Chapter 2

The lifting of the veil

The day greeted Jerad like it always did, with pain. His eyes opened to the stab of the bright dawn sky, making him wince and hold up his hand above his face. A handful of heartbeats and then the realization that Alyssa was dead. The same realization had scoured his mind every morning for twelve years. He lay staring at the wooden beamed ceiling as the roiling in his chest crippled him. First, it had burned in him, driving him away from the other survivors of Argent into a solitary existence amid the wildlands. Then, the roaring agony faded into a constant, smoldering ache. Then, he learned to douse it and returned to his people. To a purpose again.

He put the grief away now after letting it play across his body for the first few minutes of the day. It was all the time he could afford to give it. The sound which had awakened him came again. There was an insistent banging on the door. And his name was called. He flung back the blankets and got out of bed. He dressed quickly in snug breeches of calfskin and went through to the only other room of the log cabin that was his home. He lifted the latch on the tall, finely painted, and lacquered door, which was entirely at odds with the plain, practical, rough-hewn logs that comprised the rest of the house. It had been a gift from the villagers, a precious piece of otherworldly craftsmanship recovered from the gateway before it had been closed.

“Master Jerad, sir!” The red-faced youth, bouncing on his toes at Jerad’s door, was Owen, one of Harl, the blacksmith’s sons. “My dad sent me to fetch you. It is my ma, sir. She has gone mad. My dad needs you. She is saying...things.... and... you see...he said…”

Jerad placed two dexterous hands on the boy’s shoulders, smiling warmly and looking him in the eyes. He was agitated. His words tripped from his mouth in a gathering riot.

“Calm yourself, Owen. Take a deep breath.”

“Ma woke us all shouting like she had been dreaming, sir. She kept saying that the Veil was lifted. Talking about her and saying she had lifted the Veil. She started for the Green in her nightie, and everyone kept saying the music was calling her.” The boy’s voice was wavering now; his eyes never left Jerad’s, looking for reassurance.

Jerad’s mind raced ahead of the boy’s words. He looked instinctively to the north as though, over the distance, he would be able to see anything that would show the truth about what Owen was saying. From the heights of Fern Hill, he saw only the patchwork of wood, canvas, and stone on the hillside and, below that, the city of Fearnot. Beyond that lay fields, land tamed beneath fences and walls. At the furthest reaches of sight, he could make out the black outline of the Embrace, the curving chain of highlands which Fearnot nestled beneath. The Fangs stood proud of those windswept hills, ancient standing stones, and shields against the wildlands beyond.

The boy was becoming agitated. Jerad squeezed his shoulders.

“Owen, listen to me. Everything will be okay. Your mother is not mad. I know what to do.” He did not, but his tone was as solid as the foundations of the walls that kept the village safe. Owen gave a short nod, a measure of relief on his face.

“I need you to start gathering the Council for me, Owen; you know where they all live? I need Hayden and Lucas, especially. Time is running, Owen.”

“Yes, sir,” Owen replied, his bare feet slapping against the wooden planks that comprised the streets in this part of Fearnot.

Jerad had closed the door and was halfway across the room before the youth had taken his third stride. He grabbed a shirt, socks, and boots on his way to the back door. Dropping his clothes to the uneven, mismatched stones of the yard, he thoroughly doused himself in water from the rain barrel beside the back door. His thick, dark hair became slick on his head and across his slim chest. He was spitting a mouthful of crisp, icy water across the yard to clear the sleep from his mouth and in a ritual for good luck. He dressed hurriedly.

The village was not yet fully awake, though he could hear muffled curses and groaning yawns from his neighbors, who had been awakened by Owen’s hammering on Jerad’s door, poking their heads through open shutters or tent flaps to see what the fuss was about.

“Jerad? What is the commotion?”

“Council business, Glyn. Get your head back on your wife’s bosom for a bit.”

“Jer! The sun’s not out of its sack yet. What is all the noise?”

“Sky’s falling, Kurt, but do not stir yourself; it is still cold out.”

