by Anne C Miles
Do you feel it little brother? Dissonance. Never have I heard Dissonance in the voice of any living creature… other than true dewin as they sing. This gnome carries their blight. All who meet him should be affected. Yet clearly they are not. A mystery.
Jax nodded, tapping the side of his nose. “Not all raged, lady. Elsewhere, they did. The gnomes of the Heyewelde were warned before the War. We trained with Majister Jamis himself to prepare and kept our dewin from madness. These and their descendants became our deemae, watched and guarded by the most brave, the most daring.”
M’ra looked at Jax, her face icy with rage. “You lie, there is Dissonance in your voice.”
The gnomes all looked truly frightened…all except Pezzik. “He is not lying, lady. ’Tis true,” she said. “Yes, some deemling may be dewin but most are not. Those with the full gift are rare. Yet when they do have it, we ensure they never succumb to Dissonance. Not one under my watch has gone mad in five centuries!”
M’ra dismissed her claim with a wave, shaking her head. “You have not truly had dewin. They all go mad. I hear them, you see. I heard them on that last day. I heard them in the months after, and I would hear them now, if I were close enough. I will hear them tomorrow. Madness, gibbering meaningless madness fills their hearts. It consumes, and they lash out. It has been so since the Tree was riven to now. We thought the last dewin we transported died centuries ago, as mad as the rest.”
She studied the other gnome, Jax, for a long quiet moment. “You might not know you lie. But there is a Dissonance in your voice. I feel it. You cannot speak truly.”
Chesed stood, his voice low and smooth despite the upset he felt. When the male gnome spoke, his voice twisted. It was palpable.
“The lady speaks what she feels, and I feel it as well. I hear Dissonance in you, gnome. I didn’t see the destruction they wrought, but I know dewin murdered many of my people with music on their lips. They sang as only they could. So many died. We grieve their loss with you.”
Pezzik stared down the two chymaera, her voice steady but rising in volume. “How do you think we saved the dewin, Children of the Morning? Do you think we forced stone to take their pain? Lured animals to be targets for their rage? No. We took their Dissonance into our very bones. What you feel from Jax is not untruth. ’Twas his heart that first found the way. The learning of it affected him. That is what you sense. He is as true a soul as you would ever know.”
M’ra laughed. “No one can take madness from another nor Dissonance. We sought for centuries to find a shield. You could do what we could not? No. Little cousins, you have done what you could for the unfortunates, and for this we give you thanks. You truly believe lies. You have carried them long. This might be the source of Dissonance in the one you call Jax. For that reason we shall let him live. We do not wish you harm. But we shall take your friends, your dewin, and keep them from harming others. We shall aid the Conclave, as we have before.”
It was a dismissal.
As one, Chesed and M’ra turned away.
“Wait!” The gnome called Jax was running after them, his face desperate, his cap nearly falling off his head. “You said you could hear dewin?”
M’ra nodded.
“Then let us have those you cannot hear and take them home. They are no threat to anyone. If you do not hear them, they are not truly dewin.”
M’ra hesitated, looking at Chesed. He gazed into the eyes of the wizened gnome, admiring his courage. As true a soul as you will ever know. Pezzik’s words rang within him like a shaping song in his pitch, despite the Dissonance in the other gnome’s voice. Chesed held his impressions fast, making them as clear as possible for M’ra to read. Mercy.
Perhaps we shape your signet in this place, as well as in our home, little brother, M’ra said.
M’ra spoke to the gnome aloud. “What you ask is permissible. It shall be done.”
“And let us go with the others. Pezzik and I,” said Jax. His small figure stood solemn, immovable. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He removed a handkerchief from his cap and mopped his brow. “We shall not interfere. We need to know where they are being taken, so—”
“You shall have nothing more to do with dewin.” M’ra seemed to grow taller, her features hardening into marble. She did not raise her voice, but her words slashed forth. “Do not try my patience. Innocent you may be, but Dissonant you are. I should by all rights end you. That I do not is a sign of my mercy and faith that you are indeed harmless. Do not test it. If you try to take the dewin, you shall die by my talon.”
