The Unfinished Song (Book 5): Wing

by Tara Maya

Farla snickered unpleasantly. “Your blanket has some holes.”

  “What have you done?”

  “I didn’t make the holes, I was only trying to mend them.”

  It was a bald lie. Dindi had seen Farla ripping the threads with her own eyes, but Farla wagged a finger, quick to hedge her lie with a wall of preemptive counter-accusations.

  “You probably tore the holes in it yourself, you good-for-nothing roach! When your master finds out, how he will beat you!”

  As if on cue, Umbral appeared in the doorway, with a slew of split logs strapped to his back.

  “Look what your slave has done!” Farla screeched. She hopped around, holding up the blanket. “She’s torn holes in it! Look! Look!”

  Umbral stacked the wood against a wall.

  “Dindi, come with me,” he said. “Bring the blanket.”

  “You’re going to get it now, slave girl!” cackled Farla. She tossed the blanket at Dindi.

  Without a word, Dindi followed Umbral outside. He had stacked more logs out back. He sat on one now, a casual position with his elbow on one knee. In his black leather and black fur cape, he looked like a dark fae lord reigning over his winter keep.

  “Let me see the damage.”

  Dindi spread the tapestry over another pile of stacked wood. Farla had vandalized the tapestry quite strategically. Several of the loveliest figures were destroyed, including the Aelfae who had taken flight as a bird.

  “I know you didn’t do this, Dindi,” Umbral said.

  “I know you know.”

  He raised a brow at her.

  “Farla is a much less sophisticated liar than you.” Dindi touched the hole where there had once been a bird. “You told me this tapestry was about fate, not flight. You told me a single thread didn’t matter. But it matters when it’s gone, doesn’t it? It leaves a hole behind that can’t be filled. There are no wings left in this picture. What is the tapestry about now?”

  Umbral touched the hole. Their fingertips met.

  “Loss,” he said.

  He withdrew his hand.

  “I want to do something about Farla and Essi,” Dindi said.

  “Which one did you want me to kill?”

  “I’m serious.”

  “As was I.” His lips twitched in amusement.

  “I have an idea how we might help them both. But I need your support.”

  “How do you do it, Dindi?” Umbral asked. “I’ve seen Farla bully you these last few days. The names she’s called you, the grueling chores, far beyond what the rule of hospitality demands, and now this, destroying your blanket out of petty malice. And it all seems to roll right off you like water off a swan’s wings. How can it not bother you?”

  “Of course it bothers me. I can’t stand seeing them tear each other down. They need each other and that’s why they hate each other. They’re like threads tied up in a knot, unable get untangled. But without the knot, there’s nothing left but a hole. They love each other too. As long as you can still love, you aren’t completely lost.”

  “It’s possible to love someone and still destroy them. One might almost say it’s a prerequisite.”

  “Farla blames Essi for hexing her. Essi blames Farla. Maybe they are both right. Maybe neither is. Maybe you are half right about fate. Sometimes bad things just happen. One thread can’t change what has already been woven on the loom. But who says the same pattern has to continue forever? Will you help me?”

  “I don’t want you to be disappointed. People don’t change.”

  “They die. That’s change.”

  He smiled slightly. “True.”

  “Then what have we to lose? Let me phrase this a different way. I’m doing this, with or without your help. What do I have to lose?”

  Because you’re going to kill me anyway. She knew she didn’t have to say it out loud. Though they were enemies, they understood each other at a level deeper than words.

  At last, Umbral nodded.

  “Very well. I’ll help. Within reason. But as soon as this prank of yours is done, we must leave.”

  Dindi’s heart sank. “I thought it was impossible to make it through the pass in the winter.”

  “It’s dangerous, but waiting may be more dangerous. I found another…knot, I suppose you could call it, a penumbra, wild death magic, in the forest. It was similar to the knot we found in the bog that animated the Aelfae mummy, though not as large.”

  “Mercy. Was there an Aelfae…?”

  “Fortunately not. But I have been seeing more and more tendrils of this dark magic the closer we get to Cliffedge. I fear what is happening there. I fear why they are bringing the White Lady there.

