Sorrowfish

by Anne C Miles

  The innkeeper eyed Tabor, taking in his measure. “How much will you wager?”

  “Dinner, ale, and the price of rooms, or I pay you double,” Tabor said.

  “Done.”

  “You do realize my lute can get us both in trouble, don’t you?” Trystan said. Tabor waved his worries away, dismissing them. “It takes a well-trained ear or a chymaera to hear the difference between your lute and an ordinary instrument. Just don’t crush a blossom. Play ordinary tunes.”

  Trystan picked a scale to check his tuning and launched into a rollicking ditty, “The Bawdy Barmaid.” The crowd joined in, singing the chorus. It must’ve been the lute. When he began the next song, a folk dance, tables were pushed back. Couples began to whirl. Five songs later, the applause was thunderous, and the innkeeper was forced to admit his loss. Trystan spied him shaking Tabor’s hand. He chuckled, surveying the crowd.

  His eyes fell on a tall blonde woman, sitting alone. She wore a crooked smile. The sight of her stabbed him, tearing an old wound. Esseylt. Trystan bent his head to watch his strings, blinking away sudden tears.

  He pushed Esseylt from his mind. She had married Marcus. She was his sister now.

  He was nearing the end of his set when a couple took a table near the back of the common room.

  The young man moved carefully. His face was bruised, and dark stubble clouded his head, as if shaved recently, but growing in. His clothing marked him a farmer. His companion attended him with barely concealed concern, watching him closely. Long brown hair hid her features as she leaned forward to speak to him. Trystan might have taken them for normal villagers, but the man was staring openly at his lute. He pointed and said something to the woman, who winced as she turned to study him. She was hurt too.

  Trystan thought about ending the set immediately, but decided to play a ballad. “This last song is dedicated to the good innkeeper,” he said, smiling. “May his cups overflow.”

  He began to play, and the young man paled, reacting visibly to the music, the lute. The woman patted his arm, soothing. He didn’t look like a cantor, even an acolyte. But if he was, he’d know soon. Trystan pushed his worry away and concentrated on the song. It was an old tune, a song from home. The lute carried the melody.

  As the notes rippled through the hushed room, the story unfolded. He sang the words, unable to restrain himself, completing the images the music formed. A young wife, left alone. Her husband serving the king in the war against the shadow. An arrow flying true. The lute played the wind on the husband’s face as he fell. It played the tears that lay on the wife’s pillow as she waited every night in vain.

  When Trystan’s song ended, no one stirred. A silence hung in the air. The applause started quietly in the back and became a wave. It thundered, threatening to bowl Trystan over. He blinked and took a step back, his eyes blurring with unexpected tears. He bowed quickly to cover his emotions.

  The brown-haired girl waited for him next to the stage. Trystan knelt to place the lute in its case.

  “Pardon me, but is your name Trystan?” she asked.

  He fastened his lute case and slung it over his shoulder pointedly. “You’ve heard of me, I see. I normally play in Bridgeton on my circuit but decided to vary my route this time. May I help you?”

  She smiled at him and curtsied. “Indeed milord. My friend would very much like to meet you. It seems he planned to make your acquaintance in Baehnt some time ago but was unwillingly detained. His friends delivered a package to you in his stead. He is very anxious for news of them.”

  Trystan peered over at the table again. Stars above. It was the luthier. He was here. Trystan struggled to keep his composure. “Yes, I very much appreciate the package she delivered, though I confess I did not meet her myself. My associate might have some word, however. I will speak with your friend ...”

  “Dee,” said the girl, winking broadly. “And you can call me Penny.”

  You can call me? With a wink. The luthier and his friend must be concealing their true names. Trystan threaded his way back to her table. Danethor struggled to get to his feet as he saw them approach.

  “Don’t get up,” Trystan said, offering his hand. “I’m glad to meet you.”

  Danethor took his hand, shaking it firmly, and settled back in his seat. “We just stopped for some supplies, but I heard music and thought I recognized it.” He gestured toward the lute. “You do know who I am?”

  Trystan slid into a chair and cocked his head toward Penny. “She says you’re called Dee. I believe I owe you a great debt of thanks. Your craftsmanship? It was perfect.”

