Sisters of Sword and Song

by Rebecca Ross

  “I do not understand the rush, Evadne. Is Damon strict on your errand time?”

  She made to leave, and Macarius sat forward.

  “Very well. Sit down and I will tell you everything I know.”

  Evadne stared at him, her dislike for him evident in the crinkling of her nose. But she sat back down on her cushion and waited.

  “I spoke with Halcyon,” Macarius said, swirling the wine in his cup.

  “When? Where?” Evadne sounded desperate. She struggled to rein in her emotion, knowing Macarius would only use it against her.

  “At the common quarry.”

  “How? You are a mage. You are not allowed there.”

  “I was granted entrance the other night by the quarry lord,” Macarius said. “There is a former mage among the convicts, and he was causing some trouble, planning to escape. I was invited into the quarry to speak sense back into him. Turns out he has convinced your sister to escape the quarry with him.”

  Former mage? Did that mean a mage could lose their magic? Evadne had never heard of this, but her curiosity was overshadowed by her dread. “Escape?”

  “Yes. And while in any other case, I would be against it . . . I am not this time.”

  “Why?”

  “Because your sister is very sick. I do not think she will survive another moon in that quarry.”

  Evadne was trembling. She laced her fingers together, trying to hide it. “What is she sick with?”

  “She has quarry lung. Some of the convicts procure it from breathing in so much dust. It is almost always fatal.”

  “What did she say to you, then?”

  “She asked me to help her and her friend escape the quarry. I have agreed to do it, but I will need your assistance, Evadne.”

  Anything, Evadne nearly said. But she caught the word on the tip of her tongue. Her thoughts unspooled. Why would Macarius, who had brought her only harm, want to help her now?

  “I do not believe you,” she said.

  Macarius blinked. “You do not believe me? Although I should not find this surprising—Halcyon did say you would doubt me. So here. This is my proof, since you are slow to trust.” He reached into his chiton and procured a fold of papyrus. Evadne watched, impassive, as he set it down on the table between them. When she made no movement to retrieve it, Macarius whispered, “Go on, Evadne. You will want to know what it says.”

  She took the papyrus in her hands and let it unfold.

  She recognized the inked symbols as if she were looking at a reflection of herself. Her heart leapt, her blood sang, and she nearly cried as she read the Haleva message:

  Evadne, my prayers follow you, little sister. I hope you are well. I have fallen ill at the quarry—I do not think I will survive much longer here, but Macarius has agreed to help me escape. Please, Sister. Help me escape this place.

  Evadne read it twice, her eyes blurring with tears. She felt speared, imagining Halcyon’s distress. She folded the papyrus and tucked it into her leather pouch.

  “What is your plan?” she whispered, and Macarius drained his wine, as if revitalized by her interest.

  “I cannot speak of it yet. There are still parts I need to coordinate. But meet me here again at midnight. I will be ready for you then, as will Halcyon. Do not be late, Evadne.”

  He departed, so hastily that Evadne was momentarily stunned. She continued to sit, staring at the wine pitcher, her world seeming to crack beneath her.

  Until her mind cleared and she realized something. Slowly, she retrieved Halcyon’s Haleva message. She read it again carefully, scrutinizing the symbols. Ones that she and Halcyon had carefully chosen and memorized.

  Evadne knew her older sister’s handwriting well, almost as intimately as her own. She had traced Halcyon’s letters, over and over, when she had been learning to read and write.

  This was not Halcyon’s handwriting.

  One of the Haleva symbols was crooked. The sparrow wing. It was drawn in the wrong direction.

  Halcyon had not written this message.

  But someone had. Someone who would have had to sift through her memories to know it.

  Evadne lurched up from the table, stuffing the parchment into her leather pouch. The rain had passed, the sun had broken through the storm, and the streets were steaming like a bath. Evadne rushed back to the commander’s villa.

  She saw Straton’s horse, tacked and ready, waiting for him before the colonnade. He was about to leave Mithra, she recalled, to return to Abacus, and for some reason that filled her with alarm.

