“Absolutely not.”
Yethyr sighed. He had walked all the way to Aesherri’s tent knowing that this would be her response.
I, on the other hand, wasn’t sure what I was expecting.
Aesherri was a hawk-nosed woman with all the traditional Brinn features. Her black curls were bound up in an intricately carved horned headpiece that jangled with windsong every time she moved her head.
I had never heard windsong before, but I knew it. I knew it the same way I had known the Brinn tongue, immediately and intrinsically, and yet also alien.
Steelsong, stonesong, and even deathsong hummed steadily from tangible things—a city’s walls, a throne’s bones, a sentient sword.
Windsong was nothing like me. The tent Yethyr had entered was covered in painted windsong notations. There were a dozen people outside the tent carving notation into horns and bone flutes and yet none of it, not the canvas of the tent nor the instruments being made beyond it, sang on their own.
The music came from the breeze that drifted into the tent, brushing against the notation and changing to suit the notation’s instructions. Unlike the steadiness of my composition, the windsong grew loud with every gust; it fell quiet in the lulls of the wind.
It was light and fickle and unpredictable and I marveled at this Aesherri’s work, forever at the whims of something so erratic.
“I already gave up a loud horn,” Aesherri was saying. “I already helped you shout your silly terms to the city. So you can take you and your demonsongs and—”
“Demonsongs!” Yethyr sputtered. “Who are you posturing for, woman?” he gestured to the empty tent. “We’re not in front of Tynir or your party. It’s just me. So cut the rhetoric and speak to me as an arcanist.”
Aesherri sneered “Oh?”
I felt Jaetheiri tense behind Yethyr, ready to draw her warfang. The tension seemed to extend beyond the tent; I could hear the bated breath of other windsingers, eavesdropping beyond the flap.
Yethyr did not notice.
“Aeromancers will not be needed in Datrea. They will be needed chasing the arcanists of Datrea.”
“We will be needed in the campaign against the Zimu Pride.”
“They don’t have advanced songcraft traditions—”
“No. Instead, they ride Hellstepping lions into battle. I would say we will need everything we’ve got!”
“What exactly are you going to do against teleporting lions?” He gestured flippantly. “Can your breezes chase them through Hell?”
“The fighting will be in open savannahs. We could mean all the difference—”
“Nonsense.” Yethyr spat. “I would be more effective against the Pride.”
“Obviously,” Aesherri said easily. “But I am not the one being sent on an impossible hunt that conveniently keeps me far from tainting the King’s glory.”
“Taint it?” Yethyr’s fury was palpable and Jaetheiri’s hand went to her hilt. I did not understand why she bothered. There was little she could do if they decided to duel.
Yethyr wasn’t trying to duel. He was trying to control himself. “My glory is the King’s glory. Always.”
Aesherri scoffed. “Be that as it may. I have no intention of offering up our number to chase demon worshippers up mountains.”
“But unlike with the Pride Campaign, you would be all the difference.” Yethyr stepped closer, much to Jaetheiri’s dismay. “Moving a raincloud over fugitive Datrean pyromancers—”
“Don’t be preposterous! It would not rain that far north. No doubt they fled there knowing that—”
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“Oh like you couldn’t guide a warm front to come along with us—”
“Not without leaving farms thralled to us without rain.”
Yethyr gnashed his teeth. “Then what technique would you recommend?”
“I will not dabble in hypotheticals. I am not joining this latest stint of yours.”
“Coward.” His voice rang loud in the tent and this time, even Yethyr heard the gasp of eavesdropping windsingers outside.
Aesherri heard it too. Her hand went to a hunting horn at her hip and Jaetheiri threw herself in front of Yethyr, warfang already swinging out, ready to cut the instrument in two.
“You dare!” Aesherri cried, darting back from Jaetheiri’s swing. She had her hunting horn to her lips, ready to blow, but she hesitated and I understood. Once she unleashed her windsong, she would know for certain if her music was faster than the death on Yethyr’s lips.
It was not something either of them tested lightly.
Instead, she snarled behind her horn, “You dare insult me! Within my own tent!”
“You have the opportunity to duel the last of Datrea,” Yethyr said slowly. “You have the opportunity to be remembered as the arcanists that defeated the pinnacle of the arcane and you aren’t even going to try.”
“It would be a death sentence.”
“Perhaps, but it would be a glorious way to die, no?” He raised his voice, making sure that those eavesdropping would hear. “To oppose the mightiest of Hell’s servants, without fear, without regret, without even the Host of Heaven at your back…why, Maethe would come down to collect her due herself.”
Aesherri’s eyes darted to the gently rustling tent flaps, clearly wary of her colleagues listening. “A hypothetical, my prince.”
“Yes, but one that cannot lightly be passed up.”
They stared at each other, nothing but held breath and lingering death in the air.
Aesherri lowered her horn. “Fine, but I will not order anyone to go. It will be volunteer only.”
“Very well.”
“If any volunteer, you will know for certain by tomorrow.”
“Perfect,” and he meant it. It gave him the perfect excuse to linger and actually rest before he started on the arduous journey.
He had orchestrated a siege, activated a Death Circle, interrogated the dead, raised the dead, journeyed through Hell, and suffered through a feast with his family.
He was tired.
He did not let his shoulders sag until he was out of Aesherri’s tent and beneath the open sky again. A dozen eyes were watching him—windsingers valiantly pretending to be dutifully carving notation into arrows and horns.
Yethyr cheerfully ignored them. “That went well.”
“Not for someone trying to guard you,” Jaetheiri muttered hotly.
They both took off in the direction of their own tent. “We weren’t going to fight. It would serve neither of us.”
“If that is so, stop making it look like you will.”
“It worked, didn’t it? I forced her to permit volunteers.”
Jaetheiri threw up her hands. “Who would volunteer for this hunt?”
Yethyr smiled. They were out of the hearing of others, walking amidst the desolate encampment. Most were looting and reveling within Datrea and away from them, the Prince seemed lighter, almost teasing.
“You’re going, aren’t you?”
“I am, but I’m hardly a volunteer.”
“The King did not command you to come, and neither will I.” He hummed cheerfully. “In fact, I’m sure your presence would be much appreciated against the Zimu.”
“Don’t say stupid things.”
“See? You are a volunteer.”
“That is different.”
Yethyr swallowed back a laugh. “How so?”
“I’m not going up there to die gloriously for Maethe’s will and other such nonsense.”
Yethyr looked at her. “Oh? So why are you going then?”
Jaetheiri glared back at him. “To prevent someone from dying gloriously for Maethe’s will and other such nonsense.”
She was exasperated and Yethyr’s eyes crinkled with fondness.
“It is not Maethe’s will for me to die.” He breathed in the fresh air and felt the warmth on his cheek. “Aesherri may think this is a suicide march, but I know it is not. This hunt is a test, divine, deadly, and doable. The Datrean fugitives are just another step onto your path to Heaven. So long as we endure…so long as we fight…We can win, Jaethe.”
He better win. I was going to make sure of it. The Council needed to pay for their Hellgate and what better way than with Yethyr as my instrument? Through him, I would slaughter Deathsinger Zasha and with the blood of her treacherous colleagues dripping from my blade, Yethyr would be lost. I would unleash him against his people and achieve my father’s revenge.
The Prince was playing for glory and the Council for survival, but I was the one playing to win.
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If you were Brinn, would you volunteer for Yethyr's hunt for the Council of Songs?
