The Unfinished Song (Book 5): Wing

by Tara Maya

  Vessia

  Vessia awakened on a sleeping mat, elevated on raised turf by a hand’s span, softened with several layers of wool blankets. More wool blankets, folded, served as pillows under her head. The turf cot was one of several lining a long, narrow room. The walls had been fashioned from stones fitted without mortar. The wood and thatch roof was pitched high. Carved gables held up this crown at both ends, along with four rows of slender beams at intervals all down the hall. Owls slept in the rafters. It was middle morning, she guessed. The air in the lodge was thick with the smell of owl pellets, and the rusty, musty dust of feathers.

  There were only two windows, one round hole in each gables; and one door, in the broad side. The doorway was blocked by a wood mesh, through which Vessia could see four human men in orange legwals, wool tunics and feather headdress, who carried spears and stone-head maces. She recognized them as Eaglelords, warriors from the self-important Tavaedi caste of the Orange Canyon tribe, although these four were obviously lowly minions, relatively speaking.

  What a fine cage.

  She wore nothing but her legwals. Leaves and sticky medicine covered the injuries on her shoulders and chest, where Amdra, as a Raptor, had razed her with talons. Vessia knew she should have been dead. Her stout fae constitution had apparently saved her life once again. She sighed. It would have been easier if she had had the good sense to die when she had the chance. Vessia touched the place where she hurt most, the back of her neck. The majority of the gashes had already been woven shut, neatly and cleanly, by Yellow magic. Who had done that? The Morvae of Orange Canyon had no healers of their own. Vessia sat up, too fast; she was still a bit dizzy. But that was not so much because of her injury as because of her age—the much subtler effect of the Curse that made her mortal.

  She was not alone in the room. Hawk lay in another bed, asleep. As with her, his injury had been treated by a real Healer, with both magic and herbs.

  The other lodger was a young woman occupied with a baby, which she dandled on her knee. She sat cross-legged on a bed, for lack of another seat. She beamed with good health and a good nature. She held something soft and fuzzy up to the baby, eliciting infant laughter. Despite the circumstances, it was hard for Vessia not to smile at the gladdening sound. The fuzz was a large mouse—no, it was too fat and too furry—it was one of the wild mountain rodents which the locals called a guinea pig. Locals ate them, though Vessia found the meat too gamey for her taste. This plump, spoiled creature was unlikely to see the inside of a pot. The guinea pig was clearly a pet.

  Here was the answer to the first mystery: The plump young woman must be a pet as well, someone’s pet Healer. She was Morvae, but the wrong Chroma for this tribe, and by that fact alone almost certainly a slave. If that were not clue enough, Vessia could see the leash of Orange magic woven into her shiny Yellow Chroma. Like the well-kept guinea pig, she was spoiled rather than abused, fed and petted, plump and shiny. Gold bangles pinched her wrists and ankles, and her hips stretched a garment of yellow and blue, belted defiantly between two thumb-thick rolls of tummy by a chain of gold bangles. She also had a basket, which rested on the blanket beside her. The contents were hidden, but the scent was pleasant. Herbs, not food.

  When she noticed Vessia sitting up, the young woman gave a cry of alarm. She stashed the baby on the bed behind her and went so far as to draw a tiny flint blade.

  “Behave, or I’ll call the guards!”

  “Don’t be afraid,” said Vessia. “I won’t hurt you.”

  “They said you were a terribly powerful warrior, and might attack me,” said the human girl. “Also, if you escape, they will kill me. Admittedly, they might kill me anyway, though probably not. They always seem to have a new use for me. I wish they didn’t.”

  “You must be the midwife who delivered little Medo there. Did you nurse him as well?”

  “How do you know the baby’s name?”

  “I’ve known his mother Amdra since she was Medo’s size. And yourself? How did you happen here? I can’t imagine it was by choice. You’re from Yellow Bear, aren’t you?”

