Chapter Six: The Soulsong

“Why is it that a simple collection of sounds played in a particular order can invoke such deep feelings within us? It is simple. A song is magic, and it is the language of the soul.”

—Sonata the Speechless, The Woman with No Voice

Alend had just seasoned the mutton and placed it into the oven when he heard the door to the Sleeping Twinn open.

“Go serve them,” Koth said. “I’ll watch the roast.”

Alend nodded and wiped his hands on his apron. He was no chef, but the Mistresses weren’t due in until sundown, and the innkeeper needed all the help he could get. More food and drink would be consumed over the next few hours than the entire week.

“Welcome to the Sleeping Twinn,” he called, walking out from the kitchen. “What can I get you this fine afternoon—”

A shadow fell across the inn. A man stood in the doorway, the afternoon light casting an almost ethereal edge about him. He wore boiled leather boots and a light grey robe, and fastened about his shoulders was a cloak that had more patches sewn into it than not. Each patch was a differing shade of green and brown, and when they rippled they became a dizzying pattern of leaves and earth that made Alend’s eyes swim. The man himself was old and wizened with parchment skin, unruly white hair flowing down to his waist, fraying whiskers extending into a lengthy beard that stopped at his chest. He held himself far straighter than others of his age, and his stare was like a mirror under a morning sky.

Alend let his hands fall to his side. “Talberon. What are you doing here?”

The man closed the door behind him and approached the counter. Recognition flashed through his eyes as he took in Alend, from his grey-streaked hair to the calloused hands clenched into fists.

“I didn’t expect to find you so easily,” he said. “You’ve changed.”

“I left for a reason,” Alend replied. “I’m not going back. I’ve served my time. I have a family now, a wife and children.”

“You may not have a choice in the matter.” Talberon stopped behind the counter but remained standing. “But for now, there are more pressing matters to be attended to.”

“What do you want?” Alend asked again. “I daresay you didn’t come here for a drink.”

“The troupers tell me there are people here who require my aid,” Talberon replied. “Parents of a young lady who were attacked by relicts. It would be most kind of you to show me to them... Deserter.” He said the word slowly, as if tasting it on his lips. Alend scowled.

“I’ll take you to them,” he said. “But a word of this to anyone and I’ll rip your throat out.”

Talberon shrugged. “Perhaps. But then your quiet village life would come to an end.”

Alend stepped out from behind the counter and led him up the stairs without wasting a single movement. The sooner the man was gone, the better. They would talk later, when they weren’t at risk of being walked in on.

Nath and Valeesha Tamelyn were as they’d been in the morning, sleeping deeply on their beds in the room at the end of the hallway. Talberon walked with quiet steps across the floorboards and stopped beside the Mistress, eyeing the bandage around her forehead.

“She suffers from a simple concussion,” Alend said. “Shouldn’t be anything too serious. I expect she’ll be up before tomorrow.”

“Sometimes the unseen injuries are the worst,” Talberon murmured. “But my intuition agrees with you. The Mistress’s injury seems to be minor.” He moved to Nath’s side. “What of the man?”

“Broken ribs and internal bleeding. Stomach was slashed open by a blade of some sort, or incredibly sharp claws. It’s been stitched up and the bleeding’s stopped, but it will take a while to heal.”

Talberon placed a hand against the sheet. “Do you mind if I have a look?” he asked, though his tone implied it wasn’t a question.

Master Tamelyn stirred as the covers were pulled back, revealing a broad layer of cloth strips criss-crossing his torso. Talberon dug his fingers beneath one of the edges and unravelled it. The smell of damp flesh saturated the air.

“This was treated well,” he said, studying the wound. “But the ribs will take a while to mend, and the threat of festering yet still remains.”

The area around the wound in question was dark and blotched, stretching from Nath’s lower ribs around to his waist and belly. Nine stitches held the two flaps of skin closed in a ragged line of black, crimson and cream. There were other cuts and bruises, but they were minor and all but healed.

Talberon placed his bag on the table and opened it, retrieving a thick tome with crinkled pages stained yellow with age. The cover was bound with fraying brown cloth, and a silver lock in the shape of a sparrow kept the book sealed from unwanted eyes. He spoke a word, and the lock fell away with a clatter.

“You’re still using the same book?” Alend asked.

“The book is alive, Deserter. New pages grow as I need them.”

The old man flipped to a page and set the book open on the table. A recipe for a concoction of some sort was scrawled in black ink, along with a few notes scribbled into the margin. Talberon rummaged through his bag and brought out a distiller, a flask, and a mortar and pestle. Studying the distiller for a moment, he changed his mind and put it away.

