by Anne C Miles
Pezzik rattled dishes in the tiny dining room. Dane stood and excused himself. “I’ll go ready your rooms and see to your horse.”
The cottage sprawled with five bedrooms, the workshop, and a barn. Though in truth, one room was tiny, little more than a closet, only used for storage. Dane’s great-grandfather had added on two rooms because he’d sired five children. They were mostly unused, but Dane walked back and aired them out.
He quickly dusted and checked the chamber pots. Dane fetched and carried ewers to the pump for water. Chance had finished with the horse and reappeared, trotting at his heels. Dane filled the ewers and placed them in the rooms with matching bowls and clean linens. He tried not to worry about the lute. The bard would be their guest for the night. He hurried to stable the mount.
Dane returned to see Pezzik ushering the guests into their dining room. A small feast was arranged there. The aromas made Dane’s mouth water. Bowls of carrots, peas, beans, parsnips, and tiny potatoes nestled next to a wooden block. It held a huge roasted mushroom. A large wedge of cheese, a steaming loaf of bread, and saucers of creamy butter completed the meal.
“Thank you for all this, Pezzik,” Dane said, settling into his chair. For Aric’s benefit, he blessed the food. “Lord of All, bless these gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty.” Their visitor would assume he addressed Domini, rather than the Storm King himself. Dane dug in.
“This is delicious,” Aric said, eyes wide with appreciation. He passed butter to Jax, who perched on a high stool.
Pezzik blushed, her cap bending in pleasure at the compliment. Aric said, “I really must thank you for your hospitality.”
“Nonsense.” Dane dismissed his thanks with a wave. “We rarely have visitors, and ’tis a welcome change. You can give us a song after dinner, ’tis thanks enough.”
Pezzik brightened at the mention of music. Her fork clinked against her plate.
“I’d be most grateful for some of your stories,” said Aric. “Gnomes are uncommon outside this region. I know a few tales, but I’m finding reality to be much different.”
Jax sniffed, raised his bushy eyebrows, and cleared his throat. “Different?”
“They say you’re twelve inches high and live in underground tunnels. You ride dogs or cats like we ride horses and can speak to every animal. You sing like cyntae.”
Jax blushed and coughed.
“And you never sleep. You can travel through earth and stone. You live a thousand years and carry babies away in your caps.”
Pezzik snorted. “Most of us are closer to three feet tall, not counting our caps. Some are smaller, and of course our babes are very small.”
“We rarely ask an animal to carry us. ’Tis a children’s game. Adults prefer small ponies. Our Burrows aren’t caves.” Pezzik’s lips thinned, and she drew herself up, indignant. “They’re very comfortable homes, as comfortable as this cottage. They’re connected by tunnels, built in a ring. There is a central Burrow-Moot where the community works and feasts.”
Jax said, “We can speak to most woodland animals, though bears aren’t particularly friendly. It’s the bees, you see. They want the honey, but we guard hives. Makes ’em terrible angry. Birds just chatter nonsense, but we get along.”
“We do sleep, but not as men do. We sleep once a month for a full day. And we carry nothing in our caps you would be able to see, other than perhaps seeds. Certainly not human children. We enjoy music, but most of us know many crafts,” Pezzik said. “The rest is true enough.”
“How and why do you choose deemling?” Aric asked. “I’ve found nothing recorded.”
Pezzik shifted on her stool and grew very still. The pause stretched, uncomfortable. Dane’s face warmed, embarrassed. It was an intimate question, surely the man understood?
“I’m sorry,” Aric said, “I mean no offense.”
Pezzik bowed her head, accepting his apology. She answered, looking into his eyes. “Tradition.”
Aric met her gaze and held it.
“I am an Order Bard,” he said. “I was tested at a young age, brought to Bestua, trained at the Bindery. After, I trained with the cantors. I serve now within the Bindery. I’m studying rituals and traditions of other races.” Aric paused, pursing his lips as if weighing his words.
“When the Majisterium fell, more was lost than just majisters and their wonders. We lost understanding of many peoples. Some fear it will never be recovered. I’m doing my part to gather it again.”
