Whispers of Heaven (Saga of the Rose Book 1)

by Krista Rose

  Poor, pathetic boy.

  I could not silence the doubts, because it was true. I was too selfish, too self-absorbed to sacrifice for the others as she constantly did. My anger was an obstacle, tripping me into hasty words and poor decisions. I lashed out, and hurt those I loved the most. I was too much like our father, and I did not know how to purge myself of his hate, which possessed me like a shade.

  I could not seem to help anyone, even myself.

  I quietly turned away from my sisters, and left the Infirmary unnoticed. Lanya’s lullaby followed me, haunting, joining the other ghosts that lived within my skin.

  ALYXEN

  26 Llares 577A.F.

  “They say the Darkling Prince was born a slave, raised in cruelty and chains in the Salt Flats of the south.” My mind was filled with visions of it as I told the story to the others, the tale warming my blood against the cool of late spring. “He overthrew his masters and broke free, fleeing with nearly a dozen other slaves. They named him Prince of the Darkling Wood, and vowed to free their fellows from the bonds of persecution.”

  Reyce turned in his hammock to look at me. Sharp shadows hid his features, our single candle doing little to illuminate the moonless night. “The Darkling Wood?” he repeated, his tone curious.

  “That was the name of the Siriun Forest before the Empire,” I explained. “When Nora Llylhi founded Valory, she renamed the Forest after the Younger Gods.”

  “Oh.” He frowned, and I watched him struggle with our ignorance. Janis had taught us only a little of our world before her death; there always seemed to be too much that we did not know.

  “But the Empire has existed for five hundred years,” Lanya pointed out. “Does that mean-”

  “It’s not the same Prince,” I assured her, before she could start worrying about the nightmare of immortality. “When a Prince dies, a new one is elected from the Camp. This one’s only been Prince for a year or so. I get the impression that the young men are all fanatical for him, but the old ones don’t like him at all. They won’t tell me why, though.”

  In truth, they wouldn’t tell me much of anything in the tinker’s shop where I had been assigned- not directly, in any case. Despite the fact that I was nearing my fourteenth birthday and towered over most of the wizened old men I worked with, I was still thought to be a child and was treated as such, expected to remain unseen and unheard unless I was needed.

  It was frustrating, but I bit my tongue and sat in my assigned corner of the Hall of Resourcefulness, a grandiose name for the cramped house filled with desks and half-finished inventions and impatient, cranky old tinkers. They had ignored me after my first day, for which I couldn’t help but be thankful, and I was left alone to draw and write as much as I wanted, for the Hall possessed a seemingly endless supply of parchment.

  The aging men around me spent more of their time reminiscing and telling stories than they did working, and so I had begun to learn the history of the Darkling Prince, piecing it together as my siblings and I slowly adjusted to life in the Camp.

  We had each been assigned to different tasks, based on what we were most suited for. Brannyn had been sent to the retrieval teams, and seemed to be enjoying it, telling us bits and pieces of his adventures from each day. Lanya had gone to the seamstresses, though they had wanted to send her to the Infirmary; she had requested the position, needing the quiet peace she found surrounded by the ancient old women who made blankets and bandages on worn looms. Kylee had been positioned with Thellin, the shriveled old man who cared for the Camp’s animals, and Reyce went to the hunters- and so it was only when we lay in our hammocks at night that we had time to speak to each other.

  “Why do you think they don’t like him?” Reyce asked.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Kylee said curtly. “We shouldn’t stay here long anyway.”

  I glanced over at my twin. She had been sullen and snappish since our first day in Camp; I had thought it was her aversion to people that was making her short-tempered. But now, feeling the revulsion that leaked from behind her careful shields, I wondered. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” She jerked a shoulder. “I just don’t like it here. Something’s off. And I don’t like the pigs.”

  “You’ve never liked pigs,” Brannyn reminded her patiently. “Besides, we can’t go anywhere until Kryssa’s healed.”