The gnome did not bend under the chymaera’s threat. He returned her gaze, uncowed.
Chesed intervened, lest M’ra change her mind and rip the gnome to shreds. “We shall send the silent deemling to your willow at dawn. Good evening.”
He stepped forward and took M’ra’s hand, leading her away toward the village. As they disappeared into the shadows, Chesed heard the gnomes whispering of their foolish defiance.
Quietly Chesed prayed to the Storm King, knowing M’ra might understand, even if the Lord did not answer.
Please, give these gnomes the wisdom to walk away. Let them live.
Gisle de Clelland watched the scene unfolding in the Willow Bottoms with great interest. He could not hear what was said, but it wasn’t important. He had eyes only for the small figures in their conical caps, speaking with the chymaera.
Gnomes. Some do yet live.
He signaled with his hands to his scout, Brock, silently. Move forward, listen, report.
That done, he leaned back and waited. It was too dark to see expressions. He dismissed the tableau, turned, and walked back to his camp, two miles away from the river. His guards, Rennet and Martine, followed.
Gisle’s travel pavilion was small, but adequate for his needs on the road. A small cot, a chest, a folding chair, and an oil lamp were all he required. His guards left him, taking up stations around the perimeter. He pushed the fabric panel that served as a door to one side. His was a soldier’s camp. His was a soldier’s life, despite his noble birth. Discipline. He crossed to his cot and sat, pulling a weathered book from under his mattress. Gisle traced a map marked with gnome burrows. His generous mouth pursed as he considered their position. His company had landed south of the Heyegrove, intending to spend time in the village and restock while they considered their next move.
When Brock reported unusual activity in Dohnavur, they had regrouped. The reconnaissance mission tonight had been meant to discover the lay of the land. Gisle had not been prepared for so many cantors and acolytes this far away from larger cities. Very odd.
Gisle did not like being unprepared. The gnomes, so near and easily accessible, were an unexpected boon.
Brock cleared his throat.
Gisle looked up, unsettled. The man was a ghost, silently appearing. It made him the perfect scout, but also made him singularly overweening. He positively enjoyed startling his master, Gisle was sure of it. He would not give him the satisfaction. Gisle kept his face calm, meeting the scout’s gaze.
“Report.”
“There are seven gnomes, sir, planning to meet the chymaera at dawn and take custody of villagers rather than letting them go with the cantors. They have a flatboat ready and stocked. They are in league with local vermin, sir. Otters and beavers. Two gnomes plan to sneak onto the skycart and rescue the incapacitated. This is against the female chymaera’s expressed wishes. Their plan is not tenable, sir. They will be killed. The chymaera believe the villagers are dewin.”
Gisle snorted. “Nonsense. There are no dewin.”
“That fact will not stop an angry gryphon, sir.”
“Two gnomes against a full party of cantors and two chymaera. Advise.”
“Advise to intercept the gnomes, sir.”
Gisle nodded. “Plan accepted, work out details, and wake me in two hours. Prepare the others. Dismissed.”
Gisle turned and doused his lamp, laying on his cot for a short rest. These cantors and their pets
would not keep him from his goal. Nothing would. He would free his land from this blight of Conclave tyranny.
Chesed and M’ra found the village inn with little trouble. A few older men and one younger one, deep in their cups, sat at the bar while a weary maid swept up straw, herbs, crumbs, and dirt from the stone floor. Clean rushes lay in a basket at her feet, ready to be strewn. Two acolytes sat in a corner drinking tea. M’ra swept a glance at the large, nearly empty room with its huge fireplace and gleaming tables.
She chose a table near the bar. As she sat, the men turned, staring openly. Chesed met their gaze with his silver eyes, steady and unafraid. One man dropped his eyes, muttering, and swiveled back to his mug. The others turned away more slowly, casting furtive glances over their shoulders.
The barmaid approached. She attempted an awkward curtsy and asked, “What can I get you?”
M’ra blinked both sets of eyelids, reacting to the girl’s unease. “We would like two cups of tea, please. Is there any food left?”
The girl’s eyes rounded. “Half a pie, my lady.”
