Blood and Betrayal

by S. K. Sayari

  She finished her song with a smile.

  passing ships

  come and go

  never

  stay long

  beware the

  waves

  beware their

  songs

  the sirens

  at play

  they’ll lure you

  down

  whispering

  words of love

  until you

  drown

  The Last Singer

  Aisling Wilder

  Seya looked out from under the trees that sheltered the Sourcespring, their branches covering the deep pool in a canopy of green. The sun beamed above, its light reflected by the glass-calm lake surrounding the island. Everything was so still this morn. Too still. At the island’s edge, the water mirrored with perfect clarity the trees that curved from its banks, each branch and leaf looking back upon itself. It was as if she stood between twin worlds. There was not a sound around her. Neither birdsong nor rustle of animal nor whisper of wind. It was as if the island, the lake, and the world beyond were holding their breath. Waiting. Waiting for her to act.

  “Enough!”

  Sovereign Iker slammed his palm on the stone table, sending small, carved figurines flying in every direction. One—hooded, hands raised—went clattering across the maps and charts and then rolled to an awkward stop right in front of Seya, one of its arms breaking off in the process. She stared down at the tiny, one-armed mage, a familiar fist of dread clenching around her heart.

  The rest of the council fell silent as their sovereign pushed himself to his feet. Nylah—

  Sovereign’s Champion—stood, offering her hand, but Iker waved her off and so she sat back down, her frown echoed on the rest of the visages in the room.

  Seya did not need Song to read what lay behind each. The Sovereign was ill, aged before his time by the ravages of war, grey and withered with a disease that neither magic nor medicine, Song nor sage could cure. He was the last of his line, with no heir to follow. His death without naming a successor would leave Lurandia leaderless while the world was ending. Nine generations of enmity and hate had left the people of the Three Lands starving, the realm wasted. Plague and drought, vestiges of dark magic, had devastated what war had not already taken. Lurandia was the last unbroken hold, the last land whole, the only hope. The other kings were long dead, their heirs divided, their lands broken into smaller and smaller domains ruled by warlords and dark mages, and these in constant conflict—when they were not pitted together against Lurandia itself. Which they now were. Under siege for nigh on three years now, the country’s stores were almost empty, its cities full of refugees who had fled from border towns and farms where no more food could grow.

  Iker had not started the war. Like his mother, and his mother’s father before her, he had proffered peace. Once or twice, he had even succeeded. Seya recalled time upon time in these very chambers, meetings between heads of state from Vrenia and Annerid, accord upon accord signed and swiftly broken.

  With a grimace of pain, Iker finally rose to his feet.

  “Enough.” He declared again, his voice firm, its deep timbre belying his illness. “It is past time for debate. We have already attempted every course of action you suggest, thrice over.” His gaze traversed the room, lingering on each member of the council as he spoke. “The war has ravaged the Three Lands beyond repair. Our armies still repel those of Vrenia and Annerid, ’tis true—but they cannot hold much longer. Plague has already begun to take our people all along the edges of the kingdom; it takes our soldiers. Already, drought moves inland. Our magic is failing.”

  His gaze stopped then. His eyes—once blue, now grey with illness—grew dark as they met her own.

  “Councillor Seya.”

  Seya did not stand, although her inaction bought sideways glances from the others. She was too tired, and besides, her true station did not require her to stand for any sovereign. She was a Singer, and the last of her kind.

  Once, long long ago, Singers had held the Three Lands in perfect harmony, soothing any dissonance. Once, Singers had flourished, with eighteen glorious Choruses in nine illustrious Halls. Once, they had gathered the prodigies—children with the Song inborn—from the length and breadth of every land, had trained those children in schools renowned throughout the Three Lands. Once, the refrains, sung in perfect pitch and radiant resonance, reverberated across the lands, year after year, voice after voice. No longer. Now the Songs were soured, the melodies broken, the refrains lost. Forgotten.

