Chapter 3

I woke up naturally before dawn.  I could hear distant muted voices and nearby breathing.  I opened my eyes and startled at the sight of a sleeping man a short distance from me.  After my initial shock, I quickly recognized Wren, his face slack and his lips slightly parted as he softly snored.

I sat up and stretched my back and arms.

“Good morning!” Quin said brightly, beaming at me from the other side of the burned out campfire.

I made a shushing gesture at her and pointed at Wren.

“He said to wake you two up at dawn,” Quin said with a slight frown.

“Well, it’s not quite dawn yet,” I said quietly as I donned my shoes and rose to my feet.  “So, let him sleep a little longer.”

Quin shrugged.

“If you say so,” she said in a dubious tone.

“Thank you, Quin,” I said sincerely.

I nodded at her as I headed away from camp to stretch my legs and take care of other things.  When I came back a short while later, the pre-dawn glow was brighter, painting the eastern sky golden yellow.  

“Now?” Quin asked as I walked back into camp.

I glanced at Wren and remembered the cool way we’d ended the evening.  I was still a little embarrassed about his rebuke, and I figured he could use as much sleep as he could get.

“I’m pretty sure the singing will wake him,” I told Quin in a mildly teasing tone.

Quin smirked.

“Especially Quin’s singing,” Noble said.

Quin’s grin vanished, replaced with a look of betrayal as she tried to bat at her brother’s arm.  Noble was too quick; he dodged out of the way, chuckling under his breath as he rolled up to his feet with easy grace.

I helped Quin to her feet but refused to play referee as Quin stalked Noble and Noble dodged his sister.  I stood to the side, watching the horizon.  When the first rays of sunlight broke, I lifted my voice.

The lone note I sang rang out, not loudly, but with strength.  Then my voice was joined by Noble’s familiar tenor, singing at a higher volume than I was using.  Noble picked up one of the low harmonies, letting me transition naturally into the soprano melody.  Quin joined in, softly butchering the simplest harmony for the song.  My dear friend was a skilled Dawncaller, but she could not carry a tune in a bucket with a lid.  So, she sang quietly, minimizing the discord she added to the song.

I got caught up in the ritual of the song, and I startled when a fourth voice joined ours.  My voice faltered for a degree, and I glanced over my shoulder.  I found Wren rising to his feet as he sang the baritone counterpoint to the melody I was singing.

I shouldn’t have been surprised.  Every child in Meridian knows both the Dawn Song and the Chant of Dusk.  And Wren had always been good with melodies.  He was a minstrel.  Nightminstrel, so, a keeper of chants, not songs, but I felt confident that he would have attained the rank as a Dawncaller, too.  He’d always had an ear for music, even when we were very young.  His voice was rich and pleasant, deeper than it had been before my testing.

I nodded at Wren and then turned back to the horizon, raising my voice since everyone was awake.

Wren surprised me again by stepping up to stand next to me.  After our conversation the previous night had turned tense, I hadn’t expected the show of solidarity and camaraderie from him.  But that seemed to be Wren, at least so far: supportive and helpful one moment, and antagonistic the next.  Maybe he felt he owed it to me since I’d joined him in chanting down the sun at dusk.

Whatever his reasons, his warm voice added a welcome layer of richness to our ensemble.

When the song reached its crescendo and the sun rose free of the horizon, Quin’s voice faded away first while Noble, Wren, and I held the final note.  Noble bowed out second, glancing at me and Wren.  I eyed the baritone as well.  There was no official rule for how to end the Dawn Song, but normally the person who started the call—and/or the person carrying the melody—was given the privilege of ending the song alone, letting their voice ring for a moment as a solo.

But Wren was still holding the note.

He looked smug about it, too.

I couldn’t fathom why he’d do such a thing.  He wasn’t a Dawncaller.  He hadn’t started the song.  He had been singing melody, but he’d joined in.  He’d joined me.

Then I remembered how he used to do the same thing when we were kids.

I had never gotten the solo when we were young, so I’d always politely gone quiet with the chorus, but I could remember him—and a few other plucky individuals—who would see who could hold the final note the longest.  

