Chapter Thirty-Seven: A Time to Fight

“We fight for our King and our country. We fight for the people. We fight for honour and glory, and most of all, we fight for the people whom we hold dear in our hearts.”

—Dalan Kelethar, Thirteenth General of the Legion

Evaine’s mind was elsewhere as she made her way across the courtyard to the Legion barracks. They were separated into individual quarters, with the infantry in the main building and the cavalry at a spot closer to the stables. The armoury and the training grounds were nearby, filled with guards and soldiers practicing their routines.

The Songweavers counted as infantry, but they had their own building in the form of a large clock tower overlooking the premises. The clock had only one face, and instead of numbers signifying the hour of the day, there were symbols. Ordinarily she would have been captivated by them, a thousand and one questions surfacing faster than she could voice, but today there was only one.

Why?

Try as she might, she couldn’t stop thinking about Bran. It wasn’t so much the things he’d said or what he’d done—though it did hurt having the purse smacked from her hand—but rather the look on his face as he’d slammed the door shut. It was a look of utter defeat, a despair that belonged to the Damned in the pits of Hellheim.

Have a think about how he feels, and try to understand him. Think about why he came all the way here and what he lost because of it.

She was beginning to see what Ein had meant by that. Bran had travelled all the way from Felhaven to be with them, when adventure had been against his very nature, and now they were leaving him behind yet again. Of course he would be upset, and he was fully entitled to be. She felt a sense of overwhelming guilt.

Why did things have to turn out this way?

She knitted her brows, speeding up the paved path to the base of the tower. Try as she might, she couldn’t think of a solution. He’d been dropped in the middle of nowhere, stuck between a rock and a hard place. Considering the challenges they’d faced just getting here, it was a near impossibility for Bran to make it back to the village by himself. They should have tried harder to discourage him back in the Sleeping Twins, when it had still been possible to turn around.

Evaine reached the door to the tower and entered. The building was cylindrical with a hollow centre. When she looked up, she saw past layers and layers of balconies and doors to a flat circle of glass across the ceiling. Through it was the sky, bright and blue.

Double-checking the address on the sealed letter in her hand, she crossed the entrance hall to the staircase and began to climb. It spiralled up and up, opening into a circular corridor on each floor. Songweavers in Legion robes passed her on their way down, sparing her odd looks—those who weren’t dressed in black and silver were few and far between. The air smelled of crisp paper and clean cloth. It made for a welcome change to the dust and snow she was so used to.

As Evaine climbed, she read the signs and the maps. They were posted on each floor for convenience, labelling what services and facilities that floor held. She counted seven floors in total holding two libraries, three training areas, an observatory and a dungeon, as well as labs, infirmaries and countless rooms where the tower’s inhabitants slept.

She was just about reaching the end of her patience when she arrived at the top floor. On the other side of the balcony was a dizzying drop to the ground, which she’d only just noticed was carved with the emblem of House Uldan. There were three doors on the level—one leading to the observatory, one to the clock room, and one to the Grand Songstress’s office. Evaine approached the third door with the letter clutched tightly in her hand and knocked.

“Hello?” she asked.

The hallway was silent. She listened to the sound of boots, rustling robes and quiet chatter echoing up and down the tower. The place resembled an academy more than a place for soldiers to eat and sleep.

Then a voice spoke: “Enter.”

It was a simple command, yet Evaine felt compelled to obey. As she grabbed the handle and pulled, she wondered if this was the power of a true Songweaver.

Milena’s office was small and cramped, lined with bookshelves that reached up to the ceiling. As if that weren’t enough, there were also several stacks of tomes piled precariously high, scrolls and ledgers in open crates, others left in the corners in chaotic heaps. A girl in a plain cotton robe was digging through them, cursing under her breath as she did so.

Evaine looked past the piles to the antique desk at the far end, her eyes resting upon yet more books in display cases and cabinets littered around the room. Sitting at the desk was a withered old crone with a hunched back, and behind them both was a glass window overlooking the courtyard and the rest of Aldoran.

“Excuse me, Grand Songstress,” Evaine curtseyed the way her mother had taught her to. “I’ve been sent here to join the Legion Songweavers.”

The old woman looked up, her bones crackling as she did so. Her eyes were small and like slits, causing creases to run across her face whenever she blinked. “Ah yes. Evaine, was it? Do you have your letter?”

Evaine nodded and toed her way over to the desk. As she brushed against a stack of books, the girl in the cotton robe lifted her head.

“Watch your step!” she snapped. “Some of these books are worth more than your life!”

Evaine flared but swallowed her anger. “Sorry.”

Who was this person to speak down on her so? She glanced at Milena and composed herself. It wouldn’t sit well if she started bickering in front of her future commander.

