Ky’s shout barely reached her ears. “What are you doing?”
She swallowed back the fear, steeled herself to doubt, and kept singing. Though her vision blurred and she dropped to her knees, head reeling, still she sang. And somehow, beneath the deep, throbbing rhythm and heart-breaking notes, she discerned the Song’s intent. Just a tendril of thought that drifted through her mind, but she latched onto it, as the only solid thing in a world swallowed by the raging sea.
Shipwreck . . . beached on the shore.
But somehow . . . somehow . . . the ship and all aboard would be safe.
She clung to the promise, just as she clung to the rail, while the world dissolved into a blur of blue and gray, and all that had seemed solid quaked beneath her feet. The ship hurtled forward, gathering speed and momentum.
All would be safe.
The ship struck, and the impact threw her from her feet, jarring all the bones in her body. She skidded several paces on her hands and knees.
The roar of the sea faded. The wind died. Her own gasping breath sounded loud to her ears—ears that still rang from the echo of the ocean’s voice. Dazed, she sat with her head hanging, struggling to clear her mind from the onslaught of fear and power-thrill that sought sway over her still.
Her breathing calmed, and she could once more hear the throb of the Song in the waves receding from the shore, but it dimmed before the sharp splintering of broken wood settling beneath the ship’s weight and the groans of the captives in the hold and the pirates on deck.
A voice swore repeatedly in Langorian.
Birdie lifted her head to behold the ship broken in two and keeled over on its side. Pirates and captives spilled out of the split in the deck and staggered out onto the sand below. To her left, on the same half of the ship, Rhudashka struggled to lift his waterlogged bulk from the deck. Beyond the shattered masts, a fierce orange landscape stretched to the horizon.
Birdie needed no map to tell her where she was. This place, with its stacked sand dunes and craggy, wind-worn rocks, could only be the desert she had heard travelers speak of in awestruck whispers. But whatever perils might await them here were bound to be a thousand times better than a life of slavery in Langoria.
“I don’t believe it.” Ky’s voice rasped in his throat. He pushed himself up with his chained hands and stared wildly in all directions. “We’re alive?”
She nodded and found that little action all she could manage. Words escaped her. She had not the courage to look Ky in the face. Strength gone, she sagged against the splintered rail and allowed her head to sink into her trembling hands. She dug her fingers into her scalp and willed the shaking to stop.
A rough hand seized her arm, and the heavy scent of brew steeped in salt water swept over her. Rhudashka hauled her close so that she looked straight up into his wrath-contorted face. “You think to destroy my ship and survive, little Naian? To stir zahel against me and live?”
He shook her, fingers digging into her arms until Birdie gasped at the pain. Ky shouted something she couldn’t quite make out, and his chains rattled as he struggled to rise.
“Bloodwuthering blodknockers!”
The familiar voice and phrase dashed against Birdie’s ears, and the life drained from her limbs, freezing her in place. She couldn’t turn to look and she didn’t dare believe.
Didn’t dare hope…
“Unhand her ye slobgollomly lump o’ charbottle!”
Rhudashka released her and spun around, groping for his sword. A meaty thud sounded out, and the pirate lord reeled backwards, revealing the sturdy frame, defiant stance, raised fists, and wild red hair of Amos McElhenny.
Alive.
Gundhrold appeared behind Amos and pounced on the pirate lord, bringing him down to the deck with an earth-shaking thud. The griffin snarled with his beak scarce inches away from Rhudashka’s nose, then let out a roar. The deck was suddenly crowded with people Birdie had never seen before, armed with spears, clad in various skins and leathers, and mounted on massive, hairy beasts. They swarmed across the wreckage of the ship and down the split into the hold, and the sounds of battle and of triumph rang out, followed by the cries of the pirates as one by one they were slain.
But Birdie had eyes for Amos alone.
