The Songkiller's Symphony: The Songworld Saga, #1

By Daeus Lamb

In the beginning, the Songkiller sang chaos into the fabric of the world. Now he's returning to finish his dark symphony…

 

You may hate me when this ends. For the crimes I committed. For crimes I couldn't dare commit. I have seen the face of God a thousand times and buckled beneath his blows. But I made him bleed as He bled my heart.

 

I am a hero. They say.

 

Have you ever run in terror from your perfect past?

 

Do you yearn for redemption for the time you failed your dying mother? Will you sever immortal evil's head to get it?

 

Are your dreams filled with damnation, or has the offer of a free wish broken your soul?

 

No?

 

Then let me tell you my story. Venturing with a world-weary bard, a battle-hungry ranger, and a best friend who soon doubted me, I set off to destroy the Songkiller. It is only in looking back that I perceive the devilry of the song that made us fools. The monsters we fought bore our faces.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Daeus Lamb
• Release date: Oct 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201340193

Book preview

Chapter 1

That Longed for Terror

You seem blind to the turmoil inside me. For the past three years, I’ve harbored anger against you for it. Am I that closed off? Sometimes I try to let you see what I’m like inside. I dangle my line, but you have yet to bite.

Excerpt from my letter to my father

I drew a handful of coins from my trouser pocket as the clock tower struck four, ringing throughout the crowded marketplace. A cool autumn breeze emphasized the waning of the day. I counted out two silver Vinorian standards and twelve coppers in exchange for a pound of beef shoulder. Flashing the butcher’s wife a smile, I tucked the package under my black cloak along with the beets and onions. The clock tower continued tolling.

So little time left to confront my fear… Stomach sinking, I stumbled past stalls peddling silks from western lands, fish from the coast, vegetables, pots and pans, and livestock. For once, I would ask Father. I would stand up to him. A thin smile slid across my face, and I dodged other shoppers until the queasiness couldn’t keep pace. If I couldn’t control my emotions, I could resist them.

Ten booths away, Father inspected imported limes, rotating and squeezing each one before nestling it in his basket beside other produce. The seller hovered close, hands clasped, quick to anticipate and serve. Father was a merchant but could be mistaken for a lord. He carried himself as if the muted burgundy coat he wore was made of the finest velvet. 

I could do this. Then I strode up to his side and lost everything I was going to say. Those cost a pretty copper.

The seller narrowed her eyes at me. My gut twisted. What would Father think if he knew I couldn’t broach a simple question? I shoved the beets and onions into his basket, keeping the meat wedged under my arm.

Only the best for company, Exton. Father paid the lady and swung the basket onto the crook of his arm. Nodding to me, he veered toward the square.

Sometimes his tailored suits reminded me of armor. A heart beat beneath, but nothing could touch it against his will.

I forced myself to breathe evenly and ran to catch up.

You’ll have to bake the mince pie. Father adjusted his stiff-as-wood cravat with his free hand. I have an errand to run after we drop off our purchases. I should be back before your friends arrive for our little coming-and-going party.

The gathering would be small, but we had much to celebrate: Hadwick home on leave from the Rangers Corps, Flash and I returning to the academy for our final year, and Father’s last night before embarking on another trading trip that would last a month or more.

At best, I had one hour left to ask my question. At worst, food preparations would consume every moment. Time sprinted to the edge of a cliff, but I didn’t need to scrabble for a hold. My question leapt free. What are you afraid of?

There. It was out.

Father’s expression didn’t change. Many things. He joined the throng funneling onto the eastern highway that led through the old section of Vinoria City. The loss of my cargo, bandits on the roads, our peaceful civilization’s inevitable decay into complacency.

Not mundane fears. Deep fears that haunted his dreams, gripped him by the throat, and tossed him on his bed, screaming in his ears. Like the nightmares I experienced. Could fear not touch him? Or was his demeanor only an impenetrable mask? I meant—

Father halted so abruptly that I bumped into his elbow. His eyes flamed and bore into the distance. Give me your cloak.

