Song of Leira

by Gillian Bronte Adams

  Frey motioned her forward with a tilt of his head. The path ahead ended in the mouth of a cave. Water trickled down the rock face on either side of the opening and fell with a gentle patter across the threshold beneath a veil of moondrops that cast light over their surroundings.

  “Come on, come in,” Khittri trilled, scampering from rock to rock with ease. “You are most happily welcomed! All are welcome to Quillan’s cave, but you are especially welcome. Welcomed and anticipated. They cannot wait to meet you.”

  As if the petra’s words had awakened Birdie’s senses, she suddenly noticed the melodies—nearly a dozen of them—scattered along their path. And then she saw them too—a dozen creatures, eyes reflective with moonlight, peering out from beneath rock and vine and shrub. Two karnoth birds, feathers the color of slate with blue-tipped wings and crests, squinted down long beaks at her from a twiggy nest that rose from the moondrops above the cave entrance. Three dune rabbits crouched behind a rock to her left, twitching their whiskers, while a petra clung to a dragon’s tongue vine level with her head and a pair of goats hop-skipped down the slope. Meanwhile, Khittri danced on blithely toward the cave, apparently unaware or at least unconcerned that Birdie was not following.

  Frey gave a soft, musical snort. “You must forgive them for staring. Legend speaks of the little Songkeeper. It is strange to find oneself face to face with an ancient promise.”

  And even stranger to find oneself considered an ancient promise. And yet here she was.

  She turned to the beast. “What is this place?” But even as he opened his mouth to respond, another voice answered instead.

  “This place, such as it is, is my home.” It was a man’s voice, strained from exertion, Birdie thought, and yet undeniably cheerful. “And Khittri is right, of course, my dear. You are most welcome.”

  With his voice in her ears, isolating his melody was a simple matter. Locating him proved more difficult. At last her roving eyes spotted something moving in the shadows above the karnoth nest, just beyond the glow of the moondrop flowers. She strained her eyes and could just distinguish the figure of a man moving spread eagled across the face of the rock. He had a large reed basket—nearly as long as he was tall—strapped to his shoulders with another strap that passed over his forehead to hold it in place. His descent carried him into the moonglow, and he paused to peer down at her beneath the forehead strap, giving her a glimpse of a face wrinkled with a merry, rosy-cheeked grin. Only for a moment, though, because his foot slipped and a muffled grunt sounded as he scrambled for a new hand- and foothold.

  “Will you sit, Songkeeper?” Frey tipped his head toward a moss-­covered rock near the cave entrance. “Quillan will be down in a moment.”

  Another grunt from the man—Quillan, apparently. Birdie couldn’t be sure if it was in agreement or simply because he had nearly fallen again. Still, she refused Frey’s offer of a seat with a shake of her head. Despite the atmosphere of stillness suffusing this place, anticipation and tension had keyed up her nerves until it felt as though every fiber of her being jangled like the tautened strings of a lute. In vain she tried to recall the sense of peace that she had felt in the Song when she decided to follow the petra.

  To distract herself, she tracked Quillan’s progress. For the most part he moved with surprising agility and meticulous care, testing each new handhold before trusting it with his weight, which, given the number of times he had almost fallen since she arrived, only served to highlight how difficult a task it must be.

  “Does he often climb at night?”

  “Not often.” An amused smile flickered across Frey’s muzzle. It seemed to hint that although such strange behavior might not occur “often,” it certainly occurred frequently enough so as to be of little note.

  “Only when the risk to my neck is far outweighed by the gain,” Quillan called down as he eased his way around the karnoth nest and then stopped to peer inside. “Lovely eggs there, my dears.” The male karnoth puffed out his chest feathers and fanned the crest on his head, while the female honked softly and murmured, “But of course, Quillan.”

  Chuckling, he moved on, talking all the while, sentences broken as he navigated particularly difficult sections. “Had I known you were coming tonight, I should not have ventured it. We have been expecting you, you see. They brought me tidings of your arrival in the mountains weeks ago, and I have been praying ever since that Emhran would align our paths.”

