No, Alton’s gloom had nothing to do with Estral, but with the horses. The anxiety of Karigan’s Condor, Yates’ Phoebe, and Lynx’s Owl had increased steadily. The three had become restive enough that they’d had to be picketed separately from the encampment’s other equines, for their mood was contagious and a worried horse or mule was prone to injure itself.

So Alton and Dale had made a concerted effort to keep a close watch on the messenger horses, and he’d gotten Leese to spare some calming herbs that he incorporated into a daily mash for the three. If Night Hawk was jealous of the attention he lavished on the others, the gelding showed no sign. Messenger horses were perceptive, seeming to understand more about the world and what was happening to their people than ordinary horses did. He would not have been surprised if the messenger horses conferred with one another in some unknown way; therefore, he kept Night Hawk and Dale’s Plover picketed close to them, but out of harm’s way.

Alton sought out Estral at her tent, the dining tent, by the wall, and in the tower, and could not find her. Could she have gone to the main encampment for any reason? He scratched his head, then remembered her horse had still been picketed, and she hadn’t mentioned any intention to travel. On a hunch he went to his tent and found her sitting on a stool in front of it, her lute case open beside her. She was flexing her fingers in preparation for playing.

“There you are,” he said. “Why are you over here?”

“For some reason,” she replied, “people are less likely to interrupt me at your tent, Lord Alton.”

“Oh, I see.” And he did, for Estral tended to collect an audience when she played, even when she was obviously trying to concentrate on working out the mysterious measure from the book of Theanduris Silverwood. He could see how distracting that would be. Because of his own status, people tended to keep a respectful distance from his tent. “Am I interrupting?”

“Not yet,” Estral replied. “I haven’t started yet.”

A redbird fluttered its wings in a nearby tree, its feathers bright against evergreen.

“How are the horses?” she asked.

He’d explained to her the nature of messenger horses and so she knew what it meant when they were upset.

“Still agitated,” he said. “Condor the most. I can only imagine what trouble Karigan has gotten herself into.”

Estral gazed at her fingernails. The nails on her chording hand were shorter than those on her picking hand, which he’d learned from direct experience when she held onto him when they were alone together. The thought made him smile, and just as quickly he replaced it with a neutral expression, recalling what they were discussing. Karigan was still a difficult topic between them.

“I often wonder what she and the others are encountering in the forest,” Estral said.

“Me, too.” Even though Alton had spent time in Blackveil himself, he remembered few details, and those had been awful enough. He did not share his memories with Estral, not wishing to worry her further. Such thoughts only made him gloomier so he changed the subject. “How goes work on that measure of music? Any inspirations?”

Estral sighed. “You know, I’ve been thinking about this even when I’m not actively working on it. I’ve tried so many variations, and none have been quite right. Sometimes I think I’m overthinking it, and at other times I remember what a genius Gerlrand Fiori was with music and I feel so very inadequate.”

The redbird chirped as if to underscore her statement, and hopped to another branch.

“Inadequate? I hardly think so.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. Then more seriously he added, “If you want inadequate, think of how I feel about the wall. My ancestors built it, but I can’t fix it.”

“You can’t fix it because I can’t figure out the music,” Estral said. “However, I’ve been trying to think like Gerlrand, musically speaking, and he did not always follow logical patterns. The existing notes from the book ascend as if asking a question.” She demonstrated for him, her voice rising in clear, ringing notes. “The assumption is that there is an answer. But what if there isn’t an answer at all, but only another question? And what if that other question does not mirror the notes we know of, but consists of still more measures?”

Alton smiled feebly and patted her shoulder. “That’s why we’ve an expert on the job.”

“The true expert would be Gerlrand. There are just so many possible variations.”

She sang the notes again, this time carrying on with a continued ascension, then drifting into minor notes, the tone eerie, before soaring once again. Alton assumed she was making it up as she went and decided Gerlrand held nothing over his Estral.

As she sang, the redbird launched from its perch and circled overhead. Alton thought nothing of it until it folded its wings into a dive; it dove directly at Estral like a crimson dart, dove and slammed into her throat. It all happened so quickly, and Estral’s song ended abruptly. No crumpled bird lay dazed on the ground after the collision. It had turned into a bloated serpent of red light that wrapped around her neck and slithered into her open mouth and down her throat. She gagged, gasping for breath.

“Estral!” Alton tried to grab the serpent, but it was the substance of air. Estral scratched at her throat, tried to scream, but nothing emerged. Alton did not know what to do, but then the snake faded away. Estral remained on her stool, eyes wide and tearing, hands still at her throat.