A Bird of Sorrow

by Shea Godfrey

  It had been a small and yet oddly heavy book, written in the runes of the Fox People. It was a book meant for travel, the writing faded and small upon the pages. She would have to translate it, and her eyes would not allow it yet. She had dragged the remains of Radha’s trunk onto the balcony, and thrown the pieces over the rail and into the courtyard, cursing as she did so.

  She had nowhere to go for information, and if Darry did not return soon, her body would begin to slow, and show the strain. Jessa knew what would come after that, and she had no intention of watching her lover’s heart fail and her body waste away.

  “Akasha.” She leaned down and kissed the back of Darry’s hand.

  She was fighting against her next move, for she had no idea what the repercussions might be. She was afraid it might damage the fragile hold Darry still had upon the world, though she wasn’t sure how. She could think of no other option, in the end, and so the argument in her head was over rather quickly.

  She kissed Darry’s hand a second time, stood up, and walked to the bureau against the far wall. It had been cleared of everything but Radha’s bowl, and the dagger she had earned on that dark day so long ago, its dusted silver blade held tight in its stag bone handle. She tied Radha’s scarf about her waist and set her hands upon the top of the bureau. The water began to swirl in response to her presence, and she called upon her powers of sight.

  She took a cleansing breath, closed her eyes, and spoke the runes.

  It was more of a song, really, as she picked up the knife and held her left arm above the bowl. Her right hand was steady and certain as she pierced the skin upon the inside of her left forearm and drew the deadly blade downward. Her blood ran into the waters and the bowl began to shake as Jessa closed her eyes and capped the spell, the blade stabbed in the smooth wood of the bureau with passion.

  Jessa opened her eyes, and the flames of the bonfire raged, the heat they gave off a match to the sound of their hunger as they devoured the great pile of wood.

  The night sky was as black as tar, the stars bright and denser than she had seen them in some time. She could smell the earth, and the oak and pine of the wood that burned, and it smelled familiar. There were runes in the flames, and as she walked about the circle of stones that kept the fire from spreading, she found what she was looking for.

  Neela de Hahvay stood in the orange and yellow glow and watched her, Neela’s dark eyes clear and focused.

  Jessa stopped, and the intense heat of the fire moved through her clothes.

  “Did you think I would not answer your call?” Neela asked.

  Her heavy black hair was tied back and it was streaked with gray. She was older than when Jessa had last seen her, but she was still beautiful and fit. Her skin was dark from the sun and the wrinkles upon the edges of her eyes looked as if they belonged there.

  “Was this you?” Jessa demanded, feeling her terrible rage like the weight of a sword in her hand.

  Neela’s eyes narrowed. “Was what me?”

  “Do you seek to take what is mine?”

  Neela was silent for a time. “And if you are right, what will you do to stop me?”

  Jessa lifted her hands out, just a bit from her sides. Witchlight moved between her fingers, sparks hissing and falling to the dirt at her feet. “Whatever I need to.”

  “If you kill me, my daughter, you might never be.”

  “If she is gone, I do not care.”

  Neela’s smile was filled with unexpected pleasure. “So it worked.”

  Jessa threw her left hand out and a ball of silver witchlight passed through the outer flames and exploded in the heart of the bonfire. Neela turned her head against it as she was showered with streamers of flames and burning debris. “You had your chance,” Jessa warned her. “You had years and years with her, if the sages speak the truth. I am sorry it did not end well for you, I truly am. But I will not be you. And I will not allow you to have such power over her.”

  “What you fear is not possible,” Neela said in a careful voice.

  “My lover was beside me one moment, and in the next? Her spirit is gone. Do not tell me what is and is not possible. I have never known such a spell.”

  Neela stepped along the stones, coming closer. “What do you know of the Cha-Diah, my daughter?” Her tone was somewhat scolding. “You have squandered your time, if you do not see what they truly are. What she truly is.”

  Jessa was about to speak but she pulled her words back, her tongue bitter with silence.

  “They are the children of the gods.”