  Khittri fairly wiggled with excitement and bounded back to sit upright at Birdie’s feet. “And he did. He did. And I did too! I brought her to you, I did. Didn’t I?”

  “Steady, Khittri.” Frey’s gentling voice settled the petra’s jitters to more of a vibration than an outright bouncing. It had a calming effect on Birdie too, quelling the knot of anxiety rising in her throat. The way that Quillan seemed around the creatures—so at ease, so friendly—could simply be the way of a man who lived alone with naught but the creatures for companionship. She had seen it before with travelers at the Sylvan Swan. And yet it seemed to point to a greater level of understanding than that.

  As if he could hear them as she could.

  Which left only a few explanations for who and what he was. Another Songkeeper, perhaps, or a Songling.

  Or one of the Shantren.

  “Ah, there we are.” Quillan skidded down the last few inches and dropped to the ground into the light. He ducked his head out from beneath the forehead strap and eased the basket from his shoulders, setting it down with a thump by his side. Delicate strands of some lacy silver vine filled the basket halfway. Dusting off his hands, he approached her.

  Given his propensity to scamper along cliff faces in the middle of the night, Birdie had expected a younger man. He was tall and slightly stoop shouldered with pale blue eyes. Soft, curling white hair provided a thin covering for his age-spotted skull, and a bald swath ran from the center of his forehead—still reddened from contact with the strap—to his crown. Water from the rock had soaked the front of his blue woolen robe, causing it to hang damp in the middle where he had it belted over earth-stained trousers and sandals. A thick, knitted yellow scarf provided a brief patch of color around his neck.

  She looked up to find him scrutinizing her face with such intensity that heat rose to her cheeks and she involuntarily stepped back, nearly tripping over Khittri again.

  “Forgive me, Songkeeper.” Quillan’s expression relaxed into one of warm welcome—wide smile, crinkled eyes, cherry cheeks, and all. “They told me that you were young.” He gave a short laugh. “And yet I did not know what to expect.”

  “They?”

  He waved a vague hand around him, indicating all the creatures that were slowly creeping out from behind rock, bush, and tree, and spoke offhandedly, as if he were only half focused on his own words. “The wild ones. Mogrinvale—this little valley—is always open to them, and they come and go as they please, wandering out over the mountains and valleys and returning as they will—” He broke off. “It is true, isn’t it? You have spoken with him. With Emhran.”

  There was such desperate longing in his voice that it took Birdie aback a moment. Gundhrold had hinted once that this in and of itself was an unbelievable gift, but Quillan’s question still surprised her. All she could do was nod dumbly.

  “I thought as much. There is something of him about you. Tell me, Songkeeper, what is it like?”

  “It’s . . .” Birdie fumbled for words to describe the experience. Terrifying, as if her bones were melting beneath her skin. Comforting, as if she were drowning and the voice in the Song was her lifeline. Humbling, as the vastness and incomparable might of the voice revealed her own smallness and feebleness. Awe inspiring, as she remembered the first words the voice had spoken: Birdie. Songkeeper. Beloved. You are mine.

  “It . . .” She looked at him. “It just is.”

  “Ah, a foolish question. How could you describe it? How could anyone?” Quillan brushed the matter aside as if it were nothing, but there was no
denying the desire in his eyes. Or the tinge of disappointment. “But I am a poor host to leave you standing. Forgive my manners. We should move within.” Abruptly, he turned and seized his basket, tugging it over to set at his feet, allowing Birdie to see inside. She could have sworn it was half full before, but now it appeared to be on the verge of overflowing.

  But if there was anything odd about that, Quillan didn’t seem to notice it. He adjusted the shoulder straps, talking as he worked—the slow, easy speech of one old friend to another. “No doubt you are hungry, my dear. Weary too, most like. We can put the kettle on, and I’m sure there’s a spot of something tucked away . . . I’m called Quillan Holt, by the way. And this”—he spread his hands wide to encompass the little valley—“is my home, Mogrinvale.”

  “I am called Birdie.” Such a pale, tiny name it seemed, all alone like that, without a surname to back it up or a place to call her home. Gundhrold had known some of her family—had at least heard of them if not met them all personally. Perhaps he knew her family name. And yet if he did, what would she do? Lay claim to it now? Family names meant little if the family itself was forgotten. At the end of the day, she was Birdie . . . and she was the Songkeeper.

