Sorrowfish

by Anne C Miles

  Dane shook his head and set his bread down. He wrote, You believe lies. Telling lies can make me sick, kill me.

  Bren bowed his head.

  “You see the fae. You speak with them, converse as you do with me?” he asked, quietly.

  Dane nodded.

  “We cannot,” he said. The words echoed in the cell, full of loss.

  “The verses you shared, they are part of greater sacred mysteries, teaching given to us directly over centuries. Doran, the Lesser himself, spoke those words in my hearing. We’ve been told by the arcantor only those with pure hearts could receive them. They are not taught to common men. We are told we are ascending, that some will become like cyntae. We are chosen, sacred, elite. Those below shall be as above.”

  The brother raised his hands, palms up.

  “Yet a dewin, after cleansing by pain, gives these words to me with his bruised hands. You refuse to break silence, no matter how I beat you. You healed the Tree. You should not have been able to remember mysteries, much less repeat them. Even our most pious struggle to retain these truths. And you speak with fae at will. You could yet become a majister yourself, if the cyntae willed it.”

  Dane met the cantor’s gaze steadily. The cantor looked away.

  Dane tapped his slate. How does a wyrmfriend heal the Tree? I speak truth. You believe lies. No man can become a god.

  Dane saw Jax’s head, peeking from the stone from the corner above the cantor.

  “I do not yet understand how, but you must be pure,” the cantor said, nodding.

  The Storm King commanded my greatfather to guard the Lorica and wait in hiding, in peace. One from my family would receive a sign. After, we were to work. Prepare the way for his return. Dewin have been discredited, called insane. We have been captured, never to be seen again while Conclave lies spew forth unhindered.

  Bren scooted over to watch as Dane wrote, impatient with waiting. Jax’s head popped back into the wall.

  Dane erased the words and continued.

  Think on it. How do you know the things you have been taught are true? From whom did you learn?

  Brother Bren’s face twisted and drained of color. “Modric,” he whispered. “It all came from Modric, and we trusted him. Because Modric, the Last Majister, he saved us all.”

  Dane shook his head. He enslaved you all. The Storm King lives. The Song is failing with Dissonance. Lies cause Dissonance. I do not know the full meaning of the verse, but my heart says the sign my family waited for occurred the day I grounded a fae. She spoke those words to me. After, I set out on my journey and healed the Tree. She appeared again and repeated the phrase.

  Bren clambered to his feet, his lean form unfolding. He stooped to retrieve Dane’s plate and spoon. “I don’t want to believe you.”

  I know that, he wrote. Dane jerked a thumb toward his wounded back, wearily.

  Brother Bren paused, hovering near the door. Several minutes later, he spoke. The words fell heavily on Dane’s ears.

  “I will give you three days to heal in this cell. You shall remain here, undisturbed. We shall discuss these things, and I will meditate on your answers. I wish to know more of your Lorica. In three days, I will decide my course.”

  Exhausted, Dane nodded.

  Bren barred the door behind him.

  Jax crept out of the wall, climbing down from his perch near the ceiling.

  “I heard his side of your conversation. I don’t trust him. It’s a trap.”

  Dane wrote on the slate, What choice do I have?

  Jax’s face set, fierce with determination. His eyes glinted like shiny pebbles above his whiskers. “We will leave here in three days, whether the cantor believes you or not. We’re leaving with Bell.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  JAX EMERGED FROM the ground a mile to the north of the Chapterhouse compound before sunset. He doffed his cap, brushing away stray dirt, yanked it back into place, and began to explore. He needed help, needed information. He was determined to find a way. But deep down, he already knew digging their way out wasn’t an option. There was too much limestone. Much of the earth here was laced with iron, impassable even for him.

  This forest was not like the Heyewood. The trees were younger and much smaller. Oaks, beeches, hazel, rowan, and larches grew among pines. Some soared, stately and regal as any queen, others twisted and bent like old men among huge, moss-covered stones. The stones were massive. It looked like a giant had abandoned a game. Some stone stretched smooth, as if poured, like the floor of a cave. These dipped, with a velvet moss blanket, into hollows and crevices, bordered by patches of ivy-covered earth. Ferns punctuated the ivy.

