Sisters of Sword and Song

by Rebecca Ross

  Halcyon was still. This was almost the exact speech Straton had once shared with her, when he had chosen Halcyon to help him.

  You are my last hope, Kingfisher.

  She thought of Xander. The final words he had spoken to her, just before they had sparred that fateful day, just before Halcyon had slipped the blindfold over her eyes.

  We do this for Queen Nerine. And I am honored to be at your side.

  A sound escaped her, the first breath of a sob. She wrestled it back, but it was like a cresting wave. It wanted to break; she wanted to break. All the things she hoped to do with her life, with her gift. All the people she had loved and hurt. There was a crack in her soul, a fracture. It was expanding. Soon, she would shatter, and what would be left of her?

  “Step this way,” Thales whispered to her. “Hurry.”

  She obeyed, just as the marble farther down the quarry cracked with a thunderous bellow, separating as a perfect sheet. She watched as a group of convicts worked to tether it, the marble gleaming like bone. It was incredible to watch such a heavy load be borne up into the sky on pulleys.

  “Back to work.”

  Halcyon jumped. A guard was an arm’s length away from her, prodding her with his club. She had not seen him approach, and she nodded and resumed her task, Thales already pressing onward ahead of her.

  The back of her tunic felt wet. She prayed it wasn’t blood.

  Eventually, Thales slowed, so they could work side by side again.

  And he whispered to her, between the blows of his hammer, “I do not know why you are here, Halcyon of Isaura. What your past holds. But do not trade your hope for despair. Yes, you and I are prisoners. But we are alive, aren’t we?”

  Yes, she was alive.

  Although she daily wondered why.

  Why Straton had refused to let her die.

  XVI

  Halcyon

  There was a gift waiting for her in the cell that evening. A basket of fresh linen bandages, a jar of healing salve. Halcyon sat on her cot, locked within her cell, and marveled at it. Who would send this? Could her parents have managed it? Evadne, perhaps?

  She waited until the sentry had passed by her door to remove her tunic, to redress her wounds. She struggled to spread the salve on her back, but the wounds she could reach became cool and numb beneath the tincture. Halcyon stifled a groan, rushing to wrap fresh linen bandages around her before slipping into her tunic. She collapsed on her cot, angled on her belly, drained.

  She was woken some time later, the door of her cell clanging.

  It was a guard, bearing a torch. “The lord of the quarry wishes to see you.”

  Halcyon wanted to melt into a shadow, to evaporate. But she made herself leave her cell, an escort of guards surrounding her. They guided her to the ground level of the outpost. She was brought to Macarius’s workroom, seated in the lone chair, and chained to the floor by her wrists and her ankles.

  This time, the mage was waiting for her. And with him was a politician, his saffron sash displayed proudly across his body. And a woman was also present. She was dressed gloriously, little diamond stars wound in her hair. She sat on the edge of Macarius’s desk, staring at Halcyon as if she could see though her. Her hand was draped across her lap, stained with ink, and Halcyon knew exactly what she was: Macarius’s scribe.

  Macarius waited until the guards shut the door, and it was just the four of them: mage and scribe and politician and hoplite-turned-convict.

  “Ah, one day in the quarry, and you still cling to your high spirits, 8651,” Macarius said. “It is admirable, but I do wonder how long you will last here.”

  Halcyon did not respond.

  “Beryl,” Macarius said to his scribe, but his eyes remained on Halcyon. “Ready yourself.”

  Beryl slid off the edge of the desk, taking the seat he had vacated. Halcyon watched as she opened a scroll, her elegant fingers taking up a quill, opening her pot of ink.

  The politician yawned and scratched his sandy-brown hair, completely disinterested. Why was he even here? When had lazy men like him been inducted into the senate? Halcyon wondered with disdain.

  Macarius moved closer to Halcyon, standing directly before her. His clothes were still clean and rich—not a speck of quarry dust marred him—and Halcyon could not resist speaking.

  “I see that you hide yourself during the day, Macarius. Are you afraid to be seen here?”