  It galled her that the one man she had vowed to despise was now the one she needed to beseech for help. She did not want to trust him, but she had a greater enemy now.

  She nearly collided with the commander on the great threshold, decked in his armor, his helm in the crook of his arm. He looked down at her, a frown creasing his brow, and he was about to speak, but Evadne’s voice overshadowed his.

  “My lord, I must speak with you. Now, before you depart.”

  Straton sighed. “I do not have time, Evadne. I am late as it is.” And he moved to step around her.

  “Lord Straton,” she implored. “Please.”

  He continued on his way, descending the stairs, splashing through the puddles.

  “Commander, this is about my sister,” Evadne said, and she noticed how he slowed. “I believe she is in peril.”

  Straton halted halfway down the stairs and turned to look up at her.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I cannot say it to you here, Lord.”

  He hesitated, glancing to where his horse waited. But then he looked at Evadne and ascended the stairs, motioning for her to follow him up to the privacy of his office.

  “Sit, Evadne,” he said, pouring her a cup of barley water. “You do not look well.”

  She sat in a chair before his desk, feeling her pulse in her ears. She accepted the water and drained it as Straton leaned on the edge of his desk, watching her.

  “Now, then,” he said. “What is this peril you speak of?”

  She was shaking when she procured the cipher. It took her a moment to spread the wrinkles from the papyrus, to find her voice, but she told Straton the history of Haleva, of how Macarius had stalked her and invited her into a tavern booth. Of the message and the handwriting and the crooked wing.

  “You claim Halcyon did not write this?” the commander said, taking the papyrus when she offered it.

  “No, she did not. I know it.”

  Straton met Evadne’s gaze. “Then who did?”

  “The mage. Macarius.”

  “But he is forbidden from the common quarry, Evadne.”

  “He has been there, Lord. And he has mind-swept my sister.”

  Straton’s face was calm. But his eyes blazed. She saw the fear and the fury within him.

  “I know of the mission, Lord,” she whispered, and flinched when he looked at her. “Damon told me. And I swear that I will go with him and recover Acantha’s crown for you. I will finish what Halcyon began, if you will only go to the quarry and ensure my sister is well, that she is not dying as I fear she might be.”

  Straton was silent. But he handed the Haleva message back to her and stood, his eyes continuing to smolder.

  “Do not worry about your sister,” he finally said. “I will go to the quarry now and ensure she is hale.”

  He did not fully believe her, she thought. But it did not matter. Because he was a man of his word, and if he said he would go and check on Halcyon, she knew he would.

  Evadne rose and bowed to him, clutching the papyrus to her heart.

  The commander left her in his office. She listened to his footsteps until they faded away, and Evadne moved to the windows, parting the linen curtains.

  She watched him ride away to the west, where the quarry lay. And only then did Evadne finally let herself melt to her knees, to silently weep into the crook of her arm.

  XX

  Evadne and Halcyon

&nbs
p; Half an hour later, Evadne sat at her desk in Damon’s chambers, rain-damp hair wound back in a braid, tears washed from her face, her body draped in a clean chiton and shawl. The charena scroll was open before her, a new quill in her fingers, and she watched Damon pace the floor, in and out of the waning light. She thought of Halcyon, trying not to worry. The commander would be with her now, and for once, that reassured Evadne. Macarius would not dare harm her sister with Straton present.

  She had not told Damon about the meeting with Macarius, about the Haleva message. And yet he sensed something was wrong.

  “Are you sure you feel well enough to scribe, Evadne?” he asked. “We can always return to the task tomorrow.”

  “I am fine.” She dipped her quill into the ink to express her resolve. “We do not have much time left.”

  “I know how I want the rest of the song to sound,” Damon said. “It is not to be an enchantment of fire as I originally thought, but a chorus of stars. The last three stanzas should come swiftly now.”

  Evadne remained poised over the scroll, ready, eager.

