Something shambled through the crystal spires. Wet, fleshy sounds slapped against the spires as rough skin was dragged across the broken stones of the pathway. There came a low growl rumbling with power, a voice Uthalion recognized as little more than a dim reflection of the sirine’s. Standing, he leveled his sword, waiting stoically for the thing to appear, knowing that no matter what, it was not Brindani. “One way or another,” he repeated.
“No,” Ghaelya said, feeling the word cross her lips again but barely hearing it as she pulled herself away from the monstrous image of Tessaeril. She didn’t want to be so close, afraid that even proximity to her sister might make Tessaeril’s words happen, let time slip away until’ little remained but tears and death. Her throat burned, and she felt sick, but she kept her stomach and whispered hoarsely, “I can’t.”
Tessaeril did not interrupt, but held on to the wet rocks of the sirine’s shore and shivered as Ghaelya crossed her arms, binding her hands close to her chest where she could keep them still. She breathed deeply, staving off the effects of shock, and tried to think clearly, finding that all but impossible. Tessaeril shuddered as the song poured through her and pulsed in deep waves from between her blue lips. The walls hummed with its power, sending out an endless call to a trap where men no longer drowned, where their bones no longer decorated the wet cavern walls.
The fate that men found with the sirine had become much worse and the presence of Ghaelya’s sister seemed to only amplify the song’s power. With each slow and labored breath, the azure vines of the sirine’s flesh dug deeper into Tessaeril’s body, anchoring her to the malformed fey so that escape alone would surely have meant certain death.
Hope had fabricated within Ghaelya illusions of finding Tessaeril hurt, but alive. She had imagined that they would escape the Choir and return to Airspur. Their mother would receive them with open arms, scolding Ghaelya for leaving without a word or message, but happy to have her daughters safe and sound. There would be a family meal. Their father would complain about coin or politics and perhaps grudgingly acknowledge Ghaelya’s courage in setting out to rescue her twin. They would sleep peacefully and wake the next morning to a new day. You must do this.
Tessaeril’s voice was unavoidable. Ghaelya could not cover her ears or run away, for it would find her, either in the long restless nights or in her dreams when she could no longer avoid the exhaustion that would run her down. When she looked on her sister, she wished she could mask the chaos of emotion that twisted her features, somehow convey a sense of hope. But in Tessaeril’s eyes there was no hope, only a pained and suffering resignation.
I ran from them when they brought me to the ruins… I tried to escape, but the song drew me here… and I fell… The sirine uses me and the song… grows more powerful…
Ghaelya tried to speak, but a knot caught her words, entangled them in her throat, and tried to replace them with the wracking sobs which she refused to give in to. It hurt to do so, and she squeezed her eyes shut, clenching her teeth and digging her fingernails into her sides. She inhaled sharply, the sound rippling through the sirine’s i mass, wavering the subtle undertones of the dreaming-song of the plaguechanged fey.
“I came so far,” she managed, “To save you.”
Tessaeril nodded slowly, pulling herself closer, able to i move within the perimeter of the sirine’s waterlike body, but ij not beyond it. Shaking, she held out her right arm, exposing the gruesome network of vines, the sirine’s hair, that had flowed through her body. Thick veins from Tessaeril’s legless torso mingled with those of the slumbering fey, fed by the sirine’s lifeforce. Her dark eyes pleaded, her webbed fingers spread wide as she gestured at her disfigurements, changes that no known magic could overcome.
To save me… you must go a little farther.
Ghaelya’s hope had also turned to darker thoughts beyond Tessaeril’s unlikely rescue. She’d imagined any number of horrors that might have befallen her sister, that might have left Tessaeril’s lifeless body upon an altar of sacrifice or cast aside amid Tohrepur’s ruins. Dried blood, jagged wounds, even the predations of scavengers had filled her imagination when she indulged the hopelessness of her optimism. But she would have been prepared on some level. She would have been ready to collect the broken form of her sister and carry it away. Shamefully, she’d thought of what she might have said, prayers she might have sung to ensure her sister rested in some kind of peace, all the things mortals could do to ease the hurt of losing someone they loved. An image of a gravesite flashed through her mind, herself standing nearby; she tried to imagine what it must be like, as if it were someone else.
“We can find a way,” she blurted out, grasping hold of the fleeting, ragged edges of hope that threatened to leave her altogether. Denial crept selfishly into her thoughts; and she welcomed it for the brief respite, the faint thought that everything could be made better if only she had more time. “There must be something… The Choir”
7s too powerful… Should you fail they will force your hand… They will use the bond we share… I will sing forever, and you will walk, singing ruin with the sirine’s voice… and we will both become their slaves… You must finish this.
Sounds of battle echoed distantly from above. Ghaelya turned to the open mouth of the cavern, and the stars glittered in the soft blanket of night, winking ai her as if from another world. Khault’s words could not reach her, but the effect of his voice on the song was unmistakable, breaking the melody slightly and causing the steady stream to waver. Tessaeril winced, flinching at the sound and straining to keep it at bay. It was then that Ghaelya felt hope slip beyond her reach and sensed the heavy presence of the sword at — her side.
Her sister’s pleading eyes glanced at the blade.
The dreamers paced nervously along the edge of the crystal spires, growling as they gathered east and west of the sirine’s cavern, their glassy eyes fixed on the shambling thing that approached. Uthalion watched the beasts warily, though they made no move to enter the clearing and simply acted as curious witnesses to what was to come. Vaasurri crouched in the mist-grass, shaking his dark, grasslike mane and stretching his lithe body. The fine edge of his bone-sword still glinted dangerously in the moonlight.
Sweat and blood beaded like pink jewels and dripped in streams across the puckered edges of a scarred visage that leered at them from among the spires, prowling into the edges of the mist-grass. Uthalion fought the brief sense of relief he felt as Khault approached, knowing that Brindani must have fallen and using that knowledge to hone the cool fury within him that patiently awaited the first cut into Khault’s flesh. The old farmer’s shoulders were hunched and misplaced, bent at strange angles that exposed knobs of spiny bone. Gill-slits along his throat hissed with bubbles of crimson foam. UthaUon shook his head, pitying the nightmare a good man had become.
“Look well, Captain,” Khault uttered hideously. “I was remade in her dreams, blessed by her singing… A far cry from my nightmares in Caidris.”.
“You defended your home; gave food, water, and shelter to strangers,” Uthalion replied angrily. “You took a stand and lost your wife. The nightmares of Caidris were earned honorable scars that many men might envy, that I envied. What I do now honors that memory.”
Khault chuckled, a disquieting rumble edged with high-pitched echoes. He stood taller, growths writhing behind his back as he slid forward, his ruined face arching low on a distended neck. His tattered robes writhed with movement, as if he were unfolding, remaking himself into new shapes. Uthalion noted the fresh blood dripping from the torn, bone white robes and felt his pulse quicken.
“Did you know that I prayed for death, Captain? An honorable man weeping and begging to die?” Khault said. His features twisted in a snarl of contempt, exposing rows of sharp, triangular teeth. “Is this the answer to an honorable prayer? Is this what you envy?”