by M. S. Brook
When the images in my mind stopped, I quit singing, and Uncle Leo finished with a soft, sweet melody that made me feel almost sleepy. I sat still and listened with my eyes closed. I loved how it felt—all warm and peaceful. It reminded me of sitting in the dazzling sunlight on a spring morning, birds singing, the wind playing in my hair, the smell of new grass rising up from the moist earth. Papa must have felt it too, for he was sound asleep in the chair, his breathing slow and deep.
“Just look how he’s resting,” Mama whispered.
“His color’s better too,” Uncle Leo said. “I’m well pleased after all he’s been through.”
Mama drew me into a warm embrace. “Your song is more beautiful every time I hear it.”
Uncle Leo packed away his flute and slung his bag over his shoulder. “I’ll be on my way, then. Come get me if I’m needed.”
When he’d gone, Mama poured two cups of tea from the earthenware teapot that sat on the hearth. She stirred in honey, just as I liked it, and handed me a cup. “Come sit with me for a bit, my dear. It’s been quite a morning already.” She took a sip and smoothed back her long, golden hair, neatly retying the ribbon. Her hair was the perfect complement to her creamy skin and radiant blue eyes. Papa often called her his “jewel,” and the name fit her well.
“I’m glad we kept you home this morning,” she said. “It’s so nice to have you here.” I thought I saw her chin tremble as she looked away.
“I’m all right, Mama,” I said.
She smiled. “So you are, but your hair is another thing. Run upstairs and get your comb. I’ll fix it for you.”
By the time I came back with the comb, her face was calm again. She untied the ribbon in my hair and worked the comb through my tangled curls.
“I know he’s healed some,” I said, “but why isn’t Papa completely well? We sang his dreamsong.”
Mama started the braid, pulling my unruly curls into line. “Now, that’s a question for your Uncle Leo. He’s the one for riddles and mysteries.”
“But Uncle Leo’s answers only lead to more questions!”
Mama smiled. “That’s Lionel. He’s not one to rattle on.”
“I wish he would.”
“Turn your head, dear, so I can finish your braid.”
Uncle Leo’s life was a mystery to us. He seldom spoke of his youth in the Northlands, where he’d been a warrior in the king’s service. He also studied healing at that time, but we knew little about those days. Sometimes he told stories passed down from earlier times, when the art of healing was still strong. He was concerned that the secrets of dreamsong would be lost over the generations because hardly anyone in the realm practiced the ancient art anymore. I was glad that he was teaching me, but sometimes I struggled to understand.
“It’s simple,” he would say, “but never easy. Dreamsong is what the Songmaker imagined when he formed each one of us. He hid a song deep inside of everything he made.”
“But how do I find it if it’s hidden?” I once asked him.
“If it weren’t hidden, you wouldn’t look for it. See, that’s the gift—to uncover the dreamsong in everything around you.” He’d smiled at my puzzlement. “Think of it as buried treasure, waiting for you to find it.”
“But how do I find it if I don’t know what it is?”
“Don’t worry, little one, the answers will come to you when you search for them. I wish I knew how to say it better, but seeking is a necessary step to finding. One day you will understand. Perhaps one day we all will.”
Mama finished my hair, and I got up to pour second cups for us. “I’m so relieved that your ordeal is over and you’re safe at home,” Mama said, accepting her refilled cup.
I returned Mama’s warm smile, not wanting her to worry about me. She wanted me to feel safe, as if the attack had never happened, but it wasn’t that easy. The war had stolen my birth parents and now, years later, the war had nearly taken Papa. I wasn’t sure I could ever feel safe again.
Chapter 3
The house was quiet. Papa went back to bed after our midday meal, and Mama, busy with her weaving, had little to say. All of my usual afternoon housework was waiting for me as if nothing had happened. I dusted the furniture, swept the floors, carried out the ashes, and brought in firewood, but my thoughts were like mice scampering in the attic. Vivid images of the raiders and their ugly threats mingled with my dream of the fearless young warrior. Why were the Blackcoats looking for Northlanders? Would Papa be all right? Was the dream telling me I should become a warrior? With Papa feeling poorly and Mama preoccupied, Uncle Leo seemed the best person to ask.
