The Goblins had a large hall lit by torches and moonlight where they came to hear Silver's music. Bae stood at the back of the hall, listening, since she had relented and not dragged him up to sing beside her. She sang ballads at first. Some of them her own choice, some chosen when a Goblin called out a ballad's name or simply began playing music on an instrument – there were drums, lutes, flutes, and others scattered among them. Sometimes, they accompanied her, but she always sang the main part.
She had an odd, eerie voice, like glass chimes and wind through the ice, all mixed together. But, that aside, he couldn't hear any great difference between the Goblins music and hers, though she was right: whether it was "soul" or some other quality, hers was the voice they wanted to hear.
The ballads were mostly militant, songs of war and loss. At Mehitabel's request, Silver sang a long lament for a city called Jerusalem, destroyed in a terrible siege by a people called the Romans. She followed by a ballad about a woman named Boudicca and her grisly victory over those same Romans in another land.
Then, as the song was finished, someone yelled, "Hey, Silver, the human boy, does he know any songs?"
Bae suddenly felt dozens of eyes on him. He received cheerful slaps on the back and found himself being pushed forward till he was standing by Silver. He gave her a panicked look.
Silver only grinned. "War songs, if you know them," she said.
Reluctantly, Bae sang a ballad of the Ogre wars, The Fall of the Southlands. He followed that with The Battle of Whisty Glen, then the Lament of Saro and Wulfe. The first two were at least as grisly as Mehitabel's choices, when he thought of it. They had sounded heroic when he first learned them. The Fall of the Southlands had happened after the Southlands' duke was slain. A minor Lord, Chardebert, took up the defense of the remaining free lands along the southern coast, uniting the remaining lords and war leaders under his leadership – or had till their final, brave battle.
His father had told him Zoso, the previous Dark One, had had a hand in that battle, that their own lord, the Duke of the Frontlands, had decided it served his interests better if Chardebert fell before he became a hero with a greater following than the Duke.
Bae shouldn't have chosen that ballad.
He moved on to The Battle of Whisty Glen and got through it easily enough. It was a lighter, easier song, commemorating one of the great defeats of the Ogres. There was gore aplenty in it, but very little of it was human.
But, without really thinking about it, he began to sing The Lament of Saro and Wulfe. Bae usually thought it was silly, but it had been one of Morraine's favorites, a story of lovers separated by war. Or Morraine had been sure they were lovers. The lament really only spoke vaguely of their deep and abiding love. Captain Roberts' story had made him think of it. Althought, for all Bae knew, maybe Morraine had it wrong. Maybe Saro and Wulfe were friends who had grown up together, like him and Morraine. Maybe Saro and Wulfe were brother and sister – or even parent and child (unlikely, he thought, but not impossible).
In the end, Saro never sees Wulfe again. He probably died fighting impossible odds, allowing her to escape into the (relative) safety of the Frontlands, but the song left that unclear. Maybe he was just cut off from her. Maybe he continued fighting in the south.
Maybe he forgot about her, Bae thought. If you hadn't seen someone for years, even if you'd loved them – even if they were family – maybe that just faded away.
He remembered the knight who'd told him his mother had chosen to leave him and Papa. The man had been evil and a bully . . . but, could it be true? Had Mama left? And forgotten him?
Was there any place where they hadn't heard of the Ogre Wars? Even if Mama had left, wouldn't she have heard what was happening to them? Wouldn't she have come back or sent word or asked for word to know if he and Papa were alive?
Or had she forgotten?
Would Papa forget about him if he didn't return? The way he had already forgotten what it meant to be Papa, the man he'd been before the curse fell on him?
If Bae stayed in Siri and Tom's world, if he ever met Papa again, would Papa know him? Would he be glad to see him? Or would he be angry? Would he kill Bae, the way he'd killed their servant who only might have heard him discussing the dagger that carried the curse?
Bae, after all, knew far more than the servant had.
He couldn't sing anymore. He couldn't.
There were calls for more, but then Captain Roberts was there.
"The boy's done his share. Let him rest. Cat-girl, sing something else for these louts. Try the Queen of the Night's aria, if you can hit the notes." With that, he led Bae away.
"You look done in, boy," he said. "I apologize for the hospitality of my hall. I should have seen you needed rest."
"It – it wasn't –" Maybe he was tired, because there was no other reason he should feel like crying. He gritted his teeth. After all, he was old enough to go to war. He wasn't going to cry like a child.
The captain gave him a sidelong glance as though he could read his thoughts, but only said, "You're a strong lad, but that doesn't mean you can't wear yourself out. Siri's more used to this insanity than you are and she's already collapsed."
"She was wounded."
"She's not anymore. Now, come along. You need to rest but, before that, there's something I should give you." He led Bae out of the fortress. They walked across the clearing to a small building, a sort of forge – though not like the smith's forge back home. There was no sign of iron, only the silver colored metal the Goblins' armor and weapons were made of. There were no horseshoes, and the fire burning in the forge was white and cold.
"Hold onto the knife my grandson gave you, though I hope you won't need it. I hope you won't need this, either, but it may be useful to you." There was a trough of water by the anvil, just like in the forge back home in the village – and that was odd, Bae realized. The fire was cold. Whatever was forged here, it didn't need to be cooled in water.