  Danethor nodded. “Glad you received it. I wasn’t sure… My friends who delivered it, they are well?”

  Trystan frowned. “Mod delivered it, though I did not meet her. My associate retrieved it for me. He might be able to tell you more.”

  Danethor’s brow wrinkled. “Two Northmen and a dwarf promised delivery as I was...delayed. Storm King be thanked, they must have found Mod at the ship. But I worry for them all the same.”

  Trystan pursed his lips, thinking. “My friend might be able to shed more light.”

  Danethor shifted in his seat and leaned forward, pitching his voice so Trystan had to strain to catch his words.

  “Our party is on the other side of the village green waiting. ’Twould be better to discuss in private. You need to meet them, regardless. We have much to say regarding your package…and those who sought to intercept it.”

  Tabor chose that moment to interrupt. “Our free meal is at our table, Trystan. You played so well that the innkeep wasn’t even angry. Are these new admirers?”

  Trystan’s laugh sounded hollow in his own ears. He stifled his unease as it rose in his chest. Danethor had undoubtedly been held against his will and injured.

  “In a way, this is…Dee. He sent me a very special package through your service. They’re amusing a bawler and need to dance the shadows. We should discuss it.”

  Tabor’s eyes widened as he translated the Spinner’s Cant. They were dodging cantors and needed to disappear.

  “I might be able to assist,” he said, bowing. “Call me Burtyn. I am at your humble service. We’ll rendezvous after our meal?”

  Danethor nodded as a barmaid appeared with a covered basket. He started to reach for his purse, but before he could, Trystan was on his feet. He whipped out coins and paid her. The lad had fallen into torment and ’twas his fault.

  “Please, the least I can do. Bring them a bottle of wine, as well,” he said, adding an extra coin. Waving away their thanks, he followed Tabor back to their table.

  Dane struggled to keep up with Bell as they strolled down the narrow street. The smells emanating from the basket made his mouth water. His wounds ached. He was dizzy, though he wasn’t sure if from exhaustion or from the shock of hearing his lute. The bard was playing in public. He shook his head, marveling. So dangerous.

  Bell cut a path straight toward the empty shop they had “borrowed” for the night. A party with a gnome and chymaera couldn’t rent rooms at one of the inns. They would be remembered, when they most needed to stay out of sight. Dane grunted, out of breath. Bell cast a glance back and stopped. When he caught up, she walked more slowly, her expression thoughtful.

  “So you really crafted that lute?”

  Dane’s breath caught. “I did.”

  They reached the storefront, but Bell hesitated. She put her small hand on his arm. “And you’ve always known you were...”

  “Dewin?” Dane said, facing her. “My whole family has the gift, going back generations. I’ve known what I am for as long as I can remember.”

  Bell looked into his eyes as if searching for something. She dropped her gaze and shook her head. “It explains a lot.”

  “It feels strange to speak of it openly. You’re gifted as well.”

  Bell shook her head. “The chymaera said I was broken, and Jax said I’ve never displayed the signs. Not that I would know what they are.” She scuffed a stray peb
ble with her shoe. “I’m not sure whether I should be relieved or not. On the one hand, I likely won’t go mad. But I felt so useless when we were imprisoned. Especially after Jax showed up with fae to rescue us all. How did you do that? Do you always work with fae? Will you go mad?”

  Dane held up his hands, laughing. “Whoa. All right. Let me think how best to explain.” He looked up at the star-filled sky. “When I was a boy I saw fae. I thought everyone could. They appear as spectres…not dark, not angry. They just look like…normal folk. Pezzik and my Pa saw them, but Ma could not. Pa said the Storm King had given me a special grace to hear the Song...to use it and serve others, always to help them. He said many fear us, and we must keep it secret. Sometimes fae would speak to us, but it was rare. It was always a message from the Storm King. We took great care to heed their warnings, though they rarely shared anything but riddles. That part of the old stories is true enough. I grew older, learned more…” He looked into Bell’s eyes and took both her hands. “Pa explained how the gnomes protected us from dewin madness, their cadence. My ancestor discovered their ability. It strengthens knacks, and it guards us. If Jax said you never showed any signs, he likely meant you didn’t see fae. Be thankful. As a small child, they scared me powerfully.”

