Sisters of Sword and Song

by Rebecca Ross

  Halcyon did not respond. She sat on her cot and removed her sandals.

  The guard waited all day, leering at her. Halcyon had nothing to eat, nothing to drink. She lay on her belly and closed her eyes, trying to go deep into her mind, to draw out her determination. When the prisoners returned to their cells for the night, the guard left his post. But he returned with four others, and they entered Halcyon’s cell like a storm.

  It took three of them to hold her down. One of them pried her mouth open, and they forced the gruel into her.

  She spluttered, choked.

  “Do not kill her, you fool,” one of them growled.

  She spit most of it out, all over the guards. But some of the gruel went down, and she could feel the poison begin to warm her throat, simmer in her stomach. She made herself vomit it up after the guards left her.

  Two more days passed, so similarly that Halcyon could hardly discern the difference between them. She felt herself weakening: her thoughts were cloudy, her body was sore, her lungs felt heavy, as if water was trickling into them. Soon, her hand came away bloody when she coughed, and she felt as if she would die soon.

  She lay on her cot and stared at the wall. There was a faint drawing etched into the stone. The prisoner before her must have created it, and the longer Halcyon studied it, the more it comforted her. It was a great serpent, and it stirred the dregs of her memory. No, it was not just a serpent, but a basilisk, and her breath caught, entranced.

  The Basilisk.

  She had met the queen’s spymaster once, when Straton had welcomed her and Xander into Nerine’s underground alliance. It had been a brief meeting, in the dark. She had not seen the Basilisk’s face, but she had heard his voice, a rough baritone that hardly rose above a whisper.

  “You are willing to do this, Kingfisher?” he had asked her. He meant the plight for the crown, hidden in the heart of the most dangerous mountain in the realm.

  “Yes,” she had said, standing beside Xander. “We need a few moons to train, but we are confident we can succeed.”

  The Basilisk was silent, but she had felt him stare at her in the moonlight. She had been so worried that he saw a flaw in her, that he thought her a poor choice.

  “Let it be done,” he had said to Straton. “Let the hoplites venture into the mountain.”

  Halcyon’s memory faded, but she continued to stare at the etched basilisk in the wall, wondering if it was truly there or if she was hallucinating. She wondered what the Basilisk thought of her now: a failure, a disgrace. And her strength, her glory began to slip away from her breath by breath, until there came a whisper in the dusky light.

  “Halcyon.”

  She turned her head. Thales stood at her cell door, gripping the iron bars.

  She struggled to sit up. She was too weak to walk so she crawled to him. “Thales . . . they will catch you,” she rasped, knowing his cell was farther up the serpentine corridor, that he had risked himself to walk this far after dinner.

  “Shh, here.” He knelt so his eyes would be level with hers. He slipped a full bowl of his gruel to her, beneath the slender space of her door. “Drink it quickly.”

  Her hands were shaking uncontrollably. She took a sip of the gruel; it dripped down her chin, onto her tunic in her desperation. And all the while, Thales knelt and waited, his eyes rimmed with tears as he watched her.

  “Why has he done this to you?” he whispered, mournful, angry.

  Halcyon choked down the rest of his gruel—her stomach knotted, and she could hardly swallow. She edged his bowl back to him, and he hid it in his tunic.

  “Thales, I am going to die here.”

  “You are not going to die, Halcyon. I will find a way to free you. Just . . . hold on. Please. Please do not give up.”

  “I am going to die here,” Halcyon repeated, feeling it in her bones. “Whenever you are liberated from this place, I want you to write to my parents and my sister in Isaura, and tell them—”

  “Away with you!” A guard ordered, approaching Halcyon’s cell door. He kicked Thales aside, threatening him with the club until the former mage had moved back up the corridor.

  Halcyon crawled to her cot, breathing heavily. She coughed until she thought her lungs had been shredded, until she vomited up all the good gruel Thales had risked himself to sneak to her.

  She lay down on her cot and stared at the basilisk again, and the world grew hazy. Her breaths were becoming more and more shallow when the cadre of guards entered her cell to force more poison into her. Only this time they didn’t. They held her upright, slapped her face. One of them sounded frantic.