  “That time has passed. Do not burden me with your legends and your stories. She is flesh and blood. I have tended her wounds, and I have held her while she wept,” Jessa answered with quiet passion.

  “That may well be,” Neela replied with conviction. “But the Fox People were born of the Dog Star Gods, enamored of the creatures of the forest. There were those that stepped from their gusty steeds of summer winds and wandered free within the ancient forest of Abatmarle, beyond the northernmost plains. They found fire beneath the cold light of a Winter Solstice, and they sang the songs that have since been lost. And their music drew the creatures from the forest into the warmth of their light.” Neela was close enough for Jessa to touch, if she so desired, and Jessa could see the true age of her now. She was perhaps as old as Radha, though she wore it well, and her hair was grayer than Jessa had first thought.

  “And so they wove their majik together with that of the forest creatures, for the creatures of the Abatmarle were enamored, as well. And from that union came the Cha-Diah majik and the Fox People.” Neela’s eyes flared like stars in the firelight. “It was not my spell that took your love, my daughter.” Tears slipped down Neela’s cheeks. “I had my chance, you are right. And I took it!” Neela spoke fiercely, her fists grabbing at the air. “And I held on until she was gone. Too soon, she was gone, and I was left with nothing but memories, and my duty to our people.”

  Jessa backtracked along Neela’s words as the witchlight faded from her hands. “If it was not your spell, than whose was it?”

  Neela smiled briefly and turned back to the fire. “It was Tannen’s spell.”

  Jessa considered Neela’s words, and after a time, she tipped her head back and looked to the stars. The storm of her rage lessened beneath the heat of the bonfire, though it did nothing to ease her fear. “My father murdered my mother,” she whispered, looking a bit to the left and finding the stars she sought. “He kept me a prisoner…until he could sell me for the right price. I know nothing of our people, Neela de Havay, save for stories and songs.”

  Jessa understood as she spoke the words, that aside from her beloved Radha, stories and songs were, in fact, all she really had. Her people were but a dream. When Jessa heard Neela approach, she took a half step back in caution and faced her.

  Neela’s expression was filled with both compassion and sorrow. “If you think that your words do not fill my heart with pain, then you are wrong. Come home to your blood, my daughter. You must both come home. Let us heal what the world beyond the grass has done to you.”

  “She is not of the Fox People.”

  “She is now,” Neela replied with a knowing smile. “Do you not understand that? She is the descendant of Tannen Ahru. Your love is the progeny of the gods.”

  It was Jessa’s turn to smile. “My love worships the god Gamar, and I would never see her swayed from her faith. The Dog Star gods have no real power, for they have no followers.” Jessa remembered Darry’s words to her. “She is the daughter of wayfaring kings, and the Wild Men of the Taurus Mountains, the children of the Olden Men…who cut their homes from the mountaintops and walked with eagles.”

  Neela’s eyes brightened and she laughed. “You are as stubborn as I am.”

  “That does not make me wrong in what I say.”

  “Perhaps not in everything, but if the Dog Star gods have no power, then who is your lover? Where does her majik come from? Her strength, and the taste of her
kiss?”

  “Where does yours come from?” Jessa replied in kind. “Does it make you a god?”

  Neela’s expression was slightly defiant. “No, but my blood cannot be traced back to the Vhaelin. Hers can be traced back, my daughter, to the gods of the stars themselves.”

  “Tannen’s spell.” Jessa changed the subject completely, for she could feel her own spell fading. “Where did it take her?”

  “Exactly where you think it did,” Neela answered without argument. “Your love walks the Great Loom, though for what greater purpose, Tannen would not say…She held her secrets close, and her pain even closer.”

  Jessa stepped away from her and cast her gaze into the darkness above, the heat of the fire against her back. A star shot across the night sky and Jessa followed its path.

  “From the moment I knew she was gone from me,” Neela told her in a quiet voice, “I would have given anything to just lie with her, just once more, and to feel the heat and strength of her body against mine.”

