The Unfinished Song - Book 6: Blood (43 page)

“And what of Kia?” demanded Vessia. “Did you not guess the Black Lady would Curse your child too? Why do you think she has had so much trouble with her Chromas, with her magic, with her wings? Because of the shadow you two embraced!”

“We never agreed to that!”

“You agreed by placing yourself in debt to the dark!”

“If Yastara was not the Traitor, who slew the Mud Monster?” asked Hest.

“Perhaps Yastara and Lothlo have been helping Lady Death without knowing it,” said Mrigana. “She had some hex upon them, perhaps. Perhaps it worked both ways, and the hex helped them slay the undead thing.”

Vessia nodded. She had been thinking along the same lines. It did not help her decide what do to about Yastara and Lothlo’s treason.

“It also raises an interesting question,” Mrigana continued. “Yastara and Lothlo were both Cursed by Death, and they died. Then Xerpen resurrected them, claiming to have made them immortal again, as he claimed to have done for all of us.”

“Ah…but can we trust his word?” Vessia frowned. “He has lied about so much else. Are we immortal as once we were?”

“We will know at dawn.”

They all stayed awake, joined together in vigil, awaiting the verdict of first light. At last, on the far eastern mountaintop, Vessia caught morning’s pallid glow against the peak.

Yastara stretched and yawned. Color flushed her cheeks, her hair softened and spilled over the edge of the bed, and she rose, alive again. Lothlo and Kia embraced her, Hest whooped with delight, Vessia heaved a sigh, and even Mrigana allowed herself the quirk of a brow.

Lothlo took her hands. “I told them everything. The truth.”

Tears sprang to Yastara’s eyes. “What will you do to us, Vessia? What will our punishment be?”

Before Vessia could answer—or decide—a shadow fell across the door of the lodge.

“That is not Vessia’s decision to make,” said Xerpen.

The Aelfae glared at him.

“You will all come dance now,” he said. “I have need of your power. It was for a purpose, not a whim, that I brought you back to life. And as you can see, when I promised you immortality, I did not lie.”

“Why should we serve you, Xerpen?” demanded Vessia. “What makes you think we will dance to your tune?”

His lips curled at the edges. “The Orange Lady came to me, begging for a new sacrifice. It seems she’s tired of the Green Lady. The Queen of Eagles yearns for more interesting prey to torment by day and devour by night, over and over, for eternity. As it happens, I told her, there is an Aelfae Traitor who deserves all that and more.”

“You would not!” said Vessia. “Yastara is your friend too, Xerpen!”

“I do not forgive betrayal as you do, Vessia.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you overestimate my capacity for forgiveness.”

“Of course, if you dance, Yastara must be there to complete the colors of the Pattern,” he said smoothly.

He left without waiting for her answer. He knew they would dance.

Vio and his war leaders wasted the precious hours before dawn arguing. At Vio’s insistence, Hawk and Finnadro both sat in the circle, against the judgment of some of the Rainbow Labyrinth leaders. However, clumps of Green Woods tribesmen had turned up out of nowhere, and they wanted their leaders represented. To Vio’s relief, they respected Finnadro enough to let him speak for them. Otherwise, Vio would have had to deal with the whole gaggle of them, since every sept fancied itself too good to take orders from anyone else.

“We must send our main assault up the eastern slope. Without Hegaro’s forces, we lack the men to make both the feint and the main attack!” insisted Gideo. He cursed Hegaro’s name. “We should crush his horse-muck lovers and spike his head for his insolence!”

“I cannot believe Blue Waters allied themselves with Purple Thunder,” said Danumoro. “Blue Waters have never joined sides with Imorvae before.”

“Unless Zumo has mended broken words with Svarr,” said Gideo darkly. “They
are
rain brothers.”

“That’s hardly united them in friendship in the past.”

“I will deal with Hegaro and Zumo later,” Vio said. “One war at a time.”

Hawk spoke up. “The eastern slope is a trap. The secret caverns would serve you better.”

“I have travelled that path,” said Finnadro. “There is no way a whole army of men could climb those caves quickly enough to reach the summit. The caves are treacherous, hidden in utter gloom, nest to some uncanny evil.”

