Chapter 49
49
R HAIF TRAILED BEHIND Shiya as she limped down the length of the copper-lined tunnel. Where her bronze feet stepped, the metal glowed briefly brighter, then darkened as her toes lifted away. She also grazed her fingertips along one wall, leaving a trail of brightness in their wake.
The air of the tunnel smelled with the verve of a lightning storm.
Upon Xan’s insistence, Shiya led them. Still, Rhaif kept close to her back, ready to support Shiya if she should weaken or stumble. They had been trekking through the tunnel for over a bell, maybe longer, with no end in sight. But at least Shiya had not faltered so far.
Similar to the singing of the Kethra’kai woman, the alchymy of this strange metal infused some strength into her, but it appeared to be only enough to keep her moving and little else.
She still had not spoken a word.
Rhaif searched around him, ignoring the murmurs from the group of Hálendiians behind him. He examined the circular tunnel, testing the metal with his own fingers, running his tips over the seamless surface.
Not even a single rivet or nail.
He looked up. The arch of the roof rose higher than he could reach, and not even Shiya could extend her long arms to touch both sides. He squinted at the walls, recognizing when last he had seen such strange metal.
In the mines of Chalk.
He remembered where he had discovered Shiya. It had been in an egg of the same seamless copper, imbedded in the rock deep underground. He pictured her as he had found her then, standing in a glass alcove, surrounded by a web of copper piping and glass tubes bubbling with a golden elixir. She had been a perfect sculptural beauty, a sleeping goddess of bronze.
He looked at her now, with a crooked leg and the dents and scratches across her surface. Maybe you should have never left your egg. This world is too harsh for even a woman made of metal.
He sighed.
Pratik and Llyra followed behind him. The Chaaen looked about with wonder. Llyra simply kept her gaze fixed on Shiya’s bronze form. With each flare of light from the floor, the guildmaster’s eyes shone with avarice and calculation.
I’ll have to watch her closely from here.
Next to her, Pratik maintained his own particular fascination—but not only with Shiya. He kept glancing back, past the clutch of Kethra’kai surrounding Xan, to the group of Hálendiians at the back, who were stalked by a large vargr.
Rhaif knew who the Chaaen focused upon back there. In truth, he was equally intrigued by the mystery of the young woman, a girl of maybe fourteen or fifteen, plainly talented with a unique bridle-song. He remembered Xan’s words about who the king’s legion was looking for in Cloudreach.
Singers.
Du’a ta.
Which meant both of them.
He gazed from Shiya back to the one named Nyx.
Two singers— one of bronze, one of flesh —yet, he sensed a connection between them. But how could that be? One was as ancient as these lands, the other only a youth.
A shout from the rear called forward. “Can we stop for a few breaths?”
Rhaif searched back and identified the oldest among the Hálendiians, with ruddy hair tied in a tail, his cheeks and chin stubbled darkly. From the formal cadence of his speech and his slight air of authority, Rhaif suspected he might be a scholar.
The man waved to the young singer. In the lamplight of the Kethra’kai scouts, her face was pale. She leaned on the arm of a robust young man with bright red cheeks and an ax on his back. The girl was close to the point of collapse. Unlike Shiya, the young woman drew no strength from the tunnel here.
Xan lifted her staff and called them all to a stop. The group settled and slid down the curved copper to rest. The scholarly Hálendiian came forward with a young man who carried a bow and two quivers on his back. They examined Shiya as she stood with her feet atop glowing pools, a palm against a shining spot on the wall.
Rhaif tried to block them from approaching too close.
Xan waved her staff as she came with them. “Let them pass, Rhaif. They have earned the right. This is Alchymist Frell hy Mhlaghifor. And Kanthe ry Massif.”
Both Pratik and Llyra glanced sharply to the lad.
“The prince of Hálendii?” the Chaaen asked.
“Toranth’s second son,” Llyra confirmed, her eyes narrowing, plainly adding this to her calculations. “I see the resemblance now.”
Further introductions were made all around. Rhaif learned the rotund guardian at Nyx’s side was Jace, a journeyman from the Cloistery. The vargr was Aamon. Stories were shared. From his side, a tale of the discovery in a mine and a harried flight across the width of the Crown. From them, an account of a prophecy of doom and magick tied to Myr bats.
Rhaif found their story preposterous, but then again, he was traipsing about with a living statue. So, who am I to scoff? He also learned of Nyx’s connection to the story of the Forsworn Knight, who apparently still lived.
Rhaif’s head spun with this avalanche of information, sensing the wheel of history turning, possibly crushing over them. As he struggled to absorb all of this, he allowed the others to examine Shiya more closely. She had returned to a statuesque stillness, sapping what strength she could from the tunnel.
