Spirit Song

by M C Dwyer

  He also picked at his memories. As promised, he did not attempt to manipulate the ring again, but he had started experimenting with the fire that flowed through his veins. It had flared during the confrontation with Lord Wolfe, which had been terrifying. Nepenthe didn’t like feeling as out of control as that had made him feel, and had taken pains to avoid it happening again. However, he’d also used it to banish incipient tears, which was eminently useful. He wondered, then, if he could manipulate the fire in the walls to release memories of his choosing.

  Not having a death wish, he did not attempt this while perched on the roof. He was firmly planted in his favorite window seat for his first attempt.

  He concentrated on the fire in the earring, sensing it as it flowed through his blood and into his mind. He also found his own water as it flowed alongside, pushing and shoving against the fire that pushed back like two bickering children. For now, he ignored the water. Finding the point where the fire flowed into his mind, he tried to pinch off the flow of power. It was like trying to pinch a stream of water. It simply flowed over and under the mental fingers Nepenthe was visualizing.

  Next he attacked the wall itself. If he could divert the flow of fire, then maybe the wall would crumble of its own accord. Though it wouldn’t do to bring the whole thing down. He proceeded cautiously.

  Nepenthe found one of the weak spots in the wall that he’d found before and gave it a bit of a push, concentrating on the fire. It seemed to give slightly under his pressure, and the fire retreated briefly. He did it again with a similar effect.

  Over the next few days, he worked at it like a loose tooth, poking at it whenever he had a spare moment. He was sitting in the library staring at the book with the water painting when his efforts met with sudden success. The wall gave, producing a fist-sized hole in an otherwise unbroken expanse of wall. It was as though a brick had been worked loose, leaving a small hole that could be looked through and—Nepenthe hoped—have small things passed through. He peered through the hole and saw myriad colors and images swirl past. Some had people he recognized, but most were gone too quickly to be made sense of. He reached through and grabbed blindly. What he produced was an unexpected memory of plucking a fresh peach, fuzzy and warm from the sun, and a first bite that sent juice running down his chin.

  His mouth watered at the memory, and he wondered if it were possible to get peaches in Alain. He sighed. “Orin?”

  Orin coughed, cleared his throat, and said, “Yes, child?”

  “Does Alain grow peaches?”

  “Here in the city, no,” he said, then thought for a moment. “I do believe they’re grown in the southern parts of Alain. We sometimes get some for the Midsummer’s Ball.”

  “Ooh, I hope we do. I just remembered what they taste like.”

  Orin chuckled. “Well, do try not to drool on that book while you’re remembering.”

  Nepenthe swallowed obediently, then went back to drawing random memories from the wall. For the most part, they were simple things, like the taste of a peach, though once he pulled an image of a face he did not know. It reminded him slightly of Orin. He wore the same brown robes, though his head was totally bald. Nepenthe stored that one away for later contemplation.

  All through supper he continued pulling memories through, which was how he discovered that once they came through the wall, they couldn’t be put back. One of the memories was of the red-haired man. He smiled and trailed a finger along Nepenthe’s cheek, causing him to shudder—both in the memory and in the present. He tried to shove the memory back through, but it clung stickily. He bit his lip and focused all his attention on the food on his plate, counting on the mundaneness of mashed potatoes and roast beef to restore his equanimity.

  Edmun leaned over under the pretense of passing the salt and murmured, “I thought I told you to leave your memories alone.”

  Nepenthe tried to smile apologetically, but the red-haired man grinned at him again, and he flinched.

  Under the table, Edmun squeezed Nepenthe’s hand. “Breathe. Focus on something else.”

  Taking a deep breath, Nepenthe called up the memory of the peach and let it overwhelm his senses. His heart calmed, and he left the wall alone.

  After supper, Edmun forestalled his exit by the simple expedient of grabbing the back of his collar. Some of the passing Ailerons grinned at him, and one or two frowned. Nepenthe flushed.