  “You put too much into her gruel!”

  “Quick, give me some fresh water.”

  They fumbled around her, opened her bloody mouth, and nearly drowned her with water. Halcyon could not help but swallow it, even though she wanted to defy them.

  She did not remember them leaving. She fell asleep and drifted on the boundary of life and death, until she felt her arms being gripped, her feet dragging over cold stone. She was brought into the workroom of the outpost again, sat down in the lonely chair. And there was Macarius, standing in wait for her arrival.

  Just the sight of him stirred her dying embers back to life, and she felt her will sharpen in fury, holding her spirit in place.

  Macarius looked aghast at the sight of her. Indeed, Halcyon hardly recognized her own body. It was gaunt and pale, as if she had become a wraith.

  “Should we chain her to the chair, my lord?” one of the guards asked, uncertain.

  “I told you to weaken her while I was away,” the mage snapped. “Not kill her, you fools!”

  “Apologies, my lord. We . . . we were uncertain of the dosage . . .”

  “Chain her to the chair,” Macarius ordered. “And then leave us. I will deal with the four of you later.”

  Halcyon stared unflinchingly at the mage, and he returned it as her thin arms and ankles were bolted. She realized how much Macarius feared her. That he would still have her bound when she was so weak.

  “Beryl?” Macarius said, and his scribe shifted behind the desk. “Prepare to write.”

  Halcyon felt Beryl’s stare. She met the scribe’s gaze and saw a gleam of horror in Beryl’s eyes, as if she could not believe Halcyon’s state of health.

  “Are you certain we should proceed, Macarius?” Beryl hesitated. “She does not look well.”

  “Are you questioning me?” Macarius hissed, glancing over his shoulder to pin her with a glare.

  Beryl sat, chastened, and unrolled the scroll. She took up her quill, but she looked at Halcyon again, and there was doubt in the scribe’s face.

  Macarius moved to stand directly before Halcyon, and she prepared her mind, hammering her mental shields into place just as his fingers touched her brow and his magic began to sort through her memories. He searched and searched, but every time he grew near to the truth—anything that touched Xander and Straton and the location of Acantha’s crown—he was deflected. And he knew it. He cursed at her, and he marveled at her, too, unable to hide it. That he had weakened her with poison, repeatedly, and yet he could not break her mind.

  “What is this, Macarius?” a cold voice spoke into the room.

  Macarius broke his magical hold on Halcyon, stumbling back. His brow was beaded with sweat, and he was trembling, exhausted, as he looked to the visitor.

  “Lady Selene. I . . . I am very close to finding what you seek,” the mage stammered, bowing to her. “I just need a little more time.”

  Halcyon did not turn her head. But she felt the commander’s sister step deeper into the room, her presence withering the air like a trace of winter as she approached Halcyon. And then Selene moved into her blurry sight, and Halcyon had no choice but to meet her gaze.

  Selene studied her. This was the first time the two of them had met, but they had certainly heard of each other. In private conversations, in pieces of gossip, in breath that was destined to sing them into legends. Selene, on
e of the strongest mages the kingdom had seen in centuries, and Halcyon, the humble warrior who had risen up and gained the elusive respect of the Bronze Legion’s commander.

  “I see you have almost killed her, Macarius,” Selene said, and her voice was sharp with displeasure. “I thought I told you to take care with this one. My brother loves her as if she is his own daughter. And should he see her like this . . . well, it would spoil everything.”

  “Yes, Lady. I apologize once again. I was away, and left behind orders to poison her—”

  “And why would you need to poison her?” Selene cut him off, as effortless as wind extinguishing a small flame. “Is her strength too great for you, even now?”

  Macarius swallowed. Halcyon could see his throat bob. She relished his mortification. She almost smiled at him as his gaze darted from her to Selene.

  “Lady . . . she is very resilient. I cannot break through her shielded memories. I did, however, procure the belt from the priest, as you wanted. The priest would not talk or reveal the location, either, so I have returned to Convict 8651 for the information.”

