There was only one song that, as a child, I’d battled to learn. It was a complex, highly technical piece from an opera. In that performance, two women lamented the same lover, one in dark, vengeful tones, and the other sweet and melancholy. As the piece went on, the women’s lamentations turned to rage, then ended with them stabbing one another in the heart.
I sang both parts, here and there playing softly or more sparingly to let my voice rise. As I did, the air in The Drowned Prince subtly responded. When I lamented, it swirled, carrying pipe smoke in eddies about the ceiling. When I vowed bloody vengeance it stilled, trembling and brushing at the back of necks like spectral fingers. And when the protagonists of the tragedy lay dying, something like snow dusted through the air, slow and glistening and veiling me.
The last few notes faded and the tavern erupted into applause. My heart hammered but I glanced out over the room, lips twisted into a delighted grin.
“Another!” Grant bellowed.
I played another song and sang it through—fast and humorous and a little bawdy. After the third I abandoned the harpsichord altogether and simply sang, clapping and stomping the rhythm as patrons began to join in. I knew these songs like I knew how to breathe—they were the staples of my father’s inn back at the Wold. But folk songs, it seemed, transcended country and language.
The rafters rang with choruses and beer sloshed from glasses. Soon I was breathless, but I decided to put in one last song.
“Elm, she hates mankind, and waits till every gust be laid, to drop a limb on the head of him that anyway trusts her shade.”
The company faded out, and I began to sing of the Wold. I sang of each tree, of their whispers and their personalities, the feel of their shadows, the rustle of midsummer leaves and the way they creaked and cracked in the winter chill. I could have sworn that I heard those creaks as I sang, the very wood of the floor and pillars responding to me—though that, of course, was impossible.
The company joined in again on the final chorus, carelessly overpronouncing the Aeadine words in their varied accents. Then they clapped and pounded the tables, I curtsied, and dropped from the stage with a whump of skirts.
Back at the table, Grant pulled out my chair and handed me a cup. The last thing I needed was more wine, but a sniff told me this was watered down enough not to put me on the floor.
“Why is a Stormsinger like you in Hesten?” Farro asked. He looked pensive, and a little unnerved. That seemed to be the most common response at the table, though Red Lips looked distrustful and Earrings had turned away to murmur to someone at another table.
“If I may,” Grant interjected gently. “I am happy to discuss, but perhaps there is somewhere more private?”
Mallan nodded. “I’ll arrange for a room. I can direct other curious parties there?”
Grant nodded, his satisfaction locked away behind a gracious nod. “Why, of course.”
AN EXCERPT FROM:
A HISTORY OF GHISTLORE AND THE BLESSED; THOSE BOUND TO THE SECOND WORLD AND THE POWER THEREIN
A ghisting may be freed if its physical form （its wood, whether tree or figurehead） is degraded beyond convenient habitation.
WHEN A GHISTEN TREE is harvested, all remaining roots and branches must be destroyed, save that in which the maker desires the being to dwell. In many cases, one may carry a ghisting within a simple shard from its previous dwelling, provided the rest of the dwelling （for example, its tree or figurehead） is destroyed. This is most useful in the salvaging of wrecked ships, where the valuable ghisting can be carried back to civilization with minimal effort. Fire, naturally, is the most affectatious means to this end. It must be noted, however, that more powerful ghistings may require a greater quantity of salvaged wood to retain them. Otherwise these may be accidentally released, their will overcoming the constraints of their depleted host substance.
If a ghisting is released, whether by accident, malice or natural means, it may soon fade back into the Other, or drift for a vast time, searching for the nearest Ghistwold and the company of its own. But all will eventually fade into the Other and be lost. It therefore remains the duty of each vessel’s captain and officers to retrieve their ship’s ghisting at all costs in case of wreck or capture.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Sam and Helena Make a Plan
SAMUEL
Nine bells chimed across a quiet, mild evening in Hesten. Hart was wrapped in twilight, punctuated by streetlamps and warmly lit windows, set in rows above the shops and warehouses of the appropriately termed Temweish—deep docks—where a series of locks cut the ships off from receding tides. Only the finest foreign ships were docked here, though in the winter, only the finest ships made it to Usti at all. My frequent slips into the Other told me that all the other vessels here had ghistings, and most of them had the trapped light of a Stormsinger in their bellies too.
I did not think Mary was among them, at least not the ships close to us. Her light always had a grey edge to it, and these singers were a more typical, melancholy teal.
On the rail of the ship before me, I tilted the book from the Mereish jeweler towards the moonlight. I could not risk any of the crew seeing me read a book with Mereish lettering, but there was so little light I could barely make it out myself.
Under the sun, there exists three types of magickers, and many Adjacent. First, the Magni, who control the heart and impulse of those around them. Second, the Weather Witches, whose power over wind, cloud and water is dictated by voice and impulse alike. Third are the Sooth, those who interact with that Second Plane, glimpsing the past and future. As to the Adjacent, we find many variants which may fall within the following classes: First find the Ghiseau, those bound through spirit to wood and blood. Second and likewise, the High Mariner, who captains her ship through will alone. There are the Summoners, who beckon and tame creatures of that Other World. The Mage-Healers serve both their own kind and humanity with their curative gifts. Lastly are the Variants, being those who possess two or more of the above powers and attributes.
I stopped reading and stared down at the last few sentences, baffled. I had known the Mereish had bizarre ideas regarding the Other and magic, but these Ghiseau and Summoners sounded like much more than cultural eccentricities—they were pure folklore.
The realization left me feeling the fool. The book had begun so well, logical and systematic. It had given me hope.
But the ‘Adjacent’？ Other categories of magicians, ‘bound through wood and blood’？ My Aeadine mind had no category to interpret those. The High Mariner, perhaps I could rationalize. Some captains did seem to have unnaturally strong relationships with their ghistings, and thus their ships. But to control a ship through will alone? If such a thing were possible, surely I would have heard of it before.
I closed the book and looked at the cover again, as if its simple embossing could explain the madness inside. Briefly I considered finding the Mereish trader again and asking for answers, but the book had already been his way of answering me.
“Mereish…” I muttered wearily. “You knew they had strange ideas.”
“I thought Mr. Keo was watch captain tonight.” Fisher sidled up, hands in her pockets and her collar popped. She was still healing, but she had already shed her sling. She wore boots that clicked as she walked and her hair was pulled up under her tricorn hat instead of in its usual, practical tuft. She looked… not gentler, but less official. More approachable. She still carried a cutlass and likely had more weapons hidden about her person, but I did not mind this alternate Fisher.