Inali backed away, stumbling over his own feet in his haste. “Wait . . . wait. I helped you escape. Betrayed my master for it. Sigurd’s mane! Whatever my error, I have atoned for it.”
But his words had no effect on the griffin.
It was all spiraling out of control. Birdie had that dizzying sense that the world was crumbling around her, and there was nothing she could do to steady it. In another moment, Inali would flee and Gundhrold would attack, and she couldn’t reason out the right or wrong of it. All she knew was that she had seen enough bloodshed and spilled enough of it herself to last many lifetimes. The thought of more sickened her.
Inali broke and ran, and with a grunt, the griffin raced after him. The Saari warrior’s legs might not have had the ground-devouring power of the griffin’s, but he was spry. At the last moment, he dodged to the side, and Gundhrold skidded past him. But before Inali could disappear over the hillside, something whirled through the air and struck the back of his head. He crumpled facedown in the snow.
Sym materialized out of the predawn gray and bent to retrieve her spear. Holding it in both hands, she stared down at the limp form at her feet, expression unreadable in the dim light.
The griffin halted at her side. “We cannot leave him to wander free.”
“No, we cannot.” With a determined nod, Sym slid the spear into the quiver on her back. “He must answer to desert justice for his crimes. I will escort him there and leave him to the judgement of the Matlal.” Her eyes darted across the hillside. “And the sooner we are gone from this cursed place, the better. What of you, griffin?”
“It is for the Songkeeper to determine my path.”
The griffin’s quiet words hung on the air, an invitation. But Birdie didn’t know what to say. She shrank from his penetrating gaze and let her own fall past Zahar’s body to the snow seeping into the thirsty earth beneath her feet. There was no one left. No place to go. Nowhere to turn. She had not a friend left in the wide world save the griffin and . . .
Ky.
•••
Drooping with pain and an exhaustion so deep it sapped the strength from his limbs, Ky stumbled into the midst of the runners gathered in a hollow not far from Siranos. Meli walked alongside, half leading him, half supporting him, until he dropped with his back to a fallen boulder and let his head sag back against it.
Without a word of welcome or greeting, Slack tossed him a water flask. Her face looked stony and grim in the moonlight. He offered the flask to Meli first, but she pushed it back at him, so he lifted it with trembling hands to his mouth and let the glorious burst of coolness wash over his tongue and down his throat.
He wanted to bathe in it.
Bathe both body and mind and somehow wash the horrors of this night away.
A tug on his sleeve pulled him from his thoughts. Syd crouched at his side and stared solemn eyed up at him, a question marked into his brow. Ky just shook his head, unable to speak for the lump lodged in his throat. A wordless cry burst from the boy’s lips, and he rammed a fist against his mouth to hold it in and dropped, shuddering, to the ground.
Ky turned away.
His oath burned within him, and he longed to take off into battle, storm the keep with just his sling and his stones, and rescue Paddy from the Khelari—even if it meant he would be taken instead. But the Underground needed him.
It wasn’t safe for them to just sit here. He had found them easily enough. How long would it take the cursed hounds? Steeling himself against the pain of his injuries, he pushed to his feet. “Where’s Cade?”
Slack tipped her head toward the far side of the hollow where a tall figure sat with his head bowed and his back toward the others. As Ky neared, he could make out the smaller form lying in Cade’s lap.
Aliyah.
Words failed him at the sight. Yet another horror to feed the dark pool churning in his chest. Ky eased himself to the ground at Cade’s side, but the older boy never once looked at him, just stared straight ahead, cradling Aliyah’s lifeless body in his arms. Her head was tipped back, hair spilling over Cade’s knees, eyes gazing unseeing at the stars. The broken stubs of two Khelari shafts protruded from her chest.
“Cade …”
No answer.
Ky cleared his throat and began again, gentling the words as much as possible. “Cade, we need to move. It won’t be long before they set the hounds after us.”
“Let them come.”
“We have to get the Underground to safety firs—”
“Not anymore!” Cade spat out and twisted to face him. For once, the mask of control that usually commanded his features was completely gone. His face was pale and lined with sorrow. “I killed her, Ky.” His voice broke. “It’s my fault she’s dead.”
Ky saw the raw anguish in Cade’s eyes and glanced down, down at his own burned hand. He couldn’t face this now, not with Paddy’s capture and Migdon’s death hanging so heavy around his shoulders. Because it was his fault. Not Cade’s. All of this. Beyond the hollow, crickets chirped and glimmer moths buzzed through the air, signs that Winter Turning was indeed over. With each Turning, there was an air of eager expectancy for something new—a change of pace, a new stage in life.
The air reeked of change all right, Ky just doubted its goodness.
When Cade spoke again, his voice had regained its measured strength, though there was still a brittle quality to it. “I’m leaving the Underground. Take them somewhere safe. You’ll look after them better than I.” His voice fell. “I’m done.”