  Selene was quiet for a beat, and then she murmured, “Is the priest dead, then?”

  Halcyon’s pulse spiked. The room began to warp around her, and she struggled to control her breaths. Bacchus. They were speaking of Bacchus and his relic, Euthymius’s Golden Belt. She realized now why Macarius had been absent; he had been at Dree, torturing Bacchus.

  “He is dead. I took care to hire one of the local hands to do it, and he is here at the quarry now, for the time being. He and his followers will support us.”

  “Very good. Leave us,” Selene said.

  Macarius and Beryl retreated, quietly shutting the door behind them.

  Selene drew up a chair and sat across from Halcyon. Her eyes were a vivid blue and just as keen as the commander’s. Halcyon held the stare and waited, her breaths raspy.

  “I remember the first time I heard my brother speak of you,” Selene began, her voice pleasant. “It was two years ago, and I was sitting in one of Queen Nerine’s advisory meetings. We were waiting for the queen to arrive, each of us conversing to pass the time. Straton was speaking to the land advisor, and he mentioned a hoplite who was unsurpassed in her speed and her prowess with spear and sword. A young woman who had come from the lowest of the low, and was destined to become a legend, who he would soon rank as captain when her eight years of training came to an end. ‘Who is this hoplite, Straton?’ the old land advisor asked. And my brother spoke your name, reverently, as if you held more magic than all of the mages at the Destry combined. ‘Halcyon of Isaura.’ And I never forgot your name, the way it rang in the air, like a blade leaving its scabbard. I knew it would return to me one day, and that you would either be a sword in my hand or a thorn in my side.”

  Halcyon was silent. But her chest was aching so vibrantly she worried that Selene’s words would eventually crack her in two.

  “I surmise you know which one you have become to me, Halcyon of Isaura,” Selene whispered. “But it does not have to be like this. I acknowledge that you are a woman to be reckoned with, a woman who was created to challenge and champion. A woman who has been deceived by my brother. It angers me, to see what he has done to you.”

  “And what has he done to me?” Halcyon countered. “Lord Straton has granted me grace. He has given me life when I deserved death.”

  “This is grace to you, Daughter?”

  “This work in the quarry does not intimidate me. I do deserve to be here, Lady Selene. With every crack I give to the quarry wall, I think of Xander and I strive to work off my sentence. But what I do not deserve is to be poisoned and mind-swept without my consent, to be treated less than because I am a woman among a horde of men.”

  Selene was quiet, but her eyes betrayed her frustration. “It is difficult for me to understand you, Halcyon, when it was my brother who sentenced you here. Are you so faithful to him, then? Is there nothing I can say to you to usher you into the light, to bring you under my care and my protection?”

  “That would be an insult, Lady Selene, to the memory of your own nephew Xander. Nor would I ever join the side of one who tortures and murders innocent priests.”

  “Yes, all because my brother asked something terrible of you,” Selene was swift to add, brushing over Halcyon’s accusation. “I know Straton asked you and Xander to search for a relic. And since my brother is so lawful, I know he would never go after Nikomides’s Devouring Sword. He would chase after something missing, something that could break an enchantment, would he not?” She leaned forward, her chiton rustling with her fluid movement. The silver on her right thumb caught the light, gleaming in the shadows of her lap. “He is going to lose this battle, Halcyon. And I would hate to see you destroyed by it. Come join me and my forces. You and I would be unbeatable with Acantha’s All-Seeing Crown. Whatever relic you desire, I would find it and grant it to you. I would name you commander of the Bronze Legion, and you would be the sword in my hand. Together, we can raise Corisande higher than it has ever been before. We can return to the era of the gods, when the divines walked among us.”

  Halcyon did not even have to contemplate the offer. “Anything I obtain is to be earned. Not stolen or undeserved. And lest you forget, Selene . . . I am common. My family has suffered beneath your heavy taxes and the hateful rhetoric you have spread among the Magical Court. I will never join forces with you.”

