by Anne C Miles
Tabor stood, retrieving the scroll they had stolen the night before. He unrolled it and began to read aloud.
My dear Petros,
Your last message was heartening. We know Modric conspires to shift the Song into Dissonance and rewrite the Lorica. Your work is vital, preserving the Song in its true form. Starlight carries our hope. Guard the aural nexus, guard the Lorica, and carry on. I will come to you soon, but I fear things are worse than we first understood. Remain vigilant.
-Jamis Ivor
Trystan’s eyes widened. “Jamis the Wise?… the famous majister? One of the locals I spoke to in Siarad mentioned him. He said his ancestor saw Modric and Jamis enter a skycart on the day of the Breaking. They flew to the Tree together. I assumed Jamis perished in the battle, but this...”
Tabor said, “Jamis and his assistant, Petros, suspected Modric well before the War. It was Jamis who set the Spinners to their tasks, while Petros created a web of starlight to preserve the pure Song. Something about starlight having originated in the past made it work.
“Our most sacred lore is only spoken, a strict rule. We need pieces like this one”—he pointed to the scroll—“to convince those outside our ranks. They do not wish to believe in such treachery from Modric.”
Trystan understood all too clearly. “The chymaera don’t want to accept Modric has betrayed everyone and conspired with the Wyrm to create Dissonance.”
Tabor shook his head. “They do not. They trusted him after the War, you see, and they trust him still. We have men like Gisle de Clelland who wish to reject the Song completely in their hatred for the Conclave. So he rejects all the Conclave represents, even the cyntae and the Song. If the Song is not restored, if Dissonance is not held back and even reversed, all is lost.”
“If what you say is true, the Bindery is also compromised.”
Tabor shook his head. “Perhaps not. Nearly everyone was deceived. They are not evil, just misguided. The songlines spring from the Tree’s root system. If the Tree dies, they fail.
“After the War, Modric remained. Only Modric, the last majister, full of answers. He rescued us, gave us the Arcanum. And what did he tell us?”
“He said the Storm King sacrificed himself on the Tree to save us. The Wyrm is held captive beyond the door of the moon, and the cyntae sustain the Song in place of their master, carrying on his work. They sustain life, the Song, and all worlds beyond,” said Trystan.
“And we must join them by Canting. And so the arc of the moon became the most holy sign of our faith. We Cant morning and evening to strengthen the cyntae and hold back the Wyrm. Strengthen the Song. As if we could. The faithful and devout attend Camber each Moonday. Dewin are captured lest they kill as they did before. Instruments that wield the Song are forbidden and songflowers are sanctioned.” Tabor’s eyes flashed. “All power has been given to the Conclave. All based on lies, creating more and more Dissonance. As each lie begets more lies and the false Canting rises, the Dissonance grows. Now we give our devotion to the cyntae, an abomination. The only cyntae who appears? Doran, the Lesser.”
Tabor fell silent. Trystan mulled his words over. A suspicion, like an itch, formed within him. It burned, turning to horror as he grasped the truth. Modric had lied about everything. Modric could not be trusted.
Modric was trying to destroy everything. With Doran?
Tabor nodded as if Trystan had spoken aloud. He continued. “The Storm King is alive. Cyntae do not visit the Aeries as they once did. The cantors say they cannot, kept from us by their work. I know otherwise. The Lorica was not destroyed, but hidden for safekeeping. The Song can be restored, the Shadowborn driven back. The Storm King shall return. In the meantime, we Spinners must play the true Song. That is our purpose. The Conclave will do anything to stop us. We are the defense, the only true defense, against the Dissonance.”
Trystan straightened. “My sword and my lute are at your service,” he said.
Tabor bowed from the waist, accepting his pledge. “Your studies shall take place here. You shall have what you seek. We will train you in the use of the pure Song, and our good luthier will provide you with your own lute. In the meantime, you may train with our instruments.”
Tabor removed his flute from his waistcoat, waving it at Trystan.
“Your lessons begin now.”
CHAPTER TEN
DANE STARED AT the lute. It had taken most of the day to finish. The wood gleamed, ready to receive its final coats of varnish. The inlay was a wonder.
