Anwyn Baldomyre heard the strains of an instrument whose sound was alien to his ears. The wailing voice had been floating across the moors of Lamboria for more than half a morning. Its pitch would waiver and tremble like the keen of a woman in mourning, only to alternate to the brash bawling of a cow.

 

"By the Four," Anwyn muttered.

 

"I rather doubt the Four would have given credence to anything that sounds like a slaughtered goat," Glynnanis replied.

 

Anwyn arched an eyebrow at the unicorn head of his harp. "It's not that bad a sound." Though even as he spoke, he wondered if it was just the distance that made it more interesting. There was a certain attraction to the sound. What sort of instrument could make it was another matter.

 

"That's because we're too far away for it to eat our ears," the harp replied.

 

Anwyn shook his head and continued. Admittedly, his path was narrow and meandered among ancient standing stones and over hummocks as though a goat had mapped it. Here and there, he found signs of what might have been old dwellings. At one point he came across a stone carved by the hands of men, bearing the words "Here is the path to death."

 

"What could that possibly mean?" he wondered aloud.

 

As if to answer him, the mist around him ebbed and took form. It looked to be a woman whose eyes carried a sadness he could not define. He reached towards her, but she vanished, slipping into the ever-moving mist.           

 

"Was that a spirit, Glynnanis?" Anwyn asked.

 

"If this place is truly the path to death, she could be," the harp replied. "Maybe you should forget the song and take another road."

 

"I am in this land to find songs, Glynnanis," Anwyn said, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "If I turn away from every warning, I will learn nothing. If anything, you and Rhystar are both pushing me to learn who and what I am. Songs are my way of learning."

 

"Hmph!" The single note cracked across his nerves like a whip. "You are the master of magical songs, and yet you still wish to learn more. If you ask me, you need to stop wasting time, go back to Rhystar and make your sacrifice. Then if you wish to run around looking for songs, at least you will have the power to take on anything that crosses your path."

 

Anwyn sighed. It was an old argument, to be sure, and he often grew tired of hearing it. It did no good to protest how he valued his freedom more than the power within him. The harp would only call him selfish, so he silenced his thoughts and started onward in search of that strange moor song.

 

The sound grew louder as he approached a hill studded by old megaliths and topped by a circle of menhirs. Here the mist grew thicker, and in its eerie cotton, he swore he saw more figures and shapes. He paused when his path split. One circled the great tor while the other ended at stairs.

 

Stairs on a moor? he thought.

 

Nature had naught to do with the way the stones had been leveled and set into the hillside. But then, nature had nothing to do with the megaliths rising like a crown around the hill's head. Someone had deliberately built them, and his curiosity was just enough to overpower his initial unease. The sound he sought seemed to be coming from up there, and he wanted to know who or what made such a noise. He put his foot on the first step and began to climb.

 

"You never learn," the harp muttered.

 

"Oh, but I do plan to learn what is making that noise," Anwyn retorted. "And then we can leave."

 

A mist was rolling in and out, giving the stones their otherworldly glamor. As he reached the top, the mournful sound grew so loud, he was tempted to cover his ears. He stopped just at the edge of the circle of stones and peered into the mist.

 

There was young man seated atop what looked like an old stone altar slipped lopsided with age. The mist ebbed and flowed around him, one moment becoming part of him and the next moment moving away. He wore a strange cloak woven in a pattern of lines of blue and white and tan. Anwyn had seen such patterns before. Some men in Lamboria's more northerly reaches wore the same sort of cloth, though often, they had it wrapped about them. This youth draped it off one shoulder, revealing that he wore a doeskin tunic and breeches of the same soft leather. He had hair like moonlight and eyes as pale as water tinged with the barest hint of blue. In his arms, he clutched a large bag with all manner of appendages poking out, and one of those was in his mouth. Another extended down, and the youth's fingers worked the holes. He was the master of the song, and as he played, the mist moved at his will.

 

A piper, Anwyn thought. In his own country, there was a similar instrument, but it was smaller and sweeter sounding, and instead of blowing on it, they pressed the small bag under their arm while tickling a tune out of the chanter.

 

"And not of this world," Glynnanis replied.

 

The youth stopped playing, his gaze wandering over to where Anwyn stood. The last note died a whimpering death. Mist scurried back from him as though eager to flee his presence. He cocked his head and said, "Hullo, your harp speaks, though I don't think it knows what it says."

 

Anwyn tried not to frown. "And sometimes it speaks it mind a little too freely," he said.

 

The piper smiled. "And who are you?" he asked.

 

"My name is Anwyn." Anwyn replied, remembering that it was not always wise to give one's full name.

 

"First name only. That is fine. I am Embre. Welcome to my small kingdom, Anwyn."

