Sisters of Sword and Song

by Rebecca Ross

  “Yes. Do not worry.”

  Halcyon woke hours later to Evadne’s touch on her shoulder. A gentle yet urgent squeeze.

  “They are coming, Hal.”

  Halcyon struggled to sit. She held up her hand to block the fire from her sight so her eyes would remain keen in the darkness. Evadne helped her rise, and they stood side by side, staring toward the mountain. The moon was a fingernail above them, the grass whispered in the wind beneath them, and the phantoms raced across the foothills to challenge them. Halcyon counted only three, starlit and gleaming and impossibly swift. When she saw what Ivina had spun for her, her heart began to pound.

  No.

  But it was. She would recognize them and the flash of their bronze armor anywhere. By moon or by sun.

  Iason. Symeon. Narcissa.

  Her erstwhile friends had been turned into phantoms to torment her. The three hoplites in her squad who had testified against her at her trial. One who had been her captain, who Halcyon still highly esteemed. Who had whipped her, shredded her back before countless witnesses.

  No.

  Halcyon swayed when she realized that she would have to take up fire and slay them into sparks. She could not let Evadne conquer them all.

  It does not matter. I am a murderer. Halcyon’s soul wept. I am already doomed.

  She reached for her branch, set it into the fire so its end would catch the flames. Evadne mirrored her, unsheathing her sword.

  “What do you see, Eva?” Halcyon asked, her voice wavering.

  “I see three dogs,” Evadne replied, and her voice trembled, too. “The dog you once saved me from.”

  Halcyon met Evadne’s wide-eyed gaze. Her little sister’s hair was bound in a braid, but threads of it had worked their way free, and the wind tangled them over her face. She did not look so young anymore, Halcyon thought. It had always been her instinct to protect Evadne, ever since the day she had proudly held her in her arms, a wailing bundle of life. But Halcyon suddenly realized her sister did not need it. Evadne could defend herself.

  And Halcyon let her mind descend, deep into her dust-streaked memories. There had been a moment in hoplite training when she had been afraid, when she had wanted to bolt. But the commander had stood at her back and spoken words to her that she had branded into her mind.

  “This is your moment, Eva,” Halcyon said, and her voice was strong, clear. The strongest it had sounded since she had arrived at the quarry. “Stand and meet it. For it belongs to you.”

  Evadne was silent. But her eyes remained on Halcyon as if Halcyon were a divine. And then she took her torch and her sword and turned to meet the phantoms.

  Halcyon grasped her long branch, the end writhing with fire, and prepared herself.

  She stood and watched the phantoms close the distance, so perfectly re-created they appeared to be flesh and blood. Iason, Symeon, Narcissa.

  It was Iason—sweet, loveable Iason—who charged for her first, sword thrusting, and Halcyon hesitated before her reflexes overtook her. She swung her branch, piercing him in the heart. He turned into a swarm of sparks and smoke, his face contorting as it melted into the darkness. She felt sick at the sight.

  I am a murderer. I am guilty. I am unforgiven.

  Beyond the sparks, Evadne swung at Symeon with her torch, catching him in the arm. He howled and jumped back, but Evadne pressed him, refusing to give up ground, falling into a dangerous dance with him. She was seeing a dog, but Halcyon was seeing an old friend, and she grappled with the sight of her sister battling Symeon.

  He is not real. It is just a ghost of Symeon. He is not real . . .

  Narcissa took advantage of that distracted moment to slither through the shadows, spear raised, teeth clenched. She looked nothing like a phantom. Even the red-and-white horsehair of her helm blew in the breeze. Again, Halcyon wanted to kneel and toss down her torch. But she swallowed and swung, severing Narcissa’s right arm with her fire.

  Her former captain hissed as her arm dissipated. She regrouped and charged, this time taking the kopis from her belt, swinging and hacking.

  Halcyon stepped back, felt the blade catch the front of her tunic, ripping it.

  She parried Narcissa’s second thrust, shoving her into the fire. She watched, trembling, as the captain surrendered into smoke, drifting up to the stars.

