The Untold Tale

Nineteen

As Bevel and Kintyre go about scratching the sigil necessary for summoning a zephyr into the stone of our little campsite, Pip and I huddle in the lee of the crag to discuss what we have with us that might be worth the price of being taken to the Rookery. Pip suggests that, instead of asking to be taken there on the back of the wind, we could ask for knowledge of where the Rookery is. I manage to convince her around to my way of thinking—we have wasted four days, and could waste more traveling there. Far better to ride directly to it than risk walking and being ambushed by the Viceroy or any number of creatures on the way.

"But what have any of us got that's worth it?" she muses. "Kintyre's sword?"

"Not ours to give," I demure.

"The Shadow's Mask?"

"I dare not, not with the Words of Knowledge on it, not with the enchantment. Who knows where the wind may drop it."

"And we need the rest of the objects." Pip squirms, trying not to look as if she's keeping distance between us as she shifts on the uncomfortable ground.

"It doesn't have to be a physical thing," I say softly. "It could be a name. Or a future possibility." Or a relationship, I think, but dare not say aloud.

An idea is beginning to germinate in my mind, but I don't know what shape it will take just yet, so I remain silent. Before Pip and I have come to a consensus, Bevel calls us back out into the open air and directs us to stand at the cardinal points.

"You still remember this from when you were searching for the Iridium Crown of the Nightking?" Pip says, watching Bevel begin to make a series of very grave, very silly looking hand gestures.

"Shh," Kintyre admonishes, and Pip does, watching Bevel's every movement with rapt fascination.

She used to look at me like that. Bile burns against the hollow of my throat, and I swallow it back.

When Bevel finishes, he drops his hands to his sides, tilts his head back, and waits. The wind suddenly vanishes, the howl that has been hounding our ears for the last four days immediately ceasing. Silence drops over us like a blanket, and I resist the urge to scrub at my ears. Even the incessant cawing of the birds has been silenced.

Something sweet and soft suddenly perfumes the air, like the ghosts of a thousand summer-dappled meadows. It tickles my nose, and a warm breath trails like a finger across the back of my neck, over my cheek. I cannot help but lean into the sensation, and, around the circle, I see the others doing the same.

"Hello," Bevel says.

"Hello," the wind says back. Its voice is neither male nor female, but it is as high and sweet as the scent it carries, an exhalation of breath that somehow, strangely, translates as words. "What can I do for you?"

"We need to be taken to the Rookery, please," I say. "All four of us, if it's not too much trouble."

"Amount and distance are no trouble," the zephyr agrees. "This I can do. And in return, what do you offer?"

The four of us exchange glances across the circle, but no one seems to have any idea what to propose. Can I do it? Do I have the bravery to suggest what has been growing in my mind?

"Take my scars," Pip says suddenly. "The vines!"

If the thoughtful silence is anything to go by, the zephyr seems to contemplate this. "No," it says finally. "They aren't yours to give."

Pip pounds her fist against her thigh, frustrated.

"Forsyth's stutter?" Kintyre asks, tentatively.

"Yes, I'll accept that," I agree.