Yethyr got his boat. Three of them, in fact. They were named The Finrider, Leena’s Wind, and The Wily Seal.
The Brinn knew nothing about boats. There was a delicious comedy to Tunda attempting to give various thralls a basic understanding of the concept of rowing.
Yethyr watched this all, but did not participate. He was too focused on me.
I didn’t understand. I had been panicking. Who was I kidding? I was still panicking. When Nevsha sang deathsong…I wanted to leap out of my blade. I wanted to hide deep within my steel. I wanted…I wanted…
“Hush, hush it’s okay,” Yethyr patted me. “She can’t touch us anymore. We’re safe. You’re safe.”
It was the gentlest, kindest I had ever heard his voice and I hated it.
“You’re alright,” he soothed and I hated that it was working. How dare he comfort me? How dare I be comforted? What do I need to be comforted from anyway? Why was I panicking?
Yethyr wondered at that too.
“You have much to explain,” he said to Wes, who looked like he wished to be anywhere else.
Unfortunately for him, his existence required that he be close to Yethyr and our pesky questions.
Wes sighed. “What is there to explain?”
“Well explaining how that woman invoked fear in my sword would be an excellent start.”
Both Wes and I scoffed. “Your sword?”
Yethyr raised his chin stubbornly. “My sword.”
“She was a voice in the choir that sang the deathsong portions of ‘your’ sword’s compositions.”
“I had assumed Deathsinger Zasha had been the culprit.”
“She was, but not directly.” Wes fidgeted. “My master wanted the deathsong portions to be composed by people who could hear the steelsong that we were crafting and compose something to complement it. First Deathsinger Zasha cannot hear steelsong. She would not have heard the harmony of what we were creating. Instead, her main contribution was raising great dead steelsingers of the past. They were like how I am now. They could hear both steelsong and deathsong and were thus perfect for the project. Zasha led them and guided them, but they did most of the deathsinging.”
“Nevsha included.”
“Yes. I…am surprised Bonesong remembered her at all. Her contributions were very early in its development. Its memory isn't supposed to go back that far.
Yethyr sneered. “Yes, that would be a convenient design for you.”
Wes shrugged. “The process was strenuous.”
“Clearly.”
Before Yethyr could elaborate on why he thought that was clear, Elfred approached. Without the arrogance of someone who had reached the pinnacle of their craft possessing him, the man refused to so much as meet anyone’s eye.
He did glance at me hanging wrapped at Yethyr’s hip. He had seen my naked blade. I had even touched my edge to his throat.
Poor thing, escaping one curse, just to be beset with another.
“Oh noble Deathsinger?” he squeaked. “I wish to thank you, thank you for getting that thing out of my head. I had lost hope that there would be any escape.”
Yethyr blinked, uncertain how to respond. Thanks directed at him were evidently uncommon.
“...your opinion is noted.”
“The words you are looking for are ‘your gratitude will be recorded in brimstone,’” Wes said sharply.
“It is alright, Master Smith.” Elfred bowed to Wes. “I…I know I have done nothing to earn the proper words.”
Wes jumped, alarmed at being acknowledged.
“I’ll say,” Yethyr said. “One can only pray that this experience has taught you to beseech demons with greater care.”
“Listen to him,” Wes suddenly urged. “She may not trouble you again, but others will. Seek out others to show you the way. Do not close your ears to whatever you hear. It will never go away.”
Elfred furrowed his brow. “I am not a deathsinger. I could only hear ghosts while she was in me.”
“I am a ghost,” Wes pointed out gently. “And yet you can still hear me fine.”
Elfred grew frightened. “But I was—”
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
“You will never know such deafness again. First Deathsinger Nevsha tuned your senses so that she could better speak to you. It is a boon. Endeavor not to use it foolishly.”
Elfred glanced from Wes to Yethyr to me and then scurried away in alarm.
Yethyr hummed. “I thought a person’s resonance was fixed in life,” Yethyr mused. “I had no idea demons could change a man to hear songs.”
Wes sniffed, even without a nose. “Most resonance happens in the womb, it is true, but among the sacrificed and the possessed, it is a well-documented phenomenon.”
“I have read no such documents.”
“Well, the Brinn would lack the experience. You usually kill the possessed, do you not?”
“That…is typical, yes.” Yethyr frowned. “Typically, I should detain Elfred now. A known undisciplined deathsinger is a threat to the Host of Heaven.”
“No,” I balked in Yethyr’s mind in his voice. “I promised the dockmaster I would return her son to her. That was the deal for the boats.”
Wes thought similarly. “But you made a deal with—”
“I know. I know,” Yethyr said irritably. “Trust me, that is the only reason I am leaving him here. For now. I may have to deal with him later.”
