Owen dug through his satchel, looking for something. A smooth, round object. No, that wasn’t it. He pawed through several layers of clothes that his mother had insisted he pack. No, not them either. He found something squishy and amorphous. What was that? Whatever; it certainly wasn’t what he was looking for. Finally, his fingers encountered something wide and thin, dual layered, smooth wood and soft, strong fabric. That was it. Owen pulled out his panpipes. It had been much too long since he had played. 

His father had made the pipes for him when he was old enough to hold them in his then-small hands. At first he had expelled air in great gusts, regardless that all it produced was a sound like the wind whooshing over the valley or, if he was very lucky, a high-pitched shriek that made his baby sister wail. His mother said he had natural talent. And once he had figured out the right angle to hold the instrument, he did indeed prove to have talent. No one had to teach him which reed made which tone. After a week of playing incessantly and listening whenever he wasn’t playing, he could tell exactly which pipe belonged to which sound. No one had to teach him the correct order of pipes for the sacred songs. He figured them out for himself. It was like a puzzle. And then, once he had put the pieces together, it was bliss. 

He had memorized all the traditional songs by the time he was ten years old, and he played at most of his village’s ceremonies. But that wasn’t enough. He wanted the feeling of peace, of belonging, that came only when he immersed himself in the sound of the music. So he began to play with the pipes, to create new songs of his own. Since it was unacceptable to play ritual songs outside of the rituals themselves unless the player was learning, the only way Owen could reach the music he loved was to invent his own. Whenever he wasn’t helping his mother create teas and tisanes, he played his pipes. And sang. 

He had only started singing a few years ago. Once his voice started to mature. He didn’t have a trained voice. But he had a nice one. He used to imagine one day being able to play the pipes and sing at the same time. When he had tried it, he realized that it would take too much air for one human to produce. So he alternated. When he sang, he sometimes made up words, sometimes abandoned them entirely, to focus on the story of the melody he was weaving. 

He stroked the pipes, thinking of his father’s big, strong hands closing his fingers around the bumpy sides. Those hands were still busy doing a Shaman’s work. And they would stay that way until he got back to help them. If he got back, which he was beginning to seriously doubt. And if he did, what then? How would his father feel about his son becoming a killer? 

He sat holding the pipes for a long moment, running his fingers over the smooth ridges. What he hadn’t wanted to admit to Kaz was that he was still thoroughly freaked out by Ch’usaj. Indeed, he had had absolutely no contact with her since the incident with the trackers. He knew that there was more to her than death and destruction. But as long as he didn’t know which one would show up when he called, he wouldn’t be comfortable calling her at all. 

He had chosen the pipes because they felt safer, like a less direct link to Ch’usaj. True, he had been using them the first time he had contacted her,a nd the first time he had used his power. In the ritual, though, she had told him that all he had to do to call her was to sing. So maybe there was a slight possibility that with the pipes, he wouldn’t call her at all. And he longed for the soothing touch of his music without her presence. She had tainted its purity, and Owen wasn’t sure he could ever forgive her for that. 

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Owen lifted the pipes to his lips. He didn’t want to play for her, so he would play for himself. If she came, she would come. But he needed this moment for himself and he refused to make it all about her. 

Owen raised the panpipes to his lips and blew, letting the breathy-sweet sound absorb the tears he could feel gathering in his eyes. He played for his father, his mother, his sister. He played for simplicity and joy. He played for the life he had known and not fully appreciated, high in the mists and rains of the mountains. He played for his own shattered innocence, the part of him that felt it would never be whole again because of what he had done. The melody was simple, gentle. He tried to put his affection for his home into the tune. 

He continued playing. In his mind, he could imagine drums and voices joining in, hear how it all fit together. There was a rain stick, too, sending its illusion pattering through the melody every once in a while. And a rattle. Owen could feel the feathers vibrate as the player shook it in time to the two-tone drums carved out of the bole of a tree. 

And as he played, something opened within him. He allowed himself to feel, for the first time, the weight of what he had done, unclouded by shock or self-hatred. He felt the grief for himself at that stolen choice, as well as something new. A conviction that this choice would never be stolen from him again, no matter what it took for him to achieve this. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He let them. 

And as this conviction grew inside of him, bolstered by the hope that he would one day return to his family, Ch’usaj also opened within him. This was not her fury or malice. This was her as the emptiness between the notes, the place where his music arose and went to rest. He felt her joy at the beauty they were creating together. And somehow Owen knew that this version of her had no idea what she had done to hurt him. She was a creature of the present. 

Dimly, he was aware that he was supposed to be asking her certain things. But he didn’t want to stray from this beautiful connection to touch on darker things. Or risk bringing out the other side of her that he knew lurked somewhere beneath the surface. 

But no sooner did he think of his questions than she picked up on them. She began to guide his melodies. Owen followed her lead, but only reluctantly. She was showing no signs of her rage, so perhaps it was safe.  Ch’usaj picked up on his reluctance, and suddenly he was flooded with a wave of remorse. She was sorry. A nudge of reassurance followed; she would not push him to do anything of the sort this time. 

