Songkeeper

by Gillian Bronte Adams

  Birdie came to herself, held in Gundhrold’s wings, kneeling on the cold, stone ground with her face buried in her hands and tears running down her chilled cheeks. The weight of the griffin’s wings was suddenly confining. She managed to extricate herself and stumble away from his concerned queries, coming to a halt beneath the shaft of light with her hands on her knees, gasping for breath.

  Inali bent over her, his face a puzzling blend of eagerness and anxiety. “What did you hear? Did he speak to you?”

  Somehow she could not bring herself to try to put words to the incorporeal images and thoughts and voice that had inhabited the notes of the Song of the Hollow Cave. Not yet. It felt wrong. Like slapping clay on a stick figure and proclaiming it a living person.

  She shook her head, but Inali would not be dissuaded.

  “By Sigurd’s mane.” The words hissed across his lips and he seized her by the shoulders. His grip was surprisingly strong. “You heard something, I can see it in your eyes.”

  Gundhrold roared, and Inali’s hands tore from her arms as he lurched toward the far side of the cave, propelled by a blow from the griffin’s good wing. “Unhand the Songkeeper, earthling! Dare lay hands upon her again, and I will leave your bones to the dust whence you came.”

  “It is the testing.” Inali fumbled on the ground for his fallen spectacles, settled them over his ears, and drew to his full height. “Mandated by the will of the Matlal and the council of the mahtems of the Saari. She must tell me what she heard. They expect a full report.”

  The air drained from Birdie’s lungs as both pairs of eyes settled on her.

  “What did you hear?” Inali pressed.

  “I thought . . . only a voice. Nothing more.”

  “A voice—what did it say?”

  She shrugged and hoped it would convince the strange Saari warrior. “I don’t know. It was too confusing, too jumbled. I have to sort it out before I can explain. You must give me time.”

  “We shall be on our way then. You can speak later.” Gundhrold silenced Inali’s protests with a glare and beckoned her with a wing tip. She moved toward him on legs that were suddenly shaky. His yellow eyes pierced her through and through, and she knew there would be no fooling the griffin with vague or shadowed answers.

  He would have the truth.

  She glanced at Inali as she passed. His brow was furrowed and his shoulders slumped, though whether it was from relief or disappointment she could not say. In any case, unless she could provide him with answers, she doubted he would bring a favorable report of her abilities to the mahtems.

  Perhaps that too was for the best.

  She was suddenly weary of it all. It did not matter if they accepted her as the Songkeeper or not—she should not care.

  She should not, but she did.

  7

  Ky stalked Sym through the torch-lit corridors of the Matlal’s palace, utilizing every trick Dizzier had ever pummeled into him—embracing the shadows, becoming one with his surroundings, studying and imitating his mark’s gait so the sound of his footsteps blended with hers. Sym moved with a swiftness and agility that could put any lion to shame, pausing now and then to take a report from a guard or deliver a message. Still Ky followed her meandering path, driven by the question burning at the back of his mind.

  Consumed by his own thoughts, he realized too late that Sym had stopped in the middle of the corridor. Her back was toward him, but he had strayed too near to simply turn aside without seeming suspicious. He eased his pace, stuck his hands in his trouser pockets, and sidled past with his eyes on the ground.

  A spear struck the passageway floor, directly in his path.

  He jumped back, groping for his sling—his hand came back empty, of course. “What was that for? You trying to kill me?”

  Sym’s dark eyes flickered with amusement, and she ran a hand along the shaft of one of the spears strapped to her back. “You are fortunate that I make a habit of looking before I strike, Nordlander. Why are you shadowing me?”

  Maybe trailing a mark was something he needed to practice more often, but Ky preferred to chalk it up to the uncanny senses of a Saari warrior and leave it at that. “Look, I got to meet that messenger you were talking about earlier. Couldn’t take me to him, could you? I need to find out what he knows about my home town.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and he thought he read his own disappointment in the hardening of her pupils, but to his surprise, she motioned for him to follow. “Keep up, Nordlander.”

