Sorrowfish

by Anne C Miles

“Take this message to the docks. There will be a man there named Sartor. You will find his vessel docked with a blue flag. He is expecting this. Let him know that this must get to the Conclave Chapterhouse in Bestua immediately. He is to give it to Modric only. They will admit him when he tells them it is from Aric. He must put this in Modric’s hands himself. Is this understood?”

  The acolyte nodded, turning deathly pale.

  “Repeat the message back to me,” Aric ordered.

  The acolyte stammered, his bald head shining with sweat. “G-go to the docks, find Sartor. He has a boat with a blue flag. He is to give this to Modric at the Cantorium—”

  “At the Chapterhouse,” Aric corrected. “It’s behind the Cantorium. The campus is large. But he must go to the Chapterhouse. Again from the beginning.”

  The acolyte repeated the instructions word perfect this time. With a wave, Aric dismissed him.

  Noorie quickly climbed out of the office, climbing into one of the empty rooms. He found blank parchment and scribbled a quick message. He folded it, sealing it with the wax and seal on the desk. He stowed it within his cap and scaled the wall again, popping through the other side. He scrambled to the roof. He spied the acolyte messenger plodding slowly down a side street toward the docks.

  Noorie caught up to a nearby pigeon. He instructed it to fly to Popple and ask him to swap his parchment from the acolyte. He could see Popple hanging from the side of the cobbler’s shop. The pigeon cooed, agreeing, as Noorie grabbed his own parchment from his cap, along with a bit of thread and a needle. He threaded the needle through his message and tied it carefully to the pigeon’s foot, bidding it to hurry.

  The pigeon took off as Noorie watched. It circled Popple. He spotted the parchment hanging from its leg and followed it to the roof. When he reached for the parchment, the pigeon pecked at his hands. Popple listened to the bird and grinned, turning to look for Noorie. Seeing him, he waved and nodded. He detached the message from the bird’s foot. Popple scurried along the tile rooftops and ridgepoles till he was at the end of the last row. The acolyte must pass that way just before he reached the dock. Popple carefully crawled down the side of the building.

  Noorie held his breath, certain the acolyte would see Popple. Popple sank into the stone of the building until only his long nose and the tip of his cap were visible. As the acolyte walked by, his long arm shot out filching the packet from the acolyte’s pocket. The man kept walking, oblivious. Popple cast Noorie’s parchment into the street and shimmied back up the side of the building. He waved again and started running toward the inn’s roof, jumping the gaps between buildings.

  The counterfeit parchment blew in the wind and settled onto the cobbled lane, like an injured dove.

  Noorie scrambled down a gutter, not waiting for the acolyte to retrace his steps and find the false parchment. Whatever Aric’s message said, it was certain to help them rescue their deemling. Even better, the note Modric should now receive would go down as one of Noorie’s greatest exploits.

  Chesed climbed the tower stairs, his steps ringing through the aerie. The wind whistled through fluted spires. Tonight the wind sang of choices and longing. For too long it had carried only hopeless fear aloft. Dissonance had colored the wind’s tune. Chesed was grateful for the hope, the change in tone.

  The moon watched Chesed as he stopped on the landing and entered the translucent pavilion. It bathed the stone, painting it with a pale glow. The light fell on a towering copy of his own likeness, his signet. Two legs, two arms, nearly human in appearance, save for the unnatural height and too-thin build that marked an unwinged chymaera. The stone figure had hair so real it appeared to ruffle. Marble clothing mimicked his own, the texture of loose linen, not the silk most of his fellows wore. Chesed’s eyes shone pale Profi silver, while the stone was only gray. Yet the marble expression captured his heartfire. Chesed walked around the signet, contemplating. It waited for him, waited to merge with his Profi form in the ancient Quickening ceremony, the rite which would finally grant him wings.

  His signet had been waiting for over three hundred years.

