Songs in the Night: Book One

by Laura Frances

  “Danior tells me you’ve accompanied him on several patrols. And that the meat tonight is your own trophy. You’ve made yourself useful in my absence.”

  My gaze flicked to Danior, who stood several paces to our right, examining a new blade with two other young men. His eyes met mine, and I looked away. His flattery meant nothing to me. But Nehemiah’s, on the other hand, confused me. He rarely acknowledged my contributions in public.

  “I do my part,” I said, turning back to the large man. Like Danior, Nehemiah was built to intimidate. His earth brown eyes studied me, showing no pleasure in my response.

  “As you must,” he answered, stepping closer and glowering, “if you wish to remain in our company.”

  The sudden change didn’t throw me. I’d heard his threats a hundred times. Still, panic slipped in. I had nowhere to go. No one to turn to if I left. I forced a show of respect.

  “I’m grateful to be here.”

  He watched me a few more seconds, then scoffed. “And why wouldn’t you be?”

  As he moved away, he muttered, “Enjoy yourself tonight. It would seem you’ve earned it.”

  My gaze lingered on him as he moved through the gathering, laughing and smiling with the others. Never with me. Not once.

  A ring of logs circled a safe distance around the fire. I found one empty and sat, fixing my eyes on the flames. Heat radiated to my face, and my eyes burned, but I couldn’t look away. Fire brought me to that camp. And it was fire that kept me.

  The atmosphere expanded with laughter and chatter. Light. Weightless relief in the return of their leader. Nehemiah raised his hands, drawing attention.

  “I’ve missed you all!” his voice boomed. Cheers rang out, and I believe some meant it. Some of them loved the man standing tall in the glow of flames. But I’d seen the way others tensed in his presence. My silence was not blind. They walked a fine line between admiration and fear.

  I glanced to the edge of the woods, where the horses rested. A gray mare, middle-aged and healthy, stood tied by a giant oak. The first morning after my arrival, Nehemiah claimed her as his own at his mother’s insistence.

  She’s too young for such a creature. Take it, son. It’s the gods’ payment for the care she’ll receive.

  His mother died not long after, and no one was allowed to touch the mare. But what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt me. My fingertips tingled, remembering the feel of her coat in stolen moments as I’d aged.

  “What of the north?” a man called. Nehemiah’s countenance dropped.

  “It is what we feared,” he told them. “Sithians attacked the villages along the northern border. A battle was waged in the mountains at Gregthain, but countless villagers had already been taken. Women,” he said solemnly, “and children.”

  People gasped. The mood shifted. Gazes moved uneasy to one another, and restless children were held tighter. Eyes bore into me like arrows aimed to kill.

  “There are rumors,” added Nehemiah grimly, “that sorcery has returned.”

  The camp grew still, white knuckles clenching at the reminder of darker days, when Sithian lords obeyed the whims of King Dreonine, and wickedness pushed relentlessly against Omaria’s border. Had such days truly returned?

  A woman, Galia, asked, “Will we move then? Somewhere farther in?”

  “I’m afraid we must,” Nehemiah answered. “I’m told the king’s men travel nearby in the coming days. They’ll gather in the Great Forest to the north. We’ll wait until they pass before upsetting our camp. I’ve scouted an area east of here, near the river, where the water flows deep into the woods. We’ll set out as soon as I get word of a clear path.”

  Relief mingled with fear. Hushed conversations murmured through the group. I sat alone in their midst, hands clasped tight and fighting the urge to retreat to my tent. These attacks only solidified their ill feelings toward me. The more frequent they became, the smaller I felt in a large country of enemies. The Omarian king would again wage war on Sithia’s wicked leader, but I saw no difference in them. Blue banners flew in my memory, billowing across a field of yellow flowers. That night, his men destroyed everything that mattered to me.

  Someone dropped to the log at my right. I didn’t need to look to know.

  “They fear what they cannot see.”

  “And what is that?” I said dryly.

  “Your thoughts,” Danior said quietly. He already smelled like ale. “Your intentions. They worry. Maybe if you opened up, people wouldn’t look at you like the enemy.”

