Spirit Song

by M C Dwyer

  At Nepenthe’s injured expression, Orin said, “Bless you, boy, I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at me. I should just give you my job and be done with it. You’ve a better head for organization than I ever did.”

  Nepenthe turned pink under this praise.

  “How about this,” Orin continued. “You organize it however you think best, and make an index to go with each section. Then I’ll be able to find whatever I may need to simply by looking over the indices.”

  Nepenthe nodded eagerly, then quickly finished his lunch and returned to the record room. With a renewed sense of purpose, he attacked the piles, sorting and filing with a vengeance until the growing shadows made work impossible.

  After that, he wandered down to the kitchens for supper, then out to his favorite balcony. There was no moon tonight, and the stars came out flashing brilliantly in the inky sky. The vast expanse called to the spirit in his blood, beckoning him up and away into the night. He sighed, recognizing it for the illusion it was. He was tied to his mortal body, for better or worse.

  Instead, he lay down on his back on the cool stone bench and let the night sky fill his vision. He pretended the sky was the ocean and trailed his fingers in it, imagining ripples spreading out across the vastness. As the stars turned overhead, it was borne in on him that he’d be up at dawn again on the morrow in order to train. He stood up and carried himself off to bed.

  He shook off his nightmares eventually, but sleep had left him. Thus, dawn found him grimly determined and jogging around the track while he waited for Aidan. This morning there was another person on the track, a black-haired man who was about the same age or maybe slightly older than Aidan. The morning sun glinted off something in one ear, but Nepenthe didn’t get a good look at him because he held his distance in front as they jogged. He didn’t care enough to expend the energy to get a better look, but from what he could see it was no one Nepenthe had yet met.

  Completing his final circuit, the dark-haired man picked up a practice sword and started moving through a progression of moves that were more dance than battle. Nepenthe stumbled to a stop and stared, mouth agape, as he finished with a flourishing lunge.

  “You’re giving my trainee ideas,” a familiar voice called, and Nepenthe started guiltily and continued to jog. Aidan stepped out into the yard and held a quiet conversation with the black-haired swordsman, but Nepenthe was now too far away to make out what was said. By the time he completed the round the other man was gone, leaving Aidan and Nepenthe to the empty yard.

  “Impressed?” Aidan asked, grinning.

  Eyes wide, Nepenthe nodded.

  “It’ll give you something to work towards.”

  “Can you teach me to fight like that?” Nepenthe asked, voice filled with longing.

  “Like that? No. But I can give you the basics, and then maybe we can find someone who’d be willing to train you.”

  Nepenthe shied away at the thought of letting a stranger so close, but if it meant learning to move like that, well, he’d consider it.

  “For today, though,” Aidan began, and Nepenthe groaned.

  Dragging himself up the tower stairs later that morning, Nepenthe flexed his tired arms and sighed. It wasn’t exactly what he’d hoped for when he asked Aidan to train him, but he actually did already feel stronger. He imagined what he’d feel in a week or more and decided it was worth the pain and Aidan’s impatience with his shortcomings. Aidan’s temper tended to be short, but it was also short-lived; he never stayed angry long. Nepenthe gave a brief smile. That was fortunate, he thought, because he had plenty of shortcomings.

  Sorting, however, wasn’t one of them, and he set to with a vengeance. He was starting to see some real progress and wished he had someone to share it with. Orin had trouble climbing the stairs, and Alric and the other boys had no interest in what Nepenthe was doing. Would Aidan care? Well, maybe for Nepenthe’s sake, but Nepenthe couldn’t see him getting excited about an improved filing system.

  Nepenthe grinned to himself. When he put it like that, it seemed silly to get excited about it at all. But it was something he’d done, and nobody had helped—there was something in that.

  He trotted down the stairs happily at the end of the day, but paused when he felt a sudden rush of energy through the earring he kept hidden behind his hair. He dropped to a crouch on the stairs with a gasp, one hand clutching the ring and the other on the wall to steady himself.

