A Bird of Sorrow

by Shea Godfrey

  “I can get us food,” Darry replied. “I know where she’s keeping it for tomorrow night.”

  Jessa chuckled at that. “Lady Abagail will be displeased to say the least.”

  “Not really. I think she likes it.” Darry’s words had become a bit slurred.

  “Would it be terrible of me if I asked you to sleep? If I find something more in the scrolls, I will wake you,” Jessa said softly. “I like having you here, naked and in my bed.” Jessa leaned down and kissed her lips once more. “I have never had a place like this, that was just my own.” Her smile was bone deep and she felt it. “And to have my lover sleeping but a few steps away, waiting for me? I will be about my tasks with great anticipation.”

  Darry eyes were barely open and Jessa watched as a tear slipped back along Darry’s right temple. “I love you, Jessa,” she whispered. “There will be no endless night for you, I promise.”

  Jessa swallowed upon a tight throat and then smiled, just a little. “Then I’ll not worry, my love…Will you sleep as I bid you?”

  Darry’s eyes had already closed.

  Jessa watched her sleep for a long time, savoring the heat from her body and the softness of the sheets and blankets, the scent of Darry’s skin and the curls of her hair. It was a luxury she had not taken advantage of as she should have, and now there was no time.

  When the air in her workroom began to turn cold, she slipped from the covers and stepped to the floor, the boards chilly against her bare feet. She found her clothes and dressed before she closed the shutters and locked them. She fed wood into both fires and spoke the spell that was needed, the oak catching fire with a whoosh of heat. Hinsa watched her with a calm expression, and her tail would flick occasionally, as if she had something to say but could not.

  She went to the kitchen and Lady Abagail gave her a small kettle of bone broth with meat, greens, and potatoes. It smelled wonderful, and when Jessa returned to her workroom, she set the kettle upon the edge of the hearth where it would simmer. It filled the room with its scent, and as she cleaned out her own small kettle and brewed fresh tea, she was glad she had made the effort.

  When all was prepared and only her work awaited her attention, she sat before the hearth and she wept. Her nose became stuffed and her eyes filled and she hugged her knees and buried her face from sight.

  The weight and heat against her left shoulder caused her to jump, and as she was pulled from the tide of her emotions, Hinsa leaned forward and grabbed a mouthful of her hair. Jessa let out a startled sound and Hinsa let go, though only to push closer. Hinsa held very still until Jessa wrapped her arms about her powerful neck and shoulders and held on. Her sudden purr rattled the back of Jessa’s skull, and Jessa couldn’t help but laugh, turning her face against the thickness of Hinsa’s fur.

  Hinsa sat down in a sideways move, and before Jessa knew what was happening, she had been tumbled over, her back upon the rug. Hinsa leaned her front legs across Jessa’s chest and stomach, laid down, and looked in Jessa’s eyes. Jessa stared back as her heart raced and she stroked at the hair of Hinsa’s face, pushing it back with a loving touch, over and over again until Hinsa’s eyes began to droop and her breathing deepened.

  “It’s quite soothing,” Jessa whispered. “I agree.” Hinsa turned her head and Jessa smiled at the roughness of her tongue as Hinsa licked her wrist. “If you go and sit by the fire, my pretty Hinsa, I will give you a bowl of soup.”

  Hinsa looked at her and then pushed with her back legs, rising up. Jessa let Hinsa’s fur slide beneath her open hands as she stepped away upon silent paws, and Jessa watched as she walked across the rug and sat beside the kettle of soup.

  Jessa pushed slowly to her feet, eying her companion with quiet wonder. “Sheeva.”

  She immediately made good on her promise, finding a good sized bowl and returning to the hearth. She filled it with soup, careful of the hot kettle. “It’s very hot, Biscuit. You must let it cool before you eat,” Jessa warned as she set the bowl down and stepped back.

  Hinsa sat very still and stared down at the soup, a small huff of expectation leaving her nose. After several endless moments of waiting and a terrible shiver of long whiskers, Hinsa looked up at her.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The colors of the setting sun poured through the windows of the great library, painting the tomes and scrolls upon the endless shelves with an opulence that seemed to soak into the leather and soft vellum. Wide rays of light dropped through the heights, landing upon the tables and chairs and splashing upon the stones of the floor, motes of dust thick in the air as they floated downward. The lamps had been lit, and though they were bright, they were not as rich as the remains of the day beyond the library.

