CHAPTER FIVE
A jealous man sought wisdom beyond bound
To learn the secrets time had hidden well
And open up his mind and teach his mouth
To craft the workings of the perfect spell
And much to history’s misery and woe
A pact was made, seeds of the future sewn
—THE BOOK OF UNVEILING
Darvyn had been nursing the same mug of beer for the past hour. The pub was half-full of regulars, villagers whose nightly ritual consisted of dampening the sting of lives bursting with misery. They sat on cushions around low tables of pounded tin balanced on knee-high stacks of mud bricks. Each patron hunched over glass mugs of beer or copper cups of potent moonshine.
Out of habit, Darvyn scanned the faces of every woman appearing more than twenty years older than he. In truth, he wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking for. His mother’s face had long since blurred and dimmed from his memory. It had been so long and he was so young when he’d been ripped from her arms.
Outside, the wind howled, eerie as a wolf’s cry. Light from the oil lamps cast menacing shadows on the pub’s interior. Darvyn took a sip of beer, cursing silently as the unpleasant taste hit his tongue. Bitter, vile stuff this Midcountry brew.
Though every soul in the dimly lit room appeared engrossed in their drinks, tension fogged the air. Both patrons and staff alike were studiously ignoring the table in the corner and the promise of trouble wafting from it like smoke.
Five men—all with cruel, blunt features—sat drinking and laughing raucously, oblivious to the anxiety around them. Darvyn had followed them here to monitor them. The two wagons the men had arrived in sat in the stable along with the horses. Half an hour ago, Darvyn’s friend Zango entered and folded his massive limbs onto the cushion across the table, whispering that the covered wagons were empty. Each held nothing more than a dozen manacles chained to bolts in the floor. The men were definitely nabbers.
Since then, Darvyn had rarely let his eyes stray from the table. The desire to provoke some kind of confrontation was strong, but that would have run counter to his mission. He needed to be inconspicuous and stealthy to continue tracking them unnoticed. Eventually, they would lead him to wherever they had stashed the children.
Nabbed children fed a black market for domestic servants, factory workers, and occasionally something even viler. It was a fate children should never be subjected to, yet wealthy payrollers seeking to mimic the True Father’s harems often turned to the nabbers as suppliers. And unlike when a child was called for service to the government and sent to the mines, the work camps, the army, or the king’s harem, the parents of nabbed children received no extra rations in exchange for the loss of their sons and daughters. The rations were a poor replacement, but at least they allowed the parents to feed their other children until their time came to be taken. The population of the Midcountry dwindled further with every generation.
The pub door opened, letting in a blast of wind that caused the lamps to flicker. A sandstorm was brewing tonight. In his peripheral vision, Darvyn saw the newcomer enter but didn’t pay any mind. He only turned his gaze away from the corner table when a cracked, reedy voice rose above the din.
“Kind villagers, if I could have but a moment of your time. The night is cold and the sands wild. Allow Grimmar ol-Grimor to warm your evening with a tale. Or a song if you prefer. Only ten grams to be transported to another time and place. Perhaps the Creeping Gardens of Lumina or the savage wilds of Udland? I have many stories to tempt you with at a very affordable price.”
The gnarled man wore a long, frayed cloak that had faded to a dull gray. His silver hair was twisted into thick, matted coils, reaching his midback. A bushy beard framed his mouth, but sharp, intelligent eyes glinted brightly in the lamplight.
“I could spin you a tale of the ice monsters of the Gelid or the pale creatures that live below the earth in the north to escape the burning sands of the Scald.”
Darvyn was glad he offered no tales of the Shadowfox. He had no wish to hear exaggerated stories of his own exploits. A hum of mumbles flowed through the pub, but no one was willing to spend ten grams on the old griot. The nabbers in the corner were quiet, their attention momentarily captured by the storyteller who had a quality about him that was difficult to ignore. A tin cup shook slightly in his hand as he shuffled between the tables, offering it to the patrons, seeking someone willing to purchase a story. It seemed there would be no takers tonight.
Darvyn focused on the table of nabbers when a clink indicated someone had placed a coin in the man’s cup.
“And what type of story would you like, young miss?”
“I would like to hear a tale of the Mistress of Serpents.” The voice was clear and feminine.
Darvyn’s head shot up. The speaker sat at the bar, wedged between two old cottagers who looked like they’d been attached to their cushions since the town was built. A hood hid her face, and Darvyn got only a glimpse of her in profile. The tip of a nose. A flash of cheek.
“The Mistress of Serpents,” the griot said, appreciatively. The cup disappeared beneath the folds of his billowing cloak. “Have you heard about her quarrel with the Master of Spiders?”
The young woman shook her head, and the griot smiled, revealing a spate of missing teeth. He sat at a nearby table and pulled the luda off his back, strumming the strings of the instrument softly and bringing it into tune.
A melody emerged. Darvyn thought the man would sing, but instead, he began his tale in a singsong voice much smoother than the tones he spoke with.