I wasn’t prepared for this type of contest, but I did my best, holding the note until I felt the strain of empty lungs stealing my voice.  When my voice faltered, Wren ended his note.  I followed a moment later, and then took a deep breath.

Wren looked far too amused with himself.

“Show off,” Quin said with clear irritation.

“Jealous?” Wren asked her in far too polite of a tone.

His expression was still smug, but I also finally noticed the rings under his eyes and the slump of his shoulders.

Quin gaped at him and then growled and moved toward him, but he ignored her and turned away.  She scowled at his back as he went poking through the wagon looking for food.

I joined Wren at the cart, since I’d been the one to put things away after our dinner.

“Doesn’t look like you got much sleep,” I told him, my tone quiet and concerned.

“I’m sure I’ll adjust in a few days,” he said in a gruff voice.

I pursed my lips.

“Is there any way to make you less miserable now?” I asked.  “And maybe less rude?”

He looked sideways at me.  His eyes were red and shadowed.  His chin and cheeks were dusted with dark stubble.

“I’m not miserable,” he said, sounding miserable.

“You look miserable,” I said, but I got the impression I was wasting my time.  I sighed.  “But if you don’t want help, so be it.”

He held my gaze for another moment.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said in a quieter tone that sounded more honest and less cocky.  “I’ll be fine.  I’m just a little groggy.  That’s all.”

I frowned at him and then sighed.

“Suit yourself,” I said with a shrug.

I pulled a crate of rations down from the cart and handed Wren an apple.  He took it lightly and then immediately started eating it, peeking over my shoulder to see what else was in the box.

I distributed food items, starting with the most perishable.  We ate and cleaned up our camp, packed the cart, and started walking north.

The morning passed uneventfully.  Neither of the boys were in a particularly talkative mood, so Quin carried the conversation, as she was wont to do.  Noble led the mule pulling the cart, and Wren followed on the opposite side of the cart from Quin and me.

When we paused for a rest and meal at noon, Wren looked even more miserable than he had at dawn.  But he waved me off with a grimace and some muttered swearing when I offered to let him rest.

That evening, Wren’s mood was still sour when he guided me through the breathing routine I’d learned the night before.  I still felt uneasy about the pace of the ‘training,’ but there was plenty of time.  It was only our second day.

“You should sleep,” I told him softly when we were done.  He looked terrible.

He made a noise that was all disgust and irritation.

“Not yet,” he replied in a gravelly tone as he scowled at the fire.

I frowned as I studied the side of his face.

“You let me sleep last night,” I pointed out.  “Let me return the favor.  I’ll wake Quin and Noble for their shift.”

He turned to arch an eyebrow at me.

“How will you know when to wake them?” he asked in a pointed tone.

My mouth fell open.

“I-I…” I started, but I didn’t have any answer.

I knew how to tell time at night—in theory; we’d all been taught as children—but I’d never had to do it before.  In the village, there was never any need.  It was easy to tell time during the day by tracking the angle of the sun, and if I was active at night, the corners were heralded by bells in town.

I watched Wren raise his chin as he regarded me.

I exhaled heavily through my nose as I lifted my gaze to the cloudless sky.  Then my mouth fell open at the volume of stars I could see.  There were at least twice as many points of light as I was used to seeing in the village.

“Wow,” I breathed.  Then I softly cleared my throat and scanned the sky for the guide-star used as a constant by which to track the movement of other stars for timekeeping.  “Um…”

I saw two bright yellow stars that seemed like they might be the one I was looking for.  I pursed my lips as I tried to figure out which one was the right one.  I knew you could tell time by measuring in which direction from the guide-star a certain constellation pointed.  I found those stars, the formation called the Empress, but I wasn’t sure how to orient it or what time it currently read.

“You can’t feel it,” Wren said softly, not asking.  He sounded wistful.

“Feel what?” I murmured in confusion as I dropped my gaze from the stars to look at him again.

 Wren’s expression was dark, but I couldn’t tell if he was sad, angry, or what.  Maybe it was just the exhaustion.

“Nightbringers can feel midnight’s approach,” he said even more quietly.

I felt like I should have known that.  Maybe I had but I’d forgotten.

