by Anne C Miles
Now if only his scout would listen, perhaps he could accomplish his objective. The thought brought a wry grin to his lips.
“Report, Brock.”
Brock took a stick and drew in the packed dirt floor of the pavilion. He drew a box, a wavy line, and several circles.
“We have located the skycart here. The river is here, approximately two leagues away. Gnomes and their allies have taken positions here, using willows as cover. Their boats are hidden here.”
He pointed to the circles, then drew two small x’s next to them to indicate the boats.
“If the victims are transported down the river, we expect the gnomes to mount an offense and rescue the prisoners here.”
He drew another x.
“In order to gain the trust of the gnomes, we will assist them in their objective, liberate the captives and defend them as they escape. Then we will follow. When we encounter them again, we shall offer guidance and protection. We can achieve our objective and obtain the information we need.”
“Insertion point?”
Brock pointed with his stick. “Here. We’ll station the men in three squads with archers, two at the river and one at the skycart.”
Sundin cleared his throat. Martine shifted from foot to foot. Rennet stood frowning at the makeshift map.
“Yes, Sundin?”
“Beg pardon, sir, but the gryphon will defend the cantors and the so-called dewin.”
Gisle’s eyes glittered as he paced in front of the map. “Do whatever is necessary. Defend these gnomes, gentlemen. They are the key to our freedom, to our very lives. Their lore can undo the Conclave and restore our Weldes to balance, to freedom. We must, at all costs, achieve our mission. We have been handed this opportunity. Do not squander it. Understood?”
The men nodded.
“Spare the gryphon if you can and keep all gnomes off that skycart. You have your orders, gentlemen, move out.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
OUTSIDE THE CITY gates, the landscape unfurled. Neat hedgerows separated the crushed stone road from gold and green fields. Dane’s mare trotted behind the Northmen’s stallions. Bellin paced Dane on a stoic, thick-kneed pony, only falling behind when the track narrowed.
Eventually the road branched west toward Baehnt and northeast toward the Tree. With a shout, Birgir spurred his mount to gallop northeast. The others followed.
Dane concentrated on riding. Farms gave way to thin brush and heather. He saw a few abandoned steadings. Some looked as if they had burned. He caught glimpses of them through gaps in the tall unkempt hedges lining the road.
Folk had not lived here in centuries, yet the way was maintained. Dane wondered idly if the chymaera assisted, or if the aerie was on the other side of the channel.
Soon, forest shadow loomed, embraced by wisps of fog. When the road dove into the gloom, the fog thickened until they could no longer see, slowing them by degrees to a walk. The mist dampened Dane’s skin, chilling him, making his shirt cling. He wiped moisture from his brow, blinking as it dripped into his eyes.
Bellin whickered, calling his pony to halt and dismounting in one smooth motion. Dane recognized the distinctive roofline of a Conclave watchhouse.
The official who emerged must have been expecting them; he directed them to a small stable immediately. The watchhouse gate arched across the road, barring further traffic. Trees gathered beyond the gate like sentries. Their branches faded into the mist and formed an impenetrable roof that blocked the afternoon light. The result was a permanent dim twilight.
Dane dismounted and led his mare to robed acolytes. They accepted the reins with shallow bows in silence, leading the mare away. They were eerie. Too pale. Their eyes seemed empty.
His companions were subdued, adjusting their sword belts and clothing with muffled grunts. Harald eyed Birgir, Bellin, and Dane, nodding sharply at each in turn, and headed toward the waiting cantor. A hooded figure stood with the guard and cantor, impossibly tall and silent. His white garment shimmered even in the half light.
The cantor stepped forward with a bow from the waist. “Welcome, friends.” He nodded to each in turn, arching an eyebrow when he got to Dane. Dane did his best to adopt a humble expression, eyes lowered.
Birgir smiled easily. “Thank you, High Cantor Siles. Good to see you again. You remember Harald, Bellin. This is our young servant, Danethor. He’s newly recruited, allegiant to the Forge.”