  He turned back to Edmun who released him and merely gave him a look.

  Nepenthe looked at his feet and poked at the ground with the toe of his boot. “I’ll stop.”

  “You promise this time?”

  Nepenthe sighed. “I promise.”

  “Good. Now, let’s go visit the bonfire. I think someone is popping corn tonight.”

  Chapter 25

  Two weeks passed quickly, and then a third, and Nepenthe watched for Aidan every day. When they came, they caught everyone off guard.

  Charl rode into the courtyard on a lathered Kingsease as Nepenthe was returning from training in the stables.

  “Walk him cool,” he said, “and get two more saddled up.” He tossed Nepenthe the reins and headed inside the palace at a dead run.

  Nepenthe stared after him wide eyed but obeyed, calling into the stable and passing along the instructions to the first stablehand who answered. He was still walking Kingsease when Charl reappeared with the doctor in tow. The doctor carried his bag of tools and was asking questions that Charl answered tersely. Stablemaster Wyatt led two geldings out of the stable, and the two men mounted and were gone.

  “Thank you, Nepenthe,” Wyatt said, taking Kingsease’s reins. “Did you hear any of that?”

  “Someone’s hurt,” he said, his face white with worry. “I think it’s Lira. Oh, I hope she’s okay!”

  “Did you hear where they’re headed?”

  Nepenthe’s brow creased in the effort to remember. “Senna? Is that nearby?”

  Wyatt sighed in relief. “That’s less than a day’s ride. I gave them the fastest horses we have, but they don’t have as much staying power as some of the others. It was the right choice.”

  Still staring after the long-departed men, Nepenthe said nothing.

  “It’s no use worrying, Aileron. Whatever has happened has happened. The doctor will do his best.” He patted Nepenthe on the back and led Kingsease inside.

  Nepenthe returned to his training but his mind was noticeably occupied.

  Ena finally called a halt to their archery practice. “What is it, Penthe?” she asked. “Your brain is not here, even if your body is.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and explained about Charl. “I can’t help worrying.”

  “Well, I’m glad you care about your fellow Ailerons, but the best way to help right now is to do the duty in front of you.”

  Nepenthe rolled his eyes. “You sound just like Orin.”

  “He’s not wrong,” she said. “Believe it or not, he was an Aileron himself once upon a time.”

  Jaw nearly on the floor, Nepenthe stared.

  “Hard to believe, I know. It would’ve been King Edmun’s grandfather’s reign. Since you’re obviously not going to be able to focus on the longbow today, why don’t you go ask him about it? Come back tomorrow and tell me what he said.”

  Nepenthe nodded mutely, thrust the bow at Ena, and ran full speed to the library.

  He burst through the door, causing Orin to jump.

  “Hmm, I’ve spoiled this parchment,” he said, laying down his pen and setting it aside.

  “Sorry,” Nepenthe said guiltily, panting slightly. “You were an Aileron?”

  Orin smiled. “Who told you that? Ena?”

  He nodded.

  “It was a very long time ago, but yes, I was an Aileron for King Niall.”

  “You knew how to fight? What was your weapon?” Nepenthe was having trouble imagining the slightly portly old scribe wielding anything than a pen.

  “Books,” Orin answered serenely, then chuckled. “I jest, child
. In my day, I wielded a broadsword with the best of them. I served during the war against Iona. In those days, we weren’t on very good terms and were disagreeing on where the border cut through the Talusian foothills.”

  Nepenthe absorbed this with amazement. The old librarian had actually gone to war?

  “When the war was over, King Niall released me from service and asked what I wanted as a reward. I told him I’d like to never touch a sword again, but instead pursue knowledge in the hopes that we would never have to go to war again. He agreed.” Orin shrugged. “I’ve been here ever since.” He shifted his papers around and produced a slim green volume. “Speaking of knowledge, I wanted to ask you something. This book claims to know how the various spirits can affect humans. If you don’t mind, would you take a look at it and tell me what you think?”

