SONG of EMBER

25

FISKBITR

🙜

As Ember had suspected, the map was a treasure in its own right.

The markings gave him a reasonable grasp of his location, which freed him to wander whither he pleased. He chose to leave the trail of spackled footprints behind—for they leapt off down a winding corridor—and instead made his way toward the grand central hall in search of sustenance. It was impossible to count the hours which passed, but he guessed it had been little more than half a day’s walk to make his way back to the kitchens.

Ember scrounged through the refuse until he located a dusty flask, and sat a long while with it near a puddle of water; he didn’t trust any source which flowed along the ground or wound from the direction of the tainted well, but this was a slow trickle which leaked through a crack in the ceiling.

He crouched on the stone and waited for the flask to brim, wondering where the drops were dripping from.

Perhaps a cistern full of bloated rat corpses.

You really ought to tame your thoughts, Ember, he lectured himself, not for the first time; anyway, even supposing they were true, he desperately needed the drink—and so would the sirena, when he found her…

If he found her.

Strange to think I heard another sirena singing, back in the Sisters’ Footstool. Not long ago I would have sworn the river-folk were a fanciful tale spun by those old gossips, and now I’ve gone and met two of them…

His thoughts wandered back to Sil and her wicked smirk. He didn’t like how close she had been—nor the idea that she may have glimpsed him through the vision. He suspected she had been nearby when he shattered the bone; had her magic been tangled up with that of the mountain? Did she know what he looked like, now?

There seemed no explanation for the occurrence, but he wondered if perhaps the well had been used to contact other oracles.

She must have been tailing Ky this whole time. Did Ky know she was being followed? How long did it take Sil to track her down?

Of one thing he was convinced: he had come terrifyingly close to meeting the same gruesome end as the ill-fated Bren that day. Indeed, he surely would have, if Ky had not found him so swiftly. Her impatience with his fumbling translation at the door must have been fraught with no small measure of fear, knowing that her sister was once more so close to fouling her plans.

And what were those plans?

She had never told him plainly, and the implications of that were rather disquieting.

“I’ll simply ask, of course, when next our paths cross,” he decided, shaking the excess water from the flask and lifting it to his lips. “Supposing I don’t die of drinking poisoned water first…”

But no cramps or ominous aches beset him as he sought out the place where Ky had flung his fishing spear. It was not far from where he thought it might be, and he settled it gratefully upon his shoulder once more, relieved by the familiar weight of it. It was a foolish comfort, perhaps; surely such a crude implement would be of little use if it came to blows with an angry sirena, or anything else which may yet lurk beneath the mountain.

Thusly armed, he returned to the trail of siren blood.

❧

It was almost too easy to pick up Ky’s tracks, such that for the first hour or two, he braced himself for an ambush. The corridor dimmed, and misplaced objects caught his eye now and then in the shadows: bits of ribbon or torn fabric, an empty jar, an arrowhead burrowed into the stony wall or a dagger on the floor.

None of these things turned him from his course.

Until he encountered human bones.

Ky’s footprints ended abruptly, as if she had taken a leap, and reappeared opposite the remains, continuing at a frantic pace down the hall. But Ember knelt beside the dead and held forth the stone-light curiously.

“What happened here?” he murmured, squinting in the darkness.

His breath stirred a faint puff of dust, and he coughed.

The corpse was bedecked in rusted armor. Guard, warrior, or soldier of some sort. He could just make out an emblazoned symbol on the breastplate, which appeared to be a rising sun. Beneath it, a glyph which resembled a skewed M—twin peaks, one slightly higher than the other.

He traced the design with his fingers.

Sisters Mountain.

Strangely, though he glanced about the hallway, there was no skull to be seen. A helmet lay upon the stone, empty. He could not fathom why the head had been confiscated, and naught else; perhaps a dreadful trophy. After a moment of silent respect, he rose to his feet and dusted off his hands.

A glimmer of blue caught his eye.

He turned his head sharply, snatching his spear.

There, in the corner—

Another pile of bones.

This corpse slumped against a ramshackle barricade, and its head was still attached.

He took a cautious step in that direction, casting the golden stone-light upon it. Cobwebs trailed through its empty ribcage, and bony claws grasped the hilt of a shining shortsword upon which it had impaled itself.

A siren, he thought, noting the gaping jaw and pointed teeth. It must have slain the warrior…

But there was something rather haunting about the way in which it had fallen against the wall.

Had the creature bested its mortal foe, only to then take its own life with this blade?

If so, why?

Regret, perhaps?

Ember scoffed under his breath, shook his head, and reached for the hilt.

A serene blue light sparked along the blade and it buzzed like a singing bee. He gasped faintly, jerking his hand away. The runes faded—for that is what they were. A word had been etched into the fuller.

He hesitated, and then reached for it again.

The buzz returned—a pleasant humming sound—and the glow intensified.

Ember was no weaponsmith, but the beauty of the sword spoke for itself. The diamond-shaped pommel was set with a glassy stone, and an elegant crossguard had been expertly fashioned into a pair of triangular spines which pointed at its most recent adversary like two silver fangs.

He impulsively grasped the elegant hilt, closing his fingers around the cold metal.

It warmed beneath his touch.

Ember yanked it free.

The bones rattled together and the skeleton slid down along the wall, but Ember paid it no heed, captivated by the blade in his hand. He swung it once, dust and cobwebs flying, and almost laughed.

Light as a feather.

He hefted the blade, and then set about determining which of the corpses it had belonged to. A leather belt and a fine wrapped scabbard were easily procured, preserved by some enchantment or other, and he shook them vigorously to loosen the dust and debris. The buckle had to be fastened several notches tighter, but once Ember finished adjusting the length of it, the belt nestled nicely beneath his fishing spear.

Before he strapped the shortsword to his back, he ran a finger along the polished steel to admire the runes. It took him only a moment to piece them together, although some were oddly shaped. They read, more or less:

FISKBITR

He mouthed the word, and then smiled to himself.

Fishbiter!

An apt name for such a weapon.

He closed his fist around the hilt with a sudden resolve.

“It is a rare pleasure to make your acquaintance, Fishbiter,” he said formally; and then blushed a little at his own foolishness. “My name is Ember Jarelson, and I do promise to wield you bravely... though I confess I have never touched a weapon so fine in all my days.”

As he spoke, the filigree shimmered along the length of the runes, and Fishbiter hummed. Only once the spark of blue had reached the end of the etchings did the weapon fall dark and quiet once more.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that the sword had returned his greeting.

❧

Ember yawned, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. The tracks had become messier and blotchier as Ky’s frenetic pace increased, and he could tell she had been favoring one foot more than the other from the way the blood had spattered.

At last he encountered a grim pool of it.

He crouched with a sympathetic wince, tapping the stone floor with a finger. It was still somewhat tacky, and beside the congealed blood glinted a pile of splintered glass, most of it crusted in crimson.

I’m sorry, Ky.

It was more an acknowledgment than apology—the notion of yanking those glittering shards from the pads of his own bare feet prompted a shiver of disgust. From there the bloody tracks became fainter and fainter, until there were only a few drops of red to guide him and he feared he might lose her path altogether.

He stifled another yawn and leaned against the wall to steady himself.

The prospect of falling asleep alone outside the oracle’s sanctuary was not an appealing one, but having the sword at his side did lend him a bit of courage. Besides, what else was there to do? He was so tired that he knew he would drift off sooner or later, regardless.

“I can rest for a moment, anyway,” he sighed, eyelids fluttering as he sank to the floor. “Too tired to walk much further…”

His voice echoed pleasantly around him.

The empty corridor faded.

And Ember wandered alone in a misty wood.