Xan ended up beside Rhaif. She leaned on her staff, studying him with her head slightly turned. She reached again to his face, like she had when they’d first met. Her fingers touched his cheek, and his mother’s lullaby tinkled briefly before fading as her hand lowered.
“You have Kethra’kai blood in you,” she said. “You whisper with our old songs.”
He shrugged. “My mother was from Cloudreach. She died when I was a boy.”
“Ah, your heart sings with your love for her, stirred by a touch of bridle-song in you.”
He shook his head. “I have no such talent.”
Xan glanced to Shiya. “You could not be tied to her if you did not. I believe you would not have found her in the darkness without it.”
“You mean back at the mines? No, it was a lodestone in a wayglass that pointed the path to her.”
“Hmm, yes, those stones—sensitive to shifts of magnes energies—do stir to such songs.”
Rhaif wondered if this detail might explain how the legion’s forces had been tracking them.
Frell overheard this, turning from his study of Shiya. “Fascinating. There is an alchymist at Kepenhill who discovered the tiniest bits of lodestone in the brains of birds. He believed it helps guide their paths as they voyage over the turn of seasons. He even suspected we might have the same.”
Pratik nodded with his arms folded. “Back at the House of Wisdom, this has been confirmed.”
The two alchymists began chatting together, comparing studies and theories. Rhaif tuned them out. He pictured Shiya’s song shivering and turning bits of iron in his own brain, pointing them all toward her.
Xan remained with Rhaif, studying him. “Mayhap that is what drew you through the darkness to her—a reflection of the talent inside you—far more than any wayglass.”
He shrugged again.
In the end, what does it matter?
Xan cocked her head, her eyes narrowed. “May I ask the name of your mother, she who was from Cloudreach?”
Rhaif lowered his chin, reluctant to do so. His mother had told him there was power in names, a truth buried in every syllable. He remained possessive of hers, having never even told Llyra. He kept his mother’s name close to his heart, an ember of his past that was his alone.
Still, Xan deserved an answer. Rhaif looked at the elder. “My mother… her name was Cynth… Cynth hy Albar, after taking my father’s name.”
Xan stiffened. Several of the women also stirred and stared at him, their eyes bright, reflecting the lamplight.
“What’s wrong?” Rhaif asked.
Xan covered her mouth.
“I don’t understand,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean—”
“It cannot be,” Xan said, gazing harder at him, tears welling.
The simple majesty that had always seemed to be cloaked about her fell from her shoulders, leaving only an old woman, her face pained with grief.
Rhaif sensed the depth of her distress. “Did you know her?”
Xan’s voice cracked with misery. “She… She was my granddaughter.”
Rhaif blinked in disbelief, falling back a step. He again felt the weight of history crushing over him.
“It’s been so long,” Xan mumbled, sounding lost. A tear rolled down her cheek. “But I see her now… in your face, in your memory of her song.”
She turned away, clearly ashamed for not recognizing this sooner. Rhaif crossed over and hugged her, something he would never have done, but he sensed she needed his warmth to survive this moment.
Xan trembled in his arms. “She was so wild, that one. My daughter could barely keep her from running off at every new wonder around her.”
Rhaif tried to picture his mother so young.
“Over time, she grew ever more willful and headstrong. When she came of age for her Pethryn Tol, she refused the rite, denying any desire to join the tribe. Instead, she wanted to see the world beyond the forest, not be trapped in these woods forever.”
Now, that did sound like his mother.
Is that how she ended up in Guld’guhl?
Xan freed herself from his arms and placed a palm over his heart. “And now… now she has returned.”
The old woman’s cheeks ran with tears, her shoulders shook, both in happiness and sorrow. The other Kethra’kai gathered and drew her among them, leaving Rhaif feeling hollow.
Llyra joined him. “Are you all right?”
He glanced to her, reading a rare compassion in her eyes. “I… I don’t know.”
Llyra took his hand, squeezing it. “Our histories have a way of refusing to remain in the past.”
He sensed there was a more personal meaning behind her statement. Curiosity helped firm his unsteadiness. He started to inquire, but she let go of his hand, clearly having drained the meager reserves of her sympathy.
“We should keep going,” Llyra said. “We can’t stay down here forever.”
Still, it took another half-bell before the group forged on, following Shiya’s glowing footsteps. All the revelations in this accursed tunnel kept everyone silent, or maybe it was simply fatigue. Likely both.
Pratik strode next to Rhaif, his gaze on the bronze mystery before him.
The Chaaen’s attention reminded Rhaif of a question he had nearly forgotten. He remembered Xan whispering into Pratik’s ear back on the trundling wagon. Rhaif glanced over to the elder, to a woman who might be his great-grandmother.