  When the rush of power did not come again, he stood up cautiously, using both hands on the wall until he was sure he was not going to fall, and paused to probe the walls in his mind. They were as solid as ever, and Nepenthe wondered again what it was that was so terrible that it had to be locked away from his own mind.

  Poking along the wall like prodding the edges of a bruise, he found a place that was a bit more transparent than anywhere else and pushed a little harder. It gave reluctantly under his touch, and he had a sudden flash of memory.

  It was a face, beautiful and ever so slightly alien with its enormous blue-green eyes like the sea. It pulled away with a laugh, reaching back a hand. In the memory, Nepenthe’s own reached out in response, young and soft like that of a child. Nepenthe blinked.

  “Mother,” he whispered, and his heart concurred. “Mother,” he repeated with a sigh, closing his eyes and putting a clenched fist over his heart. He traced the memory of her face, relearning it and recommitting it to memory. He did not want to lose this memory again.

  Simultaneously sobered and cheered, he continued down the stairs. He did not know what the flash of power had been, but he would be on the lookout for its recurrence. In the meantime, he’d regained a precious memory that warmed his heart.

  This new pattern ruled Nepenthe’s life for some time: practice in the mornings, where he was by turns encouraged and frustrated by his progress; days in the library record room; and evenings on his balcony of choice or wandering the halls, exploring forgotten nooks and crannies.

  Fall arrived, bringing cooler temperatures and earlier evenings. His days in the record room were shortened as the light disappeared earlier, and he couldn’t even stay in the library to read because it was equally dark. Orin did not allow anyone to remove books from his hallowed sanctum; he spoke darkly of pages turned black with spilled tea or spatters of food. Nepenthe found himself rolling his eyes slightly at some of his tales, but followed his wishes.

  His evenings were likewise interrupted as the palace walls began to fill with noblemen and women. Harvest finished for the year, they abandoned their country estates and came to the court to spend their snowy winter days within the king’s palace in Lainen. All of Nepenthe’s favored hideaways suddenly filled with people chatting, laughing, and generally making noise.

  He finally retreated to the Aileron’s bonfire, though this, too, had been more or less overrun.

  “Why can’t they all just go home and leave us in peace?” he grumbled to Aidan after he’d been prevented from using no less than three of his usual hiding spots.

  Aidan laughed and put his arm around Nepenthe’s shoulders. “They’re here to socialize. You know, make friends, maybe fall in love…” He gave an outrageous wink to Ena who was approaching.

  Nepenthe scowled and pushed his arm off.

  Ena put her hands on her hips. “Is this lout bothering you, Penthe? I can remove him if you like.”

  “Please do,” Nepenthe said, more out of a desire to see what she would do than any real wish to be rid of him.

  Ena reached out and pinched Aidan’s ear. “Come on, then; leave this poor young man alone.”

  “Ow, ow!” Aidan protested laughingly. He let her drag him away, leaving Nepenthe alone on the bench.

  He drew his knees up and rested his chin on them, staring into the fire. Now that the evenings had cooled, the warmth was welcome, though for some reason he always felt a little dried out after, like a smoked fish.

  “Is this seat taken?” a quiet voice asked.

  Startled, Nepenthe
overbalanced backwards and flailed his arms for balance. His hand was caught in a firm, warm grasp that released him as soon as he’d regained his seat.

  “No,” he managed to say, looking up at the man with wide eyes. They widened even further as he took in the short black hair and single silver earring. “You!” he said.

  The man looked at him expectantly.

  “You’re the one who practices in the morning,” he finished somewhat lamely.

  Having given up on a reply to his question, the man sat down at the far end of the bench from Nepenthe. “As are you,” he replied. “Nepenthe, isn’t it?” His voice was unexpectedly deep.

  Nepenthe ducked his head. “Are you an Aileron?” he asked, looking up through his fringe of curls.

