The Secret of Spellshadow Manor 6 by Bella Forrest (books for men to read .TXT) 📕

song would stick in my mind, repeating itself over and over again, demanding to be improved, until I was rocking back and forth in my saddle, muttering and humming to myself under my breath.

“Are you going mad over there?” said Mag, drawing me out of my thoughts. “We can seek a healer in the next town.”

I looked at her somewhat ashamedly. Mag sat straight in her saddle, prouder than any Mystic knight, her green cloak fluttering in a light wind. Though the journey had been long, and though we had faced darkness along it—not only the vampires we slew in Lan Shui, but highwaymen and brigands in the wilderness—she looked better than ever, hale and healthy and with a focus honed like a razor’s edge. Indeed, if I was honest with myself, she looked far more natural, far more whole, somehow, than she had back in Northwood. Mag had been happiest there, in those days she had spent with Sten. But there are the things that make us happy, and then there are the things that come to us naturally, and it is an exceptionally fortunate few who can find both things in the same place or circumstance. I think Mag belonged on the road, on a campaign, such as it was, whether or not it was what she desired.

“Forgive me,” I told her. “I had not realized how loud my voice had grown.”

“Really?” she said, arching an eyebrow. “I have been unable to pay attention to anything else for some time.”

On Mag’s other side, Dryleaf chuckled, his sightless eyes drifting aimlessly. I had been most worried for the old man when he had fallen ill, but now he seemed even stronger than when we had met him in Lan Shui. He, too, seemed to be a man who belonged on the road—and in his case, it did seem to be his great love, as well. I knew he had been a wandering peddler for many years, long before he met us.

“Oh, do be gentle with Albern, dear girl,” he told Mag. “Any art requires time and patience, and songs most of all. They come to us in dreams, in our mind’s wanderings, a piece at a time. Then we must sit there with the parts of them, shoving them about like a child with a tinker’s puzzle, often going days or weeks without seeing the way they fit together. And then, all of a sudden, the pieces form into a whole, and then the world is forever blessed with a new and beautiful thing. Nothing can fly through the ages like a song.”

“Thank you kindly,” I said, nodding before I remembered he could not see it. “Your support is greatly appreciated, though I can defend myself against this one.” I pointed past Mag at the old man and gave her an admonishing frown. “Do you see? That is how one true friend supports another. With encouragement, not heckling.”

“If I were heckling you, I would have found some rocks to throw,” said Mag. “Carry on with your mutterings, then. There are many beekeepers in this part of the kingdom. Mayhap one of them will sell me some wax to plug my ears.”

I reached over and tried to shove her. Mag snatched my arm and nearly pulled me from the saddle, before catching my shoulder on her knee and launching me back upright. I snatched wildly at the saddle horn to steady myself. Foolhoof, my gelding, snorted loudly and danced beneath me, as though he had sensed an opportunity to try to escape.

“You hush,” I told him, slapping his shoulder—but gently. “You will not rid yourself of me that easily.” I glared at Mag. “Even with her help.”

Mag laughed aloud, dragging a smile out of me. “If I wanted you out of the saddle—”

“—it would already be done,” I finished. “You should be more careful with me, you know. You may be able to best me in a fight, but I am learning to write songs. I could immortalize you in verse as an utter buffoon. That sort of victory lasts forever, but you can only trounce me as long as we are both alive.”

A curious expression came across her, one so tragic and … and weary, that I felt at once that I should apologize, though I did not know what I had done wrong. She smiled at me, but I thought I saw her eyes glisten as she did it.

“You are welcome to your eternal victory,” she said, and the spell broke. Her voice was so cheery, her smile suddenly so genuine, that I felt I must have imagined what I had seen. “I prefer to defeat the person right in front of me, rather than the idea of them many years later.”

I laughed, for it seemed clear that that was the response she needed. Mag and Dryleaf joined in the merriment, while Oku barked and ran two quick circles around our horses.

We fell silent as we rode on. Yet I thought long upon what I had seen, and the way Mag sounded. My words must have reminded her of Sten, I thought. So much had happened since the battle of Northwood, that sometimes I forgot it was barely two months before that Mag and Sten were still living happily in that town, foreseeing no darkness in their future.

“You know, Albern,” said Dryleaf after a time, “I could offer my services in your attempt. I have written a fair few songs in my time, and received praise from kings and princes for them.”

“I know it, friend,” I told him. “I would have guessed it from the moment I first heard you sing. But this is too close to my heart to share with anyone. At least for now.”

Dryleaf pursed his lips and gave a deep nod, pushing his long beard into his chest. “A song of mourning, is it? Very well. You will know when you have healed enough for my advice to be more help than hindrance.”

I glanced