A Flame of Song

Chapter 1

1

The sounds of battle—clashing steel, grunts and gasps from urgent, lunging strikes leaked into Daemi’s dreams, illuminating the grey mist she floated within, lightning flashes of memory blasting the fog clear. She duelled with the other guards in Redmondis, the scars on her back tearing open as she held off one, then two, then three opponents. She fell backward, one hand holding herself up off the ground, the other thrusting her long knife up and into the belly of the wolf that passed over her, drenching her in hot blood. She stood alone within a sea of black claws reaching for her, her body a blur of movement as she struck at the nightmare forms.

Gloomclaws.

The voice in her mind snapped her eyes open, and she lay still, letting her breath slow and the world around her form into some sort of logical shape. She was staring at a bare timber ceiling, the low beams casting barred shadows across the walls in the morning sunlight. Five long thin fingers, reaching for her.

Waiting to snatch you into their fist.

She was lying on her back. How was that possible? She hadn’t been able to rest that way since …

Daemi sat up, one hand sliding under her pillow for her blade, the other darting quickly over her back, searching out the scars that had marked her since Redmondis. There was nothing there. Her skin was smooth and cool, just the hint of numbness remaining where the scars had once been.

Her blade wasn’t under her pillow. She looked around the small chamber, the bed she lay in taking up half the room, the only other furniture a small desk with a basin resting on it and a single chair angled toward her as though it had been vacated just minutes before. Hanging from the back of the chair were her belt and sword. Her weld blade.

The desk was pushed against the wall and above it a single window allowed in both the sunlight that lit the room and the noise that had woken her. As she sat and listened, it was clear the sounds were of soldiers training, sparring rather than fighting; the shouts and grunts of encouragement and correction, not panic or fear.

A dark shape darted into view at the window, the large cat leaping easily from the sill into the ceiling beams, coming to rest just above the foot of her bed, its eyes twin black pools that threw her reflection back at her, its tail waving slowly back and forth.

Daemi locked eyes with it and knew.

She was in Sontair, the capital. She had travelled here with Heather and Frankle—the sudden memory of the journey and the dipping, soaring flight sent a wave of nausea rolling up her stomach—and had met up with Lodan. Had sought out Wilt only to be confronted by the—

Gloomclaw.

The creature that had attacked them underneath the castle. She had tried to hold it off, but it was too fast. Then something came between her and it, saving her. She had felt the wounds on her back tear open. Wilt. Wilt had been there.

She stared back at the cat and waited for some other confirmation, but none came.

The door of her chamber flew open and Heather burst into the room, her face breaking into a wide smile as she saw her patient awake and sitting up.

‘Well, it’s about time!’ Heather swooped in before Daemi knew what was happening and wrapped her in a tight hug. Daemi sat very still as Heather patted her back, not sure what she was supposed to do. After a moment, she realised that Heather wasn’t just embracing her, she was examining her, checking her back for scars.

‘They’re gone,’ Daemi whispered, her voice hoarse and strange in her throat.

‘I know.’ Heather leaned back and released her, scooting backward to perch on the foot of the bed. ‘Frankle and I …’

‘You healed me. Better than even Petron could do.’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’ Heather ducked her head, but it was clear she enjoyed the compliment. ‘We just had a bit more to work with. Besides,’ she nodded at the cat staring down at them both, ‘we had some help.’

Daemi followed her eyes. ‘Wilt.’

‘It is Wilt, isn’t it?’ Heather whispered, her voice awed. ‘I don’t know how. Or why. We were hoping you would be able to help clear some of that up.’

The cat stretched slowly on the beam, its silver claws sliding out from its paws and gleaming in the sunlight.

‘I don’t … I’m not sure how I can explain it.’

‘Of course, not straight away!’ Heather smiled. ‘I’m sorry, you only just woke up. There’s a lot to catch you up on.’

A particularly loud clang of blades rang out and Daemi got to her feet and moved to the window, aware of Heather watching her. Studying how she moved, how weak she still was.

‘How do you feel?’ Heather asked.

‘I’m okay … I think. Just a little fuzzy.’

Through the window, Daemi could see a large training ground where a mass of soldiers was being put through their paces. There were hundreds of them.

‘It’s impressive, isn’t it?’

Daemi nodded, but held her tongue. There was something about the way the soldiers on the training ground moved in lockstep that troubled her. Something about the sight of them dancing back and forth through their drills spoke to the silent emptiness she could feel turning slowly within her, hidden in shadow. Waiting.

In time. All in good time.

She glanced back at the cat staring down at her, its tail still swaying slowly under the ceiling beam.

Heather caught the look and frowned. ‘Frankle will be pleased to hear you’re awake. And Lodan, of course.’

