Song of Leira

by Gillian Bronte Adams

  She just nodded. “Are you all right?”

  His shoulders twitched in a half-hearted shrug, and silence fell between them again—such a long pause that Birdie shifted uncomfortably and cast an anxious glance back toward the camp. She was intruding. She should go back and join the others in the work that Gundhrold had given them to prepare for the raid. Eleven of the runners had stepped forward and claimed the hawk feathers Ky had scattered on the ground. The rest were either too young and had to be turned aside by Gull or were members of Slack’s crew.

  “It’s just . . . I don’t know why Cade left the Underground to me.” Ky fingered his swollen, bloody knuckles. “What do I know about leading?” With a harsh laugh, he brought his head up, chin jutting as if daring her to defend him. Then he blinked, and it seemed the anger drained away, and there was something so wholly lost and helpless in his gaze that Birdie wanted to do nothing more than gently pat the top of his head like she had seen Madame do to her sons back at the Sylvan Swan and whisper that everything would be okay.

  But she hesitated, and he turned away, voice and jaw hardening as he visibly steeled himself, locking out the pain and confusion and slipping back into his usual self as one dons an old set of clothes. “You should look in on Slack. Make sure she’s all right.”

  “What about you?” She reached for his hands. The Song had not urged her to heal him, but perhaps it would come as she worked. At the least, she could wash off the blood and bind up his wounds. “Let me see to them for you.”

  He jerked away. “No.”

  She drew back, a twinge of hurt in her chest. Did he not trust her anymore? Did he think her a witch, like the others?

  “Don’t worry about me, Birdie.” Weariness flooded his voice. “I’ll be fine. You will help Slack, though?” At that, a glimmer of hope came into his eyes, and she couldn’t just dash it without a second thought. No matter what Slack thought of her and her gift.

  “I’ll try.”

  “Good. That’s good.” He slumped back over his knees and let his head droop, clearly done with the conversation. Every line of his body pointed to an exhaustion that went deeper than mere lack of sleep and overexertion. It was a feeling Birdie knew well.

  She rose and turned back toward the camp. Almost unconsciously, she hummed a few notes of the Song in passing and felt Ky’s melody stir in answer, awakened by the Master Song, only to abruptly withdraw. Retracted and stifled, as if beneath a cloak.

  Clearly her comfort was not wanted.

  Back in the ordered chaos of the camp—a maze of runners loping this way and that, dispatched on errands by Gundhrold—it took her some time to find Slack. She fetched a clean bowl of water and bandages and then trailed Slack’s melody to her location. The older girl sat by herself, huddled at the back of the cave, visible in the dim light that filtered through the entrance. Knees drawn up to her chest, back pressed against the stone, hatchet clutched in her hands as she gazed firmly ahead. Dor and the rest of her crew were gone. Sent away or called away by Gundhrold, no doubt.

  To all outward appearances, Slack looked fierce and spoiling for a fight, despite the blood and bruises mottling her skin. She was the image of defiance. But Birdie caught the aching hitch in Slack’s breathing, the dampness of tears clogging her throat. And the girl’s melody itself dimmed beneath the weight of a soaring note of frustration and pain, for once overwhelming the walls of pride and strength that she had erected.

  Slack’s eyes glossed over her as she approached, and Birdie didn’t speak, because to speak would force Slack to acknowledge her presence and would give her the chance to refuse. Better to be ignored yet able to help.

  She knelt beside Slack, setting the bowl and bandages between them, and gently reached for the girl’s hand. Slack stiffened but didn’t pull away as she dabbed at the wounds there before moving onto her face. A thin tendril of the Song thrummed through her, guiding her hands and easing the flurry of anxiety in her own heart. Before she knew it she sang quietly as she worked—scarce more than a breath of music, but even so, Slack tensed at the sound.

  But the melody was already at work. Birdie could sense it pulsing through Slack’s veins, sealing wounds, binding cuts with new skin, mending the little bones that had been chipped or broken, and healing the countless aches and pains within. Slack gave a little gasp, and Birdie knew that she had felt it too. But oddly enough, Slack didn’t shove her away. Instead, she seemed to relax into the melody, the tension leaching from her muscles with each successive note.