Individual voices crystalized as sharp as cloth ripping, each one a possible threat. A woman scolding. A pig squealing. Children shrieking with laughter. An icy gust transformed the sounds into gooseflesh on my skin.

Quick. Father ducked into the thickest crowd. I plunged in after him, unfastening and tossing him my cloak.

He donned it, careful to shade his face. Don’t be obvious, but check behind us. Is a man with a sword beneath his green cloak watching?

I peered over my shoulder. The crowd parted to reveal a stationary figure, clad in green and holding a glinting object, before closing like a stream flowing around a stone. Yes, I whispered. He’s playing a lyre—looks distracted.

Jaw tightening, Father latched onto my arm and wormed through the masses as if he’d rehearsed the maneuver a hundred times before.

Who’s—

"Shh. Not all lyres are safe."

What’s that supposed to mean?

We darted out of the old city and into the new, but Father turned right, away from our home, into a labyrinth of tightly packed wattle-and-daub houses. He clung to the shadows. If you see him again, stay out of sight. His voice was ragged. I won’t have him dragging you into his—

An emerald blur and the gleam of metal appeared at the corner of a side street. One mud-stained boot entered the alley, followed by the other, then a rugged-featured man dressed in a woodsman’s frock. His dark green eyes reminded me of ancient landscapes dotted with ruins. A lyre hung from a strap across his back.

Alixter. The stranger shook his head, swaying his mess of brown hair. You ought to know you can’t hide from me. Your song gives you away.

I lowered the meat to the ground, bracing for anything. Father stood motionless, his face as white as graven marble.

The stranger edged nearer, lifting his broad shoulders in a shrug. Not that I’ve forgotten your flawless knack for disguises. This your son? His piercing gaze dissected me into a million pieces.

Keep him out of this. State what you want.

How’d you overtake us? I blurted. That detour is too long, even for a sprinter.

The stranger glared at Father, then sighed. Look, Alixter, I need help. I hate to put Helaine in danger, but I can use her too.

Father stepped between me and the stranger, a single vein pulsing on the side of his neck. My wife is dead.

The stranger’s hands dropped to his sides, and his eyes moistened. That’s—ack. He drew his sword an inch and slammed it back into the sheath. She was like a star in heaven. Sometimes I forget that some people can die. Can you imagine that? He released a fey laugh. A wanderer who’s lived as long as I have?

Well, you’ve heard the news. Best you leave now.

The stranger removed a letter with a broken seal from an inner pocket of his cloak. He clutched it for three heartbeats, his countenance darkening, before offering it to Father as if it were the key to his soul.

Father unfolded it and rushed through the words like obstacles he had to shove aside, then slapped the letter into his left palm. No. I’m retired. I’m a peaceful merchant now.

Who else am I supposed to turn to?

I slipped the letter from Father’s hand. In one moment, the tiny, whitewashed world Father had built for me shattered. I had to learn more. An instruction had been scrawled on the outside of the letter: Open only if you sense my death.

Two people had already read the contents, so I couldn’t be blamed if the author still lived.

I am the end of ends; else I am the beginning of the end. The key I’ve songwoven unlocks all doors, voids all barriers. I am like a god, but mortal. I have crossed the Songwall. Do not judge me, Ventar. I seek the only power withheld from us, a power that might cure the world. If I die, save the key at all costs. It must not fall into the wrong hands—else heaven and earth will tremble!

My heart skipped a beat. The night before Mother died, Father said only a bard could heal her through siphoning or songweaving, two terms eternally seared in my mind. I was leaving the land of children’s tales, entering the grimmer, wilder land of legends.

A bard had written this letter! My hands shook, and the paper fluttered to the ground.

The rip in my soul, and I knew he’d died, the stranger was saying. "Now the Songkiller has the key, or it will file its way through his subordinates to him. It voids all barriers, Alixter! How else could Gamlin cross the Songwall? The Songkiller’s monsters have been breeding for a thousand years. He’ll ravage the earth, confound you!"

Cold sweat trickled down my neck. The Songkiller?

