Unfinished Song(Book 4): Root

  Root

  The Unfinished Song, Book Four

  Tara Maya

  Copyright Misque Press 2011

  Published by Misque Press

  Copyright © 2011 by Tara Maya

  Cover Design by Tara Maya

  Misque

  Misque Press

  First North American Edition: December 2011.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real

  persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Also by Tara Maya:

  Conmergence

  The Painted World, Stories, Vol. 1

  Tomorrow We Dance

  The Unfinished Song:

  Initiate (January, 2011)

  Taboo (April, 2011)

  Sacrifice (August, 2011)

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One - Scheme

  Chapter Two - Shelter

  Chapter Three - Attack

  Chapter Four - Obsession

  Chapter Five - Possession

  Chapter Six - Revelation

  Chapter Seven - Conflagration

  Epilogue

  Contact Me

  To Play the Lady - Chapter 1

  Chapter One

  Scheme

  Umbral

  Umbral knelt on the ground to stroke the strands of magic pulsing there. The threads left a foul, acrid taste in his mouth. Unfortunately, he could not identify the source of the foulness. It was like nothing he had encountered before.

  His second in command, Ash, waited impatiently.

  “Well?” she demanded. “Tell me you taste plague.”

  “No. Not plague.”

  Ash snorted. “Let’s kill them anyway.”

  “We might,” he said.

  What he had tasted in the magic was worse than plague.

  He had known Ash since his rebirth as Deathsworn. Though he did not remember anything of his previous life—none of them did—he knew that if, as a child, he had ever imagined Deathsworn, she would have fit his nightmare. She was a lean, hard woman, all muscle and no mercy, frightening enough in profile on her good side. Like Umbral, she wore skintight black leather reinforced with blackened human bones. What made small children scream when they saw her, however, was the full half of her body scarred from ancient burns. The mottle of blackened and whitened, shiny, bubbled, distorted flesh made her appear more goblin than human.

  “There’s the clanhold,” Ash said. She pointed to a huddle of stone huts perched on a rocky outcrop. This whole region, the borderlands between the Rainbow Labyrinth tribelands and the Orange Canyon tribelands, was a maze of cliff and crevice and steep slope cut by arroyo. The few plants here had dense prickly leaves and bulbous shapes, or else many black, thorny fingers with no sign of green. The pines this high in the mountains grew stunted, bent in on themselves, like hunchback dwarves. The air smelled sour.

  “I don’t see any people,” said Owlhawker. He was third in command in the group of seven Deathsworn. Like Ash, he had been Deathsworn since childhood, in his case because he had been born with a clubfoot. His parents had abandoned him at a menhir, one of the large black stones that marked the paths and places reserved for Deathsworn.

  “Maybe they are dead already,” said Pox, the other female Deathsworn. Though not as frightful a spectacle as Ash, Pox was no beauty either. Her face bore the speckles of the disease from which she took her name, and which had exiled her to the Deathsworn.

  “No,” said Umbral. “They are still alive.”

  “Cloak yourselves,” Ash ordered. She took point.

  They all drew power from the environment to strengthen their Penumbras, and cloak themselves in darkness. Fae could not see them even uncloaked, and humans would see only flickers and shadows once they were hidden.

  A stone wall surrounded the clanhold, and the wooden gate was closed, but the seven Deathsworn climbed over the wall without the worry they would be challenged. In any case, there did not appear to be any bowmen in the crow’s nests posted at intervals along the wall.

  A foul stench reached them even before they topped the wall. It was worse once they dropped down inside the perimeter.

  “Some of them have definitely died,” said Pox. She wrinkled her nose.

  They still saw no-one walking between the huts. There should have been warriors to challenge them, women laboring over the next meal, squealing children. The only thing they heard was their own footsteps.

  Umbral studied the strands of magic wrapped throughout the clanhold. The colors should have been bright, in one or all of the six Chromas. Instead, he saw black strands not unlike the Penumbra of the Deathsworn themselves.

  “Something’s wrong,” he said. “Whatever infests this clanhold, it is not an ordinary plague.”

  They spread out to poke into the squat stone buildings.

  “Corpses in here,” called Stoneheart.

  Silently, Umbral entered the dark doorway. The house, built without mortar from lopsided stones, did not seem terribly stable. It had only one room but it was dark. He found three bodies in a heap around the hearth. The stench was overpowering. However, after nearly a year with the Deathsworn, he knew his way around corpses. He raised the black scarf around his neck to cover his mouth and pulled on his black leather gloves. Stoneheart did the same. Wordlessly, the two men dragged the dead out one by one.

  Mother.

  Father.

  Child.

  “There are more in the other houses,” said Ash.

  “Get them all,” commanded Umbral.

  They retrieved several more families of corpses. The Deathsworn made a pile in the center of the hold of about twenty bodies.

  “Good,” said Pox, “The plague did our work for us. We can just burn and leave.”

  Ash kicked a stone, annoyed. She had wanted a fight. She enjoyed blood.

  “This is less than a third of the clan,” said Umbral.

  Ash perked up. “How can you tell?”

