The Language of Souls

by Lena Goldfinch

“I will return, Grandpeer. I promise.”

  Solena dipped her paddle in the river again and again. Before her, Leopold was paddling as well, steering his own small boat upriver. Her back ached and the blisters on her hands tore open a little wider each time she drew her paddle through the water. She was already tired. How was she ever going to make the climb once they got there? She shivered as a rush of cold air rolled down from the mountains and numbed her cheeks. By the time she and Leopold reached the cliffs, she was thoroughly chilled. Little uncontrollable shivers swept over her as she helped him hide the boats beneath the splashing waterfall.

  Torrani lay far behind her now. Though she wanted to look back again, she didn’t. She’d looked back so many times already. The image of her city’s distant shores was burned into her mind. Somewhere above its white beaches, Grandpeer was likely standing on the rocks and squinting into the distance, trying to make out the colors of their boats. He was probably coughing too. Without a fresh supply of tymia, how long did he have left—a few weeks?

  She sucked in a deep, chilling breath, unable to imagine life without him. Sharing a simple meal. Hearing his low, sonorous tones filling the temple as he practiced the ancient chants. Seeing his eyes light up as he placed a gentle hand of blessing on a child’s head. Benito de Scipio had no limit to what he would give his people. Hadn’t he given her everything when she had nothing?

  Solena had yearned to express her gratitude before she left, but the words had stuck in her throat. It was as if saying the words aloud would give strength to her greatest fear: that she’d never see him again, never have another chance to tell him. So she hadn’t said anything.

  “The climb will take one night and a day,” Leopold predicted, his words tumbling over her thoughts. He was standing on the shore, like an over-muscled tree, and staring up at the cliffs.

  Solena looked up too. The fading sun worried her, but she hadn’t donned the deerskins of a boy and paddled miles upriver only to turn back now. With a quick nod to Leopold, she strapped her fishing stick and sack across her back and began to climb. By the time darkness fell, she was dragging herself over the rocks by feel alone. Every one of her muscles burned and she was glad when Leopold finally stopped on a narrow ledge and said, “We’ll sleep here.”

  Hoping their ledge wouldn’t crumble in the night, Solena curled up like a tired mountain cat and slept.

  The next morning, they climbed cliffs as sheer as a wall, with only the tiniest of nooks to slip their fingers and the toes of their boots into. The rocks in one passage were so brittle, Solena was sure they’d fall if even one gave way. Finally, she pulled herself up one last outcropping and stood on the plateau. Her hands throbbed with prickly heat from hours spent gripping the rough rock face. She blew on them as she looked around, exhausted but curious. The ledge they stood on was long and flat and pockmarked where lightning had struck it many times. Curled bits of molten ore lay scattered around at her feet. From these, Leopold would choose a votif for his new babe, selecting one large enough to hold the embers of life, but small enough to carry for a lifetime.

  Solena walked beside him, clasping her sore hands behind her back.

  Leopold picked up one of the jar-shaped bulbs, considered it, and cast it aside, declaring it too big. By the time the sun had peaked and slowly began to make its descent, he’d gone through twenty or thirty bulbs of hardened ore, pronouncing them too small, too thin, too ugly....

  Solena followed along, watching and waiting. She found Leopold’s devotion to his task fascinating, but, as she walked along, she was also searching, trying to find a molten circlet for Theta. So far, like Leopold, she hadn’t found anything good enough.

  At last, her companion held a votif up for her inspection.

  She smiled, surprised at the relief and joy she saw in her companion’s face.

  “It’s perfect,” she told him quietly.

  Leopold cradled the votif in his palm. It was as small as an infant’s fist, as the best votifs were. The opening spread out like the ruffled petals of an iris. During the day, a cork would stop the opening and keep it safe from the elements. By night, it would sit open in a stand by the child’s bedside. His parents would breathe many prayers over it and, when the child was old enough, he’d begin to offer his own prayers.

