He signed, and rubbed one elbow. Bruises didn’t show on the scaly skin of his lower arms and legs, but there was so little muscle there that the bruises went to the bone. “It feels as if I have broken a hundred bones, but I know that I have not. It will be days before I can fly again.”
He did not voice the fear that put into him; the fear of the winged creature left helpless on the ground. He did not have to voice that fear, for she felt it as well.
I was an idiot. I should have taken him seriously. I should have confronted Harperus and demanded some kind of damned Deliambren protection! I should have confronted Harperus and Tyladen and moved into the damned Palace. I was enjoying the anonymity that kept them from manipulating me, and enjoying my notoriety as Lyrebird too much. I was enjoying all the adulation and success I had here in Freehold, too. Now he’s grounded and it’s all my fault. Guilt made her avoid his eyes, but she could not avoid the emotions coming from him.
She sat back on the bed for a moment, once she had assured herself that he truly did not have any broken bones. She had injuries of her own, of course—a badly bruised shoulder, bruised shins, lumps on her head—but his injuries were far more numerous than hers. He had shielded both of them with his wings, used the wings as weapons to buffet their attackers, and interposed himself between her and a blow she had not seen aimed at her any number of times.
Well, at least there is a solution to his injuries, if he’ll take it. He might he grounded, but not for long.
“T’fyrr, I can—I can heal some of this, if you like,” she offered tentatively. “It will still hurt, but I can sing it half-healed today, and do the rest tomorrow.” Then she frowned. “I think I can,” she amended. “I’m not sure if the Magic will work on a Haspur, or if it will work the same. It should. I have not healed a nonhuman before, but my teacher Nighthawk has, and she never said anything about the Magic working differently for them.”
His feathers twitched, and she felt his relief at the idea that she might be able to give him enough freedom from pain and damage that he need not be caught on the ground. “Please!” he begged with voice and eyes and clenched talon-hands. “Half-healed will let me fly again!”
“You know how the Magic works,” she said, and smiled when he shook his head.
He’ll find out in a moment.
“No, I don’t—” he began, then his eyes widened in wonder. “Oh. Yes, I do . . .” His voice trailed off, as his eyes sought hers, seeking answers.
They were answers she was not prepared to give him yet—perhaps never. Better that he should never know where that touch of Magic and the knowledge of it came from, if there was to be nothing more between them than there had been between her and Raven. “Simply listen for the music and give yourself to it,” she said, and placed both her hands atop his hard, sinewy talons. It no longer felt strange to reach for a hand and find something all bone and sinew and covered with the tough, scaly skin of a raptor’s feet. Did it still seem strange for him to touch her and find soft skin over muscle with five stubby little scales instead of talons?
She gave him no chance to ask all the questions she felt bubbling up inside of him; she did not want to face those questions herself. The answers, in all probability, would hurt far too much.
Instead, she plunged into the magic that Nighthawk had taught her—the combination of Bardic Magic and Gypsy healing, all bound up in the tonal chanting that suited Nighthawk’s strong, harsh voice better than any song. But the Bardic song lay behind the chanting, and for Nightingale the chant turned into something far more musical than Nighthawk ever produced.
The results were the same, though; as she had when she had tried to ease T’fyrr’s soul-wounds, she became one with him and his hurts and felt them as clearly as if they were hers. She came between him and the pain, in fact, shielding him from it as he had shielded her from the blows that had injured him.
If I had wings, and I could fly . . . That was the refrain in many of the songs she and her kind sang to their audiences; now she spread wings of power rather than feathers and muscle, spread them over him and sheltered him beneath them, as he had sheltered her beneath his own. She was once again aware of the spicy scent of his feathers, and the bitter scent beneath it of sheer exhaustion.
With her song and the power in the song, she drove into each injury, speeding the healing that had already begun, strengthening the torn muscles, weaving reinforcement into the sprains, soothing the bruises. In the back of her mind, she reflected that it was too bad in a way that his skin was covered with feathers; nothing she had done would be visible. On the other hand, injuries will not be obvious, either. He will appear up to full strength, which might mislead other would-be attackers. She sensed him relaxing as the pain eased, sensed his surprise in the lessening of the pain, sensed him finding the song she chanted under her breath.
But then—
Instead of simply opening himself up to the song as she had asked, he began to sing, too.
And the power no longer flowed only from her to him, but came from his hands into hers, as if two great, rushing streams ran side by side, but in opposing directions.
Her shoulder stopped aching and throbbing, as he touched her with that brush of power as warm as the caress of a feather and as light. The many points of pain in her skull ebbed, as he brushed the power over them as well.
The quality of the chant changed a little, becoming more musical, with odd tonal qualities, but she was able to follow it effortlessly.
She almost lost the thread of the chant in her own astonishment when she realized consciously what he had just done, and she felt his amusement and wonder—amusement at her surprise, and wonder at the thing that had been born between them.
In the past, anytime she had done this, when she had opened herself to someone, it had been entirely one-sided, as she had learned to her sorrow with handsome Raven. Even when she limited her openness to the minimum required to heal, she had still been open enough to feel the mental anguish that all too often came with injury, and always she had felt the pain itself. Never, ever, had someone else returned the gift. Never had someone joined her in the chant, to heal her.