  “Easy. Just count the houses. There aren’t enough families here.”

  “Maybe the others died first and were already burned by the last to die,” Pox said.

  “Or maybe the rest of the clan realized their hold had been claimed by Lady Death and they fled,” Ash said eagerly. “Owlhawker, look for tracks! No one defies us! We will hunt them down to the last babe!”

  “The ground here is too hard. There are no prints,” said Owlhawker. “We’ll have to trace their magic.”

  “I don’t think they fled,” said Umbral. He walked in circles around a low pyramid of rocks in the center of the clanhold. “I think they hid. Look at this.”

  Ash and Owlhawker both walked over to look.

  Owlhawker nodded. “I think you’re right.”

  “Big deal,” said Ash. “A pile of rocks.”

  “The rocks hide the entrance to a kiva,” said Owlhawker. “Our groundhogs have ducked their heads into their hidey hole.”

  Umbral started moving the rocks. Ash, now impatient for a fight, ordered everyone to help. Under the rocks was a wood plank, and beneath that, a deep hole. Normally there would have been a ladder, but it had been removed.

  “I’ll go first,” said Umbral. “I’ll use the Mask. Maybe I
can learn what really happened here.”

  “It was plague.”

  “It was not plague.”

  “Then it might be dangerous,” Ash said. “We should all go.”

  “It’s not your decision.”

  Umbral jumped into the hole.

  “Wait!” shouted Ash, but he had already disappeared into the darkness.

  It was no mean jump. He landed with a deep flex of his knees. He stood up at once, automatically lowering his black skull mask even as he loosed the cloak of invisibility over him.

  He had found the lost clanholders. The kiva was a single big chamber, carved out of raw stone, neither painted nor smoothed. Eighty and some men, women and children all huddled as far back in the cave as they could and their faces sweated stark terror.

  Umbral looked for the missing ladder, but it was not in the cave. The walls were too high to climb out without a rope or ladder, which meant one thing: these people had not hidden here. They had been trapped here.

  They did not recognize the man in black and bone for what he was: the herald of their doom. Upon his black skull headdress was mounted the Obsidian Mirror, one of the three Weapons created for the War Against the Aelfae by Lady Death herself. All Deathsworn could make themselves as invisible as shadows, but with the Obsidian Mirror, Umbral could do more. The Mask clothed him with face and form of whomever the onlooker most desired—or most feared—to see.

  “Darro, my birth brother, thank mercy you came looking for us!” whispered one old man, who clutched a child. “We were afraid you would believe the lies we had the plague, and send the Deathsworn to finish us. We’ve been trapped here for days.”

  “Let up the ladder!” Ash shouted down the hole.

  “There’s no ladder,” Umbral called back.

  More cursing from above.

  The people in the cave whimpered collectively. “The Deathsworn!”

  “I will find a way out,” Umbral told her. “Don’t come down.”

  “Is anyone alive down there?” Ash called down.

  The frightened people held out their arms in supplication.

  “Please, Darro,” whispered one old man, who clutched a child. “Don’t let the Deathsworn know we are here. We are not infected with the plague. The bird people came here searching for slaves and trapped us here. We do not belong to Lady Death!”

  Umbral studied the wretches. None of them were magic users. Their auras were so dim…almost as if...

  A cold shock of recognition hit him. Snake-like tentacles of shadow coiled around each of them.

  “Damn you! Is anyone alive down there?” Ash called down again.

  “No!” he shouted back. “No one at all.”

  “Thank you, Darro,” the old man whispered to Umbral. A murmur echoed from the rest of the crowd of families. “Thank you for sparing us. We are not infected with the plague. We were trapped here.”

  “Tell me about the ones who did this,” Umbral said. He lifted his mask so they could see his face. The old man had called him Darro, and would see Darro; the others would be swaped by him to see Darro as well. Umbral lifted the child from the old man’s arms, and the small head rested trustingly against Umbral’s chest.

  The old man he cleared his throat.

  “The bird people came three days ago. They wanted Imorvae Tavaedies. We only had two. They performed a tama none had seen before. A terrible torture dance that seemed to bring shadows to life. The Tavaedies screamed all night. By morning, they had been transformed into giant birds.”

  “Raptors,” said Umbral.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Go on.”

  “On the second day, people began to die. I am sure it was because of the hex of the bird people. They did nothing to help us. They only took our Tavaedies and left those of us who survived in here.”

  “Did they leave in a hurry?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “A messenger—another fellow on a bird—came to them with a message for their leader.”

  “Did you hear the message?”

  “No…wait. Something about a ‘white lady.”

  “The White Lady. I wonder what Orange Canyon wants with her. Very strange. Was there anything else?”

  “No. After that they were rushed and just shoved us down here and left.”

  “And more people have died since you’ve been trapped here, haven’t they?” Umbral asked gently.

  The old man hesitated, then nodded.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Umbral encouraged him. “Show me your dead.”

  The crowd parted to show Umbral a neat row of corpses, covered with blankets, at the back of the cave.