As soon as I finished my work, I pulled on outdoor boots and cloak and ran across the snowy green to Highfield Tower. The great stone fortress on the hill was almost as familiar to me as my own cottage. Like all Household children, I’d grown up playing in the ward and eating in the hall every evening. Although we called our fortress “the tower,” no fewer than seven towers rose above the thick curtain walls. Four drum towers guarded the corners, with a bell tower at the gates, and two smaller turrets attending the archway of the Kings Hall. I reached the lane and ran across to the northward-facing gates, open as usual in the daytime. The watchmen standing in the guardhouse gave me a friendly wave as I passed into the cobblestone ward where Guardian regulars were cleaning up after the horses. I ran past the mews and the kitchen that leaned against the southward wall of the keep, stopping to enjoy the fragrant smells drifting through the open doorway.
Back near the curtain wall stood a quiet stone structure with a steeply gabled roof and tall, arched windows of clear glass. In the long afternoon shadows, the chantry seemed sad, its windows dark and empty. The front doorway was a tall, pointed arch with a heavy carved door. My steps slowed, and a strange, airy feeling came over me, reminding me of the whisper in the woods. I’d only entered the chantry for times of celebration, but the feeling drew me toward the archway. I pulled the heavy door ajar and slipped inside.
The walls of the entryway were inscribed with the names of long-dead Royals. I took a moment to run my hand over the smooth, cool surface, lingering over the most recent addition—Prince Alestar, fallen in a battle with Domaine several years before I was born. I traced the letters of his name, still sharp-edged in the ancient stone.
Beams of light fell through the western windows, shining on the dust I’d stirred with my entrance, the stone walls responding to every sound with an answering echo. My footsteps murmured as I walked to the front of the empty room and dropped to one knee, thinking about Papa and his wounds and about our narrow escape.
“Thank you,” I whispered, and the room whispered back, the words indistinguishable. “Please help Papa,” I said, a little louder. My voice cracked, and the echo lingered. I waited, but nothing else came. The stone walls chattered urgently as I ran out into the afternoon light and entered the glassed-in conservatory, next to the kitchen. As I expected, Uncle Leo was there, tending herbs that wintered indoors in large clay pots.
“I thought I might see you,” he said, setting his watering can on the damp stone floor.
“You did?”
A smile played at the corners of his eyes. “You looked full of questions this morning, and that usually means a visit. Here, why don’t you come into the herb room where I have a nice fire going? We’ll make salves while we talk.”
Bunches of dried herbs hung from the beams of the small herb room. On the walls were shelves filled with bottles and pots of tinctures and ointments of all sizes and colors, but all arranged with the neatness and order that was Uncle Leo’s way. I shrugged out of my cloak and sat down at the worktable. Fresh herbs gathered from Uncle Leo’s pots were waiting beside the heavy stone mortar. When I was a little girl, he’d taught me how to make a smooth paste from herbs, and I stilled loved to do it. The crushed leaves gave off a fresh, earthy smell, especially welcome in the middle of
winter.
Uncle Leo arranged a small pot on the hot bricks by the side of the fire, stirring the contents with a wooden spoon. “So, what’s on your mind, young lady?”
I held off mashing to answer. “I didn’t want to upset Papa while he’s poorly, but why were the Blackcoats looking for Northlanders? When they pulled off Papa’s hood, they said he was yellow-haired, and they were very angry…they said he was hiding someone.”
Uncle Leo stopped stirring and stared into the flames. I glanced at his shoulder-length hair, dark like mine except for a few streaks of silver. I didn’t mention the obvious to him, that the dark coloring we shared was like a flag announcing that we were not from Canwyrrie.
He remembered the pot and gave it a vigorous stir. “They were probably looking for refugees from the war in the North.”