  I thought of my sister, lying still and silent in the Infirmary. Bryonis had come to tell us when her fever had finally broken, but she still wouldn’t wake. Brannyn worried that the trauma in her mind was more devastating than what had been done to her body, and I was afraid I agreed with him.

  The candle flickered and went out, and the shadows pressed in around us, suffocating and smothering.

  I struggled against the crushing weight of it. “Do you remember the story of the princess and the dragon?” I didn’t wait for them to answer, but launched into the tale, using my words to battle back the darkness until it was only night again, and we could breathe.

  KRYSSA

  I floated in nothingness.

  It was peaceful there, in the forgetting, and I wallowed in oblivion. Far above me was the pain, lurking, waiting, circling, and I was afraid to face it. I did not want to remember.

  But something was pulling me, dragging me up out of the darkness. A voice spoke to me, gentle but firm. Wake. It is not yet time for you.

  It was excruciating to come back to myself. My body was an ocean of agony, and my eyes burned in the dazzling light as I opened them. I did not know my name, did not know the faces around me.

  And then memory rushed in on me. I was drowning, screaming. Blood was everywhere, thoughts not my own gouging into my mind. I felt the Crone die, over and over, and I was falling toward that final, empty endlessness. My nails scrabbled at my face, trying to rip her from my head.

  Hands were on me, holding me down, but the faces around me all belonged to my father, his mouths stretching wide in malicious grins as he stared at me, his eyes filled with flame.

  “Worthless bitch,” he whispered, forcing a bottle of his dark potion to my lips, filling my nose with the stench of death. “Drink your poison.”

  I choked, spluttering. I was shaking, my mind going dim and vague, the horror around me receding until my limbs went lax, and I lay unmoving and unknowing once more.

  LANYA

  “And then the princess climbed upon the back of the mighty dragon,” Alyxen murmured, his voice soft as he pictured the story in his mind. “She looked down at the cowardly knight, and said, ‘I will not marry anyone who will not fight for me.’ And then she and the dragon flew off into the sunset, and lived happily ever after.”

  I smiled sleepily, my eyelids feeling heavy. The story had calmed our fragile nerves, and more, it was one of my favorites. I sighed, content, preparing to sink into slumber.

  Someone pounded on the door.

  Brannyn climbed from his hammock with a muttered curse, dressed only in breeches. The hammering continued. “I’m coming, I’m coming. Hold on a bloody minute.”

  He yanked open the door, blinking in surprise to find Bryonis on the other side of it, pale and glassy-eyed in the light of the lantern he carried. Even from across the room, I could feel the fear radiating from him, and I scrambled to my feet.

  “What is it?” Brannyn demanded.

  “Your- your sister.” He gulped. “She’s awake.”

  “She can’t be.” My brother frowned, forgetting Bryonis knew nothing of our connection. “We would have heard her.”

  Hush. I was already stuffing my feet into my boots. To Bryonis, I said, “Let’s go.”

  We left the twins and Reyce in the house. Brannyn scrambled behind us, yanking on his boots and pulling a shirt over his head as we followed the healer across the rope bridges and platforms at an almost reckless pace. The night was menacing outside the dim light of his lantern, and I tried to remember to breathe past my useless fear of falling.

  The Infirmary was brilliantly lit despit
e the lateness of the hour, and Kryssa’s screams poured out of it, raw and terrifying.

  Bryonis grabbed my arm, pulling me to a halt before I could rush inside. “Look, I have to warn you.” Guilt flickered in his eyes; his emotions were making me feel sick. “The other healers- you have to understand, we’ve drugged her twice, but the things that she’s saying- the other healers, they can’t- I mean, I couldn’t, and I came to get you, because I didn’t want-”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Brannyn demanded, impatient. Our sister’s screams were digging into us like rusted nails.

  He took a deep breath. “The other healers want to kill her.”

  I stared at him, feeling the blood drain from my face, my ears ringing. I yanked my arm from his grasp and sprinted to the Infirmary, where I jerked to a stop in the doorway.