“Of all her siblings, the Mistress of Serpents was considered the bringer of justice. Petty disputes and squabbles among all the houses were brought before her. While the Master of Sharks was known for his wisdom and the Mistress of Eagles for her prophetic knowledge, all agreed that it was the Serpent who best put wisdom into action. And so one day, the Master of Spiders came seeking his sister’s help.
“The Spider had twin children, a boy and a girl whom he loved very dearly and wanted to ensure were left a grand legacy. However, vanity and greed had impoverished the House of Spiders. The great wealth the Spider had been born with had been squandered on foolishness, and none of his brothers and sisters would trade with him to allow him to rebuild.
“What can I do, he entreated his sister, to leave a suitable inheritance to my son and daughter?
“The Serpent considered this and knew the answer would not be to her brother’s liking, but it was the fair and just response. It is unfortunate that your mistakes have affected your children’s birthright, but it is already done. They will have ample opportunity to build their own fortunes through their efforts.
“The Spider was predictably displeased. Why should my children suffer when you and the others have so much? Share it with me, and all will be well, sister.
“Why should any of us share our wealth when you have so diligently squandered yours? she replied. Your children will be well taken care of. They will not starve, nor will they lack shelter or other necessities.
“However, this was not good enough for the Spider. He thought and thought, and decided to propose a bargain to his sister. If she would share her fortune with him so that he may gift it to his children, he would spin a web so beautiful that it would stand forever as a tribute to her generosity and goodness.
“But the Serpent did not wish for a web in her honor and refused him. And so it was that the Spider planned to steal his sister’s riches and hide them away in a cave until his children came of age. But the Serpent was wise and knew her brother’s heart. She gathered their siblings together, and when the Spider came to steal her treasure, they were all there to stop him.
“As punishment, the Serpent decreed that the Spider would spin a web with the symbol of the thief embedded within it. When the Spider’s children saw this, their shame was deep. The twins swore off spinning and never truly recovered from the humiliation their father had wrought. They made their way in the world and earned their own wealth, but both agreed the House of Spiders would end with them. The grand legacy their father had sought ended up being one of thievery, and neither twin had any wish to perpetuate it.
“When the twins passed into the World After at the end of their long lives, the House of Spiders was no more.”
The griot ended his tale and looked around the room. All who listened had been drawn into his telling and sat rapt. Darvyn shot a glance to the corner to ensure his quarry was still there. Even the hardened nabbers had grown quiet for the story and with good reason. It was a subversive story to utter aloud.
To spin a tale of the Master of Spiders was dangerous, especially an unflattering one. While in the story, the House of Spiders supposedly ended, in reality it lived on in the sons born in the True Father’s harems. The king himself was now the master of that fateful house.
The ol-nedrim, as the harem-born sons were known, filled the army—why recruit when you could kidnap girls and force them to bear offspring designed for only one purpose? And none knew of the fates of the king’s rare daughters or why he sired boys almost exclusively. No one Darvyn knew had ever met an ul-nedrim.
But at least the True Father’s vile seed spread no further. All of the ol-nedrim in the army were sterile.
The griot took his life in his hands to trust that no payrollers were among the pub’s patrons. Tyranny existed because of the willingness of many to inform on their fellow man to try and curry favor from those known as the favored of the Father.
Darvyn scanned the room with Earthsong to gauge whether any here had intentions of betraying the elder. The tension and malice from the nabbers made things cloudy, but admiration and fear were the primary emotions in the room.
“Thank you, Griot-deni,” said the young woman who’d requested the tale. Darvyn strained to see more of her face. She spoke with the peculiarities of High Lagrimari, which meant she spent a great deal of time in the cities. Something about her voice was very pleasant, but the hood still hid her from view. The other patrons were already turning away, getting back to their forgotten drinks. The griot rose, and the woman reached out as if to stop him.
A glass crashed to the floor in the corner of the room. The serving boy hovered at the nabbers’ table, eyes wide, gripping a tilted tray. The nabber nearest him rose, and a chorus of shouts rang out. Another man banged a fist and the table upended, clattering to the ground. Darvyn and Zango both stood to face the commotion.
“You bloody fecking whore’s daughter!” A nabber vaulted himself across the overturned table, scattering glasses across the floor, to throttle the neck of his companion. The serving boy nimbly skirted the violence as the two men fell to the ground, knocking over the table next to them.
The other three nabbers stood. Two tried to pull the fighting men apart, but an elbow to the nose enraged one and he began throwing punches as well. Soon all five were in the midst of it, trading wild, drunken blows. One nabber picked up the square of tin comprising the tabletop and slammed it against two of the others.
The crowd scrambled to get out of the way, and jammed the single door in their rush to exit. Zango stood tall next to Darvyn, large fists curled and ready. A former mine worker, Zango was a fearsome fighter, though he’d lost his Song before joining the Keepers. His bald pate rose two heads taller than anyone else, and his size was often enough to dissuade men from violence.
A nearly empty bottle of moonshine shattered against the opposite wall. People ducked as the glass rained down. Darvyn sang a silent spell to redirect the shards so they wouldn’t slice anyone. Other than him and Zango, standing in the center of the pub, the only other person not retreating or cowering in fear was the woman.