  Solena’s votif dangled from her belt, where its comforting warmth bobbed against her hipbone. Thinking of Athenea waiting at home, ready to give birth at any moment, Solena wondered about her own mother. Her only memory was her mother’s frightened face looking down at her and then an aching sensation of loss. She felt that same sense of loss now, as cold and empty as the mountain wind. They’d been ripped apart for some reason...for some terrible circumstance that lay just outside her grasp. And she’d likely never know what had happened. Or why a mother would leave her own child with a stranger, even someone as good as Benito. It hurt to think about, so Solena stuffed the feelings down deep and turned her attention back to Leopold.

  “It is perfect, isn’t it?” he said, smiling through his tears and showing no trace of shame at this rather unmanly display. She’d always thought him a coarse sort of young man, caring more about feats of strength than books. How different he seemed to her now. Maybe she’d never really known him.

  Solena tried to smile back, but failed. She found she genuinely liked Leopold. It occurred to her then, in that awkward way of realizing too late that you’ve asked for something you don’t deserve, that this was a sacred moment. Leopold might have wanted to bring someone else along on his journey. It was certainly one of Torrani’s oldest traditions for young fathers to bring a brother or a close friend with them, but she’d never heard of anyone bringing a girl, let alone a girl who wasn’t even family.

  “Who would you have brought if I hadn’t come?” she asked. “Your father?”

  “My father? He’s too old to make the journey, and I don’t have any brothers, so there was no one fighting over who’d be able to join me.” He grinned.

  Solena hadn’t considered that. Leopold’s father was Korvanus, or “Old Korvanus,” as his students liked to call him, although not to his face, of course. She’d studied with the teacher for many years and had watched as he paced ever so slowly before the class, expounding on the mysteries of the ancient texts. He certainly didn’t seem the sort of man who’d enjoy climbing impossibly steep cliffs. The thought prompted a brief inward smile.

  “But what of your friends?” she asked.

  Leopold brushed aside her question with an expressive shrug and a wave of his hand. “Don’t worry, my friend. You’re good company.”

  Solena bowed her head, inexpressibly pleased to hear him call her friend. As she stared down at the ground between her feet, attempting to smother the urge to hug him, she saw a perfect molten circlet, softly glowing in the light of the setting sun. It had an almost unearthly kind of beauty, as if lit from within. She picked it up and held it in her palm. She’d found it: a circlet for Theta. Something for her friend to remember her by if she never returned.

  “If we leave now....” Leopold was saying. He’d crouched down and was carefully wrapping the votif he’d found in some soft, fibrous padding he’d brought. When he was done, he tucked the bundle into his sack. “We’ll make it home by nightfall tomorrow.”

  “I’m not returning with you, Leopold.” Solena closed her fingers around the circlet as she delivered her news.

  “Of course you are.” He looked up at her with raised brows.

  “Benito is growing weaker every day. He’ll die if he doesn’t get more tymia soon, so”—she took a breath—“I’m going into Oden for more.”

  “Oden?” Leopold straightened abruptly and gaped at her. “You can’t be serious.” He glanced uneasily at the mountains that loomed over their heads. “It’s too dangerous. Surely someone else could go.”

  “How can I ask someone else to go? He’s my grandfather. No. I’m going. I have to. For Benito.” For the dear old man who’d given her a home when s
he had nothing. He’d loved her and treated her like a granddaughter when he could have simply provided for her needs.

  Leopold’s eyes flickered with understanding. “Then I’ll go with you. He’s your grandfather, of course, I can understand that, but he’s also my prophet, the prophet of us all.”

  Solena’s heart lightened at the thought of having Leopold’s company. She’d been planning her journey for weeks. She couldn’t count how many nights she’d woken in her darkened room with her heart pounding wildly, aware of some disturbing dream hovering outside the edges of her mind. On those nights, she’d lain awake for hours, staring up at the stars through her window, too afraid to sleep. To have Leopold along to share the journey, to have anyone with her.... It was so tempting, but she couldn’t ask it of him. She forced herself to shake her head.

  “No, Leopold, your baby is coming soon. Return home with the votif, the one you’ve so carefully selected. No one will fault you for returning to Athenea.” She handed him the circlet. “And would you give this to Theta for me? I promised I’d find one for her.”

