Sorrowfish

by Anne C Miles

  Birgir and Bellin repeated it. “The Tree and the Song,” they said, in unison.

  Bellin snorted at Dane’s confused expression. “We must report back to the Forge, lad. We’ve been to meet the local cantor, but this inspection must be thorough.”

  “Inspection?” Dane knew more than he could dare admit. Even so, his excitement was rising. He only just kept himself from holding his breath, waiting for the answer.

  “Your Conclave guards the Song and its power, tending the Tree, nurturing what remains after the Breaking. The mists that surround it lead those who seek to come near astray. Enchanted. All who try are led to the Chapterhouse. We have leave to approach. To inspect the Songlines proper, we must. They radiate from the Tree’s roots to all people, carrying power. We need to see them.” He slammed his mug on the table in punctuation.

  It was Birgir’s turn to snort. “The power for our forges is fading. We can use normal fire, but those will not make blades that kill Shadowborn. The water-leapers and other foul beasties. Shadowkin.” He shook his head, his hair a mane of braids. “They tell us there’s nothing to fear, but we’ve seen naught to confirm it. High King Tenneth lies dying, wasting away. Welden noble houses are full of whispers. Tales have made a journey north. The Weldes are ripe for a war of succession, while the resonance is weakened. We cannot be shut off.”

  Dane tapped the table, frowning.

  “War? Surely the Conclave will confirm the succession.”

  Harald lowered his voice, leaning forward, the game forgotten. “If our power is failing, theirs is dying as well. There will be no confirmations, no Cantings, no power but the fist and the blade.” His eyes flashed. “Fear of enchantment or even piety, those will only hold back unrest for so long. In the countryside, peasants are already asking why they pay so many taxes. Crops are small. Tempers run hot. If the Takers and the Watchers both fail and all the water is fouled? The merchants looted?”

  Bellin nodded solemn agreement.

  Dane wished his head wasn’t so muddled with ale. “But the Takers and Watchers are only in cities. Peasants aren’t affected by ebbs much. Aren’t we taught there’s waxing and waning in the Song? Isn’t this just waning?

  “And since the Tree was broken, the Conclave has known this could happen. The Tree could fully die. They always have said that our faithfulness sustains the Song.”

  Dane paused and considered, finally admitting the obvious. “If the Tree dies, it affects all living things. No Song.”

  Birgir slammed his tankard down with a thump, interrupting. “Exactly. Not all believe the drivel the Conclave spews, or even that the Wyrm was real.” He shook his finger in Dane’s face. “But if the Conclave isn’t prepared for the worst, then war might be the least of our problems. The Song stops flowing. Dissonance reigns unchecked. Death, disease, insanity, famine. The end of all we know.”

  Dane sat back in his seat, horrified. “Storm King save us,” he murmured, shaking his head. “How long do we have?”

  Bellin answered, his face grim. “That’s what we are here to learn.” He looked up at Dane, his eyes bright. “Do you want to go with us?”

  Dane shook his head with regret. He dared not walk into the largest Conclave chapter, not until his lute was delivered. Now, more than ever, he realized how urgent his task was. His lute might keep death at bay.

  “I would,” he said. “But I have pressing business that will not allow it.”

  Birgir pointed to the board, triumphant even in the face of certain doom as he captured the last set of stones for the victory. “Never fear lads, all is right in the world for now. I’ve won again.”

  Bellin’s eyes didn’t leave Dane’s face. They dimmed with disappointment at Dane’s refusal, as if he sensed his reasoning somehow. Bellin reminded Dane of Pezzik.

  Bellin’s heavy expression faded, replaced with a mask of good humor. The dwarf forced a retort to the smug victor. “You’re the son of a wyrm, Birgir, and no mistake. Again!”

  Birgir laughed as he reset the board. “See what comes of teaming with legend, lad? And there’s even more to gain and learn, you’ll see.”

  The Forgeman’s confident boast, while brash, pushed at Dane. An idea, like an itch started to form.

  The game is not a game.

  He’d followed Birgir’s lead on the stones board.

  Am I meant to follow him to the Tree? Could I, without being caught?