  That would have to be enough.

  “It is an honor to finally meet you,” Quillan said. “You have become acquainted with Khittri the petra, of course, and Frey the saif. The others you will doubtless meet in time.”

  He kept talking, but she was only half listening now. Something about the basket drew her gaze again. It was fuller than it had been. And the silvery vines—they seemed to be moving. Even as she watched, tiny tendrils, fine as hairs, extended and began to work their way into the weave of the basket, lifting the heap even higher.

  Quillan gave the basket a thump with his foot, and the tendrils withdrew. He went on talking as if he hadn’t even noticed.

  She interrupted him. “What is that?”

  “What?” His brow crinkled as he glanced down. “Oh this? Sylfweed. Have you never seen it before? It emerges from clefts in the rock only in the light of a full moon, so gathering it is not for the faint of heart. But once it has emerged, it grows quite rapidly. Tremendous stuff when it’s distilled too. Makes a fantastic potion for treating wounds.” He slung the basket up over one shoulder and winked at her as he started toward the cave. “And it adds remarkable flavor to a tankard of mead. Should you like to try some?”

  “I . . .” Birdie glanced up at the sky. Whatever time of the night it might be, Mindolyn showed no sign of yielding the dance to Tauros just yet. She should have a little time still before her absence was noted and the griffin began to fear the worse.

  “There is much we can talk about, you and I.”

  That decided her. “I cannot stay long.”

  “Excellent. Come in then, my dear. Come in.”

  Frey and Khittri remained behind as Quillan led the way. He paused by the cave entrance to collect two earthenware pots full of moondrop flowers, light shimmering from their nearly translucent, teardrop-shaped petals. His purpose became clear as they entered the cave and the glow lighted their way. All well and good for a few hours on a night with a full moon, but beyond that—or if there was cloud cover—it didn’t seem a very practical way to light one’s home.

  Birdie said as much, and Quillan laughed. “Sometimes I must make do with the sputtering of torchlight, like everyone else. But until then I see no reason to waste such beauty.”

  Nor did she.

  Just beyond the entrance, the cave widened into a small circular room from which three other passages broke off, openings shielded by woven reed mats. Immediately to her left, two sheathed swords rested against the wall. At the sight of the weapons, Birdie fell into a readier stance, axe held before her in both hands to be easily brought up to strike or block. It was a subtle move, a matter of instinct more than any real feeling of alarm, but it did not go unnoticed.

  Quillan lifted a calming hand and nodded toward the swords. “It is the custom for all guests to set aside weapons when entering here. I myself have none.”

  “Who do these belong to?”

  “Other guests.” His eyes narrowed, considering her. “But you need not meet them now. I have some skill as a healer—not like you, doubtless. It is not my gifting. But those who are injured or sick often find their way here.” He surveyed her axe. “A dwarven weapon, I take it. A gift from a friend?”

  She shook her head. “I claimed it from a battlefield.” The words came out harsher than she had intended and with less explanation than perhaps should be given, but she had no desire to revisit the scene in her mind. So many dead. So many dying. So many melodies fading into silence.

  “Ah.” Quillan abruptly turned away and gestured for her to follow with a jerk of his head. “Come in, Songkeeper. The night is fading fast.”

  •••

  “I am a Songling, of course.” Quillan gave his tankard a gentle swirl so that the liquid sloshed just below the rim. He smiled hesitantly. “But no doubt you have already perceived that.” A single drop spilled and soaked into the table—a round of wood from a massive stump, with bark still shielding the edges. The mead left a stain in the space between two rings.

  He had led her through the left-hand passage, ducking beneath the reed mat into a narrow space that clearly served as his kitchen. It was a rugged, earthy space, with rushes covering the floor, reed baskets lining the walls, and earthenware pots, bowls, and plates stacked atop a low log bench. Rough-hewn stumps served as stools for the table. In a matter of moments, he had disposed of his basket of sylfweed, poured two tankards of mead, set out a plate of berry scones and clotted cream, and gestured for Birdie to sit.