She’d pulled back her hood, and neat rows of braids lined her head. Darvyn was surprised by how young she was. Younger than her voice sounded, at any rate. Her hands hung loosely at her sides. She eyed the fight almost with an air of boredom, but shielded the griot as he hunched down behind the crowd of panicky customers.
Who was she? Darvyn could see only her profile—a straight nose, slightly upturned at the end, gave her an impish quality. Her eyes narrowed at the scene before her.
Her boots were sturdy, her trousers and tunic well made. A thick, warm coat graced her back. There was nothing fancy about her attire that would identify her as a payroller, but the quality of her clothing and her confidence made her stand out. As did her lack of alarm.
If he didn’t know better, he’d say she had the bearing of a soldier. Not just in the self-possessed way she carried herself but in the set of her jaw and the wariness of her eyes. Even from here he could tell those eyes had seen much. Perhaps nearly as much as his own.
The body of one nabber flew through the air, taking out the table right in front of her, sending cups clattering to the ground. She didn’t flinch.
The crush of bodies blocking the door began to thin; the place was nearly empty. The old bartender stood at the end of the bar, gripping an ancient musket. He didn’t seem overly concerned about the brawl, but did appear ready to fire his single shot if the fight threatened the costly bottles of liquor.
The young woman stayed until the other patrons had left, her eyes never straying from the fight. And then, with a brief, frowning glance to him and Zango, she was gone.
Darvyn released a pent-up breath. Their eyes had only connected for an instant, but her gaze was a hot desert breeze that left his skin tingling. Pins and needles prickled all over him before he could shake off the feeling.
He’d been waiting for her to leave so he could stop the fight, but now that she was gone, he wished he’d been able to talk to her. Find out something about her. Everything about her.
Another body slammed into the table directly in front of him. Zango raised an eyebrow, and Darvyn responded with a grin, cracking his neck as he reached for his Song.
Whenever possible, it was best not to sing obviously in front of witnesses. You never knew who you could trust to not inform on the Keepers and he had no desire to call attention to himself. At his age, to still be in possession of his Song was rare and would bring heavy suspicion upon him. However, the bartender was a friend to the Keepers, and with no one else around, Darvyn opened himself to Earthsong, allowing the stream of power to connect with his inner Song. He focused on the life energy of the nabbers, blocking out everything else. The energies of all within range faded from his senses, from the children sleeping in the bedroom above, to the wild dogs prowling the edges of town, to the wildness of the bush beyond.
The five heartbeats of the brawling nabbers raced. The one sprawled out in front of him got to his feet, fists raised. Darvyn felt the men’s pulses, sensed the very life flowing through their veins, and could heal them if they were ill. Not that he wanted to. But he did need these men to lead him to the children. However, that would have to wait, at least for a few hours. Now they needed to sleep.
In a feat of strength no other Singer he knew could have accomplished, Darvyn pulled from the ocean of energy, filling himself, and then sped up the breakdown of the large quantities of alcohol the men had consumed. Accelerating any system of the body so quickly generally led to almost-immediate sleep. The men dropped, one by one, to the ground, each snoring softly.
Darvyn sagged back upon his cushion. He felt the connection to Jack’s disguise spell as he released his grasp on Earthsong. Performing so many delicate spells at once was tiring even for him. Affecting these five simultaneously, plus maintaining Jack’s spell, left him breathless, like he’d run a long sprint. He rested his aching body for a moment while Zango knelt before the dozing men, checking their pockets.
The bartender placed a cup of water on the table in front of Darvyn.
“Thank you.” He drank it down greedily.
“Nay, thank you, oli. My livelihood thanks you, as well.”
Zango stood. “Nothing on them to tell us about their hideout.”
“That would have been too easy, huh, mate?” Darvyn rose to his feet, fighting a wave of dizziness.
His friend approached, concern etched in his face. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine, fine. The nabbers shouldn’t wake for a couple of hours.”
“I’ll get them out of here,” Zango said. “Let them sleep it off in their wagons. Wouldn’t want them waking up in here and causing another ruckus. I’ll set young Farron to watch over them so we can follow in the morning.” With each of his hands holding onto an ankle, Zango dragged two of the nabbers out the door and into the night.
Darvyn sighed. He hadn’t wanted to bring Farron on this mission, but Aggar had insisted. At sixteen, the boy was young for a Keeper recruit. But he’d been the only other Singer Hanko had allowed to join them since he couldn’t be trusted with leading a group over the mountains. At least watching sleeping nabbers wasn’t very dangerous.
Darvyn’s eyes drooped. Rest was the only way to restore his Song, but he had not used so very much that he should be sleepy. Still, he realized he must have dozed, at least for a few minutes, when the door crashed open and his head popped up.
Farron rushed in, breathing heavily. The teenager’s lanky form stumbled over the cushions on the floor.
“What’s happened?” Darvyn asked.
“There’s something out there you need to see.”