  Jax topped a ridge and gaped at a carpet of riotous bluebells below him where two badgers lounged.

  Archangel vines grew over the moss, providing Jax hand and footholds to clamber down and join them.

  The badgers watched him approach, their black-and-white-striped faces quizzical.

  “Ho, friend badgers,” Jax said, raising his hand in greeting.

  The larger badger grunted in return. “Ho, stonefriend.”

  Jax’s eyebrows shot up, and the end of his cap curled. He bowed.

  “I am a traveler from the Heyegrove. My name is Jax.”

  The badgers nodded together. The smaller female said, “I am Ribbon and this is Fleck. Welcome to the Puzzlewood.”

  “I’m looking for other gnomes, other stonefriends. Do you know where the closest Burrow is?”

  Fleck said, “No, we have only met occasional travelers. My mother told me of your kind when I was a cub, but it has been many years since this forest has seen your folk.”

  Ribbon nodded, agreeing.

  Jax frowned and scratched the back of his head. “Ah, that’s sad news indeed. I had hoped to gain aid. I have friends who are being held by the tall two-legs beyond the forest and need to dig them an escape.”

  Fleck’s ears perked up as he considered this. He sat up straighter on his haunches and looked at Jax, his black eyes widening. “To dig out from their walls?” he asked.

  Jax nodded. “You’re an expert digger. Is it possible?”

  The badger looked up at the canopy of the trees. The light was waning rapidly. Soon it would be full dusk. “It might be done, close to the wall. But the ground is riddled with stone and iron. It would make a long dig impossible for me. Dig too close and stone-eyes see. Then tall two-legs come with death.”

  Jax nodded. “The Watchers on the walls are a problem.”

  The badgers dropped to all fours and began to edge away, snuffling for food.

  “It is not good to be above when the stars shine,” said Ribbon, turning. “The shadows have sharp teeth. We must gather food now, before full night falls. Beware, stonefriend. And good luck.”

  Shadowkin. Jax shivered. He looked up into the boughs, wary of looming shadows. Time to descend and hide. He sank into the loam beneath his feet, discouraged, and began to make his way once more back to the Conclave.

  Dane slept fitfully through two bells on his pallet bed, feverish. The speakeasy opened, and Bren greeted him, his voice muffled through the small window.

  “Dane, are you awake? I’ve come to heal you as I can.”

  Dane sat up and knocked on the wall in reply. Bren entered with a handful of white tunebells and a book. Soft chimes washed over Dane, and he relaxed in the familiar scent.

  Bren settled himself in front of Dane and took up an ivory bloom. “If caught with these, I would be executed,” he said. “I must do two things quickly and depart.” He opened his book and scanned, finding the verse he needed. “Apologies, I don’t normally heal. These songs are unfamiliar.”

  Dane erased his slate with the edge of his sleeve and wrote. He tapped to get Bren’s attention, turning it to face him.

  Is that the Apokrypha?

  Bren squinted at the slate, puzzled. He looked at his book and shook his head. “Not as you think of it. The Apokrypha you know, the books cantors read from in Camber services ar
e only a portion of the full text. The dangerous portions, those are guarded well and untranslated from the old speech, the old tongue of the majisters in Anach. This is one of those.”

  Bren crushed a bloom and began to sing the words on the page, Canting them, sing-song. The language was unfamiliar. Dane thought he recognized the word Brenin but it might have been his imagination.

  A buzzing started in his ears. He felt a small tickle in the base of his skull.

  Storm King, have mercy.

  The buzzing grew. His whole world became sound, a drone that threatened to silence even thought. He began to shake, to vibrate with it. His teeth ached.

  It stopped.

  The relief was palpable. He sat, dripping sweat. Then the tickle returned. The buzzing returned. It built again until he feared his head would burst.

  It stopped.

  Bren regarded him. His Canting had ended. He rifled through the pages in his book.

  Dane shook his head and held up his hands. He picked up the slate and wrote.

  You’re hurting me.

  Bren laid the book and flower aside and crouched, bending over Dane. “May I?” He lifted Dane’s robe at the neck and inspected the wounds beneath.

