Siren

by Sophia Elaine Hanson

  Ronja moved against him, a quiet moan escaping her mouth. Roark began to stroke her hair with the lightest touch, his eyes fixed to her troubled face. He did not know exactly what had happened between her and Darius, but he knew it had something to do with her voice and that it had shaken her to the core. When Easton showed up at his door to tell him that she had been attacked in the Contrav, he nearly passed out. It was only after Paxton assured him she was all right, that he wondered why she had been there in the first place. Then again, they called it the burning place where people went to release their fears.

  Or tried to . . .

  Sighing, Roark inched closer to Ronja, tucking his arm around the soft skin of her waist. He buried his face in her mess of curls, drinking in her scent. Winter and earth. Snow and soil. He pulled her closer still, cherishing the way their bodies fit together.

  Their plan of attack had come together in a matter of hours. It was about as solid as it could be given the circumstances. So many things could go wrong which was exactly why Roark had been sitting on a plan of his own since they left Revinia. If all else failed, he would take Ronja and run—as far and fast as he could. They would use one of his father’s yachts. He hoped desperately that the bribe he’d paid to his contact at the harbor had worked, and that the ship was ready and waiting. They would sail to Sydon. He had never set foot in his ancestral homeland. It was something he had dreamed about for as long as he could remember. His mother used to speak of Sydon as if it were paradise. Golden cities, vast deserts, tropical flowers of every color, salt water as clear as glass.

  The hazy images took root in his heart, enhanced by the prospect of sharing a life with Ronja. They could live in peace, get a small cottage by the sea. Free from The Music. Free of Maxwell and his legions. Free from the burdens of what they had seen, of what they had done. Shame snuffed out his musings. He was many things, but not a coward. He would face an army with a bread knife to protect the family he had created for himself. Still, Ronja had changed things.

  It was not that she was weak, or couldn’t handle herself. She was the strongest person he had ever met, stubborn as a mule and resilient as a desert flower. She held on her lips powers he could scarcely fathom, abilities he could not begin to explain. But she was not immune to bullets. Roark had survived the deaths of his mother and sister. He had endured the loss of Samson and Henry, two men he considered brothers. Each loss left a gaping hole in chest. Some of the wounds had started to scab over, but they would never stop aching. Not completely. In the end, though, he could handle it.

  Ronja was different.

  She was stitched into the fabric of his being. If she were ripped away, those threads would tear him to shreds. If that made him a coward, so be it. Roark studied the planes of her face. Every freckle, every fading scar, every inch of pain and hope.

  He realized abruptly that she would never run. She would never leave anyone behind. It was not in her nature. She would walk through a hurricane to save the ones she loved. She was creation and destruction. He was nothing more than the hand that protected her. He could not stop her. He could not steal her away. But he could fight for her until his last breath.

  43: To Be Human

  Ronja woke with a start, jerking against the warm body pressed to her back. Residual panic from a nightmare she could not remember squeezed her throat, tearing a cry from her.

  “Shhh,” Roark hushed her, his sleep-stale breath tickling her ear. “Everything’s all right, you’re safe.”

  Her muscles unwound, her breathing slowed. She tried to think of something clever to say to gloss over her vulnerability, but all she managed was a noncommittal noise of thanks. “What time is it?” she asked groggily.

  “Around nine,” Roark answered. Ronja started to sit up, but he wrapped his arm around her and buried his face in her neck, careful to avoid the angry bruises left behind by the Off. When she had checked them in the mirror last night, they were light blue and purple. “Easton left a note. We’re not due at the armory until noon. Elise will come to take us there.”

  Ronja bristled, the battered face of the Arexian girl swimming before her eyes. “Funny how they claim to fight for freedom when they’re keeping slaves,” she muttered.

  Roark hummed in agreement. “People have a way of justifying their actions, no matter how heinous.”