  If the worst had already occurred, his home was gone, and his village was being purified. The people could be interrogated and fined or their homes taken away. Dane gulped. Speakers may already have spread his description far and wide.

  But the game is not a game. Did the fae mean this game? And if she did, what were the consequences if I do not follow the path?

  He had to heed her message.

  “More ale!” Dane called, gesturing for another round. He turned his attention back to the board, his path decided. It felt right.

  “I’ll go with you,” he said. “But I have to finish my business early in the morn ere we leave. Also, I’m going to need a small favor. I’ll tell you more about it when my business is concluded.”

  The dwarf did not mask his delight, pounding the table. “Thunder and stone! Glad to have you. A deemling can be a sure help to us at the Tree. We’ll leave in the third hour after dawn.”

  Dane grimaced. The hour was already growing late.

  Catching his expression, Birgir winked and scooped up his stones. “We’ll just have to win quickly, lad. We’ll just have to win quickly.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  NEAR THE BURROWS, only a faint whiff of char marked the loss.

  Pezzik’s cap quivered as she pictured Dane’s workshop. Her kitchen. The gardens. All of it. Gone.

  The acolytes in their white robes and hoods would have come like ghosts, silent and deadly. But by that time, she was gone. Pezzik had been far into the forest when the burning began, her mare and Chance both loaded down with all she dared carry. Smoke from the cottage billowed into the sky. The wind caught it, smearing sooty clouds across the Heyegrove, raining small bits of ash. The smell was acrid. The sky had turned black beyond the forest canopy.

  Her home was purified. There would be nothing left.

  She allowed herself to feel the anguish, to mourn in this moment, for three breaths. On the fourth exhale, Pezzik released her pain into the sky, like a dove. She would do this many times over the next weeks, sometimes many times an hour.

  It was not her first war with rage.

  Pezzik led Chance and the pony to the ring of toadstools in the center of the Heyegrove. Once there, she stopped and listened, still as only a gnome can be.

  The grove rustled in answer. In this forest, the tallest man barely attained the height of a tree’s smallest roots. Gnomes seemed tiny insects in comparison. They were not insects, of course. They were the heart of the grove, its pulse.

  “Repu,” she sang.

  It sounded like a bird call. In a few moments, she heard a trill, an answer. She walked across the clearing toward a giant hollow log and passed within.

  She followed the natural tunnel and approached a large hole. She spoke to her mare. “There will be someone up to get you shortly. Just wait here.”

  The mare neighed assent and swished her tail. She ambled away, back toward the mouth of the log tunnel.

  “You have to go this way,” she said to Chance, pointing to the hole. “I’m going to go with you. Just follow me.”

  Pezzik crept to the edge and sat down, waiting for the shepherd dog to join her. She grasped Chance’s right forepaw and shoved herself off, unable to contain a whoop as they slid together down a long spiral. They landed at the bottom on a moss cushion with a thump.

  The gnome on duty rushed forward to assist her.

  “Pezzik!” he said. “Are you well?” Concern painted his large nose a rosy pink. Hair needled from his ears, and his bushy eyebrows wriggled as he inspected her thoroughly, concerned. His cap tilted forward
, dangerously askew.

  Pezzik waved him away. “I’m right enough, Ortie, but I do not fancy a climb back up. Could you send someone to see to my mare? Her name is Misselthwaite.”

  “Of course.” Ortie signaled to a shadowed corner. A very short fat gnome waddled out and bobbed a bow before hurrying from the room.

  Pezzik removed her cap and checked its contents. She patted the pack strapped to Chance and nodded to herself. “Thank you, there may be others along directly, I expect. Watch for them.”

  As the sentry took up his position, Pezzik followed a winding passage, Chance at her heels.

  The passage widened. It was clean, carpeted with springy moss and lighted with glowstones. Pezzik strode quickly, impatient to see Thurial. When the passage opened into the Burrow-Moot, she barely slowed. Sunlight shafted down through several holes far above.

  The Moot was abuzz with activity, bustling in the underlying rhythm thrumming through each individual gnome. Pezzik paused to survey the scene before diving into the fray.