“What did Xan tell you back in the wagon?” Rhaif asked Pratik. “She whispered something in your ear.”
Pratik sighed and nodded to the bronze woman striding ahead of them. “She said Shiya carries the spirit of an old god inside her, one who has not yet fully settled.”
Rhaif frowned. He knew little about gods, cared even less. All he knew about the old gods was that they had roamed the Urth long ago, during the Pantha re Gaas, the Forsaken Ages. They were beings of great power and savage natures, both beauteous in their strength and merciless in their rages.
He tried to imagine such a god inside Shiya, a woman who had only shown grace and a quiet tenderness.
I don’t believe it.
Still, he pictured the copper egg where he had found her, blasted and cracked open. He remembered her strength as she forged a path through The Soaring Pony, tossing people aside. According to legend, the end of the Pantha re Gaas came when the kingdom’s pantheon captured and subdued the old gods, imprisoning them for their cruelties deep under the world.
He ran his fingers along the tunnel’s copper, shivering at the power he sensed running through the metal, like a hidden storm.
Pratik noted his attention and quoted Xan: “‘An even more ancient root, one belonging to the old gods.’”
Rhaif lowered his hand and stared past Shiya into the darkness stretching ahead. Xan claimed this tunnel led to the cliffs of the Shrouds, to Shiya’s home. If that was true, then they could be marching toward the cold hearths of those hard gods.
His legs slowed.
Maybe we should not go knocking on their door.
A FTER ANOTHER TWO bells, Nyx spotted a brightness far down the tunnel. She leaned a palm on Aamon’s shoulder to help hold her up and keep moving.
At last…
The group’s pace increased, drawn to the light. Still, despite her exhaustion, she feared returning to the sky and forest. Buried in this tunnel, she had felt a moment of respite from the terrors above, but she knew they couldn’t hide down here forever.
The light grew before them, becoming blinding after the dim glow of their two lamps. Still, by the time the group neared it, her eyes had grown accustomed to the misty glare. The last bit of the tunnel lost its smooth run and became crimped and twisted. The exit looked like it had been shredded open, turning its torn metal edges into coppery fangs.
When they reached the end, each member crossed through those jagged teeth with care, having to duck and twist to pass. Finally, they all stumbled out through a nest of mossy boulders, scribed with lichen. The tunnel’s mouth was so hidden that it could be easily missed, like a copper viper buried in rocks.
They climbed free and faced what lay before them.
The world ended a short distance ahead, blocked by sheer black cliffs. Low clouds rolled against that dark bulwark, like waves against a rocky shore.
Nyx craned her neck, trying to pierce those mists to catch a glimpse of what lay above. The Shrouds of Dalal?ea. Back at the Cloistery, she had learned about those storm-plagued highlands—or at least the little that was truly known about them. Only the foolhardy dared venture up there, and most never returned. Those that did came back with fantastical tales of monsters and dreadful beasts who haunted its dense jungles.
Xan led them all toward the boulder-strewn foot of those cliffs. As they drew nearer, Nyx noted steps carved up its face, climbing and vanishing into the clouds.
Frell spotted the same. “Those must be the stairs used by the Kethra’kai to ascend during the ritual of Pethryn Tol. ”
Nyx knew about that ceremony. She pictured young tribe members climbing that precarious path, intent to prove themselves worthy of their place here in the forest. Like most trespassers, many never came back.
Jace whispered, “Are we supposed to go up there?”
“Maybe not us,” Nyx said.
She saw how the bronze woman, though clearly still weak, marched with intent toward the cliffs.
As they followed, a stiff wind blew and parted the roll of mists ahead. Bright sunlight pierced the cloud layer, splaying down the rock face, revealing every crevice and crack in the stone.
Nyx shaded her eyes against that brilliance. Far overhead, a fiery glint reflected the sunlight. The dark stairs led up to it and ended there. She glanced back to the fanged mouth of the tunnel, then up to the coppery shine on the cliff face.
The tunnel continues up there…
She pictured that long copper tube being ripped in half by whatever cataclysm had cleaved these highlands and lifted those cliffs high. Then the mists closed again, erasing the view. The world felt far darker afterward.
As they continued on, the tumble of boulders revealed themselves to be crude homes, cut with tiny windows and stacked like blocks up the cliff face. Tiny cairns of stones on the roofs looked to be little chimneys. She also noted the dark mouths of caves dotting the various levels, suggesting this small outpost dug as much into the rock wall as was piled outside it.
The place looked deserted. She imagined it must be where the Kethra’kai gathered prior to the ritual of Pethryn Tol. She pictured families sheltering here, praying to their gods for their loved one’s safe return, huddled around the hearths inside.