How do you know he crossed the Songwall? Father fired back.

The stranger pressed his fists to his waist. Whatever Gamlin set his mind to, he accomplished. Nothing this side of the Songwall could have stopped him.

Then find another adventurer. And take back your letter. Father thrust out an empty, quavering hand and froze.

The bustle several streets down buzzed in this lonely alley. I shifted, resisting the urge to look down at the paper.

Father stared at his hand, clenching and unclenching it. His grey eyes dilated.

The stranger folded his arms with a smirk. Your son seems to have inherited your quick hands. Does he have your quick mind too? His attention swept back to me, and Father grabbed my arm, yanking me backward. The expensive limes tumbled out of his basket.

Wait! I planted my feet. Too much was happening at once. The letter, this uncanny stranger, Father trembling—oh, the trembling. Father never trembled. Whatever fear he’d hid from me since my childhood, I could not live nor call myself a man until I shed blood tangling with it. Whatever the cost, I must know the true nature of the world. I pointed at the stranger, my tone accusing. "You’re a bard. An immortal bard from the legends."

The stranger grinned. "He does have your shrewdness."

I wrenched myself out of Father’s grip and stalked forward. What are we after? I’m ready for anything, even the Songkiller.

The brittle glimmer in the stranger’s eyes faded. "Son, you’re completely addled. One does not volunteer to fight the Songkiller. One only yields to such desperation after his soul dies, drop of blood by drop of blood."

I’ve faced that already. I dug my fingernails into the palms of my hands. I had battled the Songkiller, nightmare after nightmare. I wanted to be free. Keeping my voice steady, I leaned in. With all due respect, I do what I’m determined to do. How can I help?

The stranger’s eyebrows rose. My, you remind me of your mother. A light shines in you… He stroked his beard, mist shrouding the ruins in his eyes.

Father’s shadow sliced between us, and his voice rumbled in my ear. For my sake, for your mother’s sake, don’t play the fool. It’s time you learned what’s being asked of you. He straightened his basket and what was left of the produce, standing tall. But not here. If you must speak of these matters, there are safer places.

I had the sense that I was following a monolithic, almost religious figure who owned my soul as Father led me along an all-too-familiar path—the path back to safety.

* * *

I collapsed into a chair as Father stripped to the waist in the middle of the parlor. Golden light radiated from candle sconces onto the hand-woven Olliellian carpet. We’d shuttered all the windows so that only Ventar and I could witness the scandalous exhibition.

Not a scrap of armor covered Father’s heart. My own heart thundered. A serpent tattoo twisted down his chest, wrapping itself around an ink flute. The symbol of the Sons of Dominion. He puckered his lips as if about to spit. Since the Songkiller broke the world with his music, they believed he could rule it if the flute were returned to him. Before you were born, I infiltrated the cult as a spy. He tilted his head toward the bard. With him.

A spy? He’d hidden that all my life? And what else could he be withholding from me? I was a grown man! I didn’t have to be spoon-fed half-truths like a boy. The age-old fear that I could never truly confront him turned my knees weak.

Father traced the spines of the books on his shelf until a secret drawer popped out of the crown. He withdrew a charred bone the length of his hand and a flint knife that he handed to me. With this knife, the Sons of Dominion skinned a historian alive. He gave them five false leads before they reduced him to a naked, bloody thing I could hardly recognize. The poor fellow probably never knew a thing.

Without a reverential pause, he pressed the second relic into my cupped hands. And here is a child’s bone. They suspected a tunnel that contained or led to the flute lay beneath an orphanage. The building burned to ashes one night, the children trapped inside. Feel it.

I shut my eyes and squeezed the bone until it kindled a fire in my heart. So, if the Sons of Dominion send chills down my spine, imagine how inhuman the Songkiller’s torture methods must be. Is that it? A faint snap came from either the bone or a log in the hearth, and I opened my eyes.

Yes! Father clasped my shoulders. For my sake, and your mother’s.

