Song of Leira

by Gillian Bronte Adams

  Breaking away from the training group, Ky checked in with Gull, the archers—both Meli and Syd had wound up in their ranks—and the slingers, and then circled back to where Nah Obasi still sat beside the fire. Dor hovered over her cookpot, pointedly ignoring the Saari as she stirred a bubbling mess that smelled far better than it looked and set Ky’s stomach to rumbling. She spared a moment to scowl at him, but he ignored it and eased himself to the ground next to Obasi. He tossed his sword down and rubbed his palm, wincing at the blisters forming beneath the skin. He always thought that his hands were calloused—until he was forced to pick up a sword. Somehow the hilt always managed to rub in just the wrong spot.

  “A true warrior treats his weapon with respect.”

  Obasi’s deep voice startled him from his thoughts. The Saari’s eyes were fixed on the blade. A cloak of impassivity shielded his face, but there was no disguising the deep longing in his eyes or the way his body canted toward the sword like a tree stretching toward the sun.

  “You want it?” Ky nudged the sword with his foot. When Obasi didn’t immediately reach for it, he picked it up and offered it to him hilt first.

  Obasi’s blue eyes flashed wide.

  “Go ahead. Take it.”

  The way Obasi received it into his trembling hands, as if it were a precious gem and not some battered hunk of metal, made Ky feel like he should explain his disrespect. “The sword—it’s just not my weapon.” He slid the sling from around his waist and snapped the leather. “This is.”

  “And yet . . .” Obasi turned the sword in his hand, inspecting the angle of the edge, the balance of the blade, the way the firelight played across the battle-worn steel. “A son of the desert learns to see weapons in any and every thing. It is the key to survival.”

  Silence lapsed between them, and Ky’s gaze strayed back to the groups of runners now winding down their training sessions. Slack finished it all off by whipping out her sword and running through a series of forms with such speed that Ky found his mouth dropping in spite of himself. At last she sheathed her sword and stepped back. The runners surged around her and the clearing exploded with noise until Dor hammered her ladle against the side of the cookpot and brought them all running, clamoring for bowls, dripping and ravenous from the exercise.

  Ky couldn’t help feeling satisfaction at the sight. Order. Work. Discipline. This morning had been a fair sight more difficult than he had imagined, but he couldn’t deny the sense of accomplishment that he felt. Of rightness.

  And yet there was something missing.

  Things couldn’t be truly right until Paddy was free.

  And to free Paddy he first had to discover what Obasi knew of the slave camps. Spurred by the resolve hardening within him, he waited until the line petered out then made his way to the cookpot last. Dor had already taken her seat, so he ladled his own bowl and turned to go.

  Only to find Slack standing directly behind him.

  He stumbled to avoid treading on her toes and almost dropped his bowl. Lunging to catch it left him wringing a burned hand and staring uncomfortably up at her from inches away. Her face, neck, and the shoulders of her tunic were soaked—she must have dunked her head to wash away the stink of sweat. Wispy strands of hair were pasted across her forehead, trailing droplets of water across skin still flushed from exertion.

  “Oi!” She barked at him. “Careful!”

  Ky glanced up from the steaming mess dribbling down the side of his bowl and over his fingers. “You eaten yet?”

  “Sure, Shorty, I’m just standing here in line for nothing.” She jerked her chin toward the cookpot. “Mind getting out of my way?”

  He gnawed his lower lip. Couldn’t say why, but for some reason it seemed important that he eat last. It wasn’t the Underground way . . . and maybe that had something to do with it. “Here.” He set the bowl in her hand. “Take it. I’ll get another.”

  She just stood there, one brow raised, not fully taking ahold of the bowl, so he couldn’t just let go for fear of dropping it. Then her hand closed around it and she retreated a step, then spun around with a shrug and stalked off.

  “Good work this morning.”

  She glanced back over her shoulder, lip curled in an expression that could have been disgust or pity or the barest bones of a smile, and then she was gone. Ky scraped the leavings at the bottom of the cookpot into another bowl and made his way back to Obasi’s side. He squatted beside the Saari and used his heat-numbed fingers to scoop the food into his mouth. But he hadn’t gulped down more than a few bites when he realized the man’s eyes were fixed on him.

