The Unfinished Song - Book 6: Blood (23 page)

Dindi saw many men wending up the ravine of Ice Snake River below the cloven summit—it didn’t register—was that an army? Riding goats?! The pain made the impression disappear from her mind, and all she could think about was ridding herself of the undead Aelfae.

They circled in toward the tribehold, over the canyon that roiled with black.

Lothlo was right. What other choice was there? She and Umbral had not been able to destroy the Bog Mummy until Umbral had exploded it with the Curse.

The Mud Monster tried to climb up Dindi like a ladder. It raked her with its claws, trying to reinforce its bite-grip by grabbing onto her with several of its arms.

Dindi hit it with the hammer, but three arms reached up, coiled like snakes around the handle, and jerked the hammer out of her hands.

She reached for the only other thing at all weapon-like anywhere on her body, the corncob doll on a cord around her neck. It wasn’t going to do much good, but she whacked the mud monster with the cob as hard as she could.

The Mud Monster screeched. The sound was so high-pitched and scratchy it made her ears bleed.

The mud melted. The rot bubbled. Void ripped the sky and sucked the undead thing into an abyss. It shrieked, dissolved, and the sound cut off as quickly as it began. Dindi wanted to retch. When the shockwave hit the Black Well the dark eddies pitched and writhed, in ecstasy or agony, it was impossible to guess.

Dindi recognized the sensation too well.

The Curse.

The Aelfae birds shuddered and faltered in their flight, plunging toward the Black Well. She feared that, despite destroying the Mud Monster, they would all die, but the Aelfae recovered and flapped their wings to regain the wind currents. They flew back to the tribehold and landed.

Dindi tried to understand what had happened. Hitting the undead Aelfae with a doll should not have worked—except the corncob doll was no ordinary hexed thing. Once it had stopped the Black Arrow. Today it had disintegrated the undead Aelfae.

There was only one explanation. With the corncob doll, Dindi had used the Curse. Umbral was not the only one who could wield Lady Death’s strongest and oldest spell.

Dindi just hoped she hadn’t made the Black Well stronger.

When Dindi, Lothlo, and Yastara reached the Guest Lodge, Vessia noticed at once their dishevelment and demanded an explanation. The Aelfae described the fight as though it had all been a fine lark. They did not know what had killed it in the end but seemed to think it had disintegrated of its own accord. Dindi didn’t correct them. She wanted to earn their trust, and wielding Death’s Curse didn’t seem like the best route.

Lying wasn’t great, either, but she had to choose the lesser of two evils.

The Aelfae didn’t take the Mud Monster all that seriously. Then again, the Aelfae didn’t seem to take anything all that seriously. The Black Well, fae sacrifices, human sacrifices, Xerpen’s blithe plan to conquer all Faearth starting with the Rainbow Labyrinth… it was as if it was all a game to them. It was like trying to talk politics to pixies, something no sane person would bother with, if the Aelfae did not possess so much more power than pixies.

Vessia, however, did not smile as Lothlo and Yastara told their tale. Anger reddened her face, and, unexpectedly, she focused her ire on Dindi.

“You little fool! Why did you fling yourself into battle with the undead creature? You have no magic! You couldn’t possibly expect to survive.”

“I do have magic, it’s just hidden,” she protested.

The other Aelfae laughed: from Hest, deep belly guffaws, from Yastara, light, bubbling trills. Only Kia did not laugh, which was surprising. She looked almost as angry as Vessia, though not about the attack. About
what
, then? Kia’s brooding made Dindi nervous.

“Keep your basket of sniggers closed!” snapped Vessia. “There’s nothing funny about the death of a child. That’s what you are, Dindi. A helpless child. And a mortal! You had no right to enter the fight.”

“I’m sixteen winters! I’m not a child! And entering the fight was not my idea—it was the Mud Monster who attacked us. What was I supposed to do, run away while Lothlo and Yastara fought the undead by themselves?”