The peddler swaggered forward, massaging his fist, and grinned at her, a wild, desperate, exhilarated grin. “Ahoy there, lass! Were ye responsible for this mess? I think ’tis safe t’ say sailin’ may not be the best path for ye. If ye ask me—”
But Birdie didn’t wait to hear what he had to say. She scrambled to her feet and flung herself at the peddler. A sob welled in her throat and threatened to choke her. His arms settled about her battered and bruised shoulders and held her tight.
“There now, lass,” he muttered. “It’s all goin’ t’ be all right. Ye’re safe now. Safe.”
PART Two
4
“Here we are, lass.” Amos tilted to one side in the saddle so Birdie could see past him from her seat on the lion’s rump. “The city o’ Nar-Kog, refuge o’ the Saari.”
Birdie’s eyes widened at the sight of the city crawling up both cliffs on either side of the narrow defile. Flat roofed buildings carved from orange, sand-worn rock were stacked above and beside narrow crisscrossing paths, while a network of bridges arched the gap, connecting the two halves of the city.
The lion started off again, trotting in an effort to catch up with the line of Saari warriors and freed captives, and Birdie hugged Amos’s waist to keep from losing her balance. Around his elbow, she caught a glimpse of Ky riding farther up the line behind one of the Saari. The woman warrior—Sym—rode at the front, leading them along the defile until they reached the center of the city where she turned to the right and mounted a wide, paved road to an imposing building lodged halfway up the cliff face, with a courtyard, thick columns, and narrow arches that flared at the top marking the entrance.
“The chieftain’s palace.” Amos muttered over his shoulder. “Matlal Quahtli’s his name—ye’ll meet him soon enough.”
There was an undercurrent in his tone that Birdie couldn’t quite identify. It sounded like he was worried or concealing something from her. But after the events of the last few months, she was far too weary to care. It was enough that Amos was alive, and that at least for the moment, they were all safe. With an effort, she ignored the voice in the back of her mind whispering of danger not fully realized and relentless pursuit.
The Saari halted their lions in the courtyard and dismounted. Amos lowered Birdie to the ground but had scarce alighted himself when Sym drew her from his side and led her into the palace. The warrior’s swift footfalls fell with uncanny quiet down the length of the torch-lit halls, and the sound of Birdie’s feet as she jogged to keep up seemed loud in comparison. It was a moment before she found her voice. “Where are you taking me? What about Amos and Ky?”
Sym halted before an arched doorway covered by a crimson curtain and turned to face her, lounging against the frame with her arms crossed over her chest. “Worried, are you? You should not be—not if you are as powerful as the legends say.”
Birdie fought the urge to shrink from Sym’s searching gaze. It was challenging but not threatening—not like Rhudashka. She had withstood the pirate lord; she would not be cowed by a lone Saari warrior. “And what are the legends?”
“The usual fanciful tales—no doubt you have heard them. The Songkeeper can summon a storm with his or her voice, command the waters to battle in her defense, and comprehend the hidden thoughts of the hearts of men.” Sym quirked an eyebrow at her, but her expression remained stern. “I heard your voice upon the storm winds, little one, before the ship crashed—yet even I can scarce believe it. The legends did not speak of one so young. You must forgive us if we are doubtful.”
Before Birdie could craft a reply, the Saari warrior flung the curtain aside and ushe
red her into a low-ceilinged room made homey by the light of half a dozen flickering torches. “You will be reunited with your friends soon, but in the meantime, Sa Itera wishes that you be shown the hospitality of the Saari. It would not do to enter the mahtems’ council covered in the reek of slavery.”
Birdie made it two steps across the threshold and then stopped with her heart hammering in her throat. An enormous white lioness sprawled in her path with two small boys crawling across its back and tumbling down to wrestle between its massive paws. The lioness’s head swung toward her, and she was taken captive by the beast’s huge yellow eyes.
A menacing growl rumbled in its throat. “Beware your step, two-legs. Don’t much care for the smell of you. Dare touch a hair of my cubs’ heads and you’ll face my wrath.”
Instinctively, Birdie raised her hands palms out, hoping to appease the lioness with evidence that she was not a threat. She couldn’t tell if it worked or not, but the lioness’s growl softened and five distinct melodies fell on her ear—all harmonious—of varying tones and rhythms, filled with unique layers of emotions she could not begin to differentiate.
