Sorrowfish

by Anne C Miles

  “You know what I wish?” Tabor said, in lieu of a greeting.

  “I can’t possibly imagine what you wish,” said Trystan. He grabbed a muffin and sat down on the bench, bumping off Tabor’s feet. “Do share.”

  “I wish I had wings of my own. I hate traveling. It inevitably means camping. There are never enough inns, no matter what route I take to Bestua.”

  Trystan arched a brow at Tabor. “Why are we going to Bestua?”

  Tabor sat up, sighing heavily. He waved his hand, sending lace fluttering in the morning breeze. “Because I spoke with Mod today. She delivered your lute, which I see you found. She also brought guests, who have come and gone. The chymaera was here with two Forgemen and a dwarf. She says your luthier has been taken by the Conclave.”

  “Taken? And so we must leave as well?”

  “Dear boy, Mod said you have been watched, as we suspected. She believes that the Conclave actually used you as bait to capture the luthier.”

  Tabor gestured, encompassing the courtyard. “They knew who you were and have watched all of your movements. They used you to find this luthier, Danethor, in the first place. The dwarf had a message for Danethor’s gnome guardian as well, but Mod will deliver it. You have other business.

  “You’ve been missed while you’ve been in the nest itself. It’s time to let the Conclave see you again. Preferably doing what you’re supposed to be doing, while leading them away from the luthier. It’s time for us to go back to Bestua. You will get your master’s rank, and I shall cause a ruckus.” He paused, reflecting, and qualified. “A small one.”

  “I thought I couldn’t go anywhere without more training.”

  Tabor gave Trystan a level look. “Yes, well that’s true enough. We’ll give you an intensive course over the next few days and teach you on the way. Do you remember the boy, Gint? He will accompany us as your manservant. His skills shall be useful when we get to the capitol.” Tabor grinned, widely.

  Trystan leaned back. “Something amuses you?”

  Tabor shook his head and took a large bite of muffin, nearly finishing it. “Well there’s one bright side.”

  “What?”

  “Training will give us something to do when we camp.”

  The afternoon light slanted on Trystan’s lute case, leaning against a bench. Next to it, a flute nestled on a pile of flowers. Trystan’s eyes widened when he spotted them. In the last two days he’d been crammed full of herb lore, basic lockpicking, pickpocketing, subterfuge, acrobatics, self-defense, and disguises. All fascinating subjects, but what he really wanted was to use the Song. Aside from a short demonstration session with Tabor’s flute, he’d had no instruction at all on the topic. He ached to learn more.

  Now, finally, the time had come.

  Tabor walked over to his flute and plucked it from its bed, turning it to display a stamped mark on the underside of the instrument—three stars inside an octagon. His lute bore the same mark.

  “My flute, found within the ruins below, two hundred years ago. We’ve recovered a handful of these instruments. Some have been made by the likes of the dewin luthier. They are passed down and guarded with our lives. You do not have to be dewin to use one, as you well know.”

  “Why? What’s the difference? Does any music that I play on this lute create a spell? I’ve been worried that I’m making storms or causing stillbirths.”

  Tabor laughed. “No. If a dewin were to play, yes. But the likes of you and I need the help of a strong supporting force. These flowers and their Virtue provide it.” He picked up a lovely blue flower that chimed. “This is a tunebell. It has a powerful resonance that works with our instruments. Along with this, the will of a player playing the right song can move mountains, quite literally. Delphiniums also may help, though not as well. These are the most effective and versatile. Different blooms have different effects.”

  “What do you mean by the right song?” Trystan’s eyes narrowed.

  “I don’t mean the monotone Canting twaddle peddled by our robed friends,” Tabor said. He frowned, thinking. “We’ve gleaned there are combinations of words and tunes that the cantors wield to manipulate the Song’s power, but they’re limited by songs they know.”

  Trystan nodded, frowning. “I can identify many of those words, but not the exact order. I must see or hear one to identify it. They’re in a dead language I haven’t studied. The Bindery teaches basics to every musician as a precaution, so we can avoid their use. They’re songs from the Majisterium.”

