SONG of EMBER

1

FIRESIDE TALES

🙜

There is something to be said for awakening in a cozy cabin to the sound of a crackling fire, blankets bundled all around and one's toes warm and snug in bed. Of course, that is only if the roof isn't leaking, more than one blanket has been washed and mended, and the fire hasn't gone out in the night. Otherwise it can be a rather dismal start to one's day.

And that is precisely what happened to Ember.

Eventually, he knew, he would have to get up and do something—but in the meantime he was content to glare sourly at the stone-and-mortar fireplace, listen to water dripping onto the floor, and wish his blanket wasn’t so damp.

Of course it would rain on market day...

The trip to the river would make him wet, the trip into town would make him wetter, and a quick glance at the empty wood box confirmed that all his kindling was piled outside the one-room cabin, no doubt getting soggier by the minute.

“Good morning, Ember,” Ember muttered, swinging his legs out of bed and shivering at the cold touch of the boards. Spring had only just arrived and everything was chilly enough in the early hours without a leaky roof.

He scrubbed some of the blur from his vision and thumped toward the cupboard. It was already open. Tattered cobwebs hung in one corner; in the other sat a crumble of bread and several pieces of dried fish.

“What’s for breakfast?” he sighed, swiping a desiccated fillet from the shelf and gnawing a hunk off the end. “Fish, again. Your favorite. Who needs cheese. Who needs fruit.”

As he passed the rickety table he gave it a whack, and a few wooden utensils bounced and clattered. Raindrops warped the foggy glass panes as he glanced outside. There was nothing new to see; it had all been there since he was a child, except for a wooden fence he had built to keep the animals out of his garden. That, and the willow tree had grown quite a bit. Beyond it lay a field of sultry green grass and the silvery shimmer of the river.

He swallowed the fish and tugged on his worn leather boots with one hand, craning his neck to look up at the little window. A few small stones of odd shapes and colors, several broken arrowheads, and an assortment of rusty coins and fishhooks lined the sill—odds and ends he’d found by the river that couldn’t be traded for food. A watery ray of sunshine broke through the clouds and branches to make his treasures glow.

Might turn into a nice day after all.

Beneath the window sat a pile of mended nets. Something had torn through one of his best mudbug traps two days ago, and Ember glared as he passed by, pinching the frayed basket. Bears and other wildlife would leave evidence of their presence, but he’d found no footprints or droppings along the embankment. Sabotage, he might have guessed, were he not more or less friends with all the townsfolk.

Irritating, but the broken trap would have to wait; his fingers were near falling off from all the mending last night. Ember scooped up the pile of nets and snatched his fishing spear from the wall, hefting the makeshift weapon.

There was no need to be foolhardy, and the weight of it in his hands was reassuring.

He frequently enjoyed his short walks to the river, if it wasn’t raining. It gave him something to do (and something to eat). But in the summer, almost as many tall tales as butterflies fluttered around the nearby village. Last season, two people had gone missing—a farmer’s wife who went out walking and never returned, and a young man who also worked the river—and it made Ember wonder if the tales weren’t so tall after all.

Ember shrugged into his cloak, threw the nets over one shoulder, and gave the door a shove before stepping out into the sunny drizzle. The damp stack of wood under the window caught his eye, and he tossed a few pieces inside before latching the cabin.

As he trudged past the garden, he noted that the spring leeks hadn’t come up—and he had neglected to plant any green beans after the frost. No leeks, no beans, and hardly any fish.

“You’ll be living on parsnips and dirt by season’s end,” he sighed, ruefully scratching his head as he set off toward the river.

❧

The afternoon had not turned nice after all.

Indeed, it was raining miserably by the time Ember had collected his nets and arrived at the village square, accompanied by the scents of fish and the spicy forest crocuses that bloomed along the river path. He found the minglement of smells quite agreeable, though the rest of the villagers gave him a wide berth as he pocketed the coins from his catch.

He strolled aimlessly through the market square, hoping for a quick meal. It was all too easy to depend on the village for food instead of his garden. He jingled the sparse coins in his pocket with a frown, already wishing he’d planted those beans.

A faint commotion to one side of the square caught his eye and he moved toward it, curious. A tall, broad man with a wide-brimmed hat had attracted a small crowd.

Ember let out a knowing snort under his breath.