  “Sire?”

  “It is time.”

  It was time. Loosing a long breath, Seya drew another, from deep within her core. Then a second, and a third. With the fourth she let forth sound—a low hum, closing her eyes and reaching out with her spirit for the strands of life and strife around her. With the fifth, she found the Source; with the sixth she breathed it in, its shimmering waves filling her, matching its resonance to her own. With the seventh, she began to walk deosil around the pool, eyes closed so she could see the dissonance as with the eighth she drew it forth: strands of black, shimmering with echoes of copper, silver, and gold, arching toward her from everywhere at once. From the trees and stones of the island, from the lake beyond, and further still. With the ninth breath, her hum changed to Song, and she raised her arms, up and out, reaching further. Beyond the lake, to the three great rivers, coaxing, drawing, pulling as her Song grew louder still.

  Almost as one, the rest of the council turned to look at her, their disquiet palpable. Seya let loose a sigh she had been holding for too long and shook her head. “I still do not know if it is right.”

  “Perhaps not.” Iker leaned forward, trembling hands splayed out on the map before him. “But it must be done. For the sake of all the lands.”

  Nylah looked from one to the other before turning toward Seya, her voice full of trepidation. “What must be done?”

  Seya did not answer. Instead, she stood, gathered up the figurine in one hand, and walked around the table, stopping just opposite Iker. “I have failed. Failed the land. Failed the Song.”

  “Not yet.” Iker smiled at her—then turned to the rest. “I am dying.” He held up his hand at the vocalisations of dismay. “Do not protest. You all know it to be true. It is time.” He repeated the phrase, then turned again to Seya, his tone changing to one of ritual and authority.

  “Seya of Kings Isle. I, Sovereign Iker Aberel, last of my line, do now name thee Sovereign, and all thy line after thee, until such time thou or they should name another. As it is said, so let it be done.”

  She had expected someone to gasp or shout. But no. Every voice in the room was silent, every eye staring as Iker moved slowly around the table to sit with a grateful sigh into the chair she herself had not so long ago abandoned. Seya waited until he was settled and then she, too, sat gently into the Sovereign’s seat, the furs that draped it still warm from the heat of Sovereign— Councillor Iker’s recent habitation.

  She took a calming breath as every eye drifted from Iker back to her. In each face she read varying degrees of apprehension. Understandable. Her now-former office, that of Arch-Archivist, had commanded little respect and even less attention. Coupled with her grey-streaked hair, apparent middle age, and lengthy time spent quietly attending and chronicling council meetings—long before any of the other councillors were promoted to their stations—this had had the intended effect: none of them had taken much note of her.

  Until now.

  Seya leaned in and placed a pale finger in the very centre of the map laid out before her, where a small circle was inked in blue. Giving resonance to her voice so none of the Council of Nine would mistake her next words, she spoke.

  “You all know it is from Lough Argia the three great rivers—the Lura, the Vre, and the Anner—spring forth. It is from these waters all music was born. Both high and low. You know this also.”

  She took the one-armed mage figurine. “What you do not know, because
only Singers know, is that here”—she placed the figurine in the very centre of the blue-inked lake—“is an island, sacred to Singers. It is called Iturria, and in the centre of the island is the Sourcespring.”

  “The what?” Nylah again, her brow furrowed further.

  “The Sourcespring. The spring is the Source, and the Source is life. It is light also, and love. It is what gave the waters Song, and they in turn gave the Song to Singers and the Singers gave it to the world.”

  “But all the Singers are gone.”

  “No.” Iker’s deep voice reverberated around the walls. “Not all.”

  “Indeed.” Seya looked again to Iker, then to Nylah. “The Last Singer stands before you.”

  The room erupted into exclamations of disbelief, even dismay. Seya raised her hand, but even then it took a few moments for the council to quiet. In the silence that followed, it was the Keeper of Stores who spoke first, his dark eyes clouded.

