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They’d gone to a rough meadow at some distance from Ezra’s compound, he and Tai, stopping in the orchard for pears on their way. Much of the fruit had been gathered, and giant flagons of brewing cider filled the outbuildings. Bryar inhaled deeply; the air was heady with the scents of fermenting apples.
“You’re limping,” Tai said.
“Joss landed a blow across my ankle. It’s just bruised.”
“I saw that. Why didn’t you block him?”
“I tried. Truth is, I need a break. I’m getting worse, not better, I’m so tired.”
Tai said nothing, merely led them along the path.
The meadow formed a loose pattern of golds and browns, with only a hint of green remaining, and one red wildflower in bloom. Bryar stopped and seized Tai’s hand. “Wait. Stand still. Feel this day.”
Everything he was willing to fight for flooded his senses. The colors of the Aura, which so few could see, danced overhead, russet reds fading into the palest blue of the sky. Music teased at the edges of his mind; if he weren’t so weary, he’d reach out and claim those notes, weave them into perfect harmonies...
Wordlessly, Tai led him to a sheltered hollow where they’d sat together before, sharing their lives, their responses, their enjoyment of each other’s company. As they settled onto a ground blanket, she knelt behind him and placed hands on his shoulders. “I’ve brought a potion.”
He leaned back, their bodies touching. “Why?”
“To relax and empty your mind. We must try again, Bryar. Something’s missing. You need to be... I want you to be whole again.”
“Rebecca’s potions taste nasty.” He’d taken a few, to keep his body going under its daily drubbing at Joss’s hands.
His fighting skills had improved, though. Joss bore an equal share of grazes and bruises. Furthermore, their jousts reinforced a camaraderie between them. Relaxing with Joss at the end of the day, drinking Rebecca’s cider, proved to be a connection he sorely needed.
Tai released his shoulders and twisted to the side. He dropped back, onto the fragrant ground.
“My potions are no better. But this is nothing to do with Gran.”
Lying there, Bryar couldn’t care less about missing pieces of himself and all Tai’s meditative mumbo-jumbo. With the mild autumn breeze on his face and the radiance of the sunshine brushing the meadow around him – not to mention Tai’s presence, which made it that much more perfect – he wanted for nothing.
“I’m serious.” She shook Bryar’s shoulder, then stood and rummaged in their pack. “My potion will help.”
Later, after gagging down the drink, he found it even easier to lie still, letting the day soothe him, listening to the music in the susurrating grasses, the occasional bird call from the surrounding trees. He claimed Tai’s hand again and felt himself dozing off...
“Oh, no, you don’t. Shall I tell you what we’re going to do?”
“Sure.” Because it was Tai doing the telling.
“It’s like template work, but different, and it’s important to keep them separate. Just let go of everything – but don’t connect to the Aura. Okay?”
Doubtful, Bryar thought. “None of us release the Aura completely, ever. You know that.”
“Do your best. I’m going to link with your mind, but not like Weavers usually do, so it might feel strange. If you let me in, we’ll journey together to find this missing piece. Or pieces.” At his sigh, Tai added, “You don’t make it easy.”
“I don’t make it hard, either. I want this as much as you do.” Mainly so they would leave him alone about it. Get it over and done.
He sat up to look around, soak in the richness of the autumn palette. She gave him a minute or two. “Try not to go to sleep, okay? Let the drum carry you. I’ll be along for the ride.”
Obediently, he stretched out and closed his eyes. Tai began drumming, a repetitive, non-musical beat played with impeccable rhythm. There was little to fault in Tai.
She was...
He found himself lost in an unexpected trance, aware dimly of Tai’s energy nearby. The Aura intruded, alive with color and hints of melody; he remembered her injunction and pushed it away. Without it, he saw only swirling gray patterns.
And words, sounding clearly through the mist. Bryar, Bryar, pants on fire...
No! He slammed the door on that memory, only to find that Tai kicked it open again. She wouldn’t allow him to suppress it.