  Keeping up should have been easy for someone so accustomed to tunnels and back alleys. But Sym moved at a whirlwind pace that left Ky scrambling to regain his sense of direction, until they emerged at last in the courtyard where they had dismounted upon their arrival from the coast. Groups of Saari warriors clustered around saddled lions, sparred in pairs with the rapidity and ferocity of a desert wind, took turns throwing spears at distant targets, or sat on low benches honing their spear heads.

  Sym paused at an open bench and threw a leg over the seat, nodding toward a short figure clad in a loose, sand colored robe standing on the throwing line. “There is your messenger. Goes by the name of Migdon. Do try and be polite. He can be a mite touchy.”

  At the mention of his name, the short figure glanced up and stomped toward them, allowing his weapon—a sling—to dangle from one hand. Ky could scarce tear his eyes from it. His fingers twitched of their own accord, longing for the familiar feel of the leather straps and the weight of the stone and that perfect moment when his hand somehow knew to release.

  The stranger stopped at Ky’s elbow, rocked back on his heels, and ran a thick-fingered hand through the curly hair sprouting atop his head—a head that stood no higher than Ky’s shoulder. Dwarves were not entirely uncommon in Kerby but Ky had never seen one face to face before. For once in his life, he felt tall, and he couldn’t help standing just a bit straighter to accentuate the difference.

  The dwarf snorted. “That’s rich. Rub it in, why don’t you?”

  Touchy—right.

  “Sorry.” He let his shoulders fall back into their natural slouch. “Look, I heard you’d been traveling north of the desert, and I just had to know if you—”

  “Hold on there,” the dwarf growled and shoved a finger in Ky’s chest with such force that he nearly stumbled backward. “Manners, bucko. Names first. Information later. Maybe. If I like you.” He thumped a brawny fist against his forehead. “I am Migdon Hipicarious Listarchus Noonan, advance scout of the Third Cohort of the Adulnae. Among other things.”

  He paused, eyebrows lifted, obviously waiting.

  “Ky—Ky Huntyr.” Ky scuffed his bare feet in the dirt, trying to rid himself of the unsettled feeling in his stomach. Names weren’t meant to be bandied around like apples after a bobbing run. The less folks who knew who you were the better. “Do you have any news of Kerby?”

  Migdon pursed his lips, and for a moment, Ky was afraid he was going to ignore the question. “Don’t like to beat around the bush, do you, bucko? Me neither. It’s what sets us men of action apart from the thinkers and plotters with their sweet talking ways and forked-tongues. But you know what they say, ‘Honeyed words ease the tang of bitter news.’ Or something to that effect.” The dwarf snapped the sling between his hands, and the noise reminded Ky of the crack of lightning. There was a finality to the sound that set his heart thumping.

  “Kerby?” he whispered.

  With a heavy sigh, Migdon dropped into a seat on the bench, sling hanging limp between his fingers. “They say the Midlands had it easy in comparison—and I agree with them. Sure the Khelari left a string of bodies and burned villages in their wake, but once they passed through, it was over. But for Kerby, the Takhran decreed the slow death. Blockaded. Trade at a standstill. Supplies running short once the soldiers ransacked the market. No one allowed in or out. The city is under siege until the people starve and t
he dead rot in piles in the street.” The dwarf shrugged. “Said you liked it straight, bucko, and that’s as plain as I can tell it.”

  Dead in the streets . . .

  Not too long ago, Ky had been running down those streets, bobbing apples and picking pockets with scarce a care to weigh him down. As he struggled to comprehend the full meaning of the dwarf’s words, his gaze roamed across the palace courtyard, over the Saari warriors training for battle and the lions standing sentinel at the head of the path, but instead of fringed leggings and bared weapons and shaggy manes, he saw the runners—his brothers and sisters—wasting away in the damp cold of a fireless Underground.

  It had become their tomb, and he their grave digger.

  He had taken the sword from Kerby to draw the Takhran’s wrath away from the Underground, and the plan had seemed to be working. The Khelari had trailed them all the way across the Westmark, hadn’t they?