  “Are they now?” Tabor picked up his flute and twirled it. “That’s good to know. We’ve scoured the archives here and oddly enough, found nothing useful but references to the Lorica. Have you heard of it?”

  “Lorica...” Trystan tasted the word. It felt familiar. “I remember reading a scroll where it was mentioned. Very old. I’d have to look at my notes to find the exact information.”

  Tabor nodded, then pointed to his lute. “Doesn’t matter. We don’t worry with words or even with memorizing certain songs. We just crush the bloom.” He picked up a tunebell and crushed it. “We focus on the question or problem we have, then we listen for an answer.”

  “Listen?”

  “Listen. We’re not trying to control our circumstances. Instead, we surrender. Trust that the true Song creates harmony for all things, and you can touch it. These instruments we hold attune us to the Song as it is meant to be, to the melody that was lost. The flower boosts our ability to hear. Listen, and when you know the Song, play it. If you don’t hear, remain in your question until you do. We work only with what we hear.”

  “So I’ll hear it? Are you sure?” Trystan inhaled the tunebell scent and waited a few moments before complaining. “I can’t hear anything.”

  Tabor spoke slowly. “Do you ever hear a melody in your thoughts, in your heart? Do you walk around whistling it? Humming? That is the key. The song which comes to mind is not random. It has meaning. The tune you need in the moment will come clear. Focus on your need, listen, then play.”

  “What if I hear the wrong thing?”

  “You won’t. Not with that lute in your hands. Try it.”

  Trystan thought about his greatest need and focused. He shut his eyes and listened. His mind whirled with questions, but the one weighing on him most heavily was his fear for his people. He let himself picture his father and brothers. He held the idea of their forges growing cold, the Shadowborn threatening. He breathed again and kept holding the idea.

  And he heard. In his mind, a tune sounded. It was unfamiliar, so he listened. When it began to repeat, he lifted the lute and played. He played power. Strong and throbbing, it jumped from his strings into the air, building into a crackling dance of light. Tabor joined him, and together they played, the flute keening a descant over his strident, joyful melody.

  Trystan saw his father, standing next to a group of dwarves before a cold forge, their faces downcast. The image floated before his eyes on the river of Song that poured from his lute.

  He wondered if his father would be there when he returned. Trystan focused on the melody in his mind and kept playing.

  The room that he saw held the main forge, one of the largest in Pelegor. It always burned. “Hotter than a dragon’s fire,” his father would say. It burned bright blue, the flame of the Forge. This flame was more than just the tool their people used to shape impossible weapons. The flame represented their people. Their calling, their heritage, their culture were bound to the flame. Without it, the Northmen would have to abandon their craft, shaping only common metals. No more songsteel would keep the Shadowborn at bay.

  Esseylte.

  They would all be slaughtered.

  Trystan’s chest began to ache. But he played on. He played fire and sparks and light. He played heritage and destiny. He played hope. The image held before him. He saw his father talking to the dwarves, to the other Forgemen. He saw him gesture to the hearth, cold and silent.

  And as he struck a powerful chord, he saw a
spark flame. Another. My Lord. What am I doing?

  The flame which sprang up was tiny, but Trystan’s father, Tenkor, saw it. A dwarf leapt into the huge space to nurture the fire. I’ve set the Forge aflame. I did it. First try.

  Trystan’s fingers and shoulders ached. The vision faded, and his tune died with it. He flopped to his knees, spent and sweating.

  “I can see what you’re seeing when we play together,” said Tabor. He barked a laugh and flopped on the bench, perspiration rolling down his brow. “You don’t start small, I’ll give you that. You tried to light the Forge from here? And the Song was willing. Gods man, I said you could move a mountain, I didn’t mean for you to try it. Smaller feats to start. Small. Miniscule. Little. Teensy.” He mimed a box a half-inch high, and wagged a finger, admonishing. “You have to practice and build your focus…But you did...more than well. Honestly, your strength is astonishing. Unprecedented.”

