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“Fire isn’t a blade!” he had said triumphantly and twirled the stick.
“And the stick isn’t a blade either!” he said with all the cheekiness of a Thrush about to step off the dais soon. Already his kohl spread in delicate wings around his eyes, added dots of rouge and gold breaking up the black.
Soon he would be a Preybird, helping lead the temple and guiding the flock boys. How much fun that would be! He would teach them all the best secret passages to sneak into the kitchens and how to dance the seven orbs. He was the best dancer, the weighed balls balancing on his fingertips while he moved like they were weightless.
The High Preybird just looked at him blankly. It was the Wing that chuckled.
“Ancel, you are the most unusual Thrush I know.” the man mused, his smooth voice never quite raising, even in anger, “You would make Saint Thryse proud! Very well, I allow it, if you are careful and stay far away from the archives.”
At that he beamed.
The day he had made Thrush was still the day he cherished most, he had risen above most people in Valnon, in some ways he was even greated than royalty.
It hadn’t been the path he would have followed had he not sung, and he gladly gave up what made man man to keep this voice that made him the singer of a Saint.
The Swallowtail was the best of the brothels, and already at a young age he knew better than to say where he had grown up.
A typical Undercity foundling that was what he told everyone, sent to the temple of Saint Alveron after he had sung before the laypriestress in the temple of the Undercity. And he had never looked back.
He had never before set foot on marble before.
And suddenly all those riches, carnelian and rubies and silk and furs were his!
When he had truly sung for the first time, drenched in the suns warm noontide rays that bathed him in red and yellow, he almost fumbled his chords. Gawking down and seeing actually people that were only here for him was baffling and the test runs they had done during winter and spring suddenly felt utterly unprepared.
Somehow the moving marble had felt much different, much deadlier at its full height reached almost six metres above the ground, from before this first time he had actually sung Noontide at Blossomnight, the Feast of Saint Lairke. He had spent the hours before his first real song in the gardens, looking into the sunny sky and listening to the Greyling geese that heralded the warmer months. He liked them, they were the most tastiest birds.
Of course Laurent had sung like he didn’t even notice all the people that had come to listen to the new songbirds. And Ancel refused to be lesser than his Lark. Of course as Thrush he was literally lesser, he was the lowest ranked of the Songbirds, just as Saint Thryse had been the lowest ranked of the Saints.
But only one boy could be chosen as Thrush from all the other flock boys and he had made it.
And soon he would give up his title and his colours to a worthy successor.
No longer would he be His Grace the Thrush of Valnon, If someone really wanted to flatter him they added the rest: Noontide’s Singer and Heir of Saint Thryse. He liked that thought, that he was actual heir to the saint.
But not much longer would he sing with crimson drapes that would enhance his voice, while Laurent’s were raised, and as black as the night, to make the sounds vanish before the echoes became to shrill.
How fitting that the Lark was the Songbird of air, Laurent certainly had an aloof air around him all the time. Probably came from being from a noble family.
Laurent looked at him, all sharp angles and an even sharper tongue.
There was a reason why Ancel couldn’t think of him just as Laurent, the knowledge of the Larks position made his mind always add the rest of his long titles like they were truly part of his name: His Grace the Lark of Valnon, Dawning’s Singer and Heir of Saint Lairke. He doubted Laurent thought that way about him.
Typical Lark in all but one thing, he had also been unconventional: rarely did he wear black, choosing a deep dark blue instead. Only for Evensong Descant did he wear black, as if in mourning for what they didn’t have.
He also had never seen the Lark taking part in the Feast of Saint Thryse, the longest day of summer, and frankly neither had he after the first few years. Water fights were funny as children, but he thought himself to old soon.
Sometimes he joined him in the music rooms and they talked about new songs and sung out various lines to listen how they sounded.
It wasn’t really friendship, Laurent made sure Ancel never quite forgot that his name weighed more and his blood was older and more precious. It was some sort of mutual respect, a lower born towards someone of higher standing, but they were still connected.
And sometimes, when the nights were cold and they were silenced for the winter they found silent solace with the other Songbird.
Whenever he asked too many questions, about his big brother Auguste or the rumoured uncle in disgrace, Laurent shot him a glare as sharp as a forbidden blade.
“I never ask why the ones that show up to hear you sing the most are whores.” was a sentence that stopped most questions, even if they did a poor job of making the two Songbirds better friends.