She shook her head to clear her mind.
The beast’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. Somehow, in that moment, Birdie knew that the lioness understood her ability and that she could comprehend its speech as no ordinary “two-legs” could.
“Silence, Quoth.”
At the stern command, the lioness fell silent and shuffled its bulk around to face the far side of the room where the speaker, a tall woman, rose from a low bench. Long hair hung in tawny braids to her waist and the train of her crimson robe brushed the stone floor with each step as she crossed toward Birdie.
Dark eyes lowered, Sym dropped to one knee and snapped a hand to her chest in a warrior’s salute. “Sa Itera, I did not expect—”
“You may leave us.” The woman inclined her head and motioned a hand toward the doorway. Birdie watched, utterly entranced by the regal grace of her every movement. “I will see to the Songkeeper myself.”
Without a word, Sym exited, drawing the curtain closed behind her. The torches flickered with the rush of air, and the walls seemed to creep closer as if the room were made smaller by its occupants and the presence of the massive beast. Birdie turned to the woman Sym had called Sa Itera, but found that she had already scooped up the two boys and moved back to the low bench.
With a grunt, the lioness shoved to its feet, shadowed the woman’s retreat, and flopped at the base of the seat. A deep purr vibrated in its chest, but Birdie’s eyes were drawn to the fierce claws advancing and retracting as its paws kneaded the floor.
Settling one child on her knees, Itera placed the other beside the lioness who immediately seized the boy and began licking his head, mumbling words of feline affection.
“Do you know who I am, child?” The woman’s imperious voice drew Birdie’s attention from the lioness, and she shook her head. “I am Sa Itera, wife of Matlal Quahtli who sits enthroned beneath the Star of the Desert, and Mahtem of the Sigzal tribe in my own right.”
Birdie did not need the impressive list of unfamiliar names and titles to recognize that this was someone of great importance. She sank to one knee in imitation of Sym’s posture and bowed her head in respect.
The lioness growled. “Stop fawning, two-legs.” Birdie could have sworn that the beast rolled its eyes—to be sure, its lips curled in disgust, revealing a set of yellowed teeth. “Rise if you would be seen as a lion and not a mouse. Rise and stand firm as the cliffs of Nar-Kog. You are not her inferior. To those who call the desert home, strength is second only to courage. Have you courage, two-legs? Or has it too abandoned you?”
Goaded by the words, Birdie rose and met the penetrating gaze of the Matlal’s wife.
“Now you know who I am,” Sa Itera said. “But what of you, little one? Who . . . and what . . . are you?”
Birdie took a deep breath, let it fill her throat, and formed it into words. “I am the Songkeeper.” And with that simple pronouncement, the tension eased from her shoulders and back. With the release came the sudden awareness of countless aches and pains from her time in captivity and the harried race on a lion’s back from the coast to the desert city.
“Are you?” Itera fondled the child in her lap, and the tenderness in her expression tugged at Birdie’s heart. “I do not think you are sure. And if even you doubt, you cannot expect us to trust your word on the matter. There is too much at stake.”
“I don’t understand. What do you want from me?”
“Proof.” Itera’s eyes flickered up, and all hint of motherly affection had vanished from those dark orbs—hard, they seemed, and unforgiving as the cliffs themselves.
“I …” Birdie looked to the lioness for aid, but the beast closed its eyes and turned away, evidently bored with or unconcerned by her predicament. Taking a deep breath, she sought to summon the Song pulsing in the background, but it did not answer her call—again.
She nearly cried out in frustration, and it took every ounce of composure she had to hold it in. Strength and courage—that was what the Saari respected.
So the lioness said.
Birdie seized the thought. “I can understand the speech of creatures.” She gestured toward the lioness. “If you’ve heard the legends, then you must know that this is said to be one of the skills of a Songkeeper. When I came in, the lioness warned me to stand clear of her cubs—your sons.”