  “I bet Maxwell thinks his actions are justified,” she replied, staring daggers at the stone wall opposite her. “This is different though,” she went on, speaking more to herself than to him. “Maxwell is a psychopath. These are just people. They paint murals and build temples and fight to protect innocent people. They’re—”

  “Human,” Roark finished for her gently. “They’re human and they’re complicated.” He began to run a soft hand up and down the curve of her shoulder rhythmically, as if to lull her back to sleep. “Nothing is simple. Simple just means we do not have all the facts.”

  Ronja heaved a sigh. She didn’t have a good answer for that. Instead, she stilled his hand by reaching around and lacing her fingers with his. She tucked deeper into the curve of his body and closed her eyes. Warmth blossomed between them. She so wished they could stay in bed for the rest of the day. She vowed that if they made it out of this mess alive, she would do just that.

  “Ronja . . . ”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Why do you want to save Revinia?”

  Ronja opened her eyes, frowning. “What do you mean?” she asked carefully, loosening her grip on his hand. “I want to stop that monster and save our friends, our family. Should I be focusing on something else?”

  “No, but why do you want to save the city?”

  Ronja wracked her brains. She was not entirely sure what he was getting at. “Maxwell deserves to be taken down for what he did to Samson and Henry,” she said. The words sounded rehearsed, as if she were reading them off a notecard. She felt Roark nod, the movement tugging on her curls gently.

  “You want revenge,” he summarized. “Of course, you do. But why do you want to save Revinia?”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Just think about it.” Roark gave her waist an encouraging squeeze. “Please.”

  Ronja huffed. Her brow puckered and her lips pursed. The more she thought about his question, the more it itched her. No one had ever asked her why before. The truth was she owed nothing to the people of Revinia. They had abused her and her family for nearly two decades, treating them like garbage. It was not their fault, but the result was the same. Why was she so hell-bent on saving them? “Because,” she answered slowly. “They deserve the chance to make the choice between good and evil, or to stand somewhere in between. They deserve the chance to live.”

  “To be human,” Roark said. “They deserve the chance to be human. We can give them that chance.”

  “But what if I choose something besides good?” Ronja asked, hating the way her voice cracked on the last word. “What if I dream about killing Maxwell with my bare hands, and I like it?”

  “What would you say if I told you the same thing? Or that I was relieved when my father was killed?” The girl did not answer. Roark continued. “War changes us, love. You and I have done awful things. Awful things have been done to us.” His fingers drifted up to brush the branching scar over her heart. “Maxwell said that your heart was too good for war,” he said. “He was right.”

  “No—”

  “But the Siren,” he continued, speaking over her, “walks in the gray. The Siren was born in war. The Siren can put an end to The New Music and take down a madman. The Siren is who you need to be right now.” Roark propped himself up on his elbow, peering down at her with eyes that were at once tender and resolved. Ronja looked up at him mutely. “Let Ronja sleep,” he said, pressing his palm to her cheek. “She will be waiting when the war is done.”

  “Promise?” she whispered.

  “Promise.”

  “There and back?”

  “Ther
e and back.”

  Ronja nodded, her hair whispering against her pillow. Roark lay back down beside her. She closed her eyes to the world. The flames of the Contrav danced on the backs of her lids. One by one, she tucked away the gentle shards of her soul. Minutes or hours snuck by, curling around her as she snapped her armor into place.

  When she opened her eyes, there was nothing but hope, rage, and her voice.

  44: The Armory

  When a knock came at their door less than an hour later, Ronja rushed to open it, expecting to find Elise. Her hopes were dashed when she was greeted by an old man with white hair she had never seen before. He raised his fist to his forehead and chest in greeting. “My name is Jae,” he introduced himself formally. “Good morning.”

  “Where is Elise?” Ronja asked without preamble. Roark appeared at her shoulder, smiling at Jae politely.

  “Elise is occupied with other matters,” Jae answered smoothly. “I am here to take you to the armory.”

  “Thanks,” Ronja said, burying her disappointment. She cut her eyes to Roark. He gave a slight nod. “We’re ready.”