One of the farmers—a lanky fellow named Lundr—had confronted the man in the hat, to the amusement of the other villagers.

“I tell you the truth, I’ve heard a few wild stories, but this beats everything, Hunter. And I don’t believe a word of it.”

What had riled the crowd?

Magic or mischief, he guessed, or both.

“It’s for yer own good,” Hunter implored, grumbling something foul under his breath. He held the reins of two fine-looking horses that Ember did not recognize. “If these beasties could talk they’d vouch for every word I’ve said here—and like as not add some chilling tales of their own!”

“Talking horses,” guffawed Lundr, shaking his head and side-eyeing those who gathered behind him. “You’re daft.”

Ember stopped a few paces away, hands in his pockets as he glanced about the marketplace. Most had stopped their bartering to listen, although a few pretended to browse the wares. They were interested, but pale, as if Hunter had frightened them moments ago. Isabel, the oldest maiden in the valley at nearly thirty, had her back to the discussion—but as she browsed Lundr's cart of overwintered apples, he saw her head turn slightly in his direction.

He had a sudden foolish inclination to bring attention to himself.

"Are you quite sure," Ember said, lowering his voice to a whisper that still somehow drew the eyes of everyone in the square, "you found these fine horses?"

Hunter was a wayfarer, and a stranger in most parts—popping in and out wherever he liked—and things often turned up unexpectedly missing after he left their little village.

"It's no joke, young sir," snapped Hunter, tugging his hat down low over his eyes. Rain pooled in the brim and met near the middle, forming a little waterfall between Ember and the bridge of the other man's nose. "Accuse me all you like, but I know what I saw. Two fine, strapping young boys gone missing near the river, not a trace o' them left. When I came back that way three nights hence, the fire was out and their horses left tied to the trees, spooked silly. Two sets of footprints led right up to the water's edge, as if they just walked on in without a care in the world. Mighty suspicious, wouldn't you say?"

"Maybe," Ember admitted, skin crawling as the man's eyes bored into his. "But maybe they just had a spell of bad luck and had to leave in a hurry. They could still turn up."

"Hah. If only that were true." Hunter raised his voice, turning heads in the marketplace. "It's the devils from the river, I'm telling you people! If you're smart, you'll listen up and listen hard. That barrage o' winter storms drove them in from the ocean and deeper tides, where they belong…"

He shoved the reins into Ember's hands and began to pace, stalking between vegetable stands and snapping his fingers under the nose of anyone who ventured too close. "First the fish begin to disappear. What's eatin' 'em? It ain't us, that much is certain. Your young net-weaver here brought three fish to the market today. How much is the usual? Ten? Fifteen? A sight more than that?"

"Sixty-two he brought last month, in all," piped up a weak voice from the back of the crowd. A ripple of glares turned in that direction as the townsfolk murmured uncomfortably.

Don't encourage him, they were clearly thinking.

Ember didn't quite agree, but he stroked the nose of the dappled bay horse and kept his mouth shut.

"Sixty-two!" Hunter crowed, following it up with a low whistle. "A hun’red and ten a month it were when I left… Quite a change from last spring, wouldn't you say?"

"I'd say so, yeah," mumbled one of the younger men, looking dour.

"Oh, for goodness sakes." A matronly woman swatted his shoulder before turning round to a basket of dried mushrooms. "Hunter here is telling tall tales, just as usual. The river folk haven't bothered us in centuries, if indeed they weren't merely a legend invented as an excuse for war-mongering and elaborate hunting parties. Why don't you ever think twice before spouting such nonsense? You're liable to addle our youngsters' heads, if you haven't already," she added, casting a keen glance at the man who had spoken up earlier.

Rain pattered on the cobblestones as Hunter shifted his weight to his other foot, tipping the brim of his hat. "Madam… I respectfully disagree. First your fish disappear, and now people are going missing. Not from your little village, I grant you, but I have heard some stories on my way back from Ridgefell that would curdle the blood of any sane man. Now, I can't be the only one who's seen some funny goings-on of late. Who else? Anyone? Speak up, now's your chance."

Ember cleared his throat, rubbing the horses' silky necks and glancing around. The brown mare nuzzled him, soft prickly lips flapping around his ear.

