Sorrowfish

by Anne C Miles

  M’ra gestured to the men and women around them. “The Conclave cantors will have long black robes with arc pins at the collar. Their acolytes wear white and have no hair. Not short, but completely removed.”

  Chesed picked at his plate, scooping up crumbs. “What of the other races?”

  “In the human cities you will see dwarves. They are very short, no larger than four feet tall. Their cousins are gnomes, but I have not seen one in two hundred years. They are even smaller. Gnomes and dwarves love the Song and are usually friendly. In the wilds creatures of shadow thrive. Giants, goblins, spiders, water-leapers. There are other Shadowborn, but we shall not speak of them here.” M’ra fell silent and rose.

  Chesed followed. As they walked through the city, he glimpsed Speakers serving men. Many of them were Wyn crafted, but he noticed some from the other sigils. They made him feel more comfortable in this city, surrounded by so many smaller folk.

  M’ra transformed in a field outside the city gates, and once again they flew. She followed the channel, and they passed close to the World Tree, circling. Chesed had never seen it before. It filled his heartfire to overflowing.

  M’ra winged onward, more swiftly. They flew for hours, with M’ra occasionally breaking into communion to teach him a thing she thought he might need to know. They stopped outside a smaller city called Teredhe and ate again. They winged their way toward the Draigor Mountains and the River Wych. As they neared a mountain lake, M’ra began to circle.

  I will land outside the town. We are meant to be here in secret, tomorrow. We will not announce our presence, but if we are seen, we shall not hide. I will learn more than these Conclaves wish to say.

  Along the river, south of town, a large grove of willow trees bordered a small estuary. A meadow lay beyond. It was a place of uncommon beauty. Here M’ra settled as the moon rose high into the sky. Crickets sang anxiously, disturbed by M’ra as she set the skycart gently down and transformed. Fireflies danced around them, pretending to be stars.

  “It will be difficult to go unnoticed, eldest,” Chesed ventured. “Will we go to town?”

  M’ra nodded. “This late, most will be sleeping. However, we might chance upon someone who has a tale. Come little brother, let us seek to learn more of these cantors.”

  As she set off toward the willows, ready to follow the river to Dohnavur, the crickets’ song grew merry, welcoming. Chesed took up his bag and followed her, listening to the wind and watching the arc of the moon as it began to descend.

  Suddenly, the crickets went silent.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  DANE WOKE, SURPRISED his head wasn’t pounding from all the ale he had consumed the night before. It was dawn. He hadn’t really slept, but he was alert. He dressed quickly, emptied most of his purse and hid the contents under his thick feather mattress. He needed a new pair of boots, quickly. For that matter, he really needed to change his entire appearance. He had pondered the problem the night before, brooding.

  He ducked out of his room and down the stairs.

  Dane’s description could have been passed throughout all Conclave chapters by now. At the larger Chapters, there would be questioners, skilled at detecting Dissonance. Lies could be almost scented by a questioner. And if there were no questioners? This was Ciclaehne. Each active Speaker had the talent.

  Dane had to come up with a method to hide his identity from the Conclave, while not rousing suspicion from the Northmen or the dwarf. He must manage to deceive questioners, all without overtly speaking a lie. Thorny.

  He shouldn’t go. This was madness. He was just guessing what the fae meant with her babbled phrases. The game is not a game. It could mean anything. But he had already committed. If he didn’t show up, the dwarf would look for him.

  It was early, yet the streets bustled with activity. Dane traced his way back to the shanties below the outer wall. Beyond the gate, rows of pavilions, shacks, and other makeshift shelters crouched, haphazard. Like drunken sailors, they lurched and leaned into each other, leaving no space between them. Where space did open, shadows pooled. Dane surveyed the scene, impassive, before heading into their midst.

  Dane was relieved to find a likely tinker after only a short walk. He lounged on a low stool in the shadows of a makeshift storefront.

  “That’ll be a one and a ha’penny, young sir,” the tinker said to Dane, handing him nondescript pewter buckles. Dane paid the man, pocketing the buckles with a murmured thanks and continued down the tented path on the lookout for a barber. Children played in the distance, chanting an old rhyme.

