Orphan's Song

by Gillian Bronte Adams

  Birdie tried to smile back. Amos was so excited about taking her to stay with his mother, she knew she should be excited as well. For as long as she could remember, this was what she had longed for. A home. The hope of belonging. Of finding someone who truly cared.

  It was almost too good to be true.

  “Best oatcakes you’ve ever tasted,” Jirkar added from his seat on the raised deck. His feet dangled over Birdie’s head. “Dripping with honey, or bursting with blueberries, or topped with cinnamon, all steaming hot from the oven. You know what? Change of plans. How about Nisus and I stop off with you both for a few days before we head home, eh?”

  “My mother’s got better things t’ do ’n fill yer empty stomachs. Last time ye came, ye stayed fer two weeks an’ nigh ate her out o’ the house.”

  Amos and Jirkar continued bantering back and forth, but Birdie blocked her ears to the noise. Who was to say that Amos’s mother would care for her when no one else ever had? She had nothing to offer. There was nothing special about her save the Song, and that seemed to frighten people and turn them against her more than anything else. Only the griffin had been unafraid. He’d even called her curse a gift, claimed he was supposed to protect her, hinted that he knew more of her past.

  A clever tactic, if he was trying to manipulate her, as Amos insisted. It made her want to trust him, if only to find out more about the cursed melody and how she might be free of it. But the griffin had gone to fight the Khelari, and the dwarves’ wagon carried her farther away every second. Closer to the promise of a home, farther from promised answers.

  Unless . . .

  Birdie sat up straight.

  Amos.

  He had his share of secrets and a mysterious past that continued to befuddle her. He recognized the Song, knew that it was dangerous, was familiar with the Khelari. He knew more than he had admitted. She was sure of it.

  She turned to the peddler, but he and Jirkar were in the middle of an argument.

  “Nay, ’twas ye an’ Nisus that lit the campsite afire with yer burnt hotcakes.”

  “Did not!”

  “Aye, ye did. ’twas right after the raid on Mettertwig.”

  This could go on for hours. And if Jirkar was half as stubborn as Amos, it would. Birdie interrupted the peddler before he could continue. “Amos, we need to talk.”

  “What’s that, lass? Talk about what?”

  “About everything that’s happened. About the soldiers and Carhartan and the So—”

  “Quiet, lass!” he hissed in her ear, and his whiskers tickled her cheek. “We can’t talk about that here.”

  “I thought you said they were friends. We could trust them.” She snuck a glance up at Jirkar, but he didn’t seem to be paying attention to their hushed conversation.

  “Aye, I did. They’re friends in so much as they’re enemies o’ the Takhran an’ the Khelari, an’ I knew ’em a long time ago. But folk are superstitious, lass. Ye can’t mention the cursed melody t’ anyone, or they’ll turn against ye faster ’n ye can say boggswoggle. They’ll try t’ manipulate an’ control ye, use ye for their own purpose.”

  Couldn’t he at least tell her why? “But Amos—”

  “Promise me ye won’t say anything.”

  Birdie stared at Amos in silence, frustration seething below the surface. The peddler had that hard, jaw-set look on his face. A look that declared his determination to be done with the current subject matter as clearly as if he’d spoken the words.

  Just be quiet like a good wee lass, don’t ask questions, an’ everythin’ will be all right.

  The Birdie back at the Sylvan Swan had nodded and promised readily enough, but the Birdie who had been kidnapped, escaped, captured again, and was doubtless even now being pursued by soldiers for something she didn’t understand, wasn’t quite so ready to admit defeat.

  She shook her head. “I have to know more.”

  The peddler grunted and started to rise, but Birdie grabbed his arm.

  “If you won’t talk about that, then at least explain the rest. About you and the dwarves and the griffin.”

  Amos lifted her hand off his arm. “Some things are best left alone.” Gripping the side of the wagon for balance, he picked his way through the crates to the bench seat in the front where Nisus sat as he drove. A moment later, Jirkar hopped down from the stern deck and joined Amos and Nisus, leaving Birdie alone with her thoughts.