A few villagers sighed and muttered amongst themselves, and even Isabel pulled back the hood of her cloak to eye the crowd. After a short pause, one man stepped forward. He was flushed red and rubbing the back of his neck. Ember recognized Wilifrey, one of the farmers who lived further down the valley.

"He's right," he said, sounding a bit defeated. "I tried to ford the river last week with my wagon, and the horses wouldn't set foot in that water. And we all saw Ember's nets. There's something amiss here, and no mistake."

"Nonsense!" shouted the older woman. "I'll believe it when I see it!"

"Have care, madam, or you may just get your wish!" roared Hunter.

But they were both drowned out by a myriad of other voices, all intent on having their own say in the matter. The horses danced away from the kerfuffle, whickering and tugging at the reins, and Ember was all too happy to lead them toward the tavern.

❧

The massive fireplace crackled festively, spitting sparks onto the hearth and filling the tavern with a smoky, pitchy smell that Ember always missed when he was at home. It was a wonder his decrepit chimney hadn't sent his cabin up in flames in the summer, but in the wet season it was always so damp and drafty that it was all he could do to ignite a modest blaze.

"…I think Hunter's right. Something's different this year, I can feel it in my bones. There's a… a presence here—an evil sprite, maybe?"

"A fish-eatin' sprite? You can't be serious."

"Nay, nay, but they do bring bad luck! There's magical things in the deeper woods… things that oughtn't be disturbed."

Rubbing his hands together and blowing into them, Ember crouched next to the hearth, watching the men at the nearest table slurp their beers and argue about the most exciting thing to happen in their valley in months. He preferred to listen quietly, and so far had nothing of importance to add.

"Well, good thing I live in the village,” Lundr was saying. “I ain't seen nothin' strange."

"Count yerself lucky. I live on the outskirts and my wife is afraid of her own shadow. Anytime anythin' creaks in the night, I get to light the lantern and investigate."

“It’s a wonder you ain’t been got by a goblin!” Alden bellowed from behind the bar as he polished a mug. “Dam’ fool woman.”

"What about you, Ember?" Lundr said.

Ember glanced up, retrieving the half-empty mug of cider he'd set on the hearthstones and swirling it a bit to mix up the dregs. "Eh?"

They were all looking at him now, tanned and withered faces etched in shadow, eyes glinting in the firelight. Wilifrey lifted his mug of beer and raised an eyebrow. "You live in a pretty nice spot on the river."

"That's true! What've you seen in your neck of the woods?"

Enjoying the attention, Ember took a casual sip of his cider and shrugged. "Every other night it seems I'm mending nets… something's been at them, but I can't for the life of me make out what."

"Forest sprites!" someone hissed. "Bad luck, I tell you!"

"A bear, maybe?" Lundr put in helpfully.

"No tracks." Ember stood, stretching, and stared into the fire. "But something's been eating my fish, and I'm going to find out what."

It hadn't occurred to him to do anything about it—not until that moment. But standing there in the firelight before all those grown men, it seemed somehow appropriate.

They stared at him, and Alden snorted.

"How?"

"I'll figure it out," Ember said, the idea already growing on him. "Lay in wait and catch it in the act, or set a trap of some sort…"

A low voice spoke up from behind him. "You best be careful, settin' traps for things."

Ember turned round.

Hunter stood near the table, wide-brimmed hat still drooping from the rain. One eye glared out from under the brim and he took a slow swig of beer, water pattering on the floor around his boots.

"I'm always careful," Ember said, hefting the spear that still lay across his shoulders.

"You better be," muttered Hunter, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and taking a deep breath of smoky tavern air. "Those who go layin' snares in the woods should take care to know what they're hunting. There are some things out there that I can't explain, and I wouldn't want to neither."

Ember held the man's stare, downed the rest of his cider, and set the empty mug on the table. "Well, I just might."

None of the other men said a word, and Ember quickly left the tavern, his head full of half-finished plans, still tingling with pleasant warmth from the cider and the fireplace. Hunter's words resembled a dare, and this filled him with a stupid sort of courage. Besides—he patted his empty pockets, missing the coins he had spent—if he didn't put an end to the thievery, and soon, he would be going to bed hungry come winter.

Ember tightened his grip on the fishing spear, stepping off the tavern porch and into the pouring rain.

Something out there had been feasting on his fish…

And its feast was about to come to a very abrupt end.

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~ Saf