Dane exhaled. Then why was he looking for the lute?
Pezzik took a small bite of her cheese, chewing in contemplation. “Conclave rules protect us, eh? Anyone with a musical knack, like you,” the gnome nodded at the bard, “is tested and trained. Some serve the Conclave all their lives and some go on to entertain or teach, not touching the broken Song.” Pezzik’s eyes rested on Aric, watching for reactions. “Am I correct in my Arcanum?”
Aric leaned forward. “The bardic calling doesn’t encompass studying the Broken Song. Most perform. Some are archivists, some build and repair instruments. Bards who work with the Song take Arcane vows.” His smile was self-deprecating. “A few of us travel.”
Jax said, “A deemling is chosen by rhythm. Deemae are chosen, you would say, at random. The choice is in our rhythm.”
“Gnomes move in a cadence, much like your Canting, but expressed in our breath, our step. And so we choose deemling.” Her eyes sparkled.
“Is the choice truly random?” He leaned forward and laughed easily. “I’ll wager that’s where stories of stolen children come…”
Dane bristled. “Will the Conclave sanction deemae now? Cantors take children, not gnomes.” He shook his head. “Nadir enjoys telling us how far cantor reach extends. We can all be purified at any moment if we step out of line. Just the fines are burdensome, even if no one is taken.”
“Nadir is a jackdaw serving on the edge of known civilization for a reason,” said Aric, his voice snapping like a whip. “Most of us who serve are not threatening. The Conclave exists to make the world better.” He spread his fingers wide. “Perhaps I have been sent to the edge of civilization alone to keep my dreams in check. My master doesn’t know what to do with me.”
Pezzik finished the last of her meal and hopped down from her stool. “Well, you’re a welcome change,” she said, plodding into the kitchen. “And now it’s time for pie.”
“Refills, anyone?” Dane asked, picking up his own mug. “I have tea or cider if you’d rather have that.”
“Cider.” Aric handed his mug over. Jax just shook his head and turned his full attention to his unfinished plate.
Dane followed Pezzik into the kitchen and whispered urgently, “What do you think?”
Pezzik shook her head. “I think you’d best be gone before dawn. I’ll make excuses.”
“What if he is watching for me to run? What if he is telling the truth and actually is what he says he is, just has more love of lore than most? Could he be telling the truth? But the fae said to run. She saw fire and said shadows would fall across fen and glade and forest.”
Pezzik sliced her pie and placed generous pieces on small plates. “This man is seeking dewin, or I’m a potato. True, it’s been a long while since we’ve seen such here. But I remember. They choose their words very carefully. Questioners are careful not to lie.” Her cap drooped. “The problem is, he might pose a danger to Bell.”
“And Jax,” Dane pointed out. “Though really, why are our families chosen?”
“Each has our reasons and now isn’t the time to discuss it. We’re safe enough as long as we can see him, and he’s alone. Don’t forget your cider.”
Dane sighed and went to the sideboard. He poured two mugs while Pezzik balanced plates. He followed her with cider. He placed a mug in front of Aric and regained his seat. Pezzik went back to the kitchen, returning with two more plates of pie.
Aric launched into a raucous story about his journey upriver involving a mule, a large rat, and a fat
bargeman. Soon they were all smiling and laughing. The pie was excellent, and everyone had second helpings. Aric’s uncomfortable comments faded with the laughter. Dane let himself relax. Perhaps everything would be all right. The fae could have been speaking of something else.
Dane excused himself. He fed the chickens and goats and tended to the horses. He ordered Chance to stay with them. The dog settled in a corner, turning around and around to make a nest for himself in the clean straw.
Dane went about his duties. The moon was higher when he went to the pump. He washed his hands and checked his glamour before returning to the sitting room. Jax and Pezzik both smoked long pipes while Aric played his lute.
Dane stood in the doorway, watching, his heart warming. For a moment, he saw his mother rocking in her chair. His father would sit and play for hours. Dane shook his head to clear it and joined them, drinking in the music.
