Shadowsong (Wintersong #2)(69)

As the days grew longer and the nights grew warmer, fewer and fewer poppies appeared. The stories that traveled with the flowers shifted and changed as the landscape turned from rural villages to prosperous cities.

Not dead boys, they said. Alive.

Two children, one older, one younger. Orphans. One with hair as dark as soot, the other with eyes as pale as water. They had the haunted look of the hunted, their faces gaunt, their eyes hollow. No one knew where they came from, for they spoke no tongue the townsfolk understood.

Take them to the abbey, they said. The monks would know.

The learned brothers of the abbey were scholars, philosophers, musicians, and artists from near and far. Indeed, the choirmaster spoke their tongue, and understood the boys had journeyed far in search of safety. But what the choirmaster did not understand was that it was not the language of man he shared with the boys, but the language of music.

Welcome, children, the choirmaster said. Rest, and be welcome, for you are now in God’s hands. The hand of Providence has guided you to our doorstep.

The vl?ek had followed the wolf-paths in the woods to the monastery, but what he had truly followed was the sound of singing at Sunday services. The boy had no words for melody, harmony, or counterpoint, but he wanted them. In their moments of rest on the run, in the slow breaths before they fell asleep, Mahieu had listened to vl?ek humming lullabies to himself in the wild. It was the only time he ever heard the wolf-boy use his voice, and Faithful Mahieu decided right then and there that he would learn to play music, so he could speak with his friend.

When the choirmaster asked for the boys’ names, only one answered.

“I am Mahieu,” said the older.

The monk glanced at the younger child. And the boy?

The vl?ek said nothing, only stared at the choirmaster with his piercing, unsettling, mismatched gaze.

“He . . . he has not yet given it to me,” Mahieu said. The vl?ek’s eyes warmed, and the smallest hint of a smile softened his face.

Does the child speak?

The boys exchanged glances. “Yes,” said Mahieu. “The language of trees, of birds, of fang and fur.”

But does he speak the language of Man?

Mahieu did not answer.

Then we shall call him Sebastian, the choirmaster said. For our patron saint, and the man who cured Zoe of Rome of being mute. Perhaps the same miracle can be performed for the child.

The vl?ek bared his teeth.

Later that night, when the monk brought the boys to their new quarters, Mahieu turned to whisper to the wolf-boy in the dark.

“Speak, friend,” he said. “You understand my words and I have heard you use your voice. Why do you not reply in kind?”

It was a long moment before the vl?ek responded, first pursing his lips and curling his tongue, as though silently rolling sounds and syllables and notes and names around in his mouth. “Sebastian is not my name. And until they call my name and call me home, I shall not reply.”

Mahieu paused. “What is your name?”

The ensuing silence was laden with pain. “I have no name.”

“Then how can anyone call you home?”

The boy did not answer for a long time. “No one has given me a home.”

“The wolf-paths have led you here,” Mahieu said. “If the monastery is not your home and Sebastian is not your name, then what is?”

“The wolf-paths,” the vl?ek murmured. “My home and my name lie at the end of them. But this is not the end.”

Mahieu was troubled. “What is the end?”

The other boy did not reply for so long, Mahieu thought he had fallen asleep. And then, in a voice so low it was almost as though the vl?ek had not even spoken:

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “I don’t know.”





CHANGELING


“have you heard yet from my sister?” I asked the Count the next morning at breakfast.

He choked on his next sip of coffee, his face turning a reddish purple as he coughed and coughed and coughed. “Hot,” he managed to gasp out, setting his cup back down in its saucer. “Burned my tongue.”

I waited until his fit had passed. “I sent K?the word when we first arrived. I was wondering if she had sent any reply.”

The Count stirred his coffee with a spoon, though he drank his black without any cream or sugar. “Not that I know of, my dear.”

He wouldn’t meet my eyes. Unlike the Countess, the Count wore every expression, every thought, every feeling on his face. He had an open countenance, and despite his shifty glances, I was more inclined to trust him than his wife.

Especially as she had stolen my correspondence before.

“How often are you able to get the post up here?” I asked. “Is there a way I can perhaps get to New Snovin to see if any letter from Vienna had been received?”

The Count continued stirring his coffee. “I will ask my wife.”

I studied him. “You are the lord of the manor, Your Illustriousness,” I said. “Surely you need not ask her permission.”

He laughed, but it was not a cheerful sound. Instead, it quivered with nerves. “You will find once you become married, Fr?ulein, that the husband holds far less power than he would have you believe.”

“Is there anything objectionable in my writing to my sister?” I asked.