For Mother’s sake… My tear ducts burned, more from salt than sorrow. Ventar had recognized a remnant of her in me. I remembered being more like her once. I strained to retrieve a memory of her, but time had distorted the lilt of her voice and obscured the images of her lovely face. I couldn’t track the direction of her eyes, couldn’t see her nod of approval. I’d have to trust my own judgment.

Dizzily, I brushed Father’s hands aside and stood. The Songkiller and his ancient, twisted melody had killed Mother as much as the disease that wasted her body. The stories she’d taught me called him the father of woes, the ultimate source of any evil. The least I could do was avenge her. I marched up to Ventar. Whatever you need me to be, I can be.

The bard furrowed his brow. His fingers twitched atop his lyre as if itching to spin magic from the strings. Now, you need to understand I won’t be with you to clean up your mistakes. Bards can’t cross the Songwall. We made it that way because we had no business being anywhere near the Songkiller. A boy like you could get squished under a monster’s foot.

A bold answer, in my experience, often sounded wise. A boy like me won’t be caught in the open.

Ventar strummed his lyre in a beautifully understated chord. Well, if you’ve inherited half your father’s knack… I suppose the journey to the Songwall might take two months—long enough to train you.

Father’s cheeks reddened. He forced his mouth open, but the front door clicked and Flash stepped in. He glanced from me to Ventar to Father, whose rustling and grunting indicated that he was hastily pulling his shirt back on. Flash eyed him for a second longer, dragging his paint-stained fingers through his black hair. Did I interrupt?

I tried to rearrange my tense expression into a smile. I’m leaving as soon as possible. My announcement punctured the air like a white-hot needle—and sent a jolt through me. I was actually leaving Father. On a mission. It’s…all very sudden.

Flash squinted at the blade in my hand, then at Ventar, who sat hunched in the corner. Is this a sword-carrying quest? I pawned my sword months ago… I wonder if I could get it back.

Flash! You’re not coming.

Any quest that would attract you is the type you shouldn’t go on alone.

Footsteps crashed outside and Hadwick burst in. He brushed off his green and red coat and draped it over a hook. Hello! Look who’s back from the Rangers Corps. Food ready?

Flash shuffled to the side, shaking his head. We were talking about a dangerous mission.

Hadwick lunged for the nearest chair. Danger? Only when he’d settled into the cushions and scooped up a handful of nuts from the snack bowl did he notice the rest of us. Wait, tell me you’re not joking. I couldn’t bear it. Will there be monsters?

Hadwick, Flash—I clutched my head—this isn’t your battle.

Hadwick swiveled around to address Flash. Is there such a thing as a battle that isn’t mine?

Flash slapped his face in his hands, groaning but with a hint of a laugh.

Young blood, Ventar muttered. Yashael save them from themselves.

Chapter 2

The World That Perished

I’ve spoken of my anger, but I have not written this in its heat. It is still in its infancy, still contained. But I will grow up; I will learn more. And when I do, I will wonder all the more what else you’ve kept from me. Then it may become too much to bear, and I worry what terrible actions I may be capable of. So I write this in hope, desperate for an escape.

Excerpt from my letter to my father

I stared at my slaughtered army, the token-shaped pieces wiped from a makeshift board. In a suicide campaign, Hadwick had hurled his entire army against my flag’s defenses, then Flash swooped in, stealing the victory with his bard. If not for fate, I would have taken Flash’s flag on my next turn, and Hadwick couldn’t have defeated my forces.

Through a skylight in the Dusk Forest’s canopy above, stars swept their slow dance of patterns upon patterns. The fire’s earthlier, grittier dance painted monsters swiping at villagers, grotesque faces flashing in and out. Livid streaks swirled toward the somber stature of an oak, which bowed as if brooding on how little the world had changed since the dark days of the past.

Flash dropped his bard into a drawstring bag along with all the other pieces. In the stories, unexpected failures stop the hero, but in the end, little providences that never should have happened let him win.

I frowned. He read my mind too well. What if I had strategized better? Could I have overcome my bad luck?

