“Tell me about Tal Ethel.”
And so he did. From Tal Ethel, she led him to talk about the Hollow Cave and then Drengreth itself. He claimed ignorance beyond confirming that they were hallowed places and that there were five hallowed places in Leira. Even the locations of the other two, he insisted, were beyond his knowledge. She let the matter drop. Then slowly, painfully, she broached the subject of the Pit, the slain Songkeepers and Songlings, and the twelve who were not truly dead.
“They are my kind. That I recall.” So the Takhran had said on that night of horrors when she had expected to join their ranks. “Songlings and Songkeepers bled out, and the power drawn from their blood.”
Eirnin nodded slowly. “It is true. Though many among them do not know of their gifting. Few have seen it manifested. But the truth is in the blood, love. Always, the truth is in the blood. The hounds are gifted to sniff them out so they may be taken to the Pit.”
“Where they are slaughtered.”
He offered no defense. He expressed no shame. He did not flinch from her gaze or the pitilessness of his words. “The cost of power is high.”
“High enough to bear the blood of another around your neck?”
“Around your neck or upon your hands, it makes no difference. Living is a sort of power, is it not? When you wield a weapon in battle, you exchange your opponent’s life for your own. You live. He dies.”
His words left the vivid image of the bloodstained axe in Birdie’s mind. How she had longed to unleash it upon her enemies, to cut them down and leave them in the dust. And yet the Song had urged her to give it up, to walk in harmony with the melody instead of relying upon lifeless metal and wood. “Slaughtering innocents is not the same. The cost for power is high indeed when innocents must pay it.”
Eirnin gave a careless shrug. “Such is the way of the world. We either rise upon the backs of the weak, or we fall beneath the boots of the strong.”
Perhaps there was an ounce of truth in his words. The strong seemed to flourish because they did not care who they trampled in their quest to rise. And yet . . . Gundhrold had not been weak. The griffin had slain a chimera and fought off two more, all to save her. As much as she mourned his loss, he had paid the cost.
“I have not always found it to be so.”
Her words fell limp into the silence. He did not respond. She debated returning to the fireside and attempting to catch a few hours of sleep before the sun arose and the bustle of camp life vanquished all hope of rest. Then somehow, out of nowhere, the conversation resumed. They talked long and slow about things of great import and things that meant nothing at all. By the time Birdie emerged from the well, midmorning sun blazed over Drengreth, and she had to sneak into the mountain camp from the opposite end so no one would guess where she had been. Though with Ky still absent on his mission to Al Tachaad, she doubted anyone would wonder.
A nagging sense of unease grew in Birdie’s mind throughout the day. She sought the guidance of the Song, but the melody did nothing to dispel the unsettled feeling gnawing in her chest. When night fell, she waited until one by one the others drifted to sleep in their shelters . . .
Her feet struck the bottom of the well, and she marched straight to Eirnin’s side. Fear blossomed in his eyes as she drew a borrowed knife from her belt, but she ignored it, leaning over him to slit the ropes cinching his arms to his sides. The cords fell away. She set a bundle of dried meat and apple slices in his lap before retreating to her rock.
“What is this, love?” Eirnin furrowed his brow at her. “Finally decided I’m harmless?” He pushed himself into a sitting position and slid back until he reached the cave wall. A hiss of pain escaped his lips. He pressed a trembling hand against his right leg and spoke through gritted teeth. “Eventually, you know you’re going to have to decide what to do with me. Or do you plan on keeping me down here forever?”
She sat in silence. The hum of the well radiated through her entire being, enfolding her in its pervasive sense of grief and sorrow. It did not block Eirnin’s voice, but before the weight of the note filling the well, his voice sounded a weak and tinny thing.
“Is that why you wouldn’t sing the Song to heal me? A crippled enemy is easier to control than one with full use of his limbs?” His lungs expanded with a ragged breath, and the bitter tinge in his voice was swallowed by a shaky laugh. “Oh, but I forgot. You’re the one who gets to ask questions here.” He cast a sideways glance at her beneath the wave of his hair. “What, love, nothing at all to say?”
