Sorrowfish

by Anne C Miles

The cell was cold. Dane stifled an exclamation as he shucked off his Northern garb and donned a white robe. The robe branded him as an acolyte to the Conclave, theirs to do with as they pleased. He detested it already. His stomach growled. He scanned the windowless room, looking for anything he could use to escape. The stone walls were bare. A single bed with a threadbare quilt had a table next to it, topped with both a candle and an oil lamp. A ewer and bowl sat in one corner, filled with clean water, a battered wardrobe, and a desk and chair.

  There was no Watcher here, a small solace.

  Quickly, Dane took the meager contents of his cloak pockets and put them in the desk. He had the small bottle of Indra ink he’d purchased from Poll before he left home, a quill, the old buckles from his boots, and the jewel given to him by Birgir as payment. Everything else was gone. He folded his clothes slowly and set them on the bed as instructed.

  Two raps on the door broke the silence. Brother Bren entered, carrying a tray of food. The monk set the tray on the desk and gestured for Dane to eat. Dane sat and focused on the simple meal, brown bread and cheese. He chewed slowly and washed down the dry crust with a mug of spring water as Brother Bren waited. When he finished, Bren gathered up Dane’s discarded clothing and commanded him to follow. Dane scrambled, scooping up his slate and chalk and closing the door behind him.

  “You’re already shaven,” Bren said, looking at Dane’s bald pate with approval. “I’ll walk you to the baths. Our barbers serve the entire community in a workshop adjacent to them. Acolytes shave as a sign of subjection, chastity, and honesty. You are expected to bathe and shave daily.” Bren pointed out toilet facilities as they passed through the hallways, along with the symbol carved into the doors to mark them.

  They descended several flights of stairs and entered a large room with pools of steaming water. The air faintly smelled of rotten eggs.

  “The baths,” said Bren, gesturing to encompass them. “They’re fed by hot springs and drain continually. They smell odd, but you will get used to it.”

  They passed through several arcades filled with pools. Bren briefly walked through the barbery, greeting the barbers as they shaved a few acolytes. He glanced back at Dane and marched up two flights of stairs, coming out into a walled courtyard. They passed under an arch dripping lavender wisteria blossoms into another courtyard, ringed by benches. Several acolytes sat listening to a cantor lecture.

  Bren nodded to the cantor and murmured to Dane, “Acolytes have eight hours of training and work, eight hours of service to the cyntae, and eight hours of sleep. Ours is a life of knowledge. As you learn our mysteries, you will progress and perhaps become a cantor.”

  Never. He smiled respectfully, turning to listen to the lesson.

  “Songlines formed by the root system of the Tree are infused every night with strength from the cyntae. Our Canting provides the connection. As we Cant Matins, Vespers, Compline, and the little hours, we strengthen the trickle we have.”

  An acolyte held up his slate. The cantor leaned forward to read it, then nodded. “Yes, good question. We have been seeking to strengthen the songlines even more for centuries. Much of the work here is aimed at that very purpose. Your training will allow you to join us in this research. Many of our higher teachings may only take hold in your memory as you ascend in your learning and train your mind. For this reason, you must work as hard as possible to further your studies.”

  Dane stifled a snort. It wasn’t the songlines that needed strengthening, it was the cyntae who needed finding. The Storm King needed the cyntae, and they were missing. Except for Doran.

  He wrote on his slate, the chalk squeaking in protest. Has anyone talked to Solimon or Lalo? Do they come to visit? Can they help?

  The cantor stiffened. “All cyntae, including Solimon and Lalo, are giving their full effort to maintain the Song. The nexus they inhabit has changed because of increased Dissonance. Only one is able to work with us directly, but he imparts the wisdom of all. This cyntae, Doran, speaks only with the Arcantor Modric, of course.”

  Modric was the cause of all of this. He could never be the cure. Did they really not understand? Dane bowed and folded his hands together, humbly.

  Looking at the other acolytes, Dane saw no sign of distress, no skepticism or questioning. All so trusting, they believed what they were taught must be true. But why shouldn’t they? He wrote another question on his slate. He knew he would get the same answer he had been given as a child during Camber, but he had to try.