The cantor smiled at Dane, his expression concerned. “Your training looks to be taxing, my son.”
“My lessons are well learned, Father,” answered Dane, “and valuable indeed.”
Siles’ laugh echoed in the gloom as he gestured to his hooded companion. “And this is N’khum of the Wyn, who will be your escort today.”
N’khum’s voice reminded Dane of a mountain lion’s low growl. “Well met, I am honored to serve you, men of the Forge, sons of the flame.”
Dane and the others murmured inarticulate thanks before Birgir interrupted. “You will not be joining us, Father?”
A shadow crossed the high cantor’s eyes. He hesitated to answer. “I shall be here waiting when you return,” the cantor replied. “Our acolytes along with Brothers Bren, Flyn, and Master N’khum shall complete your party. May you find what you seek.” He bowed, gesturing for them to follow N’khum.
Birgir thumped his right fist to his heart in respect. Harald and Bellin followed suit, with Dane awkwardly mimicking the gesture. As he straightened, Dane lifted his eyes to N’khum’s face. He saw golden eyes flashing from beneath the deep cowl.
Of course. Wyn. N’khum is chymaera.
Dane saw the alabaster skin and distinctive markings of the Wyn when N’khum doffed his hood as they followed a path behind the watchhouse. Like the one he had seen in Ciclaehne, this chymaera was tall and very thin. Dane averted his eyes so he would not stare, studying the outpost instead.
Despite the fog, he could see a large complex extending beyond. More of a fortress, really. A full Conclave Chapterhouse and large shadows of buildings he didn’t recognize. Most were marked with the arc and the distinctive steep-pitched roof. N’khum kept silent, gliding forward in his silken robes.
Brother Bren more than compensated for his silence. “We have so few visitors to the Tree,” he said. “Not just anyone can visit of course. We must protect what remains.” At this, all of the Conclave folk made the sign of the arc automatically, a tiny ritual. “We’ll fly around the Tree so you may inspect it from the top down along its length and give you time to commune on the ground. When you are satisfied, we will return. There are a few protocols important to observe.”
The path had taken them through a large formal garden and beyond the complex to a vast cropped lawn and a rectangular wooden building, topped with a tube railing. Both the building and the railing were ornately decorated with filigree embellishments, gold and silver.
Bren stopped and continued his monologue, hardly stopping for breath. N’khum kept walking, into the mist beyond their sight.
Bren held up one finger. “First, when we arrive at the Tree, please refrain from any music or singing of any kind. The aural nexus is volatile, and we are careful not to disturb it. While the likelihood of your accessing the broken Song is very small”—his smile was nearly sickening in its condescension—“we can never be too careful.”
Brother Flyn tutted, good natured and round, his honest face red from the walk. “Won’t do, won’t do.” He repeated the warning, shaking his head solemnly.
Acolytes busied themselves with the air of those who had heard the lecture many times. They opened the skycart door and folded down panels, revealing windowlike openings in the sides.
Dane itched to examine the mechanisms. Dane’s inner cabinetmaker was amazed. He thought all skycarts had fallen into disuse.
Brother Bren continued, “Secondly, the path around the Tree is clearly marked. Please do not stray from it. You might see odd visions when we get close. These are normal. I assure you they
are not harmful. Stay on the path to ensure your safety. If you wish to examine something not on the path, we will escort you. Stay well clear of any roots. Any accidental contact with a songline could cause injury, so please stay close.”
A strong breeze began to whip at Dane’s cloak, and the mists cleared. A whooshing, like a rapier slashed at the air. He looked up and saw a huge gryphon land gracefully behind them.
N’khum regarded them, his ancient eyes unblinking. He was easily four times the height of a man, with midnight blue and golden feathers, extending down to his black foreclaws. His powerful feline hindquarters and tail were a glorious gold that blended with long blue and silver feathers flowing down his back. The creature shimmered, light clinging to it like raindrops. He settled atop the skycart to wait, perching not unlike the jackdaws on Dane’s hedges at home.
