Chapter 45
45
T WO DAYS OF searching through the woods of Cloudreach had left Rhaif in a foul mood. He slouched in the bed of a hired wagon. The wain was driven by a Kethra’kai guide and drawn by a pair of foul-tempered muskmules. Pratik sat across from him, staring out at the misty forests spreading forever in all directions.
With each league they traveled, Rhaif felt his purse growing lighter, along with any hope of finding Shiya. For the thousandth time, he pictured her stepping out of the sailraft’s stern and vanishing through the clouds, her passage below marked by snapping branches and ringing bronze.
Afterward, Rhaif’s group had landed in Havensfayre, deflated their balloon, and bought the dockmaster’s silence with a gold march. It had taken nearly all of their remaining coins—even with Llyra pitching in—to hire the wagon, and two additional Kethra’kai scouts.
Rhaif glanced ahead to the pair of golden-haired tribesmen—his mother’s people—who rode bareback atop sleek horses. Llyra rode alongside them on a feisty mare. Earlier, he had questioned the guildmaster’s continuing allegiance to this hunt. Her answer was coldly practical: I cast my lot with you. There is no turning back now.
Still, they might all have to turn back soon.
If Rhaif’s group didn’t find Shiya in another day or so, they would run out of money. He pictured the scouts vanishing into the woods, probably their guide, too, along with those fecking muskmules.
He shook his head. “You’d think the bastards would offer a discount to someone who shares their blood.”
Pratik turned to him. “The tribesmen are still our best chance of finding Shiya’s trail.”
“That is, if there is a trail. She could’ve been battered to ruin or broken in half by the time she struck the ground.”
Pratik shrugged. “That may be true. It’s why I suggested we hire this wagon. If she’s damaged, we may need to cart her back to Havensfayre.”
The Chaaen still wore the princely garb of an imri tradesman, though he had shed his outer robe, leaving him in silks that were stained by the hard days of this trek. Pratik rested a map on his knee and continued to use a wayglass to chart their progress as best he could.
With only a rough idea of where Shiya had fallen—somewhere east of the Eitur—they had hundreds of leagues to search. Along the way, the scouts who accompanied them occasionally flushed out other tribesmen. Inquiries were made about a bronze woman marching or limping through the forest. Such a sight could not be easily missed, and word would have surely spread through the region’s Kethra’kai.
Still, no one had reported anything.
The silence left their group searching in an ever-widening spiral outward from the eastern shore of the Eitur’s green waters. Though at this point, Rhaif would swear they were simply being led in circles, with each pass draining more of their dwindling resources.
He frowned at Pratik and reminded the Chaaen of his claim aboard the sailraft. “Do you still think Shiya might be striking for the Shrouds of Dalal?ea?”
Pratik gave him another of his damnable shrugs. “I can only presume as much. Back aboard The Soaring Pony, I noticed how she started her slow turn from west to east as we passed above the Shrouds. Then when our sailraft sailed over the Eitur, we turned the skiff’s stern to those same cliffs in order to land at Havensfayre. It must have been too much for her, to be so close only to be dragged away again. So, she acted rashly.”
“Jumping out of a perfectly good sailraft, yes, I’d call that rash. ”
“If she landed safely enough to keep moving, I have to assume she will continue heading there. Then again, we must consider, even if she remains intact, she draws vigor from the sun.” His gaze swept up to the misty canopy. “There might not be enough sunlight here to sustain her progress.”
Rhaif pictured her frozen in place, a new statue decorating this forest, becoming home to nesting birds and growths of moss and lichen. Despite his frustration, worry for her iced through him. He felt foolish for such feelings. She was not a creature of flesh and blood. Still, he could not shake his apprehension for her.
What spyll has she wrought over me?
He focused on Pratik. “If you’re right, why would she be intent on reaching the Shrouds? There’s nothing up there but savage creatures, trackless jungles, and dark storms. Not even the Kethra’kai go up to that haunted place.”
“That’s not entirely true. They do ascend there, but only once. As part of a ritual. Pethryn Tol. Which means in the Elder tongue, listening heart. A journey that marks when a Kethra’kai child becomes an adult. They climb to the top of the Dalal?ea and spend one day there. Afterward, they must return with a stone, which they carry in a pouch.”
