by L. Penelope
“Did you not gift me part of your Song, sister? Does that not make me a Songbearer?” The accusation in his voice cuts me. There are so many feelings swirling inside—anger, pain, despair, even hatred. The person before me cannot be my beloved brother. He simply cannot be.
I step closer, and Yllis rises beside me, lending his support, as always. “You are not a Songbearer, and it was my mistake to use that spell. I take responsibility for that. Because I love you and would do anything for you.”
“Anything?” The venom in that one word burns.
“Anything but give you more of the power you abused. You forced me to cut you off by your actions.”
“I was innovating, the way the Cantors do.”
“You set things out of balance. Earthsong is not to be used for better prices in the marketplace or to cheat at cards. You cannot ruin a crop because a farmer insulted you.” Tears well even as the anger rears its head. “And you cannot steal a girl away from her bed at night and attempt to force her to gift you her Song!” I do not ask the question I want, whether he has actually found a way to take power from someone. The fact that he tried with Sayya must mean that he has discovered some new way—a way that does not require Earthsong.
A shiver rolls through me. I force myself to fulfill my role as Advocate. “You have heard the accusation and evidence presented against you. And as you have not denied it, now is the time. Unburden your conscience.”
He shakes his head, and a smirk crosses his face. “You all think you can continue to subjugate us. That the Silent will continue living as second-class citizens for the rest of time. Sayya made me believe that she cared for me, but when I offered for her she could not bear to wed a Silent. And now my own sister forsakes me. This Assembly is a sham. If you want to judge me of a crime, then have my peers judge me. Why are there no Silent in the Assembly? Why must we make do with the scraps of life while Songbearers reap all the benefits?”
“What are you talking about, Eero?” I crouch down, near enough to look into his eyes, yet far enough so that he cannot reach out and strike me. The fact that I even think this is a possibility is sad proof of how much has changed over the past two seasons. Last summer he was the other half of my heart, but by the time the leaves fell from the trees, he had become my enemy.
“There are no Silent in the Assembly because only a Songbearer can read a man’s heart, can know the truth buried within. How can a Silent judge? What scraps has life given you? We ate at the same table, all our lives. What inequities have you suffered, brother, that makes you hate us so?” My voice cracks on this last sentiment.
His eyes harden, but still he does not look at me. His jaw is set, and his body may as well be made of stone. As his Advocate, I cannot use Earthsong to determine his state of mind, but as his twin I would never need to.
Yllis pulls on my shoulder gently, and I allow him to lead me back to my seat. Vaaryn struggles to his feet and calls upon Cadda, Sayya’s mother and Advocate, to have the final word.
“It is so rare for us to hold one of our own in judgment; crime in our land is so infrequent. The guidance of the Founders steers us toward mercy.” Her voice is soothing and calm. “Though my daughter was troubled greatly by Eero’s actions, she was not harmed. We ask for his captivity so that a Healer may give him the aid and comfort he so obviously needs.”
Eero snorts and rolls his eyes.
Vaaryn stands before Eero, and suddenly my brother’s expression freezes. He rises into the air, his arms locked to his sides, his legs still bent in the sitting position. For criminal proceedings, a random sampling of nine Assembly members serve as judges, communicating using Earthsong to make their decision. Eero floats for a few moments until Vaaryn speaks again.
“The Assembly agrees with the recommendation of Cadda. It is decided that Eero, son of Peedar, will be delivered to the Healers, who will tend to his mental instability until a time wherein he is determined to again be in his right mind.”
“Be it so,” the Assembly says in unison.
I do not want it to be so, but I cannot change reality. I watch my brother float away and wonder when I will see him again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
And what of justice? the lawman asked the Mistress of Serpents.
Justice is a beautiful woman, who when courted by numerous suitors, chooses whom to wed by having the men draw straws.
—COLLECTED FOLKTALES
The memory of Jasminda’s touch still shivered across Jack’s skin. He could have sworn her scent suffused the air. He breathed deeply, fortifying himself as the Council Room filled with grumbling men.
“What is the meaning of this?” the Minister of Finance asked as he stalked in sulkily. “How dare you summon us so early?”
Jack bristled at the man’s tone but held his tongue. Years of commanding the army had accustomed him to a certain amount of respect. Who would have thought that being the Prince Regent would afford him less? But in the eyes of these men he was a less than suitable alternative to his brother, Alariq.
A Council meeting had been on the schedule for the afternoon, yet as soon as Jack had entered his office, still riding on the bubble of elation after leaving Jasminda’s room, he had been brought swiftly back down to earth. He’d asked his secretary to move the meeting to first thing in the morning. “We will begin once everyone arrives,” he said curtly. No trace was evident of the good humor he’d had only an hour before.
When the last minister appeared, Jack took a deep breath. He opened the folder before him and pulled out a curling sheet of paper.
“I received this early this morning. It appeared in my offices. And when I say appeared, I mean it popped into existence in midair right over my desk.”
Gasps came from around the table. Jack cringed recalling how he’d plucked the page from the air, feeling the residual vibrations of Earthsong on the single sheet.
“It pertains to the True Father’s terms for peace.”
