“Your name is Henry Romancheck,” Terra repeated, lingering in front of him this time. “You were born into the Anthem and grew up in the Belly, surrounded by music and revolution.” The words were far too sentimental for her taste, but desperate times called for desperate measures. “Your first crush was on Kala Pent. We were kids. She barely gave you the time of day.”
Henry remained silent, his dispassionate eyes still latched to hers. Terra could feel Theo’s confusion radiating, but she paid him no mind. “Your name is Henry Romancheck. Your parents were murdered by Offs when you were a child—”
“They were traitors, they deserved to die,” he cut in mechanically.
Terra began to circle him again, swallowing her frustration. “When your parents died, you moved away from the Belly with Charlotte to protect her,” she continued, slinking around the chair to view him again. “That was where you met Ronja.”
Henry did not respond this time, nor did he look at her. The recording device seemed to pulse with life in her hand. Not yet. “You loved her. I doubt you had the guts to tell her, but you did. You almost died to protect her.”
“I . . . ”
“You sacrificed yourself to protect us,” she raised her voice to cut him off. “All of us. Roark, Iris, Evie, Ronja, and me. Your last words were to Ronja. You said maybe the stars are alive after all. That meant something to her. What did it mean to you, Henry?”
Henry blinked. Now. Terra clicked the button on the face of the recording device. There was a pause filled with static. Then the voice of the Siren graced the room. It filled the space from floor to ceiling, forcing back the suffocating walls. It was startling, electrifying, exquisite. Terra hated to admit it, but it made her feel light as air.
“Stop this!” Henry bellowed. He squeezed his eyes shut, whipping his head back and forth as if to shake off a snake.
“You killed Samson, Henry,” Terra shouted over the lyrics.
When your knees crash into the ground
And your desperate lips won’t make a sound . . .
“You killed your friend. He was a good man and I . . . ” Terra trailed off before she could lie. “I think I could have loved him. Maybe, after the war ended. Just like you loved Ronja.”
“Stop,” Henry begged in a raspy voice, letting his head loll backward against the chair. The arteries in his throat were straining, pulsing. “Please.”
Terra looked over her shoulder at Theo, who was watching the exchange with his jaw hanging loose. She jerked back around when Henry hissed in pain. His entire body vibrated with agony, his teeth chattering in his skull. “Tell me about Ronja, Henry,” Terra ordered, advancing on him until they were a breath apart. She could see every pore in his tortured face, every raw capillary in the whites of his eyes. “Tell me why you loved her.”
Sing my friend
Into the dark . . .
“TELL ME!”
“I DON’T KNOW!” he screamed, spraying hot spittle in her face. Terra backed off, studying him intently. He could not seem to focus on her. His breaths came in short pants. Terra smiled bitterly. There it was, the most basic human emotion. It was rolling off him in waves. Fear.
Sing my friend
There and back . . .
Before the song could draw to a close, Terra drew the knife at her hip with a ringing hiss. The blade was razor sharp and sterile; she had cleaned it thoroughly with alcohol. “This will hurt,” she warned him under her breath. “Theo!”
The boy rushed to her side, looking down at the writhing prisoner with wide eyes. Whatever he had been expecting, it was not this.
“Hold his head steady,” she commanded sharply. “Do not let him move, do you understand me?”
Theo nodded, grasping Henry by the head. One hand cupped his strong jaw, the other pressed into his crown. Terra sucked in a deep breath. “Sorry,” she said, looking down at Henry. He did not seem to hear her. She took his right ear and Singer and pulled them taut. The metal parasite was warm to the touch, almost as if it were alive. “If this works, you owe me,” she muttered.
Terra raised her blade, then sliced through the wire and cartilage in one swift motion. The ear and Singer fell, hitting the floor with a sickening splat and the ring of metal. The song had ended. There was nothing but toneless static in its place. Blood spurted from the gaping wound in Henry’s head, soaking into his creased suit. Theo released the prisoner, his pale hands slick with red. Terra stepped back hurriedly, her knife still clasped in her own bloody fingers. She was as still as a glass lake as she watched Henry, waiting for a sign. His open eyes were dull, his mouth a flat line.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Then Henry blinked. “Terra?” he croaked, his bloodshot eyes focusing on her face. Before she could respond, he slumped forward in his chair, still hemorrhaging heavily.