Daemi stepped back from the window and sat down on the bed again, her cheeks flushing slightly. ‘Oh yes?’

‘Of course! They’ve both been bothering me endlessly about you. It’s part of the reason we moved you out of the castle. At least here we could get some peace.’

‘How is he?’

‘Lodan?’

Daemi’s blush deepened as she shook her head. ‘Frankle. How is Frankle?’

‘Oh, he’s as happy as a clam. Found his way into the queen’s—the former queen’s, I should say—study. Tells me there’s all sorts of things in there. I’ve been hoping to get a look in there myself, but he’s pretty much commandeered the whole room. Says it’s wielder business. I’ve let him think he’s in charge for the time being. Now that you’re up and about though …’

‘You plan on sticking your nose back in.’

Heather grinned. ‘Of course.’

Daemi lay back on the bed, a sudden wave of dizziness crashing over her.

‘You rest.’ Heather stood up. ‘Take as much time as you need. There’s plenty of work around here to keep us all busy.’

Daemi nodded and reached out to grab Heather’s sleeve. ‘Heather, thank you. For everything.’

Heather smiled and patted her hand, then slipped out of the room as Daemi’s eyes fell closed and sleep overwhelmed her.

Inside the tall silver castle that was the jewel adorning Sontair’s crown, past the seemingly endless courtyards and halls and dining rooms that formed its outer circle, beyond the enormous throne room with its ostentatiously carved columns and ancient tapestries lining the walls, past even the hidden viewing chambers and greeting halls that made up the former queen’s private wing, a small, almost unnoticeable wooden door interrupted a bare white wall. It looked for all the world like a broom closet, or perhaps a servant’s powder room, a place to be ignored by all who passed it. In fact, if one wasn’t specifically looking for it, one might find their eyes sliding across the door completely, as though the timber of the door itself somehow repelled awareness, convinced the unaware mind that there was nothing particularly interesting here.

You should move on, look elsewhere. Leave it be.

Frankle had first found the door days ago, only a few hours after beginning to explore the castle proper. Daemi’s recovery was well in hand by then, and Lodan and the court officials he had somehow come to an agreement with were too busy to worry about what a young wielder like Frankle might get up to. As long as he was out of the way.

It was the weld music that had led him to it. A whisper of song, almost past hearing, a sound that would twist away from you if you tried to pin it down, like smoke in the breeze. Frankle had come to recognise it from his time in Redmondis. He’d first heard it when Delco and Higgs had formed the silver barrier wall in the wielder’s tower, and again later when helping to track down Wilt’s weld blade. The more he heard it, the easier it was to identify, and since they’d arrived in Sontair and settled into the castle, his ability to recognise it seemed to have increased tenfold.

If he thought about it, the song was there when he and Heather found they could form moonsteel—weld blades to arm the soldiers of Redmondis—and again later when they were on Wilt’s trail here below the castle. When the nightmare creature had attacked them and Wilt had somehow managed to step in and save them all.

Gloomclaw—that was the creature’s name, he knew now. It was just one of the pieces of knowledge he had discovered once he had followed the music to the unmarked timber door and discovered the riches hidden behind it. The queen’s private study. And so much more.

He now sat silent on the floor, his head bowed over a large stone bowl filled with water, its surface still and quiet, tracing his fingers slowly over the carvings that marked the bowl’s edge. His lips moved slightly as his fingers read the words, though he held back from actually voicing the words aloud. Not now. Not yet. Later, perhaps. When he knew more.

Frankle was careful. He knew the dangers knowledge could hold for those without the proper training. The consequences. He’d seen more than enough of such things in his time.

In an instant, he was transported back to the past, huddled in the corner of his room in the wielder’s tower in Redmondis, covered in blankets and old clothes, trying to still his breathing as the sound of marching feet and the cries of his fellow students grew louder and louder. They were searching for him, searching out all the wielders in the tower, rounding them up and leading them down to Cantor Cortis.

He felt the fear again, the thrill of it, the electric shiver up his spine as he closed his eyes and sweated in the hot, confined space he had chosen. They would find him, of course. They had to.

Frankle saw his fear begin to take on a shape then, a black vortex spinning up to speed and reaching for him.

He sat back and exhaled, pulling his eyes from the viewing bowl and stopping his fingers from tracing the last remaining words carved across the bowl’s lip. He sat very still for a full minute, letting his breathing return to normal.

There was something there, some connection between the memory of that time and the darkness in the depths. No, more than that, between fear and what lay beneath.

He rolled to his feet and hurried over to the large desk that lined one wall of the room, covered in papers and scrolls and large, dusty tomes. There had been something here, something he’d hurriedly read in his first skimmings of the papers the queen had left. Something about—

There. He pulled a single leaf of paper free from the pile and focused on it, reading slowly now, trying to understand what it was the queen had scrawled so hastily.