Flash shrugged, and he and Hadwick carried the pieces back to our tent. I scraped a twig across the battle lines we’d etched into the loam.

Flash is wrong about chance. Ventar brushed a callused hand over his lyre, the descending notes as long as the shadows surrounding us. And you’re right. I’ve lived through many a legendary story. Chance is capricious. Don’t trust it.

Is that supposed to encourage me?

Do you still believe you can win? His tone, but especially his piercing stare, stopped the flippant response on the tip of my tongue.

I tossed the twig into the flames. There’s always a way. My whole life, I’d lacked control, fed only the realities my father thought I could handle. Now I’d entered a wider, wilder world where I had freedom and risk.

Ventar lifted his gaze to the heavens, his tune a meandering, ironic sort of calm. As if to himself, he whispered, Even without his guidance? Then louder, he asked, Do you know why I chose you?

I shrugged. Because I have my father’s quick hands and mind? Because I was champion fencer at the academy?

Ventar’s finger jerked, and the lyre twanged. "If you ever face a monster, please use a polearm. Or a distance weapon. No, I know a dozen others with those skills and more training than you."

Then why?

Intuition. I can’t prove it, but I doubt you’d ever lie or cheat.

A wry smile crawled across my lips.

Ventar wagged his head. No, that’s not quite it. Goodness knows that liars and cheats have some advantages. It’s… Scowling, he tapped his foot. "Look. Gamlin was a legend. His key can unlock the Songwall—which we specifically built to keep us from crossing. Bards were not made to meddle with the twisted creatures that dwell to the west. If you fail to steal the key, the Songkiller will drench the world in blood. But if you succeed…I need someone who won’t abuse its power."

I blinked. Ventar, good people fail easily.

"Perhaps. But when I laid eyes on you, I thought, This lad looks star-guided. And there’s something almost holy about that. It’s not the person, it’s that they’re touched."

Myths, but I’m glad you believe so. I glanced toward the road and the two thousand miles of foreign lands between us and our destination. Would you call me star-guided if you knew I was after blood?

* * *

A charcoal night swooped down on the last cowardly remnants of day, blending Zalshreb’s massive shadow in with a million others. Curse the sun. It burned his eyes.

He prowled beneath the gloomy hemlocks, the warm blood of a rabbit flowing in his giant maw. It soothed his parched tongue, if only because he was starved.

Foul blood. Not like deer or bear that flocked around the stream of his youth. He’d be gorging on those animals now if not for the men with stinging bows who chased him away. Death is good, men are bad!

Shaking his head, he slunk into the ravine, grinding the rabbit's bones between his teeth. Red haze clouded his vision, then faded.

A familiar odor drifted on the breeze. Zalshreb cocked his head, licking the cartilage and fur from his lips. He sniffed. Sweat, horses, and…

His eyes widened. Men.

The red haze seeped back over the world, and he pawed the dirt. Men must suffer! Men must die! He would clench the first in his jaws, but he wouldn’t kill his prey until he’d hunted them all one by one. Saliva dribbled down his chin.

He crawled deeper into the ravine, and the more the stench of men thickened, the louder he panted. Only a few scents. No caravan with armed guards. Too easy. The Father wise and terrible must have provided this feast.

Zalshreb broke into a run. He burst through thorn bushes, loped across the road, and dove into the forest on the other side, all without cracking a twig. Hiding from the archers in his old haunts had taught him to move soundlessly.

Through the gnarled branches, firelight flickered across a set of faces that bobbed with the faint murmur of voices. Horses neighed nearby. As Zalshreb crept closer, an older and a younger man appeared through windows in the underbrush.

Music blared in his mind, hotter than the sun, sharper than starlight or lice in his fur. And a second pain—

Zalshreb sprang back, hissing. Get out! Get out!

He bolted across the road and up the ravine, lacerating his feet on the stones. Anything between him and his cave—a slender sapling, a thorn bush—he crushed. The song burned. He dashed his head against a rock, but even a headache wouldn’t silence it.

He skidded into the recesses of his cave, clawing at his head. The darkness covered him like a balm, and slowly the song drained away.

