The Unfinished Song (Book 5): Wing

by Tara Maya

  Umbral reached for the top left corner of one of the tapestries, but Dindi lingered in front, studying it.

  “It’s so beautiful,” she said. “Look at these figures, shown with a halo of six colors around them. I think it depicts the Aelfae. Look, this one has turned into a bird.”

  Dindi traced the bird with her fingers. Umbral remembered her soft fingertips touching his chest. She looked up at him with liquid eyes.

  “Why?” she asked. “Why must you hate them so? Why did the Deathsworn seek the destruction of the Rainbow Faeries? Why could we not have learned to share this world?”

  “Because they could not die, but we must die.”

  “So?”

  “So we would always hate them from our jealousy. And they would always hate us from their contempt.” His fist clenched the edge of the tapestry. “When I was fighting the hobgoblins, it struck me why we had to Curse the Aelfae. Imagine fighting a whole army of High Fae! Not foolish little hobgoblins, but men and women as strong and shrewd as ourselves. Until we found a way to pull them into Lady Death’s embrace, they had every advantage over us: wisdom, magic, immortality. What chance did we have against them? Immortal beings are fearless, merciless and unstoppable. We had to Curse them. We had to eradicate them. It was them or us, Dindi.”

  “And is it you or me, Umbral? Are you saying the only way I can stop you from killing me is to kill you first?”

  The weaving in the tapestry was so cunning the Aelfae truly looked as though they were taking wing against the woolen sky. He touched the same bird she did, his fingers brushing hers.

  “Have you ever wondered what it is like to see time as the fae do, as an endless circle? They see the future as easily as we see the past. What we call Destiny is no different for them than what we call History.

  “If this tapestry were a tama, it would be a dance about flight and freedom. But that freedom is an illusion. This bird is not in flight; it is frozen in the tapestry of its fate. We are frozen in the tapestry of time in just the same way. You were fated to be born the Vaedi. I was fated to be made Deathsworn to kill you. Neither us of chose this. Neither of us matters. We are but single threads in the tapestry. No thread is significant. The thread cannot see the whole picture, so it imagines that it can determine where it will go. But the thread is where it is in the tapestry because it is pushed that way by the warp and woof. It cannot do otherwise. Nor can we.”

  “Kavio used to say, we were given the thread of our life but it is up to us what Pattern we choose to weave.”

  Umbral felt cold whenever she mentioned Kavio, with that particular glow in her eyes, that caress in her voice. How he hated the bastard.

  “He was as naïve as you are,” Umbral said harshly. “Like you, I’m sure he would have been glad to reverse my Lady’s work, to bring the Aelfae back. That’s why he had to die.”

  “Bring them back? Can they be brought back? I thought, even if the Curse was lifted, there would only be one Aelfae left: The White Lady. What do you mean bring the Aelfae back?”

  “Enough!” He picked up his spear. His anger was mostly for himself, for his stupid slip, but she shrank back. He used the spear tip to cut the strings at the top of the tapestry and the wool cloth tumbled to the ground. He gathered it up and tossed it over to the sleeping platform.

  “Go to sleep,” he ordered.

  She crept to the sleeping platform, where she curled up in the tapestry. He thought she slept. He himself could not; he paced the lodge all night, full of ugly thoughts. Every stupid, petty or shameful thing he had ever done replayed itself in his mind, like reflections on a black lake. And those were just the misdeeds he remembered. Who knew what crimes he had committed before he’d become Deathsworn? Only the crippled and the cursed became Deathsworn, and Umbral was not crippled. Why had his unremembered earlier self, in the full of his prime and health, dedicated himself to Lady Death? Had he murdered an innocent man? Slept with someone’s wife or virgin daughter? Angered a powerful War Chief? Broken a vow?

  In the deep of the night, a strange sound alerted him. Instantly he stood at attention with his spear ready. It came from the sleeping platform.

  Dindi was weeping.

  Dindi

  Dindi woke up, afraid.