She approached the desk and handed over the letter. The old woman ran her fingers across the wax seal and then broke it, unfolding the piece of paper. Her eyes moved across the page as she read it beneath her breath.

“Your affinity is water?” she asked.

Evaine nodded. She thought about mentioning Tel'rahns and the man with the seaweed coloured hair she’d been dreaming about, but decided not to.

“The King says his advisor speaks quite highly of you,” the old woman continued. Her voice was slow and drawling, not at all like the one that had called on her to enter the room. “According to this, you’ve been Songweaving for less than a week and the Druid already thinks you to be capable.”

Evaine said nothing. There was no point to giving them false expectations.

“Really?” the girl behind them asked, making her way to Evaine’s side. She looked young, no older than Cinnamin, yet she had a full head of grey hair that fell untidily to her waist. Her brow was lowered into a perpetual scowl. “It’s rare for a water-user to develop so quickly. Water is one of the hardest elements to manipulate, being fluid and formless.”

“We always have a place for new recruits,” the old woman said, “especially if they are talented. With war on the horizon, we could use all the help we could get.”

The grey-haired girl chuckled. “I get that,” she said, her frown disappearing. “War. Horizon. The relicts are literally on the horizon.”

The old woman scowled. “That was not intentional, Grand Songstress. I don’t think this is a laughing matter.”

Evaine blinked. “Grand… Songstress?”

The girl smirked. “Am I not what you expected me to be, Novice?”

“Novice Evaine, this is the Grand Songstress Milena Labeaux, commander of the Legion Songweavers. She answers directly to the High King.”

“I love pulling that trick on people,” Milena said. “This is my secretary, Zabura. A formidable Songweaver in her own right, of course.” She somehow managed to look down her nose at Evaine. “I must say, I expected more of one recommended by Talberon himself. You look like a peasant girl who’s been rolling around in the stables.”

“It’s been a long road,” Evaine said stiffly.

“Yes, I hear it has. The Sleeping Twins, was it? That place rings a bell, though I might have come across more than a few sleeping twins in my time.” No one laughed at her joke.

“If I might ask, how old exactly are you?”

“How old do you think I am?”

Evaine paused. “Not old enough.”

“Oh my.” Milena said. “He’s certainly sent me a problem child. Someone who disrespects my books and has no manners.”

“Do you know Talberon?”

“I do. Very well, actually—we go back a long way. You however, have yet to earn my respect.” Milena pointed to a jug of steaming tea on the desk. “There’s water in that. Show me what you can do.”

Her voice changed at once, from light-hearted to authoritative in the snap of a finger. This was it, the commanding voice that had spoken at the door. Shifting tentatively from her spot, Evaine faced the jug.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked.

“I don’t care. Spill it, freeze it, turn it into steam. Let’s see what you can do with your Soulsong.”

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“Alright then.” Evaine smiled inwardly at the thought of scalding the annoying woman and hummed. It had become much easier for her to manipulate water over the past few days. She was able to lift the tea from the jug in a steaming blob of brown liquid.

She looked around, considering what to do. Judging from how the Grand Songstress had reacted to her accidental touching of the books, it probably wasn’t a good idea to splash hot tea everywhere. Instead she lowered her voice, slowing it to crawl. The steam disappeared as the tea cooled rapidly, freezing into a chunk of hovering ice.

“Very good,” Milena nodded. “You’ve good control over your element. Now let’s see how well you handle this.” She, too, pressed her lips together and sang a note.

It was like Evaine had just been given a great shove. The block of ice flew towards her, and it was only with great effort and concentration that she was able to slow it. Even then it was like trying to push back against a wall. She bent at the knees, her fists clenching as she fought against the Grand Songstress.

Evaine felt something crack in her mind and then the ice shattered, relieving her of the pressure. Shards flew across the room and stopped in mid-air. Milena guided the frosted fragments back to the jug with her voice. Then, with another whisper, the tea was steaming again.

“Interesting,” the small woman said. “I begin to see why Talberon was so insistent for you to be taken in. With the right training, you could become a very powerful weapon indeed.”

Evaine puffed her chest with pride. It was finally happening, the two biggest things she’d ever wanted to do, combined in one. Leave the Sleeping Twins to see the world. Master the gift she’d been born with; the gift of the Soulsong. She couldn’t help but feel a shiver up her spine in anticipation.

But what if it’s not the life you imagined? that small voice in the back of her mind whispered. What if you regret it?

She’d been conscripted. There was no turning back now.