Why are you distressed?

The Father… The Father was speaking to him! He’d never heard his voice before, but it was unmistakable. A murky trail like smoke or raging steam hovered in front of him, somehow darker than the blackness all around.

Why do you not answer? I felt the tremors in the Songworld, and they point to you.

Grrr-Grrrrra— Only broken growls came out, so he replied with his mind. A-a-a man! Death good, men bad!

The darkness swirled before him. Every curious instinct in him needed to reach out and touch it, but he wouldn’t dare. What did he do to you?

I… His head spasmed with the memory of the song. He clamped his paws over his ears, spewing bits of blood and saliva. I saw him.

And that hurt you?

Zalshreb pushed a wail through his mind.

The dark presence rammed into his face, and a horrible feeling like drowning pinned him to the ground.

Don’t look for pity from me! Answer simply: Did seeing him place a song in your mind?

Yes.

The dark presence drifted away, churning in slower, wandering patterns as if trying to find a path it had lost.

Someone in the Dusk Forest put a song in your head… Yes, I think I know who he is. One of the bards.

I hate him!

The dark presence twitched. You are a fool. The bard was all that troubled you, then?

N-n…no. No! Two.

Two bards?

No. Zalshreb gnashed his teeth. How could he explain it?

Another man hurt you, but not like the bard?

Zalshreb nodded wildly. Yes, yes!

You didn’t feel a song in your mind with this one?

Dizzily, Zalshreb crawled into a crouch. N-n-nooo… No?

The darkness lurched forward, crackling like fire.

No! He did not have a song! He was only…a sniff of something far away. Like a song, but hidden.

The darkness retreated.

I may know this one… Could it be? The darkness whirled peacefully.

Father will kill the men?

The darkness floated toward the cave’s opening. Hmm? No, you abomination. You will kill them.

* * *

I scooped bundles of leaves from the forest floor, losing almost as many as I captured. If I gathered enough, I’d stay insulated from the cold ground while I slept.

Ventar’s lyre cried out faintly from atop a slope. The scuffling of woodland animals and the creak of swaying tree limbs eased into a background hum. Was that where Ventar had disappeared to? I tiptoed forward, shedding leaves until I’d emptied my arms.

The notes fashioned a simple theme, but on every pass Ventar sharpened it till it cut to the very soul. His voice choked with raw, deep vibrato, more real than perfectionist, quavering more and more with each stanza. Look to the west, where the winged night spreads herself on the ashen plain. All your songs shall be put to right when Yashael comes again. Rivers flow through the world unseen and echo like the clash of steel. Oh, my people, look for spring. Yashael shall come and heal. Those who knew me turned away. I have likewise turned from them. Look to the west for the coming day, amidst the groaning and mayhem.

I crouched behind a tree, my back and arms tingling with goosebumps. A moonbeam showed Ventar huddled in a small hollow, half of his face in the light and half in the dark. Look to the west, look to the west, he repeated like a plea for the sun to rise early and reveal answers that the shadows had concealed. With one last discordant stroke, he set down his lyre and slumped back. Bah. Why do I keep singing that song? I should stop expecting anything to change.

My face flushed with heat. Ventar doubted the Healing Time? Yashael promised his creation that he would one day mend the brokenness. Bards were supposed to inspire faith in others. He wanted me to have faith, but he had none?

I turned to head back to camp. Never mind. We didn’t need hope. We needed dedication. We were doomed only if we quit.

I could supply our group’s morale and faith for as long as it took to kill the Songkiller. As hot and heavy as anger, but without the bitterness, the responsibility settled onto my shoulders like it had always belonged there.

On the outskirts of camp, I resumed collecting leaves. An owl’s hoot interrupted the katydids’ shrill insectile arguments, but I tuned out the racket. I had to think, had to plan for my fight with the Songkiller and a bard’s doubt. The mechanical movement of arranging my leaf mattress inside the tent helped me focus. I shook out my blanket and sank onto it, still fully clothed. I’d be ready at a moment’s notice. Despite the layer of leaves, a chill crept through, and I rubbed thighs sore from horseback riding. The aroma of spruce fought with a whiff of rot, mushrooms, and pungent flowers.