“Do you have any medicinal herbs in this village?” he asked.

“We do,” Alend answered. The healer had a few, though they were mostly used on the animals than people. She had, however, gone through quite a few herbs during her treatment on the Tamelyns.

“Bring me these, then.” Talberon scribbled on a scrap of paper and handed it to Alend. Alend scanned through it, frowning at the contents. Ginger, mint, pepper. Bonemeal, tendervine, milk of the poppy, frostweed—they had plenty of that—and bloodgrass.

“This is a potion, right?” Alend said, eyeing the open book. “Not a salve?”

“It’s a salve,” Talberon said.

“There’s no congealing agent.”

Talberon glared at Alend. “Don’t ask questions. It’s obviously not an ordinary salve; I’m only using it as a catalyst.”

A glint of gold caught Alend’s eye. He looked at Talberon’s hands and noticed the bands on his left and right thumbs. Engraved on a flat disc on the left band were three feathered wings branching from a single point—the Trinity Wing, symbol of the Skyward Circle. On the right band was a spear and a shield, the symbol of the Uldan House, the royal family that held the throne of Faengard. Outside of the Uldans themselves, few earned the right to bear that symbol.

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Of course, Alend thought. A catalyst. He’d almost forgotten what Talberon was, and what position he held. It had been a long time, almost twenty years since they’d last met, and the druid looked not a day older.

A druid was different to an alchemist. Alchemists and herbalists used poultices and potions. Druids used the Soulsong.

As Alend left with the list in hand, one thought remained on his mind—a thought that had been gnawing at him ever since Talberon had first stepped into the inn.

Why had the High King’s advisor come all the way to the Sleeping Twins?

#

The healer’s hut lay at the far end of the village square, a short walk from the Sleeping Twinn. Alend passed Sanson on the way and nodded a greeting. The butcher hauled a sack over his shoulder that was apparently quite heavy, muttering curses under his breath with each step. Seeing Alend, he grunted an acknowledgement.

Helda opened the door at the first knock. The healer of Felhaven had been a farmer in her younger days, but her increasing involvement with midwifery for the villagers had seen her take over the role upon her predecessor’s passing. Age had been kind to her; many thought her at least ten years younger than she actually was. Although she was a widow, she was well past her prime and had no intention to re-marry, so her braid remained.

“Back again?” she began. “Did you forget something—”

She saw Alend and cleared her throat.

“My apologies,” she bowed. “Master Sanson just came around and I thought he’d returned for something else.”

“I saw him on the way,” Alend said. “So that’s what he was doing.”

Helda nodded as they stepped into her hut. “He needed salt. Took almost all of it; we’ll need to re-stock before long.”

Alend frowned. There was a lot of mutton to salt, but most of it would be gone after Founder’s Eve. Shaking his head, he returned his attention to the task at hand. “I need these. They’re for Nath and Valeesha.”

“Ah. I treated them yesterday, didn’t I?” Helda took the scrap of paper from his hands and looked over it. She raised her brow, just as Alend had. “This is a strange recipe. What in the world do you need bloodgrass and frostweed for? And bonemeal? Are you growing plants?” She shook her head. “No… frostweed would be counter-intuitive…”

Alend considered telling her the truth, but if word got out that there was a druid in Felhaven, there was no telling what Mayor Walmsley would do. The entire village would be lining up outside Talberon’s tent with gifts and requests to be blessed. Felhaveners were honest but simple folk, and knew little of the more mysterious forces that governed the rest of Faengard. Talberon was not one to take advantage of the naive, but refusing them would raise problems as well.

“It’s a recipe Evaine brought from the Wydlings,” Alend said. “I figured it couldn’t hurt to try.”

Helda frowned. “I would advise against trying a recipe from the Travelling Folk without testing it. What if it causes more harm than good?”

Alend drew a breath and thought for another excuse. Thankfully, Helda’s face softened and she turned around, rummaging for the requested ingredients from the drawers in her medicine cabinet.

“I suppose you can be trusted,” she said above the sliding and clacking of wooden drawers. “I’ve seen you treat injuries, after all. You clearly have some level of knowledge in medicine.” She placed the ingredients in separate pouches and dropped them in a basket. “I’ve given you a small portion of each; bring back anything left over. And the pouches too, so they can be reused.”

Alend took the basket and thanked her.

“While you’re at it,” Helda said, “if you see Sanson, remind him to go easy on the salt. That stuff isn’t easy to come by all the way out here.”