  Chesed knelt and sang to the Storm King. The song began as the wordless cry of an eagle, changing to reflect what he had heard tonight in the wind. He sang about his choices and longings, his failures and fears. He took the wind’s melody as his own and offered it back to the Storm King with humility and thanks. Everyone claimed the Storm King was dead, but Chesed refused to believe it. His faith fueled his resolve, even as it isolated him from the others. I know you are at work, my Lord. Even now. He dared not share this hope with anyone else yet. He apologized for his cowardice and finished with another eagle cry. He rose and walked around the form again. It had changed slightly in response to his song. It always did, though the changes were miniscule. The hair had moved; the eyes were uplifted. Seeking the wind’s hope.

  He grasped the two hands of his signet briefly. They warmed under his fingers, his heartfire kindling communion between them. He smiled at it. It smiled back, mirroring him, much as a Speaker would. He wished—he hoped to Quicken. He gave silent voice to his longing, reaching toward his elders, the cyntae, in his heart. No answer.

  He turned and began his long trek back down the stairs.

  Some of his brothers had forsaken the daily rite in despair. These had abandoned their signets and joined the Pryf, their silver eyes turning blue or green. Not Chesed. He would never turn his back on the Storm King.

  Chesed loped through the branching passages that riddled the Aerie. Some were huge, where trees grew, and gardens bloomed. Some were so narrow only one person at a time could squeeze through. Carved by Song, the Aerie was a wonder of delicate towers and intricate whorls, lacelike formations. Trees blended with stone, growing entwined with the karst spires. Their root systems adorned the lower passages, branching into and out of the stone itself before burrowing greedily into cold pools of water. Steps twined around the spires like vines, leading up to the flight platforms and aeries of the Derbyn, the accepted.

  The Profi, the unproven, and the Pryf, the rejected, were assigned to lower passages, earthbound.

  Chesed turned through the labyrinth, captured by the play of moonlight on lacework stone. He slowed and absorbed the beauty, adding it to his heartfire. He moved on, turning toward the heart of the Aerie, the songpitches. The massive Cyntaf, a giant stone gryphon, towered over this open field. The field was divided into octagons, or pitches, each connecting to the next like honeycomb, bordered by diamonds. Chesed smiled as he watched the other Profi working by moonlight, like bees. He was sure they would not appreciate the comparison.

  The Profi labored, one to a section, wrestling with the Song. In front of each was a block of marble. Some used tools, as men did, singing as they worked. The more learned used only Song, mouths working silently. The pitches contained all sound, allowing none to escape. Impish, whimsical figures took shape under each voice. The best of these would adorn the quarters of Derbyn, feeding their heartfires. Some would become Speakers, replacing the failing or inert grotesques in the Aeries, as well as those in the human’s Sundered City. Each lesser form might serve as a Watcher or a Taker.

  Chesed found an empty pitch and entered, singing the names of the cyntae to bond it and keep his song from spilling out. He signaled to a black-winged Derbyn. The gryphon lifted a piece of stone gently into the pitch. Chesed sang a thank you. The gryphon inclined his massive hawk’s head in response and flew back to his perch.

  Chesed stared at the stone. He touched it, feeling its inner form. He caught a glimpse of the figure lurking within the stone, closed his eyes and reached for his heartfire. He sat, listening. He had barely begun to see the form of the shaping song when a shadow fell across his face, blocking the moonlight.

  It was M’ra, eldest of the Derbyn. She entered the songpitch quickly. Her ancient eyes gleamed golden. She was unwinged, wearing a silken gown to cover her slim ivory limbs. Long hair flowed over a finely shaped head and long neck. It was a s
ign of deep respect, to appear so before a mere Profi, unwinged. Chesed was humbled. He bowed deeply.

  “M’ra.” Chesed covered his heart with his hand, indicating the gift of his heartfire. M’ra bowed and covered her heart in reply.

  “Walk with me, Chesed,” said M’ra. Her command brooked no argument. Chesed sang the names of the cyntae again to unbond the pitch. As they left the space, another Profi entered, taking his place. The Profi sang before silence fell, separating them from the work.

  M’ra led Chesed out of the songpitch field and into a large park just beyond. Trees here soared, growing so close together with vines and moss they nearly hid the stone walls. A waterfall cascaded into a large pool at one end. Paths wound around low grassy knolls and flower beds. Starlight seeped through the leafy canopy above.

  “Did you hear the wind today, little brother?” asked M’ra.

  Chesed answered quickly, his pulse racing. “Yes, lady. It sang of hope.”