  The man’s lips quirked slightly. “Not exactly.” He leaned back on his hands and stretched his feet towards the blaze.

  “I didn’t think I recognized you,” Nepenthe said with some satisfaction.

  “Do you know all the Ailerons?” the man asked.

  “By sight, and most by name. Though I haven’t spoken to most of them.”

  “Really.” The man sounded a bit skeptical.

  Goaded, Nepenthe started listing names, pointing around the courtyard with his chin. “Aidan and Ena,” he began, then moved on to the next closest group. “Lira and Charl are on the bench holding hands and talking to Drinian and Iva; Mae and Jena are talking to some of the nobles who have recently overrun the palace. The next group is that large blonde warrior whose name I can never remember; he’s from somewhere in the eastern part of the world where they live in clans. He’s sweet on Mae but hasn’t gotten up the courage to say anything yet.” He continued on around the courtyard, skipping the nobles but naming most of the Ailerons. He stopped, short of breath and slightly embarrassed, when he’d completed the circle.

  The black-haired man looked at Nepenthe with amazement and some calculation. “How do you know so much if you haven’t spoken to most of them?”

  Nepenthe flushed, though it was hidden by the firelight. “I listen. And sometimes people don’t see me.”

  “Well, it’s no wonder when you move around the palace like a shadow. But I’ve seen you,” he added, “so it’s not as if you’re invisible. I think maybe sometimes people forget to look.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully.

  Nepenthe looked at him in surprise and found himself wondering what his name was, and if it was rude to ask at this point in the conversation.

  The man glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “I’m Tad, by the way,” he said, as if reading Nepenthe’s mind. He held out a hand.

  Reaching out cautiously, Nepenthe found his hand encased once more in Tad’s warm, calloused hand.

  Tad shook it firmly and released him before he could remember to pull away. Nepenthe found himself cautiously warming up to him, which gave him the courage to ask a question.

  “Would you teach me to fight?” he asked, his hopeful eyes pinned on Tad’s face.

  Tad grinned, revealing a dimple in one cheek and white teeth that were just a bit crooked. Nepenthe found himself smiling in return.

  “When Aidan thinks he’s done with you, yes, I’ll teach you what I can.”

  Nepenthe’s face broke into a brilliant smile, lighting up his whole face and catching Tad off guard.

  “Thank you,” he breathed. “Oh, thank you!” And with that, he danced himself out of the courtyard, leaving Tad to blink after him in mute stupefaction.

  Chapter 7

  Autumn wound towards winter, leaving the tower room chilly and uncomfortable, but about the same time work became nearly impossible due to icy fingers and toes, Nepenthe pronounced himself finished.

  “Come and see,” he said, helping Orin up the tower stairs. “You’ll be amazed, for sure,” he added proudly.

  “Slowly, child, slowly,” Orin said, panting slightly. “You’ve more energy than I.”

  Nepenthe obligingly slowed, letting Orin set the pace, but dancing with excitement on each stair. This had the added benefit of keeping him warm.

  Eventually they reached the top, and Nepenthe flung open the door with a flourish.

  Orin looked around in amazement. “You did all this?”

  Making a face behind Orin’s back, Nepenthe said, “Who else would have done it?”

  Chuckling, Orin replied, “Benevolent sprites, perhaps.” He walked over the nearest shelf—amazed that he was able to walk across the room at all, since previously it had been knee deep in papers—and lifted a stack of parchment off the shelf.

  “That’s from Queen Aeryn’s reign,” Nepenthe said. “I had to consult one of the histories from the library because I don’t know the rulers of Alain, but Queen Aeryn is about as early as these documents go. I sorted it by personal memoirs and statements, then royal decrees, important discoveries, and then a few other categories that change from monarch to monarch.” He picked up a piece of folded paper. “This is a list of everything on that particular shelf. Each shelf has one,” he added, pointing to the next.

