by L. Penelope
Her nostrils flared, and her jaw was clenched so tight he feared she might break a tooth. Tai’s blood warmed at her reaction, but disappointment descended when she began breathing deeply and regaining her icy composure.
“And are you going to waltz into a Dominionist gathering and demand an explanation for who bombed our temple? Will they answer a blue-haired Raunian, or will they throw you out on your … your keister?”
“My keister?” he repeated incredulously. “I’ll have you know that this blue-haired Raunian is an expert at negotiation, able to make deals and maneuver in every society, in a variety of languages at docks all around the world.” He instantly regretted allowing her to see how her disdain affected him. He may be a smuggler by trade, but he was a bloody good one and well versed in the art of getting men to talk. Though even he wasn’t sure if that was why the Goddess had included him.
“I still have not heard a plan yet, Master Summerhawk. And I’m not certain why you are even on this mission. I know my father and how he thinks. I am the best person to locate him and bring him back for justice.”
“Your Goddess apparently believes that I have some value or else I would not be here. And why are you so quick to turn against your own kin anyway?”
Her lips tightened and her neck elongated as her chin shot up. Ah, that was a sore spot. He well understood. His father was a bone of contention with him, as well.
“My father,” she said through clenched teeth, “is a traitor to Elsira. I, however, am a loyal patriot, and it is my duty to bring him in.”
“A loyal patriot on house arrest for the past few weeks?”
He regretted the words the moment they were past his lips, but he couldn’t take them back. Lizvette’s facade remained a stony mask, but her eyes revealed that his jab had hit its mark.
She swallowed and dropped her gaze to the floor. “I believe that I was put in charge of this mission, and I say we are starting with Uncle Rodriq.” Her words were quiet yet still charged with authority.
“I’m not sure why you think you’re in charge, duchess. I know you’re used to the world dropping at your feet and commanding the masses with a crook of your pinkie finger”—he waggled his in example—“but I have more experience in this kind of thing. You start with the uncle and your father may run. We should start with the Dominionists.”
She leaned forward ever so slightly, her carefully managed exterior now shored up and showing no cracks. He leaned in, too, drawn by the force in her expression. But before she could say another word, a powerful blast of air pushed them back against their seats. Tai struggled against it but could not move.
Outside, the clear blue sky was marred by a curious crack of lightning. In the pilot’s seat, Clove jumped. Vanesse turned around to glare at Darvyn.
“I apologize. I just needed their attention,” Darvyn said.
“Please be careful,” Vanesse said, then turned back and placed a soothing hand on Clove’s arm to still her frantic movements.
Tai’s brows lifted. He was cold from shock. Darvyn looked back and forth between the two of them. The tight band across Tai’s chest pinned him in place, and Lizvette’s wide eyes must’ve meant she felt the same thing.
“Is that … is that Earthsong?” she whispered.
Darvyn nodded solemnly, his eyes firm but not unkind. “This whole mission cannot be spent bickering. Do you two understand?”
Lizvette gulped and looked away. When Darvyn’s gaze moved to Tai, he cracked a smile if only to hide the terror that the display of magic had ignited.
The pressure lifted and he could finally move, breathing deeply and hoping his relief wasn’t too apparent. Lizvette swallowed and rubbed her breastbone.
“We will start with her uncle,” Darvyn said, then leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.
Lizvette shot Tai a smug expression, a small smile playing on her lips. He twirled his hand and bowed at her exaggeratedly from his seat, mimicking a fancy blue blood. When he straightened, her smile was gone and a pang of loss throbbed through him. She should smile more. Maybe then she’d be tolerable.
He settled back in his seat and closed his eyes. Getting some sleep seemed like a good idea.
* * *
Lizvette stepped from the cool interior of the airship onto the blazing-hot tarmac at the air station. The square of flat, paved land had been cut directly into the center of Melbain City in the western part of Yaly. Towering buildings of steel and glass rose overhead, and the air was clogged with smoke from innumerable factories.