  “You’re asking if I want to read a book?” Nepenthe said with a laugh.

  Orin smiled. “Some people are sensitive about being spirit-touched,” he said, “especially in recent years. I didn’t want to presume.”

  Curiosity piqued, Nepenthe held out a hand. “I’ll read it.”

  The book absorbed his complete attention, and he raced through it. Orin interrupted him to go to court, but then he was back, curled up in the window seat with the evening sun slanting onto the spiky handwriting on the page.

  It was fascinating. He knew very little about earth spirits, though the book claimed their skills were primarily in the realm of growing things. As for fire, manipulation and persuasion of people seemed to be their skillset. Remembering the red-haired man with the flames in his eyes, Nepenthe shuddered and agreed that was probably accurate. Aidan was fire-touched; though Nepenthe had never seen him manipulating people, he would admit that he was extremely well liked in spite of his short temper. Was that due to his spirit nature?

  The book was less complimentary about air spirits. “As empty as their name,” was the book’s decree, “flighty and prone to mischief.” It did grudgingly acknowledge that they tended to excel in the realm of dancing and music.

  Nepenthe slowed down and read more carefully the final section. Water spirits, the author said, were often excellent healers, as their affinity for water tied them closely to both air and earth. He had seen a water spirit of formidable power heal a man of a potentially fatal injury. The man had been thrown by his horse during a hunt and gored by a boar. While they’d killed the boar, the man’s stomach had been torn open, and infection had set in almost immediately. A man who knew a water spirit had summoned it, and it had healed the man while all stared in shock. While Nepenthe was a bit skeptical of his description—a beautiful, scantily clad woman with seaweed for hair—he did have a sudden flash of memory as something slipped unbidden through the wall: his mother, kissing a skinned knee and leaving only a scar behind. Nepenthe pursed his lips meditatively. This author might know what he was talking about after all.

  He went thoughtfully to supper and pondered the book over the next day as they waited for news.

  It came soon after, in the form of a slow procession led by Aidan on Onyx and brought up by a slowly moving carriage. Word of their arrival flew through the palace, and Edmun called a halt to the court session so that he could meet them personally. Nepenthe hurried after. Aidan and the others were still standing around, tensely and quietly watching the doctor and Charl maneuvering a litter out of the carriage. Nepenthe gasped to see the still form of Lira.

  “Is she still alive?” Edmun asked.

  Aidan turned to face them and seemed to see Nepenthe for the first time. He blinked and moved on to Edmun. “For now. The doctor dosed her with something for the pain while we traveled. But there’s not much hope.”

  Stablehands collected the horses and led the carriage away as the other Ailerons helped carry the litter inside. Aidan stayed behind to report.

  “We’d finished our survey with no issues. I’ve got a full report written up for you on the eastern clans; I’ll get that to you later. We were just outside of Senna when Lira’s gelding spooked.”

  “Who was she riding?” Nepenthe interrupted.

  Aidan looked at him sideways. “Cinnabar. I don’t know what it was, because he’s normally a calm horse. But he reared and they went over backwards. It was a bad fall. He landed on top of Lira and struck his head on the cobblestones. We dragged him off of her, and he was dead before we finished moving him. Lira’s got internal injuries. The doctor did what he could, but there’s not a whole lot he can do.”

  “You did all you could,” Edmun said, squeezing his shoulder. “It was good of you to send Charl for the doctor—to give him something to do.”

  “He’s—if she doesn’t survive, I don’t know what he’ll do.”

  Edmun gave him a small shake. “Time enough to worry about that when it happens. For now, there are others to take over her care. You and the others need to get some rest.”

  Aidan bowed in response and turned to go inside. His shoulders were slumped, and Nepenthe thought he looked weary beyond words.

  A deep sigh brought his attention back around. “Come, Shadow,” Edmun said, looking weary himself. “We have a court session to finish.”

  After court, Nepenthe headed first to the library but changed his mind partway there and ended up on the queen’s balcony. He hadn’t been there in some time, and it was his favorite place to sit and think.

