Wind Over Bone: The Estralony Cycle #2 (Young Adult Fantasy Romance)

by E D Ebeling

  A silent over-coddled breast

  That only wished to fly.

  The girl that clipped the auburn wings

  Now lay them in the boggy grave,

  And thought about her own poor wings

  That, newly clipped, were chafing still,

  She thought about the newborn child

  That chained her to the ground.

  She sighed and laughed and left the bird,

  And left the child and flew due south,

  And died a hundred moons away

  Beneath a boundless, sullen sky.

  She died a thousand thoughts away

  From her abandoned babe.

  The babe, a girl now, four years grown,

  Was lying in her truckle bed

  And thought she heard a mother’s voice

  Come through her window open wide.

  She thought she heard her mother singing

  Sweetly like a bird.

  The girl climbed o’er the windowsill

  And moving softly on the lawn

  She chased the lilting melody,

  And slipping through the grasping woods

  She chased the air so sweetly strummed,

  Till she came to a tree.

  Its branches seemed to net the song,

  So loudly did it ring from them,

  And there upon the lowest branch

  A nightingale sang the tune,

  And there upon a twisted root

  The child fell asleep.

  The nightingale still dropped its notes;

  An early frost embalmed the leaves,

  And everywhere a stillness fell,

  As though a shroud had been cast down,

  And everywhere the child grew still,

  And never did she wake.”

  The tune was strange and beautiful. “I understood it,” Sarid said to Maerive, who was sitting close to her.

  “Really?” said Maerive, surprised.

  “She sang in saebeline.”

  Maerive shook her head. “She sang in Gireldine. It’s close to saebeline. We stole words from the saebels long ago.” She leaned in close to Sarid and made a funny face. “You speak saebeline?”

  “Yes. But you don’t really––”

  “Speak it, I know. You gurgle, spit, eye, and laugh it. I thought you were human but for your eyes. Humans can’t hear it. Which shows Aoda sang in Gireldine, or else they wouldn’t have heard her. You heard her, didn’t you?” she asked Rischa. Rischa nodded.

  “I’m saebeline,” said Sarid carefully. “But I’m not a saebel. I’m human.”

  “Human and saebeline.” Maerive studied Sarid’s eyes as coolly as if they were butterflies. “Two different kinds of mad. Dangerous, I would think. But I’m not in a position to throw judgment around. Let’s have my brother up here,” she called to everyone. “He’s dying for a dance, I can tell.”

  “Dying for a nap, rather,” said the brother.

  “Hardly,” said Maerive. “You’ve been sleeping all day, Darod.”

  “A well earned sleep, might I remind you, after a week of travel.”

  “Oh, but you must dance,” said Edloiva, leaning over the table. “I’ve heard about you, sir. You can’t pass through without dancing.”

  “Ed’s right,” said Savvel, “oddly enough.” He leaned back and stretched his legs out so far his feet were under Sarid’s chair. “I won’t have you telling us you’re one of those Darabel-thingies, then refuse to prove it.”

  “It’s Daralaibel, my good human,” said Darod.

  “Whichever it is, I shall sick Sarid on you if you don’t dance.”

  Rischa drew a sharp breath. “Where’s Yoffin?”

  “Oh, me legs,” said Darod, “me poor aching shanks, mashed to a pulp by sitting a horse five days.”

  “By God and the Lady,” said his sister. “Your modesty exhausts me. Somebody bang out a rhythm. He’ll be up here spooling about before you can say ‘liar’.

  “Here, someone give me a spoon,” called one of the Gireldine retainers. “I love banging.”

  “I saw a viola on the mantle in the next room,” said Maerive.

  “I’ll get it,” said a Gireldine boy, but another boy jumped up before him.

  “No you won’t. You played last time. Hold him for me, Mae.”

  In the space of three seconds it seemed, the Girelden had struck up a loping tune and Darod was out of his seat, cheeks flushed. “I’ll need a partner now, as I hate attention,” he said, and his sister gave a boar-like snort. “How about you, Miss Leva? Anyone can dance a jig.” He pulled Leva to the front of the room, where she looked acutely embarrassed. “All you have to do is jump around like a rabbit.” He took her hands and started jumping with her, as high as he could go, flinging her arms way up, and soon Leva was red and laughing.