The stairs climbed out from this cluster and ascended the wall.
Xan drew them toward the base of those steps, where an archway of stone blocks framed the way up. The two legs of the arch leaned against one another, perfectly balanced, forming a point at the top.
As they gathered there, Shiya tried to continue, but Rhaif stopped her with a touch on her arm. She obeyed him, or maybe she recognized that she needed to gather her strength before beginning that long climb.
Xan took up a post under the arch.
Jace leaned toward Nyx and voiced his earlier concern. “Surely we’re not going up there.”
Xan heard him. “No.” Her gaze fixed on Jace, then swept across the group. “It’s death to climb these sacred stairs. Only those with the gift of bridle-song have any hope of returning.”
Jace sighed with relief. “Thank the Mother…”
Kanthe looked as pleased. “Then we can hole up down here while we wait. Try to signal the Sparrowhawk. ” He shifted his bow off his shoulder. “Hopefully all of the legion’s eyes are still on Havensfayre and not looking this way.”
Nyx touched the prince’s arm, warning him to hold off for now.
Xan continued, “The Kethra’kai will assist Shiya during the last steps of her journey. But there are three among you who are welcome to come, who are perhaps fated to this path. Three who bear the gift of bridle-song.”
Rhaif pushed forward. “If Shiya is going up there, so am I. I didn’t cross half the Crown to abandon her here. And as you said, there is some whisper of bridle-song in me.”
Xan bowed her head in gratitude. When the elder lifted her eyes again, her gaze fell upon Nyx. Nyx had been expecting as much and stepped forward.
Both Jace and Kanthe grabbed her arms on either side.
Jace firmed his grip. “I won’t let you go.”
Kanthe agreed. “If I let anything happen to you, a certain knight will have my head. And I have enough people trying to kill me.”
She didn’t have to fight herself free. Aamon stepped around them, perhaps sensing her desire, and bared his teeth at the two. They quickly let her go.
She silently thanked them both with a touch. “This is my path. You both know it.”
She read the reluctant knowledge in their faces.
“Then we’ll go, too,” Jace insisted, straightening and glancing to Kanthe for support.
Nyx shook her head. She trusted Xan’s knowledge and warning. “That’s neither of your paths.”
“Then just come back,” Jace pleaded. “You have to come back.”
Kanthe sighed and glanced at the stone homes. “We’ll wait for you here. Maybe invite a certain knight to join us while you’re away.”
With the matter settled, Nyx headed to the archway. Aamon padded alongside her, glaring all around, challenging anyone to stop him.
As she joined Shiya and Rhaif, Xan nodded her approval, then stared across the group. “As to the third…”
Nyx studied those remaining. Who else bears the gift of bridle-song?
Xan’s gaze settled on someone Nyx would least suspect of such a talent.
Frell stiffened. The alchymist looked shocked and dismayed, maybe even offended. “Me?”
Xan simply stared.
He scoffed loudly. “Impossible.”
Xan spoke, as if to a child. “I hear faint chords rising from you. Perhaps you’ve grown deaf to it, putting so much stock in what’s here.” She touched her fingertips to her brow, then lowered her palm to her chest. “Rather than what lies here.”
Frell did not look convinced.
Kanthe nudged his former mentor with an elbow. “You did tolerate me. That says you do have a heart in there somewhere.”
Xan kept her gaze on the alchymist. She lifted her staff and traced a finger down the shells adorning her cane. “Consider this. What was it that first drew your interest into the mysteries of the moon, a study that led to your discovery of the doom ahead?”
Frell frowned. “Pure scholarly interest, that’s all.”
Still, Nyx heard doubt growing in his voice, in the crinkle between his brows. She could see him reevaluating his entire life in that moment.
“I was told you spent many years at the Cloistery,” Xan said. “Like Nyx. In the shadow of The Fist, home to the bats who stir the air with their warnings. I believe, somewhere deep inside you, you heard their fears. It drove you to your later studies, to seek answers to those mysteries.”
Frell’s eyes grew wider, a hand drifted to his chest.
Xan turned to the stairs. “Moonfall swiftly approaches. Any hope for the future lies up there.”
Frell took a step forward, then another, unable to resist.
Nyx searched the steps, remembering her dream of a fiery mountaintop, the clash of war engines, and the moon crashing toward the Urth. She had been so focused on struggling to survive these past days that she had forgotten the larger threat that had drawn them all here.
She kept a hand on Aamon’s flank, feeling the silent growl vibrating in his chest. So much blood had been spilled to bring her to these steps. She had no choice but to follow this through to the end.
If there are any answers up there, I must find them.