  “Want some?” He offered the bowl.

  The Saari waved it aside and motioned for Ky to continue. Putting aside feelings of guilt—the man had just eaten—Ky returned to his meal, conscious that the Saari’s eyes remained on him still. At length Obasi spoke in a low voice. “You are the leader?”

  “Reckon so.”

  “It is a big responsibility—leadership.” His voice fell lower still, and his eyes drifted off to gaze into the distance. “You bear the weight of many lives.”

  “Don’t I know it.” Ky swallowed hard and set the bowl aside, appetite suddenly lessened. Maybe that explained why he had been sleeping so poorly since Siranos—the weight of the lives that remained and the lives that had been lost. He wiped his hand on his breeches. “That’s why I need to talk to you. My friend, Paddy—he was taken by the Khelari in a battle a few weeks back. The way I figure it, they would have taken him to one of the camps nearby.”

  The Saari went stiff at the mention of the camps, poised like a wild beast at the first scent of danger. “What do you want from me?”

  “Anything. Where they might have taken him. Where to look first.”

  “There are many camps scattered throughout all of Leira. Your friend is gone.” Obasi’s scored features might have been cast in iron for all the expression that showed on his face, but his eyes gave him away. Haunted by fear. As if delving into talk of the slave camps would summon whatever terrors prowled the halls of his memory. But Ky didn’t have time for sympathy. He needed answers. And soon.

  “Where were you being kept?”

  “With the Takhran’s army.” The words fell flat from Obasi’s tongue, devoid of all emotion and somehow almost more troubling because of it. “Twelve years I spent in a camp—Al Tachaad, they called it—forging weapons and tools to aid their war. When the army marched north, I was taken from Al Tachaad. That’s where I discovered that many slaves never make it to a camp but are bound to the armies themselves. Portioned out like so many livestock.” He weighted the word with the disgust that only a true son of the desert—one of the Saari, tamers and riders of lions—could give it.

  But that wasn’t what captured Ky’s attention. “You were with the main army besieging the Caran’s fortress?”

  Obasi just grunted in answer.

  Unable to contain the eagerness pulsing in his chest, Ky leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees. “Paddy was taken here in the mountains by a company of soldiers that was headed to join up with the main army. Stands to reason that’s where they would have taken him. I don’t reckon you saw him there? Redhead, freckled, about a head taller than me. He was injured in the fight—took a blade to the thigh.”

  Obasi frowned. “Your friend, he was skilled? A man of trade or craft?”

  Only if thievery counted. When it came to scouting out marks and performing quick slip-in-and-dash-out grabs, Paddy couldn’t be beat. Nimble of finger. Light of foot. Made sense the Khelari had to cripple him to take him down.

  “He is . . . one of us.”

  The Saari just nodded at that, but there was an unsettling light in his eyes that led Ky to consider his next words carefully.

  “I mean to get him back.”

  Obasi laughed, a soft, unnerving sound with no humor in it. “That is impossible. He may escape in time. To death, if nothing else. But you shall not get him back.” The words hung between them like a shie
ld, concealing unspoken horrors, hindering further speech. Obasi’s unfocused gaze drifted toward the woods and the shadows beyond.

  “But you survived—and escaped.”

  “Yes. Yes. I escaped. But I am not Nah Obasi, the man who was first taken.” The Saari closed his eyes a moment, then fixed his unyielding gaze on Ky. “If your friend was injured, then he is already dead. The Khelari have no time to spare for weakness. And neither do you. There are graver concerns facing you now. Dangers closer to hearth than you imagine.”

  On impulse Ky’s eyes shot to the woods. But all lay still and silent without, and within the clearing the runners were setting aside empty bowls, rising stiffly to their feet, and preparing for the tasks that still lay before them—a nagging reminder that the day was yet young and he had a score of runners to keep occupied until dark.