  “Careful, 8651,” he said, his voice sharp. “This is the only warning I will grant you. I will resort to . . . other methods should your tongue forget its place.”

  Halcyon was quiet.

  “Very good. Now, let us begin, shall we?” Macarius smiled. It was apparent that he expected this conversation to be effortless.

  How little he knew her, Halcyon thought, preparing herself.

  “I am going to ask you a question, 8651,” he began. “It is not a hard one. You know the answer. And if you answer it truthfully, I will set you free from this quarry. Your sentence will be overturned. As will Evadne’s. Both you and your sister can return home to Isaura and to your family and forget all of this ever happened to you.” He paused only to watch the hope and yearning stir in her eyes. “Which relic did Lord Straton appoint you to find, Kingfisher?”

  She was silent, her face like stone. Straton had trained her for a moment like this, anticipating it might come. But within . . . she was crumbling. The mage knew her code name. He knew who she was. This changed everything.

  “There is no need for us to pretend here,” Macarius said. “Lord Straton brought you and Xander into the queen’s underground alliance, appointed you both to recover a relic, didn’t he? And of course, there was an accident. You killed Xander before you could fulfill Lord Straton’s command. And he has taken his vengeance on you by sending you here. It is not your fault, Halcyon. Nor do you belong in this den of murderers. So tell me. Which relic did the commander order you and Xander to find? Was it Irix’s Sky Cloak? Kirkos’s Winged Necklace? Magda’s Sunstone Ring of Healing? Loris’s Pearl Earrings? Or maybe it was Acantha’s All-Seeing Crown?”

  Halcyon felt sweat bead on her brow, on her palms. But she smiled, reveling in the way Macarius’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, you and I do not need to pretend, mage. What would you give for the Sky Cloak, the All-Seeing Crown, the Necklace, the Pearl Earrings? The Sunstone Ring? You are so close to possessing them all for your mistress.” Her voice dropped to a husky whisper. “What reward has Selene promised you, then? How did she attach such strings to you, so she could yank you around as her puppet, Hemlock?”

  Macarius struck her. The silver glinted on his forefinger, as if his magic was eager to spark now that Halcyon had uttered his code name.

  Her cheek throbbed, but she leveled her gaze at the mage, unbowed. She had taken a wild presumption that he was Hemlock, the enigma that liked to taunt the commander, the person she and Xander had taken great pains to outwit. And by Macarius’s response . . . she was not wrong.

  “I had hoped it would not come to this,” Macarius said. His voice was calm, but his eyes were livid.

  How strange, she thought, her ears beginning to ring. How strange that she wanted the very thing this mage desired to possess. They were so different, Kingfisher and Hemlock. They were nothing alike, belonging to different sides, and yet they were on the same path.

  “I will ask you one more time, and as Cyrus is my witness”—Macarius turned and gestured to the politician, who nodded blearily—“I have been exceedingly patient with you. I have given you ample opportunities to comply. Which relic did Lord Straton appoint you to find, and where is its location?”

  Halcyon was silent.

  “You disappoint me, 8651,” Macarius said. “Beryl, prepare to write everything I say.”

  Beryl dipped her quill into a pot of ink, smirking.

  Macarius approached Halcyon. His confidence was edged with cruelty, and her heart began to pound. She felt her mouth go dry, her body quiver as the mage loomed over her.
>
  She knew what he was about to do, and still she could not forget her oath to Straton. To the queen.

  “You break the law, Hemlock,” she said. “I have not given you permission to mind-sweep me.”

  “Speak that name again, and I will cut out your tongue,” Macarius threatened. He waved his hand at the politician. “What is the law, Cyrus? The one that just passed by the queen 8651 so valiantly serves?”

  “Mind-sweeping can be enforced on convicts without their consent,” Cyrus said, yawning. “Particularly when the convict is harboring information that is vital to the safety of the kingdom.”

  “Did you hear that, 8651?” the mage said, returning his gaze to Halcyon. “You are a murderer, and you have no rights. And if I want to delve into each of your memories, I can and I will.”

  Halcyon gripped the arms of the chair, the chains heavy, biting into her. “You will not get away with this.”