Last night under the stars, with the scent of Essence strong in the air, he had unrolled his father’s scroll, reading the verses within, yet again. He’d listened to the rhythms of the wind, heard his own heartbeat.
He had listened for the Song. It came when he called, and he sang the tune he heard in his heart. He sang those ancient words, over and over. As he continued, starlight shimmered and solidified, forming a web. Dane had rested the lute carefully within this cradle.
Where the light kissed the wood, it coalesced. It pooled, glowing ever brighter until he had to look away. He kept singing, and the light did its work. Fae had flickered, flashing. Their shapes glistened. Some had smiled, others crinkled their brows in confusion or dismay. They had noticed him. Like flames, they shifted and were gone.
When it was over, curving shapes wrapped the instrument. The shapes shimmered, like mother-of-pearl. Only he and Pezzik knew the truth.
Starlight, pure and pale, had fused with the Song, transforming into a solid material that wrapped and climbed the neck. It would imbue the tone with a strange sweetness. All music from this lute would ring with the Song itself. Under certain conditions, it would become capable of mighty power.
Conclave luthiers could mimic his work with their crafting, but never equal it.
It had been foolish to worry he’d need extra supplies. His binding had taken hold, just as it had for Pa.
Chance, Dane’s dog, slept at his feet. Dane whistled as he applied the Essence varnish. It was one of the things Pa had first let him do. Dane grinned, thinking of the first time his father had let him witness a binding. His minded clouded with more memories. It always did when he worked so much with starlight. Starlight was pure memory.
Visions from his childhood drowned the present.
His mother cautioned him to not speak or ask any questions. She led him past garden hedges, Chance at his heels. The northern terrace edged the rear stone wall. Built high and strong, it was a shield against any danger in the wood. But if you walked through the barred wooden door in the wall, toward the forest, on the other side was a wide stone platform. An eight-sided pool glistened in its center, reflecting the night sky
The web formed from starlight. His mother, Maggie, held Dane’s hand while Pa recited. Dane focused on the glimmering web and the fae.
Mother answered his questions.
“We live on the edge of the grove away from prying eyes. The stories you learn are not the ones any other folk know. You can never ever speak them until you have a child, not even to Poll. Others do not see fae as you do. You are dewin and shall have a very long life. No one can ever know. Dewin are feared and misunderstood.”
Dane blinked as the vision faded. Despite all he had known about the long life of dewin, his father and mother had died of a sudden unnatural fever last year. He could not heal them. That failure stalked him daily. Dane’s training hadn’t been complete. Now he was tentative. Careful. Pezzik could fill in many gaps. Today, working with the Song, Dane was groping his way along the edge of a cliff, unsure and about to plummet. He had so many questions. Storm King, have mercy. Help me.
Tears ran down his face. He wiped them away as he finished sealing the lute and was shocked to see the shimmer of a fae. It was the girl again. He frowned.
The same girl had floated near the kitchen hearth. He’d seen her many times now. She was always more distinct than the rest of them. She didn’t flicker away. She hovered, watching him. Dane kept working, drawing the octagonal S
ign over the lute with his hands while he sang the refrain again.
The Dark One ascends,
Eight shall turn him round...
His voice chimed as he sang, the words of the Lorica ringing in the air like bells. Dane saw the octagon he had marked out glow in the air and rise. He hadn’t slept. Could he be asleep now? The Sign drifted to the fae, like a smoke ring made of light. It surrounded her in a halo of color.
The fae stiffened. She solidified, no doubt about it. Color from the Sign seeped into her at the edges of her form. She no longer shimmered. She looked at Dane in wonder. She saw him. Finally, she spoke with a broad accent.
Chance whined and pricked his ears.
At first her words made no sense.
“Small choices shall rule large kingdoms as the Day draws ever near. Do not lose hope. The jackdaw shall linger, and the storms shall begin. Each shall flee to his place. Your work does matter. Do not give up. Do not falter. Those below shall be as above. Shadows will fall across fen and glade and forest. The game is not a game. A tiny word can move a seeker toward his doom...”
