bowl, with a narrow track hugging the water’s edge. I must walk halfway around it to reach my path onward.
The spray hit me as I came down the track, drenching my clothing. The water was on my right, a sheer rock face on my left. Where ravines split the stone, their surfaces were a nightmare of treacherous gravel. Not a scrap of vegetation could be seen; it was as if no plant dared set root in this benighted place. The water lay in deep shadow. The stark slopes were brooding presences, hanging over the loch. The only path was the one that ran along the shore. I must hope that on such an inclement day, and so early, nobody else would be abroad.
Rain had begun to fall, shrouding the grim grey landscape in shifting sheets of moisture. Whatever spirits were condemned to haunt this desolate place, they surely led a wretched, forlorn existence. It seemed a corner of Alban deserted by all good powers.
‘If you’re there,’ I murmured, ‘ancient ghosts or whatever you are, please know that I mean no disrespect when I walk through this scene of your loss. I honour your memory. I ask you to let me pass unmolested.’
I could barely keep my feet against the gale. It tore at me, making my nose and eyes stream. I hugged the cloak around me, pulling the hood down over my face. I had not thought I could be any colder, but this wind cut deep. There were voices in it, not lifted in forlorn wailing like the urisk’s, but screaming of loss and futility, of old wrongs that could never be put right. Hear us! they howled. Hear our call! Our lifeblood stains the water! Our bones lie shattered on the rocks! Our spirits cry out for justice! They were all around me.
I breathed deep. My feet in their mended shoes went forward. But I heard my grandmother’s voice, soft and strong, whispering in my ear. No matter how bad things are, you always have something to give. Never forget that, Neryn .
Gods aid me. What could I give in a place tenanted by sad ghosts? I could hardly offer them food. Besides, my supplies were dwindling. I shrank from the screaming presences. All I wanted to do was run forward, get away, find a hiding place, somewhere I could not hear them.
Likely every traveller who passed this way did that: rushed on by with fingers in ears. But I need not do it. I need not be every traveller. Now that Father was gone, my path was my own to make. Where it led me depended on how much courage I could find within myself. You will face tests and trials , the little woman of the Good Folk had said. If I was afraid now, with eldritch voices howling in my ears, perhaps I should see it as a test: the first of many.
I stopped walking, bracing myself against the force of the wind. ‘I hear you,’ I said. ‘What do you want from me?’
Through the veils of wind-whipped rain they appeared all around me, warrior-shades clad in the garb of long ago, their hair shaggy and wild, their faces bone white, their bodies sliced and hacked with the wounds of the battle in which they had fallen. The shouting had died down to be replaced by a steady muttering. It came from every side, the same words over and over. ‘The song . . . Sing the song of truth . . .’
I stood frozen, unable to speak, let alone sing. I knew it. Of course I knew the song, but . . .
Somewhere between the howling of the gale and the ragged voices, a fragment of melody came to my ears, a thready whistle squeezed out between lips that had long forgotten how to savour a goblet of mead, how to kiss a sweetheart, how to say Well done or Farewell, friend .
I knew the tune as I knew my own heartbeat. Everyone did. But nobody sang the song of truth aloud, not any more. The king had forbidden it. I’d heard of a woman who was put to death after someone overheard her humming the melody as she worked in her kitchen. It hadn’t always been so. In older times folk had sung the song proudly at village festivals, at gatherings of clans, at burial rites of elder or warrior or infant
The spray hit me as I came down the track, drenching my clothing. The water was on my right, a sheer rock face on my left. Where ravines split the stone, their surfaces were a nightmare of treacherous gravel. Not a scrap of vegetation could be seen; it was as if no plant dared set root in this benighted place. The water lay in deep shadow. The stark slopes were brooding presences, hanging over the loch. The only path was the one that ran along the shore. I must hope that on such an inclement day, and so early, nobody else would be abroad.
Rain had begun to fall, shrouding the grim grey landscape in shifting sheets of moisture. Whatever spirits were condemned to haunt this desolate place, they surely led a wretched, forlorn existence. It seemed a corner of Alban deserted by all good powers.
‘If you’re there,’ I murmured, ‘ancient ghosts or whatever you are, please know that I mean no disrespect when I walk through this scene of your loss. I honour your memory. I ask you to let me pass unmolested.’
I could barely keep my feet against the gale. It tore at me, making my nose and eyes stream. I hugged the cloak around me, pulling the hood down over my face. I had not thought I could be any colder, but this wind cut deep. There were voices in it, not lifted in forlorn wailing like the urisk’s, but screaming of loss and futility, of old wrongs that could never be put right. Hear us! they howled. Hear our call! Our lifeblood stains the water! Our bones lie shattered on the rocks! Our spirits cry out for justice! They were all around me.
I breathed deep. My feet in their mended shoes went forward. But I heard my grandmother’s voice, soft and strong, whispering in my ear. No matter how bad things are, you always have something to give. Never forget that, Neryn .
Gods aid me. What could I give in a place tenanted by sad ghosts? I could hardly offer them food. Besides, my supplies were dwindling. I shrank from the screaming presences. All I wanted to do was run forward, get away, find a hiding place, somewhere I could not hear them.
Likely every traveller who passed this way did that: rushed on by with fingers in ears. But I need not do it. I need not be every traveller. Now that Father was gone, my path was my own to make. Where it led me depended on how much courage I could find within myself. You will face tests and trials , the little woman of the Good Folk had said. If I was afraid now, with eldritch voices howling in my ears, perhaps I should see it as a test: the first of many.
I stopped walking, bracing myself against the force of the wind. ‘I hear you,’ I said. ‘What do you want from me?’
Through the veils of wind-whipped rain they appeared all around me, warrior-shades clad in the garb of long ago, their hair shaggy and wild, their faces bone white, their bodies sliced and hacked with the wounds of the battle in which they had fallen. The shouting had died down to be replaced by a steady muttering. It came from every side, the same words over and over. ‘The song . . . Sing the song of truth . . .’
I stood frozen, unable to speak, let alone sing. I knew it. Of course I knew the song, but . . .
Somewhere between the howling of the gale and the ragged voices, a fragment of melody came to my ears, a thready whistle squeezed out between lips that had long forgotten how to savour a goblet of mead, how to kiss a sweetheart, how to say Well done or Farewell, friend .
I knew the tune as I knew my own heartbeat. Everyone did. But nobody sang the song of truth aloud, not any more. The king had forbidden it. I’d heard of a woman who was put to death after someone overheard her humming the melody as she worked in her kitchen. It hadn’t always been so. In older times folk had sung the song proudly at village festivals, at gatherings of clans, at burial rites of elder or warrior or infant
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