  Damon began to speak again, words and fragments and phrases. It seemed like he called them down from the sky, and Evadne hurried to keep up with him. He spoke quickly, and then just as quickly did he scratch his previous ramblings, but not as much as before. Evadne could see his words building as a storm, as a mountain, something for their voices to climb.

  The final stanza came together effortlessly, as if all the dangling threads of before, which had seemed to hold no purpose, found their place, weaving together. Evadne felt nearly drunk by the beauty of it, her hand aching as she inked his last words.

  She set down her quill, leaned back in her chair. The song for Mount Euthymius was complete, sitting before her on papyrus, drying in the light.

  Damon stood across from her, staring down at her writing, just as mesmerized.

  “What now?” she asked.

  He met her gaze, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “Now, we sing.”

  “Has she eaten anything?”

  “No, Lord.”

  “Has she woken or said anything today?”

  “No, Lord.”

  A pause. Halcyon kept her eyes closed as she lay on her cot, shivering and feverish, but she could feel Macarius’s gaze on her as he stood at the door of her prison cell, regarding her.

  “Halcyon?” he called to her, impatient. “Halcyon, look at me.”

  She refused. Her breaths were coming slower, slower, and her pain was unbearable now. Body, mind, spirit. All broken.

  She wanted to die.

  “Halcyon, you are going to have a visitor tonight,” the mage continued. “Get up and eat your gruel. It is not poisoned anymore.”

  Still, she did not move, did not open her eyes. All she could do was breathe and burn and listen to her heart beat in her ears, a sad chorus that was about to reach its end.

  “If she does not eat within the next hour,” Macarius said to the guard, “I want you to force-feed her. And make sure she drinks a cup of water.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  It grew quiet. Halcyon seemed to float in a landscape of red earth, red sea, until the guard entered her cell to force cold gruel into her mouth. There was only one of them now; four guards were no longer needed to hold her down.

  When he left her, she retched the food up.

  She lay on her belly again, cheek pressed against the hard slope of her cot, and waited for death.

  “Halcyon.”

  The voice was poignant, familiar. She did not think death would sound like that, but then he spoke again, urgently.

  “Halcyon.”

  She opened her eyes; the world was dim, blurry, until she saw Straton standing on the other side of her prison door, illumined by a torch he held.

  I am dreaming, she thought and closed her eyes again.

  “Unlock this door,” the commander ordered.

  “My lord, I cannot do that,” the guard replied.

  “Unlock this door. Now.”

  A frantic jangle of keys. The iron door squeaked open.

  Halcyon could see the torchlight through her eyelids. She felt a stirring of air, and then a large hand—wondrously cold against her skin—cupped her shaven head.

  “Halcyon, what has happened? Who has done this to you?”

  She struggled to open her eyes, to look at the commander. He was kneeling beside her cot; tears were in his eyes.

  “I have never seen you cry,” she said, her voice nothing more than a wisp.

  “Sit up, Kingfisher.”

  She made no effort to move.

  “Sit up,” he ordered gently. “There is strength within you. Find it, Halcyon.”

  “I cannot, Commander.”

  He paused. She closed her eyes again, unable to keep them open, to look at his tears.

  “You have never said such to me before,” he said. “Why have you given up?”

  “I am dying.”

  “No. I will not allow it.”

  She almost smiled. “Why, Lord, do you care if I live?”

  He was quiet. His voice trembled when he finally spoke. “Because I love you as if you are my daughter. The world would darken without you. Sit up, Halcyon. Do not go out like this.”

  She did not move.

  But he did. He stood and gathered her into his arms, holding her as he sat on the edge of her cot, and a sound escaped him when he finally felt how frail she was.

  Once, long ago, when she was a girl who had not joined the legion yet, she had yearned to be held by her father as he had held Evadne. Gregor had cradled Evadne on his lap every evening after dinner, as if she were part of his heart. And how Halcyon had wanted that, too. She would have given anything to be her youngest sister—the adored daughter.

