And Amos did not come back.
Ky stirred in his sleep. Morning light bathed his face with rosy hues. The rise of the river had washed all the mud and soot off him, and shaggy strands of straw-colored hair stuck up in all directions about his head. Birdie could make out his features for the first time. He looked to be around the same age as her, or maybe just a bit older.
How long until he abandoned her as well?
She banished the thought. Amos had not abandoned her. There was still time for him to return. It didn’t make sense for him to have come so far, endured so much, only to leave her alone now.
She forced herself to rise and find food for breakfast—anything to distract from the relentless clamor of her thoughts. Amos’s pack was still there, lying undisturbed where he had set it the night before. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? If Amos had left for good, he would have taken his pack with him.
Not until she had pulled out a handful of bread and dried meat from the bottom of her pack did she realize that Ky was awake and scowling at her. She flinched before the ferocity in his gaze. “Would you . . . like something to eat?”
The boy shook his head. “I want my sword. Where is it?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen it.” Her gaze traveled over the campsite, searching for a glimpse of bluish-white or gold.
“This isn’t a game.” Ky jumped to his feet and began pacing back and forth. He reminded Birdie of a caged animal on the verge of breaking loose. “I need that sword back. What’ve you done with it?”
“Nothing. I told you, I haven’t seen it.” But she had seen Amos sneaking around Ky in the dark, hadn’t she? Could Amos have taken the sword? The idea seemed ridiculous enough to be completely impossible, but the fact that he still had not returned was suspicious.
Ky stopped pacing abruptly. “Hawkness—where’s Hawkness?”
“He’s not a thief!” She blurted out, but even as she spoke she knew the words weren’t entirely true. By his own admission, Amos was a thief . . . and worse. But that had been long ago. He had changed, hadn’t he?
“Look, I’m not accusing him. I just want to know where he is.”
The lump that had been growing in her throat all night long threatened to choke her. A tear spilled down her face. “He’s . . . not . . . here.”
She couldn’t deny it any more. Amos was gone. He had gotten a glimpse of who she truly was the night before, and he had fled. He wasn’t coming back. He had abandoned her. Just like everyone else.
“I need that sword.” Ky groaned and dropped to the ground, resting his elbows on his knees and his forehead on his fists. “It was my only hope to keep the Underground safe. I figured I could lead the soldiers away from Kerby—that they’d follow the sword and leave the Underground alone. Should’ve known better than to trust another thief, even one like Hawkness.” A bitter edge tinged his voice. “Look out for yourself.”
“That’s the spirit,” a familiar tenor voice spoke beside Birdie, and George padded up to her, fur hanging in muddy clumps that clung to the leather collar and glass bead about his neck. “Sounds like you’re finally mastering the concept.”
By now the cat’s sudden appearances and disappearances scarce surprised Birdie. He was always there one minute and gone the next, though how he continually managed to find them again was a mystery to her.
George began preening himself, speaking around licks. “You have to . . . fend for yourself . . . in this ruthless world of ours . . . because no one else will bother to look out for you.”
In the face of Amos’s sudden departure, George’s words rang with the weight of truth, and Birdie almost believed him. But she couldn’t deny that Amos had looked out for her in the past. He’d befriended her when she was a worthless drudge at the Sylvan Swan. He’d pursued her when she was a kidnapped orphan. So why abandon her now?
Thinking about it made her head ache and her throat swell, and she was still no closer to figuring out the answer. Tears pricked the corner of her eyes. She massaged her forehead with her fingertips. “Please, George, I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Suit yourself.” The cat shrugged. “I’m only trying to help.”
“How do you do it?” Ky broke in. “Talk to the cat, I mean. How do you know what he’s saying?”
Birdie narrowed her gaze at him, but she couldn’t see any hint of mockery in his eyes. “I just do. The same way you and I are talking right now. You don’t think I’m mad?”
“Not such a fool.” Ky lifted his left hand and wiggled his fingers. “You healed my hand and all the wounded runners in the Underground. You made the river rise when you sang! Talking to animals is a mite tame in comparison.”