“We need to get him untied,” Terra said. “Now.”
48: Falling Away
It took them an hour to finish up at the armory. It would have gone faster were Quinton not such a talker. After they finally said their goodbyes, the Anthemites retreated to their quarters.
“Now what?” Ronja asked, tossing her sheathed weapons onto the bed. “We have hours to kill.”
“Well,” Roark said, leaning up against the closed door. “We could get some food. Sleep. Spar. Go over the plan for the fiftieth time.”
“All good options,” Ronja said, bobbing her head in agreement. Silence built a bridge between them. They regarded each other in steady awe. Roark looked as if he were made to wear armor, she thought. If the Siren was born in war, so was he. “Tonight might be our last night,” she said quietly.
Roark did not deny it as she had expected him to. Instead, he approached her slowly, his eyes never straying from hers. Her pulse climbed with each step he took, peaking when he was a breath from her. “No matter what happens,” he murmured, the words caressing the skin of her face. “I am glad I met you, Ronja Alezandri.”
Ronja raised up on her tiptoes to kiss him. He pressed a finger to her lips, stilling her. His hands drifted to the tie that held her cloak in place, unlacing it in a single motion. It crumpled to the floor as he began to unbuckle her armor. With each piece that was removed, heat swelled in her body. Once he had removed the last piece, she bent down to take off her boots. She straightened up, standing before him in nothing but her sheer undershirt. When he moved to embrace her, she tapped her finger to his lips. “My turn.”
She took a tiny step forward, leaving a charged inch between them, and began to remove his armor. First his breastplate, then his shoulder and armguards. She sank to her knees slowly, unbuckling the tough leather pads that protected his knees. Roark shivered as Ronja got to her feet, tracing her fingers up his thighs and under his shirt, lifting it over his head.
“Wait,” he breathed as his shirt slipped to the floor. Ronja looked up at him in askance. “Let me look at you, just for a moment.” She watched him watch her, marveling at the way his pupils dilated as he drank her in. She had never imagined that anyone could look at her that way. It was not simply desire, it was awe. It was aching affection.
“Roark . . . ” She spoke his name as if it were a prayer.
Her voice broke him from his stupor. He crushed his mouth to hers, lifting her from the floor. Ronja wrapped her arms around his neck as his fingers dug into her thighs. Roark pushed her back onto the bed. Rather than following her, he dropped to his knees and pulled her to the edge of the mattress by her hips. She trembled as he began to kiss along the insides of her thighs, nudging them apart. A gasp tore from her chest. She dug her fingers into his hair, her back arching.
Minutes or hours might have passed while she twisted beneath him. When he finally rose to his feet, she was shivering and sweating, caught between pleasure and exhaustion. “Look at me, love,” Roark said gently, leaning over her and tethering her with his gaze. “Do you want to keep going?”
Ronja pulled him down toward her as an answe
r, kissing him like the world would cave in beneath them. When he settled between her legs, he let out a low growl. They sank into a steady rhythm, bodies and heartbeats twined. Everything fell away. Their pain and their history. Their guilt and their fear. When they finally finished, they lay side by side, their limbs heavy with sweat and delicious exhaustion.
“We could just keep doing that for the next few hours,” Roark suggested.
Ronja made a noise of agreement, burying her face in the warm space between his neck and shoulder. “If we make it out of this,” she said, closing her eyes. “We’re going to spend a whole week like this.”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence, but I do need the occasional break.”
“No,” Ronja said with a laugh. “Together. Peaceful. Happy.”
“You say a week, I say a lifetime.” He pressed his lips to her warm brow.
She smiled, her eyes closed. “Deal.”
The rest of the day crept by with the speed of an earthworm. They ate up some of the time showering, then devoured a huge meal in the trié. Most of the seats were taken up by refugees from the town. The adults paid them little mind, but the young children crowded around Ronja, fascinated by her heavily freckled skin. She allowed them to touch her hands and cheeks while Roark looked on, eating his soup with a gloating smirk.
