Drawn beyond herself, Birdie leaned forward to catch each word that fell from his tongue. “It sounds …” She sought for the right word. “Beautiful. What happened?”
Amos barked a harsh laugh. “What d’ ye suppose happened, lass? Folk revealed their true nature. They sought t’ control access t’ the river, keep its power for themselves. Blind, mudgrubbing slumgullions. Leastways that’s how Artair told us the story. Back in the old days, gathered around the fire, hiding from the Takhran’s forces …” His voice trailed off.
Gundhrold continued. “As one familiar with the tale, Hawkness, you must know that one day the river was simply gone—vanished. Scholars have debated the cause for centuries. Some say that it was the natural course of things, the power was used up, like a well run dry. Others say it was bottled up by one man to save the power for himself. Still others claim it happened when the first man was slain in the struggle and the spring ran red with his blood. No one truly knows, but as the Song faded from the hearts and minds of the people and creatures of Leira, the first Songkeeper appeared, tasked with keeping the memory alive.”
The echoes of the griffin’s voice skittered down the tunnel leaving the weight of his words to hang like a heavy mantle over Birdie’s shoulders. Tension creased her forehead. “But how do I do that, Gundhrold?”
He clacked his beak softly. “I would I knew the answer, but I do wish to help you as I may. Will you not now tell me what you heard in the Hollow Cave?”
What she had heard? Yes, that she could tell and gladly. But as for what she had seen, somehow that was still too raw and near and terrifying for her to muster the courage to utter the words. “The voice, it told me to seek out someone or something called Tal Ethel. Do you know what that is?”
“Never heard o’ it. What about ye, griffin?”
“I have heard it before, I know it. Somewhere.” A growl rumbled in the back of the griffin’s throat. “The thought is as near as a breath of wind across my feathers and yet I cannot grasp it. Tal Ethel . . . Ethel.” He mumbled to himself.
“Did you say Tal Ethel?” Inali suddenly loomed over them, spectacles magnified and face elongated by the light of the torch in his hand. “Tal Ethel?” He spun toward Birdie so quickly the beads in his braids clacked together. “I knew you heard him in the Cave. What did he say? What did you see?”
She longed to retreat from the intensity of his interrogation, to fade into shadow and obscurity, but she was weary of backing down. The time had come to stand. “The voice said to seek out Tal Ethel, and in my mind, I saw the city of Serrin Vroi.”
Without warning, Inali shoved the torch into Amos’s hand, plucked the spectacles from his face with unsteady hands, and wiped the lenses on the hem of his vest. “Tal Ethel . . . I cannot believe it.”
“Well, get on with it, laddie. Don’t just sit there like a blushin’ fireflower. D’ ye know the seaswogglin’ name or not.”
“Know it?” Inali swiped the back of his hand across his mouth and gave way to a shaky laugh. “How could I not? I once sought it in vain. Wandered many dark paths and endured many perils, only to fail at the last. It is the spring that fed the river that once carried the Song throughout Leira.”
Amos snorted. He had that pinched, skeptical look on his face that he got whenever he was about to unleash a tide of Amos-logic. “Utter podboggle. How could a single river run through the entire country? Ye’d think folk would take notice o’ something so large as an interconnected web o’ dried streambeds.”
“It is a legend.” Inali shrugged. “That does not mean there is not truth in it. The legends also claim that one day the voice of a Songkeeper will release Tal Ethel, and the rising river will wash away the stain of the Takhran’s rule. Now that the little Songkeeper has been told to find it, perhaps that day is here …”
Birdie started to her knees. “Do you know where it is?”
“Indeed I do. As do you, if I read your vision aright. Tal Ethel is buried beneath Serrin Vroi, in the heart of Mount Eiphyr.”
“Nonsense.” Amos slapped his fists against the tunnel floor, but it was his eyes that captured Birdie’s attention—huge, red rimmed, haunted by a fear that rivaled her own. “This is all a bit farfetched, don’t ye think? Lass, ye’ve never even been t’ Serrin Vroi. How in the name o’ all things fair an’ foul d’ ye think ye could possibly recognize it? An’ if somehow this place did exist in Serrin Vroi, ’tis beyond foolishness t’ talk o’ goin’ there. Ye’ll find naught behind those foul walls but darkness an’ terror an’ . . . an’ death. Help me, griffin? Ye know I speak the truth.”
