Songs in the Night: Book One

by Laura Frances

  SONGS IN THE NIGHT

  LAURA FRANCES

  ALSO BY LAURA FRANCES

  The Slave Series:

  Slave (Book One)

  Hero (Book Two)

  Remnant (Book Three)

  Where Rebels Hide (Prequel)

  FOR CHRISTIAN WRITER MOMS:

  Notes of encouragement at the start of your journey.

  © 2021 Laura Frances

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner

  whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations

  in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by Laura Frances.

  For the lonely ones.

  CONTENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  MAP

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Dreonine rose to power

  the year his wretched mother died,

  waging war on every kingdom

  that would not swear allegiance to his sovereignty.

  Long did he torment the peaceful kingdom to the east,

  but under the ruling of the Good King, they prospered on,

  ever defending their border,

  sending aid to those who fell to Dreonine’s schemes.

  But other nations would not cower before his sword.

  From Valk came forward four sorcerers,

  who offered an exchanged to the Wicked King:

  thirty years of service,

  should he leave their land and never return.

  In his greed and lust for power,

  Dreonine set the sorcerers

  as lords over his land,

  ushering in an era of great terror.

  The sorcerers obeyed every command.

  Entertained every evil whim.

  But they were also cunning

  and exceedingly patient.

  In secret, they sowed revenge.

  _____________

  The deep roots of vengeance

  can only be lifted

  by the gentlest of hands.

  _____________

  PROLOGUE

  She was not loved, nor was she wanted.

  Young Eris padded on bare feet over the soft forest moss, still oblivious to the depth of her mother’s regret. Unaware of shadows pressing in; of the cruel thoughts of grown-up minds. The little girl looked in earnest over the woody floor…searching for bugs.

  At five years old, it was the first time she’d slipped past the log fencing unnoticed, leaving behind her mother still scrubbing cloth over the washing board, scowling at the dirty water, knuckles red.

  Beneath the green glow of high fluttering leaves, Eris knelt by a stump, drawn in by the colorful display of a butterfly sitting pretty on its bark. With each fan of delicate wings, the girl was treated to a performance of blue and orange. She tried to touch it, but the creature took flight, fluttering a moment around the child’s head before ascending beyond reach. Eris giggled.

  On and on she wandered, grinning at the trees and birds and forest things, loving every piece of earth stretched before her. Her soft fingertips touched the trunks, scraping along rough bark, catching on twigs and leaves.

  She’d been wandering several minutes when the girl came to a break in the trees. The forest stopped abruptly before a vast field of yellow, bright as the high noon sun grinning overhead. The scene stretched on forever, an endless expanse of beauty, beyond anything her young eyes had ever seen.

  Eris halted, captivated by the sea of shimmering petals that waved, beckoning, drawing her in. Beaming, the little girl laughed as she ran full-hearted into the dance.

  She twirled in the whispering breeze, spinning with the bees and the soft, silky flowers. Warm rays of sunlight soothed her skin, heating the threadbare sack she wore.

  In her mind, it was a gown, as glorious and graceful as the master’s wife wore, and her black hair as flowing as his daughter’s. In truth, it was matted, bunched and filthy from years of neglect. But the girl believed she was beautiful. So she was.

  Eyes closed, arms stretched, and fingers splayed, she didn’t notice the long caravan exiting the forest a few hundred yards away. She missed the armored knights atop their muscled steeds and the bright blue banner marked with a lion’s claw. As she dropped to the ground, dizzy and tired, Eris was unaware when the travelers chose to stop for a rest.

  Though Eris was unwanted, Etan was fully loved.

  As son to the King’s servant, the boy followed in his father’s steps, carrying buckets of water from a nearby stream that traveled just inside the trees. His father’s name was Art, and the man was as sturdy as any knight.

  “Careful, now,” said Art, glancing back to the boy as water sloshed over the side of his wooden bucket. “Leave some for the rest of us, son.” He winked.

  Etan didn’t smile in return. His arms tightened around the bucket, and he scowled, focusing all his energy into keeping the last of the water in place. The closest knights chuckled, tossing encouragement and teases, which only made the boy red-faced, matching the light red of his hair.

  “Strong as an ox, that one.”

  “He’ll shame us all one day. Take heart, boy!”

  “Spare us a drop, good man.”

  “Well now at least he’s bathed, which is more than I can say for the rest of us.”

  Laughter rolled through the gathering. All kind-hearted. Good fun. But the boy hated teasing. He wanted only to prove his merit. To earn their respect and be taken seriously.

  After delivering the water, he wandered several feet into the flowers to cool his mood.

  “What have I told you about brooding, lad?” Art followed his son, setting a large hand on the boy’s shoulder to stop him. “If you have a grievance, address it. Don’t waste your minutes fueling a storm in your heart.”