He met and dodged a dozen questions with an easy smile and a wink as he traced a convoluted path through the maze of wood, stone, and canvas houses with practiced ease. He let none of the mounting excitement he felt show on his face. It could not be true. No power existed that could defeat the Veil. Memories surfaced like mist from the depths of a pool—the last days of Argent.

His square jaw was firm, brow drawn and set. His brown eyes gleamed with a spark not seen for twelve years. He reached the hard-packed gravel of Iron Street, which wove between two hills about which Fearnot was gathered. Taut canvas banners proclaimed the trades in the buildings on either side of the street. At the bottom of the mountain was the common Green, bounded on the far side by walls of mounded earth.

The breeze carried the music to him from the center of the Green, and he stopped in mid-stride. The fragile, crystalline notes rose with the breeze. Jerad felt a stirring inside him, a rising. He felt one with the music. The music itself was one with the world around it while simultaneously separate. It was of humankind. It was of nature. It rode over the natural sounds of morning. It blended with them as though inseparable. It had been a long time since Jerad had heard music like this since he had felt the impact of it through the core of his being, the power. Others had stopped on the street, gaping and silent. More gathered on the Green around the Harp.

It was a complex structure of metal and wood that held a maze of taut string and wire in an intricate web. Sitting in the center of the bewildering arrangement was a middle-aged woman with dark hair tied back hurriedly and errant wisps breaking free everywhere. A grey cloak failed to hide the white of her nightgown completely, and she was barefoot. She seemed unaware of everything except the dance her fingers led among the strings of the Harp.

“Jerad?” It was Avery. His nightshirt was hastily tucked into breeches, and his boots unlaced. His thick, black hair was in disarray. “Is it Aoife? I have never heard her play like this.”

“Yes, it is Aoife. I do not know how she is doing it. This is far beyond her abilities. We need to speak to her.”

“You will have a job with that, Jerad.” A voice from behind him. It was Asher. “No one will want the music to stop. I saw women going to the Green with lutes and tambours. They are not wasting any time. Everyone wants to join in.

Jerad shook his head. “The village can play for as long as they want after we have talked to Aoife. I need the Council behind me and the Circle, too. Can the two of you help gather them?”

Avery agreed readily, turning to sprint away, and calling over his shoulder where he intended to start from. Asher hesitated.

“The Veil would never allow this. We have not received a note from the Harp that has not been corrupted since the fall. I keep thinking of the last Pathfinder.”

“You were in swaddling when she was killed.”

“I know the story. Everyone does. I came here because of it…”

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Here and now is all that concerns me, Asher. No path is set until it is traveled on.”

“But this could be the first sign of…”

“No!” Jerad stepped close. His voice pitched low but inflexible. His eyes made his tone seem soft. “We have survived this close to the Wilds by dealing with what is, not what if. We find out what Aoife knows, then there will be no what ifs.”

“You are thinking the same thing as me, Jerad…”

“Help gather the Council, Asher. We will do things your way one day, but today, I set the tune.” Jerad strode away. “When I was your age, I thought I could read minds too.”

He heard Avery depart, muttering to himself.

Jerad forced himself to focus, putting the ambitious youth from his mind. Reaching the Green, he had to make a physical effort to continue. The music cast a web around him, draping his arms and legs, causing them to be heavy. It slowed him even while it washed fatigue from his body, soothing aches. Aoife was a healer, and so her music healed all those it touched. Usually, it took herbs and draughts as well. She had the Gift, but she was not powerful. But today, she had the power of a sorceress. Others were already beginning to join the music, raising their voices in song, adding to the swelling wash of magic emanating from the Harp. Still, others arrived with their instruments, including precious items from other worlds gathered directly from the gateway in the old days.

A strong hand clamped to his shoulder. It was Hayden. His shoulders were broad and square, his face chiseled from stone. A look passed between them. Hayden understood the implications of what was happening and what memories were stirring in Jerad. With him was Lucas, excitement painting his round face.