Fear is the key. The key to the depths and what lies beneath the ice, where the serpents once dwelled. It calls to them, leads them to the surface. But more than that—when used properly, it could … The boy knows more than he realises. We can use him to unlock the past. We must try.

The boy—she had to mean Wilt, hadn’t she? But what does unlock the past mean?

Frankle sighed and pushed the paper back into the pile. Like so much he had found here, it was at once exciting and infuriating. He knew enough to realise the knowledge captured here was valuable, but not enough to fully understand it himself.

Petron. He would be able to understand it. If only he were here.

Frankle grabbed the apple he had filched from one of the kitchens on his way through this morning and chomped into it distractedly. As soon as the sweet juice from its flesh entered his mouth, he realised he was ravenous. For the next few moments, all he thought about was eating, devouring the apple in quick, messy bites until all that remained was the skinny core.

When had he last eaten? Was it lunchtime already? It was so easy to lose time here.

There were no windows in the study, no distractions allowed from the outside world. The room was lit by hidden lightwells set high in the ceiling, sending a blank, even whiteness across the room that Frankle had already found tiring. Just staring around the room made his eyes heavy.

His eyes fell on the biggest curiosity he had found so far: a large stone gateway set against the back wall. It glowed faintly green in the light, as though the stone itself was luminous, and more strange carvings lined its edges. He tossed the apple core onto the table.

A gateway—a door, perhaps? If one read the words lining its barrier, would it open? Where would it lead?

Frankle stood before it, hands on hips, chewing his lip in indecision. He didn’t know enough even about this. Not enough to try. One had to be careful when dealing with the depths.

‘It’s wonderful, isn’t it?’

Frankle almost jumped at Heather’s words. ‘What? Oh yes. Wonderful. When did you get here?’

‘Just now.’ Heather smiled and began picking slowly through the papers on the desk. ‘It looks like you’ve been busy.’

‘There’s a lot here. How did you find me?’

‘Oh, simple really.’ As if that was answer enough.

She often did that, Frankle had begun to notice. Gave half answers, hints at things she knew and he didn’t. It was infuriating. It was meant to be, he supposed.

‘I thought—’ Frankle cut himself off and frowned, not sure he should actually speak the words. ‘I thought I was the only one who could hear it.’

‘Hear what?’ Heather turned her full attention on him, that strange half smile still playing on her lips.

‘The weld song, the … you know. The sound that led me here.’

‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.’

Frankle just stood in front of her, hands on hips, unsure what to say next.

After an excruciating few moments, Heather relented and pulled a small bowl out from one of her pockets. ‘This led me here.’

Immediately, Frankle forgot his frustration as curiousity took hold, and he stepped forward to get a better look. ‘Is that a sounding bowl?’

‘It is.’

‘I’ve heard about these. But don’t you need something to make it—’

With her other hand, Heather pulled her necklace free from her collar and rested it inside the stone bowl. As soon as the gemstone touched the bowl’s surface, a haunting melody began to emanate from it, filling the room with its song.

‘A heartstone,’ Frankle found himself whispering.

‘That’s right.’ Heather pulled the necklace free of the bowl and tucked it back inside her shirt. ‘You know more about crafting than you let on.’

‘Not nearly enough.’ He turned and gestured at the stone gate. ‘Just look at this. Crafter work, surely.’

Heather stepped past him and ran her fingers over the markings along the edge of the door.

‘It’s a conduit, I think. I’ve read about these.’

‘Read? Where?’

‘In Redmondis. Some of the crafter lessons mentioned them.’

Frankle groaned. ‘Of course they did. Wouldn’t do to let us wielders know anything about them, would it?’

Heather flashed him a quick smile and turned back to the gate. ‘I’ll have a look over my notes. I’m sure I’ll dig something up. Do you recognise this stone?’

‘Only that it’s more than just stone.’

‘It’s the same as those cells we found in the dungeons. Made to hold wielders. I think it comes from Redmondis.’

Frankle stepped up beside her, their shoulders lightly brushing against each other.

She was right; there was something more to this stone as well. A whisper of—

Heather leaned into him and knocked him sideways. ‘Anyway, it’s almost suppertime. I’ve come to fetch you.’

‘What? Already?’

‘Come on, we have a special guest tonight.’ She leaned close to him and sniffed. ‘And you need to wash up. You smell like old parchment.’

Heather turned on her heel and stepped out of the room, leaving Frankle to pack the scattered papers together into some sort of organised chaos.

It wasn’t until he was leaving the room that the thought occurred to him.

Why had Heather’s heartstone led her to him?