Time was a slippery thing at best in the Shadowlands, hard to hold on to, its passing difficult to mark. But in the utter darkness of their coral prison, it was completely impossible. They could’ve been there days, hours, and would have no way of knowing. There wasn’t even hunger or thirst to go on. The only things that ever changed were the occasional rumbles through the ground, the echoes of larger quakes elsewhere.
The shudders of a world breaking apart.
Solmir tilted his head back against the wall. Her eyes hadn’t adjusted enough to make out his facial expressions, but she knew one knife-slash brow was arched over one blue eye. “What kind of story?”
“Anything.” Neve shifted on the floor. It was impossible to find a comfortable angle in here, but it didn’t stop her from trying. “A fairy tale.”
He snorted. “A fairy tale.” A moment of thoughtful silence. “Did you ever hear the one about the musician’s lover?”
“Doesn’t sound familiar.”
“It’s old. Probably long fallen out of fashion.” A sigh, the rasp of his boot heels over stone as he stretched out his legs as far as he could. “And it’s sad. Just a warning.”
“Most of them are, if you look at them hard enough.”
A grunt of assent. “I’m no storyteller, but the tale goes like this: Once, there was a musician—I don’t remember what instrument he was supposed to play, take your pick—who was deeply in love with his wife. But she got sick and died.”
“Starting out strong with the sad part.”
“Hush, Your Majesty. Anyway, she died, and he was very upset, moping about the village, as one does. Until he was approached by a wise woman who could harness the magic in the world.”
Neve sat up a bit straighter. Tales about the time when magic was free—before it was bound up in the Wilderwood and the Shadowlands, when anyone who could sense it could bend it to their will—were fascinating to her. She couldn’t quite wrap her head around the notion of power being free to everyone. The Order said that it had been a time of discord, people using magic for petty reprisals and selfish gain more often than not. But the stories and the historical accounts didn’t paint it that way. More often, it seemed people had used magic for good, small amounts to make a crop grow strong or a child stop coughing.
“Anyway,” Solmir continued, “this wise woman said that a person’s essence never really died. It lingered on in the places they loved, in the elements that made up the world, the air and earth and fire and water.”
“Their soul lingered, you mean?” Neve asked.
Solmir shook his head. “Essence doesn’t translate to soul in the old languages. If you want to get technical, the closest translation would be reflection. The word used implies multiple parts of someone remaining after they pass—a faint impression of their emotions, their thoughts, the deepest parts of them. According to this story, at least, a soul isn’t the only thing that can stick around.”
Her lips pressed together. “Makes our plan to get rid of the Kings seem less than ironclad.”
“It’s different,” Solmir said. “The Kings aren’t whole people anymore. They’ve lost themselves in bits and pieces.” A shrug, jostling her shoulder. “There isn’t anything left of them to reflect, once the soul is gone. Everything else has already been subsumed into the Shadowlands.”
“So if you keep your humanity,” Neve murmured, “you’re more than a soul.”
A pause. She felt his arm tense against hers. “You’re more than a soul,” he agreed.
Silence, for a handful of heartbeats. Then Solmir picked up the thread of the story again. “So the musician gets an idea, and asks the wise woman if someone could manage to coax the essence back to life somehow. She told him it wasn’t likely, but if he went to the place his wife loved most and played her favorite song—reminded her of all the things she loved in life—he might be able to call her back. There was one caveat, though. He had to start playing at sundown, and keep his eyes closed until sunup the next day. Otherwise, she’d fade.”
He’d said he wasn’t much of a storyteller, but the low cadence of his voice was soothing. Neve leaned her head against the coral as she listened, shifting it back and forth until she found some kind of comfort among the jagged edges.
“So the musician went all out. He made his wife’s favorite foods and packed them in her favorite blanket and went to the hill outside the village where they’d always go to watch the stars. He picked up his—well, whatever instrument it is he was supposed to play—and as soon as the sun went down, he started playing, eyes closed. He played for hours and hours, played until his fingers ached. When he’d nearly lost track of time, he felt his wife. The barest brush of her hand across his shoulders, the whisper of her voice at his ear. He kept his eyes closed. He kept playing.”