Windwhisperer shook his head. “I think she is still too fragile, too hurt for questions. She has lost much, this one, and the Storms especially have taken much from her. It would be good for her if something could be gained from them, as well. If she is not a danger, if she is not creating anything that she cannot handle, can she be left to make that discovery on her own?”
Silverheart frowned, thought a moment, then determination set in her eyes. “K’Veyas needs her to be trained in her new-found Gift before it becomes too strong. To do something once is accident, twice is coincidence, but a third time . . . if she goes out tomorrow, I want to follow her. If she attempts this again, I will have to interrupt, to confront her in some way. It may not be dangerous now, but if left too long, it could become so.”
The last traces of exhaustion-headache were stronger this time, more difficult to shake free. Stardance frowned. She had no memory of coming back to her ekele, although she vaguely recalled being on her bedroll already when one of the hertasi had brought her the cool, refreshing drink commonly used by those who overextended their Gifts. Other than that brief exchange, her last clear recollection was of creating the second little ley-line. The thought of it made her smile—they were things of beauty in their own way, the tiny runnels of power that she had spun together. Hadn’t there been another node, too, in the area she had been in, near the stand of pines? Maybe she could go back out to that one today. If she could not weave works of beauty with Triska, perhaps—she paused, then probed the thought of Triska. For the first time, the ache didn’t threaten to swallow her, and she didn’t feel cut open on the sharp and jagged edges of grief.
Before she could ponder further, Kir chirped from her perch, Sending a feeling of combined hunger and eagerness to stretch her wings. Stardance rose and freed her bondbird from her hood, a faint thread of anticipation to match the falcon’s dawning within her.
Chapter 7 - Discordance - Jennifer Brozek
Rax wept in what was left of his ale as the Bard finished the ballad of love lost and betrayal. It wasn’t like him to lose his composure outside the house, but things had been so difficult this season, and he didn’t see it getting any easier with the baby on the way. As the Bard struck up the next tune, a war chant with a heavy drumbeat, Rax called out to the bar wench.
“Sarry, get me another and another after that.” He felt the chant beat in time with his heart and felt his blood rise to combat the sorrow.
Come, come, come to the beat of the drum, drum, drum.
And kill, kill, kill with your sharpened sword!
To take, take, take every last crumb, crumb, crumb.
And do as you will!
Sarry, distracted by a handsome man with coin, ignored him, fussing over her target for a tip and possibly a tumble later if the stars aligned.
“Sarry!”
She glanced over her shoulder at him and smiled a tight-lipped smirk that told him all he needed to know before turning back to the man before her. “Is there anything else I can get you, Seder?”
Before Seder could answer, a clay mug sailed past Sarry’s ear and crashed against the wall in a shower of shards and dregs of ale. Sarry turned to see Rax standing tall and shaking with rage. The mood of the tavern turned ugly with the beat of the drum and song of violence. Rax took a step toward the bar wench, only to be stopped by another growling man—already angry at the sound of Rax’s voice.
She didn’t see the first punch or who threw it. Years of experience in rough places told her this was going to be trouble and wouldn’t stop until blood was shed. As she fled to the back of the tavern, the room erupted in chaos—men yelling and swearing, the pummeling of fists on flesh, the crash of furniture thrown, and the sharp sound of metal weapons being unsheathed.
Mathias grabbed her and pulled her behind the bar. She let him do it, thinking that he was trying to protect her. Instead, she found herself flattened face down on the dirt floor with him behind her—one hand holding her down, the other fumbling with her skirts. She had a brief moment of confusion. She trusted Mathias. He’d always protected her. Now, this? Sarry let the rage of being attacked flow over her, and the pounding of her furious heart beat in her head like the sound of the Bard’s drum.
Sarry screamed her rage, bucking her body up as she reached for a weapon. Her hand found one: a large serving fork. As Mathias wrestled with her, trying to hold her down, she twisted her body around and stabbed the man who had been her friend, protector, and boss in the throat. Blood spurted from the wound as he reared up in pain and she yanked the fork back. They both screamed now, two more voices in the din of the total tavern melee. She plunged the fork deep into his stomach.
On the other side of the bar, Rax already lay dead with his head caved in by a chair. Seder was dying; a sword pierced his chest, and his enemy was being beaten to death by two other men using clubs and their feet. Those who were not fighting were dead.
Except for one.
No one noticed when the music stopped. Nor did they notice when the Bard picked up his pack and drum and walked with careful steps through the violence and out the door.
The only survivor of the night, Sarry, would not remember what the Bard’s name was or what he looked like.
Terek frowned at the letter in his hand. Usually, letters from home were a thing of joy. Not today. There had been a brawl at a tavern, and people had died. People he knew. Mathias had been a brother to him. His death was a shock. He closed his eyes and rubbed his brow. There is more to this, he thought. People don’t murder each other over ale. Maybe in the slums of Haven, but not in Woodberry. Not in a tiny settlement like that. Something within his Gift told him he was right.
“Terek?”
He opened his eyes and smiled at the always fashionable Mari. She was a Bard who knew those worth knowing in the court, and she looked the part. “Yes?” He frowned at the worry lines around her eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m not sure, but I was listening to a couple of Heralds talking and I think something’s happening.”
He gestured for her to come in and sit down. “Tell me.”
“I’m not sure what’s happening,” she repeated. “I got a letter from home. A friend of mine died while carousing with his friends.” She bit her lip, marshaling her thoughts. “Then I heard the Heralds talking. They’d just come off Circuit, and there was a bit of bad business in the North. They had to judge a murderer. The thing is, at first, I thought they were talking about the death of my friend because everything was the same—the victim had been killed in a huge tavern brawl. But they weren’t. They were talking about someone else. So, I asked them more about it. Two different villages, next to each other, had the same thing happen about a sennight apart. Bar fight, unusual amount of death.”
Terek nodded, his heart thumping hard in his chest. It sounded far too much like his letter from home to be coincidence. “It’s been a hard season in northern Valdemar,” he allowed.
She shook her head, hair flying in its vehemence. “Not that hard. Look.” She pulled a rolled up piece of paper from her bag. When she spread it out on his desk, he saw that it was a map with small marks over four villages in the north.
As soon as Terek saw the map with the marks, his stomach dropped in horrified recognition and his mouth dried. He sucked air in through clenched teeth.
“These villages,” Mari said, pointing to the places they both knew well, “have all had horrible events with people dying in taverns or . . .” She stopped and took a breath before continuing. “Or have had a bunch of people kill themselves. Valdemar has had hard seasons before, but this is different. I looked into it. This is one village after another in a line.”