Another round of gasps and murmurs resonated.
Jack ran his fingers across the letter. He had read it over and over again and could almost recite it by heart. He peered at every shocked face around the table, then repeated each word.
“It has come to the attention of the beloved leadership of the Republic of Lagrimar that preparations for war are being made by the Principality of Elsira. While We assert Our right to pursue the protection of Our people against the ambition and reckless dominance of all outsiders, We acknowledge that a peaceful and permanent solution to the many years of strife between our lands would be advantageous.
“Our offer is peace in exchange for the immediate return of every Lagrimari within the borders of the Elsiran principality. Our people are Our greatest resource, and it is within Our right to negotiate for their safe return to home soil.
“The entire power of Our crown is united behind this generous offer of peace. If Our people are returned within three days, a guarantee will be made to honor all current borders in perpetuity for the length of Our reign and to immediately cease and desist any actions that may be deemed by the Principality of Elsira as acts of war.
“In witness whereof We have hereto set Our hand the eighth day of the tenth month this five hundred and twelfth year of Our reign.”
Silence descended. Jack released the paper and let it fall back onto the table.
“The refugees,” Minister Nirall, Lizvette’s father, said under his breath.
“Yes,” Jack replied. “He’s promising to abandon whatever scheme he has for destroying the Mantle if we return them.”
Zavros Calladeen, Minister of Foreign Affairs, leaned forward, not meeting Jack’s eyes. “But why all of a sudden? Of what military value are they?”
Nirall shook his head. “Women, children, old men. Some of the children may have powerful witchcraft, but would that prompt the offer of permanent peace?”
“Perhaps this is a blessing from the Sovereign. After all, these refugees”—Pugeros, the Minister of Finan
ce, spat the word out like he would a rotten bite of food—“are already straining the Principality’s coffers. With this year’s abominable harvest and the increase on import tariffs out of Yaly, we are already facing difficult financial waters. The latest debacle with the King of Raun means an even more dire situation for our economy. We simply cannot afford to provide food and care for the refugees for too long. At most we could support them for a few weeks.”
Jack was incredulous. “Then we take out a loan.” Guffaws sounded from around the room. He raised his voice. “And we work to educate the people on why ejecting political refugees is not only a callous move but is fundamentally un-Elsiran. We would send these women, children, and elders back into the grip of a madman?”
“Your Grace is surely not suggesting that we destroy what’s left of our economy and plunge ourselves further into debt for a handful of savages?” Pugeros asked.
Jack slammed his hand on the table. “What of our honor?”
Calladeen’s voice was low and measured. “Honor is not about doing what is right in a vacuum of consequences. Honor is doing the hard thing and letting history determine your legacy.” He quoted words Alariq had said many times. Jack wanted to punch him in the face.
“There is international precedent,” Stevenot said. “We are under no obligation to burden ourselves with their care.”
“This is not a financial question, gentlemen, but a moral one,” said Nirall. A former professor and the Minister of Education and Innovation, he was most often the voice of compassion and reason. “They are fleeing a brutal dictator. We must treat them the same way we’d treat our own women and children. There must be a way to find enough resources to care for them all.”
“Minister Nirall.” The timbre of Calladeen’s voice resonated as he addressed his uncle formally. Calladeen, the youngest on the Council save Jack, owed his position as Minister of Foreign Affairs not to his uncle’s influence but to his own keen intelligence, politicking, and ruthless ambition. “I visited this camp the Sisterhood has erected, and much as I would like to feel sorry for these refugees, I am moved by something less like pity and more like suspicion to see them crossing our borders in such increasing numbers.”
“Surely, you do not suppose that those miserable creatures could be spies? I’m told they practically kiss Elsiran soil when they arrive,” Nirall replied.
“Never forget their witchcraft,” said Calladeen. “This Earthsong they possess is dangerous. What is to stop them from bringing down a violent storm or a rockslide or a fire?”
Jack simmered just below a full boil. He’d never understood what Alariq saw in Calladeen. “Earthsong saved my life. On more than one occasion. Like anything else, its bearer determines whether it’s a weapon or a blessing. Now is there a chance there are spies among them? Certainly. But does that mean we turn our backs on all those seeking aid?” Jack shook his head. “A Lagrimari man is the only reason the coming war is not a surprise, unlike every other breach. Instead of treating them as enemy agents, we should be trying to learn from them, gaining additional intelligence, and working together to find a way to stop the True Father.”
“That is a naive way of looking at things, Your Grace,” Calladeen said haughtily. “The Lagrimari are not tacticians. Additional intelligence has never defeated them. Superior force, training, and discipline have done that for nearly five hundred years.”
Jack bit his tongue, recalling the Fifth Breach veterans’ story. Intelligence and tactics had indeed won the day fifty years ago. Not even the Council knew the truth of what really ended that war. Nor were they likely to believe him if he told them. “Things are changing, Minister Calladeen. My time embedded with the enemy showed me that. We cannot be so arrogant.”
Calladeen seethed. If he thought he could intimidate Jack with a stare down, he was wrong. While these men might have been superior politicians, Jack was no stranger to conflict. And he would not back down from a battle.