  Finished at last, Birdie sat back and wrung out her rag, leaving Slack to run her fingers across her hands and arms and face. Slack’s dark eyes lifted toward her. “What was that?” Her voice was dull, not edged as usual, so Birdie could not tell if she was pleased or angry or simply hurting.

  “That was the Song, the melody of the Master Singer.” Birdie hesitated and then took a wild leap into courage. “You have a melody too. I can sing it for you, if you like?”

  A shrug.

  It would have to do. Birdie reached for the girl’s melody and let it seep into her. Softly—so softly her voice couldn’t possibly carry out of the cave—she began to sing the five broken, grasping, pain-ridden notes. Slack gasped at the sound and started back, staring wide-eyed at Birdie. And in the depths of her eyes Birdie caught a flicker of images: young Slack, littlest in a family of brothers; creeping up on a snared dune rabbit, her first kill; hunkered down with her hands pressed to her ears to escape the shouting, shouting, never-ending shouting; the clink of coins; hands lifted in anger . . . and hands that lingered too long.

  Birdie blinked the images away, sickened at the depth of Slack’s hurt. But the girl didn’t flee, and she didn’t attack, so Birdie kept on singing. Through the five notes twice, and then taking those same five notes and piecing them into the greater melody. Brokenness restored. Rooted. Established. Made whole. Free from pain.

  Breathless at last, she fell silent.

  The older girl’s face had turned immobile as stone, but a tear shimmered along one eyelid. “I never was good enough for my da. Never good enough for any of them. Reckon it was a right smart trade for them—rid the crew of a worthless girl and pay off their debt all at once.” She barked a short, humorless laugh that trailed off into silence.

  “I . . . I am sorry.”

  Slack grunted and drew herself up straight, forcing her shoulders back in a way that made Birdie sense that she was collecting herself just as Ky had, repairing the walls she had lowered. Shielding the vulnerability, hiding the weakness. Her voice hardened. “Yeah, well, there’s nothing you can do.”

  And she was right.

  Wordlessly, Birdie gathered the bowl and bandages and left, heart aching with echoed pain. Was this what it meant for a Songkeeper to seek to do good? Because for all that Slack and Ky had revealed to her, it didn’t seem like she had done anything. Perhaps she would have a chance to change that on the morrow, on this mission to rescue the slaves.

  15

  The sounds of battle filled Birdie’s ears long before they crested the rise overlooking the bowl-like valley that housed the Khelari army. She heard it first through the dark melody, striking with a force that slowed her steps and caused her to lag behind the others, who she located and identified more by their melodies than the shadowy figures they appeared to be in the moonlight. But as she jogged cautiously to catch up with Ky at the front of the line, she could see that the others had begun to hear the distant noises as well. Their steps shied when she passed, and pale faces turned to her, looking for answers and for comfort.

  Marching side by side again with Ky, she dared to look over at him. Lines pinched his brow, but his jaw remained set. A day and a half had passed since his fight with Slack. They had spent the rest of that day preparing for the mission, traveled all the next, and found a safe place to sleep the afternoon away before rising at dusk to journey on. Now it must be nearing midnight.

  “Ky—” She began in a whisper, but he cut her off.r />
  “Gundhrold is scouting ahead. He’ll take care of any sentries. We press on.”

  And they did. Onward and upward, moving stealthily and with weapons drawn as the noises of the battle grew steadily louder and more distinct. Birdie glanced over her shoulder at the runners spread out over the hillside behind them. Before leaving, Ky had seen to it that they were all issued bows and quivers stocked with arrows wrapped in strips of cloth coated with flammable sap. A few had battle horns as well, though not as many as Ky had hoped. Birdie still had her axe, but Ky had helped her create a sort of sling so she could carry it on her back. The young ones had stayed behind—Meli, Syd, and a few others, and Slack with them. She hadn’t emerged from the cave since the fight, and there had been no talk of her joining them. Better she and her followers stay back to guard the young ones than for the trouble between her and Ky to spill over into the mission. That would be a sure way to get everyone killed—or worse, captured.