  “Dindi, I know you are only helping me because you have no choice. I know you hate me. But we are knotted together. Crazy as it is, we need each other if we are to stop this foul magic from spreading. You saw it. You know it is wrong.”

  “I saw your magic as well.” She shuddered.

  “Yes,” he said stiffly. “I did what needed to be done to stop the Aelfae. I will do it again as I must, without apologies to you or to anyone else. The task of the Deathsworn is to mete out death, but also to limit the stretching shadow, that it not swallow the whole world into darkness. Whoever is creating these penumbral knots is playing with Deathsworn magic, without any limits. They must be stopped. I’ll need you to try to dance another Vision.”

  “Here? Now?”

  “No, not inside the clanhold. Once we are away.”

  “Very well. But first we help Farla and her mother.”

  “Why is that so important to you?”

  “Do you really care what’s important to me or why?”

  “I don’t ask idle questions, Dindi. I asked. I care.”

  She hugged her elbows with her arms, aware of the sounds of daily toil in the clanhold. Even when they weren’t weaving, Spider Loom women spent most of their winter working wool: sorting it, scouring it, combing it, carding it and spinning it on a distaff. Each step had its own sound and scent. The women worked snug in their cabins, so she couldn’t see them, but she could hear the rough skirtch-skritch of the brush on the carding stone, smell the pungent soap used to cleanse the fibers. At first, she had found the aroma distasteful, but now, as she drew in a deep breath, trying to find an answer to give to Umbral that wouldn’t sound big-headed or mush-brained, the scent seemed precious to her.

  I’m the Vaedi. Or should be. Or could be. Supposedly. If I weren’t far more likely to die in the near future. I’m supposed to save the White Lady, and save the Aelfae, and maybe even save the world, but chances are, I won’t even be able to save myself. But maybe I can do this one thing. One small good thing.

  “All my life I’ve been weak and useless,” she said finally. “More of a burden than a help to those who loved me. I would just like to help someone, if I can, before….” She shrugged. “Before the opportunity passes.”

  He reached his hand toward her cheek, as if he would caress her; he leaned forward, as if he might kiss her forehead. The Penumbra around him, the unnatural abyss that surrounded him where a Tavaedi had a Chroma, gaped like a hole under her mind. Her lucidity tottered and almost collapsed into the chasm. Vertigo made her sway, the shock of swift nausea made her step backward, involuntarily.

  “Don’t touch me!”

  She spat out the words without thinking, as pure self-defense. His open hand clenched. She noticed, even though he snatched his hand away at the same time. His knuckles whitened in fists held in tight check against his thighs.

  “It hurts me, Umbral,” she said softly. “You hurt me. Just by being near me.”

  “I know.”

  There it was.

  “So. Your mysterious plan to help the Blind Woman and the Dwarf.” He smiled, a genuine, even generous smile, complete with crinkles at the corners of his eyes; but his fists never wholly unclenched. “I have no idea what you have in mind or how you think I can help.”

  Tamio

  The men gathered ar
ound a raging bonfire, drinking, swapping fibs, jests and boasts. Tamio had survived another day, with a kill to notch on his stick, and he had just enough beer in him to feel expansive toward existence and not yet so much that he had to piss. The oily peat moss burning in the bonfire added a pungent flavor to the smoke. Possibly the sly sheep-kissers had added a few other herbs as well. For medicinal purposes. He breathed in deeply, enjoying the rush.

  Orange Canyon castes did not intermingle as equals. If it weren’t for his friendship with Vumo, Tamio never would have been invited to sit around this fire, which was attended by Weaver men inside the inner wall of the sheepmeet, where the finer tents were pitched. No Eaglelords visited the sheepmeet, so the Weavers were the elite here, and happy to boast it. They did not even care that Tamio had killed one of their tribesmen earlier that evening, since the warrior who’d fallen had been a Drover. They acted almost as though they and Tamio shared a common enemy.

  “So what do you do if a certain quail evades all your traps?” Tamio asked Vumo.

  “There are more birds in the bush. Just move on.”

  “What if this particular quail is the one I want.”

