Sorrowfish

by Anne C Miles

  “They change into other creatures. They can transform into gryphons or winged horses, winged lions. They make the gargoyles and other wonders.”

  “They haven’t been able to transform as they once did, and it’s made some of them very anxious and unhappy. We would like you to meet a few, when you feel up to it. Would you mind doing that? We will wait until after you feel better.”

  Bell gaped. “What was wrong with me?”

  “You were given a tincture, the Essence of a very old tree and a mixture of some other plants in a form that you could breathe. When most people receive this mixture, they feel happy and want to please others. They listen well and obey us without fuss. We can help them then, keep them safe. When we gave it to you, your body did not respond in that way. You rejected the tincture. It was quite painful for you, but necessary both to test you and also to cleanse you from what we call residual resonant energy. Such could have hurt you and others.”

  Bell felt the color rising in her cheeks as he spoke. “You purified me.” Her voice remained calm, but her hands were shaking. She shoved them under the blankets.

  “We helped you. Would you like to meet with the chymaera?” The high cantor’s voice, bearing, and eyes were all patient as a mountain.

  He actually sounded as if he were offering her a choice.

  “If I do not?” she asked.

  “Then we will give you more of other tinctures, and you will likely suffer greatly. After that, you will not remember anything. If you wake up from it, I will ask you again. We will do this until you decide to help.” High Cantor Siles’s face was marble; his eyes were serpentine. His voice was as patient as a gravestone. His bearing was as mild as a lamb being led to slaughter.

  Bell swallowed her bile and nodded. “I will help.”

  Siles smiled at her, his thin lips twisting. The expression did not successfully reach his eyes. “Good.”

  He rose and left without another word.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  N’KHUM WAITED UNTIL he was on the outskirts of Baehnt to transform. He secured the scroll within a pouch sewn into his vestments. He reached for his true form, familiar after so many years, and his whole being filled with light. He expanded, flowed. He cried out in triumph and joy, took wing, and flew as quickly as he could back the Wyn. As he flew, he pondered what he would say to the Derbyn. M’ra was insistent they assist the Conclave in whatever ways they could to capture dewin.

  Then there was G’der. He and others believed interaction with those who were not chymaera would pollute the aeries. They blamed dewin and the majisters for their current suffering. More than that, they taught that if the cyntae and the chymaera had remained apart from men, the Breaking would never have happened.

  They blamed M’ra for the death of Chesed. They said he should never have left the aerie.

  It was their reaction that N’khum feared the most.

  N’khum needed to approach this matter carefully, or it was possible no one would give him a chance to commune and prove the truth of what he had experienced. Yet a call for deep communion with all of the others could be misinterpreted, taken as a sign of offense or weakness.

  N’khum landed in the hippodrome. Its large, bowl-like platform was the official takeoff and landing point for Derbyn, not that they didn’t vault into the sky from anywhere. When on official business, they landed here. N’khum needed to make sure his return was recorded.

  The attending Profi hurried up to him, an older one. Savlahnut was nearly as old as Chesed. He likely would have Quickened not long after the war, had he been able, also like Chesed. He wore his hair long, tied into a tail. It whipped in the wind created by N’khum’s wings.

  Savlahnut stopped in front of N’khum, his hand held over his heart. “Great one, your presence is requested by M’ra the Eldest without delay.”

  N’khum shed his true form, humbling himself to speak with this Profi on the same level. It was an honor he always granted to one who should have already Quickened. It did not change their status, but it was all he could do to convey his respect. He checked the pouch in his vestments as he transformed. The scroll was there. Relieved, he lightly touched Savlahnut’s back, steering him from the center of the hippodrome to the arcade that ran around the bowl.

  “Savlahnut, what have you heard?” he asked. He kept his face impassive, steadying himself for the inevitable.

  “They are saying you killed the World Tree and doomed us all. Others say you were captured by a mad dewin. There is one story you battled a dwarf, a cantor, and a hundred Northmen, and were killed.”