“Thought it would be useful to have some eyes in the sky,” Hayden murmured.

“Good idea.” Speaking helped ground Jerad when the music made him want to leave his body and soar. He concentrated on the pressure of Hayden’s firm hand on his shoulder. “Get up there, Lucas, but be careful. Do not go beyond the Fangs. We cannot afford to lose you or the bird if things are not as everyone hopes. This could be a trick of the Veil.”

Lucas’s eyes shone before they were obscured behind goggles laced to a leather helmet strapped beneath his chin. He sprinted away, accompanied by his hurried apologies for all those he bumped.

Jerad and Hayden moved through the gathered villagers to the Circle of other white stone pieces that defined the boundary of the Harp. Aoife’s face was lost to the world. Careworn lines were smoothed, and a radiant smile gave her a beauty usually denied her plain features. As the crowd parted for Jerad, her eyes lit upon him, and she stopped playing. She stood, her eyes wide, and she pointed at him. Her voice boomed, resonating with a depth that was not hers. Her mouth opened but did not move. Yet words poured forth.

“The Veil is torn, and the Darkness scoured. It trembles before the True Voice. She is born of the Eye, fully formed and ready to battle. The Crossroads stand before us, waiting for our choice of Path. Know this for truth from one who has walked the Paths of what is and will be. Ours is the choice, and we take all with us. Choose well. The True Voice stands naked and alone.”

The words hushed the world. Birds held their breath, hearts paused, and the wind stood still. Jerad had heard words like this only once before.

“Protect her, pet.” The last was delivered in a different voice, but still not Aoife’s native Paradise burr. It whispered across the space between them, soft and fleeting as a dream.

“Alyssa,” Jerad whispered, the syllables choking him. Then, the world shook itself awake. Aoife staggered, and Jerad reached her only a heartbeat behind her husband. Those last words seemed dreamlike now. Had he heard her voice?

Harl had his swooning wife in his arms now. She protested weakly, reaching for the strings of the Harp, but Harl was having none of it.

“Take her over to the Hall. It is closer to your house. We will get a fire going and a pot of tea brewed.”

“She needs to rest Jerad.” Harl protested.

“She will, Harl. But we need to speak to her first. Have you ever heard a Pathfinder speak, old friend?” The blacksmith shook his head. “I have. That was a Reading, though I do not understand how Aoife could have done it. I need to talk to her, Harl.” Jerad’s brown eyes were wide, his face earnest and desperate.

Harl relented and began carrying his wife towards the tall timber hall, which stood alone on the opposite side of the Green from the Harp. Jerad saw the wisps of smoke from the smoke hole in the thatched roof. Jerad could see Blake’s short, barrel figure waiting in the doorway of the Hall. His wife Olive would be inside, stoking the fire and setting a tea kettle to boil above it.

Murmurs were sweeping through the crowd, swelling as the spell broke. As Harl disappeared into the Hall, Jerad raised his hands and voice to be heard. It took precious time to calm the increasingly querulous crowd, and he did not know quite how he managed it, but they began to disperse back to their homes. He did not doubt that before the day was much older, they would be thronging the threshold of the Hall demanding explanations. For now, they were obeying him.

Inside the Hall, Aoife sat on a bench against one wall, fending off her husband’s protective ministrations. Her voice sounded like her own again as she protested her excellent health. Olive sat on the other side of her, a pot of tea in hand. A crackling fire burned in the fire pit in the center of the Hall, its smoke whirling in the updraft from the doors before escaping through the hole in the roof. Ivy was throwing open shutters, each causing a new churning of the smoke from the fire as fresh air coursed through the room. Jerad saw Blake, Earl, and Tobias watching the blacksmith’s wife from the fire, talking in low murmurs. He had seen Seth from across the Green as he entered the Hall. Asher and Avery would not be far behind now that the rest of the Council gathered. The Women’s Circle was already assembled; the Hall was their domain. Women did not need messengers to rouse them from sleep at times like this.