  “Who is going to stop me?”

  And Halcyon had no answer. For there was no one to stop Macarius.

  She had only a moment to prepare herself, to hammer a shield mentally into place. Macarius set his fingertips upon her brow, and she felt his magic sifting through her memories. He saw her and Evadne at the oil press, leading the donkey and watching the millstone crush the olives. He saw her racing the boys of Dree, leaving them far behind to choke on the dust she kicked up. He saw her envious of her little sister, of all the evenings when Evadne had sat on their father’s lap, adored, while Halcyon sat on the floor, watching. He saw her tied to the stave, a flash of gold—Euthymius’s Golden Belt—girded around Bacchus’s waist as the priest approached her. . . .

  He was getting closer, closer to the truth. And Halcyon felt vulnerable, helpless. She was in his hold, and he was searching through her, as if she were nothing but dirty rags on the floor.

  She shifted in the chair. She pressed her back against the wood. A flare of pain. Of agony. She jerked harder, inflicting it upon herself, her wounds weeping. He could not search her mind if she was unconscious.

  Macarius’s hold faltered. He made a sound, as if he was disoriented. And then a curse, hot and angry.

  Halcyon pressed her wounds against the chair one last time and finally met the safety of darkness, her mind slipping entirely from the mage’s grip, like wind passing through his fingers.

  XVII

  Evadne

  At daybreak, Evadne found Damon waiting for her in the villa’s courtyard. They departed through the front doors unnoticed by the guards, all due to one of Damon’s charms, and Evadne followed him along the path that led to the gates. They did not speak—it seemed too early for words, and Evadne did not mind sharing quiet company with Damon. The sunrise set the clouds on fire above them and the wind blew strong from the east, carrying the scents of the River Zan.

  This was Evadne’s first time leaving Straton’s villa since she had arrived over a week ago. It seemed as if she had been here for ages, and walking the streets felt like freedom. She kept pace with Damon as they wove from street to street, and she watched Mithra awaken: scholars rushed to the university toting scrolls and wax tablets; servants carried baskets to the market; potters and weavers and bakers all started their trades; politicians and tax collectors meandered with their money purses and the latest decree tucked into their belts.

  Damon and Evadne soon joined the current of young mages, who were hustling just as the scholars had, only the scholars hurried to the west and the mages hurried to the south, where the Destry stood proud and magnificent.

  The school of magic reminded Evadne of the agora in Abacus, but where the agora enforced strength and vigor, the Destry radiated with beauty and grandeur. The colonnade was massive, its pillars embellished with curling architecture. Its body was built with the gleaming white marble harvested from the common quarry, and the lower halves of its outer walls were covered with ivy and flowering vines. Its windows were arched and guarded by bronze screens pierced with stars, and its oaken doors were carved with the nine symbols of the divines. For once, Kirkos’s emblem of a wing was included.

  Evadne’s heart raced as she and Damon approached those magical doors. She stepped into the Destry’s shadow and smelled the sweet nectar of the flowering vines, and for a moment, she let the wonder overcome her as she ascended the steps.

  But then she felt her ankle, jarring with pain, and her hands, cracked from lye, and reality returned, like a cold tide rushing about her.

  The doors groaned opened for them, and she followed Damon into the cavernous lobby, the floors made of black and white checkers. Nine pillars upheld the ceiling, each of them carved to represent a divine. Evadne could have stood there for hours, admiring the beauty of the gods and goddesses. She looked for Kirkos and found him instantly, hewn from marble, tall and strong, dressed in a knee-length chiton, a laurel crowning his head. His hair blew in loose waves to his shoulders, and his wings were tucked behind him, but they were great and carved as feathers. A marble falcon accompanied him, the bird perched on his forearm, and above him the ceiling flushed with sunrise, as if it were the real sky beyond the roof.

  “The ceiling is an enchanted reflection of the sky,” Damon said, noting Evadne’s awe. “It is easy to lose sense of time when creating and casting spells. Come, we must hurry now.”

