SONG of EMBER

29

SHADOW-BIRDS

🙜

The glowing veins of mountain magic—or whatever it was—had receded so far into the walls and ceiling that the ancient inhabitants of the Sisters had fashioned an alternative light source: at first he mistook them for more of the strange floating orbs they had encountered in the forested footstool, but these lights were static. A few flickered, as if dying or disturbed.

He pointed them out to Ky, who said only, “They will not harm us.”

Ember had thought not, but didn’t bother with a reply. If she had more innate knowledge of this magic, surely she would have enlightened him.

Surely.

He plied her once more with queries of how and why she had come to the mountain, and what it was that she wanted, but received only vague philosophizing and myriad excuses. At last Ember grew so frustrated with talking in riddles that he gave it up altogether for fear of souring their companionship again. Without the conversation to liven the dead halls, the silence pressed in on them, stifling all but the strongest of his own thoughts; it was, therefore, somewhat understandable that Ember jumped as high as he did when a sudden screech rattled down from the ceiling.

Before he had time to draw Fishbiter, a shadow plummeted across the hall—like a demon falling from the hidden sky. It disappeared into one of the empty rooms.

Ember retreated to the center of the corridor and it made him feel slightly less cowardly when he noticed that Ky had instantly done the same. Driven closer by this common threat, they moved past the door one step at a time, peering into the shadowy recess. Nothing could be seen within save darkness and broken furniture.

A bat-like chitter echoed from above.

Heart thudding with rage that he had been caught unawares, Ember snatched the stone-light from his belt and thrust it in that direction, waving the light back and forth. A faint reflective glimmer greeted him from the lofty perch, as of two eyes, but they blinked out moments later.

Something clicked rapidly behind them.

They whipped around together.

Ember cursed at a second pair of eyes which glared in the middle of the hall. Whatever it was clung to a ruined tapestry which dangled over their heads, and the tattered cloth stirred as if under a breath of wind.

Ky sniffed twice, shivered, and spat angrily.

He glanced at her in question.

“They have no scent,” she hissed.

They continued along the path much more quickly, now conscious of their strange pursuers. Ember kept the sword trained on the nearest of them. At first he thought there were only two flapping about their heads, but soon he had to admit that he had glimpsed or heard more than five in total. These ghostly creatures always veered off before they entered the radius of the stone’s glow, and only showed themselves in the darkest of corridors.

They’re afraid of the light, Ember realized, thankfulness washing over him.

But his relief did not last. The creatures swooped ever lower, ever closer, until at last one of them brushed Ember’s face. He gave a ringing shout and dropped to the stony floor, swinging wildly with the sword.

Naturally, he missed his mark.

Beside him Ky let out a faint cry, and when he looked up dark liquid dribbled from a tiny cut near her hairline. He rubbed his stinging jaw with his free hand.

His knuckles came away with a smear of blood.

“Did they… did they bite us?” he demanded, pointing Fishbiter at any pair of eyes brave enough to glide overhead.

Ky appeared stricken. She moved closer, her musty, berry-like aroma enveloping him; startled, he found himself unable (or unwilling) to move. The sudden closeness was too captivating, and her musk too overwhelming.

The sirena grazed his chin with the tip of one claw.

“It is not a bite,” she whispered, her eyes flicking from him to the sword he held. “I think—”

As she spoke, another blur flashed between them.

His shoulder stung, and Ky whimpered.

A fresh trickle of blood leaked from the side of her neck, and a red patch began to form beneath his stained shirt sleeve. It had not torn his clothing; only his skin.

Revolted, Ember crouched low, waiting for the next attack. His pulse pounded in his ears. They thought they could strike him—strike Ky—with impunity? He would show them otherwise, magic or no.

Fishbiter glimmered hungrily in his hands, and as the next shadowy assailant swooped down from the ceiling Ember gave a savage yell and swiped with the blade. It passed harmlessly through the creature as if it were a foul black mist, and as he staggered from the momentum of the blow he felt another wound open on his chest.

“Ky!” he shouted, horrified. “They can’t be killed!”