  “Well, that went marvelously, didn’t it?”

  Birdie jumped at the unexpected voice, knocking over an unfastened stack of crates, and scrambled away. A yowl set her skin tingling, then a fluffy yellow face poked around the side of a barrel and glared at her.

  “Can’t you watch what you’re doing? Nearly broke my tail. Imagine! Me, George Eregius Waltham the third, wandering around with a crooked tail! Horrors. Unthinkable horrors.”

  “George?” Birdie realized that her mouth was hanging open and snapped it shut. “What on earth on you doing here?” She gestured vaguely at the forest so far removed from the Sylvan Swan where she had seen him last.

  “Shh!” George hissed. He cast an anxious glance past her toward the front of the wagon. “If you must know, I’m a stowaway and don’t wish my presence announced to the entire world.”

  “But I thought you were in Hardale . . .”

  “Were being the key word in that sentence.” The cat shuddered. “Ghastly town. Not a charitable soul in sight after your departure. It wasn’t long before I set off for more hospitable parts, believe me.”

  “As a stowaway?”

  “Only way to travel.”

  The wagon swerved, and Birdie clutched at a barrel to keep from falling. She glanced over her shoulder at Amos and the two dwarves on the driver’s seat. “You couldn’t just ask for a ride? They seem decent enough.”

  “Decent enough to you, I daresay. You’re a two-legs, like them. In any case, it’s not as if the blighters could even hear a word I said.”

  Birdie blinked. “I hear you.” For some reason, it didn’t really surprise her to discover that she was the only one. It wasn’t as if she had ever seen anyone else wandering around carrying on random conversations with four legged critters.

  “I know.” The cat twitched his whiskers. “You’re special.”

  Cursed, rather. And a pointless curse at that—a melody no one else heard, a talking cat no one else could understand. Birdie sat down with her legs crossed beneath her. “How do you know that I’m special?”

  “You’re talking to me, aren’t you?’

  She twisted a strand of hair around her finger, trying to force the loose waves into some semblance of a curl, as she pondered George’s response. So this ability to understand the cat must somehow be wrapped up in the fact that she heard the melody.

  Could she understand other animals as well, or was the cat somehow special too? And what of the griffin? Amos had heard Gundhrold speak. It stood to reason that if she alone was able to understand animals because of her curse, than Amos shouldn’t have been able to understand the griffin, unless the griffin was different in some way.

  George stretched until his fur stood on end, then sat back, considering her with wide, unblinking eyes. “You hear things that ordinary two-legs cannot, but you’re not the only one of your kind. There are others. People like you.”

  “What?” The question fell half formed from her lips, more a breath than a word.

  The cat’s face hovered before her, his nose only inches away from her own. “The peddler doesn’t want you to know about them. He wants to keep you from becoming . . .”

  George’s head flicked up, his eyes narrowed, then in a flash of orange, he darted behind the barrel and was gone.

  “Becoming what?”

  “Everythin’ all right, lass?”

  Still seated, Birdie spun around, nearly knocking into a
second stack of crates. Amos stood behind her, brow furrowed, one hand resting not so casually on the hilt of his dirk.

  “Ye all right?” he repeated.

  “Yes . . . yes of course.” She dropped her gaze to her hands so he couldn’t read the lie in her eyes. If Amos could have his secrets, than she could have hers.

  The wagon jostled, and Amos caught himself with his free hand. “Good . . . good. Right then.” He turned and made his way back to the front of the wagon.

  Birdie scooted back until she felt the firmness of the raised stern deck behind her once more. She hugged her knees to her chest and rested her chin on her forearms. How had things become so complicated? She felt like the dunce in the dice game travelers often played in the Sylvan Swan’s common room, where everyone understood the current rules of play save the one who drew the fool’s cap for the round.

  Everyone else seemed know what was going on. And if Amos wouldn’t tell her the truth, she would have to find someone who would.

