The Unfinished Song (Book 5): Wing (25 page)

“It’s so beautiful,” she said. “Look at these
figures, shown with a halo of six colors around them. I think it
depicts the Aelfae. Look, this one has turned into a bird.”

Dindi traced the bird with her fingers. Umbral
remembered her soft fingertips touching his chest. She looked up at
him with liquid eyes.

“Why?” she asked. “Why must you hate them so? Why
did the Deathsworn seek the destruction of the Rainbow Faeries? Why
could we not have learned to share this world?”

“Because they could not die, but we
must
die.”

“So?”

“So we would always hate them from our jealousy. And
they would always hate us from their contempt.” His fist clenched
the edge of the tapestry. “When I was fighting the hobgoblins, it
struck me why we had to Curse the Aelfae. Imagine fighting a whole
army of High Fae! Not foolish little hobgoblins, but men and women
as strong and shrewd as ourselves. Until we found a way to pull
them into Lady Death’s embrace, they had every advantage over us:
wisdom, magic, immortality. What chance did we have against them?
Immortal beings are fearless, merciless and unstoppable. We
had
to Curse them. We
had
to eradicate them. It was
them or us, Dindi.”

“And is it you or me, Umbral? Are you saying the
only way I can stop you from killing me is to kill you first?”

The weaving in the tapestry was so cunning the
Aelfae truly looked as though they were taking wing against the
woolen sky. He touched the same bird she did, his fingers brushing
hers.

“Have you ever wondered what it is like to see time
as the fae do, as an endless circle? They see the future as easily
as we see the past. What we call
Destiny
is no different for
them than what we call
History
.

“If this tapestry were a
tama
, it would be a
dance about flight and freedom. But that freedom is an illusion.
This bird is not in flight; it is frozen in the tapestry of its
fate. We are frozen in the tapestry of time in just the same way.
You were fated to be born the Vaedi. I was fated to be made
Deathsworn to kill you. Neither us of chose this. Neither of us
matters. We are but single threads in the tapestry. No thread is
significant. The thread cannot see the whole picture, so it
imagines that it can determine where it will go. But the thread is
where it is in the tapestry because it is pushed that way by the
warp and woof. It cannot do otherwise. Nor can we.”

“Kavio used to say, we were given the thread of our
life but it is up to us what Pattern we choose to weave.”

Umbral felt cold whenever she mentioned Kavio, with
that particular glow in her eyes, that caress in her voice. How he
hated the bastard.

“He was as naïve as you are,” Umbral said harshly.
“Like you, I’m sure he would have been glad to reverse my Lady’s
work, to bring the Aelfae back. That’s why he had to die.”

“Bring them back?
Can
they be brought back? I
thought, even if the Curse was lifted, there would only be one
Aelfae left: The White Lady. What do you mean
bring the Aelfae
back
?”

“Enough!” He picked up his spear. His anger was
mostly for himself, for his stupid slip, but she shrank back. He
used the spear tip to cut the strings at the top of the tapestry
and the wool cloth tumbled to the ground. He gathered it up and
tossed it over to the sleeping platform.

“Go to sleep,” he ordered.

She crept to the sleeping platform, where she curled
up in the tapestry. He thought she slept. He himself could not; he
paced the lodge all night, full of ugly thoughts. Every stupid,
petty or shameful thing he had ever done replayed itself in his
mind, like reflections on a black lake. And those were just the
misdeeds he remembered. Who knew what crimes he had committed
before he’d become Deathsworn? Only the crippled and the cursed
became Deathsworn, and Umbral was not crippled. Why had his
unremembered earlier self, in the full of his prime and health,
dedicated himself to Lady Death? Had he murdered an innocent man?
Slept with someone’s wife or virgin daughter? Angered a powerful
War Chief? Broken a vow?

In the deep of the night, a strange sound alerted
him. Instantly he stood at attention with his spear ready. It came
from the sleeping platform.

Dindi was weeping.

Dindi woke up, afraid.

She was alone in the lodge. There were no windows,
so she could not tell if dawn had come or not. Hurriedly, she
changed from the Aelfae gown into her travel clothes. She worried
that she had slept past dawn, that the hobgoblins had already
returned to life and attacked Umbral. Yesterday, she had wished him
dead, and he’d made it clear that was her only chance to reclaim
her life. Yet, now her heart thumped wildly as she crawled out the
small sod door.