  “Better. They look a week healed. I’ll have someone come in the morning to dress and cleanse them, and we shall do this again tomorrow night.” He handed all but one of the tunebells to Dane. “Hide these in your pillow.”

  Dane blinked, surprised. If he broke his vow of silence, he could use the Song without them. But with these blooms, the Song was much easier to reach, and much more effective. Bren was trusting him. Dane accepted the blooms. He tore a strip from one of his sheets, wrapping them carefully and placed them just inside his pillowcase.

  “You cannot speak yet, and the healing will drain you. I have but one thing more to ask.”

  Dane nodded, his breath catching on the word yet.

  What happens if I speak? He shuddered.

  “I occasionally see fae when I Cant with the sacred flowers. The purest of us are able. We cannot touch them, speak with them. I believe you have spoken truly and am trusting you with tunebells as a sign of good faith.

  “Siles is frantic to speak with fae. He claims one will gain help for him with his project. He wishes to control certain chymaera to prove his superiority over the other high cantors. He aims to rule with Modric, to become a majister himself. Of course, to do so he must ground fae, form a harmony bond.

  “Can you speak with fae in my presence? I will release you from your vow to do so.”

  Dane’s eyes widened, shocked. Release from silence would mean he could use the Song.

  Bren answered Dane’s unspoken questions. “Yes, I have the authority to release you from your vow, though I advise you to remain silent and continue to use the slate except at my behest. You will need your voice to grant my request. Am I correct?”

  Dane nodded and wrote on his slate. This is for Siles?

  Bren shook his head again. “It is just for me. I believe you have spoken truly. Releasing you is a sentence of death if I am discovered. I am prepared to deny the Conclave and claim the Storm King, to help you, and accept what you say. I am just trying to understand the extent of my own foolishness and errors. I wish to hear the fae for solace and confirmation.”

  Release me, Dane wrote.

  Bren cleared his throat. He crushed his remaining tunebell and sketched the arc over Dane’s head. “I release you, Danethor Thomas Whitley, from your vow of silence in the name of Doran, without penalty.”

  He sang a few lines in the strange language, Canting.

  “You are free.”

  “What would have happened if I had broken the vow?” asked Dane. His voice was rough from disuse.

  “You would never have spoken again.”

  Dane stretched, testing his wounds. The ache was there, and the pain, but dulled to a level he could manage. He rolled to his knees and retrieved a tunebell from his pillow, tucking the others securely away. “Normally I need starlight,” he said. “I’m not certain this will work, but I’ll try.”

  He muttered a quick prayer to the Storm King and sketched the eight-sided sign in the air as he crushed his tunebell. Slowly, he sang.

  The Dark One ascends,

  Eight shall turn him round.

  The octagon hung in the air and began to glow. It shimmered as if made of white fire. In its light, fae flashed, surrounding him. None of them lingered. Dane continued his song.

  One from the heartfire

  One beneath the ground,

  The fae flashed in rapid succession. Dane realized he was looking for one face, Sara’s face. He wondered if she would return. She had led him here. The least she could do was lead him out. He pictured her eyes and kept singing. He silently cast a prayer to the Storm King for help.

  One stone rider,

  One who cannot hear.

  One claims the Storm King, One Names the Fear.

  Sara flashed in front of him, and the octagon drifted down and settled on her brow like a burning crown. Music wafted like a fresh breeze through the cell, the melody filling it with hope and promise.

  She said, “Shadows will fall across fen and glade and forest.”

  The sign grew brighter, blinding. It filled her form with light and raced up and down her body. She grew more solid with each pass, until finally the sign dissipated and only the fae remained. She did not flicker. He had done it. She was here in the flesh, grounded.

  Sara looked around, blinking and uncertain. “This again,” she said. “Where’s the gnome? I thought I saw him.”

  “He’s not here right now,” said Dane. He pulled himself up to greet her, putting his hand over his heart and bowing. “Hello, Sara.”

  Sara focused on Dane. “Hello. You don’t look so good.” She walked around him, examining and jerked her head at Bren. The cantor sat, open-mouthed in wonder. “Who is your friend?”