  “Why do you think it sang so?”

  “I do not know, eldest.”

  “I do not know either, little brother. But I would know, and I would see through your eyes. I would know as a Profi knows and see what a Profi sees. You shall travel with me as I conduct my work, little brother. You shall ride and talk to men. You shall be ears and eyes to me. I would know what your heartfire gathers.”

  Chesed was stunned. It was unheard of for a mere Profi to leave the Aerie, and in such exalted company. “Why, M’ra?” The question left his lips before he could stop it.

  M’ra regarded him with amused eyes. “We Derbyn have sought for truth and solutions for five centuries. Still our Cyntaf does not quicken with the voice of Renato. Only Doran comes, and that, rarely. We cannot perform your Quickening, however perfect your signet might be. You long to see the shape of your true form at last. You seek to fly. You see more clearly perhaps, because of this desire. You are still young and have not been shrouded with the pain we know.”

  Chesed bowed his head.

  “Watch the Conclave cantors, listen as we serve them. Tell me all you hear. You shall speak your thoughts to me alone,” M’ra said. She looked at him, her ageless face glowing softly in the starlight. “Meet me here at noon tomorrow. We shall begin our journey of new eyes. May the cyntae bless it and give us what we seek.”

  Pezzik waited. Jax read Aric’s message slowly, his bushy eyebrows drawn. This message might hold the key to Bell’s freedom. She bit her tongue, willing herself to silence and patience. It’s his deemling, she told herself after a quarter hour had passed. Jax grunted, turning the page over and kept reading. Pezzik cleared her throat and settled noisily in her chair. Jax didn’t look up. She cleared her throat again.

  “I’m trying to read this. You just made me lose my place. Now I have to start over.” Jax leveled a look at Pezzik. He looked at the parchment again, but before he could focus, Pezzik lost her grip on patience.

  She plucked it from his hands. “You see here, Jax na’Timmon”—she waggled a finger under his nose, waving the parchment for emphasis—“You are not the only gnome to have lost a deemling, and the proper thing is to read this aloud. As you’re too addlepated to do so, I’ll help you.” She fixed him with a glare, challenging him to protest.

  Behind her, the other deema nodded and fidgeted, murmuring.

  Jax sputtered, objecting, but his complaints died under the weight of her indignance. “Go ahead,” he said with a sigh.

  Pezzik began to read.

  Master Modric,

  All is proceeding well. As you suspected, some of the deemling are indeed dewin, though not all responded to the testing we administered. These are still being held for observation. Our experiments will continue when we have them safely at the Rift Chapterhouse with the others. Their proximity to one another and exposure to a cyntae should give exciting new insights. We plan to leave at dawn on Whensday and will arrive no later than midday. Should everything go well, we will proceed to the Tree. I will be exposing them to measure the effects.

  Our trap has sprung. We have discovered the source of the cursed instruments. The luthier’s workshop has been purified, though he did escape with the lute meant for Trystan. Danethor had several strains of tunebell I’ve never seen before. I shall send a specimen along shortly. We have plans to acquire several gnomes along with Trystan. They should help us locate Danethor. I am confident we will do so. However, because the instruments will no longer be crafted, rest assured, your plans will be hindered no longer. Enclosed you will find a drawing to identify the luthier.

  Pezzik looked up, her eyes angry.

  “It’s signed, Master Crafter Aric Miller, The Bindery.” She held up a sketch of Dane, drawn on a separate parchment and tucked in with the note. It was a good likeness.

  “Thank the stars this did not go the Conclave,” she said, shaking her head.

  Noorie stepped forward. “Dawn tomorrow is well and good, but where will the skycart be? And how shall we take the deemling from them? Perhaps we could get one away, but fourteen of them?” His pointed cap drooped.

  Dodd cleared his throat. “I saw the deemling, all of them. I also heard where they are taking them to meet the skycart. The Willow Bottoms. Stu was all right, he could talk. I told him we were planning a rescue. Little Mary Planor was like Bell. The Frenner family except for Jess were all well and the Smiths and the Hodges likewise. They were held separately but seemed whole enough.”

