Yethyr decided very quickly that he hated mountains. He hated inclines in general. As soon as their group of seven reached the base of the southernmost mountain in the chain, the ground became steep. It was nostalgic. Datrean had been a steep city, and each step reminded me of the streets in Datrea that Erjed and Malinda had to race up to reach the Palace of Songs. That had been back during the siege, and it felt like a lifetime ago.
To be fair, it was my entire lifetime ago.
There was no stonesong-paved ground now. Yethyr tripped on jutted-out rocks and slippery dirt every couple of steps.
And they were not even at the difficult part: when the mountain face became sheer. I could see it in the distance. Beneath the white peaks, that smooth cliff face glowed resplendently with the rising sun, like a giant bar of Datrean gold jutting out of the earth.
Their plan for surmounting that fast-approaching obstacle appeared to involve rope and ‘proper climbing,’ which I looked forward to if only because I knew Yethyr was going to be bad at it.
And it would be hilarious.
It also might involve Wes. Yethyr had ordered him to try to make something to assist the climb. The command had been deliberately vague. He didn’t really know what steelsong was capable of and so left the specifics to Wes. The Steelsinger tinkered with his bones and metal scraps at every pause and rest in the journey. Thankfully for his work, Yethyr needed many breaks.
It was good for Nisari, too. She had taken Yethyr’s challenge of finding a way to silence the Council’s songcraft with gusto, all fatalistic doom forgotten.
For the whole day as they walked, she tried to get windsong pitch out of a makeshift bone whistle. Her attempts sounded much like the orange cat when she screeched, and Yethyr tried his best not to be irritated by it.
“How close are you to unleashing deathsong upon her?” Jaetheiri asked him dryly.
“Maethe willing, I’ll last till sunfall,” he said through gritted teeth.
Jaetheiri almost laughed at him. She was full of energy that day, and it was a good thing. With Wes busy with his Prince-mandated assignment and with most thralls gone, Ruzar and Mandorias needed all the help they could get. Every break they took during the journey involved a thousand little domestic chores that used to be the work of dozens.
It was clear it was not usually the hunters' job to bother with such things. Kettir awkwardly helped where he could, and Nisari refused to help at all, but Jaetheiri was a whirl of action. She refilled waterskins at every stream, aired out furs, cleaned armor, and helped put up shelter with an easy, straightforward efficiency.
“I’m surprised that a Heavenly Lord of Brinn has so many practical skills,” Wes told Mandorias as they walked together at the back of the line. Yethyr often eavesdropped on their random musings. He preferred listening to them rather than the bone whistle screeching further up ahead.
“Of course,” Mandorias said. “Lady Jaetheiri was a thrall.”
Ah.
Well, that explained why Ruzar treated her so familiarly. It also explained her stress dream about laundry, and the one where she burned down a kitchen, and the one where—
Wes was sputtering. “She was?”
“All her life. Until the Prince.”
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“Did he free her?”
“Hardly,” Yethyr said, making Wes jump. He had not known the Prince had been listening. “She did that herself. The Oredreirium strips all who enter of chains and titles alike. The moment she stepped on that hallowed ground,” his voice grew hushed, “she was free.”
“And you let her enter?”
“Let her?” Yethyr laughed merrily. “I…suggested it. I wouldn’t have been able to stop her regardless. No one can bar someone from entering the Oredreirium. Not even a master. Not even a king. It would be blasphemy to try.”
“Stop chattering nonsense,” Jaetheiri drawled beside him.
“You don’t even know what I’m saying.” Yethyr arched an eyebrow. He had been speaking in Datrean for Wes’ benefit.
“I know that tone. You’re reminiscing. And overstating.” She rolled her eyes, but there was fondness in her voice. “The glee of a zealot.”
Yethyr smiled unrepentantly wide. The topic of discussion had put him in a good mood, and he tackled the rocky terrain with new vigor. They set up camp in a cold and wind-battered outcropping, and he was still cheerful.
Ruzar’s food concerns could not even dim him. The cook approached Yethyr while Kettir and Jaetheiri left to hunt.
“It is worrying, Master. We cannot spare the weight to carry rations to climb, but the higher we climb, the scarcer the prey will be. We might get lucky and find a mountain goat. Mandorias tells me they live up here, but I would be foolish to trust luck on this mission. Kettir may be the best shot I’ve ever seen, but even he can’t shoot a meal if it isn’t there.”
Yethyr blinked, startled. “Kettir is the best shot you’ve ever seen? Did you not watch the hunters practice back in Flazea? He was very average.”
“I don’t need to watch them practice; all I know is their results.” Ruzar shrugged. “Master, it is my business to prepare kills; I have a better sense of a hunter’s archery than anyone. Some aim for the heart. Some aim for the head. Jaetheiri doesn’t care so long as it dies. Angel bless her heart, the bow isn’t her weapon.”
“She didn’t grow up with a bowstring in hand,” Yethyr defended staunchly. “She was too busy mastering other strings instead.”
“Aye, and I can tell. I can always tell. Most hunters are a little off. Tular usually veered to the right, Hegrir to the left. They all do, and yet, I swear upon my path to Heaven: Kettir has not missed an animal’s eye since this hunt began.”
Well, that was interesting. If “Kettir” was really that good, then he had to have been deliberately messing up his shots during practice. It didn’t really tell me anything about Ayathir’s identity, but it was interesting.
Yethyr glanced at where Kettir had wandered off to hunt. “Truly?”
“His is the most consistent grouping I’ve ever seen.”
Sure enough, Jaetheiri came back empty-handed, and Kettir returned with seven birds in tow.
All pieced through the eye.
They were a bit smashed from the height of their falls, though, and Yethyr looked at the hunter with new curiosity.
“How high in the sky were they when you shot them?”
“High,” Kettir admitted.
“Well done,” Yethyr said honestly. “You have incredible eyes.”
He blushed, suddenly shy and uncomfortable. “Let all praise go to Maethe and her blessings.”
Ruzar cooked up the birds, and Jaetheiri helped him carve them.
“Is this the path you carve, Venerated Victor?” The cook teased her.
“I can carve you if you would prefer.”
Jaetheiri’s glare was murderous, but Ruzar just laughed. The mood of this dinner was utterly unlike the one from the night before. There was a grim hope to them now.
Nisari and Wes picked over their carcasses. Nizari took the hollow bird bones and seemed to be experimenting to see if she could whistle through them.
Wes, on the other hand, took their talons and their beaks. He was inspired. I could see it in the tremor running through his bony hands. There was an excitement about him that was so like my father that it hurt to look upon.
Yethyr, for his part, could not bear to look away. He ignored Nisari’s grandiose recount of some epic battle, his eye ever fixed on Wes.
The steelsinger arranged the seven sets of talons before him and then their beaks. He contemplated the semicircle of bird remains for a long time.
And then, as the sun set, Wes began to sing.
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