She winced as the volume of the city pummeled her. Was it the voices of millions of people residing in a few dozen square kilometers? Or the autos that filled the streets, which hadn’t seen a horse or cart in decades? She looked up into the perpetually gray sky but found no answers there.
Though the official capital of Yaly changed at the whim of each elected president, such fluctuations were inconvenient for the rest of the world, so the ambassadorships of all the nation’s allies remained in the commonwealth of Melbain. The current president hailed from Gilmeria far to the north, and Lizvette was glad not to be going to that frigid place. Each commonwealth claimed to have a unique character and culture, but she found them all tediously similar. All had megacities in which the vast majority of the population lived and worked, and surrounding territories for farming, mining, and such. But a country as large and as productive as Yaly still had to import many of its resources. Elsira did a large trade of agriculture with the superpower, but the recent drought had affected both lands.
She took in the towering airships parked around them. Most were commercial vessels carrying dozens, if not hundreds, of people. There were only a few smaller crafts in the crowd. Her party stood around Clove, who mimed in frustrated communication with the Yalyish attendant who came to see to the ship. Tai stepped in to translate, smoothing out the tense moment.
Lizvette took a moment to regard him while he was otherwise occupied. The Raunian was keenly intelligent, to be sure, but she still wasn’t certain what he was doing here. The Goddess couldn’t have chosen him simply because he had a good head on his shoulders. But it was useless to speculate on Her reasoning. Lizvette would just have to trust in Her.
The conversation between the pilot and the attendant went on and on, and Lizvette shifted uncomfortably. Her traveling gown was far too heavy for the heat wave Melbain City seemed to be having. Sweat trickled down her back and between her breasts, leaving her flushed.
After an eternity, the attendant moved away, grumbling under his breath.
“What was that all about?” she asked Vanesse as the group returned.
“Clove is very particular about the maintenance of the ship.” She rolled her eyes, then gave a yelp and jumped. Clove appeared from behind her and winked. Lizvette blushed, averting her eyes.
Tai sauntered over and stood next to her, rocking back on his heels.
“Yes?” she hissed.
“No luggage, duchess?” His dark eyes twinkled. The others were carrying their bags. She swallowed, not wanting to meet his gaze. Carrying her own luggage had never occurred to her, but there were no servants on this trip.
She marched away from him and picked up her traveling case. It was far heavier than she would have packed it if she’d thought she’d have to haul the thing herself. She struggled to lift it and walk back with some sense of decorum, cursing herself all the way for bringing so many dresses.
Tai merely smiled and turned around, following Clove and Vanesse off the tarmac and into the main building of the air station.
The load lightened suddenly and Darvyn was beside her, taking the case from her hand.
“Thank you,” she said. He merely nodded and walked ahead, leaving her in the rear.
Lizvette felt ashamed and weak. They must think her coddled and spoiled. Yes, she had been born to privilege, but none of them had witnessed the darker sides of her upbringing. She squared her shoulders and marched into the station, determined to s
how Tai and the others that she was more than a pampered aristocrat.
They breezed through customs, having to stop only for Darvyn to receive an inoculation against the plague.
“They don’t vaccinate in Lagrimar?” she asked.
He gave a humorless chuckle. “Even if they did, I wouldn’t have taken a dose away from a non-Singer.”
“So the plague wouldn’t affect you?” Her curiosity was piqued.
“I would heal it before it could do any damage.” His face tightened as if the subject pained him, so she let it drop.
Outside the station, they piled into a taxicab, fortunate to find one large enough to seat all five of them. Then they were off to the hotel where Clove and many of the other Yaly Classic racers were to stay.
The sun had just dipped below the horizon, and electric streetlights flickered on. Pedestrians crowded the sidewalks, and vehicles vied for space on the congested roads. Darvyn leaned his forehead against the glass, his eyes wide.
She wondered what it must be like to live in a desert under the rule of a madman. “Very different from Lagrimar, is it not?” she asked.