“But…what would they want with refugees? Why does Domaine hate us? I studied the war in my history lessons, but I don’t understand it.”
He stirred the pot some more. I was used to his long silences and kept working the mash of herbs. When the paste was smooth, I scraped it into a bowl. I’d started on a fresh batch before he spoke again.
“Sometimes stories are better than answers—or history lessons.” He moved the pot back from the fire and came and sat across from me at the table.
“This story began long, long ago at the beginning of the ages, when the Maker of Songs dreamed of a very special melody. The Songmaker gave voice to the song, and a beautiful island nation took form. The breath of his song knitted a carpet of green grass and trees and covered it with a dome of vivid blue. The land he sectioned into three, giving it borders by way of rivers and mountain ranges, and the three lands were called the Northlands, Domaine, and Canwyrrie. Then, because the land needed care, he formed three tribes, one to shepherd each land.”
I closed my eyes as he told the familiar story, seeing in my mind the framed parchment map we used for our school lessons, with the three provinces, one on top of the other, forming our island realm. Domaine was in the middle with the Northlands above and Canwyrrie to the south. With my mind’s eye, I traced the rivers, hills, and forests of our green land as Uncle Leo continued.
“Every tribe was different, each with its own nature and song. The Northlanders were tall and strong; their hair and skin were a deep, dark brown like the rich earth they were given to protect. The Canwyrs were fair of skin, with hair as golden as the sun. They loved the celebration and the dance, while the Dominians were like the sun’s little brother, the moon. Black-haired and dusky with a strong, wiry build, the Dominians were given a quiet, thoughtful nature.”
I thought about how it felt to be different from everyone else at Highfield and interrupted the story. “Why would the Songmaker make the tribes different?” I asked. “Wouldn’t it be easier if we were all the same?”
Uncle Leo smiled at my question. “It seems so, doesn’t it? But what if the only musical instrument we had was the flute? Would you not miss the pipes and the drums? In the same way, the Maker wove our lands and our tribes together into a beautiful harmony called the United Realm. This song was very special, for it was the key to the whole realm. And for safe keeping, the Maker gave that key to a family of the Northern tribe—the House of Enfys. The Royal House was charged to serve and defend every province in the realm, and for many generations the land prospered under the kind and just sovereignty of Enfys. The people lived in peace, having all that they needed, for everything was complete in the song of the land.
“But one day a prince of Domaine chose to sing his own song. Prince Worrgard was proud and defiant. He refused to submit to the authority of the High King and went his own way, styling himself as the Lord of Domaine. From that day, the United Realm was split asunder. The true Song of Domaine was lost, and we are still at war today.”
“You make it sound like we’re at war over a lost song.”
“In a manner of speaking, we are. You see, when you lose your song, you cannot fulfill your dream. It is the same for a land that has lost its song. Without their true dream to sustain them, Dominians have nothing left but to fight. Saduk wants to destroy the Song of Enfys so that his own song can reign supreme. To do so, he must first destroy the House of Enfys, the keepers of the song.”
“So the king has been in hiding all these years—to evade Saduk.”
“You’ve been paying attention to your lessons. Good.”
“Were the Blackcoats looking for the king and his family yesterday?”
“Perhaps, or at least for Northern loyalists who might know something.”
“Do you know anything, Uncle?”
He looked at the fire for a long moment and then met my eyes again. “After Ashling Keep fell to Dominian forces some ten years ago, King Aidan retreated to an ancient fortress, deep in the mountains, called Eagle’s Hold. From this hiding place, he would come out at strategic times to do battle, preventing Saduk from attaining complete victory in the Northlands. From time to time, the king would send word to us at Highfield. You’ll remember there was a great battle last summer. We haven’t had word since that time. The king may be in deep hiding somewhere in the mountains, but no one knows.”
I was hoping he would say more, but he went back to the fire, removing the pot and pouring its contents into a heavy bowl for cooling. I felt all shivery at the thought of the Blackcoats and their vithons searching for Northlanders and perhaps our lost king. “Am I in hiding too?”