“That is
exactly
what you were supposed to do. That is what
you were told
to do!”

“Some champion I would be, if I were such a coward!”

Vessia slapped Dindi across the face.

Dindi covered her stinging cheek, shocked. The old Vessia never would have done that, she was sure, but Ice Fae Vessia didn’t hesitate.

“I
knew
that was the problem! You, with your fool ideas! You are so puffed up trying to prove how brave and heroic you are that you put yourself in danger—and put Lothlo and Yastara in danger too, trying to protect you. They knew you could not fly and had to find a way to carry you with them before they could do the sensible thing. Flee.”

“As the Aelfae did during the War? Running away to hide from humans—that worked out well, didn’t it?”

Murder crackled on Vessia’s face, and Dindi cringed, expecting to be hit again.

This time the ice-cold rage did not explode but was all the worse for being contained in tightened lips and eyes narrowed to slits.

Mrigana lifted Dindi’s chin and turned her head left and right.

“Our little hero looks unhurt to me,” she said.

Vessia expelled a breath. “Yes, you’re right, Mrigana.”

Mrigana gave Dindi an oblique side-glance. Unfathomable power and knowledge pooled in her dark eyes, impossible for Dindi to parse. It was not unlike the way Xerpen looked at her: a knowing, calculating expression that made Dindi feel she was being sized up for a fight.

Vessia insisted that Dindi remain inside “to rest” while the Aelfae went outside to play. Only Kia lingered, glancing over her shoulder to make sure the others were out of earshot.

“You’re right,” Kia said. “The Aelfae made a mistake trying to avoid a confrontation with the humans. It didn’t stop the War. It just ensured we would lose it. I don’t want us to make that same mistake twice.”

Was that a threat? Dindi tensed. She hoped she would not have to fend off an assault.

“I saw them playing that game with you,” Kia added. “Throwing you, telling you to fly, when they knew you couldn’t.”

“Yes,” Dindi said tightly.

“They shouldn’t have done that. I will tell them so. I just wanted you to know.”

“I thought you wanted to kill me.”

“Maybe. But no one should be treated like that just because they can’t do certain things.”

In a flash of insight, Dindi knew, of a certainty, that someone had played that game with Kia. Maybe more than once. She also knew that Kia would not want Dindi to ask about it.

“Thank you.”

Kia shrugged. She looked embarrassed, as though she already regretted the whole conversation.

Two warriors in feathered helms arrived at the door.

“What do you want, humans?” demanded Kia.

“The clown.” Without waiting for a response, they grabbed Dindi and shoved her before them.

“Wait!” protested Kia. “What do you need her for?”

“The Sacrifice of the Ewes,” one warrior tossed over his shoulder.

They dragged Dindi across a series of stone stairways and courtyards. The sun lurched along overhead. Everyone was gathering again in the Plaza of Eagles. She sought familiar faces, perhaps Svego and Gremo, but the crowd was so large she couldn’t find anyone she knew, except one.

Xerpen was there, parading toward his pavilion in his chiefly finery, and he looked right at her and smiled knowingly.

A shiver slithered down her back.

She longed to see Umbral. She needed his strength. The last she’d seen of him, he had disappeared over a cliff. First, when he had captured her, she had thought nothing could be worse than having to endure his presence, the way he reminded her constantly of Kavio; but this, this
not knowing
, was worse. A pretense of Kavio was better than no Kavio at all.

It was ironic that after she’d spent the last three moons plotting to kill Umbral, now she wanted reassurance he was alive.
Only because he had the last fragment of Kavio’s memories.
She couldn’t betray Kavio by caring about his murderer in any other way.

Umbral must be alive,
she repeated to herself.
He’s too powerful for anyone to take him down.

Once, though, she had thought the same about Kavio.