  But there was no telling what had become of the blade in the aftermath of the battle of Bryllhyn, so for all he knew, it was just as likely to have wound up in the hold of the pirate ship as lost in the ocean or back in the hands of the Khelari. But of all the places it undoubtedly wasn’t, Kerby certainly ranked tops.

  So what led the Takhran to focus on destroying his city?

  He caught the dwarf’s gaze. “Why …”

  “Broad question, bucko. Could have a whole slew of answers depending on how you interpret it, but I reckon I got the gist of it. The why’s not hard to figure out. You know what they say, The battle fought soonest oft results in a dozen battles avoided.” Migdon scratched at his beard. “Or was it a score of battles avoided?”

  “What does that even mean?”

  There was pity in the dwarf’s face, and somehow that made Ky more uncomfortable than apathy. “It means the Takhran is making an example of Kerby to deter anyone from standing against him. Just like he did at Drengreth. It’s a picture of what will happen to those who interfere with his plans.”

  Ky gritted his teeth to keep from venting his growing wrath.

  He had no intention of merely interfering.

  Sand blasted Birdie in the face as she neared the end of the tunnel. She squinted her eyes shut against the tiny granules pricking her skin and ducked out of the Hollow Cave into a world obscured by dusk and wind.

  “It’s about time.” The peddler’s gruff voice greeted her, and his rough hands gripped her arms. He was shouting, but Birdie could scarce hear him over the wind. “What in blazes took so long? We’ve been waitin’ out here almost two hours an’ there’s a foul storm brewin’.”

  “Where do we go now?” Sand flew into her mouth when she spoke and threatened to choke her. As if he could sense her discomfort, Gundhrold’s wing instantly lifted to shield her, and she sought shelter behind his feathers. “Do we return to Nar-Kog?”

  “In this blustery madness? Not even the pathfinding skills o’ the great Saari warriors could ensure our safe arrival. No, we must find shelter, an’ soon afore the storm worsens.”

  “There is no shelter for miles.” Inali’s dry voice came from somewhere to Birdie’s left, but she could not see him through the night and sand. “There is nothing but the cliffs and the sand.”

  “There is the cave.”

  Beneath the griffin’s wing, Birdie felt the deep rumble of his voice even more than she heard it. There was strength in it and assurance, no hint of the fear and doubt that seemed to reside in her chest like a trapped animal waiting to claw its way out.

  “For once I agree with the catbird—back into the cave, an’ this time we’re all goin’ in.”

  “But the cave is sacred!” Inali’s voice rose in pitch, and somewhere in the storm, the two mahtems voiced their disagreement.

  “Beswoggle an’ confound it all!” Amos tugged her toward the entrance, lurching against the force of the wind. “Sacred or not, it’s where we’re goin’.”

  Buried once more beneath mounds of rock, Birdie set her back to the wall and tried to shake the layer of sand from the clothes Sa Itera had given her while the others stumbled past. She identified them by the sound of their footsteps rather than trying to unravel their tangled melodies. Amos, Gundhrold, Inali, their lions, and the two mahtems—despite their misgivings, they too sought refuge, here in this sacred place.

  “This is far enough,” the griffin rasped. “We are protected, and there is no need to venture further and disturb the solemnity of the Hollow Cave.”

  “Indeed.” Inali’s voice snapped like a bowstring. “Though it is late to be thinking of that now.”

  Amos blew a long breath across his lips. “Right. What about a little light? Anyone got a tinderbox on ’em?”

  “In my satchel—and a torch, too.” Inali heaved a sigh. “I will fetch them.”

  Birdie slowly slid down the wall until she sat with her knees pulled up to her chin. Outside, the angry voice of the wind still raged, but within all was muted—heavy and yet not silent. A soft moaning crept through the tunnel on the caveward side. Heartrending, sorrowful, yet strong—it called to her. She closed her eyes and let the melody fill her mind.

  Once again, she saw herself.

  Standing in the heart of the earth, bathed in the glow of torches, the blue-white sword—Artair’s sword—in her hand.