  Kryssa was tied to her cot, raving and spouting curses and foulness between her ragged screams. The healers and other patients were clustered on the far side of the room, their eyes afraid and angry. The tension was nearly tangible, and all but stole the air from me.

  I took a deep breath, bracing myself before entering my sister’s mind.

  It was fractured, as I’d feared it would be, her memory shattered with the thoughts of another, like pieces of two broken mirrors mixed together. What was hers raged, darkest blue, full of fear and sorrow, while the Crone’s was black and bloody, dripping hate and poison, ravaging whatever it touched. That was why we hadn’t heard her when she’d awoken; her mind was no longer her own. We had no connection to the Crone that infected her.

  The terror in the room made it impossible for me to concentrate, pulling me back to myself, and I frowned, forcing calm upon the healers, before their desire to kill my sister could become a reality.

  “These aren’t her thoughts.” I stared at them, willing them to look at me, to understand. “Her mind holds the memory of someone else, someone who believed these awful things. What she’s saying isn’t her.”

  “She speaks of the Elder Gods,” one healer squeaked, his eyes wild. “Of abominations. Of murdering children.”

  “She didn’t actually murder any children,” I explained patiently. “The woman whose thoughts are in my sister’s head wanted to kill Kylee and Alyxen, but they’re still alive, and she’s not.”

  “She- she’s dead? The woman these thoughts belong to?” The young healer who had spoken looked as if he might vomit. “How can anyone have the thoughts of the dead inside their head?”

  “I don’t know.” I sighed, fighting the ache behind my eyes. “But she does. Right now, she needs healing, not fear. Certainly not a knife through the heart.”

  The dagger he held behind his back clattered as it hit the floor.

  “She’s sick,” I continued gently, watching as their faces slowly relaxed. “She needs your comfort, for you to remember your oaths to do no harm.”

  They nodded, their eyes filling with shame.

  My head was still throbbing, and I glanced at my brother, at the muscle ticking in his jaw. Flames flickered along the knuckles of his fists. Brannyn.

  What?

  His rage pounded at my temples. I need peace to treat Kryssa.

  He stared at me, and I felt him struggle to choke back the anger. Slowly, the flames went out, though his eyes remained hard. I’ll stand watch. Make sure you’re both kept safe.

  I nodded, grateful. I walked across the room, quiet now save for my sister’s whimpers, and sat beside her. I took a deep breath, bracing myself, and began the slow, tedious process of piecing together her broken mind.

  BRANNYN

  16 Narens 577A.F.

  “How’s your sister doing, Farmboy?”

  I glanced up warily from my stew to find Tanner watching me, his eyes bright and curious. “Why?”

  “He speaks!” Tanner threw his hands up in mock surprise. “And here I thought you had forgotten how.”

  I made a face at him. “Very funny.”

  “You haven’t said five words to anyone in the last week.” He gestured, and Digger and Breaker briefly lifted their heads from their supper to nod in agreement. “We’re worried about you. You look awful.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m being serious.”

  “I know.” I jerked a shoulder. “I’m just tired.”

  “Because of your sister, right?” His gaze was sympathetic. “It’s alright. You can tell us.”

  I scanned the half-full Great Hall. Though we were alone at our table, I still didn’t feel comfortable discussing my sister’s madness around so many strangers. “She’s fine.”

  “You can tell us the truth.” His voice lowered, quiet and earnest. “We’re your friends, after all.”

  “We’re friends? When did that happen?”

  He laughed, oblivious to my confusion. “Probably around the same time you rescued potatoes from an angry farmer with a bow.”

  I flushed and looked down; I had tried very hard to forget that incident.

  “Brannyn.”

  No one outside of my siblings had used my real name since I’d arrived in the Camp, and I looked up again in surprise.

