Chapter Twenty-Five: Songstress

“Wyd sang, and mountains grew from the earth. Wyd sang, and trees sprouted to life. Wyd sang, and Faengard came alive with music.”

—The Doctrine of Wyd

Garax walked across the snow in his bare feet, having given his shoes to Evaine. There were no signs of weakness in his stride—Garax the knobbly storyteller was gone, and in his place was Garax the survivor, strong and upright, a package of lean muscle and steel resolve.

“What in Hellheim was that?” Evaine muttered. Her skin was still sensitive, the furs rubbing against her like coarse stone. “Were they relicts? Draurig and Graendal?”

Garax gave her a puzzled look. “Draurig and Graendal?”

Evaine rubbed at the headache pounding against her temples. Of course Garax wouldn’t know them, she thought. I’m the only one who Draurig spoke to.

“I met a creature called Draurig,” she explained. “He knew songs from past Ages and seemed to be very old. He said there were more of their kind in the past, but Graendal—the cavern—ate them all.”

Garax’s face hardened. “The river children,” he said. “They walked Faengard long ago, just like the Treelocs and a myriad other creatures. They played tricks on men, pretending to be drowning children, luring them to the river and then feasting on their bones. It wouldn’t surprise me that one of them managed to survive for so long inside that… thing.” He looked behind them at the gorge in the distance. “They’re not relicts though, not the children nor Graendal. Simply creatures like us, though I don’t think there’s anything like Graendal anywhere else in the world.”

Evaine shivered at the memory of rotting teeth smiling at her from the darkness. She’d cried for a long time after their escape, the combined tension of everything that had happened since the relict pursuit and the sudden death of the troupers finally bursting free in a flood of emotion. She was glad to simply be alive, to be able to see the sky once more, as dreary as it was. A voice inside her mocked her, telling her she should have listened to Ein and Merrill. That same voice told her there was no going back now, that she had locked herself onto this path. For the first time since they’d been separated, she was glad the two weren’t there. She didn’t want them to see her in this state.

“How did you find me?” she asked, drawing a shaky breath. “What happened after that night?” The storm had long since passed. It had been over a day since they’d been separated.

“We landed in the river,” Garax answered. “For those of us who survived the drop, we were washed into Graendal’s maw. It’s a clever position, right along the curve of the Brackenburg. I didn’t even know the danger existed until it was too late. I was lucky, though. I managed to stay conscious and find a place above the waterline. The troupers and the relicts were probably killed by the monster’s digestive juices and swept into its stomach to be absorbed.” He frowned at Evaine. “On that note, how did you manage to survive?”

Evaine thought back to the strange power she’d held over the water with her voice.

“I’m not sure,” she said at last.

As they trotted across the snow, winding their way along the Brackenburg and back to the higher ground, she told Garax everything that had happened. She told him about how she’d commanded the water, how Draurig had heard her singing, about her strange dream and the reflection that wasn’t hers. She tried to recall the lyrics, but she’d already forgotten them.

“It said I was a ‘songstress’,” she finished. “Just like Brackenburg, who had ‘Punished’ them somehow.”

Garax raised his eyes. “Brackenburg? The co-founder of Felhaven?”

“I’d assume so.”

“Interesting.” He hacked at a bush with his sword. “There are many stories about how Fel and Brackenburg slayed the monsters around the valley. You already know the one about Fel calling down lightning to kill Levine the Treeloc. There’s another one where Brackenburg summoned a flood of water to wash away a giant monster that slept at the base of the mountains. That was how the Brackenburg River was formed, though I wouldn’t expect you to know it.”

“Why not? Isn’t it an important part of the history of the Sleeping Twins?”

“It is,” Garax replied, “but few people know the story, and fewer still pass it on. Those types of stories started to die out after the Age of Magic. You’d hardly hear of people calling on the elements in this day and age.”

“But did magic really exist?” she pressed. “Even if it was a long time ago?”

“It did and it still does, though it’s known by a different name. They call it the Soulsong now, and only the King’s Songweavers can do it. Some other organisations know bits and pieces of it, like the sorcerer that was with the troupers, but they’ve withdrawn into secrecy to protect their art.”

“What about you?” Evaine asked. “Didn’t you call on fire to kill Graendal? Was that the Soulsong?”

Garax blinked. Then, he stopped and laughed.

“A classic example of how legends are formed,” he said, slamming the tip of his sword into the dirt with a chuckle. “Tell me, young Mistress. Have you ever been to a swamp?” He frowned at his own question, murmuring to himself. “No, of course you haven’t. What about a gas stove?” He frowned again. “No, people in Felhaven don’t use those…” Garax threw his hands up into the air and sighed.

“One time when it rained a lot, the area around the river became boggy like a swamp,” Evaine offered.

The storyteller shook his head. He scratched at his beard and then sighed.

“Certain types of gases are flammable,” he explained. “Normally, you’d find them in swamps or places where food or other organic material has had time to decompose. You can also find it in the digestive systems of most living things. That’s why, back there, the air smelled like manure. It was full of that gas.”

“So you ignited it?” she asked.

“I did.”

“I’m surprised you did it so quickly. Did you use a tinderbox?”

Garax shrugged. “I used two stones. It doesn’t take much; all you need is a spark.” He shuddered from the cold and pointed at the tree in front of him. “Can you do an old man a favour and climb that tree? Tell me if you see the main road or anything that might help us find our way. Hopefully we’re not too far off from Caerlon and the Royal Road.” He sat down and began ripping off pieces of his trouser leg, wrapping them around his feet. Evaine looked down at Garax’s shoes on her own feet. A pang of guilt ran through her.

She placed her hands against the bark of the tree and shimmied up it, using the furs as padding against her skin. She’d climbed trees more times than she could count back when she’d been ten or so, always reaching higher points than the other boys. She’d been as nimble as a squirrel back then, and whatever other animals were good at climbing trees. She could barely remember what wildlife had roamed the woods back then, during times when spring and summer were more than wishes on the wind.

She reached the top of the tree with great effort, gritting her teeth against the pain in her thighs and forearms. The treetop swayed beneath her, rocking back and forth under her weight. She poked her head through the snow-tipped needles and scanned her surroundings.

Green and white. Green and white all around, and in the distance a small rock structure that was the gorge they’d come from. The Brackenburg ran across it in a crooked line. She didn’t see any roads, any landmarks, any tell-tale signs of towns or villages that might be nearby.

Evaine slid her way back down the tree to where Garax was waiting. He had fashioned a pair of makeshift slippers to protect his feet and was wearing nothing else but a thin shirt and trousers ripped at the knees.

“Do you want your cloak back?” she asked, offering it to him.

He shook his head. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve been through worse.” He stood up and rolled his shoulders. “Well? Did you see anything?”

Evaine slumped her shoulders. “Nothing. Only the river behind us.”

Garax swore and knelt down. “Guess I’ll have to go off memory,” he said.

He picked up a stick and thrust it into the ground. Studying the shadow it cast across the snow, he looked at the sky and then drew a circle in the dirt around the stick, murmuring under his breath.

“We go this way,” he said, pointing into a patch of trees.

“How do you know that’s the right way?”

“I don’t. But it’s the best option we’ve got.” He stood up, hefting his sword in his hand. “Caerlon lies slightly north of the Brackenburg, and it’s a big place. I’m sure we’ll find it if we keep walking.”