  That left eleven runners to follow Ky, battle gear decked with hawk feathers and stained with chita juice. The Hawk Raiders, they called themselves, laughing and jesting quietly as they went. A flock of sheep following their shepherd, anxious but trusting still. And that thought sent a twinge of anger spiking through her as Ky marched resolutely up the mountainside toward the clamor of war. He bore their lives upon his shoulders as much as the lives of the slaves he sought to rescue.

  She hoped he remembered that.

  “Stay low.” Ky motioned her down, and she passed the message on to the next runner and heard the rustling of the words traveling from one to the next and on down the line. They made their final approach at a crouch, darting from shrub to shrub. At first all Birdie had been able to hear was a chorus of bellowing roars and a thunderous pounding that reverberated through the earth beneath her feet. But as they drew nearer the noises became more distinct, and beneath them rang out the clangor of weapons and the screams and wails of the dying.

  Ky abruptly raised a fist, and the runners came to a halt. Dropping to his belly, he wormed his way to the crest of the final rise overlooking the valley, and Birdie followed him, tilting her chin up to see over the grasses. Her heart sank at the sight.

  Campfires and torches still marked the location of the Khelari camp, but in the moonlight it seemed all but deserted, guarded by a token force more than anything else. The bulk of the soldiers formed a teeming mass along the base of the steep slope that upheld the Caran’s fortress. Massive war engines stabbed their arms toward the sky, unleashing blocks of stone or balls of fire that hurtled through the air and struck against the crumbling walls of Cadel-Gidhar with mighty cracks like bolts of lightning. Fires burned within the fortress, lighting the stonework with an eerie orange glow. And the white road that switchbacked up the mountainside from the valley to the massive gate was clogged with strange, dark shapes.

  An enraged bellow, followed by an echoing boom drew her eyes to the gate. Moonlight glanced off the stony back of an enormous beast as it reeled back, gathered itself, and then charged with lowered head at the gate. Another boom.

  “Quimram.” Ky muttered.

  Lower down the road, a burst of flame revealed the hideous, three-headed shape of a monster Birdie remembered all too well—a chimera. There must have been dozens of them, cutting across the switchbacks and leaping up the steep slope with all the agility that resided in the goat portion of their blood.

  Birdie shivered. “We should not have come here. Not tonight.” And yet the words felt a betrayal to the mission she had agreed to aid. Ky did not respond. Perhaps he had not heard. She hoped he had not.

  Heavy wings stirred the air behind, and then Gundhrold dropped between her and Ky, landing with his surprising grace. He must have circled back below the level of the ridge so he could approach them without being spotted by sentries in the valley. “The fortress is in grave danger. I flew as near to the walls as I dared without fear of drawing fire from either side and heard fighting from within the innermost sections of the keep. I fear the Takhran must have had allies within who were waiting for this final assault, now that the war machines are completed.” His gaze dipped to Birdie, and she winced as the meaning of his words sank in.

  Shantren. Hidden among the defenders in the fortress.

  Perhaps if she had been there, if she had entered Cadel-Gidhar as he wished, she could have helped the dwarves root out the traitors. And yet, if they had been gifted as Inali or George had been, if their songs were silenced or the sound altered, she would never have known.

  “What of the slaves?” Ky demanded. “Are they still in the camp?”

  The griffin hesitated and then nodded, a harsh, downward jerk of his head that clearly conveyed his reluctance to speak. “They are. Caged, as you said. Nearly thirty of them.”

  “Good, we can press on—”

  Gundhrold’s wing muffled the rest of his sentence. “No, we cannot. Think, youngling. It is not wise to go charging into the midst of a battle without a plan.”

  “I have a plan.”

  “You had a plan,” the griffin hissed, eyes rimmed with white in the light of the moon. “But matters have changed. We would not be creeping into a sleeping camp under cover of a mild distraction—”

  “You call stirring a herd of quimrams mild?” Ky snorted. “Look at that mess down there. It’s a better distraction than I could have dreamed, not to mention that there are fewer soldiers left in the camp. What more could we ask for?”