The griffin reared his head back and flared his wings with the creaking and cracking of ancient bones. “There is another matter of greater concern to me at the moment, peddler. You say you sought the spring, Dah Inali. Why?”
Inali shrugged, but his apathetic air was surpassed by the dullness of his voice. “It was thought I was to be a Songkeeper . . . once.”
8
Amos McElhenny rocked back on his heels, studying the drawn face of the young Saari before him, and for once found himself at a complete loss for words. It was mind boggling, that’s what it was, to think that Inali, brother-in-law to the Matlal, had almost been a Songkeeper. What did that even mean? How was one almost a Songkeeper? Had the lad failed some unknown test in some strange, inexplicable way, or had it all been a misunderstanding?
Truth be told, the more he thought he understood about this mysterious world of melodies and Songkeepers and magic, the more he was forced to admit his own cursed ignorance.
And it wasn’t a confession he enjoyed making.
Still, if naught else, Inali’s claim explained the council’s hesitancy to accept Birdie as the Songkeeper without proof. Mayhap this testing in the Hollow Cave was where Inali had failed.
“I understand it might come as a shock.” With painstaking care, Inali replaced the spectacles on the bridge of his nose. “But it was long ago and means nothing now, save that I may vouch for the little Songkeeper’s abilities. We accomplished what we set out to do. And yet …”
“Yet what?”
“The voice told her to seek Tal Ethel.” Inali squared his shoulders and met his glare head on. It appeared the lad was made of sterner stuff than Amos would have guessed. “It spoke to her, Hawkness. You cannot simply ignore that. I may not be the Songkeeper, but I know a little of the legends. More than most. And I know that one day, a Songkeeper will appear who will stand against the Takhran and free the Song so it may flow once more through the souls of all Leirans. This must be that day.”
“Ye’re out o’ yer crook-pated mind if ye think I’m allowin’ my wee lass t’ dredge the bowels o’ the Pit below Mount Eiphyr.” Amos massaged his aching forehead and couldn’t help wishing it were possible to somehow erase the painful memories seared forever in the back of his mind. “Venturin’ into Serrin Vroi will only see all o’ us killed, an’ then where’d Leira be without a Songkeeper once again?”
“It is a conundrum, Hawkness.” Gundhrold shook his head. “Yet like Inali, I do not believe we can in good conscience ignore the significance of this night. Who are we to reject the dictates of the Song of the Master Singer?”
Amos opened his mouth to disagree, but a light touch settled on his arm, stifling the rapid flow of indignation before it could rip from his tongue.
“What if he’s right, Amos? I have to believe this all happened for a reason. It cannot simply be chance. This is who I am, and I’m so tired of being hunted. Of running, running, running, knowing that I will never find anywhere safe so long as the Takhran knows I’m alive. I would rather fight than be caught on the run, and if that means taking the fight to him for a change, who am I to argue?”
“Lass, knowing ye’ll never be completely safe an’ running headlong into danger are two mighty different beasts.”
Birdie stared at him. “You’re the one who signed me up for a
war.”
“Aye.” Amos bowed his head, the sudden image of his lass standing before a horde of Khelari with Artair’s cursed blade in her hands seared across his vision. He’d promised the Saari their own fighting Songkeeper, but still kept the blade hidden in his chambers in Nar-Kog. Hadn’t even told her that he had it. Soon, he would have to summon the courage to give it to her, and if she had but half the strength and power he suspected, in time, she would become truly formidable. The Saari would not willingly consent to her departure.
It was beginning to seem more and more a devil’s bargain.
But even a devil’s bargain was preferable to the horrors below Mount Eiphyr. Here, even in battle, he could promise her some sort of protection. Fighting a war was one thing, but infiltrating Serrin Vroi, that was madness.
Birdie’s hand settled on his forearm. “What if there’s a better way to fight?”
“Lass, what ye’re suggesting is not a fight. It’s a suicide mission.” He would have done anything to stamp out the disappointment that flared in her eyes and soothe the lines of worry that creased her brow. She was but a wee lass, too gentle for this world of nightmares. What right had Emhran to lay such a burden upon her?