  “I was on my way to Rainbow Labyrinth in answer to the call of the White Lady for a contest to become Vaedi,” said the Healer. “That was last summer, and the trail through the mountains led me near the tribehold. A warrior riding a bird fetched me one day, not by force, but with a lot of fine promises of rewards, if I would help another Raptor Rider. She needed a Healer…well, a Midwife, as you’ve surmised, and I’m both. So I came. They did give me many nice things. But they would not let me leave. I’d have rather they gave me nothing, but left me free.”

  “Yes,” said Vessia. The sky was so blue past the small round window in the gable, the only circle of blue she could see in this gray and brown owl-pellet of a room. This fine cage. “We are in Cliffedge, the tribehold of Orange Canyon, aren’t we?”

  “Yes. This is Rider Amdra’s house. You’re her honored guest.”

  Vessia snorted. “Don’t play their games for them, Healer. I know what I am, and how likely it is they will let me walk out that door on my own. As like as they would let you.”

  The Healer bit her lip, too flustered by that to reply. She wasn’t long at a loss for words, however. Once it became clear Vessia did not plan to devour her for middle meal (which was, instead, potato and leek soup), the Healer relaxed, played again with the baby, and gossiped about the doings in the tribehold. While the Healer babbled, an ugly thought crept on Vessia, and she checked the threads of her aura. Sure enough, she found nasty thorns of light digging into the Pattern of her Chromas, distorting the rainbow with extra Orange.

  That little beast, Amdra, had tried to leash her.

  Ha!

  We’ll see about that, little girl.

  Late in the afternoon, Amdra entered the lodge. She walked straight to Hawk, who was still unconscious, put her hand on his forehead, and discussed his health in low tones with the Healer. Only after Amdra had satisfied herself he would recover did she turn to Vessia.

  “Aunt Vessia,” Amdra said with a nod of token respect.

  Vessia’s eyes narrowed.

  “I had to leash you, auntie,” Amdra said nervously. “For your own protection, you must understand.”

  Vessia’s eyes narrowed further, to slits.

  “Please, be reasonable,” stammered Amdra. “Let’s not make a problem.”

  “It’s not a problem.” A pause. “For me.”

  Trying to be subtle, Amdra tested the link. Vessia fed her a few surface reflections. She allowed this thought to drip down the thread like a drop of honey: Your mother once ate my thoughts.

  Amdra gulped it up.

  She never tasted the other half of the thought, which Vessia held back:

  She regretted it.

  If Vessia did not normally enjoy eating other people’s thoughts, it was not because she lacked the skill. Her talent in the area was unappreciated because too many people associated self-restraint with powerlessness.

  Even as Amdra gobbled up the few drops Vessia fed down the line, Vessia pulled back, ever so softly, reversing the major course of the flow. Not just Amdra’s Orange thread of thought, but her Green heartline, her Yellow healthline and the other colors which Amdra herself was hardly aware she had in her aura, since she could not use them for magic.

  A cough from the other side of the room grabbed Amdra’s attention. Vessia could clearly feel the bolt of concern and hope that went through her niece. A new complication began when Hawk woke up. Amdra could taste his aura, and through Amdra, Vessia could as well.

  Hawk—ah, his real name was Anayo—opened his eyes. Amdra warmed inside when a slow, sexy smile spread on his face. As he considered how she had taken her Raptor shape to not only return to enemy territory to rescue him, but risk the ire of her own people by bringing him back here in disregard for the taboo, he admired her courage and wondered if, after all, she really loved him.

  Amdra tasted all this, yet it brought her no joy. She knew Anayo
yearned to escape, though he would have to kill her to break the mating bond to do so. He had entertained the thought, of her death and his freedom, many times. She had punished him for the wish, but that only drove it deeper inside him, where she could not reach it. She knew better than to imagine he had abandoned the plan.

  But right now he was thinking: She looks sexy with feathers in her hair.

  Amdra touched her hair. “I look a fright.”

  He just smiled at her. “Are you rested, mistress?”

  “Yes. What about you? How is your wound?”

  “Fine,” he said.

  It hurts like muck all, he thought.

  “Liar.” She studied the wound, but she had no healing skills. “The Healer says you will recover.”

  She put her hand on his, and he squeezed it. She leaned over him and brushed his lips with hers. Desire flared in him, and when she felt how he wanted her, Amdra wanted him just as desperately. If they had been alone in the room, if he hadn’t been recovering, she would have peeled back the blanket and… She forced herself to pull away.

