Songkeeper

by Gillian Bronte Adams

  Hawkness snorted, assuming a defiant posture with his arms crossed over his broad chest. “Ye misled yerselves. This is the Songkeeper. If ye expected somethin’ different ’twas no fault o’ mine. We had an agreement, an’ I intend t’ hold t’ my end o’ the bargain an’ offer ye our aid. Take it or leave it. Makes no difference t’ me.”

  One of the mahtems rose on creaking limbs and spoke with a voice that carried slow, heavy dignity. “And what aid can you offer us? The one, a dying legend. The other, a myth not yet full grown. We are hard pressed on all sides, yet we sent nigh two companies of Saari warriors with you—warriors we needed to defend our borders from the oncoming scourge. How many have died that should have lived because we aided you, hoping for aid in return?”

  “Now, see here—” Hawkness began, but Gundhrold interrupted him.

  “How many have died, you asked?” The griffin paced the length of the semi-circle, injured wingtip trailing behind him. As he passed, each lion bowed its head and sank to the ground. It startled Ky to realize how much larger the griffin was than his earth-bound cousins. “Who can say? But I guarantee that it is but a speck of sand compared to the numbers that shall yet perish if the Takhran is not stopped. Even now, his armies are bent on the conquest of the Midlands, and when they have fallen and his full attention sweeps to the desert, what hope have you then?”

  Matlal Quahtli gathered his cloak around him and resumed his seat. Torchlight fell on his bronze face, throwing the bones beneath his skin in sharp relief. “That is the question, is it not? What hope can your little Songkeeper offer us?”

  Silence followed his words, and Ky did not need to see the mahtems’ faces to know that all eyes had shifted to Birdie. She raised her head at last and seemed to realize that the focus rested on her.

  “I . . . I can fight . . . if those are the terms of the agreement.” She faltered over the words, so it wasn’t exactly the most convincing speech Ky had ever heard, and the look on her face as she turned to Amos was accusatory at best. Still, there was a strength and firmness to her tone that made him want to believe her.

  But the mahtems seemed a hard lot to convince. An uneasy rustle of movement and whispers passed around the semi-circle before one rose. He had a sharp, triangular face that reminded Ky of a petra. “We have spoken many words this evening and dallied over concerns and doubts as numerous as the sands, and yet we have sidled ’round the most important question of all.”

  “An’ what is that?” Hawkness rested his elbows on his knees, shoulders hunched forward, massaging his throwing hand.

  “Whether the child is indeed the Songkeeper.”

  The griffin’s neck feathers rose, and his voice deepened to a growl. “You have the word of Hawkness, the promise of a lord of the desert, and the witness of your own people who testify to hearing the child’s voice on the winds of the storm when the Langorian ship crashed. What other assurance do you need?”

  “I desire not assurance, but proof. Clear, undeniable evidence. This council has been deceived before. Let her be tested before we acknowledge her gifting.”

  “An’ how d’ ye propose doin’ that? It’s not a beswogglin’ magic trick.”

  “There is one way.” The Matlal’s wife, Sa Itera, spoke up. “We can—”

  She broke off as Sym pushed her way into the semi-circle in a flurry of flapping skins and flying braids. She dropped to one knee before Quahtli, one hand resting on a quiver of light spears strapped to her back, and delivered a message in a swift, harsh whisper that Ky was too far away to overhear. Just as quickly as she had come, she was gone.

  For a moment, Matlal Quahtli regarded the spear in his hand in silence, then he lifted his voice to fill the Council Hall. “A messenger has just arrived from the border. It would seem our list of allies grows thinner still. As of two days past, the Nordlands, the Midlands and the entire west coast have fallen to the Khelari. He brings bitter tidings of cold-blooded slaughter and deaths beyond count.”

  Hawkness started forward in his seat. “I thought King Earnhult signed a treaty with the Takhran grantin’ his army free passage through the Midlands.”

  Quahtli nodded. “A treaty, yes. King Earnhult allowed the Khelari to pass, but instead of responding in kind, they demanded a blood price from every Midlands town. They must have been close upon your heels as you traveled hence from Bryllhyn, Hawkness. The Takhran’s forces march on the desert even as we speak. War is upon us.”

