Chapter Eleven Nevermore the Trumpet’s Call #3
“The Rest wasn’t safe,” Verandil said. “We had to go somewhere, and somewhere was Eightbridge. It’s mostly seelie, but some places have harmony with Essanderon’s notions. The Brewmistress, for example.”
“Who’s that?” Jubilee asked.
“She’s the archfey who holds the Village That Chooses Its Own in place,” Verandil said. “She survived the sundering fall of Menoriath, the most high.”
He said that last with a derisive snort. Lorzok leaned in.
“I’ve heard of Menoriath. It was a story from long ago.”
“There’s a song,” Verandil said. “I’m surprised Kell hasn’t sung it for you. It’s built to make the strongest weep, even if they don’t know a word of Sylvan.”
Lorzok’s uncomfortable fidgeting caught Kell in the ribs.
“You probably have heard it,” Verandil said, “and he didn’t tell you what it was.”
“I speak Sylvan,” Lorzok said. “But Kell doesn’t—”
“Nevermore the shadow falls,” Kell said.
“Nevermore the trumpet’s call at dawn and noon and night to guide one’s gaze upon Menoriath the most high.
Now sunshine and an endless sky proves what common sense decrees: Glory is too hard to hold aloft with pride.
Gold was dull before the scornful eye of Menoriath, whose shards have landed on their knees—oh, sorry. ”
Verandil cocked his head. “Your translation from Elvish is more scornful than sad.”
Kell shrugged. “Mockery’s easier to rhyme.”
“But you didn’t sing your translation.”
A new kind of quiet fell on the four. The badgers hurried, crunching the road’s stones with their steps. The wheels ground along to follow with a grumble. A robin sang, then thought better of it.
Kell sighed. “I don’t sing anymore.”
“Since when?”
Kell just hunched a little deeper.
“Not since I’ve met him,” Lorzok said.
He waited for Saeldian to say something that would slide between the ribs. They said nothing.
It was ridiculous. Why shouldn’t he sing? Why should losing Saeldian take his voice away from him? But his voice had been gone ever since he had breathed in the smell of a prison cell reserved for those who would be hanged.
But Saeldian had paid bards to teach Kell.
They had stolen the gold it took to buy him a fiddle that wasn’t made from leftover scraps.
They partnered him when he learned dances, ran through plays.
When they listened to the full flower of the voice they’d supported from a seed of talent, they closed their eyes to hear him better.
He couldn’t sing without remembering Saeldian, and he never wanted to remember.
Verandil tried to stare it out of him for a full minute before he said, “How long ago was that?”
“Hold on,” Jubilee said. “That forest ahead—how big are those trees? They must be the tallest I’ve ever seen…and why do they just start like that?”
Rescued. “Good catch, Jubilee. Did you notice how you couldn’t see what was across the bridge before we got close enough?”
“Yeah,” Jubilee said. “It felt weird.”
“The domains border right next to each other,” Lorzok said. “Did you feel it, crossing the bridge?”
“Like when Wisdom was playing with his first cantrip. Shocking Grasp, I mean. The way it felt when his hand got close, but—not exactly that.”
Verandil sighed. “Play defense all you want. This right here is Honeymeadow. Halflings like this place. Funny, though. It’s all bright mornings and fields, but its archfey always seems so sad. Straight ahead is the Village That Chooses Its Own.”
“The village is in the forest?”
“The village is the forest. The forest is the village. The Brewmistress wanted shade, she said, and so she made it so.”
“The Brewmistress is the archfey, but what happened to Essanderon?”
“Kell.” Verandil put his hand on Kell’s back. “You know already.”
He did know. He just hadn’t wanted to.
“Essanderon’s Rest is gone,” Kell said. “And the domain’s heart with it. Archfey don’t tend to survive the loss of their domain. Too much of their self is planted in it.”
Kell leaned into Verandil, who held him together and murmured into his ear, “I understand. Hope covered the wound; now it’s splitting. But there is another place for grieving.”
The Feywild was a reflection. It was stable in places like Honeymeadow because of the will of the archfey who anchored what the place was, but stable didn’t mean unchanging. Kell’s feelings could change things. And if he didn’t pull himself together before the next crossing…
“Stop the cart.”
The badgers slowed their pace immediately. They stood waiting while Kell tried to steady himself. “You have a scar.”
Verandil’s expression was so gentle, Kell thought his brother was afraid to break him. “It’s not bad.”
“Compared to the others?”
Verandil couldn’t hide the tiniest flinch. “Kell—”
“Tell me.”
Verandil held up his hand while he considered. “If I tell you now, will it be easier to face when you get there?”
“Yes. Tell me.”
“Wait.”
Lorzok and Jubilee said it together. Jubilee stood from her place on the bench and let Lorzok sit next to Kell. She stood behind the bench and leaned against his back. Timtim cuddled up on his lap.
“There. Go ahead.”
Jubilee and Lorzok held him tighter as Verandil explained what had happened to him, the other survivors, and, worst of all, Terandis.