Orphan's Song

by Gillian Bronte Adams

  Madame folded her arms across her chest. “I had begun to hope you were gone for good.”

  Birdie dropped her gaze to her toes and clasped her hands before her, presenting the submissive posture she knew would please the innkeeper’s wife. Given the choice, she would have been gone for good long ago, but without even a name to call her own, she had no hope outside of the inn.

  “Now, now, don’t be hard on the wee lassie,” Amos said. “’Twas my fault. I detained her—”

  “Mind your place, peddler. This is none of your business. Come here, girl.”

  Slowly Birdie stepped away from the refuge of the barn and the protection of Amos’s shadow and halted just beyond Madame’s reach.

  “Don’t think you can fool me! I know what you’ve been about—lollygagging and fantasizing in the hills while I do all the work. If you don’t work, you don’t eat, so there’ll be no supper for you tonight. Now get on with your chores.”

  “Yes . . . Madame.” She dipped her head toward the innkeeper’s wife and pressed her lips together to keep from saying anything more. At least Madame had not beaten her—that was something to be grateful for—and Amos had been kind enough to share his sausages, so she would not go to bed completely hungry.

  Madame turned to Amos. “As for you, peddler, if you can’t pay in coin you’ll eat and sleep in the barn as usual till you’ve exchanged wares with Master Dalton. I won’t have non-paying customers in the inn. It’s bad for business. If it were up to me, I’d make you pay for the use of our haystack too.”

  Amos ruefully shook his head, pulling out the empty linings of his trouser pockets for Madame’s inspection. “No coin, I’m afraid.”

  Madame’s glare could have singed a fire flower, but it had no effect on the hardy peddler. “Off with you to the barn then, before the smell of you and that wicked beast drives away my payin’ guests!”

  “Yer wish is my command.” Amos pulled the feathered cap from his head with an elaborate flourish and shuffled to the barn, bowing dramatically as he went.

  The inn door slammed behind Madame.

  Birdie sighed and followed Amos into the barn, threading her way through clucking chickens scratching in the dust and pecking at flies. Her thoughts turned to the stranger on the wild horse. She shuddered at the memory of his dark eyes and the cold detachment of his gaze. The terrible melody she had heard just before his arrival filled her ears. Shadows swirled across her vision, and she blinked away the frightening images.

  Amos was right. This song business had to stop. It might not be insanity—Amos’s reaction to the melody had proven that there was something to the song she heard—but it would bring nothing but trouble. It had brought nothing but trouble.

  But if Amos knew enough about the song to know that it was “unnatural,” then surely he could tell her more. Maybe explain why she heard it and what it was.

  “Whew, lassie, ye’ve got a face on ye almost as sour as the look Madame gave me a moment ago.” Amos’s cheery voice broke into her dismal contemplation.

  Lost in the pathless wanderings of thought, Birdie looked up and found herself already standing before the row of battered stalls at the far end of the barn.

  Amos grinned over the dividing wall. “What’s troublin’ ye? Is it because ye’re t’ have no supper? Och, don’t ye know that’s pure poddboggle? My lassie won’t go hungry s’ long as Amos McElhenny is around.”

  She smiled halfheartedly, caught up a pitchfork from its resting place against the wall, and waded into the first stall to clean out the muck left by its latest occupant, Madame’s star-spotted cow. For a moment, there was no sound but the scrape of her pitchfork and the dull thud of the wet forkfuls she threw over the stall’s half door. Then the door creaked open, and Amos’s concerned face appeared beside her.

  “All right then.” He plucked the pitchfork from her hands and tossed it aside. “What’s worryin’ ye?” He led her out of the stall and sat down on a pile of fresh hay. “Tell yer old friend Amos.”

  Birdie took a seat beside him and studied her clasped hands. “Amos . . . I . . .”

  “Go ahead.”

  She had to find out what Amos knew about the song. “That man we met earlier. He frightened me. Why did he ask so many questions? What did he want? Is it because of what I sang? I didn’t know there was anything wrong with the song, Amos. Honestly I didn’t.”

  “Whoa there, lassie. Not so fast.” Amos stroked his bristling beard. “I’ll tell it t’ ye plain. The song is dangerous. Ye can’t sing it again. Ever.”