  Halcyon dropped her stick. She retched into the grass as cold sweat dripped down her back. The night had gone quiet. It felt like hours passed, but it was only a moment when she lifted her face to see Evadne standing on the other side of the fire, watching her with large, mournful eyes.

  The third phantom was gone. Evadne had killed it, and Halcyon was grateful.

  “Hal?”

  Halcyon retched again, unable to stop it. Her eyes were blurry, her mouth burned, and she felt her spirit cling to her bones, still broken and wounded, uncertain how to heal itself.

  “Here, Hal.” Evadne was on her knees, frantically looking through the provisions for the water flask. Her head was down, intent on her task, so she did not see the fourth phantom’s approach.

  But Halcyon did.

  She straightened, wiped the back of her mouth and watched the phantom come, swift and silent and brilliant, just as she remembered him being. He did not glance at Evadne. His eyes, furious, were for Halcyon alone. And it was justified, she told herself.

  She had been waiting for this. Halcyon’s fear melted away as she held out her arms to him.

  “Xander,” she breathed.

  In the distance—so far away that she could have been a star in the sky—knelt Evadne. Halcyon could see her from the corner of her eye. She saw Evadne’s hair stir as the phantom rushed past her. She saw Evadne startle, scramble to relight her torch, to take up her sword. She heard Evadne scream her name, trying to rouse her.

  “Halcyon, Halcyon, your torch! Take up your torch!”

  But Halcyon let the torch be, burning out on the grass. Because she would not—could not—slay him again. Her shield brother. The one who should be living.

  Xander came for her. Their bodies collided, and he felt solid, tangible, alarmingly real. The bronze of his armor caught the front of her tunic. He knocked the breath out of her, and her arms came around him, and she was weeping into his long, flaxen hair.

  I am sorry, I am sorry. Forgive me. The words escaped her; she sounded like a wounded creature. She released a wail she did not know she could make.

  But no matter how perfectly Ivina had re-created him . . . this was not Xander. And he lifted Halcyon up in his arms, but it was not to embrace her or forgive her. He took her to the brink of the promontory.

  And together, phantom and girl, they fell over the edge, into the howling darkness.

  XXVII

  Evadne

  Evadne twisted her ankle trying to launch herself into flight, the pain keeping her earthbound, as if the grass had turned into manacles. She was too late, too slow. Even as the magic thrummed in the air, she could not fully summon her wings. The moment had passed; Halcyon could not be caught and saved. Her sister was gone. As if she had never been.

  Evadne crumpled to her knees. She tore her tunic, she screamed at the stars, at the sliver of the moon, at the mountain.

  She had been so close to bringing Halcyon home. Two days away from the safety of Isaura. And Halcyon had just fallen to her death.

  “How could you leave me?” Evadne screamed at Halcyon’s memory, at the place where she had plummeted, where the edge of the earth met the moan of the wind. “How could you leave me like this?”

  But Evadne knew why, even in the haze of her fury and the creeping numbness of her shock. She had heard Halcyon breathe his name—Xander—and had known it was over. Halcyon would not slay his ghost.

  Ivina had gotten her revenge.

  Time passed, even when it felt like everything should stop.

  The fire burned down to embers. The wind tore at her braid. The horses were gone, spooked by the phantoms.

  Evadne was alone.<
br />
  She crawled to Halcyon’s bedroll and lay facedown on it, uncertain what she should do.

  Before long, she heard a voice. “Is this truly Evadne of Isaura, the crafty girl who snuck her way into my mountain and stole a divine crown from the door I guard?”

  The voice was lovely, amused. There was also a flicker of steel within it, a cadence honed to cut.

  Evadne sensed the immortal mage’s presence.

  She swallowed. Her throat ached; her voice felt torn away in her grief. But Evadne lifted her head and beheld Ivina.

  She was old, as the legends claimed. She was also beautiful.

  Evadne wanted to look away from her, and yet she could not find the strength to do it.

  “I expected to find a warrior here,” said Ivina, her words like thorns Evadne would have to extract later. “I expected to find a courageous woman. For not many mortals dare to journey into Euthymius’s heart, let alone live to tell about it.”

  Evadne was silent. But she could feel the indignation, the fury brewing in her.