“We’ll have some of that as well.”
The maid bustled away, nearly tripping over an acolyte. His bald head shone in the light of the oil lamps, white robes dragging through the pile of abandoned sweepings. He stopped and straightened, waiting. Chesed smiled, but M’ra held up one hand before the acolyte could speak. “No,” she said. “Not you. Go tell your master we have arrived.”
The acolyte bowed and spun, robes flapping. He hurried to obey.
A tall, skinny man with a big nose, his curly hair tousled as if he had just roused from sleep, brought spoons and forks. “I’m Lile, the barkeep, er, the innkeep. Will you be needing rooms?”
He gestured to the stairs.
“Two, please. The cantors shall pay you.”
Lile’s green eyes widened, and his mouth turned down at the corners. “Of course,” he murmured. “The first two rooms at the top of the stairs are ready for you. If you require anything else, let me know.”
M’ra looked at the innkeeper, taking in his rumpled clothing. “Some cheese and bread if you have it, for the morning. We shall leave very early.”
“I’ll wrap it and leave it in your room.” He lingered a moment as if he would say more, then slowly backed away and strode back to the kitchen.
Chesed settled in his chair, taking in the people, the faint smell of herbs, the crackle of the fire.
M’ra watched his expression. “What do you see?”
“The men have never seen our kind before. They are sharing stories about us, most of them nonsense,” said Chesed. “The maid has hidden herself until our tea is ready, she watches from a crack in the kitchen door. The acolyte watches us as well, though he would rather not. He is afraid.”
“Well done,” said M’ra. “What else?”
“The innkeeper does not approve of cantors and would like to warn us. Likely he cannot without drawing unwanted attention from the acolyte.”
“Do you believe the innkeeper is friendly with the gnomes we met?”
“I do,” said Chesed. “The name of the inn is the Bell and Rider, and the gnome mentioned a captive named Bell. If she is dewin, as the gnomes claimed, likely those who care for her will be unwilling to do what must be done. It is unfortunate.”
M’ra’s golden eyes fixed on Chesed. “What can dewin do?”
Chesed frowned, thinking. “They access the Song with their voices alone. They do not need an instrument or Essences to use its power. But how are they different from majisters?”
M’ra answered quickly. “All majisters were dewin, but not all dewin were majisters. Those who wished to become majisters dedicated themselves to a lifetime of study and discipline, and submitted to a series of trials, ending with the harmony bond. A bonding with fae. This bond transformed mere fae into faisant, makers of marvels. ’Twas the bond which made a majister.
“Nearly all villages would have at least one dewin serving, healing others. They handled day-to-day needs of farmers and craftsmen. Majisters were rare and lived apart, in their tower of Anach. They were dedicated to the Storm King, above all.”
She lowered her voice. “These deemling the gnomes spoke of? It is true they existed before the Song was broken, assisted dewin or the majisters. However, most only had knacks. They could locate the best place to build a well or make a birthing easier.”
Chesed’s brow furrowed, hearing this. “What if the gnome spoke truly, eldest?”
M’ra shook her head. “It cannot be. You felt his Dissonance. It was odd, a reverberation shifting. Perhaps he has merely lied to protect and defend his deemling. ’Tis why I let him go. His love for this Bell is admirable. We may show him mercy, but Dissonance cannot ever simply be ignored. I must return after our task is complete to learn more.”
Chesed closed his eyes, remembering the feeling that had washed over him whenever the little gnome had spoken. He examined the effect. Panic. He was undone by panic. “I have no experience with men, so I cannot compare. His Dissonance overwhelmed me. I am grateful he did not sing. It would have been unbearable.”
“And yet you ask if he spoke truly?”
Chesed nodded. “In spite of Dissonance, I am not certain. I also felt the Song.”
“Can believing a lie make it true?” asked M’ra.
“Here we are,” said a cheerful voice. The barmaid carefully set her tray on an adjacent table and set two pieces of pie and two cups of tea before them. She laid a small bowl of honey for their tea and a crock full of cream in front of them.
“Will there be anything else?” she asked.