  She was alone in the lodge. There were no windows, so she could not tell if dawn had come or not. Hurriedly, she changed from the Aelfae gown into her travel clothes. She worried that she had slept past dawn, that the hobgoblins had already returned to life and attacked Umbral. Yesterday, she had wished him dead, and he’d made it clear that was her only chance to reclaim her life. Yet, now her heart thumped wildly as she crawled out the small sod door.

  Outside, dawn was just breaking. Mist roiled around, shrouding everything in pearl gray. She saw Umbral. He stood still. There was no sign of the hobgoblins.

  The quiet was eerie.

  “Did you kill them already?” she asked.

  “They’re gone.” He sounded odd.

  “Gone?”

  “It’s not right.” He squatted on the ground and traced the hard mud with his finger. A curl of dark shadow, slender as a thread, undulated there. It coiled up and disappeared when he touched it.

  “Did you see that?” he asked.

  “A dark thread. What is it?”

  “Death magic, but not mine. It shouldn’t be here. I’ve seen something like this once before. I hoped never to see it again. I’m going to search for any further traces.”

  However, though he searched until the sun burned off the mist, he found no more black threads. Dindi did not see any either. There was also still no sign of the hobgoblins.

  “You said they did not really live here,” she said. “Maybe they simply left.”

  “Maybe.”

  However, they were both eager to leave the sod clanhold behind.

  Finnadro

  A few hairs had caught on the naked branch of a tree. Finnadro lifted them carefully, and tried to find any lingering Green light surrounding them. He had the briefest sniff of a young pretty girl, but that was enough. The hairs belonged to Dindi. The faintest imprint of a woman’s heel compressed the soft dirt under the tree.

  He was headed in the right direction.

  The wolves had stopped to sleep and hunt, and so although they travelled swifter on their four legs than he on his two, he had outpaced them. He had not paused to sleep, preferring to travel night as well as day. He’d eaten all the food he carried and, true to his oath the Green Lady, had not wasted time hunting anything but his foe. He paused only to drink at streams and ponds.

  Above him, he heard a shrill cronk-a-reeee! and, glancing up, saw a red-winged blackbird. Sleek, small and black, with a drop of red on its wing like a pooling wound, it struck him as an omen. The Deathsworn was injured or soon would be.

  By my arrow, I hope.

  He staggered a little and caught himself on the tree. How many nights had he forsworn sleep?

  But he was close. He could taste a coil of foul magic running through the world, and it was getting stronger.

  He forced himself to keep going.

  The shadows shifted along their daily paths, but he found no more tracks from his prey. He wondered if he should have waited for the wolves.

  At last he found footprints, but not of the Deathsworn and his girl captive.

  Five sets of animal tracks showed clearly in the snow, side by side, as if the animals had been loping along in parallel. The far right set had been made by big, burly paws, toe-in, with the claw marks showing clearly. Badger. The far left tracks were twin prints, hind foot having stepped exactly in the register of the front, which looped and darted hither and thither, but always more or less in the same direction as the other tracks. Weasel. There was another less exuberant set of weasel-like prints—probably marten—and the unmistakable webbed splotches of beaver’s feet.

  Dead center of the odd company were dainty dots almost in a straight line, leading right to a thicket heavy with snow.

>   “Fox,” Finnadro said aloud.

  She stepped out of the thicket, human for the moment, dressed in white fox-fur. Her bow was strapped across her back, though he knew she could draw in a flicker of fingers.

  “Finnadro Wolf-Hunter,” she said warily.

  “You’re pretty far into Orange Canyon tribelands,” he remarked.

  “As are you.”

  The rest of her pack had taken longer to switch forms, but they emerged now. Most wildlings in Green Woods turned wolf; those who had other shapes either lived alone or formed irregular “packs” such as Fox and her crew.

  Badger was a big burly fellow, fought with a staff; Weasel was wiry and twitchy, used a dirk and poison darts; Marten was more levelheaded, armed with a bow. Today Marten also carried something on his back, attached by a diagonal gut-rope braid across his chest. Beaver had a big grin, buck teeth and a fat ax. Fox was the only beauty in the bunch, svelte and curvy, emerald eyed and red headed. Her auburn waves did not owe their color to henna. Like many wildlings who lived on four feet more than two, she and her pack kept their true names secret, even when human.