  “You conquered your other fears so beautifully, Evadne,” the mage continued. As if she had found great delight in watching Evadne’s turmoil. “The dog that terrified your childhood. Damon dragging you over the falls. I find it hard to believe you are a mere mortal, a girl who was destined to remain in her father’s grove, picking olives until her fingers turned green.” She paused. “Even now, you are not afraid of me. Why, Evadne? What has wrought this change in you?”

  “Why have you come to me?” Evadne raised herself up, to stand on her feet. “Say what you must and be gone, mage.”

  Her defiance brought a smile to Ivina’s face.

  “Ah yes. That is better.”

  Evadne fell silent. More than anything, she wanted Ivina to leave. She wanted to lie down and mourn her sister in private.

  “But you have always harbored this fear, haven’t you?” Ivina said, stretching a long white finger to where Halcyon had fallen. “Nursed it since you were nine, the day Halcyon left you for the Bronze Legion. Halcyon, who was strong and revered and destined to become great. The daughter who would gild your family’s name in honor. And what would you be, in comparison? Well, nothing. Because your sister outshined you, always, and you secretly resented her for it. You were often overlooked. And yet you loved her, and you feared she would leave you far behind, that she would go to a place you could not follow. That she would forget you. That you would lose her.”

  “Leave me,” Evadne warned through her teeth. “I have nothing to say to you.”

  “That may be, but someone must say this to you, Evadne of Isaura, girl of flight. It is time for you to remake yourself.”

  “You know nothing of me, of what I need!”

  Ivina snickered. She turned to leave, her white raiment whispering as she moved. But she stopped and looked back at Evadne one final time, her hair like gossamer on her shoulders.

  “I do know, Evadne. Once, long ago, I was the same as you. I was a mortal girl, a young mage who did not know who she was or what she wanted. And look at me now. I see a shade of myself in you. You, Evadne, who have lived your entire life in comparison to Halcyon’s. You measure yourself according to her. And the past moon, you have not lived for yourself, but for her. You gave up your freedom and took an amulet on your arm, all for her. You risked yourself in Euthymius, to finish what she started. Do you even know who you are? Can you be your own person without her? Or are you destined to be the moon, always reflecting the sun? Who is Evadne of Isaura?”

  Evadne cursed her until the mage vanished into smoke that the wind carried back to the summit.

  She was alone again, and the silence of the night crushed her. Evadne fell on her knees, stunned.

  The things Ivina had said . . . some of her words had been terrible, intended to wound Evadne at her weakest moment. But some of her words had been truth.

  And that truth broke the last of her.

  Who was Evadne without her sister?

  She did not know.

  The sun rose.

  Evadne packed her provisions. She banked the fire. She bundled the bedroll, strapping it to her shoulders. She sheathed the sword and began to walk.

  She could find only one horse, grazing in the meadow. The other gelding was gone, and Evadne led her horse down into the ravine to begin the terrible search for her sister’s body.

  The ground was pebbled, rocky, choked with weeds. Evadne walked on foot, the gelding following delicately behind her. She was afraid to look ahead, to see Halcyon’s remains. She expected to find her broken, her blood pooled about her.

  She stopped suddenly, closing her eyes, hiding her face in the gelding’s neck. She would never get home like this, though. And Isaura waited, just over the foothills.

  Evadne continued to walk along the ravine’s floor. But there was no sign of Halcyon.

  She was beginning to wonder if the enchanted Xander had taken her into another world—perhaps they had slipped away through a secret door in the air—when Evadne finally saw a flash of movement, high on a ledge, halfway up the perilous slope.

  A girl, holding to a wiry shrub. Bleeding, breathing. Alive.

  “Halcyon!” She dropped the reins and took flight, her voice echoing off the rock, but Halcyon heard and tilted her head. Her eyes widened as she watched Evadne glide, hover in the air beside her.

  And then Halcyon did the most remarkable thing.

  She laughed, just as Damon had done in the mountain. She laughed until she was weeping, and Evadne embraced her, waiting for Halcyon to trust her enough to carry her, to let go of the shrub that had saved her life.

