Chapter 3

“Don’t worry Ida, we’re waiting for you at the gate…we really are! …really really.”

Huddled together away from the rain at Nixhaven’s eastern gatehouse, Nemel and Elise listened silently as Fendros spoke to Ida through a Message spell. Fendros’ expression seemed calm, but it was as if she were trying to remain that way to ensure that her voice was equally so.

Fendros’ face fell into worry several moments later.

“Gods,” she said, “Ida’s so scared.”

Nemel and Elise looked down with equally worried looks. They could only imagine what Ida was going through.

After settling into their roles at Zu Chiru’s Merchant stand, they contacted Ida in Arwintar to inform her of the good news and warn the last member of Fendros’ trio to not participate in any of her parents’ desperate ploys. To their surprise, Ida was not in Arwintar, but somewhere in Mittelislein: the region northwest of the imperial capital. She had fled after she found out that her parents were in negotiations to sell her to a slave trader from the City State Alliance.

Bonds of blood were the most important thing to Nobles. Even as former Nobles, such values were deeply ingrained into one’s identity and family was the final refuge for the attainted. Most scions did their best to help hold things together and hopefully improve everyone’s situation. To be betrayed by them…

Nemel scowled at the rivulets of water running over the cobblestones. Some Nobles lost everything because they were too competent and just happened to support the wrong side of the struggle for the imperial throne. Others couldn’t hold up to the stringent standards of the reformed administration. A few were genuine idiots.

There were also those, however, who were absolute scum.

“Is that her?”

Nemel looked up at Elise’s question. She squinted out into the rainy darkness, then put on her flight goggles as she realised Elise had probably cast a spell that allowed her to see in poor lighting. In the distant murk, a hunched figure slowly made its way forward. The frigid winter wind coming off of the shore lashed against it, sending its mantle whipping out to the side.

“There’s someone there,” Nemel said, “but they have their cowl pulled over their head.”

A half-minute later, the figure resolved into something slender and feminine-looking. Fendros stepped forward, then jerked as a hand clapped over her shoulder. She glanced back at the Imperial Knight Captain who had stopped her. In return, the Captain shook his head at her before casting his gaze over at the other side of the gate.

“Orrest.”

“Got it.”

The knight who replied hefted his shield and spear. Pelting raindrops sounded against his plate armour as he advanced from the gate. Creaks sounded from above as the Rangers on the wall prepared to provide cover should something go awry.

So this is the Second Legion…

Nemel couldn’t help but admire how they carried themselves. They were good, professional men who watched out for the citizens and took risks on their behalf. What everyone imagined soldiers of the Imperial Army to be – the soldiers that all who enlisted aspired to be. They were a far cry from the dregs of the Eighth Legion and the tired Sergeants and officers who worked endlessly to whip them into shape.

Orrest returned with the figure, shield held out against the rain as he gently accompanied her through the gate.

“Ida!”

Fendros threw her arms around the soaked figure. They went to their knees as Ida collapsed in tearful relief. Elise came up beside her and, together, she and Fendros started leading her into the city. Nemel turned to the Captain.

“Thank you so much for opening the gate, Captain.”

The Captain gave her a quiet nod before looking up and ordering the entrance closed again. Nemel caught up to the others on brisk steps, accompanied by the sound of the portcullis being lowered. She leaned forward to look into the shadows of Ida’s cowl. An ashen face under unkempt strands of orange hair stared out wearily with pale, trembling lips.

It took them fifteen minutes to slowly make their way back to the merchant inn. Nemel went ahead as Fendros and Elise helped Ida up the stairs. In their suite, she found that Dame Verilyn had returned. Zu Chiru and his apprentices were piled up in a litter made between two of the beds. Their wheezing snores filled the air.

“Ida is here, Dame Verilyn,” Nemel said.

“I was wondering who the fourth person was,” Dame Verilyn replied. “She seems quite exhausted.”

“She came all the way from Mittelislein in a week. Caravans usually take two to cover the same distance. The poor girl must have barely slept.”

As Fendros noted, she must have been terrified. Fleeing a family that betrayed her. Travelling alone from Arwintar, which was six hundred kilometres distant by way of the imperial highways. Looking over her shoulder at every sound, wondering if the slavers were coming to get her.