  N’khum stopped in front of an arch. He turned, watching the field as other Derbyn took off and landed. It was late at night, but there were more landing than taking off. Those who were launching had hunting and guarding duties. He recognized their colors.

  “Where is M’ra?” he asked.

  “In her tower. She is unwinged, great one. She mourns for Chesed and will not be disturbed. The Council honors her wishes, but they grow impatient.” Savlahnut bowed.

  “Tell me, Savlahnut, despite what happened to Chesed, if you were given the opportunity to travel outside the aerie, to see men and dwarves and cities, would you go?” The question was pointed.

  Savlahnut weighed his answer. His silver eyes closed as he walked through the possibilities. He opened them and smoothed his silver robes. “I would wish to see it all.”

  N’khum nodded. “Thank you for your service. Go with the Song.” He placed his hand over his heart.

  Savlahnut returned the gesture and walked back to his station.

  M’ra’s tower was on the other side of the hippodrome. N’khum followed the arcade, passing carved fountains and Speakers created to beautify the arena as well as to serve. Most of the Speakers in this section of the Aerie were angels, though a few imps sat on benches or crouched in ceiling corners, held there by wings. N’khum smiled at them, remembering when all were active.

  He took the stairs up into the cluster of fluted towers with parapets, bridges, and walkways. Most of the Derbyn lived here. Profi scurried along the paths, their eyes properly downcast. They gave him a wide berth and turned aside to let him pass if the way became narrow. N’khum acknowledged them with a smile as he made his way to M’ra’s tower.

  The tallest tower was proper for the leader of the Wyn. Each had a wide pavilion and platform from which to glide, should a Derbyn wish to remain winged. Many did, refusing to leave their wings, refusing to speak with any but Derbyn. M’ra was not so inclined.

  N’khum paused, considering. A communion would strengthen his reception, as M’ra would see through his eyes. But it was the scroll he held she must see. He climbed the long spiral staircase to the platform at the top of the tower.

  When he got to the top, the wind whipped through his hair as he pulled the bell on the door. A robed Profi answered and ushered him to M’ra’s wingroom.

  M’ra was unwinged on a low velvet couch, dressed in the red vestments and veil of chymaera in deep mourning. She stood when he entered and rushed to greet him with genuine pleasure, clasping him in a warm embrace. “N’khum. I’ve been beside myself. It was so good to receive the Speaker’s message last night and finally know you were safe. Please, sit.”

  A silken-clad Profi entered the room with a tray of nuts, fruit, breads, and tea and set them on a small table. She left quietly, closing the double doors behind her. Sunlight streamed through the open pavilion doors, falling on thick carpets and marble. N’khum sat in the offered chair. “I’m sorry to grieve you, Eldest. It was not my intent. I acted in the best interests of the aerie. But this delayed me.”

  M’ra poured both of them tea, her face impassive. “Please.” She gestured to the food. “Help yourself.”

  N’khum took a piece of sweetbread and placed it on the plate in front of him and added honey to the tea. “Thank you, Eldest. You are most kind.”

  “We heard from the Conclave immediately after you departed from the Tree. I would
hear your story myself.”

  N’khum took the scroll from his vestments and placed it in front of her.

  “Honored Eldest. I beseech you to read this before I give you the story. I also ask that we commune, so you may see through my eyes.”

  M’ra gazed at N’khum, her golden eyes filling with tears. “You think I do not trust you?”

  “I trust you completely, Eldest. These events must be witnessed, not told.”

  M’ra picked up the scroll, now curious, and unrolled it. She scanned it quickly, gasping at the signature. She read again carefully, her face clouding. “Where did you get this?”

  “In Baehnt. A Majisterium archive has survived the centuries. The man who gave me this scroll had much to say. I had much to learn. We have been deceived, sister.”

  “Show me,” M’ra commanded. She went to the center of the wingroom and removed her veil. She transformed, red vestments becoming a scarlet cross upon her white feathers and fur. Her tail twitched as she waited for N’khum. N’khum rose and joined her, shifting into his true form. He crouched and stretched his wings, extending them toward her. She likewise extended her wings to him. With a cry of surrender, they were one.