Everyone knew the Thrush ruled over the labourers the most, that included most physical labour no matter the kind.
Sometimes Ancel wondered what Laurent saw, when it was evening and he was all alone and hidden behind the lattice of the screen, singing from the ground and not the empty dais. Sometimes he listened, to make sure that Laurent didn’t sing for no one at all. Saint Alveron was a saint not many prayed to, he was much more elevated and only called on when things were dire.
But it was a sombre affair and he found he didn’t enjoy the eerie atmosphere. But he was the Thrush and where his Lark went he would follow. Even if that meant sitting in the deserted temple and snacking on sugared flowers. And ignoring the cool breeze and shadows in the corner of his eyes. He was Thrush of Valnon and his was the warmth of the sun and fire, the banishing of all evil that lurked in the darkness.
Every Saints Night at the end of the winter canticles he had seen a merchant, coming from Northcamp and Ancel found himself curious to see the region for real, not just as rugged cliffs far away, separated by the sea.
And after the man caught his attention, which was hard as he was pretty unassuming, he soon had a name to the face and the gifts and tributes.
He made sure to wear the ones from him more often, showing his blessing.
They were grand tributes, the man probably rich enough that he could afford to lose a ship or two, but nevertheless. And it was gold. Not copper.
The Thrush’s tastes were not well known, not while he was still in his colours and he couldn’t wait until he would give them to the new Thrush and finally wear what he desired.
The older he got the more individual the gifts became. Green was after all not a colour for a Thrush. But one just for him.
Green silk and golden jewellry, a sket made from dark wood with green jade decorations, a coat trimmed with red fox fur. In short, most of the things he actually liked came from Berenger fa Branthos.
He absent-mindedly played with his piercings, copper rings that would soon get taken out and replaced. It felt weird, he preferred gold and already had a few pretty ones to chose from, but to give up the colours of Saint Thryse… he shook his head. Sentimental.
“Do you already have new piercings?” he asked the blond shook of hair he could glimpse from the lowered bath, the steam of the warm water raising through the air and the sharp smell of frankincense and rosemary a well known one.
The incense made for the Lark.
He would tease Laurent about it, so sentimental, if he himself wouldn’t have melted a bit of his own over his brazier just to smell the dragons blood and cinnamon for the last time.
It was harder than he had anticipated, to give up all this. No longer would he leave his round chamber to the clattering of carnelian and copper beads.
“I will take my paints. The mica powder too! And the clothes. And some tribute.” he said, as the Lark kept silent, his voice sharper.
No reaction.
They would be Preybirds together, so could Laurent just jump over his shadow once?!
“I will also take my private Thrassin slave with me!” he snapped, “Maybe I will leave Valnon and go on to wrestle with their eunuchs in the ring, what do you think?”
Now Laurent moved, his blue eyes glaring daggers again, lips pressed into a thin line. But the red around his eyes was not one made from paint, but from grief. And Ancel fell silent, like a cloud blocking the sun.
“Sorry.” he muttered, kneeling down beside his Lark.
“Don’t be.” he didn’t sound like he cried. Silence reigned, save for the faint music coming from the sounding vents.
“It will be weird.” the Lark finally spoke, tilting his head back and looking up towards the glass dome. Above them snow fell, the sky dark grey.
But here it was warm, they were shielded from the season no Songbird ruled over.
“Yes. You might actually have to do some work around the temple now.” Ancel said, but there was no heat in his words and he begun to gently comb through the fine blond hair. A bad omen, but that was simply stupid temple superstition.
Laurent closed his eyes.
“I helped in the sick bays already. I can keep doing that and order people around.”
“Or the Godswords.” Ancel said and again Laurent glared. The Thrush shrieked as a wave of warm water hit him, drenching his silks.
“What! Of course I know you go there! You had too many bruises, they couldn’t all come from a lover. You have your secrets and I have mine.”
Laurent opened his mouth and in the end just huffed.
“The Thrush is often responsible for the Godswords.” he finally spoke but he looked at Ancel like this was the first time he actually saw him.
“I think I can be gracious enough to give you that position.” he said as he removed his wet silks and carefully hung them up to dry, before he cautiously dipped a toe in the water. Still warm enough he found and was sitting close to his Lark soon enough, his long hair not tied up and drifting on the water.
Laurent lips twitched, which was close enough to a smile.
“What Preybird name will you take?” he asked.