  The hall erupted in a clamor of speech, but Ky’s heartbeat thrummed in his ears, drowning out the noise. The Nordlands—Kerby.

  He reached for his sling, only to recall that it was gone, taken by the pirates. The Matlal’s words haunted him. Cold-blooded slaughter. Deaths beyond count. Kerby had been under occupation for the past five years, and in the Underground, they’d been convinced that they had seen the worst the dark soldiers had to offer.

  But they’d never experienced anything like this.

  Even without closing his eyes, he could see them all, frozen like a painting in the back of his mind: Meli, Paddy, Aliyah, all the Underground runners as they had looked after the dark soldiers’ attack just before he raced down the tunnel and their faces vanished behind him.

  If he could just know they were safe …

  “Take courage, my lords.” Sa Itera’s clear voice cut across the commotion. “We are the Mahtems of the Saari nation. War is no stranger to us, nor should we be surprised to hear that battle draws nigh. Still, we would be foolish to deny any aid that is offered. The name of Hawkness is renowned among those who stand against the Takhran, and there is none that the Takhran fears so much as the Songkeepers of legend. Knowing that Hawkness and the little Songkeeper stand on our side should be enough to strengthen the heart of any warrior and strike fear into our enemies.”

  The petra-faced mahtem pursed his lips and shook his head. “Such knowledge may bring hope, but it rarely lasts beyond the moment—and once gone, it oft proves impossible to revive.” A murmur of approval met his words, and the mahtem turned in a slow circle to address each member of the council individually. “How can we know she is the Songkeeper? You say we have need of aid, but I ask you: should we trust in help unproven? Should our hopes prove vain yet again?”

  “No, we should not.” Itera rose, towering over the mahtem so he had to tilt his head back to look at her face. “Let her be tested. Let her prove her gifting. Let my brother, Dah Inali, take her to the Hollow Cave.”

  6

  The Midlands were gone.

  Gone. Gone. Gone. The word hardly held any meaning for Birdie anymore. It had become a part of living, like breathing in and out. Things came and things went, people lived and people died, and somehow, she was always left behind to mourn the passing.

  Dimly, in some far corner of her mind, she knew that the council had drawn to a close, that the mahtems were rising, that they had decided something—something to do with her.

  But it hardly seemed important now.

  For a few short days, she had felt safe. Secure. She had almost dared believe that here in the craggy mountains of the desert was a strength that rivaled the Takhran’s, a force that could stand against the tide of his soldiers. But the mahtems were afraid—deeply afraid. She could see the terror lurking in their eyes, hear the falseness in their voices, perceive it in the pitch of their melodies. And in their fear, they wanted her to prove her abilities in the hopes that she could somehow save them? She couldn’t fault them for desiring proof.

  Not when she doubted herself.

  But now even Amos wanted her to fight, and that alone was enough to set her reeling. It was as if in her weeks of captivity, the world had shattered beyond repair . . . and for some mad reason, they wanted to hand her the pieces.

  “Come, little one.” Sa Itera stood before her, and though the woman’s posture remained as rigid and regal as a zoar tree, there was the faintest hint
of softening in her voice.

  Of kindness.

  Birdie grasped at the thought and somehow managed to find her feet and blindly follow the Matlal’s wife through the gathered mahtems and out of the Council Hall. She could feel Gundhrold’s stern presence at her back, hear Amos’s heavy footfalls somewhere to her right, but of Ky she found no sign.

  In the corridor outside the Council Hall, Sa Itera halted and motioned to two Saari warriors stationed at the entrance to draw the hangings closed. At the end of the corridor, a young man sat cross-legged on a low bench, hunched over a parchment, a piece of charcoal in his smudged fingers and an open satchel at his feet. Knotted strands of dusky hair hung to his shoulders. He wore fringed trousers and an open vest, and a clay bead hung from a gold chain about his neck. Intent upon his work, he did not look up as they approached, simply kept scattering charcoal across the parchment in broad, sweeping lines.