  “How is it dangerous?” What was different about her song that set it apart from all others?

  “I can’t explain it all. But there are those who would try t’ use ye t’ get at that cursed song. Ye have t’ trust me an’ never sing it again. Do I have yer word?”

  Birdie gnawed her lip. Why couldn’t Amos give her a straight answer? Simply telling her that the song was dangerous didn’t help when she wanted to know why. “But Amos . . .”

  “Never again.”

  The peddler’s jaw was iron and determination filled his eyes.

  She sighed. “I promise.” Now perhaps he would tell her more—later, once he was sure that she would keep her word. Besides, if the song was dangerous, then perhaps it would be best to leave it alone, at least until she knew more. She had trouble enough as it was.

  “Good. Good.” A heavy breath puffed from Amos’s lips. “Now, there’s naught t’ worry about. Supposin’ that is, ye get yer chores done an’ I get me wares t’ Master Dalton afore Madame decides t’ have both our hides fer tannin’!” He winked and strode to his donkey, whistling a merry tune.

  Birdie sat for a moment in silence, with Amos’s warning running through her mind. Then she stood and picked up the pitchfork to finish cleaning out the stall. One thing she knew for certain: the song could be very dangerous for her if thinking about it kept her from finishing her chores tonight.

  Night hung over the Sylvan Swan before Birdie at last finished her chores and crept into the inn. A few guests still clustered around the fire in the common room, while hearty snores proceeding from the back rooms attested to the sleeping presence of others. The kitchen door was closed, but firelight shone through the cracks, and she could hear Amos’s deep brogue blending with Master Dalton’s softer rumble within.

  “Good night, my lambs.”

  Birdie jumped at the voice and spun around in search of the speaker. A door stood open at the end of the hall—the door to Kurt and Miles’s bedroom—and just within, silhouetted against the lamp in her hand, was Madame.

  “Sleep well.”

  So altered was Madame’s voice, so kind and loving, that Birdie could scarcely believe that it was she who had spoken. Such a gentle tone had never before passed her lips when Birdie was within earshot.

  A lump swelled in Birdie’s throat as Madame bent forward and kissed her sons on the forehead. Kurt wrinkled his face in disgust, and Miles swiped a hand across his forehead before burrowing beneath his quilt.

  Madame closed the door softly behind her and strode down the hall, pausing as she came abreast of Birdie. Her face tightened into a scowl, sharp cheekbones highlighted by the lamp in her hand. “What do you want?”

  The lump gnawed at the back of Birdie’s throat. She gazed up at Madame’s unyielding face through a blur of tears. “Nothing, Madame.”

  “Chores done?”

  She nodded.

  “Off to bed then.”

  Madame swept away into the common room and Birdie stood alone in the dark hallway. Blinded by tears, she stumbled to the store room and curled up on her straw mattress beneath her worn blanket. Though her mattress was squeezed into a corner of the crowded room, when night shadows descended, the walls seemed to retreat and the barrels and sacks fell back, ’til there was nothing but her and the night and the wide empty space beyond.


  Raucous laughter burst from the common room. The rumble of Master Dalton and Amos’s voices drifted toward her from the kitchen. But she was alone, and the darkness crouched above her, like a monster waiting to smother her in its grasp. She could almost hear the beast’s rasping breath hovering beside her ear.

  Then soft as a whisper, the melody crept toward her, banishing the midnight fears and easing the ache of loneliness. It wrapped around her, the comforting embrace of a friend.

  Dangerous, Amos had said. Unnatural.

  But dangerous or not, it was all she had. Birdie slipped into the mysterious melody and allowed it to carry her to sleep at last.

  “Ah, Dalton.” Amos sighed, tipping his chair back to rest his stockinged feet on the kitchen hearth. His abandoned boots sprawled before the fire to dry, steam already rising from the worn leather soles. He had tucked his burlap pack under his seat. There would be time enough later to bring out his wares.

  “I’ve traveled many a mile an’ visited many an inn, but there’s nary a one with a brew so fine as this.” He tipped the earthenware mug and took a long sip. The brew trickled down his parched throat like refreshing rain.