  The teacher took the slate and read aloud.

  “Where is the Storm King?”

  The cantor raised his thin blonde eyebrows. “Have you never been to Camber? The Storm King sacrificed himself on the Tree to save us from the Wyrm. The Storm King is dead, and The Wyrm was cast out of our universe, into the void beyond the door of the Moon. Its arc is now our seal of protection.” He tutted and shook his head, and the other acolytes smiled, some stifling laughter.

  Dane erased his slate and inscribed the question no one ever asked, the most important question. “How do you know this?”

  “The Cyntae Doran told us, he told the Arcantor Modric himself,” the cantor’s spoke with the measured tones reserved for simpletons and irritating children.

  Dane knew he was treading a thin line, but he didn’t care. He shook his slate to repeat his question, but Bren held his hand, stilling him.

  “Thank you, Brother Kain,” said Brother Bren. “Our new brother has much to learn. He was raised without benefit of a Chapterhouse. It is good to be reminded of our basic tenets. Thank you for disrupting your class for us.”

  He bowed and took Dane by the upper arm, guiding him out of the courtyard. When they were out of sight, he hissed, “Are you trying to get yourself killed? Do you not understand? High Cantor Siles is taking a terrific gamble with you. You have been given a boon, unheard of, yet at the first opportunity, you try to throw it away. You will learn the price of such questions, wyrmfriend. We shall purge you of all evil lies.” He pushed Dane toward another set of steps down into the stone belly of the compound. “A new lesson. You’re going to learn about the sacrament of flagellation.”

  The ugly whip, a wicked scourge with three tails, snapped across Dane’s back.

  “Again,” ordered Bren. “In rhythm with my Canting. Accept the pain and allow it to cleanse you.”

  Bren began to Cant. At the end of each phrase, Dane cracked the whip across his own torn and bloody back.

  Hear our prayer, Cyntae bright

  Bring your servant to the light

  Strike each lie from his bones

  Let our Cant lead him home.

  Dane’s eyes watered. He struggled not to cry out. He raised his head at the end of the verse and squinted, unsure if Bren would continue. Inexplicably, he saw the fae. Sara stood behind Bren, shimmering. Tears ran down her face. Dane swallowed.

  He was not alone. It was enough.

  Bren paused and picked up the slate and chalk, passing these to him in exchange for the scourge.

  “Where is the Storm King?” he asked.

  Dane sat on his haunches and wrote slowly, his vision blurring. He wiped sweat from his eyes. Gingerly, he handed the slate back to Bren, gasping even as he prayed with all his heart. Let him believe.

  “The Storm King wrestles the Wyrm from beyond the door of the Moon. He lives. He will return.”

  Bren read the slate and let out a black, enraged snarl. He took up the scourge and thrashed it across Dane’s back, punctuating his words. “The Storm King is dead”—thrash—“The Storm King is dead”—thrash—“The Storm King is dead”—thrash.

  Each fall cut deeper, burned longer. Blood pooled around his knees as it dripped from his torn flesh, his arms trembling too much to hold him upright any longer, he slumped forward and knew no more.

  Bell opened her mouth, accepting food. She chewed. A man in a white robe spoke to her. She tried to answer, but her mouth fell open, and the only result was a low moan. Spittle dribbled do
wn her chin. The man gave her another bite. He wiped her mouth, patted her on the head and took the tray away. She was alone in a white room. Light streamed through a colored-glass window next to her bed. Her fingers twitched. She wanted to touch the light. Red. Blue. A tear rolled down her cheek. She fell into a fitful sleep.

  Words spoken in hushed tones washed over her. “...aural nexus permanently damaged. We can try the healing song, but it is incomplete. We cannot be sure what will happen. We do have the new Essences found in Dohnavur.”

  Bell tried to open her eyes.

  “Worst case?”

  “The song could backfire on the person who uses it. It could affect all within hearing. At worst, it will kill her.“

  A door opened. “She is expendable, but we shall take precautions. If she dies, we will know what to do with the next one. Be sure to record all of her responses.”

  A door shut. The voices faded. She followed them into darkness.