They left him bound, hanging painfully in the loom frame all night. He couldn’t sleep, expecting someone to climb down the ladder into the Blood House any moment. The constant tension wore him down. He had a pounding headache. The arrow wound in his shoulder was infected with tiny, nasty, yellow fae. They crawled around, gnawing, but he couldn’t do anything about the itch or the ache.

The hazy light made it impossible to guess how much time had passed. He was weak, not to mention thirsty and famished, because he had spent so much of himself making the new Deathsworn. How many days had already been devoured by his captivity? His belly prowled his gut like a trapped predator, and his throat prickled like a cactus in a desert.

Finally, he dozed, but as soon as he heard steps, Umbral snapped awake to see the man who climbed down the ladder.

Not you again.

Perhaps it
was
destiny, fruit of the seeds Umbral himself had sowed a year ago, the first time he met Finnadro. The memory flashed across his mind: Finnadro screaming in pain, as the dagger carved the skin off his thigh, and his Chromas were being torn from his aura.

It had been Finnadro’s own fault, for sticking his fingers in the jar of somebody else’s business, but Umbral still regretted it. Though, at this point, he regretted letting the bastard get away alive even more.

Finnadro leaned against a wooden beam, studying Umbral. His expression was serious but concerned.

“Umbral, I want to help you.”

Like muck you do.

Finnadro unwrapped a cloth. A savory aroma overpowered the less pleasant smells in the Blood House. Suddenly, Umbral was all stomach. One big craving. To eat, to drink.

Finnadro swigged a water skin and casually tore bits out of a blood sausage.

Umbral licked his lips. Finnadro did nothing except stand in front of Umbral, eating, watching. Umbral’s stomach growled, audibly to them both.

“Thirsty?” Finnadro asked innocently.

Umbral concentrated on his throbbing shoulder, the only thing that hurt worse than his throat.

Finnadro held the water skin to Umbral’s lips.

He gulped. He needed to take anything that would help him survive.

Too soon, Finnadro pulled the flask away. He tore off a few pieces of meat, which he dangled in front of Umbral’s face, just out of reach.

I won’t beg him
. Umbral hated Finnadro so hotly the emotion burned through his tense muscles like acid.

“Did you allow your prisoners to eat and drink, I wonder?” Finnadro asked.  “Or did you get right to cutting them open?”

Finnadro withdrew the pieces of meat, eating them himself.

“Would you like more water?” Finnadro asked.

You bastard.

“You have to answer me, ‘Yes,’ if you do,” says Finnadro. “Would you like more water?”

Umbral clamped his jaw closed.

“It’s just a word, Umbral. If I were your host and you were my guest and I asked you if you wanted more water, you wouldn’t hesitate to answer me, would you? It’s common courtesy. So, I ask the third and last time. Would you like more water?”

Stay alive. If you need water, fine, ask for it. Just keep fighting.

“Yes.”

Finnadro placed the mouth of the skin to Umbral’s lips. This time, he let Umbral empty the skin.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Shame prickled Umbral. He had failed. His captor had pushed, and he gave in, like a puppy being broken in. He couldn’t let Finnadro stand higher on the ladder.

“Would you like something to eat?”

Mercy, that sausage smelled good. Normally, he didn’t even like blood sausage. Now he would kill a man to get it.

“No,” said Umbral. “I’m not hungry.”

He was pleased to see this annoyed Finnadro.

His captor found a new interest. Finnadro poked the swollen, puss blistered flesh around Umbral’s wound. He flinched involuntarily.

“Have you given serious consideration to my request?” Finnadro pressed with just a hint of the force he could have brought to bear. “Who helped you?”

“I will never betray Obsidian Mountain.”

“Bad magic is creeping into the wound. Would you like me to heal that? It’s not my main Chroma, but I dance fair Yellow.”

“Go muck yourself.”

“How do you think this is going to end, Umbral? You’re a great warrior, a Zavaedi of the darkness. I can see that. I don’t underestimate your power, believe me. Do you think that you are going to be able to resist, survive, maybe even escape?”