  15

  Birdie tiptoed away from the fire where Amos and the dwarves sat digesting their soup over pipes and mugs of brew. She hadn’t seen the orange cat since their cryptic conversation earlier. There were plenty of places to hide amidst all the boxes and crates aboard the wagon, and she suspected that if the mysterious feline didn’t want her to find him, she wouldn’t. In any case, she couldn’t exactly go poking about in search of him without arousing suspicion.

  But he had given her an idea.

  Even before she reached the tethered horses, she could hear the whisper of swishing tails and leaves crackling underhoof. A horse nickered, a soft musical rumble, and softer still, in four harmonizing voices, the freeborn melody rose and fell, like a Karnoth winging through the moonlit glow.

  She saw them and her skin tingled with excitement. Four pairs of crystalline blue eyes gazed at her beneath the shadow of dark manes. Muscles rippled through a cloak of dappled gray hair, like a stream shimmering in the starlight.

  She reached out to stroke the nearest horse, but her fingers scarce grazed the silky coat before the horse jumped back. It snorted, nostrils flared, head erect, ears pricked forward.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “I’m a friend.”

  There was no welcome in those piercing blue eyes, nor any hint of understanding. She hesitated, tempted to flee back to the safety of the fire and the wagon and blissful ignorance. But bliss proved false when ignorance was a cage.

  “I won’t hurt you.”

  As if she were anything more powerful than a worthless orphan with a cursed song. And yet both the griffin and the cat seemed to think her song was something special. Perhaps creatures viewed it differently than “two-legs,” as George called them.

  It was worth a try at least.

  “They say I am the Songkeeper.”

  Still, she received no response. Nothing but gazes as blank and expressionless as one of Madame’s pewter mugs. She moved in among the horses, hands clasped in supplication, suppressing her embarrassment and doubt. “Please, I need help.”

  “That much is obvious, miss. Care to be a bit more specific?”

  Birdie jumped at the bass voice. It was such a decidedly “two-legged” voice, that she didn’t bother looking at the horses. She spun around and spied Jirkar sitting with his back to a tree a few feet away, arms crossed over his mail clad chest.

  “I’m not entirely sure that it’s their help you need.” Jirkar scratched his chin. “Exactly how long have you been trying to talk to animals?”

  “I . . .”

  Don’t speak of the melody, Amos had said. They’ll turn on ye. But perhaps there was a way to find out what she needed to without asking the dwarf directly.

  She flung her head back, trying to exude more confidence than she felt, and tossed Jirkar a question of her own. “Are you spying on me? That is what you and Nisus do, isn’t it? Spy on the Khelari.”

  “Where did you hear that, miss?”

  In the darkness, she could not read the accuracy of her guess in his expression, but his voice sounded more amused than anything else.

  “I figured it out,” she said. “Why else would you wear such a disguise?”

  The dwarf shrugged. “Well, if you already have it figured out, then there’s no need for me to say any mo—”

  “What can you tell me about Amos?”

  This time the sudden question seemed to catch the dwarf unawares. He was silent a moment before answering. “Now, that there is a strange question, miss. Hear tell he’s a peddler now, though you’d know better than I. Back when I knew him, he was a bit of a wild rover, so I suppose it’s no surprise to learn that the dust still hasn’t settled beneath his feet. If you want to know any more, you’ll have to ask him. It’s not my story to tell.”

  As if Amos would actually tell her anything. She suppressed a sigh. The peddler seemed to hoard secrets like treasure. “It’s just that I can’t help wondering what with everything that’s happened, with you and the Khelari and Gundhrold—”

  “You’ve seen the old cat-bird?” Jirkar whistled. “By Turning, will wonders never cease? To think that he’s still alive after all this time . . .”

  Birdie’s legs trembled. She thrust a hand against Jirkar’s tree to hold herself steady. “You know the griffin?” No wonder Amos had warned her not to speak of the Song. If the dwarves were in league with the beast . . .

  “Know of him,” the dwarf corrected. “We’ve never met. Not sure I’d care to either. Griffins are rumored to be unpredictable creatures—though, they are also said to be fierce enemies of the Takhran, so I suppose that would make us allies.”