  I turned a hard gaze on him. Firelight glinted off the small gold ring in his ear. I was there the night he was pierced. I’d promised not to tell that he cried. “Are you suggesting I’m to blame for their behavior? I’ve done nothing but what’s expected of me.”

  “Maybe that’s the problem. You only do what’s expected.” His slow gaze moved over my face, and I tensed to keep from jumping up to leave. He was becoming too much like his father. Too changeable now at the edge of adulthood.

  “And what do you recommend?”

  “Surprise them,” he murmured, running fingers down my arm. My skin crawled. I rose, and he followed me as I moved toward the food. Meaty stew simmered in a large pot over a low burning fire. Baskets of bread sat on the wooden serving table. I grabbed a knot and kept moving. From the corner of my eye, I saw Danior do the same. He caught up with me, tearing a bite. Swallowing.

  “You must know life will never change for you until you choose a new path.”

  I couldn’t out pace him, so I turned, squaring my shoulders.

  “I am not to blame for their actions,” I said hotly. “Just as I am not to blame for the actions of Sithia or their king.”

  My heart drummed. I didn’t know why I suddenly wanted him to understand. Why it mattered so much that they see. I had been here. From five years old, I’d been nowhere except where his people took me. How could they doubt my loyalty still? How could they question my thoughts?

  Danior’s eyes moved to my hands, to the unyielding proof of my ancestry. I folded in my fingers and looked away. He moved closer.

  “All I’m saying,” Danior whispered, “is that things could be different. I only want to help.”

  I turned to the woods, to the shadows growing darker as night fell. I didn’t want the life he was suggesting. But perhaps there were other paths.

  “I don’t want your help,” I said. His expression fell. He didn’t follow when I left.

  Music began before the meal was finished. Children giggled, gathering in circles to spin until they fell. Wooden bowls lay scattered on the logs, and everyone moved, twirling and laughing as the cittern weaved a dancing tune, forgetting the weight of bad news.

  In time, the music softened, and many families returned to their tents to put children to bed. All that remained were the youth and a few older, sitting along the edges and watching with wistful expressions. I rose from my seat and ambled closer as the old musician traded strings for a flute.

  He played the same song once every night, when the stars had appeared, and the moon sat high. When the breeze carried insect sounds, and beasts prowled deep in the hills. I wandered nearer, shivering as the notes suspended on the air, light and airy. Pure.

  All my muscles reacted, engaging with the lilt and flow of the music. It was the woods and the fire and stars while I danced. Only the air on my skin and the pull of the sounds that turned darker...haunting.

  I stretched a hand toward the expanse of sky, straining toward the freedom I saw there. I lifted to my toes, begging, but I could not grow wings. An ache blossomed in my chest, pouring down my body in waves, crashing.

  A soft drumbeat joined the next rise, and I fell back to earth, spinning in the rhythm. The sky wouldn’t receive me, but there was freedom in the dance. It’s where life began.

  And where it ended.

  Nan’s laugh penetrated my solace. From the fire’s edge, her piercing voice collided with the music.

  “Does she know that we see
?”

  Then Danior, though less mocking. “She knows.”

  My gut twisted, and I stilled, lowering my hands. Catching my breath. The music died with me, and my gaze slid to the musician. He stared with round, sorry eyes, holding the flute out before his lips. His eyebrows pulled in.

  I unlocked my gaze and returned to my tent.

  Bumps prickled on the back of my neck. Before ducking inside, I peeked back. Danior watched me.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ERIS

  My eyes flew open. The tent was dark.

  Forest sounds crept outside the quivering fabric walls. Leaves whispered, hushing. Nothing in the air signaled a threat, but the hair on my arms stood on end. I held still, listening.

  Footsteps crunched over dirt, and I tensed. It wasn’t unusual to hear walking in the dead of night. Our tent rested near enough to the path that I often caught when feet moved past on a late stroll. But this time, I couldn’t relax.