But when he turned to the sirena, he was greeted by a whirling mass of shadows. He didn’t know where they had come from, and was too beleaguered to care; it was all he could do to stay on his feet in the disorienting storm of wind and fury. The light of the stone at his hip was the only deterrent, it seemed, for the more he slashed with Fishbiter the more furious and fast-paced their grim dance became.

Three more cuts bloomed across his body. He felt each one acutely and dashed the blade again, stumbling in the sirena’s direction. This must be—he reflected abstractly—what death felt like. The darkness was all-consuming, a ravenous beast comprised of a multitude tearing and clawing at his body… threatening to drown him in that darkness.

And they could not be stopped.

Ember wavered, the sword growing heavy in his hands.

One piercing thought revived him.

Ky…

He forced his legs to move, one step at a time, until he glimpsed a pale form through the cloud of shadow-birds: she stood in the center of the hall before him, hands upturned and eyes half-closed. A hoard of the wicked things flapped about her body, chittering and clacking and screeching and scolding. But as Ember stumbled across the hall he saw that they were not touching her. Several fresh cuts laced her arms, but the chatter began to cease and he slowed his stride, confused.

A quiet hum became audible as the shadows dispersed.

Several glided past Ember, but seemed to have lost their taste for human flesh.

He understood: her humming had eased his hunger with a single note, soothed the pains in his empty stomach. He felt fulfilled.

Satisfied.

Tangled words slipped between Ky’s teeth, hissing and murmuring and rustling like dried leaves swaying over a burbling stream. The complex combination of sounds was so foreign to Ember that he found it almost unpleasant—until she lifted her voice and began to sing.

It reminded him at once of a little orb spider he had seen weaving its web on the stack of wood outside his cabin window. At first glance the melody was deceptively simple, around and around, spiraling up to the ceiling far above and echoing into distant halls. But the longer she sang, the deeper grew the melody. It layered upon the previous notes which yet hung before him, tempting him with visions of cool waters and misty woods. He could not understand the words, but their intent was clear. The siren's melody consumed every facet of his being, touching him with its shivery fibers of thought and breath.

A hollow ache stole his peace of mind and a craving for more—her voice, the siren words, he knew not what—overpowered his instinctual fear of both Ky and the shadow-beasts. Even as the creatures were swooping and flashing and diving around him, he too crept closer, shuffling forward on his hands and knees.

In that moment, he would have done anything she commanded of him… anything at all.

And he knew the shadows would as well.

He felt a bizarre kinship with them then, for they were all diminished by her song, all pulled forward by the words, the trills, the beautiful nonsense of Ky's native tongue. They fluttered around her, never touching, silent but for the sound of their movement which was as a rushing wind, until they formed a solid wall of shadows between him and the siren.

He pushed past them, shuddering at their icy touch.

His knuckles tore and bled.

As he lifted a shaking hand to touch a loose strand of black hair, her gaze flickered to his, breaking the spell. The next words she wove were of sorrow, pain, and dread—a fell warning that ended in a high-pitched whistle. It rose swiftly until it faded from his auditory range, leaving only sharp echoes behind.

The shadows squawked like a flock of bothered crows and scattered every which way, departing with all the flurry and fury of leaves in a winter gale. Several passed through Ember's body in their haste, scratching his chin, his left elbow, and his neck. Only then, roused from his stupor by their foul chill and the mild pain of his wounds, did he notice the tears that streaked his face.

He sat back on his heels, embarrassed and disturbed, and hastily scrubbed them away. All his old aches and pains returned, including the hunger that gnawed at his stomach.

When he had regained enough composure to glance up at Ky, she had removed herself across the hall and was studiously licking her fingers, applying the sticky spit to her wounds.

He waited, breathless, for her next words.

But instead of continuing her song, she said flatly, "I think they will not bother us again."

It took him several seconds to collect his wits and his disappointment.

"Good…" he mumbled, frowning at the cuts across his knuckles. His mind felt thick, heavy, and blurred, and his thoughts moved frustratingly slowly. He could still see the silver web of Ky's song in his mind's eye, as plain as the back of his hand—a work of intangible art that would rival any of the grand tapestries they had passed in the mountain halls.