  Over the rim of the mug, he caught sight of Dalton sneaking a peek around the door jamb into the common room. “Dalton?” The front legs of Amos’s chair settled with a thud. “I didn’t come in here t’ drink by myself.”

  Dalton jerked at the noise and spun around. “Eh, what was that?”

  “I was complimentin’ yer brew. What’s come over ye? Ye’re actin’ like a scared rabbit.”

  “My brew? Oh yes.” Dalton shuffled over to his rocking chair. “Actually, it’s not mine. Madame would probably kill me if she knew, but I can’t stomach her recipe, so I bought my own private stock from Brog at the Waterfly.”

  Amos chuckled. “I thought it tasted familiar. Good old Brog. I just may have t’ visit the Waterfly tomorrow when I go into town t’ peddle my wares. Sample some o’ Ma’s cookin’.”

  “And Brog’s brew.”

  “O’ course.”

  Dalton rocked in silence, the warped runners creaking across the uneven stone floor. “Amos,” he spoke suddenly in a hushed voice. “I saw one today . . .”

  Amos plunked his mug down on the hearth and sat up straight in his chair. “A Khelari?” No doubt it was the same fly-swoggled villain he had seen earlier with Birdie, but to have him show up at the inn as well was disconcerting to say the least.

  “Yes.” Dalton shuddered. “I haven’t seen one of the black armors in over twenty years. It brings back terrible memories.”

  Amos grunted. No matter how many times he encountered the death hued armor, the sight never failed to carry him back to that horrible night so long ago.

  “He came by just before you arrived, traveling under the protection of King Earnhult. What do you think? That’s . . . that’s bad news isn’t it? Do you think the Takhran means to move south now? What if . . . what if King Earnhult is working with the Takhran?”

  Amos stroked his beard, carefully choosing his next words. That a Midland king would dare consult with the Khelari, the murderous dogs of the Takhran, set his blood boiling. He swallowed hard. “I’d say it’d be a safe wager that the Midlands are the next tribe the Takhran intends t’ subject. What did the Khelari want here?”

  “Information. Asked a lot of questions. He looked . . . familiar. I could have sworn I’ve seen him—”

  “Huh, the Khelari are all alike—black-hearted murderin’ scumgullions. What sort o’ questions was he askin’ ye? Anythin’ about Birdie?”

  “Birdie? Why would he care about her?”

  Amos blinked. Was the man deaf? True, he’d just discovered Birdie’s ability himself. But he supposed that Dalton—living with the lass as he did—must have known long before and refrained from mentioning it, knowing Amos’s thoughts on the matter. “D’ ye mean ye don’t know?”

  “Don’t know what?”

  “That the lassie . . .” He stopped, unable to speak a word so long buried beneath the ashes of regret and shattered hopes.

  Dalton didn’t seem to notice his pause. “The Khelari was here, Amos. Here! The Takhran must have discovered who I am … was. This could be the end of everything.”

  So that was what ailed the man. “Dalton, that was nearly thirty years ago. The Takhran is not interested in ye anymore.”

  “But why else would—”

  “Don’t be blind, man! There’s bigger game involved. The Takhran has already taken the northern tribes. Up there, just beyond Dunfaen Forest, his soldiers patrol the streets, his hounds haunt the woods, his dark spies cover the skies. He’s goin’ t’ come south soon. We’ve always known that. It’s only a matter o’ time before all of Leira is in his grasp. We must be ready—”

  “Ready for what? War?” Dalton cast an anxious glance over his shoulder and lowered his voice to a hissing whisper. “You are a fool, Amos. If what you say is true, then the Takhran will become the arch-ruler of Leira. There’s nothing we or any of the tribes can do to stop him.”

  Nothing we can do . . .

  It was because of men like Dalton that the Takhran’s power had grown so much in recent memory. Because of men who sat idle, refusing to act, while the Takhran ventured forth from his city-kingdom in Serrin Vroi where he had ruled for ages past, and the northern tribes fell.

  It was because of men like Dalton . . .

  Men like Amos . . .