 

"Your kingdom?" Anwyn asked and glanced around, for all he saw was mist and stones and knew that beyond those were the moor full of ruins he had been crossing.

 

Embre smiled. "Yes, I admit it is not much to see. In the old days, there were houses and streets and markets, and this was the throne of the king." He patted the stone on which he sat, and Anwyn realized that the angle was not because it had slid off center but because there was indeed something carved from it that had long ago worn away. "Alas, time has taken a terrible toll upon this once mighty place, and all that remains is what you see. So where do you come from, Anwyn, you and your saucy harp. It is clear that you are not one of the men who long ago overran these realms and turned my people into myth and mist." And even as he said the word mist, his lips thinned into a grim smile.

 

Anwyn glanced at the pale gloom edging away and forming a circle just outside the stones. There it would morph from time to time into figures who would come and go. Faces appeared and disappeared, and among them he swore he saw the woman who had wafted past him on the moors.

 

"I come from Nymbaria," Anwyn said, "which is a long way from here, I will admit."

 

Embre's eyes widened. "By the Four," he said. "Then you and yours are the last of our kind. And here we thought we were all gone."

 

"I am Thuathyn," Anwyn said, unable to keep puzzlement out of his voice.

 

"Ah, so that is what the Forest Kin call themselves these days. No matter. It is good to see one of our kin, even if he seems to have forgotten his origins."

 

Anwyn frowned. He had grown up hearing the tales humans shared about his kind. But his father had said those were just stories humans made up.

 

"My father used to say those were only stories," Anwyn blurted. "Calling us creatures of magic gave them an excuse to be rude to our kind."

 

"Yes, and perhaps it is better to think so, for what humans did to us."

 

"What did they do?"

 

Embre gestured around him. Anwyn glanced at the circle and saw the mist was now taking on ghostly forms again. Some of them were shaking their heads. Others were looking frightened.

 

"There was a war," Embre said. "They came in the night, barbaric creatures that they were, and slaughtered men and women and children without a thought to what they did. The houses and farms were obliterated. We welcomed them to our land with open arms, and this was how they betrayed us. They wanted what we had and would not stop until the last of us fell before them. Some of us did manage to escape and hid within this hill beneath these moors, and over time, they almost forgot we were here at all. Now, as you have said, they think we are no more than stories they were told to frighten them as children."

 

"And where are the rest?"

 

"I am the last," Embre said. "The last descendant of the king of the Forest Kin, and I am alone. And one day, when my life finally leaves me, I will be gone. Or not."

 

"How old are you?" Anwyn asked and shivered.

 

Embre smiled sadly. "I have seen the coming and going of so many generations of men, I no longer know," he said.

 

"The Forest Kin were long lived, as your ancestors once were," Glynnanis suddenly sang in Anwyn's head. "My guess would be he is older than Rhystar if he remembers the days of man's destruction of the ancient kin of the world."

 

"Again, your harp knows things I would advise you to listen to lightly. It may tell you tales that I do not wish to hear."

 

He tapped his chanter and blew a few more notes that sent the mist dancing around the circle and made Glynnanis' string thrum even within the cerecloth sack.

 

"So why have you stayed here?" Anwyn asked.

 

Embre stopped playing more and shrugged.

 

"I cannot leave my people," Embre said and flipped a hand towards the mist. "Even though they are all gone, they wait for me to join them in the land of mist and air."

 

"But that means you are out here all alone," Anwyn insisted. "How can you stand such solitude? How do you manage to eat?"

 

"You travel the road alone," Embre said.

 

"I have my harp for company," Anwyn said. "And I have food."

 

"True," Embre agreed. "And I have my pipes, and as long as I have breath and can remember the songs of my life, I am content to wait. Food? I have no need for the sort of nourishment of which you speak. In fact, you should come join me in a song or two. You might find it quite filling. Come, enter my palace and be welcome for all time."

 

Anwyn nodded. There was no reason to hurry on when he might learn new songs. He started to step into the circle when he felt the hum of Glynnanis' strings.

 

"I would not do that if I were you," the harp warned.

 

Anwyn hesitated. "Why not?" he asked.

 

But even as he paused from placing a foot across the line of the circle inside the stones, he could see that things were changing. The figures in the mist grew more frightened. Men, women and children tearfully watched him, shaking their heads as though trying to warn him of some danger.

 

"Ignore them," Embre whispered. "Ignore the harp. Come and join me in a song or two. You like new songs, don't you? I shall gladly teach you a few. Just step into the circle and join me."

 

Embre's voice took on a soft, sinister tone. And those blue eyes narrowed with a predator's feral stare.

 

"Don't listen to him,"_ Glynnanis said. "I know now what he truly is. He is not king of the Forest Kin. He is the King of Mist and Air—a wraith. He uses his songs to lure others to their death. Cross his line and you will not return to the land of the living and become as those who are trapped in the mist."

