by Anne C Miles
Burtyn tilted his head, birdlike. “Will the Dread not cause you much distress? Could you be trapped, unable to leave?”
“I will risk it. I must seek answers. I believe the Caprices have them. My deema, Pezzik, waits there.” Dane shrugged. “If the Curse disables me, I’ll come up with something else. But it seems a wise place to lie low, provided we can leave again, unhindered.”
“Why wouldn’t they just send in the guard to capture us?” asked Bell.
“The Caprices control and protect the city,” said Trystan. “They suffer the guard’s presence at the waypoints along the road in and out, but that is all. Any guard force sent into the city proper has simply vanished, like the cantors. They don’t return. The guard won’t enter. Not unless forced.”
Jax retrieved the wine from Bell, uncorked it and took a swig before passing it to Sara. Wiping his mouth, he said, “Begging your pardon, sirs, but you also need to know there are Shadowkin massing right now. I sensed them and confirmed. Dark clouds, deadly. If we are leaving tonight, it must be soon. It might already be too late.”
Dane turned back to Trystan. “Come with us, please,” he said.
Trystan arched a brow at Burtyn. “What do you think?”
In answer, Burtyn straightened and removed his spectacles and wig, revealing a much younger man.
Gasps rose around the room. The deception had been complete.
Burtyn blinked, satisfaction spreading over his face. He bowed with a winning smile. “My real name is Baron Tabor Demitri. I’m very pleased to meet you. Apologies. I disguise myself most regularly, especially when meeting new acquaintances. I believe you may know my colleague, Mod.”
Dane chuckled and bowed in return. “I know her well, milord.”
Tabor settled back in his chair, tapping his foot. “This Conclave plan for Pelegor changes our course. We need to reach Bestua, but we should rendezvous with our agents in Siarad, send messages, prepare. Learn what we may. Shadowborn complicate matters, of course. Can you hold them off with the Song?”
“I can try. I’ve never done it,” Dane said.
“You will have both of us to assist you. One has a magnificent lute,” Tabor said, pointing at Trystan.
Jax tugged his beard. “But we have no songsteel. The Shadowkin mass in a black cloud that surrounds a person and strips flesh from bone. I’ve seen it. Just one speck from the cloud can burrow into a man like an insect and kill him. You won’t have time to learn to hold them off. Songsteel sets them afire and destroys them. The Song itself might do the same, but it’s a risk.”
“How so?” asked Trystan.
“You have never faced them. One mote, if it attaches to a person, is deadly. They delve into your body, your eyes, and mouth. Are you willing to risk it?”
“You know little of my people, if you think I have never faced shadowkin,” said Trystan, quietly. “A man can feel their presence before they rise. I know that fear. I know its true name. Dissonance. It’s much like the Dread of Siarad, forged by evil. Dissonance given shape. But aye, I will risk it.”
“Do we have a choice?” asked Tabor. “We are not completely bereft of songsteel, though our weapons are few. The Song itself may prove a more effective defense, if we are careful.”
“We’ll find another Watcher,” said Sara, surprising herself. All eyes rested on her. “The two we have won’t hold everyone. If we ride them, we can travel more quickly.”
The back door flew open, and a scruffy young boy burst in, panting. Trystan’s lute case was slung over the boy’s shoulder, nearly dwarfing him. He shut the door and leaned against it, catching his breath. “Lord Trystan, cantors’re askin’ fer you. Th’ town guard with ’em.”
Trystan took the lute case from the boy.
Tabor rose, replacing his wig and spectacles. “That’s our cue me lads and lasses. It’s time to dance the shadows. Gint, show this young lady”—he gestured to Sara—“where a Watcher sits. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“Where are you going?” asked Trystan, alarmed.
“I am going to delay our friends from the Conclave,” said Tabor. He flashed a grin at Trystan. “Stars. I love my work.”
With that, he was gone.
Gint led Sara across the green. The moon was full. Its light fell on them like a blessing and for the first time since she had woken in this dream, Sara felt grateful instead of afraid.
The boy, Gint, looked at her with a sidelong assessment. “Yer be needin’ the Watcher fer what?” he asked, all blue eyes and freckles.
“I’m going to ride it. Or you will,” said Sara. She grinned at the boy’s doubtful expression.
