Daughters of Fire & Sea

by Holly Karlsson

  Lyric shrugged and turned around. “I’ll find the ladder.” Her eyes passed over the prairie, and she paused, seeing movement in the tall grass. Someone was walking towards them.

  “What is it?” Runa asked, following Lyric’s gaze.

  As the person drew closer, Lyric saw it was a young woman, her hair covered by a pale blue handkerchief. Her shoulders hunched, her posture bent, as though she was forced forward by a strong wind, unable to turn back.

  “It’s Tora,” Lyric said, a smile lifting her lips. “She’s come back.”

  At odds with her flash of happiness, a sour feeling seeped into her stomach, and Lyric glanced sideways at Runa. Her sister’s mouth had tightened, and her eyes had grown dark.

  Frowning, Lyric shoved aside the unwelcome emotion, recognizing it as something outside herself, but it took several breaths before the lightness in her chest returned. She didn’t always mind the slip of her sister’s emotions into herself — the invisible, emotional tide connecting them had been useful more than once — but sometimes it was downright irritating.

  “I’ll be inside,” Runa said, walking up the steps into the house.

  Lyric watched her sister leave, and then looked back at the prairie. Tora was alone, which was good. She doubted Runa would be pleased if Dalen had chosen to accompany his future bride.

  Pretty and plump, Tora had pale blue eyes, and rounded shoulders. She was eighteen, one year younger than Lyric and Runa, and was to be married the coming week. She’d forever been a bright-eyed and animated girl, always ready with a smile and a quick word.

  Within the shade of Lyric and Runa’s house, Tora was not her usual self, her face pale and pinched, her eyes shifting around, as though danger lurked in every shadow.

  “Hello, Tora,” Lyric said, smiling encouragingly. “What brings you by? How’s your arm?”

  “Much better,” Tora said. She nervously licked her lips, and darted a glance at Lyric’s face, before looking back at the ground. “T-thank you for helping me.”

  Lyric swallowed a sigh and tried to keep her face relaxed and friendly. Honestly, their neighbors' fear was ridiculous. Had they ever seen Lyric or Runa turn someone into a toad? They asked for help if their need was great enough, but no one would meet their eyes or share a cup of tea when they visited the village.

  Lyric almost preferred the derisive whispers that had chased her through childhood to this eerie silence. She hadn't thought she could feel more isolated, and yet now with Runa's bizarre death and ghostly body, it was like she'd died alongside her sister.

  In all honesty, it stung. She’d grown up with them, had helped them for years. She’d been born in the valley, in this house, even if her mother, Elaina, had not. Elae’s Hollow was their home. Lyric could still remember playing with Tora when they were children, chasing each other across the prairie, and stealing apples from Malen’s farm.

  “Of course, Tora,” Lyric said. “I’m glad I was able to help. If you’re still experiencing pain, I have more of the rosewater and lavender tincture I gave you, to apply to your arm. Did you run out of the calendula tea?”

  “Yes,” Tora said. She offered a relieved, half-smile. “Can I bother you for more?”

  “Of course.”

  “I brought you something,” Tora said abruptly. “To thank you.” Opening her shawl, Tora removed a small, leather-bound book from the belt at her waist. The book was old, with a reddish-brown cover, water-stained and torn on one corner. “A traveler left this, at the inn,” she said. “My father won’t miss it. It’s filled with old stories about a Blood Queen and lands outside the valley. I know you like to read.”

  Lyric’s pulse quickened, and it took effort not to snatch the book from Tora’s hands. “Yes, thank you, Tora. I do.” She slowly reached forward, skin prickling and smile widening, as Tora handed her the book. Reverently Lyric ran her fingers over the cover.

  Their valley was isolated, their village small, so hardly anyone came across their mountains, and though their mother had taught her and Runa to read, books were few and far between. This book was a treasure.

  Pressing it against her chest, Lyric looked into Tora’s face. “I’ll get the tincture and tea for you. Would you like to sit on the porch, have something to drink?”

  “No,” Tora said quickly, shaking her head. She rewrapped her shawl around her shoulders and stepped back as if worried Lyric would force her inside.

