Gull eyed their collars and weighed the chisel and hammer in his hands. Ky broke off from his search. Surely he wouldn’t . . .
The boy took a step forward.
“Wait.” Ky shot him a glare that stopped him in his tracks and jogged toward the nearest smithy. He scanned the tool racks for something useful. There—a rasp. Given Gull’s dexterity with tools, a rasp was a much safer option for removing collars than the chisel and hammer.
“Did you find your friend, young cub?”
The deep voice startled Ky so much that he dropped the rasp. “Obasi.” He forced a shaky laugh as he retrieved the tool. The tall Saari stood stoop-shouldered beside the hissing forge. He must have entered silently. Or maybe Ky had missed him when he ran in.
Obasi ran a hand across a mark etched in the chimney. “Your friend . . . Did you find him?”
“No.”
“Pity.”
Ky seized the remaining three rasps from the rack. “Did you need something?”
Obasi nodded toward the armor pieces lying beside the forge, the barrel of arrowheads and spear tips, and the rack of swords. “Much effort and blood has gone into the making of these weapons. It would be a shame to let it go to waste.”
It would at that. Given the way the slaves had reacted so far, he doubted many would choose to join the raiders, but with time to heal in the safety of Drengreth, some might jump at the opportunity to fight back against their oppressors. Either way, more weapons and armor would always come in handy. Bundling the rasps under one arm, Ky bent to inspect the weapons. He caught a closer glimpse of the mark in the stone before Obasi’s hand shielded it.
Even concealed beneath a layer of soot, it was unmistakably the snarling face of a lion.
Ky hefted a sword, getting a feel for the balance. “All these weapons lying about, it makes you wonder . . .” He spared another glance at Obasi. The Saari’s sullen silence coupled with the strange behavior of the slaves prompted him to go on. “There were, what, twenty-five Khelari here and a dozen hounds? There’s twice as many slaves, at least. With access to so many tools, why wasn’t there ever an uprising?”
The Saari’s expression darkened.
“And why would a slave remain working at his forge in the midst of a battle?” Ky slid the sword back into the rack. It scraped against the other blades with a shiiinng that sent a shiver down his back. “What happened here, Obasi?”
For a moment the Saari glowered at him, and then he jerked his chin and stooped beneath the low thatching. He led the way across camp with ground-eating strides, setting a pace so swift that Ky almost had to jog to keep up. They halted beyond the last of the slave pens, within an arm’s throw of the mountain and the twin gaping holes that excavation had torn through the cliff face.
The broken ground between was riddled with iron grates set into the ground over pits. Man-sized pits. Nearly twenty of them. Drawn almost against his will, Ky inched over to the nearest one and peered inside. It looked just large enough for a man to be lowered down, standing, and have the grate locked over his head. He doubted a tall man like Obasi would have been able to stand up straight.
“These are the graves.”
Bile rose in Ky’s throat.
“New arrivals spent the first five days in those holes. It’d take the fight right out of them. After that, one misstep, one mistake, one false move or bad look, and it was back in there, and anyone who was around you got thrown in too. Never knew for how long. Just had to bide your time, counting the minutes, pain claiming your body, hoping they wouldn’t forget your release.”
The reek of the pits coiled around Ky. He could only imagine what foul things had soaked into the ground. But beneath the foulness lurked the cloying stench of decay. He looked at Obasi.
“Sometimes they forgot.”
Every time Ky thought that he had seen the furthest extent of the Takhran’s evil and the depraved lengths to which his servants would go, something else turned up to show him that he had only scratched the surface. He stumbled away from the prison pits, horror kindling a rage that pulsed through his veins.
Obasi’s voice was quiet. “Now you see why it cannot be about your friend. It must be about them, about the Khelari. They are evil. They must pay.”
“Oi!” Gull came up at a run and skidded to a stop at his side. “Been looking for you, Ky. Both cages are open, collars are loosed. They’re all free. Quietest, dullest lot you’ve ever seen.” He blew a stray hair out of his eyes. “Now what?”