  “That one is dangerous.” Obasi pointed with his chin, and Ky followed the arc of his glance in time to see Slack disappear into the woods with a group of three runners, all armed. Off hunting, no doubt, without a word. Maybe he should have expected it, but after the morning’s successful interactions it irked him even more. “You underestimate her. The gravest mistake a warrior can make is to expect his enemy to think like he does.”

  Ky snatched his half-empty bowl from the ground and pushed up to his feet, trying to ignore the anger prickling the back of his neck. It seemed everyone thought it was their place to question him nowadays. “The gravest mistake a leader can make is not to value the skills of his people. She’s not my enemy, and I’m not going to let my pride keep her from helping the Underground the best she can. We need each other right now. All of us.”

  He turned to go.

  “Beware, young cub.” Obasi’s voice pursued him. “You simply taunt the lioness.”

  9

  It was not the fear in the eyes of the Underground runners that drove Birdie from the clearing and started her feet wandering aimless paths through the trees that carpeted the slope. Not the whispers chasing after her or the suspicious glances cast her way. Not the talk of witches or powerful magic. It was the sound of laughter.

  She heard it in the friendly jests, mock arguments, and boisterous chatter that the runners exchanged as afternoon faded into evening and they wrapped up their assigned tasks, stashed tools and weapons away, and huddled around the fire while Dor finished cooking the evening meal. It was at once a cheerful, engaging clamor . . . and a painful reminder that she stood upon the outside.

  Never one of them.

  The haft of her axe bit into her shoulder, and she adjusted its position, easing it away from the sore spot. The weight bothered her less than it used to. She was becoming accustomed to it. One could become accustomed to anything given enough time. Pain. Loneliness. Loss. Even heartache. But it was in the moments of contrast that the pain was more difficult to bear.

  It had been good of Ky to speak on her behalf when she healed the Saari, and again once or twice over the five days that had passed since then. Even if she was not one of them, it was reassuring to know that she could count on him as a friend. But his words had done little to ease the fear of the runners, and it was clear that he had matters of his own to deal with. It was better for her to slip away and vanish into the background like the little orphan girl who had slaved at the Sylvan Swan.

  After he had spoken up for her, she had made her way to the lookout post to relieve the sentry, sending him down to join the weapons training in her stead. She had no desire to stand in the midst of that crowd and make a fool of herself. The last thing she needed was more people gawking.

  So the lookout post had become her shelter, and these walks in the woods a relief.

  The life of the Underground runners could scarce have seemed normal to anyone else. Perhaps not even desirable. They were orphans, the lot of them. Thieves and beggars, exiled from the only home they had left, fighting to survive against all odds. And yet they had something that Birdie had never known. Something she had longed for all her life.

  They had family. Bound together as brothers and sisters by necessity if not by birth, with all the beautiful messes, frustrations, and heartaches that came from living life side by side. And such a life . . .

  It was a good normal.

  Birdie would have given anything to be a part of it.

  She came to a stop beneath the dangling branches of a weeping thrassle and turned a slow circle to gain her bearings. This part of the wooded slope was unfamiliar to her. Wherever she had wandered, it was not on the same line as the path they had taken when gathering. Moss formed a soft carpet beneath her feet. Water trickled somewhere nearby—the creek, perhaps. With the onset of evening, the light filtering through the trees had diminished, leaving a touch of coolness behind that raised a shiver on her arms.

  In the stillness that followed the quieting of her thoughts, she became aware of a melody hovering in the distance. And yet, not too distant. The singer must have been hidden just beyond sight. Wild, arcing, and free, the notes were sung by a familiar voice.

  It was the griffin’s song.

  She sighed as she scanned the woods for sign of him. “I can hear you, Gundhrold.”

  He gave no answer, but that came as no surprise. No doubt he was stewing over having been caught, or perhaps hoping to brazen it out a little while more in hopes she would think herself mistaken. If she had been paying attention, she would have noticed his melody sooner. It was unnerving how the tumult of her own thoughts could so deaden her senses to the world around her. She should have expected the griffin to follow. Should have prepared for it and evaded him from the start. His presence now was both a comfort and an annoyance. It meant that she was not alone, despite the gnawing sense of loneliness.

