Songkeeper

by Gillian Bronte Adams

  The ship tilted suddenly, sending her skidding to the right. Splinters of coarse wood stabbed into her hands. She slammed into something that yielded to her touch—tattered cloth draped over a thin, bony frame. A slave. He groaned and broke into a hacking cough.

  Grimy fingers clutched her shoulder. Birdie scrambled back, hands and feet slipping on the slimy deck. The ship settled, throwing her against the side wall.

  The storm was getting worse.

  Over the years, she had overheard plenty of sea-faring tales of hurricane winds and endless storms from the sailors and travelers who frequented the Sylvan Swan. But their stories failed to capture the true force and terror of a gale at sea. The ship was tossed about like a child’s plaything, utterly at the mercy of the wind and the waves. It had no control. Its rudders and sails were as frail as twigs and cobwebs before the storm.

  Birdie set her back to the wall beside Ky and hunkered down with her arms clasped around her knees. How could anything survive such a pounding?

  Lion stink clogged the air. Amos’s hands reeked of it, and no doubt his clothes did too. It clung to everything with the tenacity of a limpet. Foul beasts. Wouldn’t have been his first choice for transportation, but the Saari had offered, and he had gotten the distinct impression that they had accorded him some high honor. That wasn’t the sort of offer a desperate man refused. Not when he wished to make allies.

  His lion stumbled, and he clutched at the steering collar to keep from falling. “Bilgewater!”

  “Easy, there, pappy.” Ahead, Sym casually swung her legs so she was sitting turned around in the strange contraption the Saari had the audacity to call a saddle. Propping her heels on the lion’s hindquarters, she leaned back against the raised pommel. Her lion tossed his mane but otherwise didn’t seem to mind her unusual position, and somehow she managed to effortlessly keep her seat through the beast’s strange, rolling gait.

  Backwards.

  She grinned at Amos, eyes creased into a smile so tight they almost disappeared behind her high cheekbones. “Best hold on. It would not do to suffer casualties on the road to the battle. I hear that sort of thing is frowned upon in legends.”

  Amos simply growled in response, too preoccupied with staying in his saddle on his lion to manage anything more eloquent. Through the cloud of dust stirred by their passing, he surveyed the company of Saari warriors surrounding him, all mounted on lions of their own. Matlal Quahtli, it would appear, was a man of his word, and his forces mobilized with the quickness of a desert sand storm. Scarce an hour after their meeting, he had informed Amos and Gundhrold that the Saari were ready to depart.

  Now mid-way through the third day of their journey from Nar-Kog, Amos almost dared hope they would arrive in time.

  If he didn’t die first, that was.

  With a grunt, his lion lurched up the side of a rise. Amos dropped the steering collar and gripped the beast’s shaggy mane with both hands. “Fiddlesticks and roughnash! Steady on there, ye fool beast.”

  Sym chuckled and dismissed his fears with a wave of her hand, then spun around in the saddle and urged her lion ahead to stroll beside Gundhrold at the front of the line.

  Beswoggle and confound that lass.

  Amos reached for the steering collar again. He had been accustomed to riding the occasional farm-horse in his former line of work—nags really, nothing so grand as a warhorse or battle-trained steed. But even then, he occasionally had the luxury of riding in a saddle, and this devilish contraption full of straps and buckles and fringed leather flaps, mounted on the back of a massive lion, was a far cry from anything he had seen before.

  As if that weren’t enough, the bush-pated beast progressed in an awkward series of leaps and bounds. Sure it might have been graceful to watch, but it was boggswoggling uncomfortable to ride. No wonder the Saari warriors were as much a matter of legend throughout Leira as Hawkness himself. They must have hides made of steel plates.

  Amos vented his frustration in a muttered, “Boggswoggle.”

  “Been talking to Sym, haven’t you?” Inali came abreast of Amos, all lanky arms and legs and loose elbows. He bent over his lioness’s neck, peering after Sym’s retreating figure, and shook his head ruefully. “She has that effect on people.”

