The Seven Songs (20 page)

“Ohhh,” she sighed. “That feels good. What are you doing?”

“I’m just doing what a wise friend once told me to do. Listening to the language of the wound.”

She smiled, leaning back against the rocky ledge.

“Don’t be fooled,” warned Bumbelwy. “If you feel better now, it’s only because you’re going to feel ten times worse later on.”

“I don’t care, you old bother! It feels stronger already.” She started to lift her arm.

“Don’t,” I ordered. “Not yet.”

As the warm light continued to pour out of my fingertips, I concentrated on the bones and muscles beneath her skin. Patiently, carefully, I felt each strand of tissue with my mind. Each strand I touched with gentleness, coaxing it to be strong again, to be whole again. One by one, I bathed the sinews, smoothed them, and knitted them back into place. Finally, I removed my hands.

Rhia raised her arm. She wiggled her fingers. Then she flung her arms around my neck, squeezing with all the strength of a bear.

“How did you do that?” she asked as she released me.

“I really don’t know.” I tapped the knotted top of my staff. “But I think it might be another verse in the Song of Binding.”

She released me. “You have truly found the soul of that Song. Your mother, the healer, would be proud.”

Her words jolted me. “Come! We have less than a week left. I want to get to the Slantos’ village by tomorrow morning.”

21:
T
HE
S
HRIEK

By the time we finally pulled ourselves over the rim of the canyon, the sun had just set. Shadows gathered on the sheer buttresses, while the Dark Hills rising before us looked almost black. As I gazed at the hills, the lonely cry of a canyon eagle echoed somewhere nearby, reminding me of the eagle’s cry that had begun the Great Council of Fincayra. And of the fact that those hills would have been restored to life by now had I kept my promise with the Flowering Harp.

The three of us trekked in the deepening dusk. The flat rocks under our feet quickly turned into dry, flaky soil, the kind of soil that I had learned to identify with the Dark Hills. But for the occasional rustling of leaves from withered trees, we heard only the crunching of our boots, the rattling of Bumbelwy’s bells, and the rhythmic punching of my staff on the ground.

Darkness pressed closer. I knew that whatever brave animals might have returned to these hills since the collapse of the Shrouded Castle must have found secure places to hide after sundown. For that was the time when the warrior goblins and shifting wraiths—and whatever other creatures lived beneath the surface—might be tempted to emerge from their caves in the rock outcroppings and crevasses. I shuddered, remembering that at least one such creature had dared to appear in broad daylight. Rhia, uncannily aware of my feelings as usual, gave my arm a gentle squeeze.

Night fell as we continued to ascend the Dark Hills. Twisted trees stood like skeletons, their branches rattling in the wind. Staying on our northeasterly course was made more difficult because heavy clouds obscured most of the stars and the remaining moon. Even Rhia walked more slowly in the gloom. Although Bumbelwy didn’t complain openly, his mutterings grew increasingly fearful. My own weary legs tripped often over stones and dead roots. At this rate, we were more likely to get lost than attacked.

When at last Rhia pointed out a narrow gully running down the slope, all that remained of a once-surging stream, I agreed that it would be wise to rest there until dawn. Minutes later, the three of us lay on the hard soil of the ravine. Rhia found a rounded rock she could use as a pillow, while Bumbelwy curled himself into a ball, declaring, “I could sleep through an erupting volcano.” Given the danger, I tried my best to stay awake, but was soon slumbering along with the others.

A high-pitched shriek rang out. I sat up, fully awake, as did Rhia beside me. Both of us held our breath, listening, but heard nothing beyond Bumbelwy’s snoring. A feeble glow behind the clouds was all that we could trace of the moon, and its light barely brushed the surrounding hills.

The shriek came again. It hung in the air, a cry of sheer terror. Although Rhia tried to stop me, I grabbed my staff and stumbled out of the gully. She followed me onto the darkened slope. Searching the shadows, I stretched my second sight as far as I could, trying to detect any movement at all. Yet nothing stirred, not even a cricket.

Suddenly I spotted a hulking figure traversing the rocks below us. Even if I had not glimpsed the pointed helmet, I would have known instantly what it was. A warrior goblin. Over the goblin’s muscular shoulder writhed a small, struggling creature whose life was clearly about to end.