CHAPTER TWELVE
AFTER A WHILE, Aric put his lute back in its case. He looked at the sleeping forms, waiting to see if they would wake. His sleeping song was ancient, and if the boy actually was dewin, he should have noticed it. Aric frowned and leaned forward, steepling his fingers. He waited, watching them breathe, listening to soft snores while the fire crackled. Finally satisfied they were fully enchanted, he stood and slipped out.
Aric strode into the kitchen. The boy’s words were all innocence, but the bard must make sure there was nothing to find. After years of waiting for rumors of another dewin-wrought lute, years of careful planning and watching, he had finally gotten word. Trystan had led them to their prize unwittingly. The Conclave had dispatched their best to the four corners of the Weldes to find this luthier.
Aric inspected each cabinet, looking for telltale signs of dried herbs, oils, or Essences. Nothing. Nodding to himself, he continued to the back door. He had to be thorough.
The moon was full: the Wyrm’s Eye was open. Aric snorted softly to himself, imagining the Wyrm’s gaze upon him. Still, he stepped carefully in the moonlight, surveying the rows of vegetables and herbs.
Craftsman did have leave to grow plants for the oils used in varnishes. He saw these immediately, closest to the door. Aric began to inspect the rows. He methodically stepped down each row, bending close, inhaling. He was nearly finished when a wind gusted, blowing a cloud over the moon. In the wind, a soft sigh of chimes.
Aric stilled.
The wind blew harder, and the chimes rose up, surrounding him. Aric felt nausea rise. He didn’t know how smell and sight had been hidden, but he was certain now. He was standing in the midst of a tunebell garden. He palmed his forehead, rubbing his temples. Aric calculated even as his heart sank. He had half hoped they were innocent. He’d had no idea of the boy’s true skill. If this hiding was any indication...
He didn’t finish the thought. He could not consider it yet. No, he had to focus. He could keep to his charade, sleep and wake, going to the Grove with Jax the next day. This would give him essential knowledge of the exact location and means of entry to the Burrow. The village itself would have to be purified, that much was plain.
However, traveling to the Burrow would also give Dane a chance to run. Aric decided. He couldn’t risk it, he needed Dane alive, captured, and the lute intact.
It was not too late. Not yet. A weight settled in the pit of Aric’s stomach, knowing what purification would mean for Dane. Such pain. There was too much at stake. The chymaera. The local Chapterhouse must be alerted. After, he could ride back with cantors and trained acolytes before the sleepsong faded. It should hold through midday.
Decision made, Aric silently prayed to the cyntae, knowing he was heard in spite of that evil moon.
The eye of the moon followed the bard as he slipped back into the cottage, carefully picking up his pack and instrument. It followed him, unblinking, as he stepped into the stable and back again, leading his horse. It watched him gallop down the road, toward Dohnavur.
Aric gave the moon no more mind—he had work to do.
Pezzik woke with a start. Dane’s dog Chance was nuzzling her face, whining and licking. The fire was burning low. Her ears and cap twitched as she inhaled and listened. The crickets were singing. A few hours to dawn yet.
She glared at Jax and Dane, snoring in their chairs, as angry with them as she was at herself. The bard was gone as sure as her cap was tall. She knew it in her bones. Pezzik popped up and shook Jax.
She shouted as she leaned into Dane’s ear, “Dane, wake up!”
Dane stretched and looked around, confused. Jax sat up, hair and eyebrows bristling. His cap had fallen off as he dozed. He looked naked without it. A piece of pie rested near it on the floor. Obviously it had rolled out. Absently, the gnome scratched this scalp, and fumbled to retrieve the pie, shoving it back into his cap.
“What...what time is it? How long did I sleep? Where’s the bard?” Dane looked behind the upholstered chair and stood to check the other rooms in the cottage.
“A Conclave bard wants to visit our Burrow and asks those questions about deemae.” Jax shook his now covered head, speaking softly to Pezzik. “Not good, not good. I liked him well enough. He might even be telling the truth. But I’ll be happy to see him gone, no mistake.”
Pezzik tilted her head. Without preamble she asked Jax, “Does Bell know the truth?”
