He said that last with a derisive snort. Lorzok leaned in.
“I’ve heard of Menoriath. It was a story from long ago.”
“There’s a song,” Verandil said. “I’m surprised Kell hasn’t sung it for you. It’s built to make the strongest weep, even if they don’t know a word of Sylvan.”
Lorzok’s uncomfortable fidgeting caught Kell in the ribs.
“You probably have heard it,” Verandil said, “and he didn’t tell you what it was.”
“I speak Sylvan,” Lorzok said. “But Kell doesn’t—”
“Nevermore the shadow falls,” Kell said. “Nevermore the trumpet’s call at dawn and noon and night to guide one’s gaze upon Menoriath the most high. Now sunshine and an endless sky proves what common sense decrees: Glory is too hard to hold aloft with pride. Gold was dull before the scornful eye of Menoriath, whose shards have landed on their knees—oh, sorry.”
Verandil cocked his head. “Your translation from Elvish is more scornful than sad.”
Kell shrugged. “Mockery’s easier to rhyme.”
“But you didn’t sing your translation.”
A new kind of quiet fell on the four. The badgers hurried, crunching the road’s stones with their steps. The wheels ground along to follow with a grumble. A robin sang, then thought better of it.
Kell sighed. “I don’t sing anymore.”
“Since when?”
Kell just hunched a little deeper.
“Not since I’ve met him,” Lorzok said.
He waited for Saeldian to say something that would slide between the ribs. They said nothing.
It was ridiculous. Why shouldn’t he sing? Why should losing Saeldian take his voice away from him? But his voice had been gone ever since he had breathed in the smell of a prison cell reserved for those who would be hanged.
But Saeldian had paid bards to teach Kell. They had stolen the gold it took to buy him a fiddle that wasn’t made from leftover scraps. They partnered him when he learned dances, ran through plays. When they listened to the full flower of the voice they’d supported from a seed of talent, they closed their eyes to hear him better.
He couldn’t sing without remembering Saeldian, and he never wanted to remember.
Verandil tried to stare it out of him for a full minute before he said, “How long ago was that?”
“Hold on,” Jubilee said. “That forest ahead—how big are those trees? They must be the tallest I’ve ever seen…and why do they juststartlike that?”
Rescued. “Good catch, Jubilee. Did you notice how you couldn’t see what was across the bridge before we got close enough?”
“Yeah,” Jubilee said. “It felt weird.”
“The domains border right next to each other,” Lorzok said. “Did you feel it, crossing the bridge?”
“Like when Wisdom was playing with his first cantrip. Shocking Grasp, I mean. The way it felt when his hand got close, but—not exactly that.”
Verandil sighed. “Play defense all you want. This right here isHoneymeadow. Halflings like this place. Funny, though. It’s all bright mornings and fields, but its archfey always seems so sad. Straight ahead is the Village That Chooses Its Own.”
“The village is in the forest?”
“The village is the forest. The forest is the village. The Brewmistress wanted shade, she said, and so she made it so.”
“The Brewmistress is the archfey, but what happened to Essanderon?”
“Kell.” Verandil put his hand on Kell’s back. “You know already.”