  His footwork grew more elaborate, and Leva slowed down to look at it. “Follow me, lazy, follow me,” cried Darod. “Just because you’re bigger you haven’t got to dance like a bear.”

  But Leva came to a complete stop, her face drawn in shock, eyes never leaving the man’s feet. For they had left the floor and were hopping about in the air, bouncing on what seemed an invisible wire. He twisted round and threw out steps in every direction, his face mad with joy.

  Finally he slowed and his feet reattached to their shadows. “I’m done,” he said. Then he sat down on the floor and put his head on his fist, as though he were exhausted, which, of course, he was.

  Savvel was first on his feet, clapping. Everyone else rose, and the musicians bowed, faces beaming.

  ***

  The Noremes departed early the next morning, meaning to reach the Lorilan king before the month was out, leaving the comatose Reglime princess at Charevost. It felt as though the hall had born a summer storm and then been suddenly emptied of it. The air was wound tight and loose, and Sarid and Rischa went up to the infirmary to look upon the princess.

  She’d had been given her own sickroom. Rischa turned the handle and opened the door. Sarid stepped behind him into the room, and they both stopped, arrested, when they saw the girl in the bed. She was curled beneath the grey wool coverlet, her cheek resting against her hand. Her skin was pale, her hair white and fine as unspun flax, her lips curved in a smile that seemed horrible and secret.

  “She’s beautiful,” whispered Rischa.

  She was Sarid’s sister.

  Six

  Sarid broke from Rischa when they left the infirmary, saying she had herbs that needed hanging. Though it was spring and the herbs had quite a bit of growing to do, he let her go without question, a preoccupied smile on his face.

  Sarid took a roundabout way back to the infirmary, looked about for the medic, saw no one, and re-entered the princess’ sickroom. She leaned over the bed and stared at the girl’s sleeping face. “Thayelste,” she said.

  The eyes opened, black as Sarid’s own. She didn’t move at all, just said in an admonishing voice, “Sister! You’ve kept me waiting.”

  “What are you doing?” said Sarid.

  “Playing dollhouse.”

  “What?”

  Thayelste sat up and shrugged her fine hair over her shoulders. She took Sarid’s forearms and pulled her close. “Join me. It will be the peak of fun.”

  Sarid pulled away. “What’ve you done with the real princess, Yelse?”

  Yelse sighed, settled back against her headboard. “She died with the others. You aren’t in a friendly mood, are you?”

  “You killed them.”

  “They were in my way.”

  Sarid buried her hands in her hair. “Do you not understand what you’ve done?”

  “You weren’t so touchy when I killed a rabbit so you could win races for two days.”

  “That was a rabbit. You can’t kill thirty people and expect everyone to not notice.”

  “They’re people, Sarid.” She showed a conciliatory dimple. “I’m only doing what an epidemic would.”

  “That’s how a saeb
el would think,” Sarid said. “You can’t be a saebel here. Saebels are monsters.”

  “People are the monsters. Razing down woods, living long, selfish lives––” Yelse put her arm behind her head, clicked her nails on the headboard. “But you don’t agree. I suppose I’ll have to convince you some other way.”

  Sarid had a vision of someone––Mari, Vanli––listening at the door; she looked behind her and saw nobody. “You can’t stay. They’ll find out.”

  “They won’t. Who would tell? No one knows except––how I love exceptions––which reminds me, Sarid, be a dear and don’t tell anyone who I am or what I’m doing.”

  “I don’t know what you’re doing.” She looked towards the door again, heart skipping. “You’re a danger to everyone here, I’ve got to––”

  “You’ve no choice in the matter,” she said pleasantly. “Don’t tell anyone.”

  It was a spell: Sarid felt a breath of freezing air; the geas tightened around her throat like a cold hand.

  Yelse shrugged. “Except one person.”

