The Soulsong
"Why is it that a simple collection of sounds played in a particular order can invoke such deep feelings within us? It is simple. A song is magic, and it is the language of the soul."
— Sonata the Speechless, The Woman with No Voice
Alend had just seasoned the mutton and placed it into the oven when the Sleeping Twinn's door creaked open.
"Go serve them," Koth said. "I'll watch the roast."
Alend nodded and wiped his hands on his apron. He was no chef, but the Mistresses weren't due in until sundown, and the innkeeper needed all the help he could get. More food and drink would be consumed over the next few hours than the entire week.
"Welcome to the Sleeping Twinn," he called, walking out from the kitchen. "What can I get you this fine afternoon—"
A shadow fell across the inn. A man stood in the doorway with a warm, almost-ethereal edge about him. He wore boiled leather boots and a light gray robe, and fastened about his shoulders was a cloak that had more patches sewn throughout. Each patch was a differing shade of green and brown, and when they rippled they became a dizzying pattern of leaves and earth that made Alend's eyes swim.
The man himself was old and wizened with parchment skin, unruly white hair flowing down to his waist, fraying whiskers extending into a lengthy beard that stopped at his chest. He held himself far straighter than others of his age, and his stare was like a mirror under a morning sky.
Alend let his hands fall to his side. "Talberon. What are you doing here?"
The man closed the door behind him and approached the counter. Recognition flashed through his eyes as he took in Alend, from his gray-streaked hair to the calloused hands clenched into fists.
"I didn't expect to find you so easily," he said. "You've changed."
"I left for a reason," Alend replied. "I'm not going back. I've served my time. I have a family now, a wife and children."
"You may not have a choice in the matter." Talberon stopped behind the counter but remained standing. "But for now, there are more pressing matters to be attended to."
"What do you want?" Alend asked again. "I daresay you didn't come here for a drink."
"The troupers tell me there are people here who require my aid," Talberon replied. "Parents of a young lady who were attacked by relicts. It would be most kind of you to show me to them... Deserter." He said the word slowly, as if tasting it on his lips. Alend scowled.
"I'll take you to them," he said. "But a word of this to anyone and I'll rip your throat out."
Talberon shrugged. "Perhaps. But then your quiet village life would come to an end."
Alend stepped out from behind the counter and led him up the stairs without wasting a single movement. The sooner the man was gone, the better. They would talk later, when they weren't at risk of being walked in on.
Nath and Valeesha Tamelyn were as they'd been in the morning, sleeping deeply on their beds in the room at the end of the hallway. Talberon walked with quiet steps across the floorboards and stopped beside the Mistress, eyeing the bandage around her forehead.
"She suffers from a simple concussion," Alend said. "Shouldn't be anything too serious. I expect she'll be up before tomorrow."
"Sometimes the unseen injuries are the worst," Talberon murmured. "But my intuition agrees with you. The Mistress's injury seems to be minor." He moved to Nath's side. "What of the man?"
"Broken ribs and internal bleeding. Stomach was slashed open by a blade of some sort, or incredibly sharp claws. It's been stitched up and the bleeding's stopped, but it will take a while to heal."
Talberon placed a hand against the sheet. "Do you mind if I have a look?" he asked, though his tone implied it wasn't a question.
Master Tamelyn stirred as the covers were pulled back, revealing a broad layer of cloth strips criss-crossing his torso. Talberon dug his fingers beneath one of the edges and unravelled it. The smell of damp flesh saturated the air.
"This was treated well," he said, studying the wound. "But the ribs will take a while to mend, and the threat of festering yet still remains."
The area around the wound in question was dark and blotched, stretching from Nath's lower ribs around to his waist and belly. Nine stitches held the two flaps of skin closed in a ragged line of black, crimson and cream. There were other cuts and bruises, but all minor and nearly healeed.
Talberon placed his bag on the table and opened it, retrieving a thick tome with crinkled pages stained yellow with age. The cover was bound with fraying brown cloth, and a silver lock in the shape of a sparrow kept the book sealed from unwanted eyes. He spoke a word, and the lock fell away with a clatter.
"You're still using the same book?" Alend asked.
"The book is alive, Deserter. New pages grow as I need them."
The old man flipped to a page and set the book open on the table. A recipe for a concoction of some sort was scrawled in black ink, along with a few notes scribbled into the margin. Talberon rummaged through his bag and brought out a distiller, a flask, and a mortar and pestle. Studying the distiller for a moment, he changed his mind and put it away.
"Do you have any medicinal herbs in this village?" he asked.
"We do," Alend answered. The healer had a few, though they were mostly used on the animals than people. She had, however, gone through quite a few herbs during her treatment on the Tamelyns.
"Bring me these, then." Talberon scribbled on a scrap of paper and handed it to Alend. Alend scanned through it, frowning at the contents. Ginger, mint, pepper. Bonemeal, tendervine, milk of the poppy, frostweed—they had plenty of that—and bloodgrass.
"This is a potion, right?" Alend said, eyeing the open book. "Not a salve?"
"It's a salve," Talberon said.
"There's no congealing agent."
Talberon glared at Alend. "Don't ask questions. It's obviously not an ordinary salve; I'm only using it as a catalyst."
A glint of gold caught Alend's eye. He looked at Talberon's hands and noticed the bands on his left and right thumbs. Engraved on a flat disc on the left band were three feathered wings branching from a single point—the Trinity Wing, symbol of the Skyward Circle. On the right band was a spear and a shield, the symbol of the Uldan House, the royal family that held the throne of Faengard. Outside of the Uldans themselves, few earned the right to bear that symbol.
Of course, Alend thought. A catalyst. He'd almost forgotten what Talberon was, and what position he held. It had been a long time, almost twenty years since they'd last met, and the druid looked not a day older.
A druid was different to an alchemist. Alchemists and herbalists used poultices and potions. Druids used the Soulsong.
As Alend left with the list in hand, one thought remained on his mind—a thought that had been gnawing at him ever since Talberon had first stepped into the inn.
Why had the High King's advisor come all the way to the Sleeping Twins?