Uthalion hesitated, but he could see the toll of infection racing through Brindani’s body and the way he clutched at his stomach, wincing with pain.
“I’ll tell them you’re on your way,” Uthalion — muttered and backed toward the spires.
“Just do the work,” Brindani replied. “Keep moving, don’t think, and do your job.”
Uthalion met the half-elf s gaze for a heartbeat and nodded once before running into the crystal forest, following the vines and hating his own practical honesty. He pondered their luck and brushes with death across the wilds of the Akana and lied to himself, convincing himself that all would be well. As he neared the wide clearing in the forest, he slowed, watched by a ring of glassy eyes along the edges of the spires.
The dreamers sat, quietly watching gentle ripples flow through the mist-grass as the powerful song poured from the depths of the deep pit. At the edge of the pit, his bone-sword laid across his lap, Vaasurri regarded him with a hard, solemn expression. The dreamers did not react as Uthalion entered the clearing; but merely sat with strange looks on their humanlike faces, sniffing the air before settling down calmly on their haunches.
Despite the song, Uthalion was struck by the eerie silence. Vaasurri said nothing, merely shook his head as he looked down into the pit. As frightening roars echoed from the north, Uthalion took a deep breath, and knew that all would not be well.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
12 Mirtul, the Year of the Ageless One (1479 DR) Ruins of Tohrepur, Akanul
Uthalion stood over the flickering shadows of the cavern as Vaasurri told him of what lay slumbering inside, of the fate he suspected the Choir had intended for Ghaelya. Uthalion swayed slightly, caught in the endless current of song that ran hungry tendrils of searching melody over his skin and through his flesh. It demanded everything of him, crooning for him to abandon all else and end his days amid blooms and blood. Forcefully he pulled himself away, gasping for breath and shaking away the instinct to dive into the cavern and dash himself on the rocks below for just one glimpse of the beauty that called to him.
He tightly gripped the gold ring upon his finger, determined to not become another of the sirine’s nnt. het. in fools her crimson-stnineH Flock.
“Has she been down there long?” he asked.
“No,” Vaasurri answered. “Not long for what she faces. And Brindani?”
Roars of boundless rage and-sibilant screams rang shrilly through the crystals, vibrating in the ground and sending choppy shivers along the wavy tips of the mist-grass. Uthalion gripped his sword, expecting monsters to come pouring through the forest at any moment, knowing that even if Brindani could fell Khault, he could not face the whole of Tohrepur alone.
“He’s… on his way,” he replied, turning, careful to keep his distance from the pit. “We’ve got to get her out of there. If she touches that thing”
“Then we know what to do,” Vaasurri said. And though the killoren seemed not to move a muscle, his gleaming bone-sword shined briefly in the moonlight as if the weapon itself knew its own purpose. “One way or another, we know what to do.”
Uthalion knelt, staring into the dark thoughtfully, sobered by the idea of striking down the girl he’d led to this place. But he could not let the sirine’s songher infectionspread. He imagined Ghaelya striding among the warrens of the aranea, an army of beguiled spiders in her wake, drawn to the sirine’s flowers and terrible caress. He saw her at the opening gates of Airspur and thought of the throngs she might enchant, a silver-tongued conqueror succeeding where the armies of the Abolethic Sovereignty had failed.
Twirling the gold band round and round his finger, it was evident what had to be done should things go badly. But like any decision that rested on the edge of a sword and a man’s determination to do the right thing, he didn’t like the taste of it.
“It’s always blood,” he muttered, stony eyed.
Something shambled through the crystal spires. Wet, fleshy sounds slapped against the spires as rough skin was dragged across the broken stones of the pathway. There came a low growl rumbling with power, a voice Uthalion recognized as little more than a dim reflection of the sirine’s. Standing, he leveled his sword, waiting stoically for the thing to appear, knowing that no matter what, it was not Brindani. “One way or another,” he repeated.
“No,” Ghaelya said, feeling the word cross her lips again but barely hearing it as she pulled herself away from the monstrous image of Tessaeril. She didn’t want to be so close, afraid that even proximity to her sister might make Tessaeril’s words happen, let time slip away until’ little remained but tears and death. Her throat burned, and she felt sick, but she kept her stomach and whispered hoarsely, “I can’t.”
Tessaeril did not interrupt, but held on to the wet rocks of the sirine’s shore and shivered as Ghaelya crossed her arms, binding her hands close to her chest where she could keep them still. She breathed deeply, staving off the effects of shock, and tried to think clearly, finding that all but impossible. Tessaeril shuddered as the song poured through her and pulsed in deep waves from between her blue lips. The walls hummed with its power, sending out an endless call to a trap where men no longer drowned, where their bones no longer decorated the wet cavern walls.
The fate that men found with the sirine had become much worse and the presence of Ghaelya’s sister seemed to only amplify the song’s power. With each slow and labored breath, the azure vines of the sirine’s flesh dug deeper into Tessaeril’s body, anchoring her to the malformed fey so that escape alone would surely have meant certain death.
Hope had fabricated within Ghaelya illusions of finding Tessaeril hurt, but alive. She had imagined that they would escape the Choir and return to Airspur. Their mother would receive them with open arms, scolding Ghaelya for leaving without a word or message, but happy to have her daughters safe and sound. There would be a family meal. Their father would complain about coin or politics and perhaps grudgingly acknowledge Ghaelya’s courage in setting out to rescue her twin. They would sleep peacefully and wake the next morning to a new day. You must do this.
Tessaeril’s voice was unavoidable. Ghaelya could not cover her ears or run away, for it would find her, either in the long restless nights or in her dreams when she could no longer avoid the exhaustion that would run her down. When she looked on her sister, she wished she could mask the chaos of emotion that twisted her features, somehow convey a sense of hope. But in Tessaeril’s eyes there was no hope, only a pained and suffering resignation.
I ran from them when they brought me to the ruins… I tried to escape, but the song drew me here… and I fell… The sirine uses me and the song… grows more powerful…
Ghaelya tried to speak, but a knot caught her words, entangled them in her throat, and tried to replace them with the wracking sobs which she refused to give in to. It hurt to do so, and she squeezed her eyes shut, clenching her teeth and digging her fingernails into her sides. She inhaled sharply, the sound rippling through the sirine’s i mass, wavering the subtle undertones of the dreaming-song of the plaguechanged fey.
“I came so far,” she managed, “To save you.”
Tessaeril nodded slowly, pulling herself closer, able to i move within the perimeter of the sirine’s waterlike body, but ij not beyond it. Shaking, she held out her right arm, exposing the gruesome network of vines, the sirine’s hair, that had flowed through her body. Thick veins from Tessaeril’s legless torso mingled with those of the slumbering fey, fed by the sirine’s lifeforce. Her dark eyes pleaded, her webbed fingers spread wide as she gestured at her disfigurements, changes that no known magic could overcome.
To save me… you must go a little farther.
Ghaelya’s hope had also turned to darker thoughts beyond Tessaeril’s unlikely rescue. She’d imagined any number of horrors that might have befallen her sister, that might have left Tessaeril’s lifeless body upon an altar of sacrifice or cast aside amid Tohrepur’s ruins. Dried blood, jagged wounds, even the predations of scavengers had filled her imagination when she indulged the hopelessness of her optimism. But she would have been prepared on some level. She would have been ready to collect the broken form of her sister and carry it away. Shamefully, she’d thought of what she might have said, prayers she might have sung to ensure her sister rested in some kind of