  Tora’s reaction wasn’t a surprise, but a lump still formed in Lyric’s throat as she walked into the house. Swallowing her disappointment, she headed into the kitchen, passing the large, wooden table in the center of the room, where Runa was sitting. She set down her cup and Tora’s book and started hunting for the burn tincture in a tall, wooden cabinet.

  “Won’t come in?” Runa asked scornfully.

  Lyric sighed. “No.” She selected two small bottles, of dark glass, from the assortment of remedies inside the cabinet.

  “You shouldn’t care what she thinks,” Runa said. “Or what anyone thinks.”

  Bottles balanced in one hand, Lyric turned to face her sister. She didn’t want to argue about this again.

  Runa was leaning across the table, vibrant red hair spreading across the scarred wood like diaphanous pools of fire as she studied the book’s cover.

  “This is our home,” Lyric said. “We belong here.”

  “Mother wasn’t from here, and neither was Father.”

  “We grew up here,” Lyric said, narrowing her eyes. “How can we help them if they’re afraid of us?”

  “They’re never going to accept us,” Runa said. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “You should leave, Ly. Go somewhere where you can start over. Where people will appreciate you.”

  Lyric arched an eyebrow. “And leave you here?”

  “I’m a ghost, Ly. Mother kept you here, kept us here, and she’s gone. I’m not going to bind you here too.”

  Lyric shook her head. "They need me, need us. What would they do if I leave? If we're not here to help? No. We can't leave anyway, Ru. We still don't know what happened to you. Who did this.

  “And where would I go, anyway? You know what Mama said, how dangerous it is out there. The bandits, the damaged roads ..." Lyric lifted the bottles and gestured towards the door. "I need to take this to Tora."

  She walked away before Runa could respond, passing quickly through the sitting room to the porch beyond, followed by her sister's irritation.

  Tora still waited at the base of the stairs, her head swiveling. She jerked as the door slammed shut in Lyric’s wake.

  “Here,” Lyric said, holding out the bottles. “Same instructions as before.”

  Tora nodded vigorously and grabbed them, quickly tucking the bottles under her shawl. She turned to go, then paused, looking back at Lyric. Eyes meeting, her gaze shifted to somewhere below Lyric’s ear, perhaps focusing on the tangle of brown hair draping over her shoulder.

  “There’s a songsmith in the village,” Tora said.

  Excitement sparked inside Lyric’s chest. “Oh?” she asked. The last time one had passed through their valley, Lyric had been nine or ten. Elae’s Hollow did not often draw the eye of world travelers. They were barely noticed by Nitana, their capital.

  Lyric thought about Runa, and the symbols on her chest, and hope flared bright and hot.

  “You love stories, so …” Tora met her eyes again, tentatively smiling.

  “Do you know how long they’re staying?” If the inn was dark enough and crowded, maybe Lyric and her sister could see the songsmith without someone noticing Runa in the shadows.

  Tora shook her head. “No. He’s only been here a day. Well, I need to get back.”

  Lyric nodded. “Thank you for the book, Tora, and the news. I would love to hear him sing.”

  Tora nodded, her cheeks turning pink.

  “If you need anything, stop by any time,” Lyric said.

  Tora nodded again and then dipping her chin she turned and be
gan to walk away, back towards the village.

  Lyric watched her leave, eyes slipping over something in the darkening field ahead of Tora — a deer most likely — then she turned and skipped up the stairs into the house. Yanking on the iron handle, she let the door bang open against the wall. She rushed into the kitchen, giggling as Runa eyed her suspiciously.

  “There’s a songsmith at the inn!” Lyric said.

  “Really?” Runa made a face. “Why?” she asked. “Are they writing an epic about farmers?”

  “Hah hah,” Lyric said, rolling her eyes. “Who knows why, but if one is here, we can ask him about the symbols. They travel, don’t they? They know all kinds of stories, myths, things about magic. He’ll know what it is. Runa, we can figure out what happened to you!”

  Lips twisting, Runa leaned back in her chair and dropped her hands into her lap. She was calm, too calm, and Lyric stared at her in disbelief.

  “How are you not excited about this?” Lyric demanded.

  “It’s been six months, Ly,” Runa said. “I want to know what happened just as much as you do, more than you, but don’t get your hopes up. We don’t even know if we can talk to him, or if we can get inside the inn where he is.” She gestured at herself, at the chair beneath her, visible through her body. “Maybe he won’t know what the symbols mean. Maybe he’ll be scared off when he sees me. Maybe this is related to the old gods and —”

  Someone knocked on the door.

