“Mop!” Rae heard someone nearby cry. “I was told you were here! How are you, old friend?”

Please, Rae thought. Keep him busy until this booted person leaves. She heard Mop returning a hearty greeting.

The boots shuffled. “No, I wouldn’t imagine the singer is you. Do you know who it is, though? Where I might find him?”

“Hmmm,” said Nessa, aging herself more with every utterance. “Well, my memory is not so good. Perhaps…” She gestured vaguely. “I seem to remember another shepherd… sometimes sells over there.”

“Well, I’ll keep looking, then.” The boots began to walk away. “The king thanks you for your help.”

Nessa exhaled. She rested her fingers on Rae’s shoulder. “We need to get you home,” she said softly, still not looking down. “Where’s Mop? Where’s Myntas?”

But Nessa had no sooner asked this question, when Mop’s voice began to rise over the marketplace.

“Oh, oh.” Nessa’s fingers tightened. “What is he doing? Be quiet, you old airmonger!”

But of course, Mop could not hear her.

He was singing. Someone had persuaded him.

His words carried, and all around, as he moved into his song, the noises of the market fell silent. The haggling voices, the shuffling footsteps, the squeaking cart wheels quieted as Mop lilted, chanting—

“Perhaps in younger years my voice could fill

the air as springtime flocks returning warm

both fields and skies with their sweet chatterings,

but still, old shepherd that I am, for you

I’ll weave a fine-spun song, for you, I’ll sing

of times before the age of men, when first

the world, that tender orb, was shaped

by seeds of earth and wind and sea and fire,

when creatures roamed through still unconscious hills

and man, as creature, too, roamed silently—

no wonder for the berry ripening

upon the cane, for clouds in hazy bloom

above the fields, no fear for shriveled fruit

upon the bough, for storms that rage and pass

encasing all in ice… no thoughts at all

for nature’s grand designs, the fate of all

the same…”

It was the first time Rae had heard Mop sing beyond their hillside, and she understood at once why his voice was known. I sing to wonder, she remembered him saying. To share that wonder. She could sense the whole market listening, marveling with him. Even as she trembled, knowing it would bring the booted guard again, her heart swelled hearing her father’s voice.

Ashen, unsteady, Ness clutched her hand. “Daughter,” she whispered as Mop’s song, rising and falling in waves, continued reshaping the air.

“… a mute acceptance. Forest shadows held us

once in green embrace; now outside and

alone, we fear what we’ve forgotten. But

draw close! Here, too, is wonder waiting, here,

too, is beauty—”

“You!” A voice, angry, assertive, cracked through Mop’s rhythms. “You there!”

“Oh, airmonger.” Ness’s hand tightened around Rae’s. “What have you done? What have you done?”

XXXIII

SLIPPERY FISH SCALES

You!” The angry voice cracked again. “Are you a shepherd?”