The griffin cleared his throat. “Yet it is a mission. Let us be honest here, Hawkness. Neither you nor I are equipped to guide the Songkeeper in her duties or train her into what she must become. I am but a Protector, and you are but an outlaw. Who are we to tell her what to do or where to go?”
“Ye forget, I’ve been there.” Amos jabbed a finger toward the griffin’s face. His whole body was quaking now with restrained fury, but there was naught he could do to control it. “I’ve walked the lightless paths. I’ve seen the horrors. Horrors ye cannot even begin t’ imagine. We cannot take the Songkeeper there.”
“You forget, Hawkness, that I have been there too.” Inali’s mild voice cut through the cloud of images accumulating on the edges of Amos’s vision and shredded them like mist. “I may have failed my task”—his voice fell to a whisper—“but I survived.”
“Ye said it yerself, Gundhrold, ’tis our duty t’ protect her.”
“Indeed. But we have crossed the line from protection to hindrance if in our desire to keep her safe, we refuse her the means to accomplish what she is meant to do.”
The griffin’s head lowered until Amos found his gaze seized by those fierce yellow eyes and felt himself quailing before the beast’s certainty. Why did the sand-blasted catbird have to be so seaswoggling logical? It was downright infuriating.
“I don’t like the sound o’ it. Pure, utter, boggswogglin’ foolishness, if ye ask me. An’ I can guarantee the mahtems aren’t goin’ t’ be pleased t’ discover we’ve gone back on our word.” He jerked his chin toward the two mahtems seated stoically beside their lions at the far end of the tunnel and dropped his voice to a whisper. “I promised them aid in battle—yer idea, as I recall.”
Gundhrold sniffed. “We are not reneging on our promise, simply fulfilling it in a different, better way. There are bigger things at stake here. It is no longer a matter of just winning one battle. If we succeed, we could bring about the ending of this war.”
Amos sighed and recognized it as the sound of his own capitulation. He might not be convinced, but he was clearly outmaneuvered, outmatched, and outwitted. Sometimes, surrender was the only option. “Oh, it sounds very grand when ye put it that way. Ye should say it just like that when ye explain t’ the mahtems why Hawkness an’ the Songkeeper won’t be stickin’ around for the fight.”
“When I explain?”
“Aye, I seem t’ recall someone somewhere sayin’ somethin’ about Hawkness not bein’ known for tact or diplomacy.” Amos clapped a heavy hand on the griffin’s shoulder. “Best ye do all the talkin’.”
With a swoosh of beaded fabric, the curtain to the Matlal’s council chamber fell at the heels of her companions, leaving Birdie standing in the middle of the hallway with the ache of loneliness clawing within and the peddler’s muttered excuse ringing in her ears.
He’d rushed through the words as if afraid to give her a chance to speak. “Mightn’t it be best, lass, if ye waited outside and left the matter t’ Gundhrold t’ settle? Ye agree don’t ye? Reckon the old catbird can handle it best.”
Then he simply patted her on the head, as one would an obedient hound and hurried inside after Gundhrold, Dah Inali, and the two mahtems.
Her cheeks burned at the memory.
Somewhere within the chamber, the griffin’s deep voice rumbled, and for a moment, it was the only sound. Then an uproar of voices broke out in answer and Birdie shifted uneasily, rocking back on her heels. She did not need to hear clearly to understand the cause of their outrage. Perhaps Amos had been wise to leave her behind after all.
Spears in hand, two Saari warriors fell into position on either side of the entrance, and Birdie backed away, unwilling to be relegated to the role of the troublesome child caught eavesdropping while the movers and shakers strategized within. Propelled by the unyielding stances of the guards, she turned from the hall and caught sight of the carved bench where Sa Itera had introduced them to Dah Inali. It was as good a place as any to await the outcome. Better than retreating to her chambers.
She dropped into the seat and leaned back against the wall. A torch rustled in a bracket over her head, and when she closed her eyes, the cavorting flames scattered threads of shadow and light across her eyelids. There had been little opportunity for rest in the Hollow Cave before the sandstorm abated midmorning and the mahtems insisted they return to Nar-Kog. Now she felt her body sinking, drawn toward sleep.