  Bren stood slowly.

  “Sara, this is Brother Bren. He has a few questions to ask you,” Dane said. He was just relieved the gambit had worked. He wasn’t sure it would.

  Bren’s lined face shone in the glowlight, oily. It made the wrinkles around his eyes seem deeper. “I needed to know Dane spoke truly and meet you for myself. Thank you for speaking with me.” His angular frame loomed over Sara as he bowed.

  “No problem. You’ll make a great addition to my dream journal. Dr. Carol will love it. The darn thing is becoming an Edda. Is this a prison cell?” She walked to the banded steel door, reaching to pull it open.

  “It is, but we are safe inside this cell,” said Dane. “It’s a long story.”

  Sara stopped short. “You’re not exactly convincing me. You have a black eye, a swollen lip—you’re obviously hurt and in a prison cell. Wasn’t this guy one of those dudes who thinks you’re nuts?”

  Dane stared at her, struggling to understand the strange words. What did nuts have to do with him?

  “Bonkers. Postal. Mad?” she asked, twirling her finger near her head.

  “Mad, oh, yes. Bren believes me. It’s why he wanted to meet you.”

  “I’m your proof of sanity? That’s rich. Am I mad? Because, I gotta tell you. My dreams have been just wackadoodle lately.” Sara’s laugh was hollow.

  Dane regarded her, bemused. She scuffed her slipper against the stone floor, muttering. “Awesome, my subconscious has no sense of humor.”

  Sara braced her back against the wall, sliding down to sit. “Okay, Kojak, let me have it.”

  “Your words are strange, milady,” said Bren, resuming his seat. He stretched his long legs in front of him, leaning back on his hands.

  “My words are strange?” Sara tilted her head and wrinkled her nose. Her freckles stood out against her pale skin. Her laugh bounced around the tiny cell. “I suppose they would be. I apologize.” She composed her expression and dropped her eyes, tracing her finger on the stone floor.

  “How long do they stay?” Bren asked Dane.
>
  Dane crossed to his pallet and sat, frowning. “This is one of the longest periods. It’s usually no more than a few moments.”

  Sara looked up. “Relax, I’m sure I’ll wake up soon.” The floor where she had been doodling now held a knot pattern, as if carved in the stone. “You had questions for me?”

  Bren nodded and drew his knees up under his chin. “How do you know the verses? Do you know what they mean?”

  “What verses?”

  “‘Shadow will fall across fen and glade and forest.’ You said it just now, as you entered,” said Bren.

  “No clue,” said Sara. “I fell asleep on my couch, I’m dreaming. It’s weird, but I’m used to it. Not my first rodeo. I don’t remember saying anything like that.”

  “And you don’t know what it means?”

  “Nope.”

  Bren’s brow wrinkled.

  Sara sighed and clarified. “No, I do not know what they mean.”

  “You dream not, milady,” said Bren. “You are here in the flesh.” He pointed to the stone where she had carved the pattern with her finger, as if she had drawn in sand.

  “That is dream weirdness. Believe me, I am off the charts when we start talking dream weirdness. Pay no attention. This is not the reality you are looking for.” She held up one hand, palm out, and moved it in a circle.

  Bren threw up his arms to shield himself.

  Sara chuckled.

  Dane stared at the floor, the pattern it held, an intricate octagon. “You are here in the flesh, Sara. This is not a dream. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t have grounded you unless I had great need.”

  Sara looked from Dane to Bren, her eyes widening. “Look guys, you’re my way of processing stress. I get it. I’ve had a lot of stress lately. So I’m okay with the spike in weirdness. But you’re starting to freak me out. I’m doing what’s called lucid dreaming. It means I know I’m dreaming. I’m just dreaming. I’m gonna buzz off now.”

  She shut her eyes and pressed her lips together, tightening her mouth to a thin line. A few seconds later, she opened her eyes. She clicked her heels together. “There’s no place like my apartment. No place like my apartment.” she said. She rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t have time for this, boys. I need my rest. See you in the funny papers.” She clambered to her feet, faced the inner cell wall, and walked through it.