  “Then you bring it to her.” He attempted to give it back, but Solena refused to take it.

  “Please, just give it to her.”

  “But I can’t let you—”

  “Leopold, the baby. You have a duty to fulfill, a sacred, fatherly duty. And this”—Solena’s wave encompassed the dark forested slopes around them—“is my duty.”

  Underneath the sleeve of her borrowed tunic, Solena’s shoulder burned where the leather rubbed against her mark. The wound was still raw, the pain a constant reminder that she’d accepted the call of healer. Wasn’t that what she’d always wanted? Yet it hung off her shoulders like a new garment, one meant for someone much larger.

  Grandpeer had trusted it to her, which meant so much. If she failed him now....

  She swallowed painfully.

  Leopold seemed to be having a similar difficulty swallowing, for his throat muscles worked in silence.

  “You’re a brave girl,” he said at last, as he tucked the circlet into the depths of his pack. “Either that or you lack the most basic wisdom.” He tapped his skull. A wry lift of one eyebrow softened the sting of his words. “Do you need anything for your journey?”

  “I have everything I need.” Solena impulsively reached out and hugged him close, the last person from Torrani she might ever see, then she pushed him away, wobbling slightly as she stepped back. “I hope you have the boy you want.”

  “I’d be equally happy with a girl.” Leopold gave her a grave smile. With a final salute, he reluctantly turned and began his climb down the cliffs.

  Long after Leopold disappeared from sight, Solena stood alone. She had only her borrowed deerskin tunic and leggings, the tall boots that laced up her calves, a woolen cloak, her fishing spear, and the provisions in her sack: some ground millet, a supply of dried fish and figs, a small hunting knife, and the healing supplies she always carried.

  Before setting out, she prayed, because she’d told her grandfather she would...and because she needed to. She prayed for guidance in her search, that she’d find Grandpeer’s tymia. And she prayed to return before it was too late. When she was finished, she picked her way across the heights, using her fishing spear as a walking stick.

  As she hiked, she thought about the hostile land she was crossing into. Though she’d never been there before, she knew the thick walls of Oden stood somewhere far beyond her vision. The children of Torrani whispered stories of the mountain people who lived there, how they’d kill a foreigner as quickly as they’d swat a gnat. She’d never believed the tales, but now there was nothing but a vast emptiness yawning below her. It seemed to be waiting for her, eager for her to trip over a loose stone. Even the icy winds of Oden seemed eager to cast her over the edge of the cliff. They caught at her leathers and whipped loosened strands of hair across her face. She pressed forward into the wind, clutching her walking stick with a desperation that made her hands ache.

  The rest of the day was long and cold. With every step, she longed for home. She longed to sit across from Grandpeer over a couple of steaming bowls of fish soup. She longed for her beloved sea, for her snug bedchamber, and an ancient text propped open on her lap. And as the wind bled into her too-thin boots, freezing her toes, she longed simply to be warm.

  Two

  A WEEK LATER, Solena left the cliffs behind and descended into a valley. Her days had been filled with climbing and her nights shivering against bitter rock. She must have left her flint at home or dropped it along the way. She’d set it out with her supplies—if she closed her eyes she could see it lying on the chest at the foot of her bed, right next to her healing vials, which she’d packed—but she’d dug through her sack at least seven times and couldn’t find it. So she couldn’t even make a small fire to warm her hands. She’d eaten all her food, and though she’d seen many quicksilver fish in the mountain streams, few had wished to be caught. Her stomach growled fiercely.

  Had her prayers been for nothing? Perhaps the Most High was angry at the tale she’d told Grandpeer. In truth, she’d deceived him and was making the journey into Oden without his knowledge or permission. By now Leopold had returned and Grandpeer would know the truth. He’d be afraid for her, and the fear would sap what little strength he had, and it was all her fault. His last days could have been filled with her care and comfort. Now he had only the housekeeper to watch out for him, and though Nangi revered Benito as a prophet, she seemed to forget he was a man as well, with feelings and fears. Maybe it had been a mistake to leave. Solena swallowed and found her throat was uncomfortably thick. Maybe she really was a foolish girl, as Nigel was fond of telling her.