He had been taught about chymaera, of course, but had never thought he would see one in actual winged form. They rarely transformed in front of men. This was breathtaking.
Thank you, Sara, he silently blessed the fae. This was worth the risk. N’khum’s head swiveled immediately, his gaze fixing on Dane like prey.
Dane swallowed hard and forced his attention back to the cantor, who was still speaking. He tried to think very hard about anything but fae.
“Keep your hands and arms inside the cart, and if you have questions, any of us can help you,” finished Bren. “And now, if you will enter the skycart, we shall proceed.”
They filed inside the large box. Inside, they sat on cushioned benches, looping their arms into the soft, thick, velveteen straps as directed. Bellin elbowed Dane. “Quite a day, eh, lad?” He winked.
When all were seated and enmeshed in their straps, he heard scraping. The cart shook. With a jolt, the box lifted into the air. The wings of the gryphon sliced the wind. For a moment, emptiness yawned below, vast and deep. They were above the trees. Above the mists. The sun was shining down on top of the fog, transforming it into a sea of glowing light. The scene dazzled.
With an enormous cry, N’khum swooped forward. Harald cursed roundly, but Dane exulted. They were soaring at a high speed; it was cold. The wind rushed past, and he couldn’t help whooping. He held onto his straps for dear life.
Bren shouted above the wind. “It won’t be long now. You should be able to see the Tree soon.”
N’khum looped and glided north until the trunk rose from the mist like an island from the sea. Its trunk glistened through mists. The vast crevasse between the two sides shone, blackened, wet from bloodlike sap. It striped the exposed heart of the Tree’s majestic trunk. They could clearly see the two sides, mirroring against each other with bonelike branches that reached up to the heavens.
The branches had leaves, despite all the horrible damage. It yet lived.
Dane drank in the sight, his heart expanding as he remembered his old oak tree at home, the hours he’d spent as a child playing at battle with the Wyrm. The Storm King had vanquished his foe, saving the world and the Song at a terrible cost. Looking at the Tree, he was filled with awe. He was dewin; this place sang to his blood.
He hadn’t known how much this visit, the full view of the Tree, would affect him. The sun shone through the rift in the trunk, the wound ripped open and left to bleed. A shaft of light fell across Dane’s face. Softly, Dane whispered words he’d known since childhood—all of them.
He Canted the verses on his father’s scroll, the sacred words from the lost Lorica. The wind was rushing past, roaring. Dane mouthed the ancient verses, reverent, overcome by the moment. He could not stop himself.
The Dark One ascends,
Eight shall turn him round.
One from the heartfire
One beneath the ground,
One stone rider,
One who cannot hear.
One claims the Storm King, One Names the Fear.
As the Last begins to sing
One may be reborn
Speak the words of wisdom
Sound the golden Horn.
Heedless heartless helpless
Blast, blast away
Lone fire lighted
Truth cannot stay
When the heartfire kindles
All that is writ
The King will spend the knight’s blood
Bone fells Spirit
As the Last ends refrain
To die fade away
Duty binds the heartfire
Dullard shine, play
Fire sears the Melody
Sorrow, Sorrowfish
The Storm King returns
Wyrm to vanquish
He sang the last phrase of the Lorica’s refrain. Absolute silence fell. No wind, no whisper touched Dane. The stillness was absolute.
Only then did it occur to Dane what he had actually done.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE WORLD STOOD still. Everything stood still. They hung in the sky, suspended, unmoving. The skycart, Bellin, Birgir, and Harald, all of the monks, the acolytes, N’khum’s wings…even the wind was still.
One chime. Another. The chimes rang in Dane’s mind. The Song?
The Tree was no longer enshrouded; the mist had vanished. Instead, the white bark glowed not with a usual pearlescent reflection of the sun, but with an intense brightness. It appeared to be whole.