  Evadne lowered her eyes and noticed a wide stairwell. Tardy students continued to dart up the stairs, but soon the Destry fell quiet. Beside the flight of steps was a desk, where an older mage and her scribe stood, receiving visitors.

  “Damon,” the mage greeted as they approached. Her voice was polished, her eyes the color of the ocean as she looked at Damon, then Evadne. “What brings you back to the Destry?”

  “Good morning, Professor Cinta. I have a contract I need sealed.” Damon handed her the papyrus he and Evadne had written on the night before.

  “You must be Evadne of Isaura,” Cinta said, drawing Evadne’s attention. A crease formed on the mage’s brow when she noticed Evadne’s simple tunic and amulet. “Do you come into this contract of your own volition?”

  “Yes.”

  Cinta’s scrutiny returned to the contract. “There is no mind-sweeping clause, Damon.”

  “I know, Professor. It was a deliberate choice.”

  Cinta did not look pleased, but she held her opinion as she warmed a golden square of wax over a flame. “You both understand that when I seal this contract, it will be magically binding for the time frame agreed upon, unless there is a severing?”

  Evadne glanced at Damon. He was watching her, ensuring there was no hesitation in her eyes. She nodded her consent.

  “We understand, Professor.”

  Cinta poured a circle of wax on the papyrus. She briskly took up a seal and pressed it into the wax, and the contract became active.

  Evadne felt no different. She’d half expected to experience something . . . an invisible shackle, a slight weight heaped on her shoulders, a constricting of breath. But there was nothing to mark her new status, nothing but the words on papyrus, which Cinta explained would be made public, posted in the Destry courtyard.

  Evadne turned to follow Damon through the lobby, her pace slow so she could admire as much as possible before they departed.

  “I think we should purchase you some new clothes, and then find something to eat,” Damon said, squinting against the sunlight as they left the shade of the colonnade. “What do you think, Evadne?”

  “I think my clothes still reek of lye.”

  “Is that a yes, then?”

  Evadne nodded, a smile playing on her lips. She could not remember the last time she had smiled, and it almost felt traitorous to do it now, knowing that Halcyon was still west of the city, down in the quarry.

  She walked with Damon back to the eastern quadrant of Mithra, into a small clothier’s shop, worries of Halcyon catching in her thoughts like burrs.

  “Lord Damon!” an elder woman greeted him fondly. She stood behind a table, arranging bolts of linen and wo
ol, every shade of earth and sky. “What brings you here today?”

  “Good morning, Rhode. My scribe, Evadne, needs some new garments.”

  “Oh! How wonderful!” Rhode came forward, eyes bright as she looked to Evadne. “Come closer, Daughter, so I may measure you.”

  Damon remained at the front of the shop, his back angled to them as Evadne followed Rhode behind a privacy curtain. It was only when the clothier began to measure her body that Evadne remembered with a frantic pang that she was wearing Kirkos’s relic.

  “And how long have you been scribing for Lord Damon?” Rhode asked, her hands flickering with a measuring rope over Evadne’s chest.

  Evadne did not breathe for a moment, thinking the woman had surely felt the chain hiding beneath her tunic. But when Rhode arched her brows, expectant, Evadne found her voice. “Today is my first day.”

  “How marvelous! My daughter became a scribe years ago. She works in the Destry.” Rhode turned to begin sorting through a rack of chitons, and Evadne took that slender moment to draw forth her relic, hiding it in a clenched fist. “Here, this one will fit you perfectly. Let us get you out of this tunic, shall we?”

  With Rhode’s assistance, Evadne stepped into the new raiment. The chiton was soft and sleek, shimmering with the hint of gold when the light touched it. Evadne thought it was far too fine for her, but when she tried to say such to Rhode, the clothier waved away her excuses.

  “Scribes are just as important as the mages they write for. What do you think of this belt?” She brought a gold band of woven threads about Evadne’s waist.

  The relic was still hidden in Evadne’s palm, growing slick with perspiration. She waited until Rhode was preoccupied with sandals before Evadne began to search her new chiton for pockets. To her dismay, there were none. And the chiton’s neckline was far lower than her tunic’s.