Pratik nodded toward the leather cord hanging from their guide’s neck. “And many don’t return,” the Chaaen added. “Those who do come back are considered chosen by the Elder gods to be part of the tribe.”
“Still, if the only things of value up there are some stray rocks, why would Shiya want to trek there?”
“Maybe it is because of those rocks.”
Rhaif scoffed. “Rocks? Truly?”
Pratik turned his gaze to the east. “I can only speculate…”
“Speculate what? Where do you think she might be going?”
Pratik faced him, his expression worried. “Atop the Shrouds lies a dark henge, a group of standing stones that some hieromonks believe to be as ancient as the Elder gods. Not even our oldest Klashean texts offer any insight. So, if I had to guess where our bronze mystery might be headed, it seems not farfetched that one mystery might be luring another.”
Rhaif sighed. “I suppose we’ll have to simply ask her if we ever find her.”
He turned to the forest. They were passing through a grove of silver poplars, following some path known only to their scouts. He saw no rut in the leaf litter, no stones stacked as a guidepost. He tried to imagine his mother living here as a young girl. She had been hired to work in Anvil, contracted for eight years, due to her talent in bridle-song. It was there she met Rhaif’s father. They both fell in love, dying together in each other’s arms during a feverish outbreak of Firepester. Rhaif had only been eleven at the time, orphaned to the streets, where he eventually found a new home, as harsh as it was, within the guild.
He tried to picture his mother with her fiery hair and skin so pale that it never tanned. He had a hard time remembering her face, the details fogged over by time. Still, what stuck with him best, as vivid as ever, was her sitting at his bedside, singing to him, brushing soft fingertips across his brow.
He closed his eyes, lulled by the rock of the wagon. He again heard the lilt of her lullaby, singing in Kethra, a lonesome pining for quiet woods set against the pound and bellows of Anvil.
As he drowsed, the old song seemed to grow brighter, as if polished by another—then he shattered back awake as a boot kicked the side of the wagon near his head.
“Up with ya!” Llyra shouted at him from atop her mare. She pointed ahead. “We got company.”
He stretched up straighter as the wagon bumped to a stop. Ahead, one of the scouts had dismounted and was talking to a cluster of pale figures with bows across their backs or leaning on spears.
Another group of Kethra’kai.
“Do they know anything?” Rhaif asked.
Llyra trotted her mare ahead, while calling back, “Let’s pray so! Or we may have to give up.”
Rhaif hopped out of the wagon with a groan, drawing Pratik with him. They followed the trampled trail of the scout’s horses. The leaf litter was already rising to fill those hoof tracks.
No wonder we’ve not picked up Shiya’s trail. These woods seem determined to hide their secrets.
As they rounded the pair of steeds, their scout bowed his head to one of the figures, speaking quickly in Kethra, too fast for Rhaif to follow. Rhaif studied the party gathered ahead. One tawny-haired fellow with broad shoulders held a wayglass in hand, turning in a slow circle. But his motion looked more like amusement than any attempt at taking a measurement.
Their scout was nudged aside by a length of cane. A white-haired woman strode toward their group, toward Rhaif. Her eyes—one blue, the other green—stared hard at him. She thumbed forward with her staff and stopped in front of him. He started to speak, but she lifted a hand to his face, silencing him.
He leaned back, not understanding what she wanted.
She reached to his brow. Warm fingertips brushed his hair aside. With her touch, his mother’s old song rose again, each note dancing brightly in his skull. Then it went silent again as her bony arm dropped. Still, he felt something drawn from him when those fingers fell away.
Her hand settled to her staff as she stared silently at him for a breath. “Dosh van Xan,” she said.
“Tall’yn hai.” He gave a bow of his head, matching the respect of the scout. “Thank you for the gift of your name.”
The elder leaned her head. “Hai ral mai kra’mery’l whyshen.”
Rhaif blinked, sure he had heard her wrong or deciphered her words badly: You echo with the whispers of the old gods.
Still, Pratik stiffened at her words, glancing hard at Rhaif, proving the Chaaen was far more fluent than he pretended.
Llyra frowned from atop her steed. “What did she say?”
Rhaif waved her question away. “Nothing important.”
Xan’s eyes narrowed at this lie, but she stared off into the forest and switched to Hálendiian. “You and I, we seek the same song on the wind.” She headed off, motioning him to follow. “We grow near to the one who calls.”