  “Dah Inali, brother-mine.” Sa Itera laid a gentle hand on his arm. “The Matlal has need of your service. There is an important task you must do for these, our guests.”

  He shrugged her hand aside, added a few more strokes to the parchment, then slipped the charcoal into his satchel and dusted his hands on his vest. “Sister-mine, Hawkness, Gundhrold . . . and the little Songkeeper.” With a flick of his hand, he adjusted the spectacles perching on the bridge of his nose and turned back to Sa Itera. “What does the Mahtem of the Sigzal tribe require of her disinherited brother?”

  The smoothness of his tone was not enough to conceal the bite of his words, but Sa Itera simply clasped her hands and held them at her waist. Her voice assumed an air of enduring patience. “The council of mahtems have ruled to test the little one’s gifting as a Songkeeper. You understand why your help is required. You are to show our guests to the Hollow Cave, accompany the child inside, and bring a report.”

  Inali unknotted his limbs and shoved to his feet, suddenly as taut as a vine stretched to the breaking point. With a shaking hand, he removed his spectacles and rubbed the lenses on his vest. “Sister-mine, I beg you. You cannot ask this of me.”

  “I do not ask.” Sa Itera lifted her chin. “The Matlal rules.”

  •••

  “Come along, little Songkeeper.” Dah Inali beckoned to Birdie from the base of a narrow path that retreated into a cleft in the side of the mountain. He settled the strap of his satchel over one shoulder, steadied his spectacles, and hefted a spear in his free hand. “We must hurry.” Impatience bled into his tone and shuffling feet.

  Birdie released her grip on the lion’s mane and only half heard the beast’s gruff rumble of gratitude. She flexed her hand to work the blood back into her fingers, nerving herself to face whatever trial lay before her. Inali had proven himself skilled at ignoring her questions, and the two mahtems who accompanied them had spent the hour-long trek arguing with one another in their own tongue. Neither Amos nor Gundhrold had been able to provide any insight into the mysterious testing, and she had not seen Ky since the meeting in Matlal Quahtli’s Council Hall.

  “The day wanes,” Inali urged. “We are running out of light.”

  Already Tauros hovered on the western horizon, bathing the path with fire-glow and casting monstrous shadows to Birdie’s left.

  Still she hesitated.

  “It’s all right, lass,” Amos whispered, propping one elbow on the lion’s neck and offering the other hand to help her dismount.

  She gripped it—more for comfort than for aid—and slipped to the ground, landing beside Gundhrold. The griffin’s face was turned to the cleft, one eye in shadow and the other blazing with the glory of the setting sun, feathers ruffling in the breeze. He spoke without turning. “This is a hallowed place, little Songkeeper. Had the mahtems not insisted that you come, I intended to bring you here myself.”

  That was some comfort, at least.

  “But what is this place, Gundhrold?” She was pleased that her voice was steady and bore no hint of the turmoil she felt inside. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “You cannot know.” Inali broke in. “It is part of the testing.”

  “Boggswoggling foolish, if ye ask me. But I s’pose there’s nothin’ for it now.”

  No, there really wasn’t.

  That understanding drove Birdie up the narrow track at Inali’s heels. There was nothing for it but to keep moving, onwards and upwards, following the path charted before her, even if it felt like the earth was spinning beneath her feet. What choice did she have? Now that Amos had promised her aid to these strange desert warriors . . . now that she had sung the Song and seen the waters rise . . . now that she had a chance to discover if she was a true Songkeeper or not.

  At the entrance to the cleft, Inali gestured for the others to stop and motioned Birdie forward. “As the desert lord has spoken, this is a hallowed place, little Songkeeper. Only you and I may enter. Our companions shall await our return here.”

  “By Turning, we shall not!” Amos’s face took on a livid hue that vied with the sunset for brilliance. “Of all the seaswogglin’ addlebrained ideas! Have ye gone soft in the head, lad? If ye think for one second that I’m goin’ t’ let my wee lass out o’ my sight, ye’re madder ’n a night moth.”

  “It must be done.” To Birdie’s surprise, Inali met Amos’s glare without shriveling. There was more strength in him than he let on. “She shall be safe, you have my word.”