“Tame?” George’s fur puffed out, and his tone took on an air of injured pride. “My dear young two-legged sir, it is anything but.”
The cat’s voice called to mind a conversation Birdie had with him back when they traveled on the dwarves’ wagon. He had told her she was special, that she could hear things others couldn’t, but also that she wasn’t the only one of her kind.
Birdie sat up straight and took a deep breath. If Amos truly had abandoned her, then she was on her own. There was no point in denying it. She couldn’t just sit here waiting for him to return. She had to figure out what to do, where to go, who to trust. Starting with the cat . . .
“George, I need to—”
The black melody coiled around Birdie like the strands of an ever tightening snare. Khelari. And they were close. She jumped to her feet and dragged her sword from its sheath.
“What is it?” Ky shot up beside her. “What’s wrong?”
“Khelari. Nearby.” Even as she spoke, she could hear the melody growing louder. The soldiers were approaching fast. Too fast. “Come on!” She snatched up her pack, tossed Amos’s to Ky, and took off over the boggy moorland at a run. She didn’t know where she was going, but anything was better than waiting for the Khelari to arrive.
George scurried to keep up. “My dear girl, I do believe you’re overreacting. Surely there’s no need to go dashing about helter-skelter!”
Birdie spun around, searching for a place to hide. Rising hills adorned with frosted heather and pocked with black boggy splotches surrounded them on all sides, but nothing offered concealment.
Ky grabbed her arm. “Look!”
A Khelari appeared over a rise to their left, jogging toward them, a sword in his hand. Birdie and Ky swung to the right. A hound and its keeper emerged from that direction, and another Khelari, mounted on a horse, raced up in front. Ky’s sling whirred, and a stone felled the first Khelari, but more soldiers filled the empty space and advanced toward them, until they were surrounded by a ring of bristling weapons.
Birdie and Ky stood back to back, turning this way and that, trying to face all their enemies at once, while George darted about their feet chattering about death and doom and the end of all things. Fighting against such odds was hopeless, but Birdie wasn’t ready to admit defeat.
Then Carhartan rode up, and all hope vanished.
The gray horse paced around the ring of Khelari and came to a stamping halt across from George. Carhartan’s gaze rested on the cat, and he jerked his head, motioning the cat forward.
George glanced up at Birdie. “My apologies,” he said, and then sauntered over until he stood directly beneath Carhartan’s stirrup. “The Songkeeper, my lord. As promised.”
The meaning of his words sank into Birdie like a dagger.
A suppressed sob constricted her chest. Was there no one she could trust? She couldn’t recall any hint of the terrifying melody in George’s song, unlike Carhartan and the other Khelari she had met, but she was too weary to try figuring out what that meant. Her head swam and her sword arm drooped. The soldiers pressed forward, and she allowed the sword to be wrenched from her grip.
Resistance offered no hope.
<
br /> Carhartan had won, plain and simple.
Rough hands shoved a gag between her teeth, bound her hands with ropes behind her back, and dragged her to Carhartan.
He leaned forward in the saddle, and the teardrop red jewel swung forward on the chain about his neck. “What of Hawkness and the sword?”
“Not here.” Ky glared up at Carhartan as if daring him to demand more information.
“I wasn’t speaking to you, boy. Well, cat, what of Hawkness?”
It took Birdie a moment to realize that he had addressed the question to George and was actually awaiting a response. Carhartan could understand the cat—how was that possible?
“Missing, unfortunately,” George said. “He left in the middle of the night and took the sword with him. He pursued a westerly course, but beyond that I cannot say, since I was unable to follow him and keep an eye on the Songkeeper at the same time.”
Leather creaked as Carhartan dismounted, then his footsteps crunched toward Birdie, spurs jangling. He grasped her chin, forcing her head back until she looked up into his narrowed eyes.
“So, little Songkeeper, at last.”