  “I’m not brooding,” said the boy. Ashamed of his tone, he risked a glance up at his father. The man raised an eyebrow. “But I don’t like it when they laugh.”

  Art nodded solemnly. “Better friendly laughter than cruel mischief. These are good men.” His voice lowered. “They’re worthy of your loyalty.”

  Etan hung his head. He was often chided for being prideful.

  “I’ll tend to their needs,” his father said. “Explore the field, but don’t wander far. We’ll likely only rest half the hour.”

  Etan’s spirits lifted at the offer. With one more glance to make sure it was allowed, the boy wandered farther into the field. The flowers stood as high as his waist; he’d never seen their likeness. And though he traveled in the company of warriors and kings, he had not outgrown his softness for beauty. As
the minutes passed, so did the heaviness.

  “I will be as strong as an ox,” murmured the boy, stopping to cup a hand beneath a flower’s brilliant petals. He considered picking some for his mother, but they were still a long way from home. Would they last the journey?

  Giggling reached his ears, a soft tinkering of sound. Curious, and forgetting his father’s instruction to stay close, Etan searched for the source.

  Something crunched beneath his boot, and a shriek pierced his heart. The boy jumped back. Startled, he crouched beside the small form of a girl curled in a ball, clutching her fingers. Her hair was black and matted in clumps. She couldn’t be more than half his age, and he was only ten.

  Etan touched the girl’s arm. “Are you all right?”

  At last, she turned her face to him, and the boy saw the pain he’d caused. Red blotched beneath her eyes, and large tears rolled over her cheeks. He helped her sit up.

  The little girl swiped tears from her face with the back of her arm, one hand still clutching the other. She spared him a smile, and in the sunlight, her eyes shone green like the flower stems closing them in. They shifted to his boots. Her own feet were scratched and dirty…bare.

  “They still let you wear them?” she whispered, wide-eyed.

  Etan followed her gaze. “They don’t let you?”

  She shook her head. He wasn’t sure how to answer.

  “May I check your hand?” Etan asked, and the girl set her palm over his. Her fingers were small and thin, too bony for a child so young. In the citadel, children still wore roundness at her age, proof that infancy was only a few years behind them.

  He examined her knuckles but didn’t find evidence of a break. What he did find, however, was a scar stretched across her palm, a thick line running from pointer to wrist.

  “How did you get this?” he asked, running a soft finger along the line.

  The girl drew her hand back. “The master gives them.”

  The only master Etan knew was the king, and he would never mark children this way. A deep worry panged in his chest.

  Eager to inspire more smiles, the boy helped her to her feet. He continued to kneel to level their eyes; he was tall for his age, and she was very small.

  “My name is Etan,” he said. Puffing his chest a little, he added, “My father is the king’s personal servant. What is your name?”

  “Eris,” answered the girl, then she puckered her face in question. “What is the king?”

  No one had ever asked such a thing. Not who was the king, but what? He pointed to the caravan in the distance, just then realizing how far he’d gone. He should head back.

  “The King is there, among those men. He’s the ruler of this nation. The leader.”

  He could tell by her squinting that Eris didn’t understand. “It will be clearer when you’re older,” he said, echoing his father's words, often spoken in the quiet minutes before sleep.

  A shrill voice rang out from the tree line. “Eris!”

  The woman didn’t sound worried…but angry. Furious.

  “Is that your mother?” the boy whispered when the girl’s expression fell. She nodded, not meeting his eyes. Etan peeked over the flowers to where a rough looking woman stood with hands on her hips, sweeping her glare across the field. She was thin and haggard, with wild hair piled and a strip of cloth attempting to manage it.

  His gaze shifted to the caravan; her call had drawn attention. Two knights cut a path their direction, blue capes catching the breeze as they moved.

  “Maybe you should go,” the boy said, but he dreaded it. He didn’t like sending Eris back to that woman. Every instinct told him she was cruel. In a surge of compassion, Etan plucked a small yellow flower and stretched it toward the child with a warm smile. Flowers might not last the journey to reach his mother, but this girl could use some kindness.

  She took it, and her eyes brightened.

  Etan watched as she bounded toward her mother, bare feet flying over the rough earth. He stood, and the knights approaching caught sight of him. One was Sir Belin, a leader among the soldiers.

  “Come, boy!” Sir Belin called. “We’re leaving.”

  The second knight continued several paces toward the woman. But after unheard words from Sir Belin, stopped in his tracks.

  Etan ran toward the caravan, past the knights, toward his waiting father. Just before reaching the edge of the flowers, he turned back in time to see Eris disappearing into the trees.

  In time to see the haggard woman slap the child across her head.