Outside, dawn was just breaking. Mist roiled around,
shrouding everything in pearl gray. She saw Umbral. He stood still.
There was no sign of the hobgoblins.

The quiet was eerie.

“Did you kill them already?” she asked.

“They’re gone.” He sounded odd.

“Gone?”

“It’s not right.” He squatted on the ground and
traced the hard mud with his finger. A curl of dark shadow, slender
as a thread, undulated there. It coiled up and disappeared when he
touched it.

“Did you see that?” he asked.

“A dark thread. What is it?”

“Death magic, but not mine. It shouldn’t be here.
I’ve seen something like this once before. I hoped never to see it
again. I’m going to search for any further traces.”

However, though he searched until the sun burned off
the mist, he found no more black threads. Dindi did not see any
either. There was also still no sign of the hobgoblins.

“You said they did not really live here,” she said.
“Maybe they simply left.”

“Maybe.”

However, they were both eager to leave the sod
clanhold behind.

A few hairs had caught on the naked branch of a
tree. Finnadro lifted them carefully, and tried to find any
lingering Green light surrounding them. He had the briefest sniff
of a young pretty girl, but that was enough. The hairs belonged to
Dindi. The faintest imprint of a woman’s heel compressed the soft
dirt under the tree.

He was headed in the right direction.

The wolves had stopped to sleep and hunt, and so
although they travelled swifter on their four legs than he on his
two, he had outpaced them. He had not paused to sleep, preferring
to travel night as well as day. He’d eaten all the food he carried
and, true to his oath the Green Lady, had not wasted time hunting
anything but his foe. He paused only to drink at streams and
ponds.

Above him, he heard a shrill
cronk-a-reeee!
and, glancing up, saw a red-winged blackbird. Sleek, small and
black, with a drop of red on its wing like a pooling wound, it
struck him as an omen. The Deathsworn was injured or soon would
be.

By my arrow, I hope
.

He staggered a little and caught himself on the
tree. How many nights had he forsworn sleep?

But he was close. He could taste a coil of foul
magic running through the world, and it was getting stronger.

He forced himself to keep going.

The shadows shifted along their daily paths, but he
found no more tracks from his prey. He wondered if he should have
waited for the wolves.

At last he found footprints, but not of the
Deathsworn and his girl captive.

Five sets of animal tracks showed clearly in the
snow, side by side, as if the animals had been loping along in
parallel. The far right set had been made by big, burly paws,
toe-in, with the claw marks showing clearly.
Badger
. The far
left tracks were twin prints, hind foot having stepped exactly in
the register of the front, which looped and darted hither and
thither, but always more or less in the same direction as the other
tracks.
Weasel
. There was another less exuberant set of
weasel-like prints—
probably marten
—and the unmistakable
webbed splotches of beaver’s feet.

Dead center of the odd company were dainty dots
almost in a straight line, leading right to a thicket heavy with
snow.

“Fox,” Finnadro said aloud.

She stepped out of the thicket, human for the
moment, dressed in white fox-fur. Her bow was strapped across her
back, though he knew she could draw in a flicker of fingers.

“Finnadro Wolf-Hunter,” she said warily.

“You’re pretty far into Orange Canyon tribelands,”
he remarked.

“As are you.”

The rest of her pack had taken longer to switch
forms, but they emerged now. Most wildlings in Green Woods turned
wolf; those who had other shapes either lived alone or formed
irregular “packs” such as Fox and her crew.

Badger was a big burly fellow, fought with a staff;
Weasel was wiry and twitchy, used a dirk and poison darts; Marten
was more levelheaded, armed with a bow. Today Marten also carried
something on his back, attached by a diagonal gut-rope braid across
his chest. Beaver had a big grin, buck teeth and a fat ax. Fox was
the only beauty in the bunch, svelte and curvy, emerald eyed and
red headed. Her auburn waves did not owe their color to henna. Like
many wildlings who lived on four feet more than two, she and her
pack kept their true names secret, even when human.