And never had anyone ever opened himself to her heart as she had opened herself to his.
Until T’fyrr.
She knew that he read her soul as she had read his, felt the long loneliness, and the resignation deeper than despair and just as sorrowful. Her heart had no more secrets from his, for every wound, every scar, every bruise was laid bare to his raptorial eyes.
She was so surprised that she could not even react by closing herself off again.
She could not read thoughts—but she could read the feelings that came with the thoughts: feelings so mixed she could not have said where his wonder began and his own long loneliness ended. He began to speak aloud, giving her the images, the memories that were calling up those feelings—and clearly he knew what she sensed.
“There are humans who live among the Haspur,” he said, softly, as she continued to sing her healing chant, so lost in it now that she could not have stopped if she tried. He fitted the words to the music, and sang them to her as he sang healing into her body as well. “Most of them are as ordinary as bread, but some are granted a rare gift, that of seeing into the Spirit. That is why we call them Haspur Spirit Brothers, for as often as they use that gift with their fellow humans they also use it with the Haspur, who are their friends and fellow-defenders. Mostly, they provide the simpler gifts: healing of the body as you are doing, ease of the heart in time of trouble. But sometimes, once in a very, very long time, there is need and a compatibility of spirits that binds healer and healed more closely than that. That is when the Spirit Gift of the Haspur is awakened, and the two become a greater whole than two Spirit Brothers are singly. They are—”
He sang a long, fluting whistle that somehow melded itself into the healing chant without disturbing it.
“There are no words in the human tongue for this. They are partner-hea
lers, they are wisdom-keepers, they are two souls in two bodies still, but bound together in ways that neither time nor distance can change or sever. Sometimes they are lovers. They are the great treasures of the Haspur.
I had not thought to find that potential in myself, though every Haspur at one time aspires to and dreams of such a thing. I would never have dreamed to have found it with you, O Bird of the Night, wild winged singer, dreamer of beauty and gentle healer of hearts—”
There was more, but half of it was in his own language, and at any rate, Nightingale would have lost half of it in her own daze at a single phrase.
Sometimes they are lovers.
How could—well, she knew how; physically they were as compatible as many unlikely human pairings. Now that she had tended his hurts, she knew what was beneath that modesty-wrap he wore, and if he said that his people and humans sometimes became lovers, then of course it was possible. But how—
With care, of course, an impudent mental voice chided her. Those talons could cause a bit of trouble, but on the other hand, you probably weigh more than he does, so—
Oh, it was a very good thing that neither he nor she could read thoughts.
With her mind and body whirling, all unbalanced and giddy, she realized that the chant was nearing its end. She brought it to a close, rounding it in on itself, curling it into repose. And she opened her eyes to find herself curled in his arms, and he in hers, her head pillowed on the soft breast feathers, his on her unbound hair.
Nor did either of them care to move, for a very long time.
###
The immediate effect of the healing chant was two-fold: both healer and healed were ravenous afterwards, and exhausted, so weary that even had she been ready to deal with the consequences of what had just happened between them, neither of them would have had the strength.
She had more strength than he for she had more experience at the healing than he. It was not the power itself that came from the healer, only the direction—but as riding a fractious, galloping horse takes strength, so did guiding the power. She had just enough reserves left to go down the stairs, leave a message for Tyladen saying that she was indisposed—which was no lie—and order some food brought up. He was asleep when she returned, and only came half-awake when the food arrived, just enough to eat and fall back into sleep. She was not in much better shape; she really didn’t remember what she had ordered and hardly recognized it when it arrived. Her head spun in dizzy circles as she got up to put the tray outside the door; she lay back down again beside him and dimmed the light, and that was all she remembered.
But her dreams were wonderful, full of colors she had no names for, sensations of wind against her skin and a feeling of unbearable lightness and joy. She’d had dreams of flying before, every Free Bard did, it seemed, but never like this. This was real flight; the sensation of powerful chest muscles straining great wings against the air to gain height until the earth was little more than a tapestry of green and brown and grey below, then the plummeting dive with wind hard against the face and tearing at the close-folded wings, and the exaltation of the freedom, the freedom . . .
She woke to find him already awake and watching her, a bemused expression in his eyes.
“Not now—” he said, before she could speak. “Not now. You have never known this was possible. You must think, you must meditate, or you will regret any decision you make in haste.”
She nodded; he knew her as well as she knew herself.
Of course he does, said that little, amused voice. And he knows that the outcome is perfectly certain. He can afford to wait, he knows what you will do, eventually, and he is patient enough to wait for that “eventually” however long it takes.
“I want to talk to Tyladen,” she said, finally. “This—I only have two choices that I can see, after this last attack. I either move to the Palace with you, or I reveal who I really am and get some of that protection these damn Deliambrens were so free in offering.”
“My suggestion would be the latter,” he replied. “As long as you are openly still Lyrebird, you have an ear in the city that I do not, that no one who is not human would have. You would not be able to discuss things with our friend Father Ruthvere, for instance. But it is your choice.”
