Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #13 April 2015 | Page 148

fume stung her eyes and she raised a hand to scratch at
it. Elvienne caught her hand, and laid it once more in
her lap.
“I need you to make a song.” Onelle heard her moving
around; the sudden crackle of the fire as if something
had been added to it. “Onelle, I need you to look
inside your head and think of your mother, to compose
a lament for the injustice done to her. And it needs to
be ready for the dawn; you must sing it at the candle
ceremony.”
“I can’t sing when my daughter’s going to be burnt!”
“Then she will die, and you may as well remove the
blindfold and go home.” Elvienne’s voice was full of
reproach. “It’s not a great thing I ask you, to compose
a lament for your mother, but if you don’t think -”
“No, no, I’ll do it!” Onelle clumsily laid aside the
plate. “Can you guide me to the harp?”
“Here.” The old woman helped her up and placed her
hands on the instrument. Onelle plucked a string, and
the sound rang out sweet and true. She smiled to hear
it, for all that her heart was heavy. So Elvienne wanted a lament for her mother? Onelle would make her a
song, a song to bring tears to the eyes of men, to make
them throw out the hated candlefire and let her daughter live. She cleared her throat, and, in the darkness,
she began to sing.
#
And Elvienne, sitting so quiet and still beside the
fire, began to change. Now she wore the face of the
twelve-summer-old Onelle of thirty years ago, who
had played in the long grass beside her laughing mother, weaving spring flowers into each other’s hair. And
now she took on the appearance of the mother, full
of fear as she raced back to the village. Onelle again,
crying and bewildered, as the older version of herself
weaved a song telling of her loss, and Rosleen, going
calmly to her fate beneath the White Tree.
#
“Your hands are bleeding.” Onelle winced as Elvi-

enne applied the astringent to her lacerated fingertips.
“Do you have your song?”
“Is it dawn already?” She was forced to whisper, her
throat raw with singing. Every muscle in her body
ached, and her eyes watered under the cloth. “Can I
look now?”
“Not yet. Come with me, and bring the harp.” Onelle
heard the creak as the door opened, and felt the
warmth of the sun as Elvienne led her down the path,
walking slowly lest she stumble in her blindness. Even
before they reached the village green, she could hear
the excited, angry buzz of the crowd, and it was all she
could do not to tear off the blindfold and flee.
Elvienne read her thoughts. “Courage, my dear,” she
said softly, her mouth close to Onelle’s ear. “Keep
thinking of the song. Let nothing distract you from
that.”
Onelle felt a shadow fall cold across her, even as the
healer’s hand on her arm told her to stop. She flinched
at the voice of her daughter’s husband, come to mock
her in her pain.
“What’s the matter, Onelle?” he jeered. “Can’t stand
to watch? And you’ve brought a harp, how sweet.
Are you intending to play a tune for your whore of a
daughter as she goes North?”
Onelle, running the words of her lament over and over
in her head, could not speak, and Elvienne’s grip prevented her from striking out. The old woman replied
in her stead.
“Get out of the way, Hawn,” she said, with a touch of
impatience. “I don’t want to have to tell you again.”
He moved aside, but only to put himself in a position where he could take hold of Onelle’s shou