  “There are no pox marks, no sores, no rashes,” the old man said. “It’s not plague.”

  “No,” agreed Umbral. “It’s not plague. I’m afraid it’s something much worse.”

  “Wha…?” The old man blinked in confusion.

  Umbral handed the child back to him. The little boy was dead.

  The old man snatched the boy and backed away. When he realized Umbral had smothered his grandson, he began to weep.

  “You said you would be merciful,” wailed the old man.

  “I was,” said Umbral. “That was the kindest thing I could do for him.”

  The old man howled. The whole crowd began to screech and panic.

  Umbral held up his hands and pulled on the darkness around him, absorbing it into himself. Like a wave, darkness rippled through the crowd and the bodies fell row by row into lifeless heaps.

  Dindi

  Dindi hoisted the large basket, filled with costumes and instruments, onto her back. A strap fit high on her forehead, so she could use her head, rather than her shoulders, to bear most of the burden. The basket was almost as tall as she was, and twice as heavy. She took a moment to steady her knees under the weight.

  The path along the cliff face was narrow, barely a step of rock jutting out, and nearly invisible from above or below. The ledge led to an isolated meadow strewn with boulders as large as houses. Hidden in a crevice between the boulders was the entrance to a cave where the Tavaedi troop practiced their dances in secret.

  As always, a tingle raced down her spine as soon as she stepped into the huge natural cavern. The floor had been flattened by centuries of use, but stone icicles depended from the high arch above. The cave predated the human race. Aelfae had dwelled here once, and left their mark on the walls—beautiful squiggles, chevrons and waves, in all the six colors, formed rows and spirals on the unhewn stone walls. Dindi unloaded the costumes and instruments and set them up around the cave. With flint and rock, she revived the fire in the hearth at the back of the cave. She took a pinch of salt and sprinkled it on the floor. This kept away most of the fae, except the Red pixies and sprites who frolicked in the hearth fire.

  No one else, not even the troop leader, Zavaedi Abiono, had arrived yet. Dawn was a perfect time to practice on her own. Once the other Tavaedies arrived, she would have to wait on them, but for now, she had the whole cave to herself. She stretched and began her morning exercises. Once her limbs were loose, she continued into more complicated routines. As she danced, she silently whispered her gratitude that she was allowed to do this, gratitude that she was allowed to serve the troop, gratitude that she was alive at all.

  “Dindi!” A shrill voice made her wince.

  Dancing had absorbed Dindi so strongly she hadn’t even noticed the time pass until the noise at the entrance to the cave. Tavaedies had started to arrive, including Kemla, who descended on Dindi now like a hawk on a mouse. “Did you finish replacing the cardinal feathers on my costume?”

  “Yes, Kemla.”

  “Fa, don’t just stand there ducking your head in your shell like a turtle, brush my hair and then help me with my dress.”

  “Yes, Kemla.”

  Some days it took more effort to be grateful than others.

  Silently, Dindi brushed the other young woman’s long black hair,
which she then secured with a decorative woven headpiece. Kemla held out her arms, and Dindi tied on the red-feathered armlets and wristbands. Without further prompting, she next knelt and wrapped the matching leg bands to Kemla’s calves and ankles. Kemla kicked Dindi out of the way to put on her own scarlet breast bands, skirt and front-laced tunic.

  “Don’t sit there dawdling,” Kemla said. “Some of the porcupine quills have fallen loose from my winter costume. You should sew them back on today. Oh, wait—I want to wear that necklace as well.”

  Dindi rubbed her sore arm. Was it her imagination, or had Kemla been growing crueler lately? She handed Kemla one of the many necklaces of painted wooden beads.

  “Not that one, frog fingers, that one.” Kemla jabbed her finger at a different, though similar, necklace. Dindi placed it around Kemla’s neck.

  A pixie, Red in magic as well as color, flew close to the young women. Normally, fae avoided any area where human magic transpired, but the Red fae couldn’t seem to keep away from Kemla. Dindi wasn’t sure if Kemla noticed, and she herself knew better than to admit she could see them. None of the other Tavaedis could see Red.

  “How do I look?” Kemla asked.

  “Like a painted pig,” snorted the Red pixie. “What do you need all that fripper-frappery for?”

  Dindi pretended not to hear. She answered honestly, “Beautiful.”

  Kemla snorted. “As if I cared about your opinion.”

  Dindi’s shoulders only unhunched after Kemla flounced away to boss around her own private clique of admirers, the other young female dancers from her clan.

  The Pattern they were working on now would weave the magic to ensure a good harvest. They would perform it in its full bloom on the night of the Harvest Festival, with families from three clans in the audience. For now they had sprinkled salt on the ground to dampen any magic roused by the movements of their practice.

  Today, Dindi chose to follow the steps of Margita, who danced Yellow. The Harvest Pattern called for several Yellows, which was good, since seven of the group's twenty-two Tavaedis danced Yellow. A true Tavaedi could only dance his or her Chroma. Since Dindi wasn't a true Tavaedi and it didn't matter what part she took, she had set herself to learning all of the parts. Every day she chose different role models.