  Finnadro knew Fox’s true name, but he would not abuse it. He had once crossed spears with Fox’s pack under less than friendly circumstances. One of her pack had crossed the river, both literally and ethically, and Finnadro had been sent to bring him down. Fox had not cared for that. In the end, though, she had done the right thing.

  “Where are Fisher and Wolverine?” Finnadro asked casually.

  “Around,” she answered just a casually. “You look like scat, by the way. Even worse than usual. She doesn’t take care of you. And you sure don’t take care of yourself.”

  “What are you doing here, Fox?”

  “Sure as the sun sets, same as you.”

  I very much doubt it. But he did not care to divulge his rescue project. “I’m here to avenge the attack by the Raptors on our tribehold.”

  “Like I said.”

  “You haven’t even visited the Winter Warrens in six years. Since when did you care what happened to the tribehold—or anyone outside your own pack?”

  Her green eyes flashed. “Do you think the wildlings would let the bird-brains burn Sylfae to the root and do nothing?”

  “Did you pick up Ravens from War Chief Nann?”

  “The old hen survived the battle then?” Fox shrugged, as if it were of no importance.

  “So you haven’t gone to see her.”

  “You know I won’t speak to her.”

  “Her tree grows green for you, Fox, even if she doesn’t use the words.”

  Fox crossed her arms.

  Finnadro sighed. “Your childish grudge against your mother is not my mink to skin, but if you haven’t been to see her, you have no Ravens, and can’t collect deathdebts.”

  “We have Ravens. Marten?”

  Marten tugged the cord slung over his shoulder. On the other end, thirty or more dead birds, ravens, were strung together by their necks.

  “The sun and moon don’t revolve around humans, Wolf-Hunter,” said Fox. “Burning the forest destroyed thousands of animals, and drove thousands more from their homes, including hundreds of wildlings. You piss in our territory and we’ll piss back.”

  “Fine. But even war doesn’t change the law of light and shadow. Pay your ravens your way, but don’t cross the river.”

  “We’re already across the river, Finnadro.”

  “You know which river I mean. Or I will have to come after you. Sure as the sun sets.”

  Badger growled. “Like to see you try.”

  Weasel snickered and even Beaver made an odd yipping cough that might have been an attempt at a growl.

  “Don’t ruffle your fur over my friend Finnadro, boys,” Fox told her pack. “Finn and I go way back. He even used to fancy me. Didn’t you, Finn? But now you have eyes only for a Certain Someone.”

  “Leave her out of it.”

  “I won’t do anything she wouldn’t do.”

  “She’s fae. You’re human, whether you want to be or not.”

  “Always have to throw that in my face, do you?” She frowned. “Who are you really after, Finnadro? If you wanted to be in Orange Canyon tribelands, you’d be there by now, not mucking about the Boglands. Unless you’re tracking someone in particular.”

  He hesitated. He didn’t want to drag Fox into something that was over her head.

  “A Deathsworn. He has a girl with him, a captive.”

  Fox and the other wildlings exchanged knowing glances.

  “You’ve seen him?”

  “And stayed well clear. Even the fae flee him. But you’re going the wrong direction.”

  “What? Impossible.”

  Finnadro had kept the hairs from the tree. He sniffed the magic around the hairs again. He was ashamed he had not noticed it right away: a whiff of rot, as of foul and unclean meat. Deathsworn magic. How could he have been so careless? What else had he missed?

  He recalled the boot print. Had it not been too long and narrow? Not made by a sheepskin boot, but by a harder leather worn by a lankier, longer foot. A woman’s footstep but not Dindi’s.

  The Deathsworn sent one of his minions to plant a false trail.

  “He deceived me.” Finnadro staggered unevenly in the snow. A cold shudder crawled down his back. He knows I am coming for him.