  The peddler could not be relied upon to think objectively when her safety was threatened, so Birdie sought confirmation from the griffin instead. She had no cause to distrust Inali, but George’s betrayal and the weeks chained in the hold of the pirate ship left her uneasy.

  Gundhrold shook his head. “Nay, Dah Inali. This may be hallowed ground, but I shall enter with you and the little Songkeeper.” Amos started to bristle, but the griffin cut him off. “It is my right as her Protector.”

  Inali’s face fell, but he did not argue. “Very well. Do as you will.” He squeezed through the crack and was gone.

  Birdie moved to follow, and Gundhrold’s whisper fell soft on her ear. “Take peace, little one.”

  Peace. She turned the word over and over in her mind as she slipped through the cleft and the path immediately began to descend before her feet. Peace seemed a foreign concept, something that belonged to the realm of myths and fireside tales. Try as she might, she couldn’t recall the last time she had known anything but this terrible restlessness that churned within her soul like the storm at sea.

  She did not know peace.

  With an effort, she concentrated on Inali’s footsteps ahead and the heavier thud of the griffin’s padded paws behind. Before they had traveled a hundred feet, the light of the entrance had dimmed, and when the passage took a sudden curve to the left, Birdie toiled in the dark, feeling her way by running both hands against the opposing walls.

  A hum grew in the back of her mind—deep as though it sprang from the heart of the earth, hollow sounding as if carried on the breath of the wind. It grew in breadth and volume until it overpowered the steady crunch of their footsteps.

  The passage lightened ahead.

  The glow grew stronger and took on the pinkish hue of evening, while the hum swelled even louder, until the cleft widened into a circular cave larger than the hold of the Langorian ship. High above, a shaft in the ceiling opened to the darkening sky.

  Inali halted beneath the shaft and turned to face her. Caught between light and shadow, his bronze skin appeared pale. “This is the Hollow Cave.” He spoke in a whisper, but his voice magnified off the walls so Birdie could hear it even over the humming. “This is your testing, little Songkeeper.”

  She turned in a slow circle, taking in her surroundings. “But what do I do?”

  “Listen.”

  Listen . . . Listen . . . Listen.

  The word danced around the room, rebounding from every nook and cranny, teasing her
with its challenge. She closed her eyes and hearkened to the humming. The noise of her own breathing faded. The rustle of Gundhrold’s feathers quieted. The whisper of Inali’s movements as he paced back and forth dwindled.

  The humming radiated until it filled the entire cave, until it seeped beneath her skin and reached inside her bones and lodged somewhere in her chest.

  She did not know her legs had crumpled beneath her until her knees struck rock. A gasp of pain parted her lips. Instantly, she felt the comforting warmth of Gundhrold’s wings enveloping her, but he could not shield her from the force of the Song. It blazed through her like a raging fire. It shook the earth beneath her feet until the very stones seemed to crumble. It gusted around her like the winds of the gale that had beleaguered the Langorian ship.

  A voice thundered in her ear, and in her mind, words materialized from the melody and became images painted across her closed eyelids.

  It was all so confused. So rushed.

  A glimpse of a river, rippling with the notes of the Song—Tal Ethel, the voice said.

  Herself standing in a dark hollow with bodies strewn all around, blood staining the rocks beneath her feet, and the blue-white sword—Artair’s sword—in her hand.

  A flash of a bone-dry riverbed, sullied with corpses.

  A country ravaged by war. Cities burning. Crops untended and withering.

  Two men—alike as twins—kneeling side by side on a riverbank.

  Then the images honed in on a vast fortress built into the side of a mountain with a gate that yawned open beneath a massive portcullis and walls bristling with soldiers. She did not need the voice to speak and declare this to be Serrin Vroi, the Takhran’s stronghold. Somehow she knew.

  Reeling, she tried to pull back, to force the melody to slow its pace and yield its secrets one by one. “I am the Songkeeper,” she ground between gritted teeth. “Listen to me.”

  The images faded, and the melody fell silent, but not before it uttered one final sentence, Seek Tal Ethel, little Songkeeper.