  “Am I dreaming, Eva?” Halcyon whispered, still clinging to the plant. Her face was scratched from the fall, as were her hands, her arms. Dried blood and tears cut paths down her dusty cheeks. “Or are you truly flying?”

  “This is real,” Evadne said, smiling. “And you are about to fly with me. Trust me, Sister. Let go.”

  It took her another breath. But then Halcyon did.

  She trusted Evadne’s arms, her unseen wings. And she let go.

  There is a meadow in Isaura. In summer, it is a field of gold, and in winter, one can see it from Gregor’s villa. It is like catching a glimpse of another realm, a place that only the divines know. This was sacred childhood ground, a piece of earth that Halcyon and Evadne had often explored as girls. This was the ground where Evadne had sat with her wax tablet, practicing her letters, waiting for magic to arrive. Where Halcyon had raced the mountain boys. Evadne remembered how her sister had once run through the grass—dauntless, victorious.

  This was the path they took home.

  Halcyon rode the gelding, and Evadne walked ahead with the reins, leading her sister through the tall grass, a world of gold and wildflowers. Dragonflies and beetles flew in lazy circles, their iridescent wings gliding on the breeze. A pair of doves startled, their melodies like a welcome banner above the sisters. And as Evadne walked deeper into home, she no longer felt exhausted and discouraged and bruised. She did not feel the pain in her shoulder or her ankle, or the blisters on her feet. Even Halcyon lifted her face to the sun, breathing in the fragrance of the meadow, breathing in the memories of her childhood.

  She smiled at Evadne. For a moment, they were girls again.

  The breeze rushed to meet them. Evadne could smell the grove within it. She could see the olive trees, their branches dressed gloriously in leaves. She could see the roof of her father’s home, waiting to shelter them.

  She shielded her eyes as she saw someone emerge from the shadows of the trees, from the back courtyard of the villa. He ran into the meadow, cutting through the gold and the sunlight. He ran to meet them, and Evadne dropped the reins, trembling.

  “Evadne!” Gregor called, like he was afraid she was a mirage, and would fade before he could reach her.

  Evadne ran to him. He swept her into his arms, he lifted her off the ground, his face pressed into her hair. She held him as he wept, and she
was worried he might break. But then Gregor set her down and took her face in his hands.

  “Eva, Eva,” he said, over and over like her name was a chorus. He smiled through his tears. “I cannot believe it is you. How can this be?”

  She took his hand, her voice suddenly lost in her chest. She led him to the horse, where Halcyon still waited, gilded in sun.

  He had not recognized her.

  “Halcyon?” Gregor startled, drawing in a jagged breath, his fingers slipping from Evadne’s as he moved to his oldest daughter. He saw her thinness, her bruises, her wounds, her weakness. Gently, he reached up to touch her hand, to press a kiss to her knuckles.

  Evadne turned away, to grant them a moment.

  And she saw her mother now running to them, shawl falling away from her head, her black hair tangling behind her. And her cousin Maia was waving and shouting, her smile so broad Evadne could see the gleam of it. And Uncle Nico, who was slow, and Aunt Lydia, who never ran, were both sprinting, and Lysander was passing them all with his great, hungry strides.

  One final person hurried into the meadow. One more person who Evadne almost did not recognize.

  He looked just like he had ten years ago.

  Uncle Ozias.

  Her long-lost uncle had returned.

  They were all home now, Evadne thought, and suddenly it was difficult to breathe.

  She watched her family rush to greet her and Halcyon.

  And that was when Evadne finally dropped to her knees, smiling, weeping, laughing. Overcome.

  XXVIII

  Evadne

  Home was just as Evadne remembered. The frescoes were still woefully cracked on the walls, and the corridors still smelled like warm bread, and the common room was still too small to hold all of her family. But that is where they gathered, Gregor carrying Halcyon. He carefully set her down on cushions.

  Halcyon groaned in pain.

  Phaedra knelt beside her, stroking her daughter’s shaven head. Evadne sat on the other side of her sister, anxious, as she watched her mother’s hand trace the scabs on Halcyon’s brow and jaw, the bruises. Her voice trembled when she said, “Gregor? One of you should ride to Dree, to summon the healer.”