The Blade Bearers (Blade and Bone Book 6), page 12
Jal shook his head. “Do you think we should abandon them to simply die? If we leave, if Kanar leaves, we would be leaving hundreds and hundreds of people to their deaths.”
He had little doubt that was what would happen. They might be able to fight, and given that Honaaz and Lily were there, it was a real possibility that they would be able to bring down some of the attackers, but he doubted they would have much success against them in the long run. They would eventually fall.
His friends would die.
When he had left his home, he had never anticipated that he would end up finding real friendship. That was what he had found, though. They weren’t his people, but perhaps it didn’t matter. At this point, the oath that mattered was that he would help those who had once helped him.
“You can go back,” Jal said. “If you feel like you need to, go ahead and go back. If you do, all I ask is that you tell them about the song.”
Wular looked over to him. “It’s not my song to share.”
“It’s all of ours. Why do you think the berahn have sung it for us? They want us to remember.”
She glanced toward the berahn but didn’t say anything. He understood that it was difficult for her. She was Juut, and Jal didn’t know what kind of song she could understand. Her people may have lost the memory of the song.
Wular turned away. “I will go with you.”
They jogged a little farther. The land changed, though it didn’t do so all that rapidly. The sweeping grassy plains and the tree-filled forests began to empty out, becoming hard-packed earth, and then dark rock. The sound of the sea roared nearby, near enough that Jal could hear it, even if he had no idea how far away it might be. The berahn continued to howl, the sound of their cries guiding him.
The call hadn’t changed. Jal was thankful for that.
If these other Alainsith had some way of influencing the berahn, he had to be careful and protect them. That was what his grandfather would’ve wanted him to do. He felt the song sweeping through him, guiding him, so that he could know the stories of the past the way his grandfather had wanted. It was the song of their people.
“Why do the berahn sound like they’re moving?” Wular asked.
“Because they have been moving,” Jal said. “They’ve been spreading out. I think they’re trying to tell us something.”
“Tell us what?”
“I don’t know.”
That was what worried him. The berahn had been relatively quiet ever since they had rescued them from the attackers. Not silent, but relatively quiet.
As the ground turned rockier, he saw a berahn and raced toward it. Wular followed him, neither of them speaking. When he caught up to the berahn, he found the massive creature looking away from the sea, head tilted back, nostrils flared, and a soft growl rumbling in its throat.
“What is it?” Jal whispered. He reached for the creature, but as soon as he did, the berahn’s fur began to stand on end. Jal froze. “No,” he whispered.
Wular glanced from him to the berahn. “Not here, is it?”
“They have somehow begun to influence them again. I thought Kanar had managed to free them.”
That had been the moment when Jal had truly felt the redemption he needed. It was the moment when he had truly believed he had been right all this time. Kanar was the Bearer, which meant he was so much more than the Blackheart that he had been for so many years. It was the moment when Kanar had finally embraced the song, and had become something greater.
Even if Kanar could not find it again quite so easily, that didn’t change the fact that he was that person, and it didn’t change that he had that power and potential within him.
But Jal had not expected that the berahn would struggle again.
Jal dropped to his knees in front of the creature, and he held his hands up. “I know you’re still there,” he said, his voice soft as he remembered the way his grandfather had once talked to the berahn. “I know you want to fight this. I don’t know what it is.” He couldn’t feel anything. “Try to find the song.”
Jal stretched one hand out toward the berahn, and he began to sing.
It was quiet, little more than a whisper at first, but the moment he began his song, some part of the berahn changed. Its fur bristled even more, but Jal ignored it and continued his song, continued his connection, continued to work with the berahn. If nothing else, he had to understand and find some way of helping the creature.
His song began to build.
Jal kept his eyes open. Most of the time when he joined in the song, he would allow himself to close his eyes, to sway with it, to find the memories washing over him, but in this case he did not dare. But he sang, giving the berahn the story of his father and his grandfather, and an understanding of what his people had done and how they had connected to the berahn over the years.
Wular’s soft voice joined his, and the two began to mingle, intertwining ever so subtly as the song grew stronger. The berahn did not pull away.
Jal considered that a victory. But even as the song continued to flow from him, he began to feel power pushing against him. It was familiar, but it was also different, unique, and stronger than his song. He had to fight, though this was not the kind of fight he was accustomed to.
The song built around him, and he continued to sing, his and Wular’s voices carrying out over the distance toward the berahn. The two of them joined and became something greater, the overwhelming song merging into a chorus of music that reached the berahn.
With an abrupt howl, the berahn roared, and the fur on its back stood on end. It felt different, as if the berahn had suddenly turned.
Jal continued singing, feeling as if he had no choice but to do so. He needed to keep making sure that song carried to the berahn so that the creature would know him, and would know Wular, and not lose them again. As his song continued to grow, he still felt something pushing against him.
“I can feel them,” Wular said.