  Bell pressed him. “And you really hear the Song?”

  “I hear it all the time…in the north wind, the horse’s stride, the bees’ hum, the birds’ chorus. The Song rolls through my mind but the world sings, too, and I hear it. Sometimes it’s overwhelming. Sometimes ’tis barely a whisper. Always there.” He shrugged.

  “How can I be dewin and not hear? Is it possible the cantors were mistaken? Perhaps the purification affected me, but I’m not truly dewin?”

  Dane shook his head. “No. We have been shielded from Dissonance by the gnomes. All deemling families have potential for the talent, ’tis why we have deema. They guarded us even before the War of the Wyrm. It was part of a majister experiment to stir up the gift. If the purification affected you, you are dewin.”

  “So why can’t I hear the Song?”

  “We could ask Sara. She might know.”

  Bell gulped. “Do you know many fae?”

  Dane laughed and shook his head. “Honestly, most only appear once. Sara is the first to appear time and again. I can’t believe I grounded her. ’Twas an accident the first time. I didn’t know I could do it again.”

  Bell placed one hand on her hip, inspecting Dane. “Does this grounding make you a full majister?”

  “No. A harmony bond between a faisant and a majister begins in the world of the fae and can be sealed only at the Majisterium, with a special rite.”

  “But you could become a majister? If a fae message is from the Storm King, wouldn’t it be another kind of message if you were able to ground one? Wouldn’t that mean something even more important? All of the majisters disappeared. Perhaps the Storm King is working to make new ones.”

  Dane stared at his feet. When he answered, he looked up and spoke slowly. “I haven’t really thought about it. I guess it’s possible. There’s much I don’t know.”

  “Could you bond with Sara? See what happens?”

  Dane sighed. “I know the rite but could hardly do it myself. I don’t know how to get to her world. I have to guess. The rite could hurt us. It isn’t like I actually used the Song before Pa died. Oh, I did at first, when I was a boy. I nearly killed Poll. After that, I was very careful indeed. Then Ma got sick...”

  He stole a glance at Bell, watching for her reaction.

  Her eyes filled with tears, understanding. “You tried to save them.”

  Dane nodded. “I couldn’t.”

  He swallowed back the bitterness at the memory. “I quit trying to do much, after that. But lute orders must be filled. The Conclave tracked the last one. That’s why I need to speak with Trystan. He isn’t safe.”

  Two figures emerged from the darkness, walking toward them.

  “It looks like you’ll get your chance.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  SARA PEEKED THROUGH the shutter. It was too dark to see anything but the village green, stretching across the center of town like a blanket. This herbalist’s shop was closed for the night, the owner gone home. With any luck, they would be gone before he returned in the morning.

  Sahxe was charming, with narrow winding streets and tall storybook buildings. She hummed a few bars of “Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo,” half expecting to see a pumpkin turn into a coach.

  Bren and Zonah busied themselves in the back, looking through the wares for useful salves and ointments. Jax had vanished as soon as they arrived, returning with fresh clothes for Sara and Dane. Now they waited for Dane and Bell to return with food.

  Sara found a chair in a corner and closed her eyes. She didn’t know if she’d get home. Where was home? When she reached for her memories, she found nothing but snatches of a very different life. She clearly remembered television, movies, electricity, banks. She knew her world. She just couldn’t glimpse her life. Those details were blank, like trying to remember a dream. Sara fidgeted in frustration. But she was in a dream? This whole thing was ridiculous, and she couldn’t make any sense of it.

  Jax popped through the wall. “The owner of this shop will be back very early,” he said. “The streets are clear, but I sense Shadowkin nearby. We need to move on as soon as we’re supplied. Can’t risk exposing the village.”

  Shadowkin? What are Shadowkin?

  Zonah’s sapphire eyes regarded Sara, her inner lids blinking. “You are very loud, more than Dane. Pryf will track us easily if they get close to you.”

  “What do you mean, I’m loud?” asked Sara.

