Kanthe turned away.
If only I could be so bold.
* * *
NYX SQUINTED IN the bright sunshine. She shaded her eyes against the sting of radiance as they climbed free of the foggy damp mists and out onto the stretch of steps baked by the heat of the Father Above.
While she appreciated the dry stone underfoot, the air smelled of smoke and fire. A glance to her left revealed a black stain in the white sea. It swirled in a maelstrom around a smoky pillar that climbed high into the sky.
She had to look away. She studied the wall next to her as she climbed. The dark rock showed layers of gray strata, poking with bits of shell, as if marking the bed of an ancient sea. An image flashed of this same wall, from when Xan had sung to her upon their first meeting. She reached and touched one of those shells, wondering if this was the source of the decoration along the elder’s staff, a row of shells sculpted to show the turning of the moon.
She dropped her hand, reminded of why they were ascending toward the Shrouds.
Moonfall …
She searched up the steps to where Xan led them, assisted and protected by one of the scouts. Three tribeswomen followed, with Shiya climbing behind them and Rhaif at the bronze woman’s heels.
Nyx kept a few steps back, still unsure of the mystery shining ahead of her. Once in the sunlight, the sheen of the woman’s bronze had quickly warmed to brighter shades of gold and copper. Shiya still limped on a damaged leg, but she moved more fluidly now, with a strength that grew with every step. Her stiff shell appeared to melt under the sun into something flowing and softer. Even the fall of her bronze hair shifted into strands that moved with the breezes washing up the cliff face.
Rhaif’s tense shoulders similarly relaxed, as if he were tuned to some song only he could hear, one that reassured him of Shiya’s recovery.
“She is wondrous, is she not?” Frell said behind her. He was last in line, except for Aamon, who trailed them all. “No wonder that Iflelen Wryth pursues her.”
Nyx glanced off to the warship circling that smoky maelstrom. It appeared to be the same one that had rained death and fire atop them. She had no doubt the accursed Shrive was over there.
She turned away, fearful that her attention might draw the warship’s eye.
She hurried after Rhaif. They dared not be on these stairs any longer than necessary, especially with the bronze figure blazing in the sunlight. Xan seemed to understand this and set a harder pace upward.
Nyx kept glancing warily at the massive wyndship, but it continued its slow swing around that black sea, showing no sign of moving this way. Finally, the group reached the mouth of the copper tunnel, torn and shredded like its counterpart below. They rushed out of the sun and into the shelter of its dark interior.
The sudden darkness blinded them all. Still, the Kethra’kai scout held off removing the shade of his lamp until they were well into the tunnel. It took until then for Nyx to realize that the copper walls no longer glowed beneath Shiya’s steps.
Frell noted it, too. “This tunnel must lack the energies of the other. Mayhap the first one still draws strength from where it’s rooted at the base of Oldenmast, leaching energies from the generous tree. But this tunnel, cleaved from that wellspring long ago, remains as inert as any dull metal.”
Nyx believed the alchymist, but it raised a worry. What if everything up here was just as dead and lifeless?
Maybe all of this will be for naught.
Still, they had no choice but to continue. She held out one hope, one indication that something might still be atop the Shrouds.
“Pethryn Tol,” Nyx whispered over to Frell. “The Kethra’kai send their youths up here, to test them. Why do you think that might be?”
“I’ve read treatises about it, but after Xan’s earlier warning, I think they’re all wrong.”
She glanced back, but the alchymist’s face was shadowed by her body. “What do you mean?”
“Pethryn Tol means listening heart. Xan told us that only those with bridle-song could safely traverse the Shrouds. I wonder if listening heart is a reference to bridle-song. If so, it suggests an ancient nature to this talent, one that seems rooted in the blood of the tribes who live here.”
Nyx pressed a palm atop her chest. Pethryn Tol. She remembered how she had felt when she sang. To her, listening heart sounded right.
“This ritual,” Frell continued. “Each Kethra’kai must undergo it to be accepted into the tribe. I wonder if that custom keeps bridle-song rich in their blood. Those born too weak or without it would be culled by this journey. Only those with strong talent would return and add their seed to the tribe.”
Nyx balked at such an explanation. It sounded unnecessarily cruel.
Frell warmed to this idea. “Perhaps the tribe uses the Shrouds as the stone upon which they sharpen their talents and keep it strong.”
Nyx lowered her hand from between her breasts. “But I have no tie to the Kethra’kai.”
At least, not that I know of, she had to admit to herself.
She looked back at Aamon. Did Graylin’s connection to the two vargr indicate some nascent talent? She had felt nothing from him when she had sung to his brothers. Then again, she had sensed no inkling from Frell. And Graylin might not even be her father. But what of my mother? Had her tongueless state as a pleasure serf forever silenced her gift?
Nyx shook her head, unable to untangle such a knot.
Frell offered another possibility, one unique to her. “Perhaps your infancy spent with the M?r bats—bathed in their cries, fed on their milk—instilled such a gift into you. Maybe you’re something different, wholly new, yet connected to the tribe’s ancient bridle-song.”
“Jar’wren…” she mumbled, remembering something Xan had said when Nyx was being examined by the tribeswomen.
Frell shuffled closer. “That’s the Kethra name for the M?r bats.”
Nyx nodded. “Xan claims the bats were touched by the old gods long ago. She said none of her people have ever been able to sing to the bats.”
“But you can.”
Nyx pictured Bashaliia winging through the air, whistling down at her. She could still feel him nestled in the wagon with her. He seemed too fragile to serve as a vessel for the old gods.
She gazed over at Shiya, her bronze form reflecting the lamplight like a torch. This living statue was also tied to the old gods in some manner.
That I can believe.
With no way of speculating further, the group continued in silence. A short time later, light appeared ahead, far quicker than she had expected. This tunnel must be no longer than an eighth of a league.
A distant squawking echoed to them, along with the patter of what sounded like rain on leaves. They hurried the last of the way toward the dim sunlight. Upon reaching it, the others filed out ahead of her, through an exit mangled and torn. She pictured this tunnel being ripped from the ground like the copper root of a foul weed.
After she ducked out, she straightened to face a dark jungle, a forest far mistier than Cloudreach. Every leaf and thorn dripped. The air here was so rich and fecund that she feared it would seed into her lungs, until she sprouted branches and became part of it.
From the jungle’s depths, life hummed, buzzed, and sang darkly. Something screamed far in the forest, as if warning them away, but it wasn’t necessary.