  Was that a trace of wistfulness Amos detected in the young warrior’s tone? He cocked an eyebrow and received all the answer he needed when Inali ducked his dark head and avoided his gaze. Amos suppressed a grin.

  To all appearances, young Inali was smitten.

  The line of Saari ahead slowed and came to a halt. Amos’s lion—thankfully—stopped on its own with its nose to the tail of the lion before him. Preoccupied with maintaining balance as he was, stopping and steering were more of an afterthought than anything else.

  “What is it?” He glanced at Inali. “Why are we stopping?”

  The young warrior simply shrugged and raised a hand to adjust the spectacles on his nose. Overwhelmingly helpful lad.

  “Right.” Amos gingerly dropped the steering collar on his lion’s neck and crawled out of the saddle. He landed flat-footed with an aching thud. “Watch the wee beastie an’ be sure he doesn’t wander off. I’ll be back.”

  Careful to maintain his distance from the other lions, Amos edged his way to the front of the line where Sym and Gundhrold were engaged in earnest conversation. Sym glanced up as he approached and nodded. Her expression was grim. Even the smile lines around her eyes had all but disappeared. “Good tidings, Hawkness. We’re almost there. The coast is but a few miles ahead.”

  “Then why the delay?”

  “Can you not sense it?” The griffin regarded him with eyes of steel, and Amos resisted the urge to retreat, opting instead to indulge in a witty response. Only to find himself tongue-tied a moment later, still searching for said witty response. “You have grown dull indeed. Can you not feel it in the air and smell it on the wind?”

  Amos took a sniff then shook his head. “Look, ye great ormahound, unless ye’re referrin’ t’ the stench o’ a hundred unwashed beasties or the foul stink o’ lion’s breath, I can’t smell a blatherin’ thing right now.”

  Gunrdhrold opened his mouth to speak, but Sym answered first. “A storm is coming.”

  “So what’s a wee rainstorm t’ us?”

  Sym pursed her lips. “Not a wee rainstorm, I am afraid. Storms that blow off and around the tip of Leira are always incredibly fierce and unpredictable, and if they happen to collide with a desert storm inland, the mountains tremble and rocks split apart. We must find shelter before it strikes.”

  Not an option. “There’s shelter on the coast, right?’

  “Some, yes.”

  “All right, then we keep goin’. We have t’ get t’ the coast before the Langorians round the tip an’ split away. ’Tis our only hope. I won’t turn back. I can’t.”

  Gundhrold nodded, and Amos thought he detected a trace of respect—begrudging, though it was—in the griffin’s yellow eyes. “And what of the storm?”

  “Not my concern.” Amos shrugged, still grasping for a witty response. “Ye’re the one who claims t’ be a follower o’ Emhran, catbird. Reckon ye should take the matter up with him.”

  “You know not of what you speak. Do not jest in ignorance, peddler.” With a haughty sniff and a flick of his tail, Gundhrold padded away, while Sym signaled commands to the rest of the Saari.

  Amos stepped aside to allow the line of warriors passage on their trek through the swirling dust toward the coast and the coming storm, to say nothing of the attack he still had to plan. When Inali reached him, he reluctantly took control of his lion’s steering collar once more and climbed back up into the saddle. The blathering beast grumbled deep in its throat and turned a baleful glare toward him.

  “Aye, stinkhead, from the sound o’ it, ye missed me just as much as I missed ye.”

  He shifted into a mo
re comfortable position, slipped his dirk from its sheath and flipped it with one hand, allowing his mind to wander to the upcoming fight. The odds were stacked against him. It was a million to one that he would never be able to reach the coast before the Langorian ship rounded the tip of Leira. Or if he did, what chance did he then have of commandeering a vessel, overtaking the pirates, sneaking aboard, and rescuing Birdie . . . all without getting her killed?

  Faced with such overwhelming impossibilities, the old Hawkness would have simply blustered his way through. But there was too much of Amos McElhenny, the traveling peddler, in him now. He knew his limitations. Better than anyone else.

  And he had rarely felt so helpless.

  All things considered, maybe petitioning Emhran for aid wasn’t such a bad idea. It was doubtful his request would garner a better response than Gundhrold’s, but it couldn’t hurt to ask, could it?