 

"Do not listen to your harp," Embre hissed. "Come and I will teach you all the songs you want to know. I know more songs than man has ever heard. I know songs that move mountains and stones. I know songs that are sung to the wind. I even know the secret of the most powerful song you could imagine."

 

Songs, Anwyn thought. Yes, he loved songs, but his heart now raced with unknown fear. What was it the stone had said?

 

Here is the path to death.

 

Anwyn shook his head. "No," he said. "I will not join you."

 

"Fool," Embre said. "I need a fresh soul on which to feed, and your magical one will suit me just fine. Now come!"

 

"No!" Anwyn stumbled back from the circle's edge.

 

"Very well," Embre said. "We will just have to do this the hard way."

 

He suddenly drew the chanter to his lips and began to twiddle a song so sharp; Anwyn had to cover his ears. He felt as though the very notes were pricking his skin like pins as the very air pushed him towards the gap in the circle of stones. He fought to back away, but the wind picked up, so the gusts became blows. He went to his knees, trying hard not to fall into the circle.

 

"Sing!" Glynnanis called.

 

Sing what?

 

The pummeling air felt like fists turning Anwyn's back black and blue with bruises. Wind whistled past his ears, making the worldly sounds nearly impossible to hear.

 

"He is air," Glynnanis said. "What element is his opposite?"

 

Embre's song was growing louder and louder. Anwyn crouched in the gap, hunkered over to stay on the ground and not be forced across by the wind tearing at his clothes. The pain of the blows was making him ill, bringing tears to his eyes. They spilled down his cheeks, splattering the grass as his mind suddenly grasped what the harp meant.

 

Not fire for fire was fed on air. Not water, for it was part of the mist.

 

Earth and Stone!

 

Anwyn reached within himself and found his Song of Earth. He planted his hands firmly on the ground and started to sing.

 

He felt the earth lurching beneath his touch. The hill began to rumble and shake and split around the throne. Embre looked surprised when it suddenly lurched to one side. His piping song ceased, and the wind died. He cried out and tried to grasp the edge of his seat, but it was too late. Anwyn's song had opened a crack in the hill, revealing the cavernous chamber below. Before Embre could mist away, he and the throne were devoured by the hill. Dirt and stone tumbled in after him. The wail of his pipes being pressed down faded away with his scream.

 

But then, the dirt beneath Anwyn was giving way as well. If he did not get off the hill, he too would be sucked into those earthy depths. He struggled to his feet as the ground began to buck like an angry horse. Staggering towards the stairs, he stumbled to his knees. The world behind him continued to collapse. Again, he tried to get up and start down the stairs, but they were pitching back and forth, throwing him off balance.

 

"Now sing your Gate Song," Glynnanis called.

 

Anwyn started to sing, but he got tossed off the stairs and hit the side of the hill so hard it knocked the breath from him. He slid down on his backside until he struck one of the megaliths growing out of the side of the hill and watched in horror as it started to fall towards him. All he could do was throw his hands up to cover his face and hope death would be swift and not painful, though grimly he realized he was probably too sore to care.

 

But then, he felt the mist close in, and almost like hands on his arms and body, it was lifting him up and dragging him out of harm's way as the stone slammed down where he had lain. At first, he feared it was about to dump him into the hole the mound was becoming, but instead, he floated towards more solid ground. There, he was set on his feet. His knees gave way from exhaustion and pain, and he could do no more than sit down and stare.

 

The hill was gone now. As the dust cleared, it was nothing but a patch of uneven earth and stones.

 

What just happened?

 

Mist formed in front of him, taking on the shape of the woman he had seen before.

 

"You have set us free," she said. "We were bound to haunt this place until one could imprison the King of Mist and Air. We foolishly trapped his heart stone beneath this mound to control him, and in turn, he trapped us here when the humans came. It was he who told them our weakness, promising them treasure if they opened the mound so air could find his heart stone and give him back his power. He lives not on flesh and bone but on sorrow and pain and souls. But your bravery has set us free and now we can go to our promised rest. Take care, Harper Mage. Blood of our blood, as you are, we are pleased to know that somewhere in this world, our descendants flourish and are still masters of some magic."

 

She floated away, leaving him staring at a world of heather and stone as the mist lifted and vanished to reveal that it was still a warm and brilliant day.

 

"Next time you hear an unnatural song, consult me first," Glynnanis said.

 

"Perhaps I will," Anwyn said with a sigh.

 

He sang his Song of Healing to stop the aches and pains still ambling across his flesh. Then crawling to his feet, he followed the path around what had once been a hill and looked towards the horizon.

 

There had to be another song out there somewhere.

 

One less painful, he hoped.

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