  As she peered ahead, a grove of fruit trees shimmered across her vision. She wiped her eyes, certain that hunger and the growing warmth of the valley had weakened her mind. She stripped off her cloak to cool herself and when she looked again the fruit trees were still there, heavy with plums. So she stumbled forward and plucked off one of the ripe globes.

  The flesh was tart and sweet, and the juice was so refreshing, soothing her dry throat and making her want another and another. From experience she knew too many would make her sick, so she stuffed more ripe plums into her sack for later. She packed her cloak as well, for it was too warm to wear it. As she was looking for a stream to slake her thirst more fully, she felt a hand clamp over her shoulder.

  “Tref!”

  Solena jumped at the voice, so close to her ear, and spun around. A flutter of panic went through her as she saw a tall young man before her. He had hair the color of the snow on the mountaintops and blue eyes as pale as a winter sky. Across his chest, he wore a plate of golden armor engraved with a fierce falcon, its wings outstretched and deadly talons raised.

  An Odenian soldier.

  Solena tasted the bitterness of fear on her tongue.

  “Tref,” he repeated and rattled off a string of harsh words she didn’t understand.

  “I—oh, the fruit.” Guessing at the cause of his displeasure, Solena quickly dug through her sack. Despite her trembling, she quickly found the plums near the top and tumbled them toward him, surrendering her precious cache. He caught them in his quickly outstretched hands...surprisingly elegant-looking hands with long fingers. His eyes widened with obvious surprise, and more than a trace of alarm. He suddenly looked younger in that moment, closer to her age. Or perhaps she imagined it, for his expression was now masked, as if he’d dropped a visor over his eyes. “I didn’t know it was forbidden,” she said. “My apologies for—” She abruptly stopped the flow of her words when she saw no light of understanding in his eyes. “And you don’t understand a word I’m saying, do you?”

  The soldier simply tossed the ripened globes of fruit under a tree and dragged her across the grove.

  “You’re leaving them?” Solena cast a longing glance over her shoulder at the abandoned plums. One piece of fruit wasn’t enough to give her the strength to escape. “Where are you taking
me?”

  He merely scowled and pulled her along. She quickly shouldered her sack and spear. As they bounced against her back, she hoped he wouldn’t notice and toss them aside too. When they came to a river that cut through the rocky depths of the valley, Solena motioned for him to stop, but he shook his head.

  “Please.” She dragged her heels and sipped noisily from one cupped hand.

  He hesitated. After a moment, he gave a gusty sigh and led her to the water, but kept hold of her arm as she drank. When she’d had her fill, Solena came to her feet and winced as his fingers dug into her arm.

  “You’re hurting me.” She wanted to wrench away from her captor and run for the trees, but his grip was too strong.

  The soldier frowned at the marks he’d made on her skin and, with a quickly muttered word, grasped her hand instead.

  “Well, you should be sorry.” Solena raised her chin, determined not to show her fear.

  Her captor merely squared his jaw and resumed his march. Solena tripped along the rocky bank beside him, trying to match his long strides.

  Rundan couldn’t believe his misfortune.

  Of all the routes he could have scouted today, why had he chosen this one? He had no wish to bring the foreign girl into camp, but duty demanded it. It seemed duty was all he had these days. As usual, the realization made him want to throw something.

  Or yell. Yelling might feel good.

  But no one had forced him to join his father’s army as a scout, Rundan reminded himself grimly. He alone had set aside his study of the ancient texts. And still, having sacrificed his soul, he had yet to see his father’s smile rest on him. Someday it would. Maybe today.

  As Rundan steered his captive through camp, he fixed his eyes on the largest tent, ignoring the soldiers who stared at the strange young woman who dressed in boy’s leathers—and had hair as black as the darkest night and skin as golden as tihara, the fragrant spice of Torrani. Those beautiful wide brown eyes....