  Tanner rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

  I thought of Kryssa, lying on a cot in the Infirmary. In the two weeks since she’d woken screaming of blood magic and sacrifices, I had stood guard over her almost every single night, protecting her as Lanya slowly coaxed her back into herself. Though the infection had taken its toll on her body, leaving her weak and scarred, it was in her mind where the worst of the damage had been done, and it was hard to watch her battle the madness of the Crone. I spent most of my time fighting despair and praying for dawn, when Alyxen would come to take over and I could return to my duties with the retrieval teams. I did not understand how Lanya could handle it, but she stared at the darkness in Kryssa without flinching, calming both her and the still-frightened healers with equal ease.

  It was a marvel to me. I had always thought of Lanya as the gentlest of us, but I was finally beginning to see the strength it took for her to remain compassionate despite our hardships. Steel ran beneath her softness; her golden light healed us when we thought we were too broken to go on.

  Kryssa was our protector, but it was Lanya who had become our savior.

  I realized Tanner was still waiting for my reply. “She’s healing. Lanya’s taking care of her.”

  “I’ll light a candle to Yrisa for her.” He gave me a lopsided grin. “Who knows? Maybe my prayers are worth something.”

  I chuckled. “Maybe.”

  “You saw that, right?” He elbowed Breaker. “He laughed. Perhaps our Farmboy isn’t completely hopeless.”

  Digger and Breaker rolled their eyes in unison, and returned their attention to their meal.

  “So.” Tanner propped his chin on his hands. “Tell me, are you really free-born? Never once a slave? I only ask because the Prince doesn’t normally allow non-slaves to join up.”

  “Yes, we’re free-born. Lived our whole lives on a farm north of here.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “There was a fire. Our house burned down.” I shrugged, and changed the subject. “Where are you from? Were you a slave?”

  “Well, let’s see.” He leaned back against one of the Hall’s massive support beams. “I was born in Tova, to a slave that cleaned a merchant’s house. He sold me when I was about three or so, to a childless couple in Joksten who wanted one of their own. I was brought up thinking I’d been adopted, if you can believe that. They named me Landis. Never liked the name, but I had a decent childhood, and when I was old enough they apprenticed me to a tanner. Hence the nickname. They died a few years later, and the lady’s brother sold me to the quarries in Surak to alleviate his gambling debts. I didn’t even know I was a slave until then.”

  “Really?”

  “Somehow it never seemed to come up at the supper table.” He shrugged. “Perhaps they just forgot. I was angry abou
t it for a while. The quarries are… not a good place. If you ever take a holiday, avoid them. Avoid all of Surak, for that matter. It’s not quite as bad as the silver mines, or that hell-hole they call the Salt Flats, but it’s damn close.”

  I stared at him, wide-eyed, my stew forgotten. “So what happened then?”

  “The old Prince made a raid on the quarry. Rescued the lot of us in the middle of the night. The Camp was farther south then, and they brought all of us there and told us we were free. Most of the other slaves didn’t even know what that meant. I suppose I could have gone back to Joksten and slit the throat of the man who sold me, but it just seemed too much effort. I stayed with the Camp instead. Even when the old Prince died, I still stayed. Been here almost five years now.”

  “How did the old Prince die?”

  “A rescue mission got ambushed. Only ones who survived it were Hamund and Marla.”

  “Who’s Hamund?”

  He jerked his head toward the empty throne. “The new Prince. We voted him in a few days after the ambush. He moved us here, and here we are.”

  “What’s his story?”

  “You know, I’m not really sure. But you’ll never find a man more passionate about the plight of slaves. He’s a good man.”

  I raised a brow at the defensiveness of his tone. “Do people question that?”

  He laughed, but it sounded forced, and his gaze slid away from mine. “Of course not.”

  I could all but feel his discomfort, and so I changed the subject to a more innocent topic- but I continued to wonder.

  LANYA

  28 Narens 577A.F.

  The warm, midsummer day was drawing to a close, the sun sinking beyond the horizon in a fiery orange haze. The air was laden with the scent of pine trees and rain, and birds chirped sleepily among the trees to the accompaniment of crickets. It was a glorious day; if it hadn’t been for my concern over my sister’s health, I may have even enjoyed it.