He looked over to her, a smile breaching his grim expression. “I don’t understand how anyone could endure this. They literally live on top of one another,” he motioned to one of the enormous towers as they idled at a stoplight.
“Personally, I don’t understand how anyone could live this far from water. All this solid ground makes me landsick,” Tai muttered.
“You all don’t know what you’re missing,” Clove said. “There is never a boring moment in the megacities. Excitement on every corner. Shows and parties and festivals and dancing. You could live here your whole life and never dine in the same place twice.”
Vanesse looked a bit skeptical, as did everyone else in the cab.
The streets were filled with a multihued variety of people, so unlike Elsira. Yaly did not have strict immigration laws, plus their population boasted three races: the Daro, lighter-skinned nomads native to the land; the Summ, a dark-skinned race that at some point had migrated from the east; and the Pressians, who vaguely resembled the deeply tanned Raunians and had sailed from the far west to settle in Yaly hundreds of years ago.
Early wars among the three groups had raged but had been sorted out long ago as a common religion spread and united the races. Lizvette had studied The Ayalya in university, the beloved book detailing the nation’s creation myth. The vast majority of Yalyish worshipped eighteen saints, and each saint had a commonwealth established in their honor. Melbain was built in tribute to Saint Melba, champion of justice. Statues of the woman abounded in parks, on street corners, and on building facades, and they were etched onto the currency.
Soon enough, they pulled up to the hotel and tumbled out. It was a midrange lodge, quaint and homey, nothing like the luxury establishments where Lizvette was used to staying. Still, it was clean and the staff pleasant. The trip and her upcoming task had drained her energy, and she wanted nothing more than a good night’s rest. But due to the airship race, the place was too booked to give them all separate rooms. Luckily, Clove had been able to change her reservation to a suite. They entered a small sitting area with a bedroom on each side and a shared bathroom.
“Boys on that side, girls here,” Clove announced as she strode inside.
The room Lizvette was to share with the other women had two double beds. Vanesse sat on the one closest to the window and began rifling through her bag. Clove sat next to her, and Lizvette stood awkwardly in the doorway.
“Perhaps you would prefer that I sleep in the sitting room. I don’t want to intrude on your privacy.”
Vanesse smiled generously, and it lit up her face. The more Lizvette looked at the woman, the less she saw the burn scar marring her skin. “It’s all right. I’m sure you’d be far more comfortable on a real bed than on that couch.”
Neither seemed to think the sleeping arrangements an issue, and Lizvette did not want to make a big deal of it. They were, after all, doing her a kindness in helping with her mission.
As she washed up in the bathroom, she thought of how Mother and Father would react if they knew she was sharing a room with two women who were obviously in a relationship. Father would be the most vocal, but Mother would let her displeasure be known in more subtle ways, as was her habit. Passive-aggressive comments were her style.
At least she was free from her mother’s snobbery for a while. Lizvette had enlisted her maid to sit with Mother during the trip, and Zavros would check on her as well. A tendril of guilt worked its way through her, but she shook it off. Mother’s illness was mostly in her mind—her body was not sick—and if Lizvette could restore some iota of honor to her family and avoid exile, a miraculous recovery may be in store. She chuckled to think about it.
She changed into a fresh gown for dinner before returning to the bedroom to free up the bathroom and spend several minutes repinning her hair. The door was slightly ajar, and she looked up to find Tai standing there staring at her.
She raised an eyebrow at him. “May I help you?”
“Just admiring the view,” he said with a cheeky grin.
She flushed, then marched over to the door and slammed it in his face.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A storm pummeled the boat until it crashed upon a shore, and Ayal stepped foot onto sand dark as tar. There she met Woman-With-Eyes-Like-Fire digging for clams in the mud flats. “Come and share my meal,” the woman said, and Ayal was grateful, for she had never had a friend.
—THE AYALYA
Kyara looked up when the door beyond the cells opened on quiet hinges. A guard entered, and the wound on her chest began to pulse.