  This is pathetic, thought Vessia.

  Vessia wondered if she could talk to Hawk/Anayo without Amdra overhearing. Or would it matter if Amdra could hear, as long as she didn’t trace the though back to Vessia?

  You don’t have to kill Amdra to escape. Vessia floated the picture of the whole family flying away and taking refuge in the Labyrinth. Take her with you.

  Would she come with me? He doubted it.

  Anayo, please. Amdra rubbed her temples. “Can’t you drop it?”

  “Of course.” Never, he thought. You betrayed me and enslaved me. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you…

  “I don’t care if you hate me, as long as you obey me!” she snapped.

  His face darkened. Anger. He used it like a wall. Emotions baffled Amdra. For her, it was like trying to walk on scree on a steep slope, slippery and treacherous. She needed something tangible, clean and linear. The Orange threads of his thoughts were buried under a rockslide of the Green threads, love and hate and anger and despair, all jumbled and shifting too fast for even Anayo himself to catch. When Amdra tried to digest this mess, she tasted nothing but gravel.

  “Don’t do that,” she warned. “Don’t shut me out. You know I hate that.”

  His lips set in a flat line.

  “Tell me what you are thinking!”

  “Nothing.”

  “You will tell me what you are thinking!” she Commanded.

  “Nothing.”

  “Damn you! Speak to me! Tell me the truth!”

  Vessia sensed the jolt of pain that Amdra sent through the leash. Hawk writhed on his bed. The Healer squealed and wrung her hands, but didn’t dare speak out. His half-healed injuries began to bleed again.

  “Hawk!” Amdra sputtered, frightened she had hurt him. The pain stopped.

  And he smiled at me so sweetly when he first woke up, Amdra despaired. As usual I ruined everything.

  But Amdra cooked that fear inside. Hawk couldn’t taste it. Only Vessia could.

  “You risked too much to come back for me,” he said bitterly. “Why did you bother?”

  “Why didn’t you help our enemies? Surely they made the offer.”

  “How could I? I am your obedient slave. My mind is your loom to weave.”

  “Tell me the truth.”

  “You always ask me for that. What’s the point? Truth is like the wind. If you could make it stand still long enough to catch it, it wouldn’t be wind anymore.”

  She expelled a breath. “Are you hungry? I’m starving.”

  “We have potato soup!” the Healer interjected brightly.

  Hawk reached up and pulled something from Amdra’s hair, which he handed to her. “A feather.”

  He was all mushy inside for her again.

  Ayaha! Vessia rubbed her head. You two are exhausting.

  Vessia left the leash in place, but withdrew from contact. If she eavesdropped on any more of their drama, she would lose her lunch.

  After a great deal more fussing and silliness, Hawk was ordered to stay in bed, but the Healer declared Vessia fit to meet the Great One.

  At least she would get to go outside.

  Umbral

  Deathsworn Tip Number Four: When fifty armed hobgoblins rush you, run the other way.

  Umbral turned and ran.

  His spear was with his rucksack, which he’d rested on a rock. He lifted it up and kicked off the rock in an aerial flip to land amidst the hobgoblins.

  The fae could not see him, but they could feel the chill of his passage, and these hobgoblins seemed pretty sure they knew he was there. They shouted at each other to hone in on his direction.

  “Over here!”

  “This way!”

  “In front of me!”

  He didn’t give them time to organize. He smashed right through their ranks, lancing fae with his spear as he went. When the bodies were skewered three deep, he used his foot to shove them off the end of his spear. The only problem with killing them was that now they knew exactly where he was. Being fae, they had no fear of death. They flung themselves at him mindlessly.

  Dozens of clawing hands and kicking feet buffeted him. Umbral tumbled to the ground. He crawled underneath them and came out the other side of their circle. With his spear in one hand and his dagger in the other, he slashed and jabbed, slashed and jabbed, until the glittering gore of faery blood splattered his whole body.

  They just kept coming.

  He kept killing.