“I can as well,” Jal said.
“What do you think it is?”
“Our cousins.”
Jal had only known about a single lost Alainsith family, but it seemed as if there were more than what they knew about. Especially from what they had seen of the song during their journey to this city. There had to be answers somehow, but how was he going to find them?
And as he looked over at Wular, he wasn’t sure he would find them. She didn’t care to look for answers. She was a weapon, like so many of her people. They may have trained to fight, but none of them had actually fought.
Jal looked over to the berahn, which was now standing, every bit of muscle in its body tense as it tried to fight and push against what was controlling it.
His song shifted again. Some part of him pushed against what he could feel. The song filled him and carried out into the distance. It also pressed on him, rising and swaying, with pressure all around.
Wular stayed close. The berahn stayed close.
Jal had promised his grandfather that he would come to understand the berahn the way his grandfather had. He had promised that he would fulfill his destiny and help find the song. He had promised that he would not ignore it when it cried out to him.
So why should he stop now, even when the song became painful? Why should anything change for Jal?
But it did.
The song itself started to change gradually. And he realized why.
“Something—or someone—is coming,” he said softly.
Wular had her hands on her swords, and she looked ready. The Juut were always ready.
“What can you tell?” she asked.
“I’m trying to understand.”
That was what he had always wanted to do. That was what his grandfather had wanted for him to understand. Not only for himself, but for his people. It was an understanding that came through knowing about the past, anticipating the ways in which that might influence how they worked in the present, and recognizing what it might look like in the future.
“Jal!”
He looked up. Wular’s swords were now unsheathed. The berahn still hadn’t moved.
As his song kept building, memories of his grandfather came to him. They reminded him of the times they had spent together, times when they had sought understanding, and times when his grandfather had promised him that he would one day learn a greater truth, if only he knew how to listen. All that time, Jal had come to question whether he ever could. He had come to wonder if perhaps such a thing would even be possible.
The song shifted, and Wular moved away from him. The berahn nearest him let out a whimper.
Jal mixed that sound with the song he’d been hearing, the same song he’d been singing, trying to make sense of it, even though he could not do that quite well.
That whimper carried to him. It filled his ears, his mind, and it left him feeling like there was some part of him that cried out with the pain of the berahn. He felt it deep inside him, as if he were suffering with it.
Suffering.
That was what it was, wasn’t it? He’d been trying to make sense of how he might be able to feel something, anything, related to what he had been dealing with, and trying to make sense of why the berahn seemed to be easy for him to connect, but he had not mastered the key, nor did he know what link he was missing.
Suffering.
That came to him so easily now. Jal could feel the berahn suffering, and he recognized that there was some part of that creature, and what it had been through, that needed his help. And if he could help it, then perhaps they could find a way to save the berahn and perhaps be able to rescue it, along with the others.
Suffering.
Jal hated the idea of adding that song, but it seemed to him that suffering was a core piece of it. His voice carried, now mournful. The berahn nearest him picked up on that sound, joining him. One by one, other berahn around him began to join in his song too.
Unfortunately, there was suffering mixed within it. There was nothing he could do to change it. And so he sang.
Chapter Twelve
HENRY MEYER
The vantage from atop the wall permitted Meyer to see out over Verendal. The city continued to expand. Even in the last day or so, it looked as if everything had doubled. Trees in the forest outside the city had started to get cleared, to the point where the people were pushing back the forest itself and starting to put pressure on the walls of the city.
Far more Archers patrolled the walls than there ever had been before. They had added men to their ranks, but it was a slow process to find men they could count on to fulfill the obligation of the Archers, and do so in a way that would ensure the safety and protection of Verendal. They had to be careful because it would be all too easy to rush into training Archers, but it wasn’t just about training them. It was about trying to find those who could best serve.
The Archers gave him space. Meyer had been standing here for the last hour, looking down upon the city while trying to make a plan for what was to come. At this point, he didn’t know what he needed to do, only that he had a sense that more needed to be done than had been so far.
The pile of wagons was gone.
He didn’t know if it had been burned, or if it had been scavenged to use for buildings, as there was a smattering of buildings throughout the crowd. For the most part, though, people used sheets, blankets, cloaks, and branches to create makeshift shelters.
The only places that had any real structure to them were the ones that had been built before the onslaught of refugees had swarmed the city. The hegen compound looked unchanged. There was a bit of space between it and the rest of the crowd, as if the people there feared getting too close to the hegen. However, with each passing day, that gap between had started to narrow to the point where Meyer wondered if the people migrating to Verendal would eventually abandon their fear of the hegen and venture inside to look for safety.
The alternative was worse. He worried what would happen if people decided to target the hegen, overrun their area, and try to steal their supplies and their homes.
What would the Archers do if that happened?