  Trystan panted, trying to recover. He looked up, surprised at the last remark and grinned crookedly at his mentor. “I did all right, didn’t I?”

  Tabor chuckled. “You’ll do for a Spinner, lad. You’ll do.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  DANE GROANED AND lifted his head, immediately regretting it. The cold stone of the floor leached the heat radiating from his wounds. He blinked, moving as little as possible. The cell smelled musty, but not unclean. He was bandaged heavily, huddled on the floor of a dark, windowless cell. He vaguely remembered being dressed, dragged here, and a tonic poured down his throat.

  He grit his teeth against the agony and sat up.

  Stars whirled in his vision. Pain engulfed him. Dane squinted, struggling to see. A thin line of dim light glowed from under the iron-banded door, revealing a ten-by-ten compartment devoid of furniture. Only Dane’s wrappings and thin robe softened the stone walls and floor. Dane closed his eyes and inhaled.

  “Yer a sight for sore eyes and that’s a fact,” said Jax.

  Dane’s eyes flew open. It was too dark to see his features, but the gnome’s rough voice was unmistakable.

  He licked his dry lips and groaned.

  Jax interrupted him. “Did you take a vow of silence? No speaking. Save your strength. You cannot risk lies, especially not here. I hope we get you and Bell out before you have to speak to a questioner, but if not...”

  The gnome didn’t finish the statement. He uncorked a waterskin and held it to Dane’s lips. Dane drank, slowly at first, then greedily.

  “They’ve had you here for almost a day. They check on you every hour or two, but you’re in the solitary confinement cell for prisoners, in the deepest dungeon and few ever leave these. I overheard the good brothers discussing your future. After your display in that class, they seem to think you can’t be trusted. Some want to give it another go, try to convert you. Others want your wits purged.”

  Jax pulled the skin away from Dane’s mouth, wiping it with his sleeve.

  “You know Bell is here? Just nod or shake your head.”

  Dane nodded. Seeing Jax was such a comfort. He was not alone. He motioned to his mouth, wincing as he raised his arm.

  “They used her to force you to vow.” Jax’s cap stiffened in anger as he guessed. “I understand. She’s safe. I’ve been seeing to her as I can.“

  Dane nodded again.

  “Do you understand you can walk right out of here, lad? You’re dewin. I know you’ve been taught to fear your gift and never use it. I know you’ve almost never tried. But by Lalo’s right hand, that nut has broken open, and there’s no sealing it back. You have it within you to heal yourself, rescue Bell and leave. It’s time to use the power.”

  He can see in the dark, Dane realized. All these years living with Pezzik, and he didn’t know gnomes could see in the dark. He was so blind sometimes. The observation floated through Dane’s mind. He couldn’t leave without Bell.

  He gestured for Jax to continue.

  “All of them, each and every last robed devil, obeys their ringing schedule. You should be able to sing your way out tonight, after the small hours sound. They will have few guards stationed, but I can guide you. They rely on the Watchers, and those are everywhere. It’s why I haven’t come to you before.

  “They have a room filled with tiny Watchers, monitored at all times. If anything strange happens, the little Watchers show them what the large ones see. I’ve managed to stay out of sight, I think.“

  So many cantors. They use the Song, too.

  “The day you got here, Bell was being prepared to visit the chymaera. They didn’t take her, of course. The Wyn flew away instead with your friends. Angered them to no end. Bell must be dewin too, but she’s been woeful bad at every test they’ve given her. I explained to her how to use the Song, but she couldn’t hear it. They keep her under lock and key now, guarded in a dungeon with no windows and three Watchers because now she’s recovering and can speak.

  “I spend my time searching for a way to get us out. There are hidden passages used by some of the higher-ranked brothers. I haven’t yet found one that leads out. But I have this.”

  Jax doffed his cap and reached in, pulling out a carefully wrapped package. “From Pezzik, she said you would need them. They’re Essences from your garden.”

  Dane took the package and unwrapped it with shaking hands. Inside were all the Essences he used in the creation of his lutes in small stoppered vials. He opened one and sniffed, smiling to himself for the first time in days.