  One two three, Lord Domini

  Four, Five, Renato is alive

  Six seven, Miah is in Heaven,

  Eight, nine, Faron is Father Time,

  Ten, eleven, who falls from Heaven.

  Twelve, thirteen, fourteen

  Solimon ’n’ Lalo are courting

  Fifteen takes all

  Tieson breaks the Fall.

  Doran turns, turns, turns

  The Wyrm burns, burns, burns

  Cyntae bright, cyntae might

  Keep us safe till morning.

  Dane stopped, listening. He felt a pang of homesickness and shook his head to clear it. No time to wallow today. His eyes fell on a painted white pole wrapped with bloody linens, two shacks down. Perfect. The mottled bell on the door jingled as he entered.

  “Good morning, young sir.” The barber smiled from behind a large wooden chair. “How might I be of service? Do you need a shave? A tooth pulled? An illness cured?” He motioned to the array of instruments behind him, some rather fearsome. Pincers, claws, knives, scissors, and razors all neatly shone on trays.

  “I need a shave,” said Dane. “I need you to shave my entire head.”

  The barber beamed. “The fashion of acolytes! Are you bound to the Chapterhouse then?”

  Dane nodded, returning the smile. “Aye, I’m due to go today.”

  “Well, say no more, I shall make you suitable in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

  “Also, I do not wish to have my tooth pulled, but believe a packing of garlic and fabric would help one in the back. ’Tis bothersome. My mum taught me the trick,” Dane said. “Might I get a bit of clean packing?”

  “Certainly, young fellow, and the garlic as well. ’Tis a remedy I myself employ to save a tooth. Your mother is a wise woman.”

  “Yes, she was. She was.”

  When Dane emerged from the barber’s shack, his boot buckles had been replaced. His thick shock of black hair was completely gone, and the right side of his face was packed with garlic and linen. The pungent odor made his eyes water, but the smell would deter the curious. He’d venture even Pezzik would not know him on sight.

  He purchased gently worn garb, a linen tunic, a cloak, and a leather jerkin. Almost ready. He returned to his room and quickly donned his new clothing. He belted the tunic, covering all with the hooded traveling cloak, and then headed back downstairs, preparing to explain his transformation. This was the thorny bit.

  Dane was directed to the stables behind the inn, where he found Bellin, Harald, and Birgir saddling their mounts, preparing for the day’s journey.

  “Can I help you, sir?” asked Bellin, as Dane approached.

  “Aye,” said Dane in a passable rendition of the dwarf’s thick Northern brogue. “I need to know if you’ve seen a thieving scamp of a weevil by the name of Danethor. Lad has made off, breaking a promise to a fine young lass. I mean to uphold her honor and bring him home.”

  Birgir stepped forward, ready to defend his young friend, but Harald pointed at Dane and began laughing.

  Birgir stopped, glaring at Dane and back again to Harald in confusion. He peered more closely. “By Lalo’s right tit, you’re a proper knave!”

  He walked up to Dane and squarely punched him on the nose. Dane reeled, taking a step back and did the only sensible thing. He crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

  Dane revived suddenly, sputtering as Birgir doused him with a bucket of
water. “Solimon’s balls!” he yelled, trying to roll out of the deluge. He immediately regretted moving as his head swam. He coughed, wiped his face on the sleeve of his new tunic, and gingerly felt his nose. It didn’t seem to be broken, but he could feel his face swelling. He spat out the garlic packing and glared at Birgir, who only laughed.

  “Since you’re dodging a woman and likely a wedding, you’ll be glad to have your face changed,” Birgir said. “I only tapped you.”

  He handed Dane a wet cloth. Dane stood and wiped the blood from his lip.

  Bellin said, “Can you ride, Danethor?”

  Dane shook his head slowly. “Not after that wallop. I’ll just slow you down.” He felt a need to vomit. His head hurt and vision swam. Stars, but the man’s fist was huge.

  Bellin, Harald, and Birgir conferred for a moment, heads together, and came to an agreement. Bellin pulled a small pouch from his saddlebag and tossed it to Dane, along with a water skin. “Take one pinch,” he instructed. “And wash it down. ’Twill set you to rights.”