Flash and Hadwick’s voices filtered through the tent flap, weaving into my thoughts until all I could do was listen. I hoisted myself up on one elbow.

"Why are you in its talons?" Hadwick leaned over Flash’s sketchbook.

Flash shrugged. I figure it would pick me off first.

Was he drawing monsters? On our ride in, Hadwick had spun a hundred tales of the monsters in these woods. If Flash had depicted himself being attacked by one, perhaps the stories had spooked him more than he’d let on. Few monsters survived the rangers’ patrol, but that didn’t eliminate the possibility of running into one. I rolled off my blanket and walked toward the fire.

Flash’s sketchbook gave an impression not of black and white lines but the motion of warring light and darkness. The Dusk Forest swarmed the background in dizzying detail. In the center, a flying monster like the offspring of a vulture and a hound carried Flash away.

Flash hugged his knees. What will we do if a monster comes while we sleep?

Hadwick flipped a knife. That’s unlikely. Now, once we cross the Songwall… The knife thumped against his palm, and even the forest seemed to hush. He tightened his grip on the handle. Oh, we’ll handle them somehow. Three men aren’t the best odds against monsters, but we can be sneaky.

You’re sure?

Hadwick shrugged.

I crossed over the log Flash leaned against. He jerked slightly, and his sketchbook slid off his lap. Thankfully, he and Hadwick ought to be easier to motivate than Ventar.

Persuasive speech was like a game. It required the right moves and the right timing. Ventar may grumble about a large party being less stealthy than a sole traveler, but I disagree. We’re a trifecta. Like in the Gambit game we just played. With one piece, you’re vulnerable. With three or four, you can pull off a strategy.

I let my comments imply that they should give up worry and dedicate themselves unquestioningly to our mission. We don’t have enough firewood. I remember seeing a fallen limb in the woods.

Flash leapt to his feet, his hand drifting to his sword. Don’t go alone.

I forced a chuckle. If monsters are even roaming out there, why should they bother me any more than those at the end of our journey?

Flash studied me with wrinkled brows. If you say so…

I patted him on the shoulder and strolled into the woods. Once out of sight, I drew my sword, its weight reassuring, and hummed A Wish for the Willow under my breath. The darkness magnified every rustling leaf.

I recognized the bramble ahead. I’d shave off a few branches, then rush the trophy back to camp. If any monsters did prowl these parts, I could be fast enough that they’d never notice me. I poked the surroundings with my sword until I struck dry wood.

Before my hand reached it, a twig snapped.

The breeze stilled, and in the lull came a whoosh of air, harsh and wet. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. A vision? The same whirlwind as years ago? Would it rip away the natural world before my eyes and leave my soul bare to the pain and fear?

No, you fool, my instincts roared, but it hurt to think.

Deep in the trees, a shadow shifted.

Tripping on my cloak, I backpedaled and raced out into the firelight. I collapsed beside the coals, panting.

Ventar had rejoined us in my absence. He unsheathed his own sword. Wolves?

I hugged my midsection, which cramped like the time I wrote my letter to Father. I…don’t know. I heard something and— I gulped, sweat beading on my brow. Maybe it was just wolves.

The horses whinnied and stamped the ground. Flash drew his sword, holding it too casually, the tip trailing in the dirt. Not exactly an expert swordsman’s stance. I’d have to train him.

Between an oak and a walnut shone two glowering eyes. Larger than a lion, with inky fur and hundreds of gleaming teeth, the monster exploded into the clearing, snarling and flinging strings of saliva.

With a guttural shout, I rushed it.

Flash yelled over the monster’s roars, and my surroundings blurred as it grabbed me, thrusting me above its head. Have to wound it. Its grip pinned my right arm, but with my left I pulled my sword back and drove it into the monster’s flesh.