“Oh.  Right,” I breathed sheepishly.  I shifted my weight and pressed my lips together as I glanced skyward again.  “Well, I can use the Empress… if you remember which way she spins… and if you can remind me which one is the guide-star…”

 When I looked at Wren, his expression was guarded.  I watched him search my face as the firelight reflected in his eyes.

“You don’t remember?” he finally asked in a gently skeptical tone.  He sounded slightly disapproving, but not mocking.  Disappointed, maybe.

I shook my head.

Wren sighed and scooted closer to me on the bedroll.  I made room for him and lay back to make stargazing easier.  He blinked down at me for a moment before he also reclined, his right side to my left.  He leaned his head toward mine and lifted his right arm to point at the sky.  The position felt nostalgic.  Wren had often been my astronomy partner when we were little.

“There’s the Empress,” he murmured, outlining the constellation with his finger, “and her scepter points to the guide-star… there.”

I hummed in agreement as Wren jogged my memory.

“The yellow one,” I replied at equal volume.  I raised my own right arm and pointed.  “I wasn’t sure if it was that one or that one.”

I pointed out the two stars I’d been looking at before.

He mirrored the hum I’d made.

“Ah.  That one’s part of the Charging Boar,” he said with no guile.  “See the white stars making his tusks?”

Wren’s arm moved as he drew the constellation for me.

“Oh, right,” I breathed.  I bit my lip for a second before speaking again: “I don’t do a lot of stargazing, since…”

…I’m a Dawncaller, I finished in my head.

“Yeah,” he said, sounding almost wistful again.  He cleared his throat and moved his arm back to the stars that formed the Empress.  “So, her scepter points to the guide star, and she rotates around it to the left throughout the night.”

I hummed again.

“So, right now, it’s…” I started.  I pursed my lips for a moment before continuing in an unsure tone: “fourth quarter?”

I turned to look at him.  He mirrored me, his nose less than a handwidth from mine.  His eyes were still a little shadowed from lack of sleep, but he looked relaxed.  And I felt relaxed lying beside him.

“A little after,” he murmured in approval, nodding.  His gaze flicked between my eyes and then he looked up at the sky again.  “At midnight, she’ll be… there.”

He traced about forty-five degrees of a semicircle around the guide-star and then moved his finger back and forth to indicate where the Empress constellation would be in the sky.

I nodded and then let my gaze trace down from the location in the sky to the horizon.  The Empress would be in line with the road at midnight.  That made things easier.

I turned my head to look at Wren again.  He arched an eyebrow as I smiled at him.

“Now I know when to wake them up,” I said brightly.  “So, you can go to sleep.”

Wren blinked at me, his expression of confusion was adorable, but he dismissed it quickly.  He shook his head and then sat up.

“No,” he said softly but with an air of finality.

This time, I didn’t let it drop.

“Why not?” I asked in exasperation.  “You’re obviously exhausted.”

He shook his head and didn’t immediately answer.  I stared at him from my reclined position, and after several moments, he sighed.

“It’s my job to protect you,” he said with quiet fervour that made my breath catch.

I blinked, and then I sat up and spun to face him.  His answer surprised me, but then I remembered that he and Noble had been sent along as my personal bodyguards.  And I knew how seriously both boys would take such a duty.  It was flattering, but it was also irritating.  I wasn’t a child in need of minding.

“I’ll be fine for a corner, Wren,” I said in what I hoped sounded like a reassuring voice and not a dismissive one.

He arched an eyebrow at me, and I wondered if I’d fallen short of the tone I’d been trying to strike.

“So will I,” he countered, making me frown.

On the one hand, I was frustrated with him for his self-appointed suffering; but on the other hand, I felt a mix of awe and panic at the reminder of why we were on the road and for his dedication to it.  He was suffering for me.  Or, because of me, at least.  And he wouldn’t accept my help because that would defeat the purpose he’d been given.  I had extremely mixed feelings about the situation.  I kept trying to not think about being the Midnight Sun and what that meant, but that was impossible when it kept coming up.  Wren’s dedication was reassuring, but his obstinance was annoying.  I didn’t want anyone suffering for me, regardless of the seriousness of our mission.  But I couldn’t force him to rest.