“Ride it? Are you a dewin then? If’n you are you’ll go mad,” said the boy.
Sara laughed. “No, that’s not me, I’m fae. That’s what they’ve told me, anyhow.”
Gint stepped back, impressed but suspicious. He poked her shoulder gently. “Yer not fae if I can touch you.”
Sara tried not to laugh. “I’m a girl from another place. My name is Sara. Don’t think too much about it. I’m really trying not to. I’m not sure what else I am, but maybe, through all of this, I’ll find out.”
Gint scratched his nose, smudging some dirt there in response.
Two town guardsmen passed. They ignored Sara and Gint. They weren’t looking for a woman and child. Sara watched as they trudged across the common. They reached the corner and crossed the street, disappearing behind the row of shops.
“Let’s go steal a Watcher,” Sara said. Gint brightened, and they strode across the green. The Chapterhouse loomed ahead. Its distinctive arc window reflected fragile moonlight, falling upon a horse. Sara’s heart stirred.
Unbidden, Marilla’s face flashed before her. She was laughing as she cantered next to Sara. I have a sister. A twin sister. Marilla.
The horse had no wings. It would need them.
Sara reached out and touched the stone horse. “I can ride. I know horses,” she murmured. She ran a hand through her hair and inhaled deeply. The horse’s head moved, observing her. She smiled and placed both hands on its head, singing, “Fly like an eagle.”
Nothing happened. Gint watched her, eyes rounded. The Watcher chuffed.
She tried it again. “Fly like an eagle.”
Again, nothing happened. Gint wiped his arm across his nose and sniffed.
“What are you tryin’ to do?” he whispered.
“Shh,” said Sara. “I need to concentrate, that’s all.” She laid her head on the stone horse’s neck and stroked it. She closed her eyes and emptied her mind, listening. She saw wings, the ways she would sculpt them. A song popped into her mind. “Fly me to the Moon,” she sang. She imagined the statue taking flight and pictured the flaming wings. A web of light jumped from her hand, and the stone rippled. The horse stamped its feet. It pulled away from her, whinnying. Blue lightning crackled through the creature. Its wings unfurled, formed from bright flame.
Gint choked and sputtered, backing away. “Doran’s arse!”
“Wait, hold still,” she commanded the horse. She offered her cupped hands to Gint. “Here, I’ll give you a boost.”
He looked from her to her hands and shook his head.
“Tell them to meet me where we landed the others,” she said, sighing.
“Meet yer there,” Gint said, flashing an impish grin. The boy turned and dashed back toward their hideout.
Sara climbed onto the horse’s back. “Let’s see what you can do, baby,” she said. “Fly.”
The horse rose into the air, flying in a slow spiral. The wind blew Sara’s hair back as she directed him to the far side of the bridge. The town twinkled below. They rushed toward a meadow. A huge glowing green moth appeared, flying straight at Sara’s head. She ducked to avoid it. When they neared the tree line, Sara squeezed the horse with her knees. It glided smoothly down, landing near two other stone figures. She dismounted.
“Stay here.” Sara inspected the other Watchers. Both completely inert, their
stone eyes stared into the night. Suddenly, Sara felt exhausted. The flight had drained her of all energy and will.
Sara sat down on a log heavily, her breathing loud in her ears. A cloud rolled over the moon, obscuring it. Crickets chirped. An owl hooted. Water burbled in the brook. A branch snapped. Prickles brushed the back of Sara’s neck, as if a cold wind had kissed her. The sensation spread down her spine. She felt exposed.
“Who’s there?” she called. The only answer was the rustling of the wind in the trees. Sara hunched on her seat, making herself smaller. Scarier than this forest at night, memory haunted her. Marilla. She felt a horrible sense of guilt, fear, and shame, as she called up the image of her sister’s eyes. Eyes like her own, accusing her. The memory of her life, her family, her school, all of it came flooding back in full. She gasped under the weight of it. Worst of all, she remembered Marilla, silent in her coma.
It’s my fault. All my fault.
Cold licked Sara’s ears, slowly. She shivered and looked around. The moon was obscured as a cloud drifted by. The owl sounded more distant. Despite her chill, the air pressed in, heavy. Her breathing became irregular. She stood and walked a few paces from the log, trying to breathe normally. The moonlight dimmed.