Without pausing to think, I dashed down the slope. Hearing my footsteps, the goblin whirled around. He tossed aside the prey on his shoulder and, with amazing speed, drew his broad sword. As he raised it over his head, his fiery eyes narrowed with rage.

Weaponless except for my staff, I planted my feet and hurled myself straight at him. My shoulder crashed into his armored chest, throwing him backward. Together, we rolled and bounced down the rock-strewn slope.

I came to a stop, my head still whirling. But the warrior goblin had recovered faster. He stood over me, snarling, his three-fingered hand still grasping the sword. As the moon above us broke out of the clouds, the blade gleamed darkly. Just as he brought down the sword, I rolled to one side. It slammed into the ground, splintering an old root. The warrior goblin growled wrathfully. He raised the sword again.

I tried to stand, but tripped on a gnarled stick. My staff! In desperation, I lifted it to shield my face, even as the goblin’s sword came slicing toward me. I knew the thin shaft would hardly slow the blade at all, yet I could do nothing more.

As the blade struck the wood, a sudden explosion rocked the slope. A tower of blue flame soared high into the sky. The goblin’s sword lifted with it, spinning like a branch borne aloft by a gale. The warrior goblin himself roared in anguish. He stumbled backward, collapsing on the hillside. He wheezed once, tried to raise himself, then fell back, as still as stone.

Rhia ran to me. “Merlin! Are you hurt?”

“No.” I rubbed the shaft, feeling the slight indentation where the sword had struck it. “Thanks to this staff. And whatever virtue Tuatha gave to it.”

Rhia kneeled, her curls frosted with moonlight. “I think it was as much you as the staff.”

I shook my head, observing the motionless form of the warrior goblin. “Come now, Rhia. You know better.”

“I do,” she declared crisply. “And I think you are denying it because you want so much for it to be true.”

Stunned, I gazed at her. “You read me, in the same way I came to read those runes on Arbassa’s walls.”

Her bell-like laughter rang out. “Some things I still can’t understand, though. Like why, instead of hiding when you saw the goblin, you charged straight at him.”

Before I could reply, a small voice spoke behind us. “You must be magical.”

Rhia and I spun around to see a short, round-faced boy, crouching on the ground. He couldn’t have been older than five. I knew at once that he was the unfortunate creature whose shriek had awakened us. His eyes, themselves glowing like little moons, seemed full of awe.

I glanced at Rhia. “That’s why.” Turning back to the boy, I beckoned. “Come here. I won’t hurt you.”

Slowly, he rose to his feet. Hesitantly, he approached, then stopped himself. “Are you good magical or bad magical?”

Rhia stifled a laugh, wrapping her leafy arms around the boy. “He is very good magical. Except when he is being very bad.”

As I growled playfully at her, the boy frowned in confusion. He wriggled away from Rhia and started backing down the shadowy slope.

“Don’t listen to her. I am an enemy of warrior goblins, just like you.” Leaning on my staff, I stood. “My name is Merlin. This is Rhia, who comes from Druma Wood. Now tell us your name.”

The boy studied me, patting his round cheek thoughtfully. “You must be good magical, to slay the goblin with only your staff.” He sucked in his breath. “I am Galwy, and I’ve lived all my life in the same village.”

I cocked my head. “The only village near here is—”

“Slantos,” finished the little fellow.

My heart raced.

Galwy looked away sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to stay outside the gates after dark. Really, I didn’t! It’s just that the squirrels were playing, and I followed them, and when I realized how late it was . . . “ He glared at the twisted form of the fallen warrior goblin. “He wanted to hurt me.”

I stepped to the small boy’s side. “He won’t hurt you now.”

Eyes shining, he tilted his head to look up at me. “I think you really are good magical.”

22:
A
MBROSIA
B
READ

When we returned to the ravine, we found Bumbelwy still snoring. Although the explosion of flame had not been a volcano, his prediction of sleeping soundly had certainly proved true. Rhia and I carefully tucked Galwy, who was so tired he could barely stand, under a portion of the jester’s cloak. Then, feeling our own exhaustion, we joined them on the ground. Clutching my staff, I soon fell asleep.

Before long, the first fingers of morning light tickled my face. I woke to find Bumbelwy already doing his best to impress young Galwy with his skills as a jester. From the solemn expression on the boy’s round face, I could tell he hadn’t progressed very far.

“That is why,” the dour fellow was explaining, “they call me Bumbelwy the Mirthful.”