  The fae’s words floated through his mind.

  Those below shall be as above.

  Sara had said this to him just before she vanished, the Song ringing through her voice.

  He and Bell were both being kept underground. What did she mean? Be as above? He felt so woozy. Could he heal himself? His Pa and mother could not heal themselves when the fever took them. They had tried. Stars above, he had tried. How could he truly trust his power when it was so capricious?

  He sniffed the vial again, stoppered and bundled it with the others, rewrapping it securely.

  Those below shall be as above. Those below shall be as above. Those below shall be as above.

  He couldn’t get the words out of his mind. They echoed, insistent. Outside his door, he heard scraping as its bar lifted. Dane shoved the package of Essences at Jax and motioned for him to hide. Jax melted into the shadows as the door swung open. Brother Bren stood in the lintel, his narrow face, shadowed. He held Dane’s slate and chalk in his hand. Bren stooped and handed them to Dane. He fixed Dane with a stern expression, his voice hushed and even.

  “I trust that you have been cleansed of your lies. If not, the grace you have been given shall be utterly removed, and you shall be permanently disabled. We do not wish this to happen. You can be of great service to our cause. To all people. Do you understand? Consider your answer carefully, Brother.”

  He pointed to the slate.

  “Where is the Storm King?”

  Those below shall be as above. Those below shall be as above. Those below shall be as above.

  The words positively roared in Dane’s mind. He prayed to the Storm King, even as he leaned into the light falling from the doorway and wrote them on the slate. Help me.

  Those below shall be as above. Those below shall be as above. Those below shall be as above.

  A meaningless phrase, but if he answered the question posed to him directly and truthfully, they would kill him.

  Brother Bren took the slate and read it aloud, stiffening.

  “Those below shall be as above.”

  “Where did you hear this? How do you know these words?” he shouted angrily.

  Dane stared at him, dazed and unblinking. He didn’t have the slate and couldn’t answer without breaking his vow. He shrugged, splaying his empty hands.

  The cantor shoved the slate at Dane. “Where?”

  Dane used the edge of his robe to erase the slate. He wrote one word.

  Fae.

  “Do you know the rest of it?” Brother Bren a
sked.

  Dane took the slate again. Slowly he scrawled the entire message Sara had spoken to him.

  Small choices shall rule large kingdoms as the Day draws ever near. Do not lose hope. The jackdaw shall linger then the storms shall begin. Each shall flee to his place. Your work does matter. Do not give up. Do not falter. Those below shall be as above. Shadows will fall across fen and glade and forest. The game is not a game. A tiny word can move a seeker toward his doom.

  He handed the slate to Bren. Silhouetted in the doorway, Dane could not see the cantor’s expression. He could only hear his voice tremble with emotion as he asked again. “Where is the Storm King?”

  Dane accepted the slate and erased it.

  I will not lie. He wrote quickly. He lives beyond the door of the Moon. He yet wrestles the Wyrm. He will return.

  The cantor fell to his knees and read his answer slowly, as if seeing the words for the first time. Dane saw tears glisten in his eyes. Brother Bren fell to his knees.

  “What have I done?” he whispered.

  Dane stared in wonder as his torturer wept.

  Bren composed himself after his outburst, rising and smoothing his robes. “I will return. Have no fear. I shall not harm you further. This cell is one of the few places we may speak freely. I must hear what you have to say.”

  He left, returning a quarter of an hour later with a plate of food, a flask of tea and some glowstones. An acolyte followed with blankets, pillows, and a rolled mat. After lighting the glows, Bren gave Dane the plate. He prepared a makeshift bed in the corner while Dane ate in silence. The cantor faced Dane, sinking to sit on the floor and placed a glow between them.

  “You cannot lie.”

  It was a statement, not a question. Dane shook his head. He wrote on the slate and showed it to the cantor.

  Lies cause Dissonance. They can kill me.

  Bren pursed his lips. “We have been told that dewin believe lies, whether they know they are lies or not. It has the same effect.”