Rhaif swallowed, trying not to hope. He turned to Llyra. “I think she might have found Shiya’s trail.”
From atop her mare, Llyra stared as the elder joined her fellow Kethra’kai. “She had better—”
A distant rumble of thunder cut her off. It echoed ominously through the forest, coming from the west. Rhaif stared off into the bright mists in that direction. He saw no darkening of storm clouds. Still, the thunder continued, rolling over and over them.
“Firebombs,” Llyra explained.
Rhaif’s heart pounded harder.
Pratik had his wayglass out, studying its lodestone. “From the direction of Havensfayre.”
They all exchanged glances, knowing what that must mean.
Llyra voiced it aloud. “The king’s forces know we’re here.”
Xan stared back at them and confirmed the same. “They come for the singer.” As she turned away, she added something cryptic in Kethra. “Du’a ta.”
Llyra waved to the wagon. “Get your arses back aboard.”
Their guide had already nickered the two muskmules toward them. Rhaif and Pratik hopped into the wagon as it passed. The wain quickly gained speed as the Kethra’kai rushed ahead into the forests. Those on foot raced nearly as fast as the scout’s horses, their pale forms growing ghostly as they ran. One of the scouts pulled the elder, Xan, onto his horseback behind him. She whispered in the tribesman’s ear and pointed her cane.
They sped even faster.
The wagon bounced and rattled after the others. Rhaif gripped the seatback to hold his place. Pratik did the same, but the Chaaen ignored the forest and narrowed his eyes at Rhaif.
“What?” Rhaif snapped at him.
“The elder’s words. Whispers of the old gods…”
He shrugged, nearly losing his hold. “I don’t know what she’s talking about. The old woman’s probably addled by age.”
“And what about her final words, about the singer being hunted?” Pratik said. “Du’a ta.”
Rhaif frowned. “Like I said, the ravings of a madwoman.”
It certainly made no sense to him. Du’a ta meant both of them. He tried to picture another like Shiya. Impossible.
The path grew rougher, thrashing the wagon all about, silencing any further talk. Low branches whipped at their heads. It took all their concentration not to be thrown off the back of the bucking wagon.
Rhaif’s teeth rattled in his head as he clenched both hands to the seatback. Then a furious scolding rose from above. He glanced up to a swirl of small birds bursting from branches or hanging nests. They darted through the air in shades of copper and gold, flitting and diving at the noisy trespass below.
He knew those birds, even named a bronze mystery after them.
“Shiya…” he whispered.
The wagon suddenly slowed, throwing Rhaif and Pratik hard against the seat. The wain bounced and battered to a final stop. With the clattering wheels silenced, the thunder rose around them again, still booming, sounding even closer now.
Rhaif straightened from the wagon’s bed. A knot of Kethra’kai gathered near the bole of a large Reach alder. Its roots kneed out of the leafy mulch, covered in moss. As the tribesmen shuffled with whispers of amazement, Rhaif spotted a brighter glint buried at the tree’s base.
With his heart in his throat, Rhaif leaped from the wagon and rushed forward. He joined Llyra as she slipped out of her saddle. Pratik followed. They all pushed through the Kethra’kai.
Pratik grabbed Rhaif’s arm as the sight opened. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
A bronze figure lay on her side, half buried in leaves. Glassy eyes stared straight back at him, dull and dead. A leg lay crooked, bent the wrong way.
No, no, no…
Rhaif rushed forward. “Shiya…”
Xan was already there, down on her knees, her palms hovering over the top of Shiya’s crown of bronze hair.
Rhaif stared up, as if raising his face in supplication to the gods. Instead, he studied the fan of branches, leafed in alder gold, climbing up into the clouds. He pictured Shiya plummeting through those limbs, but it looked like not a leaf or twig had been disturbed up there.
The cold coal in his heart warmed.
She hadn’t fallen here.
He turned to the forest, only now noting a path of broken bushes and bent branches. He pictured Shiya stumbling through there, grabbing at those limbs to keep moving—until finally succumbing to her injuries.
Pratik stood nearby, wayglass in hand. He wore a deep frown and caught where Rhaif was looking. The Chaaen drew nearer.
“I was wrong,” Pratik said. “Her path was not toward the cliffs of the Shrouds. She was heading away from them.”
Llyra had her arms crossed. “No wonder we couldn’t find her.”
