The Soulsong (2)

The healer's hut lay at the far end of the village square, a short walk from the Sleeping Twinn. Alend passed Sanson on the way and nodded a greeting. The butcher hauled a sack over his shoulder that was apparently quite heavy, muttering curses under his breath with each step. Seeing Alend, he grunted an acknowledgement.

Helda opened the door at the first knock. The healer of Felhaven had been a farmer in her younger days, but her increasing involvement with midwifery for the villagers had seen her take over the role upon her predecessor's passing. Age had been kind to her; many thought her at least ten years younger than she actually was. Although she was a widow, she was well past her prime and had no intention to re-marry, so her braid remained.

"Back again?" she began. "Did you forget something—"

She saw Alend and cleared her throat.

"My apologies," she bowed. "Master Sanson just came around and I thought he'd returned for something else."

"I saw him on the way," Alend said. "So that's what he was doing."

Helda nodded as they stepped into her hut. "He needed salt. Took almost all of it; we'll need to re-stock before long."

Alend frowned. There was a lot of mutton to salt, but most of it would be gone after Founder's Eve. Shaking his head, he returned his attention to the task at hand. "I need these. They're for Nath and Valeesha."

"Ah. I treated them yesterday, didn't I?" Helda took the scrap of paper from his hands and looked over it. She raised her brow, just as Alend had. "This is a strange recipe. What in the world do you need bloodgrass and frostweed for? And bonemeal? Are you growing plants?"

She shook her head.

"No… frostweed would be counter-intuitive…"

Alend considered telling her the truth, but if word got out that there was a druid in Felhaven, there was no telling what Mayor Walmsley would do. The entire village would be lining up outside Talberon's tent with gifts and requests to be blessed. Felhaveners were honest but simple folk, and knew little of the more mysterious forces that governed the rest of Faengard.

Talberon was not one to take advantage of the naive, but refusing them would raise problems as well.

"It's a recipe Evaine brought from the Wydlings," Alend said. "I figured it couldn't hurt to try."

Helda frowned. "I would advise against trying a recipe from the Travelling Folk without testing it. What if it causes more harm than good?"

Alend drew a breath and thought for another excuse. Thankfully, Helda's face softened and she turned around, rummaging for the requested ingredients from the drawers in her medicine cabinet.

"I suppose you can be trusted," she said above the sliding and clacking of wooden drawers. "I've seen you treat injuries, after all. You clearly have some level of knowledge in medicine." She placed the ingredients in separate pouches and dropped them in a basket. "I've given you a small portion of each; bring back anything left over. And the pouches too, so they can be reused."

Alend took the basket and thanked her.

"While you're at it," Helda said, "if you see Sanson, remind him to go easy on the salt. That stuff isn't easy to come by all the way out here."

***

Talberon wasted no time upon Alend's return. He took the pouches out and weighed them on a small set of scales before adding them to the mortar. The milk of the poppy went last, turning the mixture into a murky paste with solid clumps floating about. He then picked up the pestle and began to grind.

The room was soon filled with the sound of stone against stone. Noise filtered through the floorboards as patrons began wandering into the inn, unwinding after a long day of work. It wouldn't be long before the troupers arrived; Alend could already hear the voices of the Mistresses and some of the Masters as they busied themselves in the kitchen.

Part of Alend wished to speak to Talberon immediately, ask him about the relicts and what was happening in Faengard. The druid would know the answers for sure—in fact, Alend would bet his right hand that Talberon was at the centre of it all. The other part, the part with more common sense told him to stay quiet and wait.

The troupers would offer him the same information without the extra baggage attached to it. He didn't care about Faengard. As long as the threat was removed from the Sleeping Twins, he was satisfied. The rest of the world could burn in Hellheim for all he cared.

The grinding stopped. Talberon took the mixture to Nath and scooped it up in his hands.

"Close the windows," he instructed.

Alend moved to the far side of the room and closed them, pulling the curtains across as well. The last slivers of sunset disappeared, plunging the room into darkness.

"Should I light a lantern?" he asked.

"No," Talberon replied. "Just be quiet. And lock the door."

Once the door was locked, the druid began rubbing the paste into Nath's side. As he did so, he sang.

His voice was low and soft, like a quiet wind weaving through the trees. The song had no lyrics, no words, yet it was laced with Spirit which spoke just as clearly. Talberon's eyes burned with emerald fire as he hummed the trees to life, chirped with the voices of songbirds sitting amongst the leaves, ebbed and flowed like the waters before they'd frozen.

Alend felt a lump rise in his throat—he remembered walking in a garden long ago filled with blooming flowers, side by side with two other boys—one of them with black hair and gray eyes like himself, the other with a chiseled jaw and proud, noble features. Then, a strangled chirp caught their attention, drawing them to a bleeding dove lying prone on the path. Its wing was bent backwards and broken, blood seeping across its snow-white plumage.

They picked up the dove with gentle hands and took it home with them, washing the blood from its body, disinfecting the wound, binding it with bandages as it watched with timid eyes. They placed it in a cage and fed it day and night, watched it grow plump and healthy as the days became nights and the nights became days, watched as it grew stronger, greeting them every morning with a song.

When the day finally came to free it from its cage, the dove spread its brilliant wings under the sunlight and took off into the sky, circling above their heads with a grateful cry before soaring away. There were still times when Alend heard its voice here and there throughout his day, even when he knew the dove was long dead and gone.

"Spread your wings and fly

On the Winds of Fate." 

Alend realized with a start that Talberon had stopped singing and was grinding again, a new mixture in the mortar with the leftover ingredients. He looked up at Alend, the green fire gone from his eyes.

"I'd forgotten what the Soulsong was like," Alend murmured.

"By the looks of it, you've forgotten many things." Talberon stood and tipped the powder from the mortar onto a square of paper. With a practiced hand, he rolled it up into a tube and spoke a word.

No, Alend thought. He sang a word.

An ember flickered to life at the tip of the tube. Talberon placed it on a bronze dish and left it beside Valeesha.

"That's for the Mistress," Talberon said. "Keep the windows shut and the door closed. Make sure she keeps breathing it in, and if all goes well she should be up and walking before the rooster crows."

He locked his book and packed it into his bag.

"I've fixed the Master's ribs and cleansed the wound as well. Keep the skin exposed to the air so we can monitor the progress of his recovery. Make sure you feed him when he wakes up. The Song will continue to draw Spirit from his body until he is fully recovered, which shouldn't be long."

The dreadful blackness of the wound had already lightened to a dark purple. It was as if a whole day's worth of rest had occurred in the span of a few minutes.

"Thank you," Alend said.

"Don't thank me, Deserter," he said. "Just be downstairs when the troupers arrive. I expect you'll want to know about the relicts that attacked them."

Alend froze. "Relicts?"

"Oh, didn't they tell you?" Talberon looked genuinely surprised. "The Wydlings were attacked on the way here, somewhere in the woods."

He pointed at the Tamelyns.

"Just like those two."

Talberon locked eyes with Alend, and he could have sworn the druid smiled.

"Like I said, you don't really have a choice in the matter. You're involved whether you like it or not."