  Popple and Bolly exchanged glances, relief flooding their faces. Noorie’s cap drooped. Mary was his deemling. Tonk kicked a cask of wine in frustration.

  “Jess has only fourteen summers. It ‘tain’t right,” Tonk’s voice broke.

  Jax’s face set with determination. “We will restore them, brothers. We will.”

  The other gnomes agreed, bustling around Tonk and Noorie to show their support. Pezzik hugged them. Popple slapped their backs. Dodd and Bolly tipped their caps. Jax paced, thinking.

  “The Willow Bottoms are south of town, we should get there as soon as possible. They could travel by boat or on foot, but I’ll wager they use boats. We can rescue them at the shore before they reach the skycart. We will need help. We have no idea how many they will take as guards, but a boat would limit their numbers.”

  Pezzik frowned. “The beavers and otters would be close by, and likely a few water rats. We could ask for support. We can speak to any horses.”

  Jax went to his map. “Our best hope is to have our own boat waiting and outrun them. We are agreed that we need to take them to the Caprices for healing? The Conclave cannot enter Siarad.”

  The gnomes nodded as one.

  “All right, we load them into our boat. We take the River Alyn as far as the Thwn Channel and float past Inner Siarad to the village.”

  “What about the chymaera?” Dodd asked.

  “They shouldn’t be assisting in this outrage,” said Popple.

  “Will they attack us?” asked Tonk.

  Bolly said, “Stu and all the others will fight with us.”

  “What if they enchant us?” asked Popple.

  Pezzik shook her head. “Floating past the island at Siarad won’t be simple, the Dread falls thick.”

  Jax waved the questions and worries away. “We shall ask the Storm King for aid, do what we can do. Tonk, Bolly, Pezzik. Go to the mercantile in town, find Poll. Tell him what we need. He will help. Ask Lile for coin to pay for the wares. Meet me at Mod’s house, geared and ready.

  “Noorie, go to the Bottoms with Popple and seek the beaver clan. They should be nesting this time of year. Ask them who else can help. I will take Dodd with me. We will meet you at the largest willow after midnight.”

  Chesed woke, blinking as sunlight streamed into his rooms. He dressed quickly and packed a woven bag with essentials. He loped down the stairs to meet M’ra.

  She was winged today. Her plumed ivory form filled the small meadow. Her massive tail twitched in greeting. She extended her foot and lowered her head, bidding him to ri
de.

  We have much to see, little brother. Her communion was sudden and intimate. When winged, M’ra could sense general emotion from anyone. Chesed could not properly reply as he was not yet Derbyn, so he held grateful thoughts as he climbed onto her neck and settled into the slingback.

  They flew first to retrieve the skycart, a small rectangular building, richly embellished with filigree. M’ra grasped the roofpole in her talons. She spoke to Chesed again, communing.

  N’khum will also take a skycart to the Tree to carry dignitaries from Pelegor and bring mad dewin to be healed. Modric has promised a breakthrough for us. Doran will give us a Quickening ceremony. He claims the mad dewin can assist. We go to fetch them. Yet I am uneasy and would see what else we can learn. We will seek to understand the wind’s new hope.

  Chesed kept his heart and mind open, peaceful. It was the only reply of trust he could make, but M’ra seemed to accept it. She rose into the clouds, and he gripped the slingback, his face turned into the wind as if he could catch its hope and drink it.

  They stopped just outside Ciclaehne so M’ra could shed her wings and rest. The next flight would be long. They were headed deep into the northern Welde. They entered the city and turned through the streets, ignoring the stares of men until they reached M’ra’s favorite tavern, The Stone Guardian. While many of the patrons eyed them warily, they were treated with deference and respect.

  M’ra instructed Chesed as they finished their meal. “Men see us come and go to Conclave Chapterhouses and sometimes the palace. But none of them understand the difference between Profi, Derbyn, and Pryf. When you are alone, if threatened, simply sing, or call to one of the Speakers. They will help you. Most of the time the singing is enough.”

  Chesed raised his eyebrows, shocked. “They would attack us?”

  “It has happened before. A Derbyn can transform, but you are not yet Derbyn. Best not to take chances. I will have you with me always, but I want you to be careful and ready. Stars know, things can go awry when we do not wish it so.”