  Sound traveled differently among the stacks, for the heaviness of the tomes and the oak of the shelves seemed to absorb only certain sounds, the others left to wander in echo through the halls until they came to rest, or there was no one there to hear them. The ceiling was nearly seventy-five feet above, the ribbed vaulting made of polished blackwood. Each carved buttress that lined the main hall led deeper into the building, the lamps that hung from their heights held upon heavy linked chains that were blackened by years of smoke.

  The building itself was one of the oldest and largest in the city of Lokey, built by a distant king who had been known in his youth as the Parchment Prince, for his one true love had been the written word. It did not matter the language or the purpose, though the shelves were lined with more scholarly works than not. The art of the pen and parchment had been sacred to him, as well as the scholars that came after, who tended to the great halls of learning.

  The High Priestess of Jezara’s temple in Artanis walked with a clean stride beneath her homespun brown cloak, her face bathed in shadow beneath the cowl of her hood. Cecelia walked beside her, and they were both dressed in a similar fashion, stout riding clothes and heavy cloaks.

  They had not been stopped by the guards at the doors, nor did the apprentice librarians question them as they moved through the entrance alcove. In fact, the librarians had not even looked up from their scrollwork, their pens scratching softly across the vellum as the High King and Queen, with a High Priestess to lead them, made their way beneath the grand archway of carved red granite into the library’s main hall.

  It had been a week since the death of Master Haba Una, the High Priest of Gamar, and the city was still in mourning for the loss. The streets were not so lively, nor was the music as filled with passion. The people went about their business and their lives with a bit more contemplation, though it was a change that would not last for most. He had been greatly loved, and now that the funeral rites were over, and his body interred in the Tomb of Prophets beneath Gamar’s Holy Temple, life went on.

  A personal guard of Armistad’s men moved among the stacks as they passed, and once again Owen had seen to their security. The guards were nearly triple in number than on their last outing, and there was a touch of nervousness to this venture that Cecelia had not felt before. Owen had not said as much, but she suspected he felt they were being watched, which meant he felt they were in danger. As to who might be a threat to their safety, Cecelia wasn’t certain, but she had some idea, and it filled her with a dark sorrow and a sense of dread.

  Cecelia felt a touch upon her elbow as they walked and she looked to her left.

  “I have always loved this place, Your Majesty,” Clare Bellaq said with a smile. “It was here that I met Malcolm. I did not know who he was, and he looked like a young scholar. He would read poetry and carry scrolls about like an acolyte.” Her eyes were filled with memories in the shadows of her face. “But he wore more weapons than an acolyte, and there were no ink stains upon his hands, only the calluses of the sword. Turn here, please…”

  Cecelia and Owen followed her to the left, Owen falling a step behind them as they moved between two towering shelves. Clare leaned toward her as they walked, her hand still light upon Cecelia’s arm. It was not unwelcome, for Cecelia fel
t a warmth and a genuine kindness in her.

  “He liked Eban Parrabas quite a lot.”

  “My daughter enjoys his words.”

  “Princess Emmalyn?”

  “No,” Cecelia answered quietly. “Darrius.”

  Clare seemed unsurprised. “The mysterious Darrius, yes, of course.” She let go of Cecelia’s arm and reached into her cloak. “I would very much like to meet her one day.” They moved from between the shelves and a set of wrought iron gates came into sight, even in the darkness. Clare pulled a set of keys from within her cloak, the heavy iron keys clanking together before she silenced them. “These were a gift from sweet Haba, so that I might go where I wish when I am here,” Clare whispered as she separated one key from the others.

  They approached the gates and Clare opened the lock with her chosen key, the mechanism turning and the huge iron padlock popping open. She freed the key with a whisper, and then pulled the door open without a sound, the hinges oddly silent. She motioned them in and then followed.

  Armistad Greyson appeared from the shadows and Cecelia jumped a bit.