  Jae led them through the twisting halls of the temple. He was unusually quick on his feet for his age. Even Roark struggled to keep up with him. The corridors were twice as crowded as usual. Several times Ronja nearly smashed into a Kev Fairlan who appeared to be lost in thought. The atmosphere was somber, the air swampy with mourning. No one so much as glanced at the Anthemites as they passed.

  “Sae!”

  Ronja whipped around, her heart in her mouth. Two women bearing a stretcher were hurtling down the hall, their faces stained with dried blood. The man they carried between them was howling in agony. The Siren slammed up against the wall, allowing them to pass. She craned her neck to see the wounded man and immediately regretted it. His bare chest was a mess of blood and seared flesh, a battleground in itself.

  “Sae!” one of the emergency responders shouted again, clearing a clot of Kev Fairlans further down.

  Ronja peeled away from the wall, watching them until they disappeared around a sharp bend. “What happened?” she asked. “Was there another attack?”

  “No,” Jae replied, his voice tight with pain. “They’re coming from Yeille. One of the bases was bombed, I think.”

  “Oh.”

  “Come,” Jae coaxed them along briskly. “We’re not far.” He was not lying. They only had to walk for another couple of minutes before the song of metal slamming against metal permeated the air. It sounded like a steamer roaring down the tracks, hurtling straight at them. Ronja found it both unnerving and exhilarating. Jae rounded a tight corner, motioning for the Anthemites to follow.

  “Whoa,” Ronja breathed. Roark nodded mutely in her peripheral vision.

  The entire room was drenched in the orange glow of open kilns. Dozens of Kev Fairlans darted between them. Some hammered at freshly-wrought blades, still glowing white hot. All of them wore goggles, thick leather gloves, and aprons to match. The air was heavy with smoke, steam, and determination. Ronja wondered if the blacksmiths were always so focused, or if the recent loss of the town was driving them.

  “Through there,” Jae said, pointing a wrinkled finger straight through the shop. Ronja squinted through the sheen of smoke. She could just make out an unremarkable door in the far wall. “Good luck.”

  “Perlo,” Roark replied, tapping his fist to his forehead and heart. Ronja was too absorbed with the mechanics of the workshop for niceties.

  “We’re grateful for your help with the evacuation.” Those words pulled her attention back to Jae. The old man smiled, saluting them with fervor. “Rel’eev, Entalia.”

  Before either of them could respond, Jae spun on his heel and strode off down the corridor, moving with the grace of a man half his age. Ronja and Roark shared a look, then ducked into the shop. They had to walk single file to avoid the blistering ovens and workstations. Ronja led the way, sweat rapidly beading on her skin.

  As they wove deeper into the shop, a table full of bullets standing like headstones caught her eye. Two boys were in the process of coating them in a clear, sticky liquid with paint brushes. Poison, her gut told her. She pressed on eagerly, Roark on her heels. They arrived at the door Jae had indicated. Ronja raised her hand to knock, but before she could, it was yanked open. Standing before them was an old man, easily ten years senior to Jae. His colorless hair was chopped short, and he was covered in white reshkas. On his long nose were a pair of thick glasses. They magnified his eyes to twice the average size. He smiled, deepening the lines on his face. “You must be the Revinians,” he said.

  “Your accent,” Ronja said, her brows shooting up. “You’re Arutian.” It was similar to the Revinian accent, but broader and heavier.

  “I was raised on the coast, yes,” he replied with a fond dip of his head. He stuck out his hand, which was dry and wrinkled as a paper bag. “My name is Quinton,” he said, shaking hands first with Ronja, then Roark. “I’ll be providing you with your armor.” He stepped aside, beckoning them to enter. They obliged, scanning the strange room with wide eyes.

  It was half the size of the shop outside and twice as cluttered. The walls were lined with every sort of weapon imaginable. Swords, knives, staffs, guns, rifles, even an ax that looked as if it weighed as much as Iris. Evie would love this, Ronja thought with a pang. In the center of the space was a rough wooden table littered with sketches, gnawed pencils, rolled up documents, scissors, thread, and half-empty coffee cups. There was no other furniture, but piles of leather and metal armor surrounded the table, pushed up against the walls unceremoniously.