She nodded thoughtfully, agreeing with him. He’s right. We need that ear inside the Church that Father Ruthvere provides, and he needs the knowledge of the Court that we can give him. Church and Court are wound in an incestuous dance these days, and if anyone is to break the pattern, it will be Father Ruthvere and those who are with him. Moving into his suite would have forced me to make certain decisions anyway, and I’m not sure I want to even think about them much less make them.
Things were already complicated enough.
It was something of a relief to close herself into the privacy of the bathroom and let the hot water from the wall nozzle run over her, washing away fatigue and letting her empty her mind, as well. She didn’t have to guess that he might be feeling as uncertain as she; that was another complication to this situation. It was one thing to imagine finding someone for herself as she sang those love songs of longing and loneliness. It was quite another to find herself presented with a resolution.
And yet, hadn’t she wanted someone exactly like this? Well, the old Gypsy proverb advised, “Be careful what you wish for, you might get it.” She could not have designed a better partner than T’fyrr, for they were alike enough for joy and different enough for exploration.
And, oh, doesn’t that open up a number of possibilities? One can just imagine . . .
She fiercely shoved that little voice back into its corner. One thing at a time, she told it. We’ll take one thing at a time, and the most important comes first. We must deal with the High King and finish the task we have begun, assuming it can be finished.
T’fyrr was all ready when she emerged, and he had cleaned up the room and put the bed into the wall, too. Perhaps he felt as uncomfortable with that particular piece of furniture so blatantly on display as she was.
Of course he is. He’s feeling what I’m feeling, which will ensure that he feels the same! Oh, what a bother! No more polite and discreet lies just to salve his feelings! If we disagree on something, one of us will have to find a way to persuade the other, or the bad feelings will chafe between us until we are half-distracted!
They went downstairs together, to find that they were so early this morning that they were, by the standards of Freehold, still up late. The sun was just rising and the last-shift dance group performing its final number. So Tyladen would still be awake; not a bad thing, since she wanted first to speak with him. She was quite prepared to wake him, if she needed to.
Not that she was sure when he ever slept. The Deliambrens didn’t seem to have the same sleep needs as humans did; she thought, perhaps, that he slept in the mid-morning hours, perhaps a little in the afternoon, but never for more than two or three hours at a time.
Of course they don’t need to sleep the way we do. They don’t have to sleep deeply enough for dreaming. They express their dreams and nightmares in their clothing.
Tyladen was still awake, but looked a bit surprised to have both of them strolling into his office together, and at that early hour. Nightingale shut the door firmly and put her back to it as T’fyrr leaned against the wall, giving him the advantage of looking down at the Deliambren.
“First of all, Lyrebird was attacked yesterday. She was hurt, and so was I, in trying to help her.” His face was without expression, but Nightingale knew that every word was carefully chosen. “You might take note of the bruises, if you should happen to doubt my word.”
Nightingale had sent word down at the same time that she had ordered the food that she was indisposed; presumably, Tyladen had found a substitute singer for last night. He just nodded, mobile face solemn for a change. Then again, there wasn’t much he could respond to, yet.
And he didn’t know that they were together, in more than one sense.
&
nbsp; “We have reason to believe that the attack was more of an attempt to gain control over me than because she got in the way of some gang or other,” T’fyrr continued. “In fact, we believe that the same person who was behind the other two attacks on me here was behind the one on her.”
“That makes sense,” Tyladen said cautiously, looking from Nightingale’s face to T’fyrr’s, as if he was trying to put a number of disparate bits of information together and not coming up with much. “Perhaps she ought to quit her position here, then, and move to the Palace? She doesn’t precisely need to work here anymore, and surely you have—”
T’fyrr deliberately leaned over and placed both taloned hands on Tyladen’s desk, scoring the surface. “Enough of the nonsense, Tyladen! We both know why I come here! It’s not because I’m savoring the nightlife, nor because I happen to enjoy this lady’s playing! We both know that I would still have to come here even if the lady moved into my suite at the Palace, so that I could continue to report to you! I’m your little Palace spy, Tyladen, an unpaid spy at that, and it’s about time you and Harperus began giving me a bit more protection! And you might as well start offering that same protection—no, more protection—to Lyrebird!”
Tyladen didn’t bat an eye; he simply put on a skeptical expression and said, “I can’t see any good reason why—”
“Because,” Nightingale interrupted him, “my name isn’t Lyrebird. It’s Nightingale—Nightingale of the Free Bards and the Getan Gypsies. And I’ve been working here on behalf of the Deliambrens without any support since I arrived.”
For the first time in her life, Nightingale actually saw expressions of shock, dismay and surprise pass across a Deliambren face. And for the first time in her life, she saw one caught at a loss for words. Tyladen sat in his chair with his mouth half-open; his lips twitched, but he couldn’t seem to get any words out.
It would be funny, if the situation weren’t so serious. He looked exactly like a stunned catfish.
The Eagle & the Nightingales: Bardic Voices, Book III Page 26