Two men came striding over the bridge road. They slipped into sparse brush at the roadside, coming out on the grassy knoll where Sara waited. The moon shook off its cover, unveiling them.
Dane and Trystan. A jackdaw cried. Sara held up her hand to wave and gasped. It was transparent. She was fading, but a thin veneer of darkness surrounded her arm. She looked down. Darkness flowed over her fading body like a skin.
Shadowkin.
“No,” she whispered.
Sara looked up. Dane was charging toward her, singing. She wanted to scream a warning, to tell him to stop. Tell him she wasn’t worth it, to save the others. No sound would come. The black cloud swallowed Dane, obscuring him from view. He screamed, and Trystan waved a sword made from fire. A jackdaw cried again.
Sara blinked.
A moment later, she was in her own bed, safe. Moonlight streamed through the window.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
TABOR CROSSED SAHXE’S village green, pausing only to adjust his cravat, wig, and spectacles. His disguise was not ideal, but it would have to do. He would rather be demeaned than recognized as himself, the Baron Tabor Demitri. Cantors and the town guard were seeking his companion, Trystan. They weren’t looking for his manservant, Burtyn.
Fools underestimate those they consider beneath them.
He set off again, this time at the pace of an aged gentleman, unhurried and diffident in mien.
The inn sprawled along the narrow edge of the green. The moon’s arc glowed just above the roofline. It was an hour before midnight, the hour when most of the townsfolk should amble home from the pub. Yet, the streets were empty. Tabor pushed through the door to find the innkeeper protesting while two acolytes prepared censers. Five guards stood by, their faces impassive, ready to quell protests. The room was filled with patrons, yet hushed. It was devoid of laughter and music.
The villagers were being detained for purification.
Tabor licked his lips in thinly veiled disgust. The cantor in charge was a pompous coward, eager to not only protect himself from perceived danger posed by the Broken Song, but to bully the village. Cantors knew the difference between a dewin and someone who played an enchanted instrument. Purification would not affect a mere player. The incense and Essences would, however, send a message to the townspeople. “We can wipe your mind if we choose.“
It was the true reason to prepare this rite.
Unless they were seeking Dane and his companions, as well.
Tabor paused, considering. It was possible, if the Conclave knew Dane was here. If they knew Dane was dewin? If they knew Dane had recently escaped from High Cantor Siles’ tender care? Then this rite was a precaution. Perhaps the cantor was not a fool. Perhaps he was informed. There was no further time to consider. At that moment, the innkeeper’s eyes fell on him. The innkeeper pointed, babbling. “There’s no need for such trouble, there’s the bard’s man now. He can lead you.”
Tabor tilted his head and shuffled forward, squinting. “What’s all this?”
A narrow-faced cantor in full regalia rounded on him, brandishing a staff. “We have questions for your master. Lead us to him.” The cantor gestured, and two of the town guard flanked Tabor.
Tabor blinked, bemused, and looked askance at the guard. He rubbed his nose, assuming his most benign expression. “Of course, of course. But might I know what your interest is in my Lord Trystan?”
The cantor’s face purpled. “Your prince has exposed these good people to the broken Song!” The statement was loud enough to broadcast to the entire common room. “We are ensuring their safety. I have orders from High Cantor Siles himself to detain your master.”
Tabor kept his voice and expression mild, feigning offended shock and disbelief. “The Song, you say? My master is a bard-in-training. I’m certain there is some misunderstanding. Trystan performed for these good souls, ’tis true. But the only effect was a desire to dance.” He coughed, and glanced across the room, seeing several villagers nod in agreement.
“We shall make sure there was no harm done,” said the cantor, his tone ominous. He nodded to the acolytes who had paused, listening to the exchange. They hurriedly returned to their task.
“That you will, I’m sure, Your Grace.” Tabor shuffled to the acolytes, peering over their shoulders at their mixture of dried herbs. “I’ve always wondered what you put in those. The stink is abominable,” he said, wheezing as if already affected. As he turned back to the cantor, Tabor’s hand slipped into his waistcoat pocket. He produced a tiny snuffbox. He opened it gently and offered it to the nearest guard. “Care for a pinch?”