As if to confirm that, Captain Roberts picked up a ladle forged from black metal, not the silver most of the other things here were forged from (the anvil, Bae realized, was also black; the same, iridescent color as the Goblins' skin). He dipped the ladle in the water – if it was water. It was dark, like the pond near their home at night, reflecting back nothing. The captain poured the water on the anvil where it congealed in a large, half-sphere drop.
Then, he took his own knife and pricked his finger with its point.
He held the finger over the liquid and squeezed out the blood. For some reason, it disturbed Bae to see his blood was a deep, dark red, not quite human in color.
The liquid changed, becoming silvery and bright.
Captain Roberts gathered it up in his hands, where is shifted into a ball, then went over to the forge, holding the glob right in the heart of the cold flames.
The liquid seemed to soften. The captain began to twist and pull. It reminded Bae of his father working with the poorer kinds of wool, when the fiber needed to be worked carefully, pulled out of its clumps to be shaped into something more like thread.
The liquid sphere was being stretched into a long, slender thread.
The captain began to twist and braid it, making a ring sized circle. Then, he gathered more and twisted it around the ring. He did this again and again, pressing each new layer tight into the old one. Somehow, though each thread was absorbed, the ring never became any thicker.
Bae wondered what the fire was and how Goblins could put their hands straight into it without being hurt – shouldn't fire, even cold fire hurt? But, then, he looked at Roberts' face. His mouth was in a grim, determined line and there was cold sweat all across his face.
Whatever the flame was, it wasn't painless.
Roberts reached the last bit of silver thread and pressed it in. He took the ring out of the fire, examined his handiwork, then tossed the ring up into the air like a man flipping a coin. By the time it came down again, Roberts had snatched up a pair of tongs and caught the ring with it (Goblins, besides having cat-like reflexes, liked to show off, Bae thought) and plunged it into the trough of dark water.
Roberts might not care about cold flames, but he had been very careful not to touch that water with his bare hands, Bae noticed. Not ill he had added his blood to it.
He pulled out the ring. Held one way in the light, it was silver bright; held another, it was black as the water it had come from.
Roberts nodded, satisfied.
"Put this on," he told Bae. He saw the look on Bae's face and grinned. "Don't worry, it won't hurt you." Roberts tossed it to him. Reluctantly, Bae put it on.
"What is it?" he asked.
Roberts grinned, as much like a satisfied cat as Bae suspected Silver ever was. "I've put a bit of my magic in it. Nothing too powerful, I'm afraid. While it lasts, you can do the small things I can with it: feel the coming of death, make small illusions, pass the boundaries into the Gloaming, hold the last spark of life in a dying man – that last one won't help you much, not unless there's a healer or doctor near. You can't save them or heal them yourself, not without bringing them to the Gloaming and draining out their soul on a Dark Alter. And that toy's not strong enough for that."
Bae slipped on the ring and gasped. It was icy cold.
Roberts grinned. "Bites, doesn't it? Don't worry. You'll soon grow used to it. But, let me warn you, as you use it, it will melt. The stronger the spell, the faster it goes. And it only has power by night. Come daylight, it's just a ring."
"All magic comes with a price," Bae said it as a simple fact, but Roberts heard the question lying beneath.
"Indeed. Trust me, lad, if you have to use that, I think the trouble you'll be in will be price enough already. You might as well have something to show for your grief.
"Now, come," he said, walking back towards the fortress. "Siri'll have my hide if I hand you over to her in the evening too tired to stand. That girl's a witch in more ways than one."
"She's not a Goblin," Bae said following him. "But . . . she beat three of them. They were mounted, and she was on foot. But, she still beat them. How? Was that sickle of hers magic, or is it – is she – what is she?" He didn't say words like cursed.
"She's my granddaughter," Roberts said, as though that were answer enough. But, seeing Bae's face, he went on. "The sickle's just a sickle, a witch's toy. Good for cutting weeds. As for Siri herself, there was spell on the land where she was born, not unlike the one that trapped this town of Stroybrooke, though Siri's was broken years ago. At the time, it kept me from getting near her or my kin when I might have been some use – not a common thing for my kind, being useful. I still can't get into Storybrooke or I'd send you with something more than a ring and a knife to protect you. Oh, and I'll warn you, boy, the borders won't open to you, either, while you're in that town. You'll need to seek the border if you want to escape here" He led Bae through the twisting, haphazard corridors, till they reached a small bedroom. "Siri thinks the spell on her home woke something in her," Roberts said, opening the door and ushering Bae in. Roberts didn't cross the threshold. Goblin manners? Like a demon in a story, having given the room to Bae, could he not enter unless invited? Or did he just not like warm, well lit spaces? "The girl's too cynical by half. I think she simply had a gift, not the most pleasant one, but how many useful things are?"
"But, what about Tom, then?" Bae asked. "He's her twin. Shouldn't he be the same?"
"Ah, a strange thing about those two. It's a long tale – too long for now – but they're not truly twins. They share the same father, the same mother, the same birth, but they're not twins. Now, get some rest, boy. Someone will come fetch you when it's time to leave."