She dropped her hands into her lap, fumbling with her fingers. “Why have you been telling me all of this? About the sword, Tal Ethel, everything? You said it yourself: we’re enemies. This is war. Maybe you’ve been lying through your teeth this whole time, but I know enough to know that some of what you’ve said is the truth. So . . . why?”
“Is that it, eh?” Eirnin shook his head, hair falling across his face—but for an instant she thought she saw a flash of real pity in his eyes. “Oh, love, love, you just don’t get it. This isn’t war. Information makes no difference. The battle is already won. There’s nothing I can say, nothing you can learn, that will change that.”
25
“The battle is already won.”
Eirnin’s words haunted Birdie the rest of the night and well into the next day. When night fell again, and she could easily avoid the sentries, she brought food down to him, enough to last several days, but left before he could coax her into conversation again. Whatever truth there might be in his words, it was bound to be matched with lies. Until she could distinguish between the two, there was no point in allowing him to confuse her.
As she climbed the rope, his melody howled with loneliness, and she felt just the slightest tinge of satisfaction that he shared her turmoil.
Evening had just fallen on the third day since she’d last entered the well when a familiar melody drew her ear. It was almost lost in the accompanying mass of melodies, but she could not mistake it. She hurriedly tied off the bandage on the leg of a Nordlander woman who had sliced herself chopping kindling and shot to her feet.
A minute later, the sentries took up the cry. “They’re back!”
And then Ky and his raiders marched through the gap in the broken wall, travel-worn and bloodstained and walking with the loose-limbed swagger of the victorious. Behind them clustered the freed slaves of Al Tachaad. They crowded into the open space at the center of the camp, wide eyed and gape mouthed, and a shudder seized Birdie’s heart at the blend of so many desolate melodies in that desolate place.
At Ky’s orders everyone sprang into action: tending to the newcomers’ needs, preparing food, shuffling belongings around to create extra space in the shelters. Birdie found a long line of sick and injured to tend through both Quillan’s satchel and the Song. But she could not shake the Shantren’s words from her mind.
As much as she sought to do now, could it ever be enough?
“There was no sign of him, Birdie.”
Busy repacking Quillan’s depleted satchel as the last injured slave limped way, Birdie stalled at Ky’s voice behind her. The bustle in the camp had died down for the evening meal. Those who had made Drengreth their home welcomed the newcomers with open arms. They sat clustered around the central fire pit, passing bark bowls and wooden platters back and forth, sharing mugs of mead, talking, and then . . . laughing. The wonder of it was a sight to behold. And yet she knelt upon the outskirts, removed from the fellowship and warmth, finishing her work.
Ky scuffed his feet in the grass. “From the slaves I got word of about half a dozen more slave camps scattered across the north of Leira. And those are the established camps. There are dozens of others attached to the Takhran’s forces. The things they do there . . .” His voice hardened. “I want to tear every last one of the camps to the ground.”
She twisted around to meet his gaze. Shadows circled his eyes. Made them look dark, almost hollow, beneath the strands of hair sweeping his forehead. Paired wi
th the Khelari breastplate and mail, it gave him an air that was both fierce and desperate.
She nodded. “Then do it.”
“I have to find him, Birdie. Before it’s too late. But there’s no telling where he is . . . or if he’s even still alive.” He yanked on the straps holding the breastplate in place and let it fall to the ground with a muffled clank, followed a moment later by the mail. “I know that they all matter, that each slave we rescue is important. But every minute I waste is another minute they could be torturing him.”
Birdie glanced past him, down the hill toward the grove of trees that concealed the well. Then she rose and settled the satchel strap upon her shoulder. “Come with me. I’ve something to show you.”
•••
The instant Ky laid eyes upon the man at the bottom of the well, he sent a sling-bullet winging for his head. Birdie seized his elbow, spoiling his aim. The shot cracked against the wall an inch from the man’s ear. He yanked free and whirled upon her. “What were you thinking? You brought one of them into our camp?”
