Page 35 of Triadic

I slowed to a stop, not trusting my ears. A velvety voice lilted down the path toward me, and yet that was absurd. Who would linger out of doors, breathing deeply and singing in cold like this?

I swallowed down my fear and kept tromping up the path.

"And in strength, understanding.

And in understanding, knowledge."

I knew that voice from somewhere, a memory from the distant past. Never before until recently had I found reason to fear the forest around the monastery—it had been my home for so many years now—and yet poor Peter had been through so much at the whim of the magic therein, I couldn't help but feel a bit of trepidation.

Carefully I approached the edge of the tree line where I would be able to see Diana Monastery. Two figures stood in front: one quite large and possibly some kind of guard, the other with his hands cupped around his mouth as he sang to the high windows.

Then the memory clicked. On that dark night a decade ago now, when Wren's soul had left his body and gone wandering in the Otherworld, one of the instructors had snagged a young bard in training and pulled him into our room and told him to sing. The hours had passed as Marit and I had held Wren's body and tried to stabilize him and cover him with calm,while the instructors searched in the astral plane to bring Wren back. Through that dark night, Awariye had sung to us all the legends he'd memorized so far, over and over.

I charged out of the trees. "Awariye!"

He whipped around, and indeed it was him. I'd recognize his cheerful expression anywhere. "Hallo?"

He couldn't recognize me all bundled up. I got closer, and he jumped in delight. "Corbi!"

"Let's get you inside," I suggested, brushing by so we could greet each other properly in the warmth. "You know you don't have to sing your way in here each time!" Though he could never come back to live here, by the monastery's strict rules, he was certainly allowed to visit.

Awariye had grown up in a traveling theatre group. When he was still quite young, out of desperation, his mother had left him on the monastery doorstep with instructions to sing to the monks until they let him in. I'd only been a few years older than him at the time and could still remember him singing up to our windows.

"I lost my key!" Awariye chirped.

I laughed and shook my head. It was code: the magical barriers on the monastery prevented entry, even to monks who had grown up here but had since been pushed back out into the world.

The guard followed Awariye and stepped through the door last. We took our boots off in the entryway that doubled as a mud room. Then I took our coats to hang by the door. The guard offered his top layer coat but did notdisrobe any further. As his next layer shifted, before falling into place, I noticed two things: a sheath for some kind of blade at his belt, and the insignia branded into the leather.

The Danubian dragon.

Straightening, I appraised the tall man who, while muscled, looked even younger than Awariye. Then I glanced at the bard in question, holding my reaction in reserve until I had more information. If I had trusted him and let someone dangerous inside, then I was about to throw my life away trying to force a fighter back out that door.

"This is Igor," said Awariye very softly, the earnest look in his brown eyes clearly asking me to believe him. "He's here with an injury; we can pay in cash."

"Not Helvetican," I said, clipped. "You could have gone to the clinic."

It was an understatement. This Igor was not only from our troubled neighbor country on the central Danubian planes, but to even call it a country wasn't entirely accurate. It was more a conglomeration of battlefields with near-constant threat of invasion. Their border with Helvetica wasn't even fully stabilized, though things had calmed down in recent years under the rulership of a warrior king who had savagely risen in hard-earned victory.

Without a word, Igor unsnapped the sheath from his belt and handed the whole thing to me. I took it with a nod and tucked it into my robe. This was hardly a consolation. Even if he didn't have other weapons on him, anyone with a warrior's training could kill a civilian bare-handed.

"I wanted you to examine him, Corbi," Awariyeexplained, his tone beseeching. "We can pay at the clinic, but he's already been to the best doctors back where we came from."

I nodded, still unsure. I didn't move to let them in further, still debating in the entryway.

"Is that who I think it is?" Ceridor rounded the corner. "Awariye!"

"Ceredigion!" Awariye charged past me and leapt into Ceridor's arms. "I'm so glad you're okay—I've been worried sick about you."

"That doesn't do us any good," Ceridor chided. "And I'm almost good as new. Doctor Corbi even said I didn't have to keep my arm in the sling anymore."

I'd said absolutely no such thing. "At your own risk, Old Man."

Awariye checked Ceridor over, and I finally decided I was going to let Igor in. I led our group to the medical wing on the ground floor, where Peter had stayed before moving in with us. Speaking of whom, he came down the stairs just as we arrived, and of all things, he had a tiny bird made of ether perched on his shoulder.

Peter brightened. "So you can see him, too? I've named him Birdie."

Bless him.