Well, I’d tried.  

I sighed, but I knew it wasn’t worth continuing to argue about.  I flopped back down onto my bedroll, looking up at the stars again.  They were pretty and much easier to think about than anything having to do with my status as the Midnight Sun.  I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I focused on that.  And I had told the truth when I said I didn’t do much stargazing.  I couldn’t even recall the last time I’d even bothered to look up at the sky after sundown.  It might well have been when I was a child.  I was long overdue.

So I folded my hands over my stomach and just looked up at the stars.

The sky was gorgeous so far from the lights of the village, a vast canvas of twinkling points of light, random and unknowable, but suggesting so many intricate designs.  I couldn’t help but start connecting the heavenly sparks and embers, bringing life to forms and figures in my head.

“Do you remember the constellations?” Wren asked quietly, his voice soft and far more mellow than it had been moments before.

I hadn’t forgotten his presence, but the question was unexpected.

I gave him a ghost of a head-shake as I continued to look upward.

“Not many,” I confessed.

“Do you want—” he started in an odd tone that drew my attention.  I watched as he swallowed and then cleared his throat.  When he spoke again, his voice was normal again: bored and level.  “Would you like me to point some of them out?”

 I searched his face for a moment, curious about his offer.  Why make it?  Maybe he thought talking about the stars would pass the time and give him something to do to stay awake.  Whatever his motivation was, I was pleasantly surprised by his offer.

“Yes,” I said honestly.  “I would like that.  Thank you.”

He nodded once and then changed position to lie beside me again on my pallet.  I scooted closer to him.  Even if we’d grown apart, I still felt comfortable in Wren’s company.  Perhaps that was foolish, but I’d felt close to him when we were children.  I knew the sentiment shouldn’t automatically carry to adulthood, but it was Wren.  Like Noble and Quin, he was familiar.  Safe.  Part of my extended family.

Wren cleared his throat and then began speaking in a confident, earnest tone.  He sounded like an orator or a Prime, a lecturer with experience far beyond Wren’s years.  He sounded confident and comfortable, and his voice was pleasant, as was his warmth beside me.

“We’ve found the Empress and the Charging Boar,” he told me, “heading east from those, we find the Doe and Stag…”

Wren traced the two prancing deer for me and then a dozen other constellations, regaling me all the while with the legends that accompanied each star formation.  The tone of Wren’s voice relaxed me, and his words captivated me.  He gave life to the stories with his meter and cadence.  I felt drawn into the legends and made to feel like a participant rather than a listener.  Wren beguiled me as much as any of my favorite novels had ever done.  I was riveted, and I was grateful.  The distraction was very welcome.

When Wren let the last words of the tale of the Nocked Arrow hang and silence fall, I let out a breath I hadn’t noticed I’d been holding.

“Which brings us back to the Empress,” he said, sounding almost wistful, “whose scepter tells us that it is midnight.”

“Already?” I breathed, looking at Wren with wide eyes.  I’d completely lost track of time.  But even as I spoke, the sheer volume of information he’d imparted came to rest in my mind, and I had to marvel that it wasn’t already dawn.

Wren chuffed, and he curled his lips up in a smirk.  The expression was attractive.  He looked relaxed and happy.  It felt like we were friends again.  It almost felt romantic.

That was a foreign thought.  I’d never before considered Wren as a romantic prospect.  We’d parted ways before I had the chance to.  But stargazing with him had been quite enjoyable.  And he seemed so open and relaxed while we’d done it.

I wondered again about his rebuke the night before.  He’d been so cold, and now he seemed so open.  I didn’t know what to think about it.

Wren sat up beside me, and then he rose to his feet.  I yawned as I watched him circle the campfire—which had burned down significantly—and rouse Noble.  Noble stretched and turn his head to look at me.  Wren must have told him something quietly, because Noble nodded and then scrubbed his face.  Wren crouched there for a moment longer before returning to my side of the fire and then lying down on his own bedroll.

“Sleep well, Wren,” I murmured as I closed my eyes.  “And thank you.”

“Sleep well,” he replied in a warm, drowsy voice.  “You’re welcome.”