A roc’s black corpse blemished the white peaks of Numa, and the hunting party that slaughtered it rested beside its ruined body, catching their breath.
I marveled at the snow that crunched beneath Yethyr’s bone boots. It sang of cold and hard watersong, unlike any I had heard before.
Yethyr did not share my wonder. He barely noticed it, his gaze consumed with the brass rope chain that curled around the little tree clinging to the cliff.
“Wesed Steelsinger,” Yethyr called in Datrean, his deathsong already uncoiling within him. “I, Yethyr, son of Yevvar Kentheir, call upon the pact between us. Awaken and be made anew.”
Wes’s skeleton lumbered out of the sack that carried him up the mountain. The process was not very dignified, and Wes awkwardly kicked the sack away from him as soon as he could.
“You don’t actually have to say all that every time, right? Right?”
Yethyr ignored him. The voices from his pendant now went into Wes’ composition and he found himself weaker again. “What do you make of that rope?”
Wes cocked his skull curiously at the chain. He listened to the steelsong binding it together, and I listened with him. We reached the same conclusion simultaneously.
“It’s Frida’s work, I am sure of it.” Wes laughed, as if partaking in some private joke. “Her skill in such things was well known.”
Yethyr frowned. “You’re certain this Frida died in the siege?”
Wes’s humor left him as soon as it came. “Very certain. She was the second life Bonesong ever took.”
That was true, and I did not like being reminded of the massacre of my makers. Neither did Wes, and he moved on from the subject quickly. “Regardless, she clearly made it before her death. An old commission, I think, from before she experimented with Zunad and further refined the rhythm.”
“Who commissioned it?”
“How should I know?” Wes shrugged. “Her work was much sought after.”
“It could be someone from the Council we seek, then?”
“I doubt it. First Stonesinger Garda is still among them. With a stonesinger of her caliber, they would have little need for rope or chain to climb the mountain.” Wes crouched down beside Frida’s coil. “It has not been moved for some time. The metal is frozen.”
Yethyr looked to Mandorias. “You said no one lived up here.”
Mandorias scratched his beard thoughtfully. “The Cozzat records of this region are vague, secondhand, and incomplete. The Datreans knew more about the Numa Mountains than us.”
Yethyr looked back at Wes. “Do you know about what we're walking into?”
“There are two clans,” Wes said slowly, as if trying to remember something from long ago. “Ignorant, primitive folk. I don't remember what they call themselves. Fang or Flame something. We had few dealings with them.”
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“Will they be hostile? Are they allies of Datrea?”
“I’m not sure. During the siege, Zunad told me that he suspected the rest of the council were secretly trying to secure an alliance with them for some reason.”
“Probably because they were already planning to flee here,” Yethyr said grimly,
“That would make sense. Our master was passionately against using the Hellgate to escape in the first place. If negotiations with these people were connected to the escape plan, it is no wonder that they kept the whole Steelsinger Order in the dark about it.” Wes hummed. “Zunad only caught wind of it at all because he was First Apprentice, outranked all but the Council of Songs, and was unafraid to badger people with such power.”
I knew that well. Zunad was the first life I had ever taken, and I had within me many a violent memory of exactly what Zunad did to those who tried to block his way.
“He only tolerated being denied by Daened himself.” Wes’ burning gaze flickered to the brass chain wryly. “And Frida.”
“So you don’t know if they have an alliance with them or not.” Yethyr scowled. “Which means we could be fighting way more than 36 arcanists.”
“Perhaps.”
“Mandorias,” Jaetheiri called. “Come quick!”
Mandorias sprang to his feet and then looked stunned that his old bones responded as fast as they did.
He rushed over to Jaetheiri and Nisari, who had finally pried Ruzar out of the roc’s beak.
His body was contorted at a decidedly wrong angle.
Mandorias quickly began pulling Ruzar’s leathers away. The lack of blood disturbed the scholar more than anything. “There must be internal bleeding. Ruzar, where does it hurt?”
“Everywhere,” Ruzar hissed, half delirious. “Except my legs. I can’t feel my legs!”
Yethyr hovered worriedly over Mandorias. “Is there anything you can do?”
“Kill me,” Ruzar mumbled.
The Prince flinched as if the words burned him. “On what grounds? You have done nothing I could execute you over.”
Ruzar laughed, then grimaced as the motion hurt his ribs. “Masters need no reasons to end their thralls.”
“I do,” Yethyr said firmly.
“Strange, stubborn boy,” Ruzar muttered to himself. “I will be useless to you. That is reason enough. Invoke the Rite of the Nugatory. ”
“You were wounded ten seconds ago, Ruzar,” Jaetheiri snapped. “Let yourself heal, for Maethe’s sake.”
Ruzar didn’t respond. Mandorias gave him a strong drought of Nemet’s Kiss, the same herb that had put Jaetheiri asleep, and he soon fell into so deep a dream that his pain could not follow him.
With him safely unconscious, Mandorias did his best to pop joints back into place and use splints to keep the cook’s body into a semblance of proper human shape.
“There’s not much I can do. So much of it is internal. All we can hope is that he heals himself with time.”
“Do you think that's likely?” Nisari asked.
Mandorias shook his head. “Frankly, I don’t think he is ever walking again. “
The rest of the party fell silent and somber at that. After a few moments, Yethyr said with difficulty. “We need to move on, while there is still daylight.”
No one could disagree.
Mandorias took advantage of his tireless undead strength and carried a sleeping Ruzar on his back. Jaetheiri helped an exhausted Kettir to his feet, and Nisari started forward down the snowy ravine ahead of them.
“What about the chain?” Wes asked. “We can’t just leave it here.”
Yethyr nodded. “I agree. A Datrean mastercraft such as that should not be left to the elements.”
With permission granted, Wes touched the chain, and it uncoiled by itself.
Mandorias yelped. “Is it supposed to do that?”
Jaetheiri shrugged. “It’s a steelsinger’s chain.”
But Wes, listening to its music, suddenly recoiled. “Oh no.”
No sooner had Wes spoke, Frida’s chain attacked him.
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