  “Surely the Singers are a story only. One told to soothe children. When we are grown, we learn better the ways of the world. No one can sing away the troubles that haunt man. No one can sing away hatred, nor defeat a warlord or dark mage with a Song.”

  Seya smiled. “But I say to you, I am a Singer, and have sung those very Songs. I am a Singer, and the last of my kind. I have been such long before you were born, and Source willing, I will remain so after you are dead.”

  Seya waited a moment, to allow them time for thought, then continued. “Singers live very long lives—lives connected to the Song, and the Song to waters, and the waters to the Source. As long as the Source remains, Singers remain. And the Source”—again she tapped the map, lifting the little figurine up and putting it back down again, bringing them back to the point at hand—“is here.”

  Murmurs and grumblings filled the room, and then a voice, louder than the rest. The Exarch and Provider of Providence, his intonation honied with the long habit of homilies.

  “The Source has no earthly station. It cannot be located, for it is and is not within and without all things.”

  “As always, Exarch, your words remove all meaning from what you say,” Seya snapped. Her patience, long tested, was wearing thin. “The Source is a thing in a place, and I know this, for I have been there. I have seen it.”

  She did not say what else she had done. Further knowledge—of the sound and of the taste and the feel of the Source—was hers and hers alone. Once, it had been shared with others. No longer. She shook her head and turned back to the council, taking a breath to continue before being interrupted again, this time by the stern and frowning Lady of Legions.

  “But why then, are there no other Singers? If they—if you—cannot die?”

  “I did not say we cannot die. I said we live long. But we can die, and we can be killed. And the reason the world remains at war, Lady Legion, is because we have been killed. And not merely killed, but decimated.”

  Seya stood, and walked across the chamber toward the western window. “It began slowly. So slow, so subtle, that none noted it. In each generation, fewer and fewer Singers were born. When we did note it, we thought perhaps we simply had not found them, or that it was a shift that would right itself again. But it did not. And then, what Singers were left began to disappear.”

  She pulled back the heavy curtain, her gaze taking in the citadel and the rest of the island below before wandering further, across the River Torring and to the west. Her mind ranged across the lesser rivers and plains, over the hills toward the Great Lura, and the Sourcespring. Too far to see from where she now stood, but she could hear its Song, though faint.

  “You are all too young to know what it was like. To live in peace. To be allowed to flourish, and to move freely throughout the Three Lands. To learn. To love. To sing.” She shook her head and turned back from the window to the room, carrying on.

  “When we finally realised what was happening, it was too late. All but twelve Singers were dead or missing, and all those here in Lurandia. Of the other Choruses not a note remained. The Halls were abandoned. No new Singers had been born anywhere in three generations. And then began the first war.”

  The Master of Ships scoffed—then looked around and saw no one else laughing. He gulped, then looked to Seya, a tremor in his voice. “You are saying that you witnessed the First War?”

  “I did. And the Second, and the Third. After the Fourth, there were only six of us left. After the Fifth we stopped singing against the dissonance, for the cacophony was too great. That was when we realised the Sourcespring was waning. The Song flowed less and less with each passing year. We tried to get back to it, but we were too few, and the power of the enemy too great. We retreated then, back over the Three Rivers, here to Kings Isle. Concentrating our power on protecting Lurandia from what we feared would come. After the Sixth War, three of us lost our voices singing against the discord and died not long after. After the Seventh, there were only two of us left. And now we are in the Ninth War. And it is only myself who sings.”

  When the first strand touched her outstretched arms, the pain of it arched through her, like the piercing of a hundred thorns. She winced but did not falter—her Song constant, melodious with each intake and outgive of air, no space now between the notes. A second strand followed fast upon the first, then a third, each tendril spiralling around her outstretched arms, tighter and tighter, slicing into her skin as she bound them to her. As each was pinioned, she listened, hearing what notes were needed, and so willing the winding until every strand thrummed in echo, their oscillation sending shimmering resonance back along each filament, back to whence they came and back again to her, and forth and back, note upon note.