  Dane eyed the pouch with frank suspicion. “You lot have tried to kill me twice now. What is this?”

  Harald snorted. “If we’d tried to kill you, you’d be dead. It was just a tap.”

  Birgir laughed and thumped Dane on the back, a little too hard. “Harald thinks a punch is a kiss, it’s his way. And that,” he pointed to the pouch, “is willow bark and ginger. ’Twill help your aching head.”

  “You’ll be able to ride,” said Bellin.

  “Why is it so important that I come along, Bellin? Do you really think a deemling is going to give you any information at the Tree you might not have yourself?” Dane was serious. He took a pinch of the powder and quickly washed it down, then tossed the skin back to the dwarf.

  “We have time for the entire tale. It will take a bit for the potion to help you,” said Bellin. “Listen and after, you tell us what’s what.” Bellin claimed a hay bale in the corner, gesturing for his companions to join him. Harald sighed, produced his pipe, and settled on an adjacent bench. Dane and Birgir arranged themselves between.

  “We told you our forges are failing. The truth is, folk believe the Conclave is a festering ball of pus controlling nations, and the Song itself needs to stop flowing,” he said. “They teach when the Tree fully dies, nothing will happen.

  “These perfect fools do not believe in the Breaking or the events directly after. They’ve stirred unrest in smaller towns from Mos Tevis to the Fells,” said Birgir, his face darkening.

  “One of these fine young radicals is a lordling named Gisle de Clelland. He and his cronies visited the Forge at Mos Tevis in the weeks before we left for this mission.”

  “He mentioned two things to our Forgelord, Tenkor, of particular import. Firstly, Gisle told Tenkor the true reason for our troubles wasn’t due to the Tree. He said it was Conclave interference. Secondly, he said gnomes might have the key to ridding us of our dependence on the Conclave. When pressed, he would say no more, but he was very keen for any lore we might have.

  “We looked into our records, and indeed, there are many accounts of gnomic crafting. They do not use songlines as we do. We are interested to learn more. Burrows have fallen silent over the years.” Bellin lit his pipe, puffed and continued. “But the true reason we feel you might be a help to us today is one we almost dare not mention.”

  Here, Bellin leaned forward and looked at Dane with a solemn expression. “I don’t want to alarm you lad, but you might have a knack. And if you do, we’d like to find out.”

  “Knack?” Dane tasted the word aloud. He recoiled in shock and half stood. “I’m not mad, Bellin, I only shaved my head. You haven’t met Bell and her deema.”

  Bellin put a placating hand on his arm. “No, lad, don’t misunderstand. We aren’t hidebound Welden folk. We do not believe every bleating of the cantors. You’re obviously a good lad in his right mind. We’re not saying you are dewin. Before the Breaking, deemling and deemae often served the majisters. They had prized skills and talents, knacks. Some were small, finding water. Others were rarer and more prized. Understanding languages and the like. When the dewin went mad,” Bellin said, “anyone who had worked with the Song was taken by the Conclave. Taken, watched, and purified as needed. Most deemling were eventually sent home. Most, but not all.” He tapped the side of his nose.

  “So you think deemling have a talent with the Song, and if I get close to the Tree...I’ll see something?”

  Birgir and Harald nodded.

  “What if I can’t help you? What am I supposed to do? What sort of thing might happen?” Dane’s voice stayed low as he faced the three Northerners.

  Bellin cut him off. “We do not know, but ’tis worth walking through a dark tunnel to find out what lies beyond, since, by the cyntae’s grace, we met you. Just come with us, look at the Tree and say what you see. You do not have to do more. The old knacks were cottage helps. Some could find water easily. Others could tell the weather. Might be you have none, or it will be of no use at all. Mayhap you will see something we can use. No matter how the stones roll, we aren’t asking you to do anything to cause harm.”

  Dane pursed his lips, weighing his thoughts, and slowly said, “I have always wanted to see the Tree. My deema said I am daft as a rock, make no mistake. I’m unlikely to be able to help you. But I will try.”

  Harald beamed and thumped the bench. “Good lad.”

  “One other thing,” Dane said. “I told you I would need a favor before we went. It’s a small thing but will set my mind at ease.”

