Song of Leira by Gillian Bronte Adams

Author:Gillian Bronte Adams
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Gilead Publishing
Published: 2018-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

Part Three

18

Birdie left her axe where it had fallen, blade bitten into the shattered earth, not far from where Gundhrold lay. It was a piece of her that she could leave with him—a hard, cold, bloodthirsty piece. She wanted no more of it. And yet it seemed fitting, somehow, given the way that he had died. Torn to shreds by the monsters of the Takhran, torn to protect her, the Songkeeper that he dreamed that she could become.

What use was an axe against monsters such as those they faced?

The Song alone had been able to save him, and yet it—or Emhran—had chosen not to.

A mist clouded her vision. She blinked and found that it was just tears welling up, turning the world into a watery blur. She whispered a silent farewell to Gundhrold and swung up onto Frey’s bowed back, gripping his narrow rib cage tightly with her thighs. His lithe limbs carried them swiftly up the slope, past the slaves and runners standing once again in stunned huddles, past Ky’s slumped form—bowed over his knees, shoulders shaking—to the front of the line. The saif’s cloven hooves made little noise as he assumed the lead and forged onward into the night, fleeing the slaughter in the valley below and the attention her song must have drawn. But she saw no pursuit, and Earthshaker did not sing again. Birdie did not attempt to guide the saif, nor did she wonder if he would lead them true. It did not seem to matter anymore.

Little did.

Stifling a groan, she clenched her fists in the saif’s downy mane and lifted her face to the crisp night air. She had not sung Gundhrold’s soul to sleep. Had not been able to bring herself to yield voice to the Song that whispered in her soul—an echo of the peace and joy that had swept through his melody in that breath before the end. For in that instant, she had realized that she was drowning, but he was not. She was lost. He had found the way.

She could not sing.

But his song had begun anew.

And oh, how she had longed to join him in it. Soft footsteps had whispered behind her, and Frey’s melody had washed over her. But she had thrust the knowledge of his presence aside, not wanting anything, even comfort, to disturb the sorrow and sanctity of the moment. She had buried her hands in Gundhrold’s ruff, stroked the curve of his russet feathers, bent to kiss behind one tufted ear, and at last let the tears fall freely upon his coat.

Death had reigned in the fortress across the valley, and the dark melody had soared in triumph, a hideous clanging noise that reveled in bloodshed and broken corpses strewn across soiled earth. But there, upon the hillside, something else had been at work. A hidden thread of music that somehow reached beneath the vast symphony of the world, supported it, and bound it all together. It eased her at the same time that it disquieted her.

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