  At last a heap of hobgoblin dead surrounded him, four or five bodies deep and ten bodies wide. He stepped out over the mound. All of them were dead. None had fled the battle, as humans would have if so many of their kind had fallen. Fae did not know cowardice.

  He cared about only one thing: Where was Dindi?

  Chapter Five

  Thread

  Tamio

  When I was no taller than knee-high, I was already incorrigible, according to the aunties of my clan. Any time I found trouble, which was often, one or more of them would wag her finger at me and declare, “If you had a father to keep you in line, you wouldn’t be such a scamp, young Tamio!”

  My ma, however, would smile the secret smile she reserved solely for any mention of my father.

  “Fa, his father was far worse!” she would say, and laugh to herself, as if she savored a delicious, clandestine treat, a special snack she would never share with the rest of us. Not even me, though I plagued her with questions. Who was my father? Had he been brave? Strong? Handsome? Had he killed a thousand men? Had he won a Shining Name?

  Usually she swatted away my questions like mosquitoes, but one day, when some of my cousins taunted me for having no father to teach me to hunt, and out of shame and stubborn pride, I refused to go with my Uncle Abiono to learn, she called me to her hut to speak to me in private.

  “It is time you knew why your father is not here to guide you to manhood. It was not because he abandoned you, or did not love you. He was not like Goro’s father, a drunken Rover too poor and too shiftless to stay and marry the woman foolish enough to spread her legs for him.

  “No.

  “Your father was a hero,” she told me. “Brave, strong, handsome, yes, he was all of those things, but most of all he was honorable and kind.”

  She told me my father belonged to a secret band of warriors who were fighting the Bone Whistler. My mother found him wounded near the stream close to their clanhold. He had been in a fierce dual with the Skull Stomper, the monster’s own right hand minion. He had wrapped a white bandage about his injured leg, which had turned scarlet when she found him. He begged her not to report him to her kin, lest the Bone Whistler punish them all for his presence. All he asked for was permission to sip from the stream and lie unmolested until he saved up the strength to walk.

  “Of course, I could not leave him outside to die,” my mother told me. “I brought him pishas and corn and water. He devoured it all. Then he ask
ed me for beer!”

  She laughed. “He was so charming by sunset I knew I loved him. But could a great warrior love a Nobody like me? I didn’t think so. Then he showed me two sticks, one with a bull’s head and one with a stallion’s head. The first showed all his kills. There were many. The second showed all the women who had loved him. He had been a scallion and a scamp; he admitted it freely to me. But then he broke this stick in half. ‘After knowing you, I will never love another woman,’ he swore. ‘I will marry you, this I promise. But I also gave an oath to my men, that I would stand with them in one last battle against the Bone Whistler. We mean to overthrow him.’”

  “I wept with fear for him, but I could not hold him back. I asked only that he kiss me that night, and he did.”

  Her eyes misted as she told me this. Then she showed me a conch shell. It was his parting gift to her, and it was no ordinary shell. It was tied to his Chroma, he told her, and if she blew it, he would hear it no matter how far away he was. If he still lived, she would see a brilliant green orb of light. But if she blew into the conch and saw no light, she would know he was dead.

  “He had me blow into the shell,” my mother told me, “and indeed, I saw the brilliant orb of light, even though I have no magic myself.”

  He would return as soon as he could, he promised, as soon as the Bone Whistler was overthrown. But if a full turn of moon passed and he still had not returned, she should blow the conch and look for the light.

  “Only death itself will keep me from returning to you,” he swore.

  A moon passed and then another, and my mother did not blow the conch because she was afraid. She told herself, he would return. A third moon passed, and word reached Full Basket clanhold that the Bone Whistler had fallen. Then she made herself blow the conch.

  She saw no light. My father had died giving freedom to Faearth.

  Bitter were the tears she wept. She felt sick and sore and attributed it to grief, until her belly rounded so fully she realized her fallen hero had left her one consolation, a child.

  Her clan berated her for bringing them a new mouth with no man to till the cornfields to feed it. My mother could not even tell them his name or clan or tribe. She had the idea, because of his sticks with the bull and stallion heads, that he might be from the Purple Plains tribe, but she had never asked.