  The Takhran.

  Birdie shivered at the name. Thanks to him, her life felt like a piece of Madame’s washing, scrubbed, beaten, wrung out, and hung up on the line to dry. And beyond the fact that he was Carhartan’s master and someone everyone seemed to dread, she didn’t even know who he was. Or why he was interested in a worthless orphan from Hardale.

  She sat beside Jirkar and tipped her head back against the tree, gazing at the canopy of interlaced leaves overhead. “Can you tell me more about the Takhran?”

  Jirkar fiddled with a dry twig for several seconds before snapping it between his fingers. “What do you want to know? He’s a murderer. A tyrant. Look as far back in history as the records go, and you’ll find his black name marring the pages. He seems to have just always been in his fortress in Serrin Vroi.

  “The Leiran tribes have always been independent, each ruled by their own chief, none answering to another. But now, most of the northlands are under the Takhran’s rule, save for my homeland, and he’s reaching out in all directions, subduing the peoples of Leira, tribe by tribe.”

  “Why doesn’t someone try to stop him?”

  Jirkar chuckled—a soft, sad chuckle. “Some do. But few have the heart after what happened at Drengreth. Unless the tribes can be united, one by one they will be forced to submit or fall.”

  The weight of the dwarf’s words settled on Birdie, crushing her spirit as surely as she would have been crushed by the hooves of the Khelari horses. “But . . . what does he want with me?”

  “Do you mean you don’t know?”

  She shook her head.

  The dwarf released a long breath. “Give Amos time, miss. There is much he could tell you . . . and will, if you bear with him.”

  Just be quiet and wait. Birdie clenched her fists so hard that her nails dug into her palms. “Why can’t you just tell me and be done with it?”

  “It’s not my place and I’ve no desire to face his wrath! Now, come along, miss.” Jirkar stood and held out a hand to pull her up. “If you’re going to have those pesky Khelari tailing you, it’s best you learn how to defend yourself. Really defend yourself, I mean. What were you planning to do with that hallorm branch earlier? Knock my brains out? Might have been
more difficult than you thought—dwarf skulls are notoriously hard.”

  Before she could think to answer, or even fully grasp what he’d said, the dwarf hurried off to the wagon and began rummaging through the stacked crates.

  She climbed up and sat on the side rail, biting her lip as the dwarf methodically searched the wagon. What if he discovered George? Unlike the cat, she doubted that he would be in any danger from the dwarves, but if he were found, she might be forced to admit that she knew him, had talked to him even, and that confession could scarcely end well.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of a fluffy orange tail retreating between two crates. She gave a relieved sigh. The cat was there, but would remain in hiding for the moment.

  Jirkar swung open the lid of a chest. “You have good instincts, miss. Plenty of spirit. But without training that won’t save you in a battle.”

  Birdie caught her breath. At first he’d simply been talking about self-defense, but now she was supposedly going to be fighting a battle? “Who said I would ever be in a battle?”

  “Mm-hmm.” The dwarf dug through the chest. “Now, let’s see. Not much light here. Should’ve grabbed a torch. Given your size, I’d suggest a long range weapon . . . ah, this should do the trick.” He held up a strange contraption that looked like a bow fixed sideways to a piece of wood. “Bit dark for that right now . . . best to wait for daylight. Reckon a little short sword practice shan’t go amiss tonight, though I suggest when it comes down to it we keep you out of the fray as much as possible. Here.”

  He held out a sword and slapped the hilt into her palm. The twisted iron grip felt cold and unfamiliar. She suppressed a shiver.

  “You needn’t worry,” Jirkar said. “The blade is dulled for training.” He slammed the lid of the chest shut and waved her along. “Over to the fire, where we can see better.”

  Birdie held the sword so that the descending moonbeams rippled across the blade. Dulled it might be, but it was a weapon, and the thought was both terrifying and a little thrilling at the same time. With the sword in her hands, she no longer felt the outcast drudge of the Sylvan Swan. She was free. Strong.