I’ll love it, she assured to herself. Songweavers. Robed magicians singing floods across the land, meteors from the sky, trees from the ground. There was no ‘what if’. She’d gotten to Aldoran fine, hadn’t she? There had been a few close calls, but she was still in one piece. She wasn’t afraid of the unknown, not like Bran.

“By the way, Novice. Do you play any instruments?”

“I…” she thought for a moment. “I started learning to play the flute, though I’ve only had a few days to practice with it.”

“And did you pick that up quickly as well?”

“Yes. Or so I was told.”

“Talent does tend to come in bursts,” Milena muttered. “Zabura. Take the young Novice down to the first floor. She will be placed in Unit Three under the instruction of Minstrel Kedryn.”

“Yes, Grand Songstress.”

“Also,” the grey-haired woman continued, “arrange for a flute to be given to her. She will be given every opportunity available to flourish.”

#

Bran spent the afternoon sitting by the window, staring at the city outside. Aldoran’s scarlet leaves were mesmerizing to watch, and they helped take his mind off things—but only for a while. Once the sun set they became dark again, almost lifeless. Just like how he felt.

There came a knock at the door, and he opened it. It was the serving girl with the braided hair who looked like Evaine.

“Young Master…” she said with a shocked expression. He probably looked a mess. He hadn’t shaved or washed, and his eyes were red and baggy from all the crying and the lack of sleep. “You’ve only paid for a single night. Would you like to extend your stay?”

“No,” Bran thanked her. “That will be fine.” He slung his bag over his shoulder.

“Are you sure? I might be able to help you get a discount from the innkeeper—”

“I’ll be alright.” He gave a strained smile, wondering for a moment if he should settle for her considering how out of reach Evaine was. He stopped himself mid-thought and nearly threw up.

I’m disgusting. Not that she’d want me anyway, once she finds out what a coward I am.

He left the inn and stepped out into the chilly night, exhaling deeply. Uldan Keep towered above the city, casting its shadow over the third wall and down the hill. What was he to do? He had a pocketful of money and bagful of supplies. He could set out in any direction he wanted; north, south, east or west. It wasn't too late to go after Ein to Darmouth, was it?

No, it wasn’t that. Ein was his friend, but there was no point in going after him. He’d left to be with Evaine, not Ein. What else could he do? He could find a butchery and try to find a job. Or he could take his chances and brave the journey home.

None of this would have happened if I’d gone with her, he thought. If we’d all been caught together in the castle and sentenced…

He shook his head. If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up falling into the cycle of dejection again. He didn’t think he had any tears left to shed.

I’m useless.

What was that Master Koth had said again? There were three things all brave men feared—a love that went only one way, a man with no face, and the first step on a journey away from home. Well, he’d faced all three head on and he still wasn’t a brave man. If only logic worked backwards.

Bran found himself before a chapel, having walked aimlessly across half of Wall Norn. It was a spindly building with a statue of Eolas at its apex, taking his trademark strides across the sky. The youngest of the Pantheon, Eolas had been Wyd’s final child, springing to life fully formed when Wyd sang the Worldsong. He had a square, youthful face with curly hair, a messenger bag slung over his shoulder and winged sandals on his feet.

Eolas represented many things—messages, wisdom, logic, cities, and ironically enough, crossroads. Bran was at a crossroads in his life right now. Perhaps it was fate that had led him here—or the wind, as Evaine or Garax would say. His father, Sanson, had once worshipped the messenger god, as well as Mother Anturia and the goddess Cenedria. Bran could remember watching him pray for their good fortune every week or two, all the way until the Great Winter had begun. During the second year, Sanson had packed away his shrine and never prayed again.

Bran stepped out of the icy wind and into the chapel, closing the door behind him. The pews were empty, the candle sconces flickering against the darkness. A strip of crimson carpet stretched down the aisle to a raised stage and a lectern, where a bespectacled old priest stood reading a tome.

“Young man,” he greeted in a gentle voice. “It’s a cold night. What brings you here?” He closed the book.

Bran thrust his hands into his pockets and sighed. “I’m not sure, Father. I suppose I’ve lost my purpose in life.”

The old man gave him a look laden with both pity and understanding. “Ah. Why don’t you come join me before Eolas, then? Perhaps he can help you find your way.”

Bran eyed the statue of the messenger god next to the lectern and shrugged. There was nothing to lose in entertaining the man. After all, he was in no hurry.

“Did you know, young man, that Eolas is the god of crossroads?” The priest clasped his hands in front of his robe as Bran stepped onto the stage.

“I had that thought myself only a few moments ago,” he replied.

“I see. So, what was your purpose before you lost it? What did you live for?”

Bran stared the god atop his pedestal in the eye. It almost looked alive in the candlelight. “There was a woman I loved.”

“You speak in the past tense. Is she gone?”