The guard smiled and nodded, taking a generous pinch. As he inhaled, he started sneezing uncontrollably. He stumbled forward and knocked into one of the acolytes, sending the censer and its contents tumbling to the floor. The acolytes stooped to retrieve it at the same time, scrabbling to scoop up scattered herbs. Tabor shut the box with a snap and put it back in his pocket, clucking. “Oh dear. Deepest apologies.”
The guard choked and gasped, his eyes streaming tears. He stumbled toward a table with empty chairs and sat heavily. The cantor’s eyes blazed. “Leave it,“ he ordered the acolytes. “You come with me.”
He turned to face the common room. “All shall remain here until my assistants attend you. No one leaves.” He glowered at the remaining guards. They nodded, two of them falling in to escort Tabor forcibly. Tabor sighed and bowed his head in submission. He allowed himself to be led outside, trailing the acolytes and the imperious cantor. The town Chapterhouse loomed, its distinctive steep-pitched roof visible just beyond the inn proper.
“My master was in the stable…” he began. A glowing horse with wings formed from flame rose into the air just in front of the Chapterhouse.
Sara, she did it, she found another Watcher.
He stopped and pointed.
The cantor’s eyes rounded in horror as the horse swooped over the village. He made the sign of the arc and rushed out of the courtyard, trying to keep the horse in sight. The acolytes and one of Tabor’s guards followed.
Tabor lost no time. Stamping on the remaining guard’s foot and twisting hard, he punched the guard in the chin, precisely below his jaw. The guard’s head snapped back, and he crumpled instantly. Tabor dragged him into the shadows.
“Sorry dear fellow. Nothing personal,” he whispered.
Tabor loped toward the outer courtyard wall. He removed his wig and spectacles, jamming them into his belt, and began to climb, scaling quickly. He crouched low and scrambled over, dropping to the other side, silent as a cat. The Chapterhouse stable, a plain stone building with large arched entrances and a thatched roof lay before him. A pavilion stood in front of it, roofed with planks. Under this, an elaborate gilt coach gleamed in the
moonlight.
“Hello beautiful,” Tabor said to the carriage. “You’re perfect. The cantor does love his comfort. I approve.” He slipped inside and checked the interior. The coach was cleverly built and large enough to hold his entire party. It had a strongbox hidden in the seat, under the cushions. Tabor inspected this, finding a sizable amount of gold, a bottle of wine and an extra set of rich robes. He quickly donned these, retrieved a cantor’s pin and ring from his waistcoat and assumed a pious expression, making the sign of the arc. “Thank the Cyntae for their blessings,” he said, uncorking the wine. He sniffed it and took a swig. Nodding to himself, he placed the wine and his discarded effects in the strongbox. He descended carefully from the coach. An acolyte crossing the yard froze, staring at him. Tabor straightened.
“I need this coach readied immediately,” he said, waving one hand like a scepter. “I’ve come from the Rift Chapterhouse on important business, and my horse died from exhaustion. There is no time to waste.”
The acolyte stared at him, uncertain.
“Now, boy!” Tabor roared.
The acolyte bowed and hurried into the stable. He returned post-haste, leading two horses.
It would take time for the coach to be readied. Tabor eyed the chapterhouse and allowed himself a small smile.
The rear entrance was unlocked, and he stepped into the cool darkness beyond. Tabor blinked as his eyes adjusted. The landing opened into a large corridor. To his right, the hall turned. To his left, a stairway led down to living quarters. Tabor turned right, following the hallway.
Most chapterhouses were built in the same manner throughout the Weldenlands. This hall contained offices, Tabor knew. It would open into the Quiet Hall. Tabor went to the high cantor’s office to wait.
The man is a pig, Tabor decided. A mahogany desk strewn with papers and ashes from a filthy pipe sat in the midst of chaos. Books lay haphazard, sideways and upside down on shelves and tables. The fire had burned out. A lone glowstone flickered in a corner sconce. Dust lay thick on every surface. Tabor sniffed and set to work. Two missives from Siles lay on top of a pile, their seals broken. He scanned them and sighed in relief. No mention of Dane. Messengers hadn’t reached this village yet. Trystan was to be detained if seen. The wording suggested a general warning. They don’t know precisely where he is. Good.