  “My Lord, I must insist,” Armistad said quietly, his eyes upon Owen, his hand poised to intercept the gate before Clare could close it.

  “Of course,” Clare said. “Please come in, Lord Greyson.”

  Cecelia was impressed, for the two had not been introduced. Clare Bellaq was nothing if not attentive.

  “There is a door three stacks down that leads to a courtyard, and from there, you will find an alley that leads to the southern end of Almon Avenue. It is not the safest street at this time of day, for the market vendors have closed and their purses will be full. There is no finer hour for a thief, unless it is the midnight of a new moon. I would suggest posting several of your men there, for it was at one time open to the night and unguarded.”

  “Thank you, my Lady.” Armistad lifted a hand and pointed, and four more men appeared from the shadows in order to follow his command. “The courtyard door. Find it. Lock it. No one in or out. Archers to the second level.”

  His men obeyed in silence and Armistad stepped through the gate. Clare replaced the lock once the gate was closed and latched it through the bars. When she held out the ring of keys, Armistad was surprised by the courtesy.

  Clare smiled in the faint light and shadows. “I will expect them back, Lord Greyson.”

  Armistad bowed his head and took the keys. “On my honor, my Lady.”

  Clare turned back into the gated room. “Your Majesty, if—”

  “Call me Cecelia, please. We might have been sisters once, and since we are skulking about and having ourselves a bloody fine adventure, let us dispense with the formalities.” Cecelia heard the amusement in her voice and she hoped that it would be taken as it was intended. When Clare chuckled in response, it was a relief.

  “Have you managed to keep up with her, Owen?” Clare asked as she passed him. She took Cecelia’s arm once more.

  “Just barely,” Owen mumbled and followed as they left Armistad behind.

  The stacks behind the gate were smaller and closer together, and as they moved from the light of the main library, Clare whispered and held out her hand. The ball of witchlight swirled in her palm, reddish gold and warm. She gave a flick of her wrist and it rolled down the aisle before them.

  “These are some of the holy texts of Gamar, and also, works for the followers of Jezara.” Clare’s quiet voice was filled with respect. “When I would come here as an acolyte, I found other texts that did not belong, and so I consulted Master Una as to their origins. He told me that some were High Vhaelin and concerned both religion and majik, and that others, no one still alive could remember what they were. Many are in a dead language he knew only as Eeasa, and though many had tried to translate them, no one had yet succeeded. They belonged at one time to an ancient race of people that no longer exists.”

  They moved about a corner shelf and Clare brought them to a stop, her witchlight hovering high in the air and lighting a small sitting area. There were a long table and several chairs against the west wall, but for the rest of the space, it was open and empty. Clare stepped into the center of the room and turned about as she pushed back her hood.

  “It was only by accident that I found what we are about to use, in order to enter the maze and Sebastian’s Tower,” Clare explained. The witchlight fell upon her dark brown hair and turned her blue eyes violet. “I don’t yet know what the words mean, for when I first read from the Eeasa texts, trying to speak words that had no translation, I did not think it would be a spell.” There was a sudden vein of humor in her tone. “It was quite foolish, and I’m lucky to still be alive.”

  “What do they do?” Owen put his arm about Cecelia’s waist and pulled her to his side in a protective manner. Cecelia set her hand upon his chest and felt better for it.

  Clare turned her back on them and lifted her hands into the air. “They open a portal,” she answered simply. “A doorway through spans of distance, and perhaps even time itself, though of that I have absolutely no proof. Matters of time fall beneath the sovereignty of the Great Loom, and the laws that govern its pattern do not allow for intrusions of any kind. It’s merely a theory.”

  Clare Bellaq began to speak quietly, and the words held a lyrical quality, a sort of music and melody that only a poem might hold if read aloud in the proper cadence. Cecelia was fluent in four languages and the patois of several others, but never before had she heard such words. The air in the room began to change and thicken, and Cecelia leaned closer against Owen’s side as it seemed to pull from the room. His strong arm tightened its hold as she took a deep breath upon instinct.