  Across the tent, Nan moaned in her sleep. She turned onto her side, and a cough burst from her mouth. Then she was on her feet, racing into the night air, retching before she hit the trees.

  This, too, was not unusual. Nan often drank more than her body could handle. But she wasn’t the only one. More groans reached my ears, and children cried. I pressed into my hands, sitting up.

  Nan reentered and fell onto her blankets, curling on her side, arms tight around her stomach. She caught me watching and glared back.

  “What are you looking at?”

  “Why are so many sick?”

  She rolled until she faced away, tugging a blanket up to cover her exposed ear. “Just shut up. You ask the stupidest questions.”

  I bit my cheek and stared through the sliver at the opening. The fabric blew apart. At the center of camp, fire grew brighter as men threw sticks into the flames. The whole community was awake, rushing to the well and carrying water into tents. Bodies flew past, gagging into bushes. My stomach turned, but only in response. No sickness churned in me.

  I rose and made my way to the fire, halting my breaths when the wind carried the stench of vomit. A woman struggled at the well, leaning her weight onto one elbow as she strained to raise the bucket. I touched her back, and her face angled to see me. She was Tillie, mother of three young children. Her pale skin glistened with sweat in the moonlight, blending with the tears that streaked her cheeks.

  “Let me help you,” I said, and she did. But only because she was weak. I’d found sickness to be the equalizer in the camp. They wanted little to do with me on good days, but sickness demanded care. It happened that I was rarely ill.

  Nehemiah stalked into the firelight from behind his tent. He stumbled a step, scowling, sweeping an angry gaze over the camp. From his own tent, Danior rushed to help his father.

  “You’re not ill,” grumbled the older man. Danior wrapped an arm around Nehemiah’s waist and helped him walk. The two stumbled into Nehemiah’s tent, and I turned back to Tillie, offering to carry the water for her. She shook her head and left without expressing gratitude.

  I stood a moment watching as the camp grew more chaotic around me. As the sounds of sickness increased and more victims emerged from their beds. It was odd to me, something that had never before happened during my time with the drifters. Sickness, yes, but never this. Never a mowing over of dozens at once, spreading through the tents as a plague born on the air. And I felt none of it, suffered no discomfort.

  Nehemiah’s voice bellowed from inside his tent, rattling me. “I said handle it! I had better wake to find this resolved.”

  Danior emerged, ducking beneath the folds of fabric. His eyes quickly found me. I’d seen that look before: half-terror...half-rage. My chest deflated. I hurried toward my tent, but he was too fast. He grabbed my wrist, straining my shoulder when he pulled me to a stop. I struggled against his hold.

  “What do you want,” I demanded. “Let me go. Nan is sick.”

  “The entire camp is sick,” he said, eyes blazing. Something else crossed his features. Regret? Hurt at my earlier rejection? He wrestled with something hidden in his mind before his eyes narrowed. The fingers around my wrist tightened.

  “You and I,” he said, “are not. Only a few others have faired the same. Why is that?”

  I stopped fighting him. If I’d continued, his grip would have injured my wrist, and I dare not lose my ability to hunt. Instead, I scowled. “I don’t know.”

  “Not good enough.” He loomed over me, glowering through tired eyes. Sleep still creased his face, and his hair flew wild. “Give me a better answer.”

  I looked across the camp, wishing help would come. Wishing someone would show pity and stand up for me. I thought of the musician; he was always kind. But in thirteen years, even he hadn’t stepped in to help.

  My eyes lifted to Danior again. A long shadow stretched across his eyes, adding malice to a boy I once believed in. A man becoming the very image of the father he complained about.

  I thought then of Nehemiah, lying ill on his bed. Perhaps that alone would save me. Danior managed situations for his father, but Nehemiah’s were the only hands that punished. I considered the evening.

  “The stew,” I said, softening enough to appear submissive. “I didn’t eat it.”

  Danior’s jaw clenched, so tense veins bulged at his temple. I feared I’d answered wrong, but he dropped my wrist, saying, “Right.”

  Pain throbbed in the absence of his grip, but I resisted the urge to grasp it. Steadying my breathing, smoothing my expression, I calmly echoed, “Right. The food.”