  “One day,” Selene began calmly, “you will look back on this moment and regret your decision. One day, you will find yourself beholden to another with an amulet on your arm, and you will work the fields and clean the gutters of the streets. You will hate your former self when you realize you could have been one of us, ruling the kingdom. But instead you will labor the rest of your poor, insignificant life. Although perhaps you will not mind it so much, since you were born as a land steward. The lowest, the dirtiest of your Common Court.”

  She stood and called for Macarius.

  The young mage was swift to return. “Lady Selene?”

  Her gaze remained on Halcyon, even as she spoke to him. “You will need to get creative in obtaining what I seek from this one. It is of the utmost importance that we obtain the crown before they do. Continue to poison her if you want, but do not kill her. Keep her imprisoned in her cell, out of sight. I want her alive when I take the throne. Use the memories you have gained from her to your advantage. If you succeed, I will name you my hand when our time comes.”

  Selene smiled down at Halcyon. And finally, the dread poured into Halcyon’s heart, stunning her more that the poison ever had.

  “Yes, of course, Lady Selene,” Macarius said. “Any suggestions?”

  Selene walked to the door, but she lingered on the threshold. “Perhaps you should resume your work at a different angle. My nephew Damon has just recently taken a scribe. I think you should target her. She will be easy to draw information from. Procure it however you want.”

  “And who is this scribe, Lady?”

  “Evadne,” Selene said before she vanished, leaving behind a trail of her perfume, and Halcyon was screaming as the realization tore through her. Her voice was fraying, and she coughed blood as she strained against her binds, as she bruised herself on the chains.

  This time, when Macarius began to sweep through her mind, Halcyon could not guard everything. She could not shield the details of the mission and all of her memories of Evadne, and when Macarius’s tentacles found one particular moment, bright and beloved and sweet, Halcyon knew he would take it and use it against her and her sister.

  And Halcyon wept, her spirit breaking at last.

  XIX

  Evadne

  Charena,” Damon said, handing a new scroll to Evadne. “This is how we shall make our way through the heart of Euthymius. With one of my sung enchantments.”

  Evadne accepted the scroll, unrolled it on her desk.

  “What do you know of Mount Euthymius?” he asked, standing in his usual place on
the opposite side of her desk, staring down at the blank papyrus she was about to mark. It was still night, and they were both weary and yet strangely invigorated, holding the secret of the mission between them like a second heartbeat.

  “Well, I know Euthymius and Loris carved into the mountain by power of earth and water,” Evadne said.

  “Which means that no flame of Pyrrhus can burn in the mountain’s passages. The fire would be extinguished as soon as it was lit within Euthymius.” He set a small scroll down before Evadne, his fingers quickly unfurling it. It was a map of the mountain’s inner passage, a descending drop that led to the door of the Underworld.

  “Is this the map Bacchus drew for Halcyon and Xander?” Evadne asked, tracing its boundaries with her fingertips.

  “Yes. Euthymius gave the knowledge to the priest, to then bestow to Xander and Halcyon,” Damon said. “This is why our siblings were training to fight in the dark, because they would not have the ability to carry fire into the mountain.”

  Evadne remembered her sister’s terrible confession: Xander had yielded, but I did not . . . see it. I was already in motion, and my sword caught him in the throat.

  She pushed the memory aside, focusing on the map. “This looks like a cistern . . .”

  “It is,” Damon said. “And there are three levels. The water begins ankle deep. It flows to the west, where a staircase is carved in the midst of a waterfall, to lead down to the next level. It is a steep drop. Finding the stairs will be difficult, but I believe we can avoid the draw of the falls.” He pointed at the first waterfall and the stone staircase that divided it. Evadne’s eagerness dwindled as she tried to imagine them navigating it without slipping or drowning or falling to their deaths.

  “The next level will be more arduous,” Damon continued, moving his finger to mark the path. “The water rises to the knee, and again, its currents will pull to the west, to yet another staircase and waterfall. These stairs will lead to the lowest level of the mountain. The water will be deep, and it will hold no current. We will have to swim to where the door to the Underworld resides, and there will be stairs that rise up from the water, leading to its threshold. The crown is hanging on the door. Above all, Bacchus warned, we must not open the door and release Pyrrhus, no matter how much the god might pound or beseech us.”