The words trailed off, and the fae stretched as if she were waking. She focused on Dane.
“Why do you glow?” she said.
Melody spilled out behind her voice, barely there. Chimes infused her words, filling him with peace and joy. The Song.
Dane set his brush down, swallowing the knot in his throat. Grounded. This fae was grounded. She was here, physically. Flesh. She could interact with him. Dane wasn’t sure exactly what he had done. Was it… the sign and the verse together with the Essence? Flame it all. He would have given anything to have his Pa there.
He answered in hushed tones. “You see my heartfire, milady. What is your name?”
He gulped, reaching for anything his father had ever mentioned about grounding fae. Only done by majisters or those beginning a Harmony Bond. The creature’s name was important in old fae tales. If he knew its name, it could not harm him.
“Sara,” she said, without hesitation. She was watching him, her eyes wide in a small face. “That is lovely.” She nodded at the lute. “Do you play?”
Dane froze. Playing a starbound instrument was perilous for dewin. He knew how to play, of course. He’d been taught from childhood on a normal lute, the battered instrument in the corner.
This was a grounding. He dared not deceive the fae in any way.
“I cannot, milady,” he said. “Its varnish is still wet.”
“Oh!” She jumped back, startled. She stiffened, and her face went slack. “Knock, knock, he is coming. Fire. Fire everywhere. Run.” Sara’s eyes widened in horror. The melody wafted toward him, intensifying, making it difficult to understand her words.
The fae vanished, leaving only dust motes drifting in the afternoon sunlight, dancing to the far-off trill of birds. A jackdaw cried. He sat, varnish forgotten. Run? Who was coming?
Chance nuzzled his hand.
“You’re right, boy,” Dane said.
“Pezzik!” Dane yelled. “Help!” He sprang into action, hastily gathering up the supplies. The fae had warned him. He had to hide everything. Now. True, it could mean nothing.
Dane would not take chances.
The gnomemother popped out of the wall and assisted without a word of fuss. She removed a large tile from the floor, threw a short ladder down, and scrambled to receive the jars and bottles Dane passed her. Pezzik placed the tools and Essences into the room-like space. She flashed in and out of the stone itself, alternating between catching items and carrying them through the stone.
A special shelf for drying claimed the instrument. Dane clambered down and placed the lute himself. It needed at least eight hours to cure before he could move it again. He hoped fervently he would have the time. His father’s box with its ancient scroll went next to it. He scrambled back up the ladder and repositioned the tile. Dane pulled levers, and his furniture transformed, back into a cabinet maker’s shop. This finished, he ran to the garden.
What Dane needed to do worked best in starlight. But no, the light was waning; it was only late afternoon. It would be hours before full night.
He’d never cast a glamour. Pa had explained it at length. “The secret,” Pa had said, “is to imagine how the scene looks. Hold it steady in your mind. You cannot for a moment waver, and you cannot be distracted. Inhale the flower’s scent. You will feel the Song, its power and strength moving through all things. The refrain releases the Song. The image in your mind will hold.”
Some fae could cast like breathing. For dewin, it was dangerous. He could draw attention from the wrong type of eyes. Shadowborn. Much of what he knew was only theory.
Dane looked at his garden, its careful rows of flowers. They were all flowers he needed to make his lutes. Each one possessed a delicate auric nexus, a Virtue, prized for its energy.
Not long after his first binding, Dane’s father had given him a painting of the garden, planted with ordinary vegetables and herbs. His mother had painted it.
“Look,” he said. “Look long, until you can call up this image, every detail, in an instant.”
And Dane had looked. He had looked at it for hours over the years until every line was familiar. He brought a tunebell to his nose and inhaled. He exhaled as he imagined the scene and rotated it in his mind. He saw it from every angle. He let his senses expand and heard the Song. It thrummed in the wind’s whisper, the call of the birds and the whirring of insects. He joined them, singing the melody as it formed in his mind.
The Dark One ascends, Eight shall turn him round
The scene transformed. The light curved.