  Bell heard music and smelled flowers. She saw indistinct faces as she opened her eyes. Music washed over her, monotonous. Something was unsettling in its repetition, sinister. It went on for a long time.

  She moaned…

  It went on for longer still.

  Bell heard cries of pain. She opened her eyes. The light stabbed her, carving with a thousand knives. She tried to scream but found her mouth gagged. She started to choke. Bile rose, burning the back of her throat, spurting into her nose. The pain was unbearable.

  A voice again.

  “Bell, it’s Jax.”

  The words were whispered in her ear, soft words, trembling with emotion. She couldn’t open her eyes, couldn’t respond.

  “What have they done to you?” His voice broke.

  She wanted to comfort him and could not. She could not scream her rage. She could not speak to the only family remaining to her. At least he was alive.

  “You hang on. Fight, Bell. Keep trying. Don’t let go. I’m here. I’m with you. I will find a way to help you. I made it here. I’m watching. They’re going to move you again, and I’ve found a way to go with you. I’ll be here. Hang on.”

  More sunlight came. It burned. Bell opened her eyes. Two men were lifting her on a cot, carrying her through a huge courtyard. She wanted to yell, to scream. But she couldn’t.

  She couldn’t move. The last thing she remembered was Jax’s voice telling her to hang on, that he would be with her. White robes and black robes obscured her view, surrounding her. They carried her for a long while. She could see nothing but open sky.

  Finally, they set her cot down. A mist-covered tree, as large as a mountain, loomed over her head. Her vision swam. She moved her fingers, weak as a kitten.

  “Wa—” she croaked. “Water.” She closed her eyes. “Need water.”

  A rush of footsteps, a bald head hovering above her, excited murmurs from her caretakers—she absorbed all of it slowly. Her head throbbed. It hurt to think. Someone helped her sit up, a strong arm behind her back. A bald, white-robed woman held a glass of water to her lips. She drank, water spilling down her chest. It dripped from her chin, chilling her more. She flushed, humiliated and feral.

  A tall bearded man in a blue robe with dark eyes knelt before her. “Bell? Do you know me? Do you remember anything? Do you recognize this place?” He pointed to the huge tree.

  Bell stared at the man. Familiar, but she could not place him. She shook her head and twitched, her body convulsing.

  The man rose and pointed to the acolytes. “Take her back inside the Chapterhouse. We will expose her to the Tree daily. Keep records of all she eats, drinks, says, and does. She is very delicate.”

  He turned back to Bell and knelt again. “You’ve been unwell. We’re helping you to recover. Obey and you shall not suffer further.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  BELL WOKE SLOWLY and smiled. Jax was singing to her. He sang to her every night like he had when she was a tiny girl. His voice was gravel and rocks, out of tune. It comforted her like nothing else. He was still with her. He was safe.

  She sat up.

  He was in the middle of her room, whittling a stick as he sang. The room was big and airy, with windows of thick colored glass. Her bed was narrow but comfortable. Flowers filled every available surface. Tunebells and delphiniums. Their scent calmed her and held her ever-present headache at bay.

  Jax stopped, looking up from his whittling. He tilted his head.

  “You look much improved, lass.”

  “I feel better,” said Bell, running her hands through her hair. Someone had cut it. It was too short. “How long have I been ill?”

  “You’ve been out for weeks,” said Jax. “The Conclave cantors purified you. They named you dewin and took you, gave you something that hurt you badly.”

  Bell’s eyes widened, and Jax held up a hand to halt her inevitable anger.

  “They’ve also nursed you back to health, and they don’t know I am here. I need you to be quiet and follow them, lass. Go along with what they ask as long as it doesn’t hurt you or others. Lile is watching the inn for us. I’m planning to get you out of here. But first you have to be well.”

  “Dane,” Bell whispered, her eyes filling with tears. “Where is he? Do you know? I remember now, they said I was deemling, and it meant I was dewin. Is he safe?”

  The gnome’s cap drooped.

  “I don’t know. We rescued all the others. Jess, Little Mary Planor, Stu, all of them. I followed when they took you to this Chapterhouse. I listen and sneak about, learning all that I can, but have not heard any word of him yet. He left before the Conclave came for everyone. I’m sure he is safe.”