  The geas loosened hardly at all. “How––” said Sarid, nails digging into her neck.

  Yelse took her meaning. “Experience. I’ll teach you if you like.”

  ***

  Sarid paced in her room for half an hour, considering telling Rischa. But she remembered how his face had gone odd when he looked at Yelse––it was probably odd still, wherever it was at the moment. She wasn’t sure what other powers her sister had, but she decided she’d better examine Rischa on the sly. Frustrated, she briefly toyed with telling Savvel. He was mad enough to believe her. Then she stopped in mid-step, cursing herself for an idiot. Her father. She would have to seek him out, though. Tomorrow. It was too late in the day to scramble about in the mountains.

  Just then Rischa’s voice came through the fireplace: “Bones, if you’re in there, come quick.”

  She jerked around. “Why?”

  “Mari says the princess has woken up. We can get the story from her own mouth––”

  “You weren’t thinking of asking her?” said Mari as Sarid, fixing her face into a less apprehensive expression, climbed out to join them.

  “I wouldn’t ask her anything just now,” said Sarid, standing upright.

  “Nonsense,” said Rischa. He had the same half smile playing on his face. “She’s probably eager to talk after such a long sleep.”

  “Oh, yes, eager,” said Mari, and they began to walk down the corridor. “To describe how her mother and father had their heads wrenched off––”

  “Actually she’s probably raving mad,” said Sarid. “After what happened. It might be better we don’t talk to her at all.” The other two stopped and looked at her.

  “You think so?” said Rischa.

  “Maybe,” said Sarid, growing hot. “No good sentimentalizing her trauma.” They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence.

  ***

  When they reached the infirmary a tall man stood in the doorway of the princess’ sickroom. He turned: it was Savvel; his brows were pulled down in a troubled expression.

  “What are you doing here?” said Rischa.

  “I’ll go where I please,” he growled. “So long’s I’m not killing anyone.”

  Rischa didn’t argue, just pushed past him through the doorway. Mari followed, but Sarid stopped and looked into Savvel’s face. His skin was green-tinged. Sweat beaded on his temples.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “She’s evil,” whispered Savvel. “She means us harm.”

  Sarid stopped mid-breath. “Has she been saying things to you?”

  “Yes. No one else can hear.”

  She pushed him against the doorjamb. “Savvel, listen to me. Ignore her. Don’t let her bait you. It’ll make you look crazy.”

  “I’ll do my best,” he said dryly, but he appeared very agitated. He was wringing his hands.

  “You should leave,” she said.

  “I won’t. I want to hear what she says to them.”

  Sarid didn’t feel like arguing. “I’ll keep an eye on you.” She slipped past him.

  The little room was crowded. Count Pash’s wife was leaning over the bedside. “Tell me your name, my dear, so we might speak to each other as friends.”

  “Thayelste, my lady,” said Yelse in a piteous voice. She was seated in her bed, bolstered upright by pillows.

  “Thayelste? A strange name.”

  “It means harbinger of vengeance.” Yelse began to weep softly. The act was so genuine Sarid felt pity stir in her breast. Then she scowled.

  “No it doesn’t,” she said so everyone could hear. “It comes from a saebeline word. Means bottom ring of branches on a juniper tree.”

  The whole group turned to her and frowned as one. Yelse said, “You speak saebeline?” For the first time Sarid noticed Yelse’s eyes had somehow turned gold.

  Count Pash coughed, and Vanli whispered, “What’s she doing here? Make the girl worse.”

  Yelse’s eyes positively danced at this, but only Sarid noticed. Or perhaps Rischa did too, the way he gawped at her. He looked as though he were inhaling Yelse’s breath and growing drunk.

  “Do you feel as though you could eat a bit, my dear?” said the countess. “I could have pottage sent up.”

  “My lady,” said Yelse, “I believe I could grow strong on your kindness alone. I already feel hale as a warhorse.”

  Sarid’s derisive snort was hidden by kind laughter. The laughter continued even as a blur of flying dark hair and long limbs rushed through the doorway.