The roads weren’t safe, either. Though the Imperial Army patrolled them regularly, one could still be attacked. There were highwaymen and Demihuman tribes in the untamed places waiting to pounce on the vulnerable. This was especially true as daylight waned and even the developed lands of the Empire could become a dangerous place for Humans who were disadvantaged in the dark.

Staggered steps sounded from the corridor. Then they stopped, replaced by whispers and the rustling of cloth. Nemel went over and poked her head out of the doorframe. Around the corner, Fendros and Elise were fussing over Ida’s appearance.

“What are you doing?” Nemel whispered at them.

“We…we can’t bring her in like this,” Fendros whispered back. “What if Dame Verilyn doesn’t like what she sees?”

Ida was weakly trying to keep up with their efforts, but it was clear that no amount of ‘fixing up’ would help her present herself properly. Not to mention that Dame Verilyn was probably aware of Ida’s condition the moment she entered the inn.

“She can barely stand,” Nemel told them. “Let her rest fir–”

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A soft, rhythmic strain drifted through the doorframe and into the corridor. An invigorating, industrious sensation sparked to life within her as ghostly visions pulled at the corners of her mind. Hammers sang over glowing metal as short, stocky figures tirelessly worked in the dim light. Shaping. Making. With the wisdom of the ages, they forged the future.

Nemel blinked as the song faded, but the sensation that it had instilled within her remained.

What…?

The weariness of the long day was gone; soreness from standing for hours in the market plaza vanished. In its place was a strange energy. Nemel slowly flexed her fingers. Why was she just standing there? She needed to do something.

“Master,” a lively Quagoa voice sounded from the room, “we must work!”

“Work!” Another apprentice seconded.

“Ehm…okay?” Zu Chiru’s voice was confused, but not reluctant, “Then let us put the new inventories away.”

A moment later, the Quagoa filed out of the room, carrying chests and tapestries and bundles of equipment.

“Oops,” Dame Verilyn said. “I suppose I overdid it.”

In the corridor, Ida no longer slouched. Colour had returned to her face and a sharpness replaced the dull look that was in her eyes. She went back to fixing her appearance with the others. Nemel returned to the room.

“What was that, Dame Verilyn?”

“A Spellsong,” Dame Verilyn replied. “A fragment of one, at any rate.”

How was that a Spellsong?!

Most Bards worked in civilian vocations and tended to perform songs and literature for entertainment, but Nemel had heard Spellsongs at least once or twice. At best, they could be called disjointed fragments of sound stitched together into something that one could only understand bits and pieces of. The Spellsongs still took effect, but comparing those that she had heard in the past to what Dame Verilyn had just performed was like claiming that struggling through a book full of shredded pages was the same as reliving in the events that it once conveyed.

It was said that Spellsongs varied from Bard to Bard and that rendering Spellsong was dependent on skill, but the sheer difference between Dame Verilyn and everyone else Nemel had heard was unimaginably wide. She wasn’t even sure if Spellsongs were supposed to do what Dame Verilyn’s had just done.

“Does…does that song have a name?” Nemel asked.

“Does it need one?” Dame Verilyn tilted her head, “You know what it is from hearing it, do you not?”

Somehow, she did. The fact that she did confused Nemel all the more.

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh. Hmm…did I mess up somewhere?”

“No!” Nemel quickly put up a hand in front of her, “I meant that I don’t understand why your Spellsongs are so different from the ones I’ve heard in the past.”

“Well, I did mention how those other Bards we’ve heard are rather lacking.”

Nemel suspected that if any Bard was made to compare themselves to Dame Verilyn, they would simply quit being a Bard. In fact, Nemel didn’t think she could see other Bards the same way that she once had.

“I experienced something when you performed that Spellsong,” Nemel said. “What was it?”

“It was a moment in time,” Dame Verilyn replied, “rendered into song. The moment when the forges of Feoh Berkana were ignited anew: the rebirth of the Dwarven Kingdom under the Azerlisia Mountains. I was there to capture its very essence. Out of that essence, I composed a song. Now, everyone that hears the Spellsong in its true form may experience what it was like to be there as well.”