“Yes.” She lifted her chin. “I did.”
He tightened his grip on the sling. “What if he escaped and led his cursed friends back here? Or started murdering people in their sleep?”
“Come now, love, what sort of a question is that?” The man’s smooth voice sent a sick feeling churning through Ky’s gut. “I’m a cripple, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Sure enough, both legs were bound in splints, and the man hadn’t moved since they’d arrived. Still sat with his back to the wall, a torch propped on a rock within reach emitting just enough light to make his head a fair target. Ky dug through his pouch to reload his sling.
Again, Birdie stopped him. “Ky, wait.”
“Why did you bring him here, Birdie? He’s wearing one of those red crystals.” He nodded toward the chain about the man’s neck. “The beastkeeper had one of those. The one that called out the chimera to attack Gundhrold. What if he summoned his friends somehow?”
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“How would you know?”
“How would you?” Toe to toe with him, she flung the words in his face. Then pulled back a little. Not enough to be a retreat. More a repositioning. Like a fighter seeking better footing for an opening. “He knows things, Ky. He might have the answers you want.”
And . . . she had found it. “And you would trust what he says?”
“Not all of it. But it’s a start.”
Ky worked his jaw around, studying her uplifted face. Somehow, her eyes still held the hope that had evaded him since discovering the graves at Al Tachaad. The thought of Paddy left to rot in such a place, all because he had failed to find him . . . It flayed the strength from his limbs. Left him fearful. Afraid to make a choice—any choice—because the wrong one might mean he was too late.
“Just ask him, Ky. What can it hurt?”
Fine.
Jaw hardened, Ky swung back to face the man. Grudgingly, he had to admit the fellow had some brains. Brains enough to keep silent while they talked, as if he knew how much Ky’s fingers itched to release a sling-bullet at his skull. “Look, I just want to find my friend. Think he was taken to one of the slave camps. We know it wasn’t Al Tachaad, because we just destroyed it.” Anger flared in his throat. “Found the graves too, in case you were wondering. Bet you think this place is cramped—”
Again, Birdie’s hand found his arm, squelching the tide of words.
“Afraid I can’t help you with that.”
The man spoke in a quiet voice, and yet somehow it echoed in Ky’s ears with the force of a ryree blast. His fingers tightened until the sling straps dug into his palm. “Because you won’t?”
“Because I can’t.” With a grunt of pain, the man pulled himself forward and dug a charred stick out of a pile of pieces beside the rock where he kept his torch. With sharp strokes, he sketched a rough outline on the ground. Despite himself, Ky knelt for a closer look, keeping a wary eye on the man at the same time. Squinting brought out the coarse shape of Leira in the charcoaled lines. “I can’t help you, and this is why.” Breathing heavily, the man marked a spattering of Xs all over the map. “There are dozens of camps. Your friend could be at any one of them. Al Tachaad, Syd Drisil, Muldhwait, Ced Roym, Dacheren, Achtoem—”
“Wait.” Ky couldn’t seem to get his lungs working right. His head felt light. The cave seemed to shrink around him. He sat back hard and struck the wall. It seemed years since he had battled the Khelari soldier Hendryk on the beach outside Bryllhyn, demanding to know what had become of his “brother” Dizzier. That was when he first learned of the slave camps, when he first heard the name Dacheren.
“Tell me about Dacheren.” His voice sounded thick. “Where is it?”
The man tapped the charred stick beside an X that looked to be sliding off the east coast into what would be the sea—though maybe that was just the crudeness of the drawing. “They say it’s the worst of the worst, you know. Nearest to Serrin Vroi. Where the useless are sent to have the last ounce of life worked out of them until they die—the old, the young, the sick, the weak. You had better pray that’s not where your friend was taken, because if it was, it’s almost surely too late.” His voice had risen to a fevered pitch. A shiver racked his form, and yet sweat glistened on his brow. “You have seen the diggings, then, too?”
Ky nodded.