But something within her would not be stilled, a restlessness and a fury that set her chest burning at inaction and started her fingers tapping against the bench frame. This decision had more to do with her than with anyone else. Yet here she was, forced to wait while others determined her fate.
A soft step drew her focus.
“There you are.” Ky halted before her with his arms folded across his chest and his forehead wrinkled with an expression that made him look twice his age. The borrowed clothes were no help. In the too-large fringed trousers and jacket, he looked like a child wearing the garb and face of a man. “Been lookin’ for you all morning. Where’ve you been?”
“Sandstorm.” She hunched over, resting her elbows on her knees and her forehead in her hands. A layer of grit coated her skin. It was probably embedded in her hair and clothes too. She ran a finger along the beadwork lining the hem and bodice of her loose red tunic, and tried to dust some of the sand from her fringed leggings. “We couldn’t find you when we left.”
He shrugged. “Something I had to do. Doesn’t matter now. But this does.” His gaze dropped to his hands, and somehow, in that moment of hesitation, she knew what he was going to say before he said it. “I’m leaving, Birdie. Headed back to the Underground. I got to, you see. They need me. I left them in a right konker of a mess, and I got to help sort it out.”
Leaving …
The word stole the breath from Birdie’s lungs. “When are you going?”
Ky blinked, most likely surprised that she hadn’t tried to dissuade him. But she had no right. He had only stumbled into the chaos of her life by accident. The Underground was his true home, and the boys and girls of Kerby were his family. Because of her, he’d had to leave them behind, only to be captured, beaten, and tortured.
Was it any wonder that he wanted to leave?
“The messenger who brought the news about the Midlands, he’s headed back that way. I mean to tag along. Just as soon as I can borrow some supplies.”
“Borrow. You mean steal.”
“Harvest.” He gave a soft chuckle. “That’s what we called it in the Underground. Not like it’ll be the first time.” He fiddled with the fringe on his borrowed hide jacket. “Harder without the pockets though. We put special pockets inside, made a
pple bobbing and bread nicking easier—a tip in case you ever wind up out on the streets of Kerby.”
“I’ll be sure to drop by if I ever do.”
A grin eased across his face, and Birdie forced a smile in return.
“Confound it all, ye boggswogglin’, sand-blasted, rock-pated lubbers! I’ve had about enough o’ this. I demand ye unhand me!”
Amos’s shout brought Birdie to her feet in time to see the heavy hanging covering the entrance to the council chamber wrenched from its rod as five Saari warriors burst through dragging the wild-eyed peddler. “Unhand me, ye lolloping ormahounds! I’ll not stand for it. Where’s my lass? Birdie . . . Birdie, where are ye?”
“Amos?” She started toward him at a run, but the griffin’s wing blocked her path.
“Lass!” Amos’s roving gaze fixed on her and held fast as the Saari warriors hauled him down the hallway at a half run. “Don’t worry. It’ll all work out. It’s naught but a wee misunderstandin’.”
Gundhrold sighed. “That, I’m afraid, is a wee understatement.”
She broke free from the shackle of his wing and watched until the struggling peddler disappeared around the next bend. “What happened?”
“I warned Hawkness to guard his tongue.” The griffin clacked his beak softly. “Yet no sooner had they refused our request, than that stubborn fool insulted the Maltal on his throne, in the presence of his wife and mahtems. It is a unique method of gaining allies.”
“I must agree with you there, my lord.” Dah Inali emerged from the council hall with Sym at his side. “The Saari are a proud people, and my brother-in-law, the Matlal, no less than the rest. He cannot ignore a slight to his name. The tribes would not stand for it.”
“We must speak with them.” Birdie started forward but Sym stood in her path.
“I fear that will not be possible.” Sym held her spear low, but did not ground it—that, and the faint edge to her voice, seemed a ripple of warning amidst her calm exterior. “We are tasked with escorting you both back to the little Songkeeper’s chambers and seeing that you remain there under watch until matters have settled. Sa Itera wishes to ensure your safety until the Khelari arrive and your skills are required in battle.”
Songkeeper Page 8