  Orin took the paper and glanced over it. It was written in a neat, round hand and listed the shelf’s contents down to the smallest errant receipt. “Nepenthe, my child,” he pronounced, “you’re a marvel.”

  Nepenthe blushed a fiery red but smiled.

  Making a slow circuit, Orin paced around the room, glancing at random shelves and occasionally stopping to look over the index of a particular shelf. He returned to the last shelf on the other side of the door where three tiers stood empty.

  “That’s the most recent one,” Nepenthe explained. “I couldn’t find anything from the current king, but there’s space for him and at least one more. And then you’re going to have to add more shelves.”

  Orin smiled. “King Edmun’s papers won’t make their way up here until after his death, may it be many years hence. But I will be sure to tell him what a marvelous job you’ve done.” He rubbed his hands together and blew on them. “In the meantime, we should probably get out of this tower before we both turn into icicles.”

  Nepenthe quickly darted around the tower, latching the shutters in place and blocking out most of the light. He took one final glance around him, then pulled the door shut and turned to help Orin back down the stairs.

  His work in the record room finished, Nepenthe turned to Orin for another task, but was met with the first denial he’d ever had from him.

  “I don’t have anything else for you to work on at the moment,” he said, shaking his head apologetically. “Winter is a slow time for the library anyway as it’s too cold. Maybe Aidan has another task for you?”

  Dejected, Nepenthe turned away. It was mid-morning; he had no idea where he might find Aidan at this time of day. The training courtyard was full of people practicing their blade work, but Nepenthe did not see a single Aileron. It was mostly guardsmen and a few nobles whom he did not know. He drifted aimlessly in the shadows for a while, wondering if he could pick up any pointers from the fighters, but his skill was still fairly low, so most of the moves passed too quickly for him to catch.

  He turned from the courtyard with a sigh and began to wander the halls. Most of the palace staff were accustomed to him by this point, so he passed unmolested and mostly ignored through the busy halls of the servants’ quarters. He moved on to the more public hallways and followed the distant buzz of noise and activity to the throne room.

  Two liveried guards stood on either side of the door, but they made no move to stop Nepenthe from entering. Not that it did much good; the room was packed end-to-end with nobles in their finery. He couldn’t see past their heads to the dais he knew to be at the far end of the room, nor could he hear anything that was going on. By slipping around the perimeter—and occasionally getting hung up on the tapestries that decorated the walls—he was able to get close enough to overhear a group who was discussing what was happening. Apparently the king was holding court, and it was a day for anyone who wished to come air their grievances and receive a r
oyal verdict.

  The current case seemed to involve some issue of land ownership and a river that had changed course. As Nepenthe was receiving his information third hand, he had no interest in the matter and retreated, only to pause when one of the nobles said, “The Ailerons might have to step in on this one—Lord Wolfe looks angry enough to take a swing at the king.”

  “He wouldn’t dare. But he might punch Lord Uthar,” another said.

  One of the women giggled. “I hope it’s that cute one. What’s his name again?”

  “Sir Aidan,” her companion said, rolling his eyes. “And I believe he’s taken, so you can stop drooling over him.”

  She smacked his arm. “I’m not drooling. And it’s no crime to look—oh, there he goes!” She sighed happily. “Grievance Day is always so much more fun when people get physical.”

  Her companion sighed and tugged at her arm. “That’s enough court for you, I think. Let’s go take a healthy walk around the courtyard.”

  They retreated, the woman protesting all the way, but Nepenthe still could not see past the mass of people. At least he knew where Aidan was, though it sounded like he was more than a bit busy. He’d have to find him later. Nepenthe also retreated from the throne room, and spent a mostly unproductive afternoon wandering the halls.

  He ate his supper quickly, not caring to get caught in Alric’s company this particular evening, and went out to the courtyard where he skulked in the shadows until the bonfire was lit and the Ailerons began to appear.

  Aidan walked out with Drinian, and Nepenthe materialized at his side, causing him to start.