Once their food settled and the Tovairin children had been convinced that Ronja was not suffering from pox, the Anthemites ambled down to the main hall where dozens of Kev Fairlans were sparring. They picked an unoccupied corner of the vast room and spent the next hour sparring. Roark beat Ronja every time with frustrating ease, but by the time they were through she was confident she remembered how to flip someone over her shoulder and throw a punch without breaking her knuckles.
Eventually they found their way back to their room, settling in until evening rolled around. When a sharp knock finally graced their door, they both vaulted for it like caged animals.
“Paxton,” Ronja greeted their caller breathlessly. “What time are we leaving?”
The Sydonian was dressed in full armor, his dreadlocks tied back with a length of cord. Clearly, he had won the argument with Easton and would be accompanying them to Revinia. “We’re meeting in the main hall near the statue of Entalia in an hour,” he told them formally, his eyes flicking back and forth between them. “Do you know how to find it?”
“Yeah,” Ronja answered, mentally walking herself through the temple. “Yeah, we’re good.”
“Good,” Paxton said, preparing to leave with a nod. “I was going to send Elise to take you, but—”
“Wait,” Ronja yelped, causing both men to jump half a foot. “Actually, I think we might get lost. Please, send Elise.”
The Sydonian gave her a bewildered look, then blinked rapidly. “Of course,” he said. “I’ll send for her.” He started to back away again. “I’ll see you both shortly.”
“Wait,” Ronja said again, reaching out as if to pull him back. Paxton arched a brow at her, irritation sparking in his eyes. “Could you ask her to bring some black paint, or charcoal?”
“I’ll see to it.”
Once Paxton was gone, the Anthemites set about packing their bags and donning their armor again. The former was the easier task. They had few belongings between the two of them, barely enough to fill one knapsack. Some food, a canteen of water, the zethas, the knives Jonah had given them, and several other useful items they had picked up on the voyage over. An old fashioned spyglass, a pocket knife with multiple tools, and a length of rope.
The armor was a different story. It took thirty minutes and a great deal of swearing to snap the leather plates back in to place. Ronja was still certain they were doing something wrong. The cap on her shoulder was uncomfortably tight, and Roark complained of a pinching sensation beneath his breastplate.
“We should have kept it on,” she muttered as she hunted for the problem.
Roark finally waved her off. “Leave it. I’ll ask Jonah.”
Ronja smiled. “He’ll give you hell.”
“Hell I can handle,” he replied. His eyes swept up and down her body. He gave a disbelieving shake of his head. “You look magnificent,” he said softly.
Before she could roll her eyes, another knock came at their door. Ronja hurried over to open it. Her heart seized when Elise filled her gaze. This time, her face was not angled toward the ground. Her gaze was as steady as the moons over the sea. The bruise across her cheek was turning yellow, but Ronja knew it would not be her last. The Arexian girl reached into the pocket of her dress and produced a small tin. “Good luck,” she said softly.
Rather than taking it, Ronja pulled her into a fierce hug. Elise was still for a moment, then wrapped her arms around the other girl and held fast. “Good luck,” Ronja replied. “May your song guide you home.”
“Tigal frie lire avat,” Elise answered.
They pulled apart. Neither knew what the other had said, but somehow the sayings transcended words. Elise took Ronja by the wrist, turned her palm to the ceiling, and placed the tin in her hand. She crossed her fingers over her heart. The Siren mirrored her. With a polite nod at Roark, Elise turned and strode back down the hall with her head high.
Ronja watched her go until she faded from view. Her fingers closed around the cool tin. She did not notice she was shaking until Roark laid a gentle hand on the small of her back.
“I wish . . . ” she started to say, but she trailed off. There was nothing she could say that he did not already know. That the world was a mess, with or without The Music. That Elise might very well spend the rest of her life a slave, and there was little they could do about it. That even if they conquered The Conductor tonight, Revinia was still a broken nation. “Come on,” Ronja said. “I’ll do your war paint.”