Ventar charged forward on horseback. Stand back! The next instant, his steed lost its momentum and fell as if struck by lightning. Ventar flew forward like an arrow, sword extended. Faster than I could blink, the monster swiped a paw across his side, smashing him into a tree.

As the monster squeezed me tighter and whirled me in the air, my vision spun. I would pass out if I didn’t wriggle free. You’re so brilliant. Have a plan?

Flash’s second yell stabbed my eardrums, and his sword streaked toward the monster’s abdomen like the judgment of Yashael. It howled, lashing at Flash, who stumbled backward. Hadwick attacked next, and the monster arched its back with a screech. It threw me like a stone from a sling, sending me hurtling over the fire and smack into the ground. I blacked out.

* * *

I swam toward the surface of the darkness. How long had I been out? My eyelids seemed locked down, as did my body. Voices floated in and out, and I strained to catch the words.

Silver leaf might grow here. Flash. It’s common for treating physical trauma.

Are his ribs broken? Hadwick.

Someone snorted. Physical trauma, my foot. This is much worse. Ventar? Hadn’t he been injured? Check on others first. Inspect self later. Must exude confidence. Control. I struggled to reach the upper world, my lungs bursting.

A rough hand settled on my forehead, and the first threads of a soft, deep song trickled over me. My mind surged with images of a sea at night and a small ship kept safe among the crashing waves. The current beckoned to me, washing away the inner pain with each crest of foam. I breathed evenly again. I was a sinking ship; I was a saved ship. I couldn’t wrap my mind around that paradox, but I embraced the peace.

Let him rest. Ventar withdrew his hand.

Their footsteps faded, and I tried to regain control of my faculties again. After several minutes, I finally managed to wiggle my fingers. Bracing myself, I lurched to a sitting position, wobbled until my vision cleared, and then crawled to my sword. When I grasped the pommel, some strength returned to me.

Ventar knelt beside the monster’s corpse, examining a deep gash as wide as its belly. Intestines, white tissue, and snarls of lacerated veins oozed out. "Who dealt this blow?" he asked.

Flash edged behind Hadwick. I…did, sir, he mumbled. I hope nothing is wrong with it. If so, I…I wasn’t in my right mind.

I staggered up, shivering and my head pulsating. You weren’t hurt?

Ventar massaged his spine. My back feels like a burst wine skin, but a bard doesn’t die as easily as a mortal. He continued groping the monster’s fur.

Flash and I are fine, Hadwick added.

I blinked again and again. I would have died without their help. Was that magic you sang?

Ventar plunged his hand into a fleshy pouch similar to an opossum’s. Only the ordinary type of magic that all music has. The souls of everything are made of songs. Songs flow in and out of us, touching our souls quite literally. But that means little unless you can hear the Songworld. Metal clinked, and he retracted his hand. Ah! This species loves shiny objects. He dug out gold, silver, and copper coins, along with an iron nail and a looking glass. Humph. This should repay me for our horses and traveling expenses. He removed his flask from his belt and cleaned the items before depositing them in his satchel.

I squinted. Something else gleamed in the top corner of the beast’s pouch. I stooped and plucked out a stiletto with a bright ruby on its cross guard.

Ventar glanced at it. I have enough. Keep it as a souvenir.

Me? My heart stuttered. No, no! I only got into trouble. The sheer value of the stiletto burning in my hand, I pointed to Flash. You fought harder than any of us. I thrust the weapon at him. Saved my life even.

Flash backed away, cringing like a cornered animal. Please. It’s too much.

Then take it as a gift.

Flash cradled it as if it were fragile. By the glassy look in his eyes, he was reliving the moment when I’d come to his rescue as a child. I won’t ever abandon you.

I smiled. Flash, you’re not in my debt.

Chapter 3

The Dreamers

Sometimes I think you’re hiding some specific, terrible knowledge from me. Sometimes I think you simply don’t value the things I believe are important.

Excerpt from my letter to my father

Flash’s Story

Part 1: Lost Innocence

Time: Thirteen Years Ago

A child of six scratched another line into the sand, completing the drawing he’d been working on for hours.