No great rift separated the two sides, no crevasse or blackness marred the beauty, the majesty of its massive canopy. Glow swept up and down the Tree, flashing. Bells chimed and a massive sweep of music flowed. It was as if the sky and the Tree and the moon themselves sang for joy.
The unseen stars, far away, sang counter-melody, and all of it echoed through Dane’s bones, calling him. They spoke of his mother and her eyes and his father’s strength, his wisdom. He saw his home in his mind’s eye, his friends. Pezzik stood in a cellar with Jax. Bell lay on a cot, sleeping. A blond man stood in front of a rain barrel. He saw the fae, Sara, behind all of it, weeping alone.
A figure formed from lightning fixed him with a burning gaze and spoke his name. The images shone within a brightness. Light enveloped the Tree as the music rose to a crescendo.
Abruptly, the light flashed and was no more. The Song faded and only silence remained. Stillness. Tears streamed down his face. One heartbeat. Two heartbeats. He wiped his eyes.
And the wind once again howled, rushing past the windows.
Bellin prodded Dane. “Are you all right, lad?”
Dane gasped and put his head in his hands, trying to regain control of his raw emotions. “Not used to this,” he mumbled, waving at the window, his voice trembling.
“Did you see the light? Did it blind you?”
Dane looked up, staring at Bellin, and turned to the window. The monks were conferring at the front of the cabin near the doors, heads close together, their voices hushed. The wind was so loud they would not have been heard in any case. He nodded assent to Bellin and focused on the Tree.
Before the light had flared, the lower branches had borne leaves. Now there were more. Many, many more. Leaves bristled from thousands of small branches in a thicket of color, bright green against white bark. The rift between the two sides of the Tree was no longer dark. Red sap coated the entire interior of the rift. The heart of the Tree, which had been exposed to the elements for centuries, striped in red, now stood completely coated, fresh, bright red.
Dane took it all in, wonder mixing with dread, and leaned toward Bellin, raising his voice enough to be heard. “Did you hear it?”
Bellin’s eyes widened, and he shook his head.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. What have I done?
Dane had sung a refrain of the lost Lorica—the entire refrain—at the World Tree. Never mind he had only whispered it—he had done it. Whatever had happened, it was surely his fault. His fault alone. What was I thinking? He hadn’t thought. He had only responded in near ecstasy to the overwhelming urge to utter those words. He knew better. His Pa had cautioned him, over and over.
When he was first
given the ancient vellum scroll, his parents had cautioned him never to speak the words without utmost care. Never ever in public. It was too dangerous. The Lorica was the most important tool of the Majisterium. With all the refrains of the Lorica, a majister could create. The Lorica was the Song, pure and whole. Those words were potent, absolute truth from the mind of the Storm King himself. They contained His own power.
Dane’s most important job, his primary duty, higher even than manufacturing lutes, was to protect this refrain and pass it on. It had been entrusted to his family. Dane’s father had taught him, and his father’s father had taught his Pa before that, all the way back to the time of the Wyrm.
And he had spoken a refrain of the lost Lorica at the World Tree. Stars, why? He had not been himself. It was as if he were enchanted.
He had failed. His disguise was for nothing. Dane wanted very much to take off running into the forest, to run from everyone and everything and never return. But it wouldn’t undo anything.
His companions pointed and stared in wonder at the changes in the Tree. The brothers still conferred. The skycart landed, and they all disembarked. Cantors streamed from the Chapterhouse, joining them, along with a number of acolytes. They gestured to his little party, talking excitedly. He knew what was coming. It might not come quickly, but they would certainly question him, and any Dissonance would unveil him.
On the ground in front of Dane lay an acorn. He picked it up, looking at it for a long moment, lost in memory. He placed it in a pocket of his cloak and straightened his shoulders. Muttering a prayer to the Storm King, he approached Bellin.
Dane cleared his throat and pulled the dwarf aside. “Bellin, you were right in a way about me. Now there is no time. I need your help.”