“She’s still alive,” Bran said. “But she’s in a place where I can’t reach.”

The old priest nodded. “What stops you from reaching her? Is it distance? Another man, perhaps? Her opinion of you?”

“No… none of those. I suppose it would be her status. I’m simply not good enough for her.”

“And whyever not?”

Bran looked at his feet. “Because of my own shortcomings, I suppose.”

Before he knew it, the priest had slapped him across the face. It wasn’t a hard slap, but it hurt nonetheless. Bran was reminded of a similar time when Ein had struck him square in the jaw for feeling sorry for himself.

“Of all the things to stop you, you choose yourself?” the gentleness was gone from the old man’s voice, and instead there was a hard edge.

“I didn’t choose to be born this way,” Bran said. “I just… I…”

“You didn’t choose the type of person you were born as. But you chose not to try and change. Nothing in this world is impossible, young man.” He pointed to Eolas. “Men have no wings, yet Eolas can fly. Did you know that he is also the god of possibilities?”

“I didn’t know that.” Bran rubbed his cheek. It made sense, though. Possibilities arose from decisions, and decisions were made at crossroads.

“Distance can be overcome with your two feet,” the elderly man said. “Rivals in love can be overcome with your actions. And cowardice… it can be overcome with persistence. A man who runs away a hundred times from a fire is a coward. But a man who runs towards a fire just once, even if he has failed a hundred times, is a hero. I am not necessarily calling you a coward; that’s just an example. But whatever personal flaw it is that is stopping you… all it takes is one decision to set you on the right path.”

Bran thought for a moment. What exactly was stopping him from going after Evaine, anyway? It wasn’t cowardice. He’d given up his home for her, after all. Then what was it?

As if a switch had flipped within him, he realized.

He’d simply given up too easily. That was all it was.

“I see the light dawn upon your face.” The old man was smiling now.

“Yes.” Bran reached into his pocket. “Thank you for showing me the way, Father. I’d like to make a donation.”

“Of course. Eolas accepts and appreciates your generosity.” The Father retrieved a box from under the lectern and held it out to Bran, who dropped a coin inside. “Would you like to make a prayer?”

“I would.”

The priest took a step back and allowed him some privacy. Bran closed his eyes and lowered his head. He’d prayed before at shrines, whispering wishes—to Cenedria, mostly—for Evaine to fall in love with him.

This time, however, he was praying to Eolas. Eolas had no power over love. In fact, he didn’t really have power over anything that would be of use to Bran—so, instead of praying to the god, Bran prayed to himself. He wished to change. To stop running away from the fire, and instead run towards it. Eolas was the god of messages. Perhaps he would carry the prayer to Wyd almighty, the embodiment of change. The wind, after all, was always changing.

He must have been smiling, because when he opened his eyes the priest was smiling in return.

“Have you regained your purpose?” he asked.

“I have.”

“Then be blessed, young man, and may Eolas carry the voice of your heart to the woman whom you so desire.” He clapped his hands together in a prayer of his own.

“Thank you, Father. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

The old man shook his head. “Do not thank me. Thank Eolas, and thank yourself, for in the end, you are the one who made the decision.”

#

The barracks were rife with revelry when Bran finally reached them. The Clock Tower rose into the darkness, multitudes of windows flickering with candlelight. Evaine would be behind one of them, settling in for the night, or perhaps preparing for the next day’s duties. There was no way Bran would be able to join her, not as he was now. He wasn’t a Songweaver. He wasn’t special, even if Talberon said he was.

He pushed open the door, walking into a common room of some sort. Soldiers in half-uniform sat by the fireplace, talking, laughing, drinking, playing games. Some of them turned around at his entrance but lost interest soon enough. After all, it wasn’t their job to question; only to follow orders.

He strode down the hallway, following the signs hung up on the walls. He looked for the most important-looking door and then knocked. It was the office of a high-ranking official; a commander of some sort.

“What do you want?” a gruff voice called from within.

He opened the door before he could change his mind.

The smell of Ssmoke and cinnamon filled his nostrils. The room was plainly decorated and yet there was plenty to see. Books and journals lined the shelves neatly, a pot plant standing in one corner next to a ceremonial sabre that hung from the wall. At a desk with a large map of Faengard splayed across it sat a bald man, his jaw as square as a block of stone. He was dressed in formal military uniform, a crisp garment of black and gold silk, even though it was night and he should have been preparing to sleep. Bran didn’t understand the markings on his epaulettes, but there were many of them and they looked important.

“Who are you?” the man snapped. “I’m busy.”

Bran drew a deep breath. “My name is Brandon Sutherland and I come from the Sleeping Twins. I’d like to join the Legion.”