  “I hear your thoughts. Your heartfire is small and cold, yet your thoughts shout.”

  My heartfire? What is a heartfire?

  Zonah pointed to her chest, answering the unspoken question. “The heartfire gives and receives love, beauty, hope. It fuels our desires and our makings. It begins like a rough block of stone. We shape it with our choices. When we feed it through trust, love, right thinking, it will burn bright and true. Or we may lie to ourselves. We may act a coward or live for pleasure. It will grow cold, and we live as Pryf. Unfit. Rejected.”

  Sara stared at Zonah, shocked and insulted. “Rejected from what? I’m fae, not chymaera. And that’s not a heartfire, that’s a spirit you speak of.”

  “Faisant are creators,” Zonah said matter-of-factly. “Chosen by the Storm King to bond with a majister and feed the heartfires of others, much as our Profi. This is known. The heartfire is but one thread of a spirit. It strays, wayward like a child. You must master it, stonerider, to be faisant, not merely fae.”

  Bren nudged the conversation back toward immediate concerns before Sara could ask more questions. “Can we fly above the Shadowkin? We could be in Siarad tonight.”

  Jax shook his head. “Too dangerous to try, we could all fall if even one attaches itself.“

  Sara went to the window and cracked the shutter again. Across the street, Bell and Dane lingered, deep in private conversation. Embarrassed, she closed the shutter.

  “Let’s ask Dane what he thinks,” said Sara. “They’re outside. I vote to move on tonight.”

  Ten minutes later, Bell and Dane slipped in the back door. They weren’t alone. A young man with close-cropped blonde hair and a short, scruffy beard had joined them, followed by a gray-haired, bespectacled gentleman. The old man nodded and murmured to himself when he saw Zonah and Jax. Dane carried a basket of food and a bottle of wine. Bell held a folded blanket. She spread it on the floor of the shop and took the basket from Dane, setting out bread, cheese, sausages, and apples while Dane made introductions.

  “This is Trystan dan Tenkor, a bard from the Bindery. I made a lute for him and was on my way to deliver it when I was captured. His friend there is his manservant, Burtyn.”

  Bren started, hearing Trystan’s name. “Trystan?”

  Trystan squinted at the cantor and gaped in open-mout
hed astonishment. “Brother Bren? You left the Bindery?”

  Bren grimaced. “Forgive me, I am a brother no more. I have only just deserted the service of the Conclave. I was sent to serve at the Bindery partly to observe you. I must share now, you are to be captured and held at the next opportunity. The orders were sent to the king for his seal weeks ago.”

  Burtyn leaned on a chair in the corner, resting his aged frame. “He will not approve it,” he said, sniffing. “Lord Trystan is a prince.”

  Bren knelt next to the blanket, choosing an apple. “Actually, he likely will. The high king has been at the mercy of the Arcantor for some time. They planned to send a force to Pelegor. The Conclave would wrest control in the name of aid. Shadowborn will soon mass to attack Pelegor. Trystan was to be used as leverage to force acquiescence. It’s been planned for years. A long game.” He took a bite of his apple and chewed.

  Sara grabbed a seat next to Bren and began cutting off pieces of the bread and cheese. She listened closely, trying to sort out what it all meant. This dude was in danger. That much was clear.

  Zonah said, “It’s true. Cantor Siles plots to bring the Wyn under his control as well.”

  Sara studied Trystan. The young bard stood like an eagle ready to fly. Tense. Eyes hard, jaw set.

  “I left home not just to deliver the lute but to warn you before the Conclave intervened. I knew you were likely in danger,” said Dane.

  “We are on our way to Siarad. Come with us.”

  Dane’s voice unleashed Sara’s memories, sending her headlong into reverie. In her mind’s eye, she saw a clear image of a young man in jeans, stooping with one hand out as he approached a growling dog. He had a crooked smile. Peter...

  The image faded before her eyes as suddenly as it had come. Sara shifted on her chair, unsettled, and filed the image away to think on later. Who is Peter? I know him, I do.

  “In Siarad, the Conclave cannot reach you easily. They cannot use you if they cannot reach you,” said Dane.