"Come, Ember."

Startled from his dreams, he glanced up at her. Her forehead was creased and the bridge of her nose faintly wrinkled, as if she had seen, smelled or tasted something unpleasant.

"We must not linger here."

In no mood to argue, Ember heaved himself off the stone floor and reclaimed Fishbiter, putting the sword away: he was so tired he would sooner trip and fall on the blade than make use of it, and the shadow-magic had put a dent in his confidence.

"How could they bite us," he mused, "and yet pass through my blade unharmed?"

"They are not all that they seem," Ky crooned, her voice calmer than he felt at that moment. "Beyond that I am not guessing. Only… I will not risk my life nor yours on any of the magic in this mountain. It is…" She hesitated. "…old."

"And twisted," Ember suggested, echoing her words from the forest.

"Hmm."

For a while they walked on in silence, passing dark open doors that gaped like the maws of ancient tombs. That was, Ember admitted to himself, exactly what they were. Once places of refuge, now home to the dead. After a few risky and ultimately unprofitable forays in search of food, which he always stopped to ask Ky's approval of, he did not venture into any of them, even the ones where a light had been left on—for those doors were always shut, and would not open no matter how hard they both tried.

He thought it very likely that these doors had been blockaded with magic in a desperate attempt to shield whoever still lay within. And it was very, very unlikely that they had left any edibles uneaten before they wasted away.

Ember lost count of the halls, the open doors, and the watery shadows and wavering lights that extinguished as they drew near, but he thought they had been walking for almost an hour when a new sound shivered the mountain.

A baritone hum.

The air vibrated under the strain of it and Ember resisted the urge to claw at his ears. He drew the sword again, driven by instinct rather than conscious thought. The deepness—darkness—contained within that single note rivaled even Ky's piercing whistle that had sent the shadow-birds shrieking into the eternal night of the mountain.

Fishbiter quivered in his hand.

Ember twitched, his fingers flying open without his permission, and the sword clattered to the floor.

The hum swelled, growing in strength until Ember was forced to clap his hands over his ears, and the blade continued to vibrate on the stone floor, its silvered edge blurred with motion. It spun itself in a small circle, pulsing with an angry light.

He hunched his shoulders and then collapsed to one knee, grimacing.

Every nerve felt raw, exposed.

Hatred and fear mingled in his chest: he wanted nothing more than to run and hide like a frightened cony, but a powerful desire to make that noise end by any means necessary conflicted with that fear. His breath hitched, his heartbeat fluttered until he thought it would stop altogether, and his hands grew cold and clammy.

And then the dread hum passed into echoes, leaving Ember panting for breath and the sword shimmering faintly on the floor, inert once more.

For several minutes neither of them moved.

When he found his voice again, he could only manage a faint supplication. "Maker above…"

Ky stirred then, and as he stood he noted the expression on her face: soft, strained, almost wistful. It was utterly unlike any emotion she had yet shown, and a stark contrast to the fear and loathing the hum had awakened in himself. Her face was pale in the light of the ghostly orbs, abalone hues shimmering like a rainbow across her slimy skin. It reminded him of the way she had appeared under the waterfall.

"What was that?"

Her answer was slow in coming.

"I am afraid, Ember," she murmured, "that perhaps... something else… is hearing of my song."

But the look on her face belied her words. It was both gentle and forlorn, and she shivered, overcome by some powerful feeling that eluded Ember.

"Then let's go," he said earnestly, retrieving Fishbiter and swiftly tucking it into the scabbard. The ease with which he accomplished this made him feel a bit braver. He trotted in the opposite direction, but Ky did not follow until he had almost reached the end of the hall. "Quickly!"

She turned, her gaze passing over him briefly, and wandered after him like a woman walking in her sleep. There was something about the set of her mouth and the glimmer in her coal black eyes which reminded him of the way his elder sister had gazed at her beloved. A keen yearning.

Desires hardly spoken of, but deeply felt.

Ember decided at once that he hated that look.

For one reason only: it was that awful hum, and not himself, which had prompted it.