wait. Surely the Song is willing.”
He could not in truth be asking that.
But he must have taken her silence as indecisiveness, for he took a step nearer and set a hand upon her arm. “Please, Songkeeper, would you save this man? Would you petition Emhran for healing, or at the very least sing his soul to sleep with what peace and comfort the Song may give?”
“He is a Shantren!” She retreated from him, stumbling over her own feet. Did Quillan know nothing of the world outside his hollow? He spoke of “bloody war,” but did he truly know the evils done by the Shantren and the Khelari? She had seen much these past few months. Even considering offering them the beauty of the Song was repulsive. The thought of it left her stomach reeling. “He is a monster. The Song is not meant for him.”
Song of Leira Page 23