  Men who had fought and failed and forgotten, that the Takhran marched across a land of ashes, a broken people at his feet, the united banners of Serrin Vroi and the northlands at his back.

  While the Midland king sought to curry favor and sued for peace.

  “Arch-ruler?” Amos stood so quickly that his chair flipped over. He paced back and forth across the hearth stone. “Self-proclaimed tyrant ye mean! Which o’ the tribes has ever acknowledged his rule? He has no right t’ demand our allegiance.”

  “What cares he for rights? He will demand our blood if we do not give it.”

  “Aye! Our blood. An’ what if he does? Ye were there, Dalton. Ye’ve seen what he can do! Fer years now, we’ve tried t’ forget. S’ long as he didn’t interfere with our measly lives, what did it matter what he did elsewhere? Now, we will pay the price fer our selfishness. The Takhran’s tyranny will be felt in the Midlands, an’ there is no one left t’ fight it.”

  “No.” Dalton rose, fists clenched even though his head only reached Amos’s chin. “You are mad to talk about fighting the Takhran after what happened! If you want to bring danger on your own head, then do it and welcome. But you shan’t drag me or my family into trouble! I won’t have such talk in my house.”

  Anger boiled in Amos’s veins. “Very well,” he said through clenched teeth. “While I’m a guest in yer house, I’ll say naught o’ the matter. But if ye in truth mean it, ye’re not the Dalton I knew.”

  Dalton swallowed visibly. “Time changes many things, Amos . . . even men.”

  “I’ve heard it said. But there are some things that don’t change, even with time. Amos McElhenny won’t change. The Takhran can bet his life on it.”

  “Shh!” Dalton held a shaking finger to his lips and darted back to the door. “We are fools to talk so! Someone may be listening.”

  Amos set his toppled chair back on its feet. A grin tweaked the corners of his mouth. “D’ ye have rats in the walls, or are ye worried about Madame?”

  “Oh!” Dalton jumped as if he expected his wife to burst in. “It’s getting late. She’ll be wondering what’s taking so long. It’s time we settled our affairs.”

  “Aye, pleasantries aside.” Amos tugged his heavy burlap pack into his lap and twitched lose the straps. “To business.”

  3

  A bead of sweat trickled down Birdie’s face. She raised a grimy hand to swipe her forehead. After her es
capade the previous afternoon, Madame had kept her busy with chores since sunup, and now the shadows were beginning to lengthen once more.

  From the milking rack, the star-spotted cow let loose a mournful bellow. Birdie sighed, scooped up an armful of hay, and dumped it in the feed bin. She was reaching for the stool and a pail when the calm of the hazy afternoon was shattered by a terrible yowl.

  “Who’s there?”

  Another screech.

  The pail slipped from her hand. She darted out of the cow’s stall and slammed the gate shut. Balaam’s stall was still empty. The peddler had left around noon, donkey in tow, to peddle his wares in Hardale

  The cry rang out again.

  This time, Birdie thought she heard something else as well—stifled giggles accompanied by an odd creaking. The blood rose hot in her veins and she clenched her fists. The two terrors were up to their old game—torturing innocent creatures. Villains!

  The sound seemed to come from the direction of the hay loft. Birdie darted to the ladder and scrambled up. The sweet, prickly scent of hay filled her nose, and she crawled forward into a world of golden brown. Old chains rattled and groaned. A yowl of distress, smothered laughter, then two voices spoke beyond the haystack.

  “Shh! Not so loud, Kurt! What if Papa hears?”

  “Aw, leave it be, Miles. Papa’s busy in the inn.”

  Birdie wriggled through the itchy mountain of hay to peer cautiously over the top. Dust clouds, stirred by her movement, hung in the air, visible in the squares of light spilling through bare patches in the thatched roof. The two boys crouched on the floor of the loft next to the pulley. A crumpled bundle of something yellowish-orange and furry hung from the bottom of the rope that Kurt held in his hands. He bent over and straightened again in a jerking rhythm of raising and lowering, accompanied by the shattering groans of the pulley’s chains.

  Miles stood at Kurt’s side, tongue sticking out in concentration, a pointed stick in his hand. “Hold it still, Kurt!” He jabbed at the dangling bundle and the creature yowled.