Excerpt: The Dawnsinger

A chill wind, the lingering breath of winter, searched the folds of Nalyn’s cloak as she left the shelter of the stronghold, moving from dimness into milky light. Clouds unfurled in a pale sky. Moisture glazed the lawns at either hand and darkened the path’s graystone. The sharpness of damp moss and ripe humus replaced the wind as she passed into green scented shadow. New growth laced dewed foliage. Early blossoms sprawled, unseemly. A stream lifted its clear voice. Gnarlwoods stretched ancient branches wide and planted roots deep, tolerating the flamboyance beneath them with no loss of dignity. These trees had witnessed the raising of the stronghold’s stone and mortar. They would remain, they whispered, when mortar crumbled and stone fell away.
Morning broke its red light over the Misty Hills in the near distance. The beating and whirring of flight added percussion. Nalyn halted to watch a brightwing flit through the lesser canopy to light in a plume tree and dip its head to preen. Luminous feathers fluffed, a long tail fanned with a whir, and the small creature settled on its slender perch, lisping into sweet-sad song.
“Sing, small one!” she whispered, smiling, but in the next instant its rippling melody ended with a croak and a shriek. Darkness extinguished the brightwing’s colors. Blood spattered the white foliage of the plume tree. The welke that had descended from nowhere batted ragged black wings and screeched victory.
Nalyn started back, tripping on the hem of her cloak so that she fell. She lay still for an instant, heart pounding, chest heaving.
Fear of the welke pulled her to her knees. Shock brought her to her feet.
The plume tree, pristine as new snow, stood empty.
Nalyn circled it. No blood stained the smooth bark. No movement stirred the silken plumes. No sign lingered of brightwing or welke. And yet she had seen – what?
“Oh, High One!” She fell again to her knees. “What vision is this?”