  Bodies all around.

  The sharp tck tck of flint striking steel called her back to the present just as Amos managed to catch a spark to Inali’s torch. He handed it off to the two mahtems and they clustered around it with their lions at their sides, like night moths drawn to the light. Inali joined them and soon all three heads were bobbing in earnest conversation. The low, flickering light made them all look like corpses.

  With a grunt, Amos dropped at her side and stretched his legs out across the width of the tunnel. A rustle of feathers heralded Gundhrold’s approach, then he too sat back on his haunches beside her. His eyes glinted in the torchlight, and Birdie had no trouble reading the message written in the stern lines of his face.

  He was waiting for her to speak.

  But she would not speak first. Stubbornness did not guide her decision so much as a sense of fairness. It was up to them to break the silence for once. It was up to them to provide the answers that were wanting. But she had scarce resolved to maintain her silence, when the words slipped from her tongue. “I heard a voice in the Song.”

  Silence followed her declaration, until Amos broke it with a cough. “Did ye now? An’ what did the voice say?”

  Sometimes it was difficult to tell when Amos was mocking and when he was serious, especially when she couldn’t read his expression. But this was no matter for jesting—not anymore.

  “I didn’t just hear it tonight in the Hollow Cave. I’ve heard it before . . . several times.” Now that she had begun to speak, all the vague responses, excuses, and emptiness of the past months drifted to the forefront. She didn’t try to keep the desperation from her voice. Perhaps it would convince Amos where her pleas had failed so many times before. “I need answers, Amos. You promised to give them to me. Now that we are here, now that I have proven myself a Songkeeper, now that you have promised my aid to the Saari in battle, I must know.”

  “Now, lass?”

  “Yes, Amos, now. Please.”

  “Fine. Ye do it, griffin.” The peddler’s voice was edged and rougher than the rock behind Birdie’s back. “Ye can explain it better ’n I.”

  Gundhrold chuckled softly. “Now that should be recorded for posterity’s sake. Even the great Hawkness is willing to admit ignorance when it suits him.”

  Amos blustered some sort of a response, but the griffin’s gaze was fixed on Birdie and hers on him, and as she stared into his massive, golden eyes, everything else—both sights and sounds—seemed to fade.

  His voice dropped to a husky whisper, almost frightening in its soft intensity. “I will tell you what I
know, little Songkeeper, but I fear you will be sorely disappointed in what I have to say. Even I, a Protector, do not know much. The secrets of the Songkeepers were meant to be passed down from one to the next. Never before have we had to endure such a gap of years on our own.”

  He broke off, and Birdie used the silence to breathe a question. “Who was the last?”

  “The last Songkeeper was your grandmother. She entrusted you to me moments before she was slain by the Khelari on Carhartan’s orders. Moments before I was wounded. Moments before I lost you.”

  The words—so unexpected—fell with a dead weight on her ears. Hugging her knees to her chest, she searched the griffin’s eyes and saw the truth reflected there. The unbelievable, impossible, staggering truth. Somehow he had been acquainted with her family, tied to her life since the beginning …

  And now, finally, the pieces were beginning to shift into place.

  It felt as though the tunnel floor had suddenly dropped out from beneath her, and she was tumbling head over heels into the unknown.

  “I . . . I had a grandmother?”

  “She fell protecting you. She knew you were our only hope. Our little Songkeeper.”

  “Songkeeper.” Birdie let all the bitterness, fear, and anger of the past months imbue her words. “I don’t even know what that means. How can I not know what I am?”

  “Through no fault of your own, little one. How could you know, when there was no one to tell you?” His eyes closed and his voice assumed a rhythmic cadence until Birdie could scarce tell if he were speaking or singing. “It is said that long ago, before the stars burned or the sun awakened, the Master Singer wove the fabric of the world through the threads of a Song and bound the melody within a river that flowed throughout the entire land of Leira. It became a source of life and of healing to all the people and creatures who lived here, and the music sang in every fiber of their being.”