  The daily cadence of her kin created a rhythmic music startling to anyone not accustomed to it. She stepped around two tiny tangled giggling gnomelings. She hopped past a group of grunting girls pulling taffy into long twists. Nodding gnomefathers sat at a stones board, pebbles clicking as they played. A bossy gnomemother ordered several squirrels to haul a net full of nuts into another passage. She stamped her foot. Young gnomes hefted hewn walking staves, tapping the tiles as they trooped out. Tiny children of all ages danced, dodging their mothers and their chores. The Burrow’s badger snored near the warm central fire, pretending to be a bear. All of the sounds combined, drumming together so perfectly, Pezzik ached to dance. For Pezzik, it was a heartbeat. It meant she was home.

  Rows of tables and chairs dominated one side of the Moot. Here Pezzik spied her prey, a tall thin gnome with a floor-length beard, high-peaked cap, and curled mustaches. She swept toward him. “Thurial, it’s time!” she shouted.

  “Eh? What’s that? Time for what, dear girl?” the old gnome regarded her kindly.

  Pezzik sighed and picked up the large ear trumpet next to Thurial, twisting it in her hands. She placed the small end into the gnomefather’s ear and shouted into the large end. “It’s time to move to a new Burrow, Thurial. The Conclave is burning Whitley Cottage, and they will come here soon. It’s time to leave. We have to go now.”

  Thurial snorted. He picked up his pipe and tapped it on the table, gesturing for Pezzik to sit across from him. “Tell me from the beginning,” he said, “And have a spot of tea.” Thurial rang a bell beside him three times.

  Within a few minutes, more bells were ringing, and the Burrow was preparing to move.

  e

  The Chapterhouse held its secrets close. All villagers knew acolytes lived under the building, their refectory and dormitory built into the clay and stone. Tunnels and vaulted chambers extended out from the central underground living area. Beyond that, crypts five centuries old held the dignified remains of prominent village families.

  Some passages held thick-walled chambers only known to a few.

  In one of these, far from the refectory and all other public areas, High Cantor Nadir gestured for the next penitent to be brought in. The acolytes ushered her to the high-backed chair in front of him, not gently. Nadir’s eyes flicked from his list to the young woman. She was older than he recalled.

  “Bell, is it?” he said, leaning over the ancient black desk.

  “You know right well it’s me, Cantor. You’ve known me since I could walk.” Bell glared at the acolytes who had dragged her into the chamber. Her disheveled hair and clothes hinted she’d been roused from bed for questioning. She had spent the wee hours of the morning and early dawn in a stark room, alone, waiting to speak with the cantor. Every second had stoked her ire. She was nearly snarling when the time finally came.

  “You’re a deemling, aren’t you?” Nadir leaned forward, looking at Bell as if she’d suddenly sprouted wings. The unexpected question silenced her, chilling her fury.

  Bell blinked, suddenly uncertain. “Your Grace, you know Jax. Yes, I am a deemling.”

  “Where is the little fellow this morning?” Nadir asked, his voice quiet, measured. Something in the cantor’s voice shook Bell.

  “He took the new bard to visit the Burrows. He won’t return for a few days.” She tossed her head. “Is there something you need from him?”

  Nadir shook his head and leaned back in his chair, regarding Bell with a satisfied expression. “Do you know why deemae are chosen, Bell? Do you know what the Apokrypha says?”

  Bell froze, her mouth agape. “Deemae aren’t mentioned in the Apokrypha, Cantor,” she whispered. “Not anywhere.”

  “Not directly,” Nadir agreed. “They aren’t. Your friend Dane is a deemling too, isn’t he? And young Stu Callin. Mary Planor, the Frenner family, the Smiths, and the Hodges. Only a few of you now. There used to be scores.”

  Nadir rose and moved out from behind the ornately carved desk. He leaned against it, looking down his thin nose, his eyes hooded in the blazing torch light. The cantor’s mouth twisted. His next words reached out to caress her in a much too intimate manner.