“I wanted to be Peacock but the Wing said no.” Ancel sighed theatricality, “So I chose Lapwing. But my Preybird colour will be peacock green! You?”
Laurent was silent again, but this time it wasn’t a rejection.
“I think I will chose Gyrfalcon.”
“And your Preybird colour?”
Laurent raised an eyebrow. “Do you seriously need to ask?”
“Dark blue.”
Laurent waited for him at the dais and he felt like their worlds had switched. Normally it was him waiting at the dais, still a bit sleepy but there to help his Lark on the dais, drape the velvet around pale slender legs and watch him disappear, the clear notes already floating through the air.
His Lark was silent as he moved the scarlet velvet around, making sure the golden and amber beads laid perfectly. Than he looked up at Ancel, blue eyes still lined with kohl.
“Second Saint of brightest blood, fearless Thrush, make the sun stand still at your behest.”
And then the dais had moved, slowly twisting upwards, his Lark disappearing from view, and he had begun to sing.
It was Saints Night.
And he watched silently as the black drape blocked out the sun until spring, his last echoes fading.
His armour felt warm despite the temples chill and he bowed to the ones that came to hear him one last time.
The dais lowered and what had been his life for twelve years was over as soon as he stepped of. He stood there for a few seconds, Laurent waiting for him again and they were silent as they wandered from the dais to the Songbirds room for a last time.
But this night, surrounded by merchants and nobility and the gilds, he looked around for the familiar brown. Brown was a colour of the Thrush as well, as if the entire man was a walking tribute.
“Hello.” he said, because his term was over and now he could talk freely. No longer was he saintly and forbidden from leaving the temple, even if the last remnants still lingered.
“I loved your tributes. I hope you don’t mind I kept a few of them for myself.”
The Lord looked up towards him, not that this was noteworthy each Temple bird was tall, and smiled.
“I don’t mind. I gave them to the temple for this purpose.”
Ancel nodded and before he knew it the evening had ended filled with talk, shushed whispers when the Apocrypha Cycle begun and the others birds of the temple had time to shine.
“I am no merchant.” Berenger said quietly, “I breed horses. I gifted many to the Godswords.” a shy hand that Ancel had held like he feared he would lose it otherwise, “I would love to gift you one now.”
“I can’t ride.” Ancel chuckled, “We Songbirds are not to learn anything martial. But I am sure with the right teacher I could learn.”
The night was over far too quick and so were their talks, Ancel newly minted in a dark green and gold soon needed to say goodbye to Berenger, who was needed far away from him, back on the mainland.
In the end it was easier than he had imagined, to leave it all behind, to watch Erasmus and Nicaise took their new titles and duties. Laurent was, now that he was allowed to, often seen accompanied by a tall Godsword of maybe Iskati heritage and Ancel pouted whenever they kissed.
His room in the Preybird towers was soon refurnished to fit his taste. He made sure the flock boys could dance and the new Thrush would do him proud. He was also a love sick fool and like a love sick fool he wrote letters and sad love songs. One even in ancient hasafeli. But he found that singing about it was another thing than living in it and it wasn’t half as beautiful as it sounded.
Going over some compositions he found his gaze often drifting towards the cliffs so far away, golden in the midday sun.
“I am sending you away.” Laurent said, the youngest High Preybird in the entire history of the temple, didn’t even look up from the scroll he was bend over, his fingers still heavily ringed with saphires and gold.
Ancel blinked.
“What? Send me away?” fear crept into his voice, “You can’t strip me out of my colours!”
Laurent looked at him like he was stupid and a furious blush coloured his cheeks.
“I am sending you away to strengthen the ties the temple has to the mainland.” he explained, voice crisp and cold, “Especially to Lord fa Branthos, who has proven quite valuable with his steeds the Godswords use. You are to make sure this stays that way, the temple needs allies like fa Branthos.”
Ancel blinked again, the fear coming and gone as quickly as the tide.
Than he smiled, as bright as the sun and he hugged the bony Temple bird.
“Oh, I could kiss you!”
“Please not, you use too much rouge on your lips, it stains. Write me a song, that’s quite enough.”
Ancel giggled and basically flew out of the room to pack.
As the ship left he kept looking at Valnon until the island vanished in the darkness. He hid a shiver at seeing his home like this, a rock jutting out from the ocean, but a rock he had grown up, and the Temple stood above it with its spires and bright lights.
Than he turned around, towards the bright cliffs and the man that awaited him.