  Jessa glanced over her shoulder and Neela’s eyes were closed.

  “To taste the wildness of her majik, and the sweetness of her spirit upon my lips. To feel her love pass into my body and make my heart whole again.” Neela met her eyes. “I would give up our thread for that, with no regrets.”

  “Where is she in all of this? Tannen Ahru.”

  “My daughter, who do you think walks the Great Loom with your lover?”

  Jessa opened her eyes.

  She was sitting on the rug before the bureau, leaning on her left arm. The light was strange as her focus shifted and she looked at the skin of her forearm, which held no wound. The skin was bright and slightly swollen, and though she could see where she had drawn the blade across her flesh, there was no cut.

  “Jessa?”

  Jessa lifted her face at the quiet voice, only to find Bentley crouched low upon his heels, a fair distance away from her. His eyes were intense, but they held no fear.

  “I’m all right,” she said softly.

  “Did it work?” he asked, his shoulders easing a bit.

  Jessa’s exhaustion was extreme, and much deeper than she thought it would be. “I was looking for information.”

  “Did you find it?”

  “I’m not sure,” she answered. Her eyes drifted to his hands where he held a tightly folded piece of parchment. “It was not…what I thought it would be.”

  “We have word from Blackstone.” Bentley stood up smoothly, walked across the distance between them, and lifted her with an easy strength. He set her on her feet and grinned down at her. “Hello, my friend.”

  “Hello.”

  “Come and sit,” Bentley ordered, and walked her to the chair beside the bed. Jessa sat down and was grateful, watching as Bentley leaned over the bed and fussed with a curl of Darry’s hair before her kissed her forehead. He turned about and handed her the missive. “It bears Emmalyn’s seal, not Jacob’s. Lucas told me it was hand delivered, in a book.”

  Jessa looked up sharply, about to break the seal.

  “I know,” Bentley replied, worried. “This is the first time we’ve seen him since we arrived. There was a note inside, and it was signed by a man named Alin Sol, a cousin to Kingston.”

  “Your friend from the Kingsmen, recently married?” Jessa asked. “The archer from the balcony, Captain Sol?”

  Bentley nodded. “Good memory, yes. Whatever it is, it is late in getting here.”

  Jessa broke the seal and unfolded the parchment.

  “It’s in Emmalyn’s hand,” Jessa said absently and then read aloud. “As I write this, it is the twenty-fourth eve of the eighth month of Attia’s Spear. I believe you are discovered. Depart with all haste.” Jessa glanced up as her chest tightened. “A platoon of men has been dispatched by Mason Jefs, allied to Malcolm. They proceed north along the Raven’s Run. You have a fortnight at best from this date. Leave no one behind, for I believe no mercy will be shown. Go north to the Sommes Pass and Gillencoe, then east to Cooley’s Blue Drink. Within the village of Habishton, upon the northernmost edge, there is a printer of books. You shall be expected and further word will await you.” Jessa’s shoulders fell as Bentley knelt beside her chair, his hand upon the armrest.

  “If you depart for lands unknown…know that I am Emmalyn Jillaine Marget Durand, and I stand for you all. The future throne of Arravan stands for you. I love you both. I love you all. Do not give up hope that you may yet return home.”

  “It is the fourth day of the ninth,” Bentley said beneath his breath. “Bloody hell.”

  Jessa’s eyes went back over the note as Bentley rose up and walked down the length of the bed. The handwriting was bold and clean, and Emmalyn’s words were certain. “Bentley?”

  “We’re not moving Darry, and we cannot leave Master Kenna and his family to face Mason’s men on their own. I have seen them, and I have seen him in action. And even if we thought it best to run, we’re out of time.”

  “Where is the book?”

  Bentley frowned. “Book?”

  “The book this was delivered in.”

  Bentley stepped quickly to the table and grabbed the small book from the top of the nearest stack. He held it out as he neared and she took it. “Why?”