“The location is strategic. It’s a part of his plan. Everything is a part of his plan. You are too late to the game, loves. The pieces are already in place, and you do not even understand the board.” The man snapped the charred wood between his fingers with a muffled curse. “Delian’s fist! You do not even know it exists. The Takhran has been planning this for longer than you have been alive. You have nothing.” With a frenzied sweep of his palm, he erased the map and then dragged himself back to his bedroll.
Sprawled back with his eyes closed, the man was clearly fevered and in pain, and all Ky could think about was that one slave that he had seen working away at his forge through the battle. Working because he was more afraid of being locked in the graves than of death itself. He took a step forward, grip on his sling tightening, but Birdie’s hand settled on his shoulder. Her touch was a splash of cool water to the face. It yanked him, spluttering, back to the moment. She drew him away.
They were halfway up the rope when the man’s voice echoed hollowly up the well shaft. “Look at you: a Songkeeper and her Protector. Lost children. You do not even have the sword. It is hopeless.”
Up top, Ky halted in the grove of trees to belt his sling around his waist. The part of him that still churned with anger wished he had sent a sling-bullet whizzing into the man’s skull. Birdie started past him, headed up the hill toward the main part of the camp. But he wasn’t ready to join the others in celebration yet.
“Do you believe him?”
She halted. Her response came slowly, weighted by the pause. “I don’t know.”
Neither did he. But true or not, what choice did he have but to act upon Eirnin’s information? Delay meant more suffering for the slaves . . . for Paddy. He took a step forward. “Will you help, Birdie?”
She turned to face him. Moonlight shot through gaps in the canopy, casting patches of light and shadow upon the ground. She stood in the light, hair flung back from her face, a shadow trapped in a moonbeam.
He cleared his throat. “Help find Dacheren and free the slaves there?”
“I will. But Eirnin is right about one thing, Ky.” A quaver of uncertainty crept into her voice. “I need the sword. I have to get it back from the Pit.”
A ryree explosion could have blasted through the earth beneath his feet, and Ky would not have been more surprised. He gaped at her. Realized his mouth was open and forced it shut again. “Are you mad?” She met his gaze steadily, and that unnerved him as much as anything else. He had seen Hawkness. Even free of the Pit, the man couldn’t escape it. Wasn’t she afraid? “You want to sneak into Serrin Vro
i again, after what happened last time? That’s insane.”
“Ky. Still arguing, I see.” A dry chuckle broke out behind him. Sent a chill skating across his skin. “Guess some things don’t change.”
That voice.
His limbs felt like lead. He was slow to turn around because he didn’t have to look to know, and yet he couldn’t believe it without seeing it.
“Cade?”
•••
“Pleased to see me?” Cade grinned, spreading his arms wide, and Ky could only nod dumbly and cast about hopelessly for words. The former Underground leader stood in a patch of moonlight beside the well, fully armored and armed to the teeth. A breastplate and pauldrons of burnished bronze guarded his chest and shoulders, and a fine mail skirt extended halfway to his knees. Dwarf-made armor it looked—similar to that worn by the Adulnae they had met at Siranos. Well crafted and beautiful in the way that truly fine armor can be, and yet battered with the nicks and dents of battle and coated with the dust of travel.
Where had he come from?
“Relax.” Cade’s voice recalled his scattered thoughts. “I’m not here to take over.” He fiddled with his sword hilt with a bandaged hand. A bit of the old cockiness tweaked his grin. “Have to say, though, I’m a bit disappointed. Expected better from you, Ky. What kind of security do you have on this place? Your sentries didn’t even see me.”
Ky’s chest tightened with a stab of the nervousness that Cade’s disapproval had always awakened in him. It was stupid—he knew that. But suddenly he was nothing more than a runner trying to explain away another muffed run while Dizzier shouted over him, complaining about his useless attitude and lazy ways.
“Ky just returned from destroying the slave camp Al Tachaad.” Birdie stepped up beside him and filled the silence. He had never been more grateful. “Things are a little hectic still. All the new folk are getting settled in.”
“Hectic is bad for security. Could have been a Khelari wandering into camp and—”
Song of Leira Page 29