  “Pardon the mess,” Quinton apologized, picking up a cup and sniffing its contents. He made a face and set it down. “Last time I cleaned up, my hair was still black.”

  “No problem,” Roark said hastily.

  “So.” Quinton leaned against the table, his weathered palms pressed flat against the surface. “Tell me about my beautiful Arutia.”

  Ronja passed Roark a bewildered glance. He gave a helpless shrug. “Uh,” she said, clearing her throat. “We’re actually Revinian.”

  “Right,” Quinton said with a bright smile. “Beautiful city, I used to drive in to visit the casino, Adagio. Do you know it?”

  “Sir,” Roark broke in gently. “Revinia and Arutia have been separated for decades.”

  “Of course, but—”

  “Revinia was taken over by a madman, closed off from the rest of the world,” Ronja said. “We’re trying to take him down.” When she put it like that, it all sounded so simple. Nothing is simple, Roark had said. He was damned right.

  Quinton was silent for a long moment. The muted symphony of the shop beyond the door filled the hush. His lower lip quivered as his failing eyes searched for a trace of a lie on their faces. “Revinia was a beacon,” he said softly. “The last time I was there, I was a young man. It was a free city, an oasis in a world at war.” He pushed off from his work table, looking back and forth between them. “Do you believe you can restore it?”

  Ronja recognized the hope scrawled across his aging face. Doubt began to rear within her but she shut it down, like slapping a lid on a jar. She was not Ronja, not today. Today she was the Siren. “Yes,” she told him. “I do.”

  “Then you’ll need armor,” Quinton said with an affirming nod. “You,” he said, jabbing a finger at her. “Come with me.”

  45: The Soldier and the Siren

  Roark

  Roark leaned against the table with his elbows on the rough wood as he waited for Ronja and Quinton to return. They had disappeared into a side room twenty minutes ago, and he had not heard from them since. He would have been anxious were he not certain Ronja could knock the old man on his ass.

  The Anthemite yawned, his eyes watering. The low light and the smoky air were making him sleepy. A rattling to his right drew his gaze. He straightened up and turned to face the back door. It opened slowly, the rust-caked hinges creaking. Quint
on strode through, wiping his hands on the front of his apron. He smiled, satisfaction radiating through his yellow teeth, and stood aside.

  Roark nearly fell back onto the table.

  The creature before him was not a girl, not an Anthemite, not even an artist. It was the Siren.

  She was dressed in black from head to toe. Her fitted boots crested her knees. Twin blades were strapped to her back, lighter and sleeker than the ones Jonah used. A subtly curved breast plate of black leather protected her chest, partially hidden beneath an old fashioned cloak. Her eyes, earth and steel, glinted wickedly.

  Then Ronja peeked through the mask, a sheepish smile twisting her full lips. “See anything you like?”

  Knowing no words could do her justice, Roark closed the space between them, grabbed the sides of her face, and kissed her. For a brief moment she was still; then she reciprocated enthusiastically.

  Quinton cleared his throat. They ignored him, sinking deeper into the embrace. The craftsman gave a phlegmy cough, and they broke apart, eyes and cheeks burning.

  “You, boy: you’re next.”

  Roark nodded, still staring at the Siren, still lost in her power and grace. She smirked up at him. “Get going,” she muttered. “Be ready, he likes to talk.”

  “Come,” Quinton said, spinning on his heel and marching back into the side room. “We have our work cut out for us.”

  Roark grunted irritably, kissed Ronja once more on the lips, then followed him inside.

  “Shut the door behind you,” the old man called.

  The Anthemite did as he was told, taking in his new surroundings with vague interest. It was about the size of the other workspace, filled with glaring electric lamps and full-length mirrors. Haphazard piles of armor were stacked along the walls, leaving little space for anything else. The center of the room, however, was clear. Sitting at its core was a small upturned crate. “Stand there,” Quinton ordered, his back to Roark as he rummaged through a pile of mismatched boots.