  And he needed to think. The doctor could do no more for Lira; he’d made that clear. All he could do was make her last hours comfortable. Nepenthe didn’t like that answer, and he had an idea of what he could do about it.

  Water spirits, the book had suggested, could heal. If a water spirit’s touch could heal a man gored by a boar, could Nepenthe heal a woman crushed by a horse? It would be dangerous to try, but in bitter humor he acknowledged that he could hardly make things worse. At most he could hasten her death, or make it more painful. But if there was a chance he could help—he pushed himself to his feet and returned to the library to reread the section about water spirits, and then he ignored the ringing of seventh bell and went to find the doctor in his quarters.

  He was sitting with Charl and talking quietly when Nepenthe entered. They both looked up and Nepenthe pointed to the inner room where he could see Lira laying quietly. Charl nodded and turned back to the doctor.

  Nepenthe slipped past and sat on the stool next to Lira’s bedside. Her stomach was uncovered, and Nepenthe could see a sprawling bruise that continued up her torso. He picked up her hand hesitantly, and could immediately tell it wasn’t going to be enough. He could only control the water that ran through his veins, not feel the blood as it ran through Lira’s body. He bit his lip in thought and suddenly tasted blood as it split under his teeth. Blood? Was it that simple?

  Without hesitation, he pulled his small belt knife and made a tiny slice on his hand. He was encouraged to see that when he concentrated, what welled up was not red blood, but clear liquid. It was a bit of an effort to keep the fire from tainting it—sort of a mental balancing act. He held his hand steady until he had the balance, and then tugged a bandage off Lira’s arm. There was a fresh cut there, and Nepenthe clamped his hand over it, letting the water run into the cut.

  This was promising. The water, Nepenthe could sense, was dismayed at the damage and wanted to fix it, but Nepenthe didn’t want to close this particular cut. Instead, he pushed on through the arm and into the rest of Lira’s body, tracing the flow of blood and finding where it was seeping through countless damaged areas and into other areas of her body. Here he let the water do its work, pulling in more when it slowed down. The division of attention cost him, and he caught an errant wisp of fire mixing in with the blood.

  That wouldn’t do. He chased it back out of Lira and found the fire raging in his own body. His body burned with fever, and he called on his own water to rise up and quench it. This in turn caused the walls in his mind to tremble and quake as they’d never done before, and he began to panic. His window of opportunity to help Lira w
as swiftly closing. He sent as much of his own water into Lira’s veins as he dared, and then, feeling an uncomfortable weakness spreading through his hot and heavy limbs, gave one last outward push of water and collapsed backwards.

  Confusion and muffled voices met his ears.

  “What was he doing?”

  “He’s burning with fever. Get him onto the bed in the next room. I’ll check on Lira.”

  Distantly, Nepenthe felt hands under his body, lifting and moving it. He drifted slowly after, not wanting to misplace it. It had happened before, he thought, and he’d only returned when—wait, why had he returned? Tad had been there. It had been safe. Nepenthe drifted, waiting.

  “Charl. CHARL. Come and see. Her bruises are fading.”

  “What? How is that possible?”

  “I have no explanation. Perhaps we should ask the Aileron when he awakes.”

  “The boy? When was he made an Aileron?”

  But this wasn’t interesting to Nepenthe, so he moved on. He drifted through windows and walls with equal ease, and was bothered by something tugging at his memory. He hadn’t wanted to lose something. What had it been? It couldn’t have been very important after all, or he wouldn’t have forgotten, right?

  An untold time later, something pulled at his stomach, or where his stomach would have been if he’d had a body. A body! He tugged back, and found himself whisking through the palace, sliding back through doors and walls and into his waiting body.

  Nepenthe shivered violently. The fever had left him, and now he was cold—nearly as cold as he’d been that night on the balcony, but he didn’t want to think about that right now.

  “Blankets, quickly,” a voice said out the door.