  He now shifted in his own seat, rushes crackling beneath his feet, and rested his elbows on the table. “Not a very powerful one, I daresay, but I strive to put such as I have been given to good use. Wild speech is my gifting—the grace to understand the speech of all living creatures. And already the wilds are humming with rumors of your deeds, of healings, flood waters, and storms. Of a gentle voice that sings the passing souls to sleep. You bring hope, Songkeeper.”

  Birdie broke off a piece of scone and dipped it in the clotted cream, taking the moment to gather her thoughts. She had set the axe close to hand, haft resting against the table. “I have not met a Songling before. Or rather, I suppose I have,” she amended and then felt that she must explain. Oh, but where to begin? “He was no longer a true Songling. He had taken the talav of the Shantren, and I didn’t know it . . . until he betrayed me to the Takhran.”

  Quillan stiffened at that and set his tankard down suddenly, questions strong in his eyes. “And yet you do not bear the talav. How then did you survive?”

  “The Song was willing.” She chose the words carefully, and yet, as true as they might be, somehow it did not seem enough. Something about Quillan made her want to trust him. Something more than the knowledge that this man was a Songling, that he was her kin in a way that Inali with his secrets and treacherous plans never could have been. Perhaps it was time to tell the story as she had been unable to tell it to Ky or recall with Gundhrold. To relive those moments of doubt in the Pit, the horror of the twelve sleepers, the terror of the hatred she had discovered coursing through her veins, and the unbearable sorrow of Amos’s loss. To tear back the shield she had built to cover the aching and let the hurt bleed from her with the telling.

  She found herself talking, and once she had begun, she could not stop. Spilling thoughts and hopes and fears as she had never been able to do with those closest to her—with Gundhrold or even Amos. She wondered at her openness to a stranger.

  And yet, perhaps it was because he was a stranger that such openness was possible.

  When the words ran dry at last, she sat back, unshed tears in her eyes. Quillan sat with his long legs stretched out before him, one arm folded across his chest, the other cupping his chin. His tankard was empty. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he took a deep breath and let it
out slowly. “So the sword is lost, then? A pity.”

  “It was a . . . strange weapon.”

  “A Songkeeper’s weapon.” Some of the tension lifted from his face, and a tinge of light crept back into his eyes. “A blade forged through the Song. That axe you carry is nothing but a tool, an instrument to be used as its wielder decrees. It may strike for good or ill intent. But the blade, ah, the blade . . .” His voice fell, became reflective, almost dreamlike. “It was said that there was a connection between the Songkeeper and the blade, a strand of melody that bound one to the other regardless of distance. It is a weapon crafted to be wielded only through the strength and power of the Song, so that it judges the thoughts and intents of its bearer’s heart and lashes out at those it deems unworthy.”

  A tremor seized Birdie’s hand and ran along the bone to her shoulder. She clenched her fist, trying to forget the icy blast that had come from the sword as she stabbed the blade into the Takhran’s chest. The heat of anger had driven her to it. And still a small voice twisted inside her, stoutly refusing to regret the deed, only its failure. Unworthy, perhaps. But wrong? She was not convinced.

  Still, that was one question answered. It explained the reactions of so many of those she had seen attempting to handle the sword. Until that moment when she wielded the blade against the Takhran, she had not understood their pain. And now she knew why.

  Quillan sighed and refilled his tankard from a jug. He offered it to Birdie, but she declined. “It is said that few can withstand the Songkeeper wielding the force of the Song with the sword in hand, and if Tal Ethel itself were to be released at the same time . . . Well, the Takhran would surely have cause to fear. But if the sword is indeed lost . . .” He lifted the tankard as if toasting an invisible companion. “I suppose Emhran alone knows the path before us.”

  “That’s just it. I don’t know the path before me. I am the Songkeeper. But I don’t know what that means. Not really. Am I meant to destroy the Takhran? To release Tal Ethel? The sword is lost. Am I meant to march into Cadel-Gidhar with Gundhrold and make a last stand with the Adulnae against the Khelari there? What can I do against the Takhran’s armies?”