“Yes, as are many of our people.” Uncle Leo brushed off the table and threw the scraps into the fire. He patted my shoulder. “Many a seed sprouted in obscurity becomes a great tree. Your time will come, little sapling, and the tree will not be hidden forever.”
Before I could ask him what he meant, he said, “I’m sure you have more questions, but let’s save the rest for another day.”
I was halfway across the green before I remembered that I hadn’t told him about my dream.
Chapter 4
In the evening, Papa stayed behind to rest, while Mama and I went to the Kings Hall for evenfest. Evenfest was a long-held tradition of the Royal Household, consisting of the Royal Guardians and all the families who cared for the king’s fortress and lands. Highfield Town lay just across the river at the foot of our hilltop fortress, but the Household lived on the hill, some in the keep, and others in the ring of cottages facing the north gates, with the Guardian regulars garrisoned inside the double curtain walls. All of us ate at the king’s table every evening just as if the king were in residence.
The Hall was the oldest part of the fortress and far grander than our own cottage, with its scrubbed wooden floors and well-worn furnishings. I loved the sense of ancient, more majestic times that I felt in the hall, the times when kings were in residence. The thick stone walls were hung with colorful tapestries depicting earlier days of the realm, along with displays of swords and shields and regimental flags. At either end of the room, above each of the two great fireplaces, the Enfys coat of arms held the place of honor. The long room was furnished with polished wooden tables and chairs and capped by a high ceiling vault made of oaken beams—now echoing with the sounds of laughter and conversation and the clatter of cutlery and crockery.
After we had eaten, Mama took supper home for Papa, but I stayed to tell my friend Nieve about my adventures and to find out what I’d missed from our school lessons.
“We learned about King Alwyne today,” Nieve told me.
“Oh, King Alwyne. Papa’s told me stories about him. He tried to take back Domaine for the realm by laying siege to Bal Zor. But Worrgard held fast behind the high walls of his fortress, and King Alwyne went back to the Northlands with empty hands.”
Nieve’s laughter reminded me of the tinkling of bells. “You never disappoint, Aidy. You know more about the kings and queens of Enfys than the rest of the school combined.”
I smiled. I did love histo
ry most of all.
I could hear Uncle Fergal’s booming voice from several tables away. He was telling the story of last night’s rescue. “Good thing Aidriana was with him, I’ll say that. I don’t like to think what might have happened otherwise. She was a welcome sight coming out of that snow bank, that’s for sure!”
Nieve poked me with her elbow. “Everyone’s been talking about you,” she whispered, her blue eyes laughing. I sat up straighter in my chair, feeling my face grow warm.
Sergeant Azar jumped out of his seat and raised his glass. “I propose a toast—to Miss Aidriana Ardleigh!”
“Hear, hear!” Everyone looked my way, and I was glad when the burly sergeant called out another toast. “To Daryn’s health—and a speedy recovery!”
“To Daryn!”
And then the toasting ended in much the same way it always did. “Would you raise a glass with me?” the sergeant said. “In honor of our king.”
We all rose to our feet and called out the response: “To King Aidan!” The timber ribs of the vault echoed with our shout, and then, as always, the room went quiet for a moment, and everyone took a solemn drink in honor of the king.
The meal over, Nieve and I helped to clear the tables and brush up stray crumbs. When we were finished, we went to visit Gwyn’s new litter of kittens. They were in a large basket that sat to the side of one of the great fireplaces, tucked away behind several comfortable chairs.
I noticed that Uncle Leo was leaning against the mantelpiece on the other side of the fire. He was talking with the two constables of the tower, and the chief regent, Lord Jamis Kempton. I wondered if they were talking about the attack. In a few minutes, several officers and the rest of the regents joined the group, including my Uncle Fergal, who was a regent as well as a captain in the Eagle regiment. They gathered in a half circle, backs to the fire, speaking in low voices.