  Once more, the room fell silent. Seya felt she could almost see their thoughts, such was the disquiet on their faces. Then Tian, the Master Mage, spoke for the first time that evening.

  “What, then, is the thing that must be done? I do not assume you and now-Councillor Iker only spoke of your naming, Sovereign.”

  Seya nodded, turning from the window and walking once more to her chair, resting her hand on the back of it.

  “I, Seya of Kings Isle, Sovereign of Lurandia and Last Singer, command that from this day forth, Lurandia shall be ruled by Singers. Here our existence shall be secret no more. I command that Seekers be sent forth to every land, searching anew for those children who may yet have the Song inborn. I command that any child so gifted be brought here under guard, and with great haste. I further command that Kings Isle be henceforth known as Song Holme, and this castle as Singer’s Keep.” She paused, looking to each councillor, meeting and holding every gaze, as she continued. “Lady of Legions, I command our armies be called back from the borders to guard the citadel. Place our legions in secure encampments at a distance no greater than a hundred leagues from the citadel.”

  Penah, Lady of Legions, nodded, her lips a tight line as Seya turned to the round-bellied merchant in the next chair.

  “Rhain, Keeper of Stores, I command you ensure the stores and coffers of the kingdom are counted then placed under guard; thereafter, all citizens of Lurandia must be given food and fresh water, rationed to last as long as they may whilst keeping as many alive for as long as possible.”

  She looked then to the white-haired and long-bearded Elcin.

  “Chief of Colleges, I command your schools gather all the knowledge they can as swiftly as possible—in whatever form it may be—and bring all back here, to the Athenaeum. Every Song, story, poem, and saga; every name; every word; every record and number, is to be copied and put to memory by as many scribes and oracles as can fit within the walls.”

  The scholar bowed his head slightly, his eyes dark with thought as Seya focused on Tian, who was now pale and staring in shock.

  “Master Mage. I command that you gather to the citadel your most loyal mages. Bid them prepare to defend all the land and people behind the outermost walls for as long as they can. I command also that you work your strongest spells upon the Keep, safeguarding it
with all the power you may hold.”

  She then looked to the two councillors in the last seats. Mail, and Nylah.

  “Master of Ships, you will ready your swiftest craft, small enough to be sailed by two, and stocked with supplies for a three-day journey down the Torring. Champion Nylah, at first light on the morrow, you will meet me outside the gates and escort me to the river. We sail at dawn for the Source.”

  So saying, she stood, and without a look behind, strode from the council chambers. As soon as the guard shut the door after her, the room behind became a storm of voices, as she knew it would. Great change always birthed great consternation. But although they might question, or argue, they would obey. They must. Each had taken a sacred oath, upon their lifeblood, to obey the word of the Sovereign. This was the reasoning behind Iker’s naming of her. Her word—the word of a Singer—must be law, and her laws must be followed. It was the only way to save the Three Lands from what might come should she fail.

  Her arms grew tired, trembling as more strands latched and wound around them, as she fastened and tensed them, turning and tuning, discordance to harmony, again and again—and still she reached for more. She must gather it all. Beyond the lake, beyond the great rivers, she reached, pulling strands wherever she found them. Where armies gathered, she took; where men argued, she took; where they fitfully slept, she took. Where plague reigned, she took; where drought worried, she took. Within and around her, the discord grew. And still, she Sang; and still, she walked; and still, she pulled and turned and changed, each strand reluctantly releasing the blackness that tarnished its tone, each note resolving, one by one. And still she sought out more, gathering the sounds of hate, of fear, of jealousy, of envy, and of rage—she coaxed all into the Song, listening, singing, changing, healing, until she could take no more. She was already so burdened, so weighted. It was so hard. Too hard. For a moment her breath faltered, and the burgeoning harmony soured.