“Then where was she going?” Rhaif asked.
Pratik turned to the forest. His gaze followed where she seemed to have been headed. Thunder rumbled from over there, lit by bursts of light. Each blast brightened the fog, enough to reveal a greenish cast to those mists.
“She was trying to reach the Eitur,” Pratik said.
“Why?” Llyra asked.
“Maybe she was trying to rejoin us,” Rhaif offered, pain lancing through him as he imagined her struggle to return to his side.
Pratik dispelled such romanticism. “Her damage may have been too severe, draining her vigor too quickly. If so, she might have sought to stoke the fires inside her with the heat of the sun before resuming her trek.”
Llyra glowered at her broken form. “And now she is gone forever.”
“No,” Xan said, still warming her palms over the cold bronze. “She still sings, faint though it be.”
Despite Shiya’s glassy eyes and broken form, Rhaif realized Xan must be right. How else could the elder have led them here? The embers of hope inside him warmed brighter.
Xan turned to them. “We must get her into your wagon. Quickly now.”
Rhaif balked, afraid to move her.
Then a shattering boom drew their attention toward the lake. A burst of fire bloomed, bright enough to dazzle the eyes before wafting out. The concussion rattled leaves all around and blew the mists toward them, shredding the fog.
Rhaif caught a distant shine of emerald waters before the mists closed again.
Xan pointed her cane at the wagon. “We have no more time.”
Her words proved true as the clouds darkened to the west. A massive storm cloud rolled off the poisonous lake and swept high over them. The forests dimmed all around. The enormity of it felt like a great weight pressing down on them.
But it wasn’t a storm cloud that cast such a mighty shadow.
With her face craned up, Llyra identified what hung over the forest. “A warship…”
W RYTH RUSHED ACROSS the forecastle toward the wheel of the Pywll. “Stop!” he shouted to both the pilotman and the warship’s commander, a boulder-shouldered Vyrllian named Brask hy Laar.
The commander’s crimson face turned to Wryth with a deep scowl. “Why? We have orders to sweep to the end of the lake, then close our side of the noose toward Havensfayre’s mooring field.”
“Unless instructed otherwise,” Wryth reminded him firmly. “Liege General Haddan has given me leeway to pursue an artifact stolen from the kingdom, a weapon of great power.”
Brask gave an exasperated shake of his head, but he waved to the pilotman. “Do as he says. Bring us to a stop.”
With a sharp nod, the pilotman called out orders, passing the command around the forecastle. In moments, the ship’s flashburn forges roared outside, fighting their momentum forward.
Brask turned to Wryth. “How do you hope to find anything down in that misty sea?”
Wryth lifted what he held. “With this.”
In his palms, he cradled a crystal orb. Skerren had fabricated this instrument back at the Shrivenkeep, designed specifically for this journey. The globe of polished crystal was filled with heavy oil. Pinned and suspended within it was a ring of tiny lodestones, each wrapped by a coil of copper threading. He pictured a larger version of a similar construction. It enshrined the bronze bust back at the Shrivenkeep. Each lodestone was sensitive to the emanations given off by such holy artifacts.
Unfortunately, Skerren’s smaller design required it to be close to the source before its lodestones could respond. While en route here, Wryth had been using the tool like a wayglass, trying to discern any flow of energies in the area. It was only once they neared Eitur’s eastern shores that a few of the lodestones had begun to shiver in the oil, disturbed by unseen winds. As they continued along, the slivers slowly swung and settled, pointing east of the Eitur, just as Skerren’s earlier calculations had assessed.
Wryth’s grip tightened on the orb, his heart pounding.
Then, just a moment ago, something had changed. All the lodestones had unsnapped from their positions and spun dizzily in place. He showed the same to Brask. Wryth held the orb with the ring of copper-wrapped stones positioned horizontally with the ground.
“I was following a trail,” Wryth said, “when I lost the signal, but watch…”
He rolled the globe until the ring of lodestones was perpendicular to the forest. As he rotated it, the tiny slivers halted their lazy spin and snapped into position again, all the slivers pointing down. He stared across the orb at the dawning awareness in Brask’s crimson face. Even Pywll ’s commander understood the implication.
“The weapon is below us,” Brask mumbled.
“It must be ours,” Wryth added. “Even if it means burning down this entire forest.”