  Lyric jumped, spinning towards the sound. It was a firm knock, not a tentative rap of knuckles, but confident and measured.

  “Tora?” Runa guessed, though her expression suggested she didn’t believe it.

  “I have no idea,” Lyric said. Her thoughts jumped to whatever she’d seen beyond Tora in the field. Had someone else decided to call? Smoothing a hand over the front of her dress and adjusting her shawl, that’d slipped from one shoulder in her excitement, Lyric calmly walked to the door and opened it.

  A man stood on the porch wearing a wide, brown hat and holding a gnarled walking stick. He looked young with a fine-boned, beardless face. When their eyes met, he smiled, and it made Lyric think of an unfurling sail, slow at first, then snapping with a brilliance that stole her breath.

  “Miss Graymorn?” the man asked. He stared straight into her eyes, not dropping his gaze to her mouth or chest, yet Lyric was aware of every inch of her body.

  Her toes curled against the wood floor, as her hand strayed to the collar of her dress. He was tall, and she had to tilt her head back to look up at him. “Um, yes,” Lyric said finally, flushing as his blue eyes sparkled. “Lyric Graymorn. Who are you?”

  “I’m Kell Layreasha, Songsmith of the Emerald Tones, by way of the Radiant Hall of Corsicayna.”

  Lyric blinked.

  “That’s a mouthful,” Runa said over her shoulder.

  The man, Kell, looked past Lyric’s left ear and grinned.

  Lyric shifted to the side, so Runa could join her in the doorway, and tried to draw back her mind from wherever it’d fled. “The songsmith,” she said. “You’re staying at the inn?”

  “I am,” Kell said, nodding.

  “Then what are you doing here?” Runa asked. She peered around him, perhaps to see if he was alone.

  “Ah, well.” Kell cleared his throat. “I’ve heard a few stories about your house, Miss Graymorn. I admit I was curious.”

  “So it was the opportunity to see a ghost, was it?” Runa asked.

  Kell’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “One should never turn down the opportunity to meet a ghost.”

  “Would you like to come in?” Lyric asked, nudging her sister. Kell’s arrival was serendipitous. The songsmith was here, on their porch, they had to take advantage of this opportunity.

  Runa was eyeing him suspiciously, but Kell gave them both an enthusiastic smile. “Yes, thank you,” he said.

  “Wonderful,” Lyric said. She nudged Runa out of the way and opened the door wide, letting Kell enter.

  Smiling at her, Kell removed a worn pack from his shoulder and placed it beside the door, along with his staff, and walked into the house. He smelled like a cool mountain breeze, skipping across the surface of a deep lake, and for a moment, Lyric thought she heard the call of birds.

  Lyric led him into the kitchen, Runa trailing, and gestured to a chair at the table. She cleared away her cup and the book and set about reheating a pot of water on the stove. As she busied herself with preparing fresh tea, Kell sat down and removed his hat, placing it on the table. Runa, sitting in a chair opposite him, stared at him intently.

  Lyric eyed Kell anxiously, worrying he’d be unnerved by her sister’s brown-eyed stare, but he merely smiled and looked around the room. She noticed his eyes linger on the three wooden Trinity statuettes that sat upon the windowsill, which she’d draped in flowers.

  “A neighbor carved them,” Lyric said over her shoulder.

  “They’re beautiful,” Kell said. “Your neighbor is very skilled.”

  Pouring fresh tea for herself and Kell, Lyric brought their cups to the table, setting one down in front of him. She gave Runa an apologetic look, who shrugged, unbothered, and then she sat down in the remaining chair.

  Kell lifted his cup to his mouth with ink-stained fingers and inhaled, smiling appreciatively over the clay rim.

  “I’m sorry,” Lyric said after a flash of realization. “I never asked if you wanted tea. We don’t have any beer or birch sap. We do have water…”

  “This is wonderful, thank you,” he said. “It was a chilly walk from the village.”

  “Yes,” Lyric said, nodding. “I wouldn’t be surprised if we get snow before too long.”

  “What did they say about us that made you come out here?” Runa asked. “Why are you in Elae’s Hollow anyway?”