  N’khum guided M’ra through his memories. He let her see Danethor, the boy’s intelligence and sanity. He showed her the dewin’s ignorance and how he had reached for Dane’s mind, testing him. He showed her the Tree.

  As the Tree healed, M’ra started to shake. She nearly broke communion, so violent was her reaction of wonder and joy. She held on as the skycart’s passengers disembarked, as the Conclave began to search for an intruder. She exulted when the boy disappeared and agreed with N’khum’s decision to help the Northmen. She watched as they escaped and then flew to Baehnt, meeting Spinners named Seth and Mod at the docks. They visited the Spinner’s nest, where N’khum received the scroll. When M’ra understood the message at last, the tears began. Keening, she let him finish.

  In turn, she showed him memories of the War, five centuries ago, of the man who had penned this scroll. She showed Jamis. His kindness, his wisdom. She showed the boy, Petros, his assistant. A boy who could not hear or sing, much less be dewin. She showed him rows of dewin, in the aerie to celebrate a Quickening. He saw the killing begin, brothers and sisters falling from the sky. He saw Profi burn.

  She showed him more recent memories. Chesed, fallen on the grass, lying in his own blood. Then she showed him Chesed’s signet as she had found it, with its message of love.

  The communion lasted for hours. When it ended, they broke and retreated to corners of the pavilion. The energy required for the connection was overwhelming. N’khum’s heartfire guttered, utterly depleted, despite the wonders he had seen. He grieved with M’ra for the fallen Profi, for the blood shed through the centuries. He shifted, again, becoming wingless to rest more fully.

  M’ra shed her wings. She sat unmoving, her hair a blanket for her face. Finally, she rose and once more donned her veil.

  “This dewin, Danethor, he was not mad. He was trained. He healed the Tree,” she said. “And Jamis believed Modric was plotting the unthinkable.”

  N’khum nodded.

  “I must find the gnomes I met in Dohnavur. They spoke truly. I must speak with them again,” she decided. “You heard the gnome, his Dissonance. But Chesed heard more. He trusted them when I would not.

  “G’der plots to remove me from rule. The Conclave accuses us of treachery. They claim you affected the Tree and demand to have you turned over to them. Unwinged. G’der would have you named Pryf. He will not consent to communion. You were marked when you landed. They will expect us to descend and call a council now.”

  M’ra strode to the table and rang a bell. A Profi entered. M’ra scribbled a message and pressed this parchment along with Jamis’ scroll into her hands. “Take this to Ts’doq and bid him keep them safe. Go directly to him. Speak to no one else. Place them in his hands, do not leave them with a servant. I must fly on urgent business. No one is to speak to the Conclave until I return, it is forbidden. Tell Ts’doq I invoke the full Law of the Wyn on this matter.”

  The Profi bowed, her hand over her heart, and left the room at a run.

  Turning to N’khum, M’ra said. “The ones you met in Baehnt, they were looking for a gnome called Pezzik and had a network of others to assist in finding her?”

  N’khum nodded.

  M’ra ducked behind a folding screen and talked to him from behind it as she disrobed. “I released the gnomes from judgment to honor Chesed but had planned to locate them after my mourning period had been completed. Pezzik, she was the gnomemother in my thoughts. We shall find her together, quickly.” M’ra emerged from the screen, clad again in white, her veil discarded. “I begin to suspect something, brother, I go to seek confirmation.”

  N’khum bowed, placing his hand over his heart. He followed M’ra to the center of the room and shifted. Together, winged and ready, they dropped from the tower, gliding on currents of air that lifted them toward the stars and into the deepening night.

  The Storm King’s Eye watched them fly.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “TEACH ME THIS Spinner’s Cant, you blackguard!” Trystan tossed his stones away in defeat. Three games down, he was in no mood to lose more of his thinning purse to Seth.

  Tabor eyed the bard. He lounged in a chair upholstered in red velvet, one leg thrown over the arm. He stood, pointing his index finger to the heavens. “I shall teach you the Spinner’s Cant, and you shall teach me a song.”