With Owen’s acquiescence, the melody changed, became haunting and melancholy. He began feeling flashes of emotion, receiving fragments of knowledge without knowing where they came from. 

He felt worry. Something was wrong with the humans. Too many strands choking the weaving. Leadership turning to greed and power where there should be breath and space for humility. Ch’usaj knew where she was needed. 

He felt desperation, hope, and sadness. No one would listen. 

The symptoms grew worse, fluctuating over the years, but the stagnation always worsened. And still no one listened. Her mage was exiled and the humans pushed her into the farthest reaches of prejudice. Desperation turned to depression. Owen felt Ch’usaj give up hope of being able to affect the change she saw as necessary. 

Then a flicker. A powerful young man who could give her a way in. She knew it wasn’t a solution her siblings would like, but they didn’t want him, and didn’t take notice of her desire to choose him. 

So she seized her opportunity. Vidar listened to her, understood the problem. He knew that something must be done, and he worked his way to a position where he could make it happen. 

Owen felt Ch’usaj’s regret and sadness. She believed the pattern could have been addressed a different way, if only someone had listened to her sooner. She hadn’t wanted so many to die. Death meant little to her, as it was a part of her nature. But she saw how much it made the humans hurt, and she hurt for them. But it had felt necessary. 

Owen wondered about Kaz. If she was part of the pattern, did Ch’usaj believe she also had to die? And did she expect him to do it? 

He lost control of the pipes for a moment, releasing a piercing whistle. Cj’usaj’s conflict was clear. The easiest way to fix the pattern would be for Kaz to die. But that would mean she had to rule the humans herself. And she did not want to rule, though revenge on her siblings would be sweet. 

Owen felt her plea, plaintive and hopeful. Find a way. Restore Inti’s blessing. Only then can you save her. 

As Owen felt the link ebb, a wave of compassion for Ch’usaj broke over him. He sensed how lost she was, how alone she felt. He understood her in that moment, because he had no idea what to do either. 

And then his focus returned to the notes, tot he pipes in his hands. As the melody turned towards resolution, he realized that he was aware of much more than the instrument in his hands. He could feel, as though he had run his fingers over them, every detail of the deck around him. The hammock under his legs. The smooth width of the mast to his back. The ridges of the reeds below him. 

He extended the melody, awed at this new sensitivity. Devlin was curled below the hammock, nose next to his tail. Owen directed his awareness outward, and felt several people standing near him He could vaguely feel their shapes - height, weight, even posture. One of them had mismatched legs; that must be Otto. 

This was enough, more than enough. He couldn’t take in any more, so he brought the melody to a close and lowered the pipes to his lap. 

The moment the music stopped, the new awareness began to fade. It didn’t disappear entirely, though. Just sort of muffled, like a sound heard from the next room. He could still feel Devlin and his audience. But they lost definition, became little more than a presence. 

At last the melody faded. No more music filled him. He puffed out his cheeks and blew out the last of it. The pan pipes said their goodbyes in a final descending sigh. Owen lowered the panpipes. There was silence. The boat had never been so quiet. Only the lapping of the water and the wind whispering to and through the trees. 

Otto’s mismatched steps approached him. His heavy, sturdy hand settled onto Owen’s shoulder. “Boy, if I’d known you could do that, I wouldn’t even have charged you for passage. Do you always play like that?” 

It was a strange question. Every time he played was different. The music was never the same twice. “I never really think about it,” he told the sailor. “I just play and it comes out.” 

Several people let out sighs. “There’s several men on this boat as I’ve never seen them so much as sniff,” continued Otto. “And here you have half a them crying and the other half trying not to. You may have trouble finding your river legs, lad, but I’ll take you on my vessel anytime. You prove that all men have souls, because you touched them right then.”

Owen had never received praise like this for his playing. He had always just done it. People had sometimes gotten quiet when he played or sang. But then they returned to their business. He hadn’t realized it had this kind of an effect. “Thanks, Otto. I’m glad you like it.”

“Like it!” Otto emitted one of his bellows laughs. “Will you play like that every day of this journey, young man?” 

“Sure.” 

“Oh, and do you know any of them blessing songs? Them that bless a journey or a voyage.” 

“I don’t think so, but I know the way they’re usually shaped. I could probably come up with something.” 

“Well, that’s better than gettting your nose cut off, innit?” 

Several members of his crew laughed appreciatively. Otto clapped him on the shoulder again. “Well, my intuition told me you’d be a good one to have aboard and I was right. Look at that sunset. Gold and peach. Nothing like an omen of a sunny morning.” 

Otto’s hand left Owen’s shoulder and he stumped off towards the rear of the boat. The air regained the rustle and hum as normal activity resumed, though Owen distinctly heard several covert sniffs. 

“Owen,” said Kaz, from the hammock beside him. 

“Yes?” 

“That was…remarkable,” she said. 

“Thank you.” 

“No, I mean. I didn’t even know it was possible to play like that.” 