  “I’m not able to do much, Bell. I can’t leave you. That son of a wyrm, Aric, brought you here a few days ago. You’ve drifted in and out since, but have spoken. That’s more than you were able to do for so long. I thought I had lost you forever.”

  “Do you know where we are?”

  Jax nodded. “We’re at the Rift Chapterhouse. They’ve been taking you every day to the World Tree, letting you spend time near it. You’re getting better.”

  Bell considered this, taking in the sight of tunebells and the delphiniums. She had seen them before at Camber in the Chapterhouse during the Canting services. The cantor taught they helped strengthen the Song. She thought about what Nadir had said to her the last time she had seen him.

  “Last time the Conclave really purified Dohnavur, I was very small. I couldn’t have been more than six years old. You took me to the Burrow. Dane was there, and so were the other deemling. I played with Stu Callin.”

  Jax nodded.

  “I’ve never been in the village when it was purified.”

  Jax nodded again.

  Bell’s face flooded with color as truth dawned. “I’m really dewin?”

  Jax clambered up onto her bed and crawled over to sit on its edge. “Keep your voice down, you’ll have the baldpates running in. Yes, Bell. You’re dewin. But don’t worry, you will not go mad.”

  “Why won’t I go mad?” Bell’s eyes clouded. She reached for the gnome’s hand, desperate for comfort.

  “Because I am with you. I will keep you safe, as I have since you were a wee babe.” Jax tapped the side of his nose. “In truth, the talk of dewin madness was not strictly the whole story, but by the Storm King’s blood, few would ever believe what really happened. I’ll tell you more tomorrow. Now it is almost time for them to tend to you. It might be wise for you to feign confusion until you get your bearings.”

  Bell nodded.

  Jax looked at her a long moment, his eyes bright. “It is good to see you as yourself again, lassie.” He gathered her into a rare hug. Then, with a hop down and a wink, he was gone.

  Bell stayed awake most of the next day and ate all her meals unassisted. She didn’t wake when Jax visited. Tunesday arrived, and canting sounded throughout the compound, both outside as she was walked for exercise through the arcades, and inside as she rested in her room. The singsong melodies made he
r feel strange.

  She tried to nap in the afternoon but couldn’t sleep. After she had lain there a short while, the heavy door to her room opened and shut. Cosette, her cantor guard, had stepped away. Bell’s arms and legs tingled, and her head swam, but she sat upright and then stood. She swayed, arms akimbo for a few minutes, but took a step. Slowly, she made her way to the door. It opened.

  Cautiously, she wandered down the windowless stone corridor until she came at last to another bound wooden door. This opened into a walled garden. She sat heavily on a bench, spent. The world spun slowly, flowers and trees swimming before her bleary eyes. She began weeping uncontrollably, unable to stop. An age passed before Cosette found her and half dragged her back to the bed.

  She slept through dinner.

  When she woke, Bell had a new visitor. The visitor wore the black robes of a cantor. Pins at his collar proclaimed him the high cantor. He sat in a chair next to her bed. Bell had the distinct impression he had been counting her breaths. She brushed the thought away.

  Bell squirmed, pulling the blankets up over her thin nightdress as she struggled to sit up in bed and rearrange her matted hair.

  The high cantor signaled to an acolyte. He stepped forward, propping her up, arranging pillows behind her.

  “Some water,” the cantor said, mildly. “And a bowl of fruit, I think. Yes?”

  “Yes,” said Bell, her voice sounding small in her own ears.

  “I am High Cantor Siles,” he said. “You’ve been here a long time. I thought it was time that we met.”

  “Bell Pennyweather, Father,” she answered. “Do you know what was wrong with me? No one will say. I ask the nurses, but they all just say I’ve been very ill.”

  “You’re still not well,” Siles corrected. He was wiry, with a thin, expressive mouth and intelligent eyes that seemed to read her very thoughts. Those eyes bored into her before he spoke again. They gleamed. Hungry. He looked hungry. “Bell, have you ever met a chymaera?”

  “No.”

  “But you know of them.”