She pulled away from his gaze and spied George peeking around the side of Carhartan’s leg. The cat’s normally calm face wore a mask of terror, and he seemed to be trying to mouth something to her, but Carhartan jerked her back toward him, his grip tightening about her jaw.
“Wondering why your little friend betrayed you? Every creature has its price. He’s been working for me since before you first met him.”
Birdie’s mind whirled as the implications of what she had just seen and heard registered. The cat had implied that the ability to communicate with animals was somehow bound to her role as Songkeeper, but how could that be if Carhartan could speak to them as well? Or had everything George said been a lie?
Carhartan chuckled. “Did you think your Song the only power in the world? My master possesses greater power than you can ever imagine. Power that you will soon witness firsthand.”
He released her, and she fell back. Ky managed to steady her with his bound hands, but the soldiers yanked them apart.
Carhartan turned to mount his horse, but the yellow cat darted in his way.
“Our bargain?” George sat back on his haunches and pawed at Carhartan’s legs. “My dear Lord Carhartan, surely you remember. I’ve delivered as we agreed. Now you must hold to your promise and release me from my bondage.”
Carhartan lashed out with his boot, sending George skidding forward several feet. “Our bargain involves Hawkness and the sword as well. Without them, your task is not complete. So if you ever want to be free, beast, I suggest you find them.”
29
Hooded and cloaked, Amos marched briskly across the Westmark, skirting bogs and ice patches with the care of a hunted man. He had a mission to accomplish before dawn, and he needed time to think. The cool night breezes served to clear his troubled mind.
Birdie’s eyes haunted him. He could still envision her standing before him pleading for help, and the hurt that filled her eyes when he refused, smashing her hopes with all the sympathy and tact of a boulder. Why couldn’t the lass see that everything he’d done had been to protect her? To keep her from Artair’s fate.
Artair’s sword dangled from his belt, carefully wrapped in a corner of his cloak to prevent it from touching his skin. He’d promised to see that the sword stayed out of the Takhran’s hands, and he intended to do just that. Besides, if there was anything that could cause more trouble for his lass than simply being the Songkeeper, it was having the sword in her possession.
Since the River Adayn was neither wide nor deep enough to conceal the sword, the Great Sea would have to suffice. He was already drawing near to Bryllhyn and the coast, giving him plenty of time to dispose of the sword and head back to Birdie before dawn. Plenty of time to work through the problems besieging his mind.
With any luck, he’d be back before anyone realized he was gone.
Amos rounded a bog, his heels sinking into the mossy ground, and scaled a steep hillock. The Great Sea sprawled before him, a mass of black in the darkness. Pale moonlight crested the waves writhing upon the shore.
He breathed deeply of the salt air, and felt the tension drain from his muscles.
This was home.
He let his gaze wander to his left where the white stone cottages of Bryllhyn were scattered haphazardly here and there across the grassy hills and shore. A dismayed cry burst from his lips. The village burned with a dull orange glow. Shouts, so faint he almost missed them, fell on his ears, punctuated by the sharp clang of weapons.
Amos swiped the dirk from his sheath, and the familiar weight in his hand brought a sense of stability to his reeling thoughts.
The Khelari—were they responsible for this?
He spun back to face the way he’d come. Somewhere out there on the moor, Birdie and Ky slept in peaceful ignorance. After the collapse of the bridge, he’d thought they would be safe in the Westmark, at least for a short while. He should have known better than to underestimate the Khelari . . . and Oran.
A trailing scream drew his gaze back to the village. People—his people were dying. Waveryders he’d known since he was a lad. And his mother! Bloodwuthering blodknockers, she was in the village too. He couldn’t leave her to be slain by the Takhran’s cursed soldiers.
But what of Birdie?
He stood still a moment, torn, then his gaze drifted past the village to the shore and the dark outline of a sleek ship silhouetted against the firelight. That was no Waveryder vessel—the realization set his blood running cold. The attackers weren’t Khelari. They were pirates.
Langorian pirates.