Galwy stared at him, looking as if he were about to cry.

“Let me show you another of my jesterly talents.” Bumbelwy gave his head a vigorous shake, clanging his bells, and drew his cloak tightly about him. “I will now tell you the famous riddle of the bells.”

Rhia, who was also watching, started to protest. But I held up my hand. “Let’s hear this confounded riddle. We’ve been hearing
about
it for weeks.”

She smirked. “I suppose so. Are you ready to eat your boots if any of us laugh?”

“Ready.” I licked my lips in mock satisfaction. “Then, with any luck, we’ll find something more tasty at the Slantos’ village.”

Bumbelwy cleared his throat, making his drooping chins quiver. “I am now ready,” he announced. He paused expectantly, almost as if he could not quite believe that he was finally being allowed to tell his riddle.

“We’re waiting,” I declared. “But not all day.”

The jester’s wide mouth opened. Then shut. Opened again. Shut again.

I leaned forward. “Well?”

Bumbelwy’s eyebrows arched in consternation. He cleared his throat once more. He stomped his foot on the dry ground, rattling his bells again. But he did not speak.

“Are you going to tell this riddle of yours or not?”

The jester bit his lip, then shook his head glumly. “It’s been . . . so long,” he grumbled. “So many people, over so many years, have stopped me from telling it. Now that I may, I can’t . . . remember it.” He heaved a sigh. “Too true, too true, too true.”

As Rhia and I rolled our eyes, Galwy smiled broadly. He turned to me. “Could you take me back to the village now? With you, I feel safe.”

I tapped Bumbelwy’s hunched shoulder. “Perhaps, one day, you’ll remember it.”

“If that ever happens,” he replied, “I’ll probably botch the delivery.”

Moments later, we were trekking toward the rising sun. As usual, Rhia and I led the way, although now I bore Galwy on my shoulders. Bumbelwy, more somber than ever, kept to the rear.

To my relief, we soon began a long, rolling descent, leaving behind the parched slopes and shadowed rock outcroppings of the Dark Hills. I could not rid myself of the uneasy feeling that the goblin we had encountered was only one of the first of Rhita Gawr’s warriors to emerge from hiding. Nor could I forget how little I had done to make this land habitable for other creatures.

Before long, we entered a wide, grassy plain. Piping birds and humming insects appeared, as clusters of trees with hand-shaped leaves grew more common. A family of foxes, bushy tails all erect, crossed our trail. Sitting in the boughs of a willow tree sat a wide-eyed squirrel who reminded me of Rhia’s friend Ixtma—and of the dying woman in his care.

The first sign of the village was the smell.

Grounded in the rich, hearty aroma of roasting grains, the smell strengthened as we crossed the grassy plain. With every step, it intensified, reminding me of how long it had been since I had eaten a crust of freshly baked bread. I could almost taste the grains. Wheat. Corn. Barley.

Other aromas, too, wove through this fragrant fabric. Something tangy, like the bright orange fruits that Rhia and I devoured long ago beneath the boughs of the shomorra tree. Something sharp and fresh, like the crushed mint that Elen often added to her tea. Something sweet, like the honey that bees made from clover blossoms. And more. Much more. The smell contained spicy flavors, robust flavors, and soothing flavors as well. It also contained, more often than not a hint of something that was not really a flavor at all. More like a feeling. An attitude. Even . . . an idea.

When at last we entered the valley of the Slantos, and their low, brown buildings came into view, the smell grew overpowering. My mouth watering, I remembered tasting the Slantos’ bread once before, in the underground den of Cairpré. What had he called it?
Ambrosia bread.
Food for the gods, the Greeks would have surely agreed. I remembered biting into the stiff crust, as hard as wood at first. Then, after some vigorous chewing, the bread had exploded with zesty flavor. A wave of nourishment had coursed through me, making me feel taller and sturdier. For a moment, I had even forgotten about the perpetual soreness between my shoulder blades.

Then I remembered something else. Cairpré, through a mouthful of ambrosia bread, had given me a stern warning.
No one from other parts of Fincayra has ever tasted the Slantos’ most special breads, and they guard those precious recipes with their lives.
I gripped my staff as a new wave of fear surged through me. If the Slantos were not even willing to part with their recipes, how in the world was I going to get them to part with something much more valuable—the soul of the Song of Naming?