  Before he could settle his mind, they crested a bluff and Amos saw the coastline—still several miles away—stretching out below. The sea was a tumult of white flecked waves, and a mound of dark storm clouds, flickering with lightning and belching torrents of rain, loomed over the shoreline. And somewhere out there—if Amos’s rusty navigational skills were not sorely lacking—foundering in that swirling mass of wind and rain, would be the Langorian ship.

  And Birdie.

  “Oh Emhran.” The plea slipped out before Amos could stop it. “Keep my wee lass safe.”

  •••

  There was fear in Ky’s eyes.

  Even half-blinded by the torrential rain, Birdie could see it. Unmistakable, heart-wrenching fear. Hands chained before him, Ky balanced on the rail, teetering with every sickening plunge of the ship. Rain plastered his hair to his skull and ran down his bruised face in streaming rivulets.

  The ship pitched sideways and a wave crashed over the rail.

  “Ky!” Birdie lurched forward, but Rhudashka’s meaty hand dug into her shoulder, holding her back. She watched, helpless, as Ky wobbled on the brink of falling. At the last moment, the chain connected to his wrists jerked taut and Fjordair hauled him upright again. A fiendish grin knifed across the thin pirate’s face.

  “You see, little Naian?” From the looks of it, Rhudashka was shouting, but Birdie could hardly hear him over the roar of the gale. “We will save little zabid. But you must save us first. Sing and stop this storm before we all perish at the bottom of zahel.”

  Birdie blinked the water from her eyes and allowed the full weight of Rhudashka’s words to sink in. For a moment, the thunder of the storm stilled and the roar softened to a low growl.

  Sing to stop the storm?

  She couldn’t do that . . . could she?

  A gust struck the ship. Something snapped high above. Shards of wood, snapped lines, and bits of tackle showered the deck. Pirates scattered before the falling debris. Fjordair dodged a chunk of wood. His sudden movement jerked the chain, bringing Ky crashing to his back on the deck. He lay there, groaning.

  “You see?” Rhusdashka gripped her shoulders and wrenched her around to face him. “We are all in danger. We will all die . . . unless you act.”

  Fear flecked the pirate lord’s eyes and creased his brow with rigid lines. His hands . . . they trembled. She turned and took in the white-cheeked terror painted across the faces of the pirates clinging to the life-lines crisscrossing the deck, the massive waves billowing on all sides, and the heaviness of the ship as it wallowed between one trough and the next, and slowly it dawned on her.

  This was no longer a game of pawns. Rhudashka wasn’t just trying to manipulate her. He was really and truly desperate.

  For once in their “bargaining,” she had the upper hand.

  She shook her head, flinging her streaming hair back from her face. “Why should I care what happens to you or your ship? I’m your captive. Isn’t death at sea better than a slow death in slavery?”

  “But we are not alone on this ship, are we, little Naian?” He loomed over her, so near she could see the rainwater spraying from his lips as he spoke. “What of your fellow captives perishing in the hold? Little zabid over there? Would you let them die when you have the power to save them?”

  Birdie shook her head, suddenly dizzy at the implications of his words. No . . . of course not. But she couldn’t do what he claimed. The Song had healed the injured Underground runners, caused the River Adayn to rise, and broken the bonds of the Waveryder captives. But this . . . this supposed ability to command the sea and its gales . . . surely this was too much.

  A roar filled her ears, though whether it was the clamor of her own thoughts or the thunder of the storm, she could not tell. She clutched her aching head in her chained hands. Behind her, someone shouted something in Langorian. She couldn’t understand the words, but it sounded like a warning. A wave slammed into her, knocking her off her feet, and swept over her head. She gasped for air and choked on saltwater. Splinters tore into her fingers as she scrabbled for a handhold on the slick deck, but the sea seized her limbs with all its vast, irresistible strength and dragged her toward the rail.

  Above and behind, she could hear bellowing and splashing, but the sounds were muffled by the rush of water in her ears.