  Bellin nodded, encouraging him to continue.

  “I need you to hire me. I’ll only charge you a copper.” He shifted uneasily. “It’s just so if asked, you can truthfully say that I am one of your servants. It’s about the girl, you see.” Not an outright lie. Bell could be hurt if he was discovered. Still, he was walking a fine line.

  Bellin grunted and walked over to his pony’s saddlebag, rooting in it for a moment before coming up with a small object, which he tossed to Dane. “You’re hired.”

  Dane looked in his lap and gawked. There in his lap was a small ruby.

  Birgir got up and went to locate another horse for Dane.

  Bellin barked a laugh at Dane’s expression. “Don’t worry, my boy. Before this day is done, you will have earned every penny.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHESED AND M’RA both halted, listening.

  The silence had been broken by splashing, muffled curses, and enthusiastic shushing coming from the largest willow, the low buzz of conversation. A pointed cap poked out from the willow fronds, then vanished.

  Chesed strained to make sense of what was being said.

  “...sure the otters know the plan. They’ll need to have the slides built by...Noorie, you and Tonk will have th...at the end...ready to...the deemlings. Pezzik and I are going to go...and see...guess...cart will be...yes, Popple?”

  “Pardon, Jax, but...two chymaera over there, I thought you ought to know.” The voice was loud. Excited.

  “Two?” A row of red caps popped through the curtain of willow branches in succession.

  Chesed counted seven of them. M’ra smiled in delight upon seeing the gnomes. Their earnest faces reflected varying degrees of consternation and wonder at the sight of her. She took a slow step forward. Her long white hair flowed unbraided over alabaster skin, gathering moonlight until it glowed. She knelt to examine the gnomes but did not speak. She simply waited. Chesed took a step forward to join her.

  The gnomemother stepped out and cleared her throat. She marched up to M’ra and curtsied deeply. “Greetings, Children of the Dawn, I am called Pezzik,” she said, her voice clear and resolute. She motioned the others forward. “These are fellow deema from my Burrow. Jax, Tonk, Noorie, Popple, Bolly, and Dodd.” She pointed to each in turn as they emerged from the sheltering branches.

  “Thank you for the gift of your names, cousin. I am M’ra, Derbyn of the Wyn Aerie. This is Chesed.”

&
nbsp; Chesed bowed from the waist, his eyes crinkling as he smiled. These gnomes were less than half his height and reminded him very much of his impish grotesques. It was delightful to meet living examples.

  Pezzik’s brow furrowed. She cleared her throat. “We normally live in the Heyewood, not in the Willow Bottoms. It’s been an age since we’ve seen your folk, but I do remember a few. I was but a wee lass.”

  Chesed squatted next to M’ra, to put himself on the gnomes’ level. “The hour is late, and you are far from your Burrow.”

  Pezzik nodded, looking at the other gnomes, as if she hoped someone else would explain. One stepped forward, and the others drew in closer, but they didn’t speak. Her conical hat curled to one side as she spoke. “You see our deemling have been taken by the Conclave. We are deema. Guardians. We are here to rescue our charges as they will be moved tomorrow.”

  She crossed her arms and eyed M’ra.

  “What we don’t understand is how you folk came to help the cantors do this thing.” The gnomemother’s tone was sharp.

  M’ra blinked. “Your deemling?” She tilted her head, considering, and stood, straightening to her full height.

  These creatures have no right to judge the Wyn.

  “We are here to bring mad dewin to a place where they can harm no one and perhaps be aided. We know nothing of deemling.” M’ra’s voice chilled. “If your deemling are our dewin, they must be kept from violence.”

  “My Bell has harmed no one,” said one of the taller gnomes, stepping forward. He crossed his arms, mirroring Pezzik. His cap quivered. “These cantors have hurt her. They were all right as rain before they were purified. Now some can’t help themselves or speak.”

  Horror stuck Chesed like a blow as he heard the gnome speak. He saw it mirrored on M’ra’s face, quickly replaced by pity. “It is always so with dewin. They must be disabled. Do you remember the days just after the Song was broken, and the darkness fell? Gnomes live nearly as long as we do. Do you recall how the dewin raged?”