  “I’m traveling south down to Raenborschia,” Kell said. “Your beautiful valley happened to be on my way.”

  “On the way?” Runa said, raising an eyebrow. “We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

  “It’s true, we are,” Lyric said.

  Kell chuckled. “Last night when I arrived, one of the locals at the inn mentioned the witches at the forest’s edge.”

  Runa snorted and rolled her eyes.

  “A woman shushed him,” Kell continued, smiling, “and eyed me warily, and my curiosity was piqued. A song and several free drinks, and bits of a story started tumbling out.”

  “Drunken boors,” Runa growled. “I suppose Dalen Pell was the loudest of the lot.”

  Kell raised a curious eyebrow. “I don’t believe I met anyone named Dalen.”

  “They’re calling us witches now?” Lyric asked. Hurt, she avoided Kell’s knowing eyes and looked down into her tea, taking a long sip.

  “Let me guess,” Runa said, her voice dry. “We’ll steal your bones, and whistle away your soul and give it to the Thrice-Buried Hag in the woods?”

  “Naturally I was intrigued by being able to whistle away a soul,” Kell said.

  Lyric looked up at the merriment in his voice and found herself mirroring his smile. “We’re not all that interesting, in truth,” she said. “Well, except for the mystery around Runa’s death.”

  “Don’t mind the ghost in the room,” Runa said.

  “Would you mind if I asked what happened?” Kell asked. He smiled at Runa. “You’re the first ghost I’ve met.”

  “Perhaps we could trade?” Lyric asked, sitting straighter in her chair. “Our story for information?”

  “Information?” Kell asked, looking between Lyric and Runa with a wide, curious smile.

  “I’d like to know more about you first,” Runa said, interrupting.

  Lyric eyed her, then returned her gaze to Kell’s face. Runa was right, of course. She’d been so focused on what they needed, what they could get from him. Who was this man in their kitchen? Could they trust him? Did it matter? They'd found no answers in their village.

  Kell smiled. “Of course,” he said. “What do you want t
o know?”

  “What is that mark, around your neck?” Runa asked, leaning forward.

  Lyric blinked, her eyes dropping to Kell’s open collar. There it was, a thin, tattooed line of blue across the base of his throat. She hadn’t noticed it. She’d been so distracted by the light in his eyes.

  Kell’s sea-blue eyes dimmed, like a sky darkening with storm clouds. “I’m bound,” he said. His hand shifted on the table, as though he wanted to lift it and touch his throat.

  “Bound?” Lyric asked, frowning. “What does that mean?”

  “I’m from Thenda,” Kell said. His face was tight, the mask of someone hiding emotions they didn’t wish to share. “Or as it’s known today, The Tainted Shore. There are things I … I can’t speak of.” He swallowed, hands clenching around his cup of tea.

  Lyric was captivated by the play of emotions across his face. Pain, anger, and frustration fought for control until one by one, they slipped away. Kell seemed lighter again, untroubled. It was a performer’s face, slipping on a mask.

  It felt wrong, intrusive, to voice her question aloud, but the words tumbled out before Lyric could stop them. “Thenda,” she said, “the country where everything died?”

  “Yes,” Kell said. “I was a child when it happened.”

  “And someone won’t let you speak about it,” Runa said. It wasn’t a question, but a statement. She was angry for him; it was there in her voice.

  “That’s the short of it,” Kell said. “After I left, I went to the Radiant Hall in Corsicayna and studied there for eight years. Then I traveled with another songsmith who mentored me, until I officially earned my colors.” He gestured at a small, emerald pin of two crossed flutes, fixed to the collar of his shirt. “I’ve been traveling across Erith ever since.”

  “Corsicayna,” Lyric said, “they have big libraries there, don’t they? Books on magic?”

  “Yes,” Kell said, a smile returning to his face. “As a songsmith, I gather pieces of stories wherever I go, and what doesn’t already exist in the records in Corsicayna, we add. Together we ensure our histories aren't lost to the winds of time. The libraries there are truly treasure-troves of information.”

  “I’d love to visit sometime,” Lyric said. She tried to imagine entire buildings filled with books and her heart skipped inside her chest. Perhaps if Kell couldn’t help them, she would travel there with Runa.