  “Ah,” said Vumo. He took a deep breath of the smoke. “Nice fire, heh. Maybe you’d better make sure you’re catching her in your trap, not the other way around.”

  “Come, there must be a trick you know that never fails,” Tamio insisted.

  “As a matter of fact…” Vumo leaned forward confidentially. “There is.”

  “Go on, old man. Don’t hold out on me.”

  “There’s a whole routine, you understand. Steps, like in a tama. It’s not any single step, but the whole performance that matters.”

  “I understand.”

  “First you stake out your target. I gather you’ve already done that—fine. This works both on strangers and on women who already know you.”

  “What if she hates me?”

  “Still works.” Vumo drank deeply. “Still works. If she is not actually an enemy Tavaedi. Then she might just kill you. But if she is from an allied tribe or clan, or a neutral one, this will work. Because the first step is to let her find you terribly wounded. You’re not really wounded, of course, but you have some flashy cut, wrapped up, that you let her think is worse than it is. You were just in a fight, you could tell her you were wounded.”

  “I already told her I was fine,” Tamio said ruefully.

  “No problem, just let her think that you lied, from manly pride. You’re too brave to complain, and so forth. The next step is to swear her to secrecy. There must be some reason she can’t tell her family or others about you. For her own protection, of course. If the enemy knew she helped you, she herself would be in danger, and so forth. You can really swell this part up, all about your secret battles with the enemy. Beyond mere duels. You’re really on a quest to kill the War Chief of the whole enemy tribe or something. Larger than life, you see?”

  “Yes… yes…”

  “So you spend the whole day with her, letting her fuss over you, but really drawing her out, letting her spill her dreams to you. She’s telling you exactly who to be to please her, so listen closely and be that man—for the day. By evening, she’ll be in love with you. At this point, you take out your conquest sticks and show them to her. The one for women too.”

  “But…”

  “And you break it. Right there in front of her. Tell her those dozens of other women, hundreds maybe, they don’t matter. Not now that you’ve met her. You pledge to marry her.”

  “But…”

  “But you have one final battle. To kill the War Chief, and so forth. Secret, dangerous. You might never see her again. But if you survive, you say, you’ll marry her.”

  “But I don’t want to marry her,” said Tamio. “I only want…”

  “Of course, and this is where the final step comes in.” Vumo grinned. “You give her a token. A conch shell works well. Tell her to blow on it and it will summon you, no matter how far you travel. Use a bit of magic to make it glow—if she’s not a Tavaedi you can draw on her aura as you do this, so she can see the glow it will impress her—to prove that the token is magic. It’s not, of course, so when she finally blows on it, a few days after you’re gone, she won’t see the glow. She’ll think you’re dead, and neither she—nor her male kin, that’s the important bit—will come looking for you when you don’t show to marry her.”

  Vumo laughed heartily. “I’ve used that routine, oh, a dozen times at least. Works better than a hex.”

  “A conch shell,” Tamio repeated. “You used a conch shell.”

  “Usually a conch shell. Once or twice I used a ram’s horn. Around here that might be easier to get….What’s wrong with you?”

  Tamio stood up. The thick, foul smoke burned his eyes. He needed to get out of here. He staggered back a step or two.

  “Here boy, watch your step. I thought you could hold your liquor better than that. Or is it the smoke?”

  Vumo took Tamio’s arm to steady him, but Tamio shook him off with an animal roar. Rage exploded inside him like a log that finally erupted in sparks after sitting a while in burning moss.

  “Nephew, please…” said Vumo.

  “I’m not your nephew!” shouted Tamio. “You’re nothing to me! I owe you nothing! Speaking of loyalty, whose side are you on, anyway? Maybe you missed the part where these Orange Canyon bastards attacked a clan from your own tribe. Maybe you’re such an ass you just don’t give a muck! Guess what, you dirty old goat, I do care!”

  “What is this?” demanded Vumo coldly. “You were happy enough in my company a cup or two ago. Now you think you can lecture me on loyalties? You don’t know a damn thing about my loyalties.”

  “Only that you have none.”