The garden was normal. It mirrored his painting. Shadows fell from the house, bees humming. Dane wanted to crow. He wished he could show his Pa. Dane’s longing for his parents swelled. But he had no time to wallow. Slowly he turned, slipping the flower into his sleeve, and headed for the kitchen and the main hearth.
He didn’t make it to the fire before two raps at the door came.
Pezzik plucked the tunebell from his sleeve and thrust it into the stone wall next to him, her face placid. “You can’t burn such, boy, it will fill the house with scent, then where would we be?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DANE JERKED THE door open. Jax stood with Aric, a horse hitched to the post behind them. Chance wriggled past Dane, running to greet the horse.
“Dane,” Jax nodded and pushed past him into the small entry. He hefted Dane’s satchel over his shoulder and dropped it before continuing to the kitchen. Aric stepped in behind the gnome, stamping his feet.
“I’m on my way to the Heyegrove, and Jax offered to introduce me to the Burrow. He said you had left your satchel behind, and this was on the way.”
“Of course. Welcome, welcome,” Dane said. “I think Jax has already found Pezzik, but we’ll be more comfortable in here.” He glanced at his dog, still inspecting the new horse. He shook his head at Chance’s hospitality and closed the door.
Dane led the way to his sitting room. A massive stone fireplace welcomed them with a cozy fire. A chandelier illuminated a framed map above the hearth. Upholstered chairs, a small lamp table, and a bench crafted by his grandfather were scattered about. Shelves lined one wall, displaying paintings collected over four generations along with no small number of books. A thick bearskin covered the stone floor. A spinning wheel idled in a corner.
Dane chose his favorite chair while Pezzik bustled in carrying mugs, trailed by Jax. She pushed a mug into the bard’s hand before handing one to Dane.
Pinning Jax with a stern look, she announced, “Dinner will be ready soon, and in the meantime, ale should refresh you. There will be pie after. I do not need any help.” Pezzik’s cap quivered. With a flounce, she returned to the kitchen.
Jax settled himself in one of the smaller chairs and chuckled. “Your Pezzik is a treasure,” he said. “Her pies have no equal.”
Dane agreed. “I’m sure she’ll feed us well to thank you for your kindness. Thou
gh I must say, you didn’t have to bring my satchel all the way here. I planned to come for it tomorrow.”
“Bell thought you’d need it. She was surprised you left so sudden.”
Jax’s flat look spoke volumes.
Dane gulped his drink to stall for time. Storm King, help me. “I discovered my shipment needed to leave earlier than planned. I had to hop to finish, so I panicked.” He flashed his best apologetic smile. “I barely made it, but I did complete the job.”
Jax nodded, satisfied. “You’ll still likely want to bring a gift to Bell when you come to town. A pie perhaps.” His eyes glittered. Dane laughed.
“Did you make all of this?” Aric gestured to the furniture.
“My family made most of it, my father, his father. I’ve made some. Our family has lived here for generations.”
“It’s fine work, I can see why nobles order from you.”
“The Guild usually orders,” Dane said. “I know where the pieces are bound. But they handle sales and shipments and take their due. It makes my work a bit easier. Direct orders can be demanding. The forests here source the finest wood. Crafting here before shipping downriver means a finer quality piece, provided they are well crated.”
“And your varnishes?” Aric stroked the wood of his chair.
Dane forced himself not to stiffen. Is he probing to see if I have Essences?
“I make them,” he said.
“Beautiful.”
“You’re bound for the Burrow?” Dane asked Jax.
“Aye, and I had hoped to make it by nightfall. I met a squirrel on the road who said bears are hunting...” the gnome trailed off.
“You will stay here,” Dane said. “You can’t travel or camp in the forest at night. That’s settled.”
“The bears would not bother you?” Aric asked.
“No,” said Jax. “They honor gnomes. Most forest folk do, and I could ask them to leave us both alone, but this wood shelters more than bears.” The gnome’s face was grave. “Best not to risk it. If bears are a-hunting, dark things will be abroad. We need to avoid traveling at night. I could descend,” he pointed to the stone below their feet, “but you could not.”