  “But . . .” Birdie surprised herself by speaking. Ky and Gundhrold too, by the way they twisted around to look at her. “But the ones who are left behind will be more alert. Won’t they?”

  Ky just shrugged and gestured matter of factly with his hands as he spoke. “Well, you know what they say: ‘There’s no man left alive who has created a plan that . . . remained . . . unchanged . . . after the first . . . enemy . . . sighting?’” He stumbled through the end but waved it aside, intent on his point. “I messed it up. Migdon said it to me once. It means—”

  “Battle plans must be fluid if one hopes to survive. Yes, I have heard it before.” The griffin nodded with just a tinge of annoyance in his voice. “But one must still have a plan.”

  “Well, Migdon also told me that ‘Chaos is the ally of the desperate man.’ I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling a mite desperate.”

  There was something wildly exhilarating about the grin that split his face. Not to mention the to-death-and-glory attitude he had adopted. Birdie found her own courage rising to meet his. “I can keep us clear of sentries or stragglers on the way down,” she said. Of course, that was supposing none of them were Shantren. One thing at a time. “But you will need to follow my lead.”

  “I’ll tell the others.” Ky slid backward down the slope.

  A faint growl came from the griffin’s throat. “I do not like this, Songkeeper.” He lowered his head to her level. “We should regroup and plan again before attempting this. You two-legs are too slow. In one night I traveled this distance twice. It has taken you twice as long to travel this distance once. Should you be discovered, the hounds will be at your heels, and I cannot bear all of you to safety.”

  “I will not leave them, Gundhrold.”

  The growl filled his voice. “I may not give you a choice, Songkeeper. It is my task.”

  And doing this is mine. And even as the thought came to her, she knew that it was true.

  “Are we ready?” Ky slithered up beside them.

  “A moment.” Birdie closed her eyes and listened. She sifted through the songs of the Underground runners and cast them aside, followed by Gundhrold’s and Ky’s. In her mind, it seemed she wandered through a forest of melodies, both light and dark, blanketing the mountainside and the valley below. With a sweep of her hand, she stirred up the melodies, selecting individual songs and releasing them and homing in on them to see where they fell. There was a sentry stationed about two hundred yards to their left, and another a little further down the slope toward the valley
almost directly in their line of travel. And beyond him, a third and a fourth about fifty yards apart at the base of the slope. It would not be easy, but the runners were canny and street smart, if not necessarily woods and wilds smart. With her to guide them, they should be able to weave their way through unseen.

  She opened her eyes. “Tell the others to follow me. We need to stay low and be silent.”

  The message moved along the line as she led the way down into the valley and started their winding course through the obstacles below, moving cautiously over the uneven ground. Her abilities would not help conceal them if one of the runners stumbled and fell. Gundhrold stalked at her side and did not take to the sky again. She kept one ear tuned to the sentries—hearkening if one seemed to be drawing closer or changing positions—while the other listened for movement from the camp or watchers in the sky. The concentration required to isolate so many specific melodies from the tremendous din of the battle and the voices of the fighters made her head throb.

  Twice she dropped to her hands and knees and motioned for the runners to do the same while she planned the next portion of their route. At last they reached the base of the slope and moved out across the valley floor, crawling to keep from being spotted by the sentries above as they skirted a shallow hollow and approached the camp.

  A hand gripped her forearm. Ky’s. “Across this hollow and to the right, that’s where the slaves were.” He spoke into her ear. “Before, the hollow was full of quimram. Do you hear anything?”

  She closed her eyes again to focus on the music without the distraction of what her eyes strained to see. In the direction Ky had pointed out, buried within the music of the encampment, she perceived a group of melodies unlike the others. Untainted by the dark melody, but so full of hopelessness and despair that the echoes of the Song were almost lost. But the hollow itself was silent. No traces of any melody belonging to man or beast.

  As she pulled back, she felt a faint nudging of the Song, directing her attention back toward the camp. She gasped. One of the dark melodies had broken off from the mass in the camp and was coming straight toward them.