“Where will you go?”
But Ky knew the answer, even as he asked.
Cade’s gaze slid forward once more. “I have a score to settle with the Khelari.”
37
Sleep did not come to her that night, as it had not come for many nights since she had braved the horrors of the Pit. Birdie sat on the bare hillside with her arms clasped around her knees, watching the slow, flickering dance of the three spring stars above the eastern horizon, while the griffin slumbered but a few feet away, head tucked beneath his wing, and behind her, the sea crashed against the base of the cliff below.
Three weeks had passed since they emerged from the maze of tunnels onto the slope of Mount Eiphyr. Three weeks since Sym and Inali split off on their own. Three weeks of wandering the mountains north of Serrin Vroi, just her and Gundhrold, ever on the lookout for Khelari, hounds, or ravens on their trail.
And yet the three weeks had done nothing to ease the ache inside.
Or the agony.
It burned until Birdie could no longer sit still. It drove her to her feet, past the griffin, and out along the cliff edge. Walking, then running, heedless of peril, until she gasped for breath and came to a stop, gazing out over the tumultuous sea far below, pallid in the moonlight.
“Why?” She forced all her fear, anger, and sorrow into the words. “Why are you silent?”
A gentle breeze toyed with her hair, playful at first, lifting it from her neck and tangling it in knots, then turned to whipping the loose fabric of her tunic. It crescendoed into a gale that howled over the edge of the cliff and lashed the ocean waves below into a boiling frenzy. The cliff shuddered beneath Birdie’s feet, and she dropped to her knees, digging her fingers into the trembling earth.
But the Song was silent.
Thunder cracked overhead and a bolt of lightning crashed into the hillside, striking a hallorm tree only a few feet away. Flames sprang up and devoured the leaves and long-fingered branches, belching smoke that settled over Birdie like a cloud, then thunder rolled again, and a drop of moisture hit her bowed neck.
But the Song was silent.
She crawled to the edge of the cliff and sat with her legs dangling over the drop to the sea below, while the clouds above burst and rain broke over the hillside, smothering the flames and washing the stench of smoke away.
“Where are you?” she whispered. “Have you abandoned us?”
The rain slackened then, and even the wind died down until it was nothing more than a whisper trailing through the rocks and spring grasses, but in that whisper, she at last heard the notes of the Song. So soft, they were scarce discernable over the breath of wind.
She held her breath.
The notes crept toward her and around her, visible now, like specks of fire, of light, of power untold. They swept over and through her, gentle but fierce. Tearing but rebuilding anew. Behind them, the vast melody rose in all its glorious splendor to surround her, and she felt herself pulled into the warmth of that embrace.
Listen, little Songkeeper, the voice whispered, and I will sing you a Song.
Acknowledgements
Writing a novel is a bit like blacksmithing, I think. As a writer, you take an unwieldy lump of an idea and work it into shape. It isn’t an easy process, nor a pretty one. There are plenty of sparks along the way, and you might get burned by a molten shard or two. But eventually the novel is hammered out into a blunt and unseemly approximation of what it is meant to be. And then the real work starts. The refining. The hammering. The tempering. Until lo and behold, at the end of the day, a battleworthy novel rests in your hands.
So here you have it, my friends, Songkeeper, razor sharp, double edged, and honed for the fight! But (thankfully) I was not left to wordsmith (or stretch metaphors) alone. So to Steve Laube, my publisher and editor, a heartfelt thanks for helping to make my books truly “shiny,” and also to Amanda Leudeke, my agent, for continuing to believe in my harebrained novel ideas.
To my friends and family, thank you for your support and patience when I disappear into my storyworlds for lengthy periods of times, and for never failing to ask me when the next book is coming out. Your enthusiasm is what gives me the incentive to grit my teeth at the end of a long day and keep typing away.
To Brynne, my absolutely brilliant big sister, thank you for being my go-to design expert and for the dozens of projects you have willingly taken on for me over the past few years as “birthday” and “Christmas” presents. I hope you don’t regret giving me such a dangerous gift, because I have so taken advantage of it! And a huge thank you goes to you, my readers! Honestly, you folks are amazing. Knowing you are out there makes writing a book both a thousand times more difficult—because I am terrified of letting you down—and a thousand times more rewarding—because I am thrilled to know that you care so deeply about these characters of mine.
Thank you for embarking on this journey with me.
About the Author
Gillian Bronte Adams is a sword-wielding, horse-riding, coffee-loving speculative fiction author from the great state of Texas. A love of epic stories and a desire to present truth in a new way drew her to the realm of fantasy. During the day, she manages the equestrian program at a Christian youth camp. But at night, she kicks off her boots and spurs, pulls out her trusty laptop, and transforms into a novelist.
Visit her web site: www.GillianBronteAdams.com
Don’t miss Orphan’s Song
Book one in the Songkeeper Chronicles:
v
Songkeeper Page 35