  And now she was finally being held by the father of her soul, the man who had loved her in his own quiet, steel-sharpened way. Who had taught her everything he knew, who understood her, who had trusted her. A small part of her wanted to be mortified that she was being held at her very worst: bloodstained and filthy and reeking of vomit. But she was too exhausted to care anymore.

  Her head lolled until he supported it on his breast, the scales of his armor biting into her cheek. His voice echoed when he ordered the guard to bring him fresh water.

  “Do not drink it,” she whispered, spending the last of her strength on her voice. “It is poisoned.”

  She began to drift into the red landscape, and the commander felt it.

  “You are burning,” he said, touching her brow. “Stay with me, Halcyon. Open your eyes.”

  But for once, she did not have the will to follow his command.

  Evadne stood beside Damon, and they each held one end of the scroll as they read and sang in unison. At first, it was just their voices, cautiously melding, seeking balance with each other. Evadne could hardly remember the last time she had sung; it had been in Isaura, with her father, weeks ago. In another life entirely.

  Her voice was a whisper, uncertain. But with every word she sang, the stronger and bolder she became, until she was filling her lungs with night air, setting her voice free.

  And that was when it finally happened.

  The first enchanted fire bloomed to life. A star hung, suspended between her and Damon, aligned with their shoulders, radiant.

  She knew it was not her voice that had inspired it. But for a moment, she imagined that she alone had cast an enchantment.

  They were singing the second stanza now. And another star bloomed, and then another. The constellations gathered about them, bright and glorious, and Evadne felt as if she were walking in the night sky.

  She did not sing for Damon, or for the mountain, or for Acantha’s crown.

  She sang for Halcyon.

  Halcyon would have remained beneath the surface of her ocean. She planned to wait for the end to come. She would go quietly, which struck her as a surprise. Never did she imagine this was how she would slip from the world, her lungs filling
with water, breath by breath.

  Which divine would come and greet her on death’s threshold?

  She heard a voice she did not recognize. She felt cold hands on her face, slender and gentle, like her mother’s.

  Mother, Halcyon wanted to cry out, to reach for her. But her arms were heavy as iron. She could not find them, or her voice. Lost, she thought. I am lost. I do not know the way back.

  “Hold her steady, Straton,” the motherly voice said. “She must drink all of this.”

  Halcyon felt those cold fingers open her teeth, and she wanted to fight them. No more; she wanted no more. And yet the liquid was soothing and sweet, and it coated her mouth like oil, the oil from home, and Halcyon helplessly swallowed it all.

  She saw stars gathering above the water. They beckoned to her, and she did not know where they had come from or how they had found her, but when Halcyon finally opened her eyes, she had broken the surface, and she was breathing. She knew who had guided her back into the world.

  Evadne.

  Evadne felt Damon glance at her, his voice slowing, as if he was beginning to forget the words of his own song. Perspiration gleamed on his brow; she noticed how his hands were trembling, betraying his exhaustion.

  It will be like singing into the wind, like swimming upstream.

  That is how he had described it. To sing a difficult spell.

  He fell quiet, his tongue snared. But Evadne continued to sing his enchantment, the stars slowly dimming without the magic in Damon’s voice. She sang and Damon eventually rejoined her, drawing strength and guidance from her. The fire flared again, and more constellations winked into existence.

  A drop of blood fell upon the scroll.

  It took a breath for Evadne to realize it was Damon’s blood, dripping from his nose.

  She stopped singing just before Damon went silent, easing himself to the floor, his half of the scroll tumbling from his hand. She caught it, sank to her knees before him. He looked dazed until Evadne tentatively reached out to him, pressing the edge of her shawl to his nose to stem the blood.

  She did not want to feel anything for him. And yet she did. She was concerned, anxious for him the longer his blood soaked her shawl. She blamed it on the circumstances surrounding them both—secrets and loss and uncertainty. But Evadne knew that despite it all, she was changing. She noticed every time Damon looked at her; she noticed the grace in his hands. She liked the sound of his voice. She found pleasure in singing with him.