Aoife saw him coming and got to her feet, shrugging off the blanket Harl kept trying to hold around her shoulders.

“Jerad! Thank goodness!” She reached him, clasping his arms. “There is not much time. She is all alone and needs our help!”

Jerad tried to steer the woman back to her seat, but she refused to let him. He felt the others gathering around them but kept his attention focused on Aoife. Her fear was almost palpable.

“Tell me from the beginning, Aoife…”

“We do not have time, Jerad!” Her voice was a shriek. “You must go, bring her out of that place. please!”

“Who, Aoife?”

“The Voice! The Voice!”

The name sent murmuring ripples through the men present. The women had the sense to keep quiet, silencing the men with daggered looks.

“Where is the Voice?”

“In the ruins of Argent. In the heart of the Veiled Lands. She is so alone, Jerad.”

“How do you know this, Aoife?” He pressed a long-fingered hand to her lips, pulling her closer to him as she tried to protest. “I need to know. Tell me, please. If I am to help her, I need to know everything.”

“I had a dream. A woman was falling through a deep hole. It was a gateway. She was drowning in Darkness, and then she Sang. And the Darkness fled from her like night from dawn. I woke up, and there was a voice in my head. She told me that the dream was real, that the woman I saw was the True Voice.”

“What was the voice, Aoife?”

Aoife did not seem to hear. “I felt different. I could feel the Harp calling to me. It wanted to Sing. It was desperate to Sing. And there was no shadow riding the strings this time. It was pure. Somehow, the Veil has been lifted, and She was the one who defeated it.”

“Who is she? Did the voice tell you?”

“She came from the gateway.”

“That’s impossible!” said Avery.

“Shut up!” roared Jerad. Avery’s teeth clicked together. Jerad very rarely lost his temper. But when he did, people stood back.

“We all heard the Harp. We all know it is singing true for the first time since Argent was lost. The impossible is staring us all in the face.”

“Aoife, when you saw me, you said something. But your voice was not your own. Was that the voice in your head? The one that told you about the True Voice?”

Aoife nodded. Her eyes were suddenly tearful. “Yes. Oh, Jerad, I think...it was…” He forestalled her with a raised hand.

“I know, Aoife. I recognized it.” For a moment, the acknowledgment was enough to break down his barriers, and a flood of grief threatened to overwhelm him.

“Jerad, even if the Veil is gone. That place is not safe. You must get her out.”

Jerad nodded. All eyes were on him. “I’ll get her out.”

“Be careful,” said Aoife. “Atramen has unleashed the Mutes to capture her. She is in grave danger.”

“I will,” he replied. "Lucas and I will take Stormbirds and fly to Argent and rescue her."

______________________________________________________

Lucas Haverford is a stormbird trainer and rider for the town of Fearnot. Lucas was raised in Ghoul’s Creek, the son of a fisherman. A storm claimed the life of his father and left Lucas stranded on land off the south coast of Jonrah. A stormbird rescued him, and subsequently, he discovered an affinity for the eagle-like giant birds.

He spent days high up in the mountains, training with the stormbirds. Their bond grew stronger with each flight, each hunt they completed together. learning the ways of the stormbirds, bonding with them in a way that few had ever achieved. His connection with these majestic creatures grew stronger with each passing moment, as if they could sense the kindred spirit within him.

When the valley in which Lucas and the stormbirds made their home was destroyed by a violent quake he knew they had to find a new place to live. The ground still trembled beneath his feet, a stark reminder of the devastation that had befallen their home. Determination etched on his face, Lucas turned to his feathered companions and spoke, "We must journey beyond these shattered lands to find a new sanctuary."

Lucas met Jerad, who invited him and his birds to take residence in Fearnot. Here, Lucas learned to master his skills in communicating with the stormbirds, training them, and using them for his new community. The people of Fearnot at first viewed him and the stormbirds with suspicion. But now, the stormbirds had their own settlement in Fearnot with Lucas’s help in training their own flocks. Through Lucas’ ability, the Southlands have become famous for their stormbird riders.