Finnadro knew Fox’s true name, but he would not
abuse it. He had once crossed spears with Fox’s pack under less
than friendly circumstances. One of her pack had crossed the river,
both literally and ethically, and Finnadro had been sent to bring
him down. Fox had not cared for that. In the end, though, she had
done the right thing.

“Where are Fisher and Wolverine?” Finnadro asked
casually.

“Around,” she answered just a casually. “You look
like scat, by the way. Even worse than usual. She doesn’t take care
of you. And you sure don’t take care of yourself.”

“What are you doing here, Fox?”

“Sure as the sun sets, same as you.”

I very much doubt it
. But he did not care to
divulge his rescue project. “I’m here to avenge the attack by the
Raptors on our tribehold.”

“Like I said.”

“You haven’t even visited the Winter Warrens in six
years. Since when did you care what happened to the tribehold—or
anyone outside your own pack?”

Her green eyes flashed. “Do you think the wildlings
would let the bird-brains burn Sylfae to the root and do
nothing?”

“Did you pick up Ravens from War Chief Nann?”

“The old hen survived the battle then?” Fox
shrugged, as if it were of no importance.

“So you haven’t gone to see her.”

“You know I won’t speak to her.”

“Her tree grows green for you, Fox, even if she
doesn’t use the words.”

Fox crossed her arms.

Finnadro sighed. “Your childish grudge against your
mother is not my mink to skin, but if you haven’t been to see her,
you have no Ravens, and can’t collect deathdebts.”

“We have Ravens. Marten?”

Marten tugged the cord slung over his shoulder. On
the other end, thirty or more dead birds, ravens, were strung
together by their necks.

“The sun and moon don’t revolve around humans,
Wolf-Hunter,” said Fox. “Burning the forest destroyed thousands of
animals, and drove thousands more from their homes, including
hundreds of wildlings. You piss in our territory and we’ll piss
back.”

“Fine. But even war doesn’t change the law of light
and shadow. Pay your ravens your way, but don’t cross the
river.”

“We’re already across the river, Finnadro.”

“You know which river I mean. Or I will have to come
after you. Sure as the sun sets.”

Badger growled. “Like to see you try.”

Weasel snickered and even Beaver made an odd yipping
cough that might have been an attempt at a growl.

“Don’t ruffle your fur over my friend Finnadro,
boys,” Fox told her pack. “Finn and I go way back. He even used to
fancy me. Didn’t you, Finn? But now you have eyes only for a
Certain Someone.”

“Leave
her
out of it.”

“I won’t do anything she wouldn’t do.”

“She’s fae. You’re human, whether you want to be or
not.”

“Always have to throw that in my face, do you?” She
frowned. “Who are you really after, Finnadro? If you wanted to be
in Orange Canyon tribelands, you’d be there by now, not mucking
about the Boglands. Unless you’re tracking someone in
particular.”

He hesitated. He didn’t want to drag Fox into
something that was over her head.

“A Deathsworn. He has a girl with him, a
captive.”

Fox and the other wildlings exchanged knowing
glances.

“You’ve seen him?”

“And stayed well clear. Even the fae flee him. But
you’re going the wrong direction.”

“What? Impossible.”

Finnadro had kept the hairs from the tree. He
sniffed the magic around the hairs again. He was ashamed he had not
noticed it right away: a whiff of rot, as of foul and unclean meat.
Deathsworn magic. How could he have been so careless? What else had
he missed?

He recalled the boot print. Had it not been too long
and narrow? Not made by a sheepskin boot, but by a harder leather
worn by a lankier, longer foot. A woman’s footstep but not
Dindi’s.

The Deathsworn sent one of his minions to plant a
false trail.

“He deceived me.” Finnadro staggered unevenly in the
snow. A cold shudder crawled down his back.
He knows I am coming
for him
.

He toppled forward.

“Finn!” cried Fox. “Help me!”

She and the other wildlings set up a bedroll and lay
Finnadro upon it. Fox gave him water to sip.

“I can’t rest,” he protested. He sat up. “I will not
stop until I hunt that monster down.”

“Sure,” said Fox. She pushed him back down on the
mat. “How long have you gone without food and sleep?”