Chesed shook his head as he dolloped large spoons of honey into each cup in turn. The barmaid backed away and escaped back into the kitchen.
They were halfway through their pie when the door opened. A tall man entered, searching the common room with dark eyes. He wore a blue hooded robe, not the white or black M’ra had described.
It is the robe of a Bindery master. He is a bard. He is also a full member of the Arcanum and ranked above a high cantor. His name is Aric. Watch and listen, little brother.
M’ra’s expression did not change as she spoke in Chesed’s heart, but Chesed sensed a new wariness all the same. Aric stopped at their table and placed his hand over his heart, bowing. M’ra rose from her seat and inclined her head, accepting his obeisance.
“We meet again, Master Aric. I apologize for the late hour. This is my brother, Chesed.”
Chesed rose, murmuring a greeting.
“Please, join us.”
The barmaid hurried in with a third cup of tea and a plate of pie for Aric. He smiled as she set them down, his eyes crinkling. “Thank you, Minnie, give Lola my compliments.”
He gestured to the pie. “The inn’s cook is amazing. I’m glad you get to taste this. It—all greatness—adds to your heartfire, does it not?”
M’ra nodded. “Every fine work sustains it. You are learned, Master Aric.”
Aric waved away the honorific. “Just Aric, please. Yes. At the Bindery we have little lore about your people, but I have studied all I could find. I am particularly honored to spend time with you before our task tomorrow. Thank you for the opportunity, ’tis unexpected.”
“We wished to see gnomes if possible. ’Tis rumored they live in this remote country,” M’ra said.
Aric stopped midbite and set his fork down, his face painted with sorrow.
“Would that you could, my lady. Many of the dewin we are transporting are actually deemling. It’s a special role. Gnomes see them as family. The dewin have been...altered. They are greatly affected by the purification we give them. The gnomes have rebelled. The main Burrow actually took arms against our local cantor and the village watch.”
M’ra tilted her head, listening. “They should support your cause, Master Aric. All know the danger of dewin. Were one to go mad, innocents would die. Curious, the gnomes do not fear such.”
Aric nodded and picked up his fork again. H
e gestured with it. “Your people are connected like no other to the Song and the cyntae. Gnomes share your connection to the Song in their rhythm. If you are with two or more, it becomes very noticeable. Their cadence. I believe the Song’s ebb has affected their wits, leaving them unable to make wise choices.” He shrugged. “I hope not, but it’s the only theory I have at the moment. We will try to study them, learn more.”
Chesed blinked. “You plan to take them to the Rifthouse?”
“If we can find one or two, yes. I do not expect them to go willingly. They seem to believe we are evil.” His laugh was self-deprecating and somehow disconsolate. “I suppose, seeing the dewin in their current state, they are justified. Bell owns this inn. She was especially beloved by gnome and townfolk alike.”
Do not mention our encounter with the gnomes. The warning sounded like a whip cracking in Chesed’s mind. I do not trust this cantor. If only we could hear Dissonance from all those touched with evil.
M’ra sipped her tea. “Perhaps we shall see in the morning.”
“I believe we will. I expect them to stage a rescue.”
Chesed straightened in his chair. “You will force them to come with you?”
Aric set his fork down and steepled his fingers, bowing his head to rest his lips on his fingertips. He held Chesed’s silver gaze with his own dark one for a long moment. He dropped his hands.
“We will defend innocent people from the threat of dewin and fight for your heartfire with every means at our disposal. We will do what is necessary, whatever that means.” Aric made the sign of the arc. “Pray to the cyntae we need not hurt the gnomes.”
Lord Gisle de Clelland slept for exactly two hours, rose, and summoned his officers. Their party, though small–only twenty men and horses, still commanded respect. They were well armed, well trained, and well mounted. Throughout his travels across the Weldes, Gisle had yet to encounter a force equal to them in discipline. Most villages had a watch, funded by the local baron, duke or prince. But since nearly all of the nobility were in Bestua, circling the throne of the dying High King like vultures, Gisle and his men were rarely challenged. Peasants obeyed nobles, any nobles. Better yet, they listened.