Itera was silent a moment, then shook her head and rose to her full, impressive height. Faint lines of disappointment marred the otherwise flawless poise of her expression. “Nay, little one, I am afraid we require better proof than that. You are clever, to be sure, but one does not need to understand the tongues of beasts to read Quoth’s protectiveness toward my sons.”
She snapped her fingers and the lioness rose. With gentle efficiency, she positioned both boys on the beast’s back and strode to the doorway with the lioness at her heels. “There is water in a basin and clean garb at the rear of the room where you may refresh yourself from your travels. The mahtems’ council will meet in a quarter of an hour—Sym will summon you. Be forewarned, little one, they will demand proof of your claim, and you must be prepared to answer them.”
Birdie nodded, unsure what else to say. In the end, did it really matter whether they believed her or not? Given the rushed pace of their return from the coast, she and Amos had not yet discussed their plans following Nar-Kog, but she did not expect them to be here for long—though now that Amos’s mother had fallen, she doubted he would want to return to Bryllhyn.
Rather than being daunted by the uncertainty of the future, Birdie found herself growing excited. The whole of Leira lay before them, and there was no Madame to gainsay her desires, no Carhartan cursing at her heels. For once in her life, she could go anywhere, be anything, live and see that freedom was good.
Sa Itera paused on the threshold with the curtain lifted in one hand, the shadow obscuring her face. “You have not yet convinced me, and the council will prove even more difficult to satisfy. And they have just cause to be wary, little one. There are many who exhibit signs of possessing the abilities of a Songkeeper and yet never come into their full gifting.” Itera’s gaze bored into Birdie. “Which one, I wonder, are you?”
The curtain fell, leaving Birdie alone in the torch-lit room. Itera’s final words ran through her head, blending with the soft tread of the woman’s sandaled feet down the passage and the four variations of the melody retreating with her, the lioness, and the boys.
Once again, Birdie was left with more questions than answers. Perhaps she was not a true Songkeeper and that was why she was unable to command the Song. But if there were many who appeared to possess the same abilities, then why had she never heard of them?
It was time for a talk with Amos and Gundhrold. Willing or not, after everything that had happened, they must speak with he
r.
They had to.
Careful to blend with the shadows, Ky peered around the pillar at the chiefs gathered in the Council Hall. With his back to a railing-less balcony overlooking the valley and his wife to his right, Matlal Quahtli sat on a carved throne that formed a jagged double peak above his head resembling the cliffs of Nar-Kog. Between the peaks, a crystal the size of Ky’s fist blazed in the light of the afternoon sun. The Star of the Desert, the Saari called it. Ky had to tear his eyes away from it. Pocketing such a gem could have kept the Underground in supplies for years . . .
If lifting it didn’t get them killed first.
Twenty one broad-shouldered figures with bronze skin and dark hair, clad in flowing tunics, fringed leggings, and lion-skin capes sat on low stools in a semi-circle before Quahtli. Garbed in similar clothes, Birdie and Hawkness sat at the midpoint with Gundhrold at their side—though of the three, only the griffin seemed at ease with his surroundings.
All in all, it was a right impressive sight. Ky had never seen anything like it before. Here were warriors—real warriors—the sort of fighters who could hope to stand against the dark soldiers, survive, and win.
What Cade would’ve given to be in his place. Though Cade would have taken the stool set out for him in the circle instead of crouching behind a pillar. But this cavernous room reminded him of the Underground, and after several weeks of close scrutiny in captivity, he was ready for a chance to disappear.
“You misled us, Hawkness.” Matlal Quahtli rose to his full height and slammed the butt of his spear against the ground. “You promised us aid and this is what you bring us?”
Ky peeked over at Birdie. She sat beside Hawkness, hands clasped in her lap, looking down at the ground. Surrounded by so many warriors, she looked a bit like a karnoth fledgling Ky had once found fluttering on the cobblestones of Kerby, tumbled too soon from its nest. Her hair hung over her face, concealing her expression. He was half tempted to creep over and invite her to join him in his hidey-hole.
Songkeeper Page 5