Ydaris appeared and approached Kyara’s cell. With a wave, the woman dismissed the guard, who left without another look. As chillingly beautiful as ever, Ydaris wore one of the elaborately embroidered dresses she’d favored in Lagrimar rather than the long, red coats the Physicks here seemed to prefer. Her golden gown was delicately beaded and her head was covered in a matching wrap, which was common among both Physick men and women.
“Kyara,” Ydaris said with a glacial smile. Her emerald-green eyes shimmered in the low light. “I could not have imagined how helpful you would be. We are closer now than we’ve ever been. I should thank you.”
“Closer to what?” Roshon asked from the cell next door. Kyara was curious, too, and Ydaris seemed to be in a chatty mood, but she knew better than to expect any direct answers from the woman.
Ydaris ignored Roshon and gripped the bars with one hand, idly fingering the medallion around her neck with the other. Kyara had never seen the woman without it—not once in ten years—though it was usually hidden beneath her dress. Anxiety for what was about to come twisted Kyara’s stomach.
“I forbid you from accessing your Song in any way,” Ydaris said.
The searing pain on Kyara’s chest flared quickly before dying away, and she clenched her teeth until the agony was over. She wasn’t sure why Ydaris felt the need to reinforce the binding spell every few days. Once the commands were spoken, they were in effect until Ydaris gave a new order. At least that’s how it had always worked in Lagrimar. Had something about the spell changed?
Ydaris turned to leave and the questions bubbling up inside Kyara had nowhere to go but out. “Why don’t you just drain my Song and be done with it? Why keep me here, day after day? Take it and be done!” she cried.
Green eyes peered at her coldly. “Removing your Song entirely can happen but once. This way, while less efficient, is far more advantageous. You are stronger than anyone thought you were. But take heart. We are almost done with you, my dear.” Her lips curled into a terrifying smile before she continued to the door and the guard let her out.
Kyara slumped on her bed. She’d theorized that whatever they needed her Song for was best achieved with it attached to her. Otherwise they would have removed it as Raal had promised. But what was their goal? And would they really accomplish it before
the process killed her?
The outer door opened again, this time admitting an old woman dressed in servant gray and stooped over a meal tray. Kyara looked at her dubiously; she normally received two meals a day and it was hours yet until the next one.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Roshon sit up sharply. A change in the routine was certainly something to take notice of.
The old woman placed the tray on the ground and slid it through the narrow opening in the bars.
“Why an extra meal?” Kyara murmured.
“Do you think they’re trying to poison you?” Roshon asked.
She snorted. “I should be so lucky.”
The servant clucked her tongue. “You’re being given extra rations to bolster your strength.”
Kyara froze as the reedy voice floated to her. “You speak Lagrimari?”
The woman kept her head down and remained slumped, though the tray no longer weighed her down. Wrinkled, paper-thin ebony skin stretched over gnarled fingers that retreated into the folds of the servant’s robe. “You’ll need to be strong to face what comes.”
Kyara scrambled off the bed and over to the wall of bars. “Why? What’s coming?” The only thing she knew of the Physicks’ plans was what Raal had told her back in Sayya. The mages were searching for immortality. Though why anyone would want to live forever was beyond Kyara. This life was difficult enough.
“Does what’s coming have to do with the war among the three worlds?” she asked.
Her question seemed to shock the servant. The old woman reared back and raised her head. Dark-blue eyes clouded with age gaped at her. “How do you know of this? Saint Dahlia save us, can you truly speak to the spirits?”
Now it was Kyara’s turn to be shocked. How could this woman know of her dreams? She shook her head. “I-I don’t know.”
“Eat.” With a wary eye, the woman began backing away. “Build your strength, girl.”
“Wait!” Kyara said, pressing against the cold iron. She hadn’t been able to communicate with anyone other than the family in the next cell since she’d arrived. Ydaris didn’t count, and Kyara hadn’t seen Raal since her first day here. There was so much she wanted to know, but before she could get out another question, Varten began coughing.