Nothing. Meyer knew that. Even though the hegen section was in sight of the wall, which meant it was within range of their crossbows, it was unlikely that any of the Archers would go to great lengths to protect the hegen. Hopefully the hegen used their art to provide some measure of protection for themselves, but Meyer just didn’t know. Without Esmerelda here—and Finn, he had to acknowledge—the hegen might not be safe.
Then there was the Sanaron section. That one remained intact as well, and it continued to grow and evolve, becoming almost permanent. It was impressive, and also worrisome, especially considering all the grumbling in the city about the refugees. A layer of pale, smoky fog hovered over everything. In the early morning, that fog looked natural, like it simply rose up from the grassy ground around that section. But as the day went on, and as it got warmer with the sun rising, that fog started to look more and more unusual, to the point where Meyer wondered whether people might target the people of Sanaron merely because of that.
He tore his gaze away. He nodded to a pair of Archers, then found the stairs leading down from the wall, hobbling carefully on his cane. At the bottom of the stairs, Pippin waited for him.
“Did you see what you needed?” the boy asked.
“I saw the crowd.”
“Why did you need to see that?”
“Because the city is changing, and I’m trying to make sense of those changes. We need to offer whatever services we can, but I’m not exactly sure what that’s going to entail.”
“I thought you were the executioner.”
Was it disappointment in his voice? Meyer couldn’t tell. Maybe this boy was eager to get involved in executions, though that hadn’t been the sense he’d gotten from him in the time they’d been working together. Pippin had been helpful, that much had been true, but Meyer also still didn’t know much about him. Any time he had questioned Pippin, he’d gotten roundabout answers and evasive comments, leaving Meyer wondering if the court had known anything about the boy before sending him as an apprentice.
It was a measure of Pippin’s resourcefulness that he could evade Meyer’s questioning. Few people managed to do that. So the fact that he was capable of that suggested that either he was clever, or Meyer was out of practice. And given the way Meyer had been spending his days over the last week or so, it was entirely possible that he was out of practice. He certainly had not been taking the time he once would have to question those around him.
“My role as executioner has changed over the years,” Meyer said. “And your role as my assistant is one that doesn’t question.”
Pippin looked at him with disappointment in his eyes, but Meyer ignored it. Let him be disappointed. Was it because Meyer called him his assistant rather than his apprentice? That title was more fitting. At this point, all Pippin had done was help him, rather than truly learn the apprenticeship techniques. He had continued to run errands to various apothecaries, Lena’s primarily, and had gone to the general stores to gather the supplies Meyer wanted, though increasingly, supplies were less and less necessary. Without performing any questioning, and without handling any executions, he found that there simply wasn’t the need.
It wasn’t as if criminals were having free rein over the city. Finn had established a series of inquisitors that reported to Meyer, and he always had a stack of reports on his desk each evening that he had to review, which made his job easier.
“Where are you going now?” Pippin asked.
Meyer glanced over to him. He was dressed better than he had been when he’d first knocked on his door, Meyer had seen to that. He wanted Pippin to dress appropriately as his apprentice, even if he wasn’t really his apprentice. It was no different than he had done when Finn had first come to him. “I’m going to see an old friend.”
“Now? With everything that’s going on here, it seems to me that you wouldn’t want to visit friends.”
They veered off, passing through the Unlear section of the city and making their way to Olin. Meyer hadn’t answered Pippin, trying to get his thoughts in line. As they neared the river, Pippin looked out along it and then glanced back to Meyer. They weren’t going to visit Lena this time. His objective was very different.
He wound to a small clearing in the Olin section, where he paused. Even here the crowd was denser than it normally was, though not so much that he couldn’t manage to push his way through. People milled around, some of them obviously homeless, just looking for a spare patch of street to make their own. Though in a place like this, it was difficult to do so.
“There?” Pippin asked as Meyer stared at a building across the square.
Meyer’s gaze lingered on it. The markings over the door were faded from where it had been even ten years ago, though it was still clear enough to make out the wenderwolf on it.
“A tavern?”
Meyer nodded. “A tavern.”
“If you need a drink, there are easier places for that.”
“This is where I need to go,” Meyer said, pushing his way forward. He fought through the crowd, and Pippin stayed close. If there was one thing that Meyer had not needed to teach him, it was how to navigate through a crowd without getting separated from him. Despite his diminutive size, the boy had little difficulty making his way there.
When they entered the tavern, Meyer stopped in the doorway. There was no sound of music inside, though it was still early enough that he suspected it wasn’t going to come out until later. There was a somberness to the place, almost too quiet, which was uncommon for any tavern, but especially this one.
He wasn’t surprised that it was busy, though given the size of the crowd outside, Meyer had expected that it would be standing room only. Tables and booths were occupied with people, and everybody had looked toward him when he entered. For most, it was a subtle turn, as if they wanted to see who had come in but didn’t want to be seen turning toward him. Even the waitresses looked at him, many of them dressed in low-cut gowns, though most had knives visibly strapped to their waists.