“Arm the slaves, gather whatever we can carry, and let’s get out of here.”
“And what of the rest?” Obasi tugged a pouch from his belt. Ryree powder. “Such a place should not be left standing.”
Ky set his jaw. “Burn it down.”
24
“So, love, have you decided, then?”
A startled breath escaped Birdie’s lips. Her hand clenched involuntarily around the rag, spilling water across the open wounds in the Shantren’s chest. For the first time since she had brought him to Drengreth, he was awake as she tended him. His eyes were fixed upon her, intently searching her face. She doused the bloodied rag in her water bowl, resiting the urge to check the rope binding his hands and yet painfully aware that they were alone.
At the bottom of the well.
It had been the safest place that she could think of to stash him on short notice. Beyond the reach of any in the camp who harbored a grudge—and there were many—and buried deep enough that he shouldn’t be a danger to anyone in the camp if he should manage to break loose. Sneaking him past the sentries and then lowering him down in the dead of night had been the difficult part. She would not have been able to manage without Frey, even if he did nag her incessantly to tell Ky or Amos about her “guest.” Ky’s mission to Al Tachaad gave her a fair excuse, and Amos was troubled enough as it was.
Minimal light filtered from the opening far above, but a torch sputtered at her side, propped against a rock so the glow fell upon the Shantren’s wounds. Quillan’s satchel lay open beside her knee, offering a wealth of herbs, salves, and bandages with instructions written upon them in a neat, tidy script. She wrung out the rag. Droplets splashed from the bowl and soaked instantly into the thirsty ground.
That was the sense she always got in this place.
That it was thirsty.
“Come, love, it’s simple. Have you decided whether or not you’re going to kill me?”
“Don’t call me that.” The answer was involuntary. Like a shudder. It slipped out before she could consider the words, but she regretted it as soon as they left her mouth. It sounded such a childish thing to say. Hardly the way to gain respect.
“Call you what?”
She rolled her head to look him steadily in the eye. A mischievous grin quirked the corner of his mouth, then morphed into a full smile. He had that sort of wide, careless smile that crinkles the whole face and turns the eyes into crescents. But despite the smile, beneath the raucous surface of his melody, she identified a quiver of fear. Flat on his back on the bedroll he lay, splints fastened to both legs. Hands bound to a rope that passed around his waist.
Healing a Shantren was one thing. Throwing caution to the winds was another.
She set aside the rag and dug a pot of salve out of the satchel. Dipping a finger into the amber ointment, she smoothed it into the healing gashes crisscrossing his chest and torso. “If I wanted to kill you, would I waste time and effort trying to save you?”
“Mayhap.”
He fell silent as she moved on to the bandages circling his legs, leaving the splints in place and dealing only with the surface wounds. The right leg especially was a mass of lacerated flesh, exposing bone in some places, and deep, mottled bruising. The rag came away stained yellow with pus. She rinsed it out and pressed it against the ravaged flesh again to catch the seeping infection.
A shiver seized him. He spoke through gritted teeth. “You are the Songkeeper.” When she did not answer, he whistled softly to
himself. “You’re not what I expected, love. Not what any of us expected, I’ll wager you that. What do you want from me?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why go to the bother of healing me? A blow to the head would have sufficed. Settled the matter, at least. Better yet, you could have left me to die, like my comrades did. Like they left the old Songling.”
“Quillan was a good man,” she said angrily. “He never harmed anyone.”
“All the more reason for you to kill me.” And yet the Shantren did not sound afraid of the prospect. He shifted on his bedroll, easing his shoulders and back into a more comfortable position. “You must want something here, love. Some sort of a bargain? It’s not revenge—not unless you plan to torture me after you heal me. It must be information.” Something in her expression must have sharpened, because he pushed up onto one elbow, wincing at the pain. “Ah, so I’ve struck on it, eh, love? You want answers to all those pesky questions, bound up in a tidy bow. Admit it.”
