pack through the crystals and along the steep cliffs. His voice swam through the restless waves of the melody of the Mere-That-Was, searching for the woman who would bear the Lady’s song and carry it far beyond the lonely ruins he called home.
CHAPTER SEVEN
8 Mirtul, the Year of the Ageless One
(1479 DR)
The Akana, North of the Wash, Akanul
Something fell to the ground, but Uthalion did not hear it, nor did he care to glance. The woman’s voice, soft and warm, like the glow of a star and sounding just as distant, trapped him in its ethereal notes of whistling wind and deep, echoing tides. The voice seemed to hang in the air like the pitch that followed the ringing of a bell, humming in each long breath he took, buzzing in his ears. It reminded him of home, of the smell of rose petals scattered on a new bed, of a wedding night so long ago it pained him to think about it.
As the song faded, he gasped, feeling a moment of sudden panic. His hands clenched into fists, as though he could grasp the fragile tune, keep it and hold it to his chest. But it left him alone in the
silence of the Akana. The lack was painful and he blinked several times, realizing where he was in alarm.
Dawn had not yet blemished the eastern sky. The soft, steady breathing of Ghaelya and Brindani soothed him. Sleep not being an issue for him, he’d been on watch when the song came and stole his senses. Faintly he could hear the distant howls of the dreamers, still searching, still hunting, and still far enough away that morning would arrive before they did. He sighed and swore under his breath, turning to prepare his pack when a patch of darkness shifted and caught his eye.
Vaasurri crouched nearby, staring at him through eyes as black as the night sky. The killoren’s cloak was pulled tight over his shoulders; his once-brown hair, now dark as coal, fluttered in the predawn air. His hands rested on the drawn bone-sword as he tilted his head suspiciously.
“What were you thinking about?” the fey asked, a note of accusation in his voice.
“Nothing,” Uthalion answered, the lie coming quickly to his lips.
He was accustomed to the killoren’s shifts in mood, and the corresponding shift in his features. Vaasurri’s appearance reflected different aspects of nature like a mirror and responded to his preternatural instincts. Uthalion had seen many faces of his old friend, but the one that greeted the dawn with black eyes, like nature’s wrath, caused his soul to shudderthe fey sensed great danger in the day to come.
The dark gaze looked over the sleeping forms of Brindani and Ghaelya, narrowing slightly before returning to the human. Uthalion defied the look, possessive of the secret song, while at the same time frightened by his need to keep it hidden, lest someone try to wrench it away from him. Guilt wrenched at his insides as Vaasurri nodded and prowled away into the night, likely to scout out the southwest trails to the Wash.
At his feet Uthalion found his old notebook, the pages splayed open where he had dropped the journal, a thin stick of charcoal lying beside it. He collected these in a daze, the powerful urge to flee coming over him suddenly, casting his thoughts to safer, quieter places. No power had ever haunted him as this song did, not even the sorcerous voices of the aboleth at Tohrepur or the thundering rage of the krakens swimming through the storm clouds over Caidris.
His stare fell upon the sleeping form of Ghaelya, the genasi stirring in her sleep.
Is it her? he thought. Did she bring this?
He pondered the idea for long moments, considering the possibility and what he might do if it somehow proved true. Brindani had been acting strangely as well, and had accompanied the genasi far longer than Uthalion and Vaasurri. He wondered what effects the song might have upon him, given enough timebut his thoughts soon turned to envy, coveting the song’s beauty for himself…
“No,” he whispered, taking hold of his
CHAPTER SEVEN
8 Mirtul, the Year of the Ageless One
(1479 DR)
The Akana, North of the Wash, Akanul
Something fell to the ground, but Uthalion did not hear it, nor did he care to glance. The woman’s voice, soft and warm, like the glow of a star and sounding just as distant, trapped him in its ethereal notes of whistling wind and deep, echoing tides. The voice seemed to hang in the air like the pitch that followed the ringing of a bell, humming in each long breath he took, buzzing in his ears. It reminded him of home, of the smell of rose petals scattered on a new bed, of a wedding night so long ago it pained him to think about it.
As the song faded, he gasped, feeling a moment of sudden panic. His hands clenched into fists, as though he could grasp the fragile tune, keep it and hold it to his chest. But it left him alone in the
silence of the Akana. The lack was painful and he blinked several times, realizing where he was in alarm.
Dawn had not yet blemished the eastern sky. The soft, steady breathing of Ghaelya and Brindani soothed him. Sleep not being an issue for him, he’d been on watch when the song came and stole his senses. Faintly he could hear the distant howls of the dreamers, still searching, still hunting, and still far enough away that morning would arrive before they did. He sighed and swore under his breath, turning to prepare his pack when a patch of darkness shifted and caught his eye.
Vaasurri crouched nearby, staring at him through eyes as black as the night sky. The killoren’s cloak was pulled tight over his shoulders; his once-brown hair, now dark as coal, fluttered in the predawn air. His hands rested on the drawn bone-sword as he tilted his head suspiciously.
“What were you thinking about?” the fey asked, a note of accusation in his voice.
“Nothing,” Uthalion answered, the lie coming quickly to his lips.
He was accustomed to the killoren’s shifts in mood, and the corresponding shift in his features. Vaasurri’s appearance reflected different aspects of nature like a mirror and responded to his preternatural instincts. Uthalion had seen many faces of his old friend, but the one that greeted the dawn with black eyes, like nature’s wrath, caused his soul to shudderthe fey sensed great danger in the day to come.
The dark gaze looked over the sleeping forms of Brindani and Ghaelya, narrowing slightly before returning to the human. Uthalion defied the look, possessive of the secret song, while at the same time frightened by his need to keep it hidden, lest someone try to wrench it away from him. Guilt wrenched at his insides as Vaasurri nodded and prowled away into the night, likely to scout out the southwest trails to the Wash.
At his feet Uthalion found his old notebook, the pages splayed open where he had dropped the journal, a thin stick of charcoal lying beside it. He collected these in a daze, the powerful urge to flee coming over him suddenly, casting his thoughts to safer, quieter places. No power had ever haunted him as this song did, not even the sorcerous voices of the aboleth at Tohrepur or the thundering rage of the krakens swimming through the storm clouds over Caidris.
His stare fell upon the sleeping form of Ghaelya, the genasi stirring in her sleep.
Is it her? he thought. Did she bring this?
He pondered the idea for long moments, considering the possibility and what he might do if it somehow proved true. Brindani had been acting strangely as well, and had accompanied the genasi far longer than Uthalion and Vaasurri. He wondered what effects the song might have upon him, given enough timebut his thoughts soon turned to envy, coveting the song’s beauty for himself…
“No,” he whispered, taking hold of his
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