He ground his teeth together. “And what makes you think the True Father would keep this promise of peace? What confidence do we have in his word?”
“We have negotiated peace treaties before,” Pugeros said.
“And they have all been broken. Whether in five years, fifty, or one hundred, there is always another breach!” Jack stood suddenly, his heavy chair sliding against the floor with a groan. “He wants out of that Sovereign-forsaken desert he’s been stuck in. That hasn’t changed. What happens when we return the refugees and the Mantle falls anyway? He will be that much more powerful before he comes to invade us. We have no leverage here.”
“It is a risk,” Stevenot said thoughtfully.
“A great one,” said Nirall, adjusting his spectacles. “We will need time to consider the ramifications. We have three days to decide. Let us table this for the moment to give it the proper reflection.” He looked to Jack for confirmation. But Jack shook his head.
“There is nothing to consider. We are honorable Elsirans. Let’s start behaving as such. I want the latest budget audit on my desk this afternoon.” Pugeros visibly paled. “We will find the funds to care for those seeking refuge in our land. No excuses.”
Jack’s pronouncement was met with withering gazes from almost every seat at the table. He didn’t care what they thought, he just wanted it done.
He moved toward the door, needing to get out of the airless room and all of the closed-minded intolerance. Perhaps Alariq would have dealt with the situation more diplomatically, but Jack was a soldier. He gave orders, and they were followed. Couldn’t these men see that if they gave in to the True Father’s demands, they would not be so unlike him? Jack couldn’t—he wouldn’t allow Elsira to sink into unfeeling barbarism. He’d thought the war was against a foreign enemy, when really he just might have to save his land from itself.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The Master of Bobcats faced down an enemy with far greater numbers proclaiming, Woe unto he who trusts the odds. For he is defeated before he is begun.
—COLLECTED FOLKTALES
Jasminda saw Rosira in the daylight for the first time as the town car she rode in rolled through the streets. She reached the city center more quickly than she would have liked. The government offices were housed in a sprawling building of white marble that straddled three city blocks. Its architecture was similar to the palace’s, with arched windows and carved columns, only a great dome sat at the center of the government building, and its copper roof had corroded to green long ago.
The auto pulled to a stop in front of a set of grand steps leading to one of the building’s many doors. The driver—a friendly man with sparkling eyes—had assured her this was the correct entrance to the Tax Bureau. Now Jasminda swallowed nervously, smoothed out her skirt, and began to climb.
Earlier that morning, Nadal had arrived with a stunning array of clothing for her to choose from, with hemlines ranging from a respectable midcalf to an eyebrow-raising above-the-knee. Beading, sequins, and tassels adorned the collection. But Jasminda had chosen the simplest frock, navy blue and stylishly loose-fitting, with a waistline that grazed her hips. Now she wished she’d selected something fancier, something that screamed, I’m staying in the palace and am the very close acquaintance of the Prince Regent.
Inside, she crossed the lobby to the information desk. The woman seated there peered curiously above the rim of her spectacles but directed Jasminda to the property tax office without further comment. After traveling hallways only slightly less convoluted than the palace’s, she located the proper door. The office’s tiny antechamber was a waiting room. Though the hour was early, already three people sat in the wooden chairs lining the walls.
Jasminda scanned the small space and spotted a clipboard sitting on the open half door leading to the inner office. She added her name and took the seat farthest from everyone else. The two men and one woman couldn’t seem to take their eyes off her. She sat up straight, determined to ignore their scrutiny.
A portly security guard
ambled by and did an almost comical double take. “Oy,” he called. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to see the Eastern Manager about my property taxes,” Jasminda replied coolly, maintaining eye contact. The guard tilted his head, gaping at her like she’d grown horns.
A harried-looking woman appeared in the half-door and called a name from the clipboard. One of the waiting men stood and was admitted into the office.
The security guard stared a bit longer at Jasminda, who looked straight ahead, sitting up tall. Eventually, he muttered something unintelligible and sauntered away. What could he do? She wasn’t breaking any laws, and despite all appearances, she was a citizen.
It was an hour before her name was called.
“Jasminda ool-Sareefour?” The clerk pronounced the words as if speaking around marbles in her cheeks.
Jasminda stood and marched to the door. Everyone else had been let in without comment; however, the clerk made no move to grant her entry.
“What are you here for?” the woman asked, eyeing her up and down. Dark auburn strands escaped from her messy bun.
Jasminda bit back an exasperated sigh. “My case number is Y seven oh three three. I’ve appealed my tax judgment in writing and was told that the only option was to come here and appeal in person. You see, we never received—”
“Wait here,” the woman said brusquely, then turned to rummage around in the large file cabinet behind her. She retrieved a folder and riffled through it for a few moments before her gaze shot back to Jasminda.
“I’m sorry, I can’t help you. Only the Director can hear in-person appeals, and he’s not here today.”
Jasminda chanced a connection to Earthsong to test the woman’s statement. The press of the city made her stumble in place almost drunkenly as the energies pressed into her from all sides. Thousands upon thousands of people so close by. She barely managed to keep hold of the connection and sense the woman before her.