Birdie opened her mouth to tell him that he was wrong, that she had saved him for no other reason than because the Song had led her to do what was right. But if he could answer her questions . . . A strand of hair fell across her face, and she slid it behind her ear. “If I do want answers, what then?”
The charming smile blossomed across his face again. “I can give you what you want.”
“In exchange for what?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re the one who insisted this had to be some sort of bargain.”
“Come now, love, didn’t I just go to all the bother of proving that I was right?”
Birdie tied off the last bandage. “I said I wanted answers.” She bundled the wet rags and used bandages in her satchel and slung it over her shoulder as she stood. “I didn’t say that was why I was helping you.”
Her hand was already on the rope when he spoke again. “I want to walk.” Raw fear flooded his voice. He had pushed himself up on one elbow, jaw clenched and arm trembling with the effort. “Come, love, do you think I don’t know the bones are shattered?” He gasped in a breath, and his voice broke. “The right leg—it’s not healing the way it should.”
She shrugged, helpless. “I splinted them as best I could.”
“I want to walk. You have the gift of healing.” His melody howled with desperation. It shone in his eyes, poured out in his voice. “Sing, love, and I swear that I’ll give you all the answers you want.”
She did pity him. Emhran help her, despite everything, she did. Even lifted a silent plea to the Master Singer, begging the Song to rise in healing within her.
But the Song remained silent.
“The Song isn’t a bargaining tool.” She gripped the rope in both hands. “It belongs to the Master Singer. It is not mine to command.”
•••
White-blue lightning flashed across a dark expanse. Thunder crackled in the distance, leaving the whine of a high-pitched melody ringing in her ears. It fled as the heavy, ponderous note that she had heard before the gate of Cadel-Gidhar shook the walls of her mind. A second melody, viscous and dark, boiled around her, bringing in its wake the crash and roar of angry waves. Dashing over her. Slamming her to the ground. Driving the air from her lungs. And then receding, leaving her gasping with a distant voice whispering fear and death into her thoughts.
The thunder crackled again, only it was no longer thunder. It had melted into the ringing, mocking laugh of the Takhran . . .
She bolted upright, gasping. Sweat prickled her skin. The air hung heavy over the hillside. Pale dawn tinged the eastern sky, and the fire beside her had dwindled to embers. Most of the others—those who had not gone with Ky on his mission to Al Tachaad—slept beneath the shelters. But Amos lay on the other side of the fire, shivering even though he huddled beneath a heavy cloak.
Fear clung thick and cloying to her. She could not rest. It drove her to her feet, clutching Quillan’s satchel as she padded silently through the village of shelters, down the far side of the hill, and into the grove of trees. The gaping mouth of the well swallowed her. At the bottom, she felt around for her tinderbox. A couple of sparks and the torch flared to life.
“Have you come to heal me, love?”
The Shantren’s voice set her heart skittering in her chest with a speed that rivaled that of Khittri the petra. “To . . . tend your wounds . . . That’s all I can do.” She willed her hands to be steady while she removed his bandages and applied the salve. “I told you. The Song is not mine to command.”
“So you said.” He stared at her, unblinking, as if trying to gauge the truth of her words, and then settled back with a sigh. “You should have taken the talav. With the talav, you would have been in control.”
“You mean I would have been controlled.”
“Semantics, love. It all depends on your point of view.”
Finished with her bandaging, Birdie packed away Quillan’s satchel. A large rock, painted in vivid streaks of orange, red, and purple, sat a few feet away from the wounded man’s bedroll. She sat upon it with her arms wrapped around her knees. The Shantren rolled his head to look at her, dark hair spilling over his face. High cheekbones caught the light of the torch, and his eyes glistened in the flickering glow.
“The name’s Eirnin, by the way.”
“Birdie.”
“Yes, the Songkeeper.”
The way he said the word irked her, as if being a Songkeeper were somehow less than being a Shantren. And yet Quillan had claimed the Shantren were unwitting slaves. “Don’t you want to be free?”