  Jessa looked at the title and then back to Emmalyn’s letter. She considered all that she knew of Emmalyn, her first true friend and Darry’s beloved and trusted sister. The woman who had risked her standing to provide them an escape, and protection. She thought of Jacob’s fear and their clandestine meeting in the room behind the stacks in the Queen’s Library, and how they shook hands in friendship. He had called her sister, and he had meant it. He had accepted the truth of things, though he had hoped against it all.

  “I believe you’re right, and this arrived much later than intended,” Jessa explained. “But I believe it was meant to arrive in the hands of our messenger.”

  “Why? Why now?”

  Jessa held up the book. “Because the book is part of Emmalyn’s message.”

  “Which is?”

  “It is the diary of Prince Janus Anton.”

  “The old King of Senegal?” Bentley asked. “That was two hundred years ago.”

  “Yes,” Jessa answered. “But before he was the old King of Senegal, he was a second son. When he discovered that his older brother had committed treason, he overthrew him for the crown and changed the line of succession. He became the new heir to the Bird of Paradise Throne.” Jessa held up Emmalyn’s letter and gave it a shake. “I am Emmalyn Jillaine Marget Durand, and I stand for you all. The future throne of Arravan stands for you.”

  Bentley considered what she said and then took the book, looking at it more closely.

  Jessa stood and her hand tightened upon the parchment as she turned to the bed.

  Darry still lay sleeping, if indeed that was what it was. Her expression was peaceful and her hair was scattered across the pillow. Her face was soft and young looking, her lashes long with her eyes closed, hiding their brilliance from the world around her. The scars along her right jaw were not yet natural to her, and yet they seemed to belong, and Jessa could almost feel them beneath the touch of her hand, smooth and yet pronounced beneath her fingertips. When she reached out with her senses, Jessa could feel her lover’s heartbeat.

  “But that would mean…” Bentley’s voice trailed off.

  “Emmalyn means to overthrow Malcolm for the Blackwood Throne.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Darry felt the emotions rush through her, soaking into her chest and bleeding through her body. In a rush of colors, she heard a name called out in a terrible cry of grief. She reached back, but she was too late. The emotion was gone, replaced by others.

  She felt Tannen’s breath against her face. “Listen…”

  Tannen looked across the flames of the fire and stared at Enoch.

  He was the holiest of the Holy Men, and some of the children had told her that he was nearly a thousand years old. Tannen did
not believe it, but he had always been there, and her mother had known Enoch since she was a baby, so who was to say, really, how old he might be. Maybe he was. Maybe he had been sneaking around the woods since the world was born. He’d told her that he talked with the gods on Flat Top Mountain, and when the mornings were cold, they would smoke jumper weed in their pipes and drink karrem. It did not sound like a good idea to smoke jumper weed on the top of a mountain, but maybe they could fly. She didn’t know.

  His face was wrinkly and he always had whiskers. His hair was white and gray and black, and it was never combed. It looked like it should, she supposed. His robes smelled like pine trees and cabbage, mostly, though once in a while they would smell like soap and rosemary leaves. Sometimes he would have a woman with him for a time, but she never stayed for very long, and she didn’t say much. She giggled a lot and she would hum. She was polite, though, and she was a good cook.

  Enoch had very skinny ankles. She did not see how he could be climbing to the top of the sacred mountain all the time. He should have fallen and been crushed by now. She was glad he hadn’t, though, for she liked him, and Hashiki did, too.

  “You should just ask your question,” Enoch said and pulled the pipe from his mouth. Smoke swirled about his hair and he squinted his hazel and brown eyes.

  “Why did you not take the Shou-ah?”

  Enoch smiled at her and pointed the mouthpiece of his pipe in her direction. It was dented with teeth marks. He shook it about for a few moments and then put it back in his mouth. “Why do you ask?”

  Tannen narrowed her eyes at him. “Does it make you more powerful?”

  “Do you wish to be more powerful?”

  Tannen thought about his question before she answered. “I don’t know what that really means, I guess. But everyone seems to think it is a good thing to have, or to be.”