It's Hard to Say
The Reader does not speak.
This is known well among the Nightwings. Even Sir Gilman, who had just joined up, has realised the lack of speech from them. Of course, they can speak, often speaking to themself or thinking aloud, but no one can understand them. They don’t speak Sahrian, the tongue of the commonwealth, nor the various languages shared among those outside the commonwealth’s reach. No, the Reader speaks exclusively ancient languages.
Nobody else speaks such. Or at least, nobody but the Voice. That’s what the Reader thought, so they didn’t bother to try and talk to the others in their language. They mutter under their breath, but never speak up.
When the group verges upon the Sea of Solis, this changes.
Rukey asks Tariq for a song. Not an odd request, if an unusual one. He is, after all, a minstrel. Everyone gathers to listen, for Tariq doesn’t perform often. Yes, he plays occasionally, but that’s more background noise, something to fill the silence or fit a mood. This?
This is different.
As Tariq plays the opening, the Reader realizes they know this song. They know it very well indeed, as it was the song their mother sang to them, and they sang to their younger siblings, all the way until the night they were arrested. But not only that.
The song is sung in their native tongue.
Everyone is shocked when the Reader’s voice rises to join the Minstrel’s, though Tariq just smiles and continues.
When the wagon clears into the Black Basin, the two had finished the song. Though they are both content, soon the Reader fixes Tariq with a look. He looks amused.
“You know English. Dude. We could have been talking all this time.”
Tariq just gives a small grin. “You know you lead them very well for someone who couldn’t speak with them directly. Though I suppose the Reading helped with that.”
“Tariq! We could have been talking! I don’t care about my leadership skills right now, but I know so many things I want to share and that’s difficult if none know what I’m saying! Why didn’t you say anything?”
“You never asked,” Tariq said in his usual manner, “Though you’ll be pleased to know that my client also an ancient tongue.”
“Good, I can’t wait. One can only hope he’s of the more talkative sort, no offence intended.”
“None taken. Now,” and he says this in Sahrian as he turns back to the group, “Please, use caution. The exiles dwelling here can be… territorial.” The Reader turns into the Blackwagon, preparing for the next rite.
Things will be significantly easier now that direct meanings can be exchanged.