  Vumo punched him across the jaw. Tamio tripped under the blow, though he caught himself in a roll instead of sprawling in the dirt.

  “I have one Raven left to break, old man!” Tamio screamed. He threw the black arrow at Vumo’s feet. “I demand you meet me in combat!”

  “Get out of here, you drunk ass!” said Vumo. “I won’t kill a stupid pup just because you bark at the bigger dog.”

  “You’re a coward as well as a liar and a traitor?”

  Vumo picked up the black arrow. “You think I’ll be easy pickings because I’m just a drunk old man, and you’re a young ram impressed by the size of your own horns? You’ve made a mistake, fool. You have no mucking idea who I am, or what I’m capable of. Your mistake will cost you your life.”

  Kemla

  The rumor of Tamio’s challenge to Vumo travelled so swiftly through the sheepmeet that Kemla heard before Tamio found his way back to his tent. She asked Hadi if he knew what Tamio had been thinking—or drinking—but Hadi was as bewildered as she.

  “He loved that old goat,” said Hadi. “They fit like two halves of a clam. I can’t imagine what they could have fought about.”

  Still, Tamio did not return. Kemla went looking.

  She found Tamio staggering about the camp, dazed more with fury than drink, but just as unable as any drunk to make sense of the maze of tents well enough to find his own. He was still shouting random insults at the night, which earned him a few shoves and cusses from those whose tents he nearly tripped over.

  Kemla guided him back to his tent. He sank onto his blankets. Horror slowly replaced the rage in his expression. The magnitude of what he had done seemed to hit him only now.

  “What’s wrong with you, Tamio?” Kemla asked. She put her hand on his forehead. “Were you bitten by a rabid dog?”

  “I did a stupid thing.” He buried his face in his hands.

  “Behold: The Obvious.”

  “What was I thinking? Why did I challenge him? I can’t kill him!”

  “You think it won’t pay the deathdebt because he belongs to our tribe?”

  “I have no idea. Who cares?”

  “Surely you’re not worried that he’s too strong for you. He’s old enough to be your fa
ther.”

  “I know it.” Tamio looked at her bleakly. “But he doesn’t.”

  She paused, finally hearing him. Opened her mouth. Closed it again, speechless.

  “You can’t mean…”

  “I was happier thinking he was dead,” Tamio said bitterly. “But I can’t kill him.”

  To her dismay, he began to weep.

  “Stop that at once!” she ordered. “I can’t stand blubbering. Especially in warriors! Abiono was the man who raised you; he’s your father. Whoever this fellow is, he’s not your kin. Just…just some crazy old goat. You will meet this man in combat, and you will kill him. That will be the end of it. Do you understand me?”

  Tamio nodded. He wiped the wetness off his cheek. There was nothing behind his eyes except blank despair.

  She drew him to her, and this time when he sobbed against her shoulder like a child, she didn’t chide him. She kissed him instead. He stilled in her arms, then fiercely, desperately, kissed her and pushed her back onto the furs.

  Umbral

  A crowd gathered in the center lodge. The lofty wooden masks of several Tavaedies towered over the heads of the tallest men. Everyone wore festival finery. The lips of the women glistened from a thick application of lamb fat.

  Making the changes to the Loom and placing it in the center of the stage had been easy enough. It was convincing the elders to let him do it that took some wrangling, especially since Dindi would not tell anyone, even Umbral himself, what the Loom was for or why she wanted it on stage while she danced.

  Umbral had done no more than pass on Dindi’s message, that she had some revelation of importance to share. The elders of the Spider Loom clan asked Umbral what a slave could have to say that was important.

  “She is a powerful Tavaedi,” he’d told them. “One who is helping me in a quest with her Visions.”

  This was quite true, which was no help. It is always harder to convince people of a truth they scorn than a lie they crave. However, once he swayed them, they grew excited and treated the occasion like an impromptu carnival. Their lodge was arranged much as the Aelfae lodge in the hobgoblin hold had been, a big wooden rectangle with a raised wood stage at one end. Beneath the lodge were many storerooms, including a large potato pit beneath the stage itself. A ladder through a small hole in the stage was the only access point from the pit.