Jax shook his head, swallowing. “She’s been raised proper, but like most deemling except that one, she has no idea.” He nodded at Dane.
Pezzik clucked, hushing him. “All right, go and check the horses. The man might have returned to the Chapterhouse, and if he did, we need to know. I need to speak with Dane.”
Jax wheeled and walked through the outer wall.
Pezzik found Dane in the hallway, his eyes panicked. “He’s gone. The fae I spoke with said she saw flames,” Dane said, continuing breathlessly. “And the bard knew the name of the man who ordered the lute. He tried to get me to talk about it and take gold from him.”
Pezzik’s breath caught, but before she could answer, Jax rounded the corner. “His horse is gone,” he reported. “Your mare said he left a few hours ago.”
Pezzik eyed Dane. “Tell me exactly what the bard said to you from the moment you met, all of it.”
Dane plunged in. When he finished, Jax whistled. Pezzik began speaking in gnomic. Jax nodded assent and headed down the corridor.
“Jax will scout the road and rouse the wood. We will run. My guess is the bard will go to the Chapterhouse and try to capture you shortly after dawn. We don’t have much time. We won’t return for a long time, Dane. Pack what you can.”
Dane’s eyes darkened. “I have to go alone, deema.”
“Nonsense.” She waved the idea away.
“No. I do. I have to find Trystan and warn him. They’ll be coming for him as well, not just for me. I can make it to Baehnt…or wherever I need to go…by river, Mod can help me. The Conclave will be searching. A man traveling with gnomes? People will remember that outside of Dohnavur and the Heyegrove. You know it. The fae saw flames. They will come, search and fire the grounds. You and Jax have time. You can get the Essences to safety, some flowers. Warn the Burrow.”
Realization dawned within Pezzik as Dane spoke.
“Deema, if they capture me, you can stage a rescue, but you can’t be caught with me.” He said the last in a gentle voice that seemed to melt her protests.
Pezzik’s cap drooped. Tears filled her eyes, and she raised her hands, helpless. “You are like my own child, Dane.”
“I know, deema, I know.” He bent to hug her, feeling their roles suddenly reverse. She was as small as a toddler in his arms. “Chance will stay with you. I’ll come home to you both.”
“I can’t believe I gave that man pie.” her voice was gruff, choked with her tears. She pushed him away. “All right, enough, get moving. Warn Trystan. But after, you go to Siarad. Go to the Caprices. Tell them your full name. They’ll help you. I’ll send word as soon as I can.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
DANE FINALLY RESTED. The shelflike bed in his tiny cabin felt welcome, indeed. His mind spun, revisiting every detail of his escape. It all happened so fast. The events of the day rolled before him in fragments. Frenzied packing. Crating the lute. The short cart ride to the mountain lake, sunlight dappling the road as it filtered through leaves overhead. Loading the weathered dinghy he used for fishing. Saying goodbye to Pezzik.
While Jax drove to town to rouse Mod, Dane glided through the first hint of dawn. Mist was rising. Lily pads covered the lake’s surface like a carpet before giving way to deeper waters. The call of geese in the distance broke the hush.
Dane’s anxiety mounted with each oar stroke. At the docks, he kept his hood up, speaking little to the shipmaster. The note he found waiting had been curt, written in haste.
“This time of year, the passage to Baehnt will be long. Look for piece men. Dance the shadows. T will be safe.”
Dane mulled over the cryptic message. Trystan would be kept safe until Dane could deliver the package. Hide as best he could. Mod would send further instructions. How would she know where he was?
He hurriedly stowed himself in a tiny cabin with his precious cargo, while the flatboat pulled away from the dock. He shredded the note and dropped it over the side. The pieces floated on the surface of the water like petals. As they disappeared, a shadow fell on his heart.
Now he could not shake it.
Dane lay in his bunk and thought about the fae, Sara.
Was she sent to help him? Truly? The only wisdom she’d uttered seemed so unspecific. Irrelevant. The game is not a game. Do not give up. Your work matters. There were other things she’d said, most of it fading from his memory despite his desperation to hold the words sent from the Storm King himself.