She wasn’t aware of the location or what the event might be called in the histories, but she felt it. The heat of the forge; the ring of the hammers; the thrum of the bellows; the conviction of the craftsmen who toiled to restore their long lost ancestral home to its former glory. Resolve, pride and hope swelled within her. Just as if she was one of them. Just as if she was there.

“I was wondering what Zu Chiru meant back then,” Nemel said. “Do all Bards compose songs like this?”

“I believe so,” Dame Verilyn replied. “If one has ears to hear it, they can discern what lies within the broken pieces of the songs that these local Bards perform. An attempt to capture or reconstruct an event, feelings, soul. Plucking the strings of the world in an effort to bring the past into the present or render a concept into reality. It is a tragic representation of mortal existence: time steals all things away from them, leaving constructs that function without meaning; their original purpose forgotten.”

“Does that have anything to do with what you said back in Oestestadt? About answers that you’re seeking on your journey. Something about the soul of humanity.”

“Yes, that’s right. The answers that I seek are elements that I consider necessary for composing proper Spellsongs.”

The Song of the Baharuth Empire. Where would it take its listeners? What would it show them? Thinking more about it, she felt very small. Everything that Dame Verilyn saw would be part of a song in the keeping of an immortal being; one that could be conveyed long after any memory of the Baharuth Empire had long crumbled to dust.

Nemel shivered as she thought of her own experiences; those of her acquaintances and friends. What would it sound like? What would people think of what they heard?

A knock issued from the door. Nemel went to bring Fendros, Elise and Ida in. They lined up in front of Dame Verilyn, and Nemel eyed Ida’s expression. A Noble’s mask was fitted snugly in place: it looked like Ida had at least for the moment wrestled down her recent ordeals.

Nemel cast several spells to shield the room from external observation.

“Dame Verilyn,” she said. “I have the pleasure of introducing you to Ida Yvenne Dale Ostwig.”

“Dame Verilyn,” Ida curtseyed deeply. “Thank you so much. Words cannot express my gratitude for allowing me the opportunity to serve.”

“Your thanks is noted,” Dame Verilyn replied. “But it means nothing to me. Rather than words, you may express your gratitude through your work.”

Ida appeared taken aback by Dame Verilyn’s reply, but Nemel took comfort in their exchange. The Frost Dragon was perfectly capable of conducting herself in the forms of Baharuth’s aristocracy or any other social strata, but acting in such a fashion was simply a means to an end. It was when she spoke in a direct and to-the-point manner that Nemel felt that Dame Verilyn was treating someone seriously.

Some stories said that Dragons became more guarded or talkative when they were on the defensive or thought they couldn’t get what they wanted through brute force. If a Dragon felt like they were in control, however, their true nature would manifest. Nemel’s education as a member of the Imperial Air Service held that Frost Dragons were solitary and feral by nature. As she came to better know Dame Verilyn, Nemel wondered if ‘feral’ translated to ‘honest’ or ‘straightforward’ when it came to intelligent beings.

If the stories were right and this was Dame Verilyn’s true personality, Nemel figured that she would be more than happy working for Dame Verilyn. It was much preferred to the opaque dealings and endless machinations of the imperial aristocracy. What was, was: there was no need to pretend to be something that she wasn’t and she could focus her energy on the truly important things.

“I-in that case,” Ida did not raise her head, “I hope that my work will please you.”

“You may consult with Miss Nemel and the others about what you should be doing for now,” Dame Verilyn said. “Though you may want to head over to one of the beds within the next six seconds.”

“…six seconds?”

They stared at Dame Verilyn in confusion. Nemel felt the strange effect of the Spellsong ebb away. Ida wobbled and fell face-first into the wooden floor. The Frost Dragon in Human form let out a small sigh.

“Understanding is not required,” she half-muttered to herself.

As Fendros and Elise struggled to bring Ida to a nearby bed, Dame Verilyn rose from her seat and headed towards the door.

“Where are you going?” Nemel asked.

“To the yard,” Dame Verilyn answered. “There are some Quagoa there who need to be carried back up.”