Teeva the True Star had also warned Vio about the evil inside the mountain, and in the Black Well, the enclosed gorge between the two cloven halves of Cliffedge.

Hawk glared at Finnadro. “That is exactly why the Great One would not expect at attack from that direction. We must attack from the
eastern
slope if we are to have any chance at all of victory!”

“There is one other way up the eastern slope,” said Vio.

“No one has ever tried that,” warned Danumoro.

“No army has ever taken Cliffedge either,” said Vio. “I am not afraid to be the first.”

Dawn brightened their meeting by now. A sparkle of green shimmered in front of Vio. The frozen waterfall melted, and flower petals drifted in the pool where the water splashed down with reawakened enthusiasm. The dazzling mist coalesced into the slender form of the Green Lady.

The men in the counsel stood and bowed their heads, hands over their hearts, except Finnadro who turned away and hid his face.

“My Lady of the Woods,” Vio said with profound reverence. “We are all glad to see you well again.”

“My sister has earned my wrath,” she said with a sweet and terrible smile. “The Sylfae would aide your assault upon the mountain stronghold.”

After the council of the Maze Zavaedi had ended; the War Dance had been performed in secret; and each Branch War Leader had been assigned his role, Finnadro walked beside the Green Lady. She glanced sidelong at him, but he stared forward, not meeting her eyes. Neither spoke.

Despite the misgivings of Hawk and a few others, and against Finnadro’s own objections, the Maze Zavaedi had asked Finnadro to lead the Green Woods tribesfolk as one of the Branches of the assault. Why the Maze Zavaedi would trust him after Finnadro had failed so spectacularly in every duty he had owed was a mystery. Nevertheless, he found himself glad to participate in the war. He needed to lose himself in some greater force than the doubt inside him. Perhaps, too, he could yet make an honorable end to himself; better at least than jumping off a cliff.

What had appeared at a distance to be a copse of pine, oak, and aspen proved to be a gathering of dryadic Sylfae. Wolfen Sylfae were there too, along with many lesser Green Fae. Packs of wildlings in animal form (wolves and smaller beasts) milled under the trees. There were septs of human warriors too, Green Woods tribesmen, who had spent months wending their way to the foot of the enemy’s stronghold, athirst for revenge. These thin and desperate men, some only boys who clutched their clan’s black arrows in their fists like amulets, huddled together, backs to the wildlings and unaware, for the most part, of the fae gamboling all around them.

All was chaos. The wildlings growled at one another, or even brawled. The humans cussed the wildlings. The Low Fae frolicked as though this were an afternoon’s jolly outing and the Sylfae hummed to themselves, loftily ignoring the rest. Finnadro clapped his hands, shouted orders, and, where necessary, kicked some fur, until he had them sorted into a more orderly throng.

“Finnadro!” cried a glad voice.

He turned just as a woman flung her arms about him and squeezed. She would have kissed him, but stopped herself at the last minute. She flushed and pulled away, but her grin remained.

“Finn, how good to see you,” she said.

“Fox,” he said. Inside, he shouted:
She lives!
His lips turned up at the corners, and he inclined his head. “Good to see you, too, Fox.”

“Don’t jump up and down
too
much,” she mocked.

He studied her bruises and wounds, which still wore wrappings of wool strips. She was not dead, but neither was she entirely recovered from her fight with Umbral three days ago. The bruise on her head, visible beneath her auburn hair, particularly concerned him.

“You’re not yet fit for battle,” he admonished, though he already knew she would not be swayed. “You should still be resting.”

“Fa! As if I would let you hog all the fun. We wildlings still have
our
Ravens to redeem.”

He put his hand on her shoulder and said quietly, “In that case, I am glad to have you fight by my side, Fox.”

After Fox turned back to sort out her own pack, Finnadro drew in a breath and listened to the murmurs under the trees. He heard the Song thrumming on the breeze. How long had it been since he had listened for it? he wondered.  Had he heard it at all in the Blood House? He couldn’t remember, just as he could no longer remember exactly what it felt like to possess all six Chromas. That illicit power had been unwoven, and all that remained was the memory of the ability, empty of qualia. Already, it seemed as though those hours had unfolded a thousand seasons ago, in the life of a stranger.