She sat Roark on the edge of the mattress and stood before him, popping the tin open with her thumb and examining the contents curiously. It was true charcoal, not paint, but it would have to do. She dipped her index finger into the powder and brought it to his face.
“You’ve never done this before,” Roark commented as she drew the first streak down the center of his brow.
“Yes I have,” she muttered, focusing on the second line across his cheek.
“No, I meant to someone else,” he went on quickly. “Giving someone their war paint, it means a lot.”
“Evie did mine, once,” Ronja replied, thinking back to that night with a flicker of nostalgia. “Close your eyes.” Roark complied. She dipped her finger into the soot again, then began to draw a thick line from his eyebrow to his cheekbone, straight over the tender skin of his lid. “It was right before my first jam. I think it was green and blue to match that dress you brought me.”
“We use bright colors for celebration,” he told her as she started to work on his other eye. “Black for war. White for weddings and funerals.”
“I never knew that,” Ronja murmured. She blew on his face gently, making his nose twitch. The sight brought a tiny smile to her face. “Open your eyes.”
Roark did as she asked. The Siren swallowed the knot in her throat. He was fierce and beautiful, body and soul. His eyes, brown shot with gold, were luminous against the black paint. “How do I look?” he asked coyly.
“Like a raccoon,” she lied, dipping back into the tin. “Hold still.” Ronja finished his war paint hurriedly, keenly aware of the time slipping between their fingers. When she was finished, she wiped the excess charcoal on her pants and passed the container to Roark. “Do mine,” she said, pushing her hair out of her face and closing her eyes.
“I am honored you trust me, Ms. Alezandri. Now,” Roark said, his breath brushing against her skin with devastating gentleness. “Stay very still.” He worked faster than she did. She felt him tracing lines across her cheeks and brow, even one through the center of her lips. His touch was heaven, even in the looming presence of war. “Done,” he said, satisfaction ringing in his tone.
Ronja opened h
er eyes. Roark grinned down at her. The expression did not match his ferocious paint. She nodded her thanks and slid off the bed, striding over to the bathroom and flicking on the light. Her jaw dropped. The strokes of black sprawled across her face were not mere lines. They flared at the edges, just like the feathers of a raven.
Or a Siren.
Ronja turned to face Roark, only to find he was already gazing at her, pride flaring in his dark eyes. “Thank you,” she said softly.
“Thank you,” he countered. “For being my home.”
“Thank you for the same.”
“Come on, Siren,” Roark said, holding his gloved hand out for her to take. “We have work to do.”
49: Rally
Roark and Ronja were the last to arrive at the main hall. Easton and Paxton stood beneath the towering statue of Entalia, equally impressive in their leather armor. The wolf Pascal stood beside them, his intelligent yellow eyes roving across the vast space. Nearby, Jonah and Larkin were arguing, hands and mouths flying. Both of them had braided their hair back in a similar fashion and were armed to the teeth. All around them, several dozen soldiers talked amongst themselves.
“Ronja, Roark,” Easton called when he spotted them approaching. He beckoned from across the floor. They sped their pace, weaving through the knot of soldiers who whispered as they passed. “Is this why you are late?” he asked, gesturing at their war paint.
“You have your rituals, we have ours,” Roark responded in a clipped tone.
At the mention of rituals, Ronja felt the pull of Entalia. She craned her neck to view her looming stone face. The eyes of the goddess seemed to look in every direction at once, including straight at her. She gulped, fighting the urge to apologize for breaking her bowl.
“Fair enough,” Easton said with a nod. “Before we leave, I need to speak to my people. I would appreciate if you would remain silent.” The Anthemites agreed at once. “Thank you. Step aside.”
Paxton motioned for them to stand beside him, giving Easton the floor. Ronja watched him curiously as they fell into place beside the Sydonian. Compared to Wilcox, who was chronically a breath from exploding, Easton was the picture of poise. He took a deep breath, then spoke in a voice that commanded attention. “Kev Fairla.” Moving as a unit, the soldiers snapped to attention. “I will speak in the common language today to honor our guests,” he said, his voice ringing through the temple.
Siren Page 23