  And yet wrestling with one’s thoughts begged for solitude.

  It was strange to know that invisible eyes marked her passage, even if the eyes were friendly. The more she thought about it, the more it seemed she could feel the burden of his gaze. But when she turned to look, there was no sign that he was there. So she hurried on, fighting the urge to seek cover. And had to stop and stifle a laugh at her foolishness. This moment was no different than any other time she had walked through the woods. There were nearly always wild things about, lurking in burrows or concealed behind thick branches. Little chance of spotting them, but they always saw you.

  As if the thought had awakened their melodies, she suddenly heard the forest humming with the buzzing notes of insects and the sharper, chittering notes of a tuft-tailed squirrel—out of the corner of her eye, she caught the flicker of its tail as it shot up a trunk and raced away through the branches—and the bright, airy, whistling notes of birds flitting through the treetops overhead. The mountain forest teemed with intelligent life, and yet if she had not been attuned to the melodies, she might have thought herself the only reasoning being present.

  No doubt that was why the Takhran used ravens as spies. Ordinary folk would be none the wiser. Something about that thought rankled the back of her mind. It seemed the start of . . . something. But she didn’t have the chance to follow it to its conclusion. Nearby, a voice called out in distress, snapping her attention to the direction she had come from.

  Back toward camp.

  Before she had even fully considered what she intended to do, she was running. Toward the cry for help. With each step, the axe haft jostled against her shoulder, so without slackening stride, she swung it down and held it in both hands. Her injured wrist ached, but the bandage helped support it. She scanned for strains of the dark melody but found no sign of the Khelari. Heard nothing at all, save the pleading voice, backed by a tremulous strand of melody that keened and quivered through the five notes.

  It was an unfamiliar voice. Not one of the Underground runners, then.

  The voice let out an agonized wail.

  Birdie rounded a tree, scraping her elbow on the rough bark in passing, and caught her foot on a root. She fell onto her hands and knees, sending a spike of pain through her wri
st, and the axe skidded out of reach.

  A flash of autumn orange caught her eye.

  She lifted her chin and found herself staring into the wide, fear-flecked green eyes of a petra. It let out a muffled grunt and scrabbled in the loam, clawed hands and feet scoring the earth without finding purchase. The quivering melody was coming from the beast. That realization eased Birdie’s thundering heart. She sat back on her heels, but at the first sign of movement the petra fell back, cowering away from her, sides heaving with the effort of snuffling ragged, wet breaths. Only then did she see the thin cord biting into the flesh of its neck, leaving flecks of blood staining its lighter ruff.

  Trapped in a snare.

  Slack and her hunting crew must have come through here. The thought sent a pulse of anger through her veins. Irrational, and she knew it; she had enjoyed the fruits of the hunt as heartily as anyone else. And yet to be confronted so clearly with the blood and guts of it, from a beast she knew possessed a voice and a melody of its own, seemed a great and terrible wrong.

  It drove her to action.

  She shot to her feet and darted to collect her axe. Behind her the petra started thrashing again, and its strangled plea for help broke off in a horrible choking sound. Catching up the axe, she spun around.

  “Be still.”

  Into those words she poured the force of the Song and the memory of the beast’s own trembling, high-pitched notes, so that the words were somehow less speech and more melody. The petra stilled just in time for Birdie to bring the axe down on the cord. It parted with a snap, and Birdie snatched the noose from the petra’s neck. It scrambled to a tree trunk a safe distance away. Now that the creature was free, she could see it was a female, nearly twice the size of a cat, long backed and short limbed with a triangular-shaped head framed by ears that tripled the size of its face. Folds of leathery skin ran from wrist to ankle—loose now, but when extended it would allow the petra to glide for short distances. Usually nocturnal creatures, they generally spent days in their underground dens, rising with the stars to spend the nights frolicking through the forest canopy.