Amos dashed toward the village, sand flying beneath his feet. The orange glow grew brighter as he neared. Fire blazed among the Waveryder vessels beached in the sand, while smaller pockets of flame were scattered throughout the village. Pirates swarmed through the cottages, dragging half-awake villagers from their beds. Here and there, groups of Waveryders fell upon the pirates with swords, and dying screams assailed Amos’s ears.
Straight through the center of the village he raced, heedless of the scenes of ruin and death, dodging past clusters of pirates and villagers, toward the smallest cottage at the far end where his mother lived.
A pirate lurched toward him from the side. Without slackening stride, Amos plunged his dirk into the man’s side and shoved him to the ground.
Then he reached the cottage and raced up the shell-lined path to the sky blue door. Bodies lay on the threshold atop a cushion of trailing white rock flowers. Two pirates and . . . his mother.
Amos dropped to his knees beside her and gently took her into his arms. Blood stained his hands and seeped into his shirt from the ragged wound in her chest. Her face was pale and pearl-like in the moonlight—peaceful—but her green eyes stared vacantly up at him. Empty. Dead.
A sob tore at his throat. Again, he was too late.
Someone spoke behind him—a strange voice uttering a harsh language. He clenched the pommel of his dirk, holding the blade flat against his arm so it wouldn’t be visible, and raised his hands over his head. Slowly he turned around and inched to his feet.
Three dark figures stood at the end of the path. Gold flashed around their necks and arms, and they brandished short, heavy swords.
Amos flung his dirk at the middle pirate, and it buried up to the hilt in his chest. The pirate crumpled, and before the other two could recover, Amos charged. He ducked the first pirate’s stroke, snagged the fallen pirate’s sword and his dirk, slashed the throat of the second pirate, and swung back around to the first.
He cut at the pirate’s head, but the man was already retreating, racing toward the village at top speed. Amos swore and leapt after him. He would not be cheated of revenge so easily. Holding his dirk by the tip, Amos focused on the pi
rate’s broad back—an easy target. He let fly, and a moment later, the dirk sprouted between the pirate’s shoulder blades. He paused to retrieve his dirk from the body and looked up to find himself standing in the midst of a cluster of pirates.
Bilgewater.
Something slammed into him from behind, knocking him down and grinding his face into the sand. His gasp for breath inhaled a mouthful of dust instead. He lashed out with his dirk and struggled to rise.
Thud. A boot crashed into his side, followed by a kick to the chest, and then another and another. Blows poured down upon him. Beneath the crushing weight of pain, Amos was conscious of only one thing.
He had failed Birdie.
The home he’d promised her was gone. He’d dragged her out into the wilderness, left her alone, and who would protect her now, when he did not return?
The blows stopped.
He was hauled to his feet, coughing and retching, and his hands were bound behind his back. His entire body throbbed. Blood tricked down his forehead and blurred his vision.
One of his captors knelt to pick a discarded sword out of the sand.
Amos’s heart sank when he recognized the blade—Artair’s sword. It must have slipped from his belt when he fell.
The pirate held the sword aloft so firelight glinted off the gold hilt and blued blade, and then dropped it suddenly, cursing. He clutched his hand to his chest, and Amos could have sworn he saw steam arising from the man’s blackened skin.
The sword was up to its old tricks again. Amos spat a glob of blood out of his mouth and grinned at the pirate. “Smarts, don’t it?”
The pirate snarled at him and tore the cloak from Amos’s neck, tossing it over the sword before he picked it up again. Then the other pirates closed around Amos and hustled him down the beach.
The ropes dug into Birdie’s wrists. Her hands ached, but her fingers had long since gone numb. The gag chaffed the corners of her mouth, and the foul taste of the cloth make her choke. Beside her, Ky was similarly trussed, but without the gag.
A quick glance at their surroundings exposed Carhartan’s reasoning. Miles of bogs and barren hillocks revealed the lack of forthcoming help, and apparently he was only worried about her singing.
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