Rhaif tried to block them from approaching too close.
Xan waved her staff as she came with them. “Let them pass, Rhaif. They have earned the right. This is Alchymist Frell hy Mhlaghifor. And Kanthe ry Massif.”
Both Pratik and Llyra glanced sharply to the lad.
“The prince of Hálendii?” the Chaaen asked.
“Toranth’s second son,” Llyra confirmed, her eyes narrowing, plainly adding this to her calculations. “I see the resemblance now.”
Further introductions were made all around. Rhaif learned the rotund guardian at Nyx’s side was Jace, a journeyman from the Cloistery. The vargr was Aamon. Stories were shared. From his side, a tale of the discovery in a mine and a harried flight across the width of the Crown. From them, an account of a prophecy of doom and magick tied to M?r bats.
Rhaif found their story preposterous, but then again, he was traipsing about with a living statue. So, who am I to scoff? He also learned of Nyx’s connection to the story of the Forsworn Knight, who apparently still lived.
Rhaif’s head spun with this avalanche of information, sensing the wheel of history turning, possibly crushing over them. As he struggled to absorb all of this, he allowed the others to examine Shiya more closely. She had returned to a statuesque stillness, sapping what strength she could from the tunnel.
Xan ended up beside Rhaif. She leaned on her staff, studying him with her head slightly turned. She reached again to his face, like she had when they’d first met. Her fingers touched his cheek, and his mother’s lullaby tinkled briefly before fading as her hand lowered.
“You have Kethra’kai blood in you,” she said. “You whisper with our old songs.”
He shrugged. “My mother was from Cloudreach. She died when I was a boy.”
“Ah, your heart sings with your love for her, stirred by a touch of bridle-song in you.”
He shook his head. “I have no such talent.”
Xan glanced to Shiya. “You could not be tied to her if you did not. I believe you would not have found her in the darkness without it.”
“You mean back at the mines? No, it was a lodestone in a wayglass that pointed the path to her.”
“Hmm, yes, those stones—sensitive to shifts of magnes energies—do stir to such songs.”
Rhaif wondered if this detail might explain how the legion’s forces had been tracking them.
Frell overheard this, turning from his study of Shiya. “Fascinating. There is an alchymist at Kepenhill who discovered the tiniest bits of lodestone in the brains of birds. He believed it helps guide their paths as they voyage over the turn of seasons. He even suspected we might have the same.”
Pratik nodded with his arms folded. “Back at the House of Wisdom, this has been confirmed.”
The two alchymists began chatting together, comparing studies and theories. Rhaif tuned them out. He pictured Shiya’s song shivering and turning bits of iron in his own brain, pointing them all toward her.
Xan remained with Rhaif, studying him. “Mayhap that is what drew you through the darkness to her—a reflection of the talent inside you—far more than any wayglass.”
He shrugged again.
In the end, what does it matter?
Xan cocked her head, her eyes narrowed. “May I ask the name of your mother, she who was from Cloudreach?”
Rhaif lowered his chin, reluctant to do so. His mother had told him there was power in names, a truth buried in every syllable. He remained possessive of hers, having never even told Llyra. He kept his mother’s name close to his heart, an ember of his past that was his alone.
Still, Xan deserved an answer. Rhaif looked at the elder. “My mother … her name was Cynth … Cynth hy Albar, after taking my father’s name.”
Xan stiffened. Several of the women also stirred and stared at him, their eyes bright, reflecting the lamplight.
“What’s wrong?” Rhaif asked.
Xan covered her mouth.
“I don’t understand,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean—”
“It cannot be,” Xan said, gazing harder at him, tears welling.
The simple majesty that had always seemed to be cloaked about her fell from her shoulders, leaving only an old woman, her face pained with grief.
Rhaif sensed the depth of her distress. “Did you know her?”
Xan’s voice cracked with misery. “She … She was my granddaughter.”
Rhaif blinked in disbelief, falling back a step. He again felt the weight of history crushing over him.
“It’s been so long,” Xan mumbled, sounding lost. A tear rolled down her cheek. “But I see her now … in your face, in your memory of her song.”
She turned away, clearly ashamed for not recognizing this sooner. Rhaif crossed over and hugged her, something he would never have done, but he sensed she needed his warmth to survive this moment.
Xan trembled in his arms. “She was so wild, that one. My daughter could barely keep her from running off at every new wonder around her.”
Rhaif tried to picture his mother so young.
“Over time, she grew ever more willful and headstrong. When she came of age for her Pethryn Tol, she refused the rite, denying any desire to join the tribe. Instead, she wanted to see the world beyond the forest, not be trapped in these woods forever.”
Now, that did sound like his mother.
Is that how she ended up in Guld’guhl?
Xan freed herself from his arms and placed a palm over his heart. “And now … now she has returned.”
The old woman’s cheeks ran with tears, her shoulders shook, both in happiness and sorrow. The other Kethra’kai gathered and drew her among them, leaving Rhaif feeling hollow.
Llyra joined him. “Are you all right?”
He glanced to her, reading a rare compassion in her eyes. “I … I don’t know.”
Llyra took his hand, squeezing it. “Our histories have a way of refusing to remain in the past.”
He sensed there was a more personal meaning behind her statement. Curiosity helped firm his unsteadiness. He started to inquire, but she let go of his hand, clearly having drained the meager reserves of her sympathy.
“We should keep going,” Llyra said. “We can’t stay down here forever.”
Still, it took another half-bell before the group forged on, following Shiya’s glowing footsteps. All the revelations in this accursed tunnel kept everyone silent, or maybe it was simply fatigue. Likely both.
Pratik strode next to Rhaif, his gaze on the bronze mystery before him.
The Chaaen’s attention reminded Rhaif of a question he had nearly forgotten. He remembered Xan whispering into Pratik’s ear back on the trundling wagon. Rhaif glanced over to the elder, to a woman who might be his great-grandmother.
“What did Xan tell you back in the wagon?” Rhaif asked Pratik. “She whispered something in your ear.”
Pratik sighed and nodded to the bronze woman striding ahead of them. “She said Shiya carries the spirit of an old god inside her, one who has not yet fully settled.”
Rhaif frowned. He knew little about gods, cared even less. All he knew about the old gods was that they had roamed the Urth long ago, during the Pantha re Gaas, the Forsaken Ages. They were beings of great power and savage natures, both beauteous in their strength and merciless in their rages.