  “But you are, of course, mentioned in the Apokrypha. It’s just the passage in question is a mystery only revealed when you reach enlightenment. Before that, a mind cannot hold the truth, and it will fade from your memory within an hour. Would you like to know what it says about deemling?” Excited like a child, he leaned forward. The flickering light reflected from his eyes.

  Bell cautiously nodded.

  Nadir walked behind Bell’s chair. He leaned forward to whisper directly in her ear, enunciating distinctly. “It says that you are dewin.” His hand clamped on her shoulder, holding her down as an acolyte held her from the other side. She did not resist. A bell tolled, and the scent of decaying roses filled the room.

  It was a long time before Bell stopped screaming.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  SARA KEPT HER hood up as she rushed into the Tank. Late. She grabbed her clipboard and scanned it. Tonight she was harvesting, this time a different strain.

  Sara grabbed her cutting tool and gloves. She headed through the vast main greenhouse toward Annex B, a smaller pod used for the varietals. These needed to be sequestered so they didn’t cross pollinate. The entire annex was full of the alternative hemp strain, with hundreds of plants. Large narrow troughs in the floor formed aisles, with each seven-foot plant set into the trough in its own pot.

  Scott Black rhythmically hacked in the next row over, grunting with the effort. He laid large stalks on the cart next to him to be dried and retted. Sara waved as she entered, resisting the urge to retreat further into her hoodie. She headed for the far corner of the building, grabbed a cart, and chose a row as far from Scott as possible. She craved alone time.

  Sara jammed her headphones into her ears, cranked up her Paganini CD and got to work. The music soothed her raw emotions. By the time it got to the fifth track, she was humming along and dancing in place. She picked up a large stalk, twirling right into Scott, who stood eating an apple at the end of her row, watching with a decidedly amused grin.

  “Good grief!” Tearing her headphones out she scrambled to regain her dignity. “There you go again, standing where I’m going,” she snapped. “I thought you’d learned your lesson.”

  Scott laughed. “Sorry, I heard an angel and had to see where the music was coming from. Then I saw you. Do you want to help me find the angel?”

  Sara made a face and whacked Scott on his head with the hemp stalk. “Shame on you, spying on me,” she said, placing the hemp on her cart. “I’ve had a rough day, am quite content to take it out on the hemp and not on you.”

  “Yeah?” Scott arched a brow at Sara. “I’ve got just the cure for a rough day. It’s almost time to clock out. Do you have any plans for tonight?”

  Sara’s lips quirked in a smile despite herself.

  “I guess I do now.”
>
  Scott’s car was a pristine blue Mazda RX-7. He held the door open. Sara curtsied, lightly mocking, before sliding into the passenger seat. “Such a gentleman.”

  “I am, really.” He closed the door as if he were tucking her into bed, rounded the car, and settled himself behind the wheel.

  “I’m still not used to this car, got it for my birthday,” Scott said. The headlights flipped up as he turned the key in the ignition. “We’re not going far, but I think you’ll like this place. I go there sometimes to think after a hard day. You’ll dig it.”

  “Are you from here originally?”

  “Yeah, I grew up in the Highlands, went to Trinity.”

  “Hm, I am surprised we never met. I went to Sacred Heart, right down the street,” said Sara.

  “I was a football player…didn’t have time for much, outside practice and school.”

  “Oh.” Trinity was one of the best football schools in the state. She looked out the window as Scott maneuvered the sports car through campus and on to Eastern Parkway. They passed the mansions lining the wide street, many of them converted into student apartments. One had a yard overrun with garden gnomes.

  Were the gnomes waving? No. Just my imagination.

  “So we’re going to the Highlands? I’ve been there, you know. Hippie central.”

  Scott glanced at her and grinned. He shook his head. “I told you, I’m looking for angels.”

  He turned left. Large Tudor homes lined these streets. They passed a small park. A stone wall towered on the right. They continued for blocks before turning onto a drive blocked by massive wrought-iron gates. Scott pulled up and got out of the car, leaving the engine running. He walked over and pressed a button embedded in the wall. He spoke quietly into a speaker. A buzz answered, and the gates swung inward, opening. Scott jumped back into the car and inched it inside. The massive gates shut behind them.