  Danior turned to the fire, running a hand through his hair. The cool breeze billowed my nightdress, and I crossed my arms, using the excuse to hold my wrist closer. Sharp pain shot through the bone.

  Hard eyes landed on me again. I inched back.

  “Danior, let me tend to them. I should help.”

  He matched my steps. “My father is livid. He won’t let this go unpunished.”

  My eyes flicked to Nehemiah’s tent as if he’d fly out and beat me where I stood. But this wasn’t my fault. What grounds did he have for punishing me?

  An image flashed in my mind, Nehemiah acknowledging me after his arrival home. The strange compliment he’d allowed others to hear. I’d provided the meat. My face went slack.

  Danior raised an eyebrow. “You see now. And no crime goes unpunished in my father’s camp.”

  “What crime have I committed?” I asked, no longer suppressing my panic. “I only hunted. The other women prepared the meat. They should have seen...should have noticed if the beast was foul.”

  “You know the rules, Eris. Follow the problem to its original source. And that source is you. You brought in the meat.” As if already ashamed of the words before speaking them, Danior dipped his head, adding, “It’s not unusual for a Sithian to know some form of magic.”

  I gaped. “You believe I devised this? That I poisoned them by sorcery?”

  He couldn’t look at me. “I only speak for my father. And his suspicions are often proved true.”

  “I am not to blame for nature’s ways!” I shouted, tired of being blamed for things beyond my control. Heat rushed over me. “I am not to blame when I toil in the woods to feed this camp! When I spend my energy on what fills your belly!”

  His hand shot forward, finger stabbing the air. “Don’t raise your voice at me.”

  He took me by the arm, hauling me away from the fire. We passed the tree line, and my blood turned cold. I jerked back, freeing my arm long enough to run, but he caught me around my waist before I reached the tents. I flailed, elbowing him hard in the jaw.

  For a moment, he lost his grip, and I fell, scrambling to my feet. Hands clasped around my arms, turning me, and pain exploded across my face.

  I blinked, stumbling. Tears burned my eyes. I touched a palm to the hot skin of my cheek and stared at the young man before me. I was kind to him as a child. When we were very young and his father’s mood turned cruel, I sat in these woo
ds with him and shaped creatures from twigs and leaves. I told him stories that Ada once told me. Shared my most treasured things.

  Betrayal carved a pit in my chest.

  A cry flew from my mouth, and I lunged forward, shoving him into a wide tree trunk. Never, not once, had he punished me in his father’s place. And though his words and eyes harassed my days, I believed he never would.

  Fool.

  Danior caught himself, regaining his balance. Shock flashed across his face. Then it hardened.

  “I tried to spare you,” he said through gritted teeth. “I told you to give me a better answer.”

  I moved to leave, but he caught me again, a hand tight around my upper arm. He tugged me deeper into the trees.

  My muscles pulsed, waiting for the next hit. Anticipating pain. When Nehemiah punished, the perpetrator returned to camp crumpled and bruised. Danior stopped in a clearing, but he didn’t release me. Tears streaked to my chin.

  “You were never going to spare me. You’ll obey your father to the dungeon and to death.”

  Coward. The unspoken word passed between us, whispering in the deep night air. Danior’s eyes bore into me, long enough that I thought, for a moment, that he might change his mind.

  His fist pulled back.

  Darkness took me.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ETAN

  Within a day we’d broken camp.

  From high on my saddle, I watched as carts of wounded men rolled away toward home. A handful of soldiers and medics rode on all sides, protecting what was left of their ravaged bodies. Their wounds were brutal, as the battle had been.

  My gaze lingered heavy, until they were consumed by the morning fog. Grief warred in my chest, fighting for placement. It belonged to the dead, to the men I’d abandoned on the mud-slick hill. But as I watched the last shapes of the injured retreating, I grieved for my father. For his voice in my ears, not a memory but real. His grip drawing me close and words speaking courage to my heart. Selfishly, I needed him. But sickness kept him crippled in bed.