  The air crackled like the flames of a great fire and sparks popped and splattered against the empty wall, as red as blood, before the High Priestess. They began to swirl and spin to the north until they turned in a circle, clinging to the stone of the wall. As Clare whispered her spell the sparks multiplied, and Cecelia narrowed her eyes against the wind that sprang up and swept past them, a sweet hum filling the space like a faraway song.

  There was a flash of light and Cecelia turned her face against it, Owen’s other hand coming up and shielding her face.

  The silence that followed was pure, and as Cecelia opened her eyes, she heard the bell of the barracks watchtower signal the changing of the watch at Blackstone Keep. Within the wall, a circular gate had been cut through the stone, nearly five feet in diameter.

  Owen stepped forward, his arm slipping from Cecelia’s waist as he took her hand instead. “Sweet Gamar!”

  Cecelia stared at the light of the early night sky and she heard the call of a night bird, the heart of the maze but a few dozen feet away. In the distance, rising from the earth, the dark stones of Sebastian’s Tower were some thirty yards beyond that.

  The Mistress Clare Bellaq smiled, her face flushed. “Bloody brilliant, isn’t it?”

  Cecelia wanted to weep, but she pulled her hand from Owen’s and hurried forward instead.

  “Cece!”

  Clare grabbed her hand and Cecelia met her eyes with a fire she felt in her bones.

  “Cecelia,” Clare said firmly. “You must wait and follow me.” She looked into the maze as fresh air washed gently through the once stale and stuffy confines of the secluded room. “There is majik everywhere, I can see it, like the ropes that bound Haba’s hand until you released him.” Clare’s gaze was sharp and quick. “By the gods, it’s everywhere.” Still holding Cecelia’s hand, she stepped closer to the portal door. “I’ve never seen anything like it. There are wards upon wards, stacked and tangled together…and it’s all intertwined with the majik of the maze itself.” She cursed beneath her breath. “Amazing.”

  “Can we get through?” Cecelia asked, her tone somewhat desperate. “I can see the tower, for the love of Gamar.”

  Clare gave a gentle tug and Cecelia turned back to her. “I know the rumors, and I was told by Haba that your daughter disappeared into the maze with her men and the P
rincess of Lyoness.” She glanced at Owen. “I know that one of her men is said to have murdered Prince Malcolm’s advisor, for I have spoken with a friend from the Order here. I know of the attack on Blackstone. I do not recognize these runes on first sight, and the power flowing forth is as great as any I might cast myself, and I am a High Priestess of Jezara. What am I dealing with here?”

  Owen searched the depths of the darkening maze. “The Princess Jessa-Sirrah of Lyoness is my daughter’s lover and consort. She is also a Vhaelin Priestess.”

  Clare took in the information and let go of Cecelia’s hand as she walked to the edge of the portal. “The Vhaelin,” she whispered, her eyes bright. “Of course…”

  “Clare, please tell me if—”

  Clare turned with a whirl of her cloak. “We’re going to make a run for it,” she declared boldly. “I will cast as we go. Owen? You lead the charge. If the door to the tower is locked, put your bloody shoulder into it and then get down. If you can crack the wood, I’m fairly certain I can get us inside.”

  “And if you can’t?”

  “Then stay close, and I shall get us back out again.”

  “I’m not leaving that damn maze until I’ve been inside that rotting tower.” Cecelia’s statement was calm and matter of fact. She held Owen’s gaze. “Put your back into it, my love. There are answers in there that we shall find nowhere else and we both know it.”

  Clare faced the portal, her gaze intense as she surveyed the stretch of maze they were soon to cross. “Whoever this Princess Jessa-Sirrah really is, she is no mere priestess. We shall be protected by the portal for but a few steps, and then we’re in for it. I know those bloody needle vines from experience.” She laughed unexpectedly. “A fine adventure indeed.”

  Cecelia smiled, and for the first time in a long time, her blood rushed with excitement.

  “Out of the way then, ladies.” Owen eyed Cecelia as he took the lead. He paused for a moment at the edge of the portal and then swung his left leg over the stone. He ducked through the opening and ran his hand across the smooth edge as he went, his eyes curious. Once upon the other side he reached back. “Cece.”