Finnadro directed his Branch of motley Green Woods warriors—fae, human, and in-between—to the riverbank where the Rainbow Labyrinth Warriors were already lined up in much more organized bands and rows.

The Maze Zavaedi ascended a boulder washed on one side by the river and braced on the other by gravel and grit. Dawn had newly graced Faearth, and small clouds appeared with his breaths. His quilted robe and headdress were ablaze with six colors. Aloft, he held a spear twice his own height, carved with totems of power. The dignity of his years was juxtaposed with his abiding physical strength. In the unflinching determination of his stance and mien, evidence of a courage that was neither too rash nor too recoiling, the Maze Zavaedi struck Finnadro as the paragon of a War Chief. His voice, deep and solemn, carried even to the furthermost warrior.

“You all know,” he said, “That the War Chief of Orange Canyon, this man who calls himself Great, though he is great only in perfidy, has carried away my wife to make his captive and his plaything. For this insult alone, I would have come to this mountain, singular in my anger but for the company of allies and friends, to assault his arrogance and tear him down from his perch. Wife-stealer! For this alone, he deserves the blooded spear! Will you say
Ay
, warriors of Rainbow Labyrinth?”

“Ay! Ayahu!” shouted the warriors, shaking their spears in the air and pounding their feet.

Some Green Woods warriors joined, but many remained silent. The Maze Zavaedi held up a hand and his tribesfolk quieted.

“You all know that the War Chief of Orange Canyon, this man who calls himself Great, though he is great only in cruelty, waged war upon the innocent tribe of Green Canyon, burning their forest, infuriating their fae, and carrying off their folk as slaves and sacrifices. For this insult alone, they would have come to this mountain, isolated in their anger but for their own kindred, to avenge their fallen. Kin-killer! For this alone, he deserves the blooded spear! Will you say
Ay
, warriors of Green Woods?”

“Ay! Ayahu! Ay! Ayahu!” shouted the Green Woods warriors, shaking their bows. Many of the Rainbow Labryinth warriors shouted aloud with them.

But again the Maze Zavaedi held up a hand to quiet the crowd.

“What you may
not
know is that the War Chief of Orange Canyon is not who he claims to be,” said the Maze Zavaedi. “This man who calls himself Great, though he is great only in lies, was once known by another name. He once ruled over another tribe, only to bring it ruin, grief, and shame. The true name of the Great One is the Bone Whistler!”

Shock rippled through the crowd. Men stared at the Maze Zavaedi as if he had lost his wits. There was no madness or jest in him, however, as he canted gravely.

“The Bone Whistler is dead, you say. Ay, any other man would have died when he was driven to his knees by the White Lady twenty and two winters ago. But not this man, for, with magics most foul, and hexcraft and guile, he has revived the ancient evils of the Spider Queen, who once ruled these canyons and made red their rivers with blood. That, my brothers and nephews, is what he plans to do again. Hex-maker! For this alone, he deserves the blooded spear!

“Not one crime, but crimes uncounted he has committed; not against my people or your people alone, but against all the good and innocent folk of Faearth; against the law of light and shadow itself. And for this, my friends, for this we shall bring him the blooded spear! Will you say
Ay
, warriors of Faerth?”

“Ay! Ayahu! Ay! Ayahu! Ay! Ayahu!” shouted every man there, leaping to his feet. The warriors waved their spears and bows, their staves and slings; they stomped their feet and belted their drums. The fae wolves and human wolf-wildlings leaned back their snouts and bayed. The other fae joined in, caterwauling, and all the cries and howls and drums made such a noise that it must have echoed to the top of the mountain.

Finnadro shouted aloud, too, and the rhythm of the joined voices made him feel, for a brief flash, that they could prevail. Then he glanced up, at the peak so far above them, and remembered the thousands of Orange Canyon warriors who had gathered there, along with the Raptors, the Aelfae, and the Black Well itself, all powers who served Xerpen. Finnadro’s shout dried in his throat.