More pieces of his childhood came to him. Enduring one of so many beatings, humiliations, pain not from the fists. His broken flute, which he’d vowed never to think of again. His appalling failure in the mine. He groaned; his body thrashed against the ground. Tai’s leg crossed his, giving him an anchor, while the drumming captured his nerve endings, claiming him.
“Follow me.” Tai’s voice. He felt himself pulled through an opening...
They were in a cave, dark and dank. A thin shaft of light provided minimum illumination. A blond child, a boy, perhaps eight years old but small for his age, huddled in a corner, his feet bare and his clothing no more than rags. Bryar sensed pain... physical, but more than that...
Tai spoke to the child. “Hello, little one.”
He turned from them. Fear pervaded the bleak atmosphere, clenching Bryar’s gut... but more, a wounding deeper than words could heal as the child sank back against the hard stone corner.
Bryar watched as Tai cajoled the boy, assuring him of comfort and welcome.
A sob pulsed through the cave. Something in Bryar tore open.
“We’ve come to take you home. Your true home,” Tai said, and reached a hand toward the miserable child in the corner. “It’s safe, and you’ll be okay. I promise.”
The boy moved his hand, then sank back, distrusting.
Tai looked toward the entrance. “Join us, my beauty,” she called. An instant later Bryar became aware of the batting of wings, a hooting such as sometimes echoed through the night sky, a suggestion of breeze in the air. A chouette, the largest he’d ever seen, landed next to Tai. “This is my friend,” she told the boy. “You can pet him if you want to. He won’t hurt you.”
As if hypnotized by the bird, which was almost as large as he was, the boy slowly lifted his hand. The chouette hopped closer and butted its head against the hand. He jerked back, then reached out again, gingerly. As he stroked the bird, his eyes opened wider. Then, as if a deal had been struck, the child pitched forward and flung his arms around the chouette’s neck, burying his head in the down on its chest.
“I have a gift for you.” The boy peeked at her. Tai held out a small flute, similar to the one Bryar’s father had smashed so many years ago. “For you. Try it. People all over the Midland love to hear you play.”
The child was paying little heed to Tai now. His attention swiveled between the chouette, one arm around the bird, and the instrument. With a sudden lunge, he snatched the flute and retreated to his corner. His hands stroked it, then he raised it to his lips.
Tentative notes formed the lead-in to a basic tune, swirling through the cave, singing like an echo in Bryar’s mind.
“You can keep it,” Tai said. “But I wish you would come with us. There’s so much more music out there.”
The child gripped the flute. With his free hand, he wiped the tears from his face, then stood and spoke for the first time. “You promise?”
“Yeah, I do.” She smiled.
After a great, shuddering breath, the boy said, “Okay.” He reached for Tai.
She shook her head. “Not me. Him.”
Bryar couldn’t work out what happened next. He doubled over with unbelievable pain, his heart thudding. Not physical... he curled into himself, clutching his middle, as something invaded him, broke through his carefully constructed walls.
The rhythm changed, faster, urgent. Tai’s voice overrode the pulsating beat, calling him home.
Home. The rough ground under the blanket, the air tinged with apples.
When Bryar emerged from the trance, Tai had shifted away, stowing the drum in its case. He stretched, rose to his knees, and looked around. The sun was sinking behind the low hills, casting long shadows and filling the sky with peach and purple. An autumn chill touched his skin; there would be frost that night.
Next to him lay the primitive flute Tai had given the child.
He stared, then snatched up the instrument and stood, his feet wide placed for stability, abruptly understanding what had happened.
“The notes are pure, as you heard.” She nodded at the flute. “I’m going back to the house, but you take all the time you need. It’ll be many nine-days before you finish integrating this, but I’ll be close.” Then, unbelievably, she stepped up and kissed him. Very gently. “Come home for dinner, or Rebecca will worry.”
She turned away and crossed the meadow to the path leading to the compound.
Bryar dropped back to the ground, clutching the flute, too overwhelmed to answer.
He couldn’t deny the lost boy any longer.
In the solitude of the meadow, he cried.