  “The whore!” Savvel screamed. He leapt on Yelse, his hands closed round her neck, and a breathless second went by. Then Rischa fell on him, and Pash, too, and they tried to jerk him back. It didn’t work. A few women shrieked, and Mari smacked Savvel across the head, but still he wouldn’t let go––even when Rischa drew blood and Vanli kicked him in the back.

  Sarid regained her wits. She pushed through and clenched a hand in Savvel’s thick hair.

  And then she was in his head, where Yelse, even while being choked, had a grin smeared across her skeletal, scabrous face.

  “Your brother will snuffle for scraps at my feet,” she said to him. “He’ll wiggle like a beaten, lovesick dog before I’m through with him.”

  “Savvel,” Sarid said, “Don’t listen to her. Let go.”

  Yelse was laughing. “You’re too late, Sarid. He’s spent his last coin.”

  “Let go,” pleaded Sarid. “You can’t help me if you’re chained to the wall.”

  Without loosening his hands he stared at Sarid.

  “Let go,” she said again.

  He seemed to come to himself. Yelse’s face became smooth and white, and he let go of her neck––there were red welts where his fingers had been.

  Sarid drew him back by the collar and off the bed. Rischa looked from Yelse to Savvel, more wild-eyed than his brother. Mari and the countess leaned over the bed to shield Yelse.

  “Come,” said Sarid to Savvel. “We must leave. Now.”

  She pushed Savvel through the door and slammed it shut.

  “I couldn’t crush her windpipe,” said Savvel, clenching and unclenching his hands.

  “She’s a witch,” said Sarid. “Wind power runs in the family.”

  “She’s your kin?”

  “Did I say that?”

  “No.”

  “Good. You idiot. You’ve ruined the rest of your life. And mine, probably.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Stay away from her.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem,” he said bitterly. “They’re sure to lock me up.”

  ***

  He was right. He was locked in his rooms, and Sarid spent an uncomfortable night tossing and turning. She woke multiple times, body crimped in terror. Sometime near midnight Gryka jumped from the bed and curled up in a far corner, eying her reproachfully.

  The day dawned clear and bright and chilly. Sarid bade her dog stay at the hal
l, because the old places were dangerous and unpredictable––like pools of condensed chaos.

  If it had been sunny and clear before, there it seemed as though the sun was almost touching her neck, crisping her skin from feet away. If the sky had been low and grey, there it crept so low it settled around her head like a wool blanket. And the further she ventured in the stranger it became. Some patches of forest had been rained on by the same little shower for millennia, and some gullies and dells bloomed in continual spring, or were perpetually caked in snow.

  The trees watched her like suspicious old women, knitting dark canopies with moldering twigs; their faces folded together from years of beating weather. The tarns reflected strange scenery––sharp mountains shimmered on the surface, though the surrounding hills had long since eroded to mossy gums.

  Sometimes if she gazed for a while into the lakes she saw rusalki dancing, glinting in beautiful garb. She’d stuck a finger in once, and they disappeared with fishy flashes, taking the fingernail with them.

  In the early afternoon she came to the edge of one such lake. Looking round at the twisted pines and black hills, she figured this was as good a place as any to call to the Caeforgacairmh, as they referred to themselves. Then her father would come. News traveled fast as water here.

  She picked up a red stone, and skipped it across the water. The skips curved in a long crescent; the ripples never stopped or lessened.

  Who is she calling? said something between her legs: a slimy bauk, with a nose identical to the stone she’d thrown. She batted it away. It picked a snail out of its nostril and said reproachfully, We liked the view. It wasn’t referring to the lake.

  “Where’s my father, you little worm?” she said.

  Bandying words with his three good friends. It sounded as though it were chewing gravel.

  Another saebel came over the rocks, made of blowing, knotted grasses; and another walked behind it, skeletal, smelling like rotting fish, dripping foam. Sarid looked around her and saw movement everywhere: bits of rubbish, stones, hawkseye, harebells. Muddy goblins and blowing vilas and leafy mavki. The little ones were younger, stupider, and more curious.