#

Talberon wasted no time upon Alend’s return. He took the pouches out and measured amounts on a small set of scales before adding them to the mortar. The milk of the poppy went last, turning the mixture into a murky paste with solid clumps floating about. He then picked up the pestle and began to grind.

The room was soon filled with the sound of stone against stone. Noise filtered through the floorboards as patrons began wandering into the inn, unwinding after a long day of work. It wouldn’t be long before the troupers arrived; Alend could already hear the voices of the Mistresses and some of the Masters as they busied themselves in the kitchen.

Part of Alend wished to speak to Talberon immediately, ask him about the relicts and what was happening in Faengard. The druid would know the answers for sure—in fact, Alend would bet his right hand that Talberon was at the centre of it all. The other part, the part with more common sense told him to stay quiet and wait. The troupers would offer him the same information without the extra baggage attached to it. He didn’t care about Faengard. As long as the threat was removed from the Sleeping Twins, he was satisfied. The rest of the world could burn in Hellheim for all he cared.

The grinding stopped. Talberon took the mixture to Nath and scooped it up in his hands.

“Close the windows,” he instructed.

Alend moved to the far side of the room and closed them, pulling the curtains across as well. The last slivers of sunset disappeared, plunging the room into darkness.

“Should I light a lantern?” he asked.

“No,” Talberon replied. “Just be quiet. And lock the door.”

Once the door was locked, the druid began rubbing the paste into Nath’s side. As he did so, he sang.

His voice was low and soft, like a quiet wind weaving through the trees. The song had no lyrics, no words, yet it was laced with Spirit which spoke just as clearly. Talberon’s eyes burned with emerald fire as he hummed the trees to life, chirped with the voices of songbirds sitting amongst the leaves, ebbed and flowed like the waters before they’d frozen. Alend felt a lump rise in his throat—he remembered walking in a garden long ago filled with blooming flowers, side by side with two other boys—one of them with black hair and grey eyes like himself, the other with a chiselled jaw and proud, noble features. A strangled chirp caught their attention, drawing them to a bleeding dove lying prone on the path. Its wing was bent backwards and broken, blood seeping across its snow-white plumage.

They picked up the dove with gentle hands and took it home with them, washing the blood from its body, disinfecting the wound, binding it with bandages as it watched with timid eyes. They placed it in a cage and fed it day and night, watched it grow plump and healthy as the days became nights and the nights became days, watched as it grew stronger, greeting them every morning with a song. When the day finally came to free it from its cage, the dove spread its brilliant wings under the sunlight and took off into the sky, circling above their heads with a grateful cry before soaring away. There were still times when Alend heard its voice here and there throughout his day, even when he knew the dove was long dead and gone.

“Spread your wings and fly

On the Winds of Fate.”

Alend realized with a start that Talberon had stopped singing and was grinding again, a new mixture in the mortar with the leftover ingredients. He looked up at Alend, the green fire gone from his eyes.

“I’d forgotten what the Soulsong was like,” Alend murmured.

“By the looks of it, you’ve forgotten many things.” Talberon stood and tipped the powder from the mortar onto a square of paper. With a practiced hand, he rolled it up into a tube and spoke a word.

No, Alend thought. He sang a word.

An ember flickered to life at the tip of the tube. Talberon placed it on a bronze dish and left it beside Valeesha.

“That’s for the Mistress,” Talberon said. “Keep the windows shut and the door closed. Make sure she keeps breathing it in, and if all goes well she should be up and walking before the rooster crows.” He locked his book and packed it into his bag. “I’ve fixed the Master’s ribs and cleansed the wound as well. Keep the skin exposed to the air so we can monitor the progress of his recovery. Make sure you feed him when he wakes up. The Song will continue to draw Spirit from his body until he is fully recovered, which shouldn’t be long.”

The dreadful blackness of the wound had already lightened to a dark purple. It was as if a whole day’s worth of rest had occurred in the span of a few minutes.

“Thank you,” Alend said.

“Don’t thank me, Deserter,” he said. “Just be downstairs when the troupers arrive. I expect you’ll want to know about the relicts that attacked them.”

Alend froze. “Relicts?”

“Oh, didn’t they tell you?” Talberon looked genuinely surprised. “The Wydlings were attacked on the way here, somewhere in the woods.” He pointed at the Tamelyns. “Just like those two.”

Talberon locked eyes with Alend, and he could have sworn the druid smiled.

“Like I said, you don’t really have a choice in the matter. You’re involved whether you like it or not.”