  “Any song?”

  “Aye.”

  “It’s a bargain.”

  “No, milord, it’s a bolliker. There’s your first word. Bargain means bolliker. Now teach me a song.”

  Trystan tried the new word. “Bolliker means bargain.”

  “Song!” said Tabor. He flopped back into his chair, saluting Trystan with his mug.

  “I get more words for an entire song,” the bard protested.

  “How many?”

  “Thirty.”

  Tabor groaned. “Thirty words, thirty words? Really?”

  “Aye,” said Trystan, taking his own swig of ale.

  Tabor sighed, stood, and began to recite, miming to rather comical effect.

  An Abram man’s a beggar, who only plays the fool.

  Do not listen to his patter or believe it if he drools.

  If I fling dust into your eyes

  That is me amusing

  Moon pigs are night watchmen

  They are never snoozing.

  A napper is a thief, young man.

  An onion is a ring.

  The pad is the highway, and

  Only a snitcher sings.

  A wiper is a handkerchief, and yellow tin is gold.

  I’ve only told ten words by now, the poem’s already old.

  A bluffer is an innkeeper, a bawler is a cantor

  A cannon is a pickpocket, but

  The head thief is dimber damber

  Dodgies are innocent, and they will never hang.

  Fans are gloves, equipt is rich and all the dogs are fangs.

  An uncle takes your contraband

  Keeps it in his fencing ken

  Now you have ten more words

  And I still owe you ten.

  When you dance the shadows, you disappear

  Flag wavers just make plans

  A tilted floor is a wall my dear

  Get information from the piece man

  Moon men are all Spinners

  To be quiet means you’re smooth

  A coachman is a rattling cove

  This poem wasn’t a good move.

  This ditty’s been rum fun to say

  And a reader is a purse

  I’ve had a headache all the day

  I think it’s getting worse

  Finally, my fine young friend, I’ll leave you with a twig.

  A twig means you realize something’s odd

  Always avoid the pig.

  The Spinner b
owed as Trystan clapped and cheered, “Encore! Encore!”

  Tabor blinked. “You must be joking, I have no idea what I just said.”

  Trystan laughed and hummed to himself, prepared to keep up his end of the bolliker.

  But when he looked up, Tabor had fallen asleep in his chair, with his mug still in his hand.

  Trystan woke in a small room, in an actual bed, with no memory of how he got there. A lute was in its case, propped in a corner. He unpacked it slowly. It was beautiful, with inlays and the star mark on its bowl. Slowly, he strummed the strings. This was his lute. He had risked everything for this. Finally, it was in his hands. Trystan thought about the journey to get here, the long search. His initiation into the Spinners. Now he finally held the lute in his hands. It was his. It was here.

  A ripple of melody leapt forth from his fingers, soft at first. The music spoke the truth of his soul. The notes reflected his soul and intentions, a musical mirror. He was testing the sound, and they tested the air. They soared and then hung back, hesitant, as if waiting permission before dancing aloft. More confident now, Trystan swung into a traveling song that made his own legs restless. It was uncanny.

  His joy in the sounds made the notes even brighter as they skipped and bounced, echoing with a mad beauty. Trystan could smell a forest and feel the wind on his face—the music conjured them. Birdsong trilled the counter-melody and found its way to the strings. It was so pure, his hands wavered. He shook himself as he let the music fade.

  He swung the instrument over his shoulder, unwilling to let it out of his sight. Hours had passed in an instant. He needed to find Tabor.

  When he wandered into the hallway, Trystan saw he was close to the archives. He found his way back to the map room easily enough. It had been tidied but still smelled of ale. Trystan paled at the odor, promising himself to never drink another ale again.

  Trystan’s stomach complained. He grimaced and went in search of something to settle it.

  When he got to the courtyard, Trystan found Tabor lying on a bench, staring up at the morning sky. A basket next to him held sweetbreads and fruit. He was dressed as a lordling fop today, with a brocade coat and lacy sleeves.