  He toppled forward.

  “Finn!” cried Fox. “Help me!”

  She and the other wildlings set up a bedroll and lay Finnadro upon it. Fox gave him water to sip.

  “I can’t rest,” he protested. He sat up. “I will not stop until I hunt that monster down.”

  “Sure,” said Fox. She pushed him back down on the mat. “How long have you gone without food and sleep?”

  “A quarter turn of a moon… plus a day or two….”

  “That’s a new low of stupid, even for you.”

  “I have magics from my Lady that sustain me more than mere food ever could.”

  “Worse and worse. You’re drunk on her magic on an empty stomach. Sleep, you idiot.”

  “I’ve already lost too much time.” He meant to force himself to his feet. Instead, Finnadro fell asleep.

  Dindi

  The problem with traveling was that there was nothing to do all day except walk and think, and every kind of thought hurt. Memories prickled, every face attached to them a thorn in her heart. Mama—where was she, how was she coping with the near destruction of Lost Swan clan? Hadi, Jensi—had they survived the war? Had Tamio and Kemla?

  Spinning threads into the future was no safer. All that loomed ahead was the possibility of her own death or failure (followed by death). She could not even take comfort in surrendering to that inevitability. She had the obligation, heavy as a stone, to fight for the White Lady, for the future of the Aelfae, and therefore for herself, even when it would be easier, so much lighter, to admit she put on war paint for a battle already won by the other side.

  She dared not edge sideways toward thinking of Kavio. Though in fact, she found it hard to think of anyone else, given Umbral’s mask.

  Kill Umbral then. Kill him over and over again in her imagination. Only…that game had lost its luster too. She sickened herself with her own gore. If she could have rested her thoughts anywhere else, she would have stopped killing him in her mind. If every other thought hadn’t hurt more.

  The Boglands seemed endless. The weather dressed in drear, under a cloak of grim. Peat hills alternated with watery marsh. They had only a few roots left to eat in the packs, so they skipped the morning meal. Embarrassingly, Dindi’s stomach rumbled, loud enough that Umbral glanced at her.

  Once they were away from the hobgoblin clanhold, but well before the sun’s Western descent, Umbral halted in a copse of trees.

  “Our stocks are low. I should hunt now.”

  “I will gather roots,” Dindi offered. “And berries, if I can find any.”

  “I doubt you can this late in the season,” Umbral frowned. />
  “There might be blueberries or cowberries.”

  “You can look, but don’t stray far.”

  “I gave my word,” Dindi said stiffly. She felt all the more prickly about that since she had come close to breaking it when she was with the hobgoblins.

  “That’s not what I meant. That black thread…. Just be careful.”

  Umbral set the packs and blankets against the trunk of an oak, on a carpet of dense sphagnum moss. He unpacked some of his weapons. He had an incredible assortment of daggers, clubs, dirks, picks and more, all of the finest quality obsidian. Umbral chose his bow and quiver. He handed Dindi an obsidian ax for clearing away the underbrush. They left the packs in the clearing and went their separate ways.

  Dindi searched through the trees for bushes that might have saved a few last berries from the snows. She did not find any blueberries but something better: a cranberry bog. The patch of shallow water had a thin layer of ice frozen over the cranberry vines. Dindi whacked the ice open with the ax, to search the vines for late blooming cranberries. After taking off her fur boots, she re-hitched the folds of her legwals so that her legs were bare from the knees down. With bare feet she braved the chilly water, wading into the pool. She thought she saw enticing little red globes under the ice. An odd sound, like creaking ice and a gurgle of water, made her pause. It seemed unlikely that any large predators were active in the frozen lake, however, and the berries were just a little further out in the water…just a little further…

  Something under the water grabbed her ankle and yanked. Dindi lost her balance. She managed only one startled scream before it pulled her down into the cold water tangled with vines.

  Dindi fought back. The thing was trying to drag her deeper, and she struggled to remain in the shallows. The sediment was sandy and thick with plants.

  Her foe reared out of the water. Dindi screamed again.