  “But what is a king?” Eris rushed to keep up with her mother. “Do we have one?”

  The woman’s name was Brona, and Eris loved her completely.

  “They had no right lingering at our border,” Brona grumbled, ignoring the question. “All we need is another war…”

  Her words trailed off, and it was just as well. Eris didn’t understand their meaning. She had no notion of the conflicts of bigger people, that the kingdom she belonged to had long tormented the peaceful land to the east. That she, too, had a king. And that his wickedness had already scarred her life.

  To Eris, the world was small, compiled only of the faces that filled her days.

  Without warning, the woman spun around, jabbing a calloused finger in the small girl’s face. “If you ever run off again, I’ll leave you to the master. Do you hear me? I’ve lost time as it is trying to find you. And it will be my head if you go missing.”

  Eris frowned, and tears welled in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Mother. I didn’t mean to.”

  “Lies,” Brona hissed. She straightened, glaring down her nose at the girl. “You snuck off like a thief without a care for how I’d suffer. Selfishness is what it is, and I won’t lose my place because of it.”

  A long pause settled between the two, and Eris shrank under her mother’s heavy stare. In a moment of stillness, the woman’s face softened. Not kind—something more like sorrow. Her eyes shifted down, finding the scar across the little girl’s palm.

  From Brona’s dry lips came a whisper, “Why was this done to me? Will I never be free of it?”

  Eris followed her mother’s gaze down to her hand. Seldom did they speak about the scars or the night they were given. Eris’s memories of the act were vague, but she did remember another man’s presence, someone scarier and far more powerful than the master.

  The woman’s eyes lifted to the field now far behind them. “Had I left you to wander,” she muttered, “perhaps we’d both be free.”

  Brona gaze jerked again to the child, and her face soured.

  They walked on in silence, the smaller trailing behind the adult, and Eris felt the woods were no longer a place of beauty. All the magic and joy faded to gray in the shadow of her mother’s words. She was wrong. She had been bad. And she would never do it again.

  They arrived at the small village, at the house situated on the corner lot, and Eris slipped beneath the log fencing as her mother climbed over the top. Taking the girl by the back of the neck, the woman pushed her daughter toward the well.

  “Bring me a drink. Then clean yourself. The master comes round soon.”

  Eris padded toward the deep well, eyes wide and wishing herself stronger. She’d never drawn water before, but she knew it was hard. Even Ada, the stable girl, struggled. And at eight years old, her arms were thicker than Eris’s.

  As if hearing her thoughts, Ada appeared from the stables, clothes dirtied and yellow hair disheveled.

  “Where have you been?” the older girl whispered in a rush. “She was awful mad when you disappeared.”

  Eris didn’t answer. She was too busy staring at the well, defeated already by the task.

  “Do you need water?” Ada asked quietly. Eris nodded, eyes still fixed on the stones circling the pit. She glanced toward her mother, who dipped beneath a billowing sheet, swatting it out of her way as she arranged the pins.

  “For my mother,” she said. Ada sighed.

  “Let me help you.”<
br />
  The girl lowered a bucket tied by rope into the water. With a few grunts, she managed to bring it all the way up again. Placing the bucket on the edge, she drew a cup of water and handed it to Eris.

  “Run it to her. I’ll wait.”

  The younger girl did as instructed. Her mother snatched the cup and guzzled the contents, ignoring the drips that trickled down her chin and neck. After a satisfied sigh, she shoved it into her daughter’s waiting hands.

  From the direction of the big house, a man’s voice shouted, “The work must be done if we’re all taking rest!”

  Brona gave Eris a push, hissing, “Get away. You’ll just make things worse.”

  Eris ran toward the well again, back to Ada, who stood brushing dirt from her clothes and smoothing her hair, though none of it helped.

  The master reached Brona and leaned so close he nearly touched his mouth to her ear. Eris couldn’t hear the words spoken, but she saw their effect. The woman visibly shook, shrinking away. When the man’s thick, calloused finger jabbed the air toward Eris, her mother’s shoulders sagged.

  He was a short man, when compared with others, with a round belly and large nose. But what he lacked physically, he made up for in temperament. In cruelty.

  His eyes landed on Eris. Ada took her little hand and held it tight.

  “Where were you?” said the master as he trudged the distance between them. “Someone saw you sneaking under the fence. Said you were gone a good long while.”

  The words came out soft, inviting to anyone who didn’t know him. But Eris was familiar with the master’s tones. She pressed into her friend’s side. To her credit, the older child stood strong.

  The master crouched to her level. A sharp smell tinged his breath. His hair was dark like hers. His eyes just as green. But Eris didn’t notice these things at five—couldn’t see the resemblance or the stares from the other villagers when she’d pass. She only knew the emotions the figures in her life produced. This man produced fear–always.