“No one is forced to wear the talav, love. We all choose it, for one reason or another.”
“Why did you choose it?”
“Why do you think?” His eyes twinkled.
Birdie unfolded her limbs and stood. The fear had finally dissipated, leaving an icy sort of emptiness in her chest. She would not remain to be mocked or to exchange empty banter and be forced to beg for answers.
“Come now, don’t run away, love.”
She kept walking.
“Look, I only promised answers if you could heal me. Bargains work both ways.” A tinge of desperation crept into his voice. “Besides, even supposing I did want to be free, there’s nothing at all you could do without the Songkeeper’s sword.”
Her spine tingled as she turned around. “What do you mean?”
“The talav can only be removed with the sword.” Eirnin’s forehead creased. “Surely you know this?”
A lie hovered on the tip of her tongue. As Songkeeper, she should have known. It would be easy to claim that she did. But he was talking of his own accord, and she would never learn what she wished to know unless she swallowed her pride and admitted ignorance. Even though he was a Shantren, and his words were doubtless not to be trusted, the more information she had, the better she could understand what she was to do.
Poised to flee, she sat back down on the edge of the rock. “Tell me what you know about the sword.”
“Oh, but love, that would be a tale.” At her glare, his smile slipped, and with a roll of his eyes, his voice fell into the rise and fall typical of tale-tellers. “What does anyone know about the sword that is not shrouded in mist and legend? I know that it was crafted from the finest steel, tempered beneath the light of the Morning Star, and plunged red hot into the icy flow that poured from Tal Ethel until the Song itself coursed through the blade.” His smile widened. “I know it was handed down through the ages until it came at last to a Songkeeper named Artair. I know that the blade is . . . temperamental. It rejects the touch of an impure hand.”
The words snagged her attention. Zahar had said something similar in the Pit. She had used the blade to break her talav, but it had caused her great pain. Ever before the Pit, the sword had yielded to Birdie’s touch. But when she plunged it into the Takhran’s chest, a blast of cold had shot up her arm and into her chest, breaking her grip upon the hilt.
Had the blade rejected her as the Songkeeper?
/> Or merely her actions?
Eirnin continued. “I know that once the Songkeeper wields the blade, a connection is born between the two. The one senses the location of the other, the melodies within them crying out from one to another. Some Songkeepers can even hear snatches of the sword’s surroundings from countless miles away.”
Everything within her shivered at his words, so eerily reminiscent of the voices and sounds that had invaded her dreams lately. The glimpse of blue-white light, so like the liquid fire that coursed through the blade when the Song infused it. The thin, wailing melody that always seemed to seize control of her thoughts and transport her back to the Takhran, back to the Pit where she had forsaken the blade in her haste to escape.
This was the result of the sword’s song?
“And . . .” The way he drew the word out grated against her already raw nerves. Her skin crawled. It seemed the whole world hung upon what he would say next. “I know that without the sword, you will never unleash Tal Ethel.”
•••
Tal Ethel.
Somehow, it always came back to that. Birdie pondered the notion as she climbed out of the well and went about her daily tasks, melting into the pattern of unified work that dictated life in Drengreth. Tal Ethel, the hallowed spring that had once fed the river of Song that flowed throughout all of Leira. Now a place of horrors. The Pit. Tainted by the Takhran, bloodied, cursed, and forever marred by the lives he had ended there. She could not think of it without remembering Zahar and her brother Rav, the Takhran’s raven steed, Inali’s betrayal, and the twelve chained captives who were neither living nor dead.
The sword’s song invaded her dreams again that next night, snapping her from slumber to wakefulness. Once again she made the midnight trip into the well. Eirnin was already awake. He seemed to have been awaiting her. She eased his ropes so he could eat the oatcakes she had pilfered from the camp storage, and then she pulled back to sit on the rock until he had finished and lifted his eyes to hers.
Song of Leira Page 28