“Like what?”

“You know, outside ritual. I always hated singing. Not because it wasn’t pretty, but because there was so much to keep track of and I never seemed to be able to get it all right at the same time. I haven’t really heard you just play - I mean, the circumstances were, uh, different before. But just now...I didn’t realize you could be so free with music.” 

Owen smiled, despite the pang that went through him at the mention of the trackers. “Like I said before,” he told her. “It came naturally to me. And when I learned all that was required, I needed that feeling more. I couldn’t sit still, knowing that this feeling was out there, and not go after it. No one stopped me once I started, so I figured it was alright.” 

“I honestly don’t know how proper it is to create your own music,” said Kaz. “I always thought it was something for ritual only. And I hated it for that. But this…I love this. You sing, too, right?” 

“Yes.” 

“Maybe,” said Kaz. There was a hesitance in her voice, almost like shyness. Owen dismissed the thought as too unlikely. There was nothing shy about Kaz. “Maybe we could sing together sometime.” 

Owen’s smile stayed. “I would like that.” 

“Me too.” 

Owen breathed in the silence, eyes closed. He could still feel the fading echoes of the music, and the awareness it had brought with it. If this was another manifestation of his power, it would make his determination to use it as little as possible much more challenging to maintain. 

He sighed. “Kaz, are we alone?” 

“Yes. There’s no one else within earshot.”

“Ok.  Then I need to tell you some things.

"Did you make contact with Ch’usaj just now?" 

Owen nodded. "And I don’t think you’re going to like what I learned." He began trying to translate the flashes of insight into words.

"So Ch’usaj is responsible for my family’s death?" It sounded like it was taking all her self control for Kaz to keep her voice down. 

"It seems that way. Well, her and Vidar."

"Then she wants me dead, too!"

"That’s the most confusing part. She seemed sorry that it had come to death. And it almost felt like she was pleading with me to find a different solution to save you. Because, well, I don’t think she wants to rule." 

"Bullshit! Vidar said in my dream-"

"Kaz, remember what my dad said, about humans influencing the personalities of their elements. I think Vidar wants to rule, and so Ch’usaj picked up on it. But just now...Kaz, I’m telling you, she doesn’t want to be in charge!"

Kaz let our a great gust of air. There was a rustle and the deck began to creak. Kaz was pacing. 

"What a hypocrite! If this pattern was such a big problem, how come none of the other elements have mentioned it?"

"I think that’s the problem, though," said Owen. "They all ignored Ch’usaj. I think there might have been a better solution if they’d listened to her before this pattern got so bad. Her solution came from desperation, not malice. I think Vidar brings out the worst qualities in her."

"Oh, and that makes it ok, does it?" Kaz’s voice was rising, and Owen’s heightened senses picked up the flicker of her power. 

"Of course not!" said Owen. "I’m just trying to understand why this happened. At least we know Ch’usaj thinks there was a good reason. Kaz, nothing can make what happened ok. No matter what the motivation, it’s still horrible, and always will be."

Kaz took a deep breath. "I’m sorry Owen. I know you’re just telling me what you learned. It just makes me so angry! It’s almost worse to know there was a reason, like there’s something I could argue against."

"Kaz, you have every right to be angry. But please be careful. I felt your power come to the surface just now. And how far would it be from revealing your power to having someone figure out your identity?"

Kaz gave a low, frustrated noise. But a moment later she settled back into her hammock. "You’re right," she said. "I hate this! Always trying to guess what people know or how they’ll react. Owen, I have something to tell you, too."

Owen was frowning by the time she finished telling him about her conversation with Ember. 

"That is strange," he admitted. "Especially with all the hints and warnings we’ve been getting about her and Chel."

"Exactly!" said Kaz. "Owen, I don’t know what to do. I mean, we’re on a boat, so it’s not like we can run away from them. And confronting them would be stupid."

"I agree. We shouldn’t confront them. Hmmm….what are our options?"

"Do we have any? Other than pay attention and not let them get too close?"

Owen frowned. "What if we had allies?"

There was a rustle, and Kaz’s voice got closer. "What do you have in mind? I thought we agreed not to tell anyone."

"Well, for one thing, the situation has changed. And I’m not thinking of telling the whole crew. What if we just tell Otto? You saw how careful he is. He’s probably the only person on this ship who can do something about it if Chel and Ember do turn out to be in league with Vidar."

Owen listened to Kaz breathe for a moment before she spoke. "OK. It would be great to have an ally. And I agree that he seems trustworthy." 

Gentle, soft fingers gripped his shoulder. "Owen, I’m glad you’re here."

Owen reached up to Kaz’s hand on his shoulder and followed it up her arm, reaching out with his other arm. She understood and leaned forward to hug him. 

Between them, Devlin wriggled. A moment later Kaz sputtered, and pulled away. 

“Does he always lick people right in the face?” 

Owen laughed. “Only the ones he likes.”

"Good luck," he added, as she straightened up and set off towards the stern of the boat. 

Next Chapter: 39: Kaz - Allies