  Something seized her by the hair, and pain shot through her scalp. But the wave receded without her, leaving her breathless and choking, lying with her back pressed to the firm planks of the deck. Rhudashka towered over her, water dripping from his tangled beard and hair, sodden coat clinging to his bulbous frame.

  “Would you sacrifice all to destroy me, little Naian?” He spat onto the deck beside her face, and little droplets of spittle struck her cheek. “Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps suffering has taught you more than I thought. But know this, little Naian, power without control is useless, and that is what you are.” He stepped back, lip curling in disgust. “Useless.”

  Birdie didn’t deign reply. She coughed out a mouthful of brackish water and pushed up onto her hands and knees. Her limbs felt as shaky as a petra trapped in the sunlight. When she did not rise immediately, Rhudashka seized her elbow and hauled her upright. She shook free of his grasp, stumbled to the rail beside Ky and collapsed against it.

  A swirling mass of angry greens, grays, and blues churned before her eyes. So fierce. So terrible. The sea could swallow her in a single gulp. Consume the ship and never even notice. Rage on, hunger unsated, even after devouring them.

  The melody thundered in her ears. She closed her eyes and focused on the music. Raw. Fierce. Unimaginably strong. She was a fool to think she could control this. How could one command such power?

  But she had to try . . . didn’t she?

  She stretched as far as the chain linking her manacles would reach and trailed her fingers in the surging water. The sea tugged at her hand, coaxing it deeper until the water swallowed her forearm, but she gripped the rail with her free hand and held tight to the ship.

  “Birdie …” Ky’s voice was just a croak.

  She refused to look at him. Just stared out at the sea with the taste of salt on her tongue and the scent of new rain in her nostrils, nerving herself to try it. It was going to be all right. She whispered the words to herself.

  Somehow.

  It reminded her of the time several years ago when she had dropped one of Madame’s prized crocks. Terrified, she had scooped the broken pieces into her skirt and carried them out to the barn to see if she couldn’t find some way to mend it before the innkeeper’s wife found out and her wrath descended. In the end, she couldn’t repair it and Madame did find out. But just as she had known then that all the broken pieces must fit together even if she couldn’t see how, she knew now.

  The pieces lay at her fingertips . . . if she could only grasp them.

  “Birdie . . . don’t . . . it’s all right.”

  Birdie blocked out Ky’s voice and the rumble of the pirate lord and the shouting of the pir
ates clinging to the life-lines on deck, until all she could hear was the fury of the storm and the melody so deep, deep in the distance. She reached for it, and it evaded her. Gone, just like that. Slipped from her grasp.

  Tears clogged her throat, reducing her voice to a whisper. “No …”

  Shouting broke out, just loud enough to be heard over the crashing waves. She couldn’t decipher most of it, but one phrase stuck in her ears and turned her limbs to ice.

  “The shore . . . the shore!”

  She lifted her eyes, and through the sheeting rain, caught a glimpse of a dark headland visible for a moment when the ship’s bow fell into the trough between waves. Then the ship rose to ride over the mountainous crests, and all was rain and spray and wind again—deadly wind driving them toward the shore and ruin.

  Birdie dropped her gaze to the sea where it seemed the mysterious melody lurked just beyond reach. “Please …” she whispered. “Please help me.”

  Emhran.

  The name drifted to her on the breath of the wind, and she breathed it back, putting all her fear and sorrow and hope into the word. “Emhran.”

  The storm swallowed her voice, but the Song rose from the depths in answer. Strong. Rich. Powerful. It swept over her, and for once, it did not draw back. She raised her chained hands as the music welled within her chest and then burst from her open mouth.

  The released melody swirled around her, and she felt its touch like that of a friend long missed. Thicker than amassing storm clouds, it gathered at her fingertips and grew. Building. Summoning force. She felt the strain in her chest and at the back of her head as though she sought to lift something far beyond her strength.

  The ship shuddered beneath her feet, and every timber groaned.

  Birdie dropped her hands and clung to the rail.

  The sea erupted. Walls of water surged into the air on all sides with a deafening roar. The ship shot forward into a whirlwind of blinding spray and crashing water, all consumed in a wild, rushing cataclysm.