Wes sighed. “First is sailing north?”
“Your Council of Songs takes priority. We must hit them before they become entrenched in whatever hole they’re hiding in.”
“Do you have a plan for how to defeat the greatest spellsingers in the world with 17…sorry, now 16 hunters?”
“I have several. The only one that matters to you is the one where you start smithing again.”
“Even if I could learn how to steelsing using your strange Brinn method, smithing is not an easy thing to do on the road.”
Yethyr smiled grimly. “Well, it’s a good thing you're going to be on a boat and not the road for some time.”
Wes looked at the boats and the people scurrying on them skeptically. “That would require your people to figure out how to row in time.”
Yethyr chose to ignore that comment. He chose to ignore the commotion it referred to as well. With a forced serenity, he approached one of the boats, The Finrider, to examine the musical notation carved into its bow. Tunda was shouting about uselessness and someone's lack of coordination up above him and Yethyr very deliberately pretended not to hear.
“I should ask the dockmaster about these,” he mused at the intricate carvings.
“She wouldn’t know,” Wes murmured. “The designs are passed down from shipwright to shipwright, first carved by watersingers of the distant past. Flazeans today know what they supposedly do, but it is folk knowledge—generational memory that decays with every century. With your father having taken or slaughtered most of this generation’s shipwrights, we may very well look upon the last boats to ever bear these marks.”
Yethyr’s stomach writhed. He didn’t like how that made him feel.
“Are there no modern watersingers?”
“Not in Flazea. Ancient Datrea slaughtered them all in the war to first conquer this town, and they have never been able to retain those born after. Potential watersingers are usually lured by the selkie seals of Lake Huldrai. Those with the gift inevitably hear their songs, go upriver, and are never seen again.” Wes fidgeted. “At least, that is what Tuzad told me.”
“Upriver?” Yethyr frowned. “We’re going to have to pass through this lake to go north then. Are these ‘selkie seals’ dangerous for those who cannot hear their watersong?”
Wes shrugged. “I don’t know. I have never been this close to the river before.”
Yethyr tilted his head. “Where are you from?”
“Glar. A farming village south of the City.”
“Glar?” The name was familiar to Yethyr. “I razed that to the ground, didn’t I?”
“Yes,” Wes said icily. “You certainly did.”
Yethyr pursed his lip, swallowing the reflexive apology that almost bubbled awkwardly from his mouth. It was absurd, he thought, to want to apologize for his triumph.
He decided not to look too deeply into the impulse.
It was awkward though and the two fell into an uncomfortable silence.
I found it grimly hilarious.
“My prince?” Jaetheiri said, startling them both. It was easy to forget her dutiful presence at his side. “Behind you.”
Yethyr looked over his shoulder to see two people approaching. One of his hunters, Kvelir I think his name was, strode forward in full blackscale armor, contrasting with old Mandorias, shuffling behind him. His long white beard disappeared behind the mountain of scrolls he seemed to be perpetually carrying.
As different as they were, both men were highly agitated.
Yethyr frowned “What is the issue?”
Mandorias tripped over his halting accent to speak first. “The dockmaster believes we will be passable enough to set sail in a week.”
“Which is much too long a delay,” Kvelir cut it. “We lose our advantage upon the enemy with each day of travel.”
“We will be delayed further if we crash the ship.”
“The river is a straight blue line. We aren’t going to crash. We should set sail at first light tomorrow.”
“That is absurd!”
“Speak with care, thrall.”
“Forgive me: ‘That is absurd, good hunter.’”
“Enough,” Yethyr said sharply. He considered. On one hand, he could not afford to crash the boats. On the other hand, Kvelir was right: they could not afford delays.
On my end, I was torn. I was eager to hunt down the council and I was doubly eager to encourage Yethyr to do something foolish, which leaving before they were ready definitively was.
But torturing Yethyr was a long waiting game and endangering the hunt for the treacherous council by urging haste was going to hurt my vengeance in the long run.
I could suffer to wait a few days to ensure the blasted Brinn could actually deliver me to Zasha and her ilk.
The real question was could Yethyr. He did not want to pause. He was not convinced he could afford to pause.
He was dying.
“I’ve been dying for a while,” I whispered to him in his voice. “a few more days is nothing.”
I pressed upon him the importance of this hunt and how disgraceful it would be to die in an avoidable boating accident.
I felt him relent and I reveled in the victory. He spoke and it was almost as if my words left his mouth.
“We wait.”
Thank you so much for reading! What did you think? I love comments and often respond to them.
Reminder that the new schedule is Tuesdays and Fridays. See you guys on Friday!
Is Bonesong Yethyr's sword?
