by L. Penelope
Darvyn nodded. “And we will also need your help with the existing Singers, convincing them to go to the storm shelters around the city and help the non-Singers and the Elsirans during the next attack.”
Mutters of discontent were a soft roar around the room.
“Our Singers are happy to help those who have lost their Songs,” Talida said, “but why should any of us give aid to the Elsirans?”
“And who says the Elsirans even want the help?” Lyngar snarled.
“There will be those who won’t accept our offer,” Darvyn admitted. “But protecting them is good for us all. If there are fewer wraiths attacking, then all of us are safer.”
Reluctant noises of agreement sounded. Darvyn slowly met the gazes of everyone present. “We’ve been fighting the True Father for hundreds of years. This could well be the final battle. We have tools and the beginning of a plan, but we need your assistance to put it all into practice.”
A lump rose in his throat as quiet descended. He and Zeli had made their case, now it was up to the Keepers. One of the few men unfamiliar to Darvyn stood, drawing his attention. He, like the three others with him, looked to be in his early thirties and was unshaven with unruly hair. “I have no qualms protecting Lagrimari from the True Father and his unholy army. But I’ll not waste my Song on any Elsiran pigs.”
Darvyn’s jaw clenched. “And who are you?”
The man narrowed his eyes. Aggar rushed to stand. “It doesn’t matter. Our Singers will decide if they want to help or not. We will not make them if they choose no.”
“Many of our Singers are children,” Darvyn said. “They’ll need guidance on what to do. They look up to the Keepers, the ones who have been instrumental in feeding and clothing and educating them both here and in Lagrimar. You all can make a strong case if you choose to. The people will listen.”
Aggar crossed his arms combatively and Talida turned away, dismissing him. Darvyn’s blood began to steam and he tried to take solace from Zeli’s calm energy.
“We will discuss this further,” Turwig said, coming up behind Darvyn with Rozyl on his heels.
With a motion of his head, Darvyn pulled them both aside. “Who are they?” he asked, jerking his head toward the four rough-looking men he couldn’t recall ever meeting before.
Rozyl gritted her teeth. “Let’s go outside.” The four of them stepped into the weedy garden, and Rozyl waited until the glass door was completely shut before answering.
“Those four are emissaries of the Sons of Lagrimar.”
Darvyn reared back as if struck. “The terrorists? What? Why?”
“They used to be Keepers in the eastern mountains helping the miners. We’d lost track of them,” Turwig said ruefully. “It’s been over a year since any have checked in. We thought they might have been discovered working against the True Father and killed, but then after the Mantle fell they reappeared. And as you know, they were not pleased by our reception in Elsira.”
He took a deep breath. “They came to us a few days ago, requesting a meeting. The elders voted to grant it to them.”
Darvyn shook his head and Rozyl shrugged. “There’s … guilt among the Keepers,” she said, “where they’re concerned. Someone should have been sent after them to check on them. No one ever was.”
Turwig’s gaze went to the ground. “Things sometimes slipped through the cracks,” he said softly.
“Do the elders approve of their tactics? The attacks against Elsirans aren’t ingratiating us here,” Darvyn said.
Rozyl raised a brow. “Neither did being good, polite little refugees.”
Darvyn stared at her incredulously. She raised a hand. “I don’t approve of their tactics, either, but don’t act like they turned a receptive country against us. At a certain point, we do have to defend ourselves.”
“They used to be one of us. So did you.” While Turwig’s gaze couldn’t be considered accusatory, it was piercing nonetheless.
“Yes, and there’s many reasons I’m not anymore,” Darvyn said. “This type of thing is one of them. The very act of hearing them out is a betrayal.”
“There are some who would say that suggesting we put ourselves at risk to help Elsirans is one as well,” Rozyl hissed. “We’re in uncharted territory and we need to consider every option. We’re desperate. You know how that feels.”
Zeli shifted, catching his eye with her steady gaze. It was almost as if she’d used Earthsong on him, the building rage that felt like a brewing storm inside him subsided. He took a deep breath. “What do they want?”
“A seat at the table,” Turwig said. “They feel they’ve proven their loyalty to our people with their attacks. They want a voice in leadership.”
Darvyn ran his hands through his hair and looked at the gray sky, muttering a string of curses.
Rozyl sighed heavily. “There are many sympathetic ears among the elders. We think we’ll be outvoted and they’ll be given what they want.” She and Turwig shared a significant glance.
Through the glass wall, the others in the sitting room were engaged in vigorous debate. Darvyn wished he’d never come. Should he tell Jasminda and Jack of this new development? Did they need one more thing to worry about on top of everything else?
He blew out a breath.
“They’ll be gone by the time you get back to the palace,” Rozyl said. “I thought about telling her, too, but…”
“But what?”
“But after the vote tomorrow, we might not even be under her rule anymore.”
Darvyn shook his head. “You think the referendum will pass? You really think the Elsirans will eject us from the country?”
Rozyl’s dark gaze bored into him. “It’s not just the Elsirans who are voting for separation.”
The first drops of rain fell then, splashing onto Darvyn’s face—tears from the sky in place of his own.
CHAPTER FORTY
Teach children how to build a wall
to keep their legacies secure
let brick and mortar join to form protection.
Then enemies and friends and foes and
family with ceaseless woes can
battle the ensuing isolation.
—THE HARMONY OF BEING
Zeli returned to the palace from the trip to the Keepers’ new headquarters feeling like a tick ready to burst. Darvyn had asked her to let him inform the king and queen about the presence of the Sons of Lagrimar and she’d readily agreed. She certainly didn’t want to bring news like that to the monarchs. Darvyn was actually friends with them, let him handle that conversation.
He’d been especially tight-lipped on the drive back, obviously struggling with the revelation. What must it be like to be the Shadowfox, to have worked so hard for the liberation of his people only to be stabbed in the back by those he trusted? Varten had told her some of Darvyn’s history, which he in turn had learned from Kyara while they were imprisoned, passing the time with stories of their lives.
Kyara was someone Zeli wished she could get to know better. Tales of the notorious Poison Flame had been passed around for so long that discovering the woman wasn’t much older than Zeli was a shock. And now learning that the same infamous figure held the heart of the greatest Earthsinger to ever live left Zeli in awe. The ways of the heart were mysterious; she wished someone could explain them to her.
When she entered the Blue Library, her own heart stammered at finding Varten there, his ginger head bent over a scroll of some kind. She’d been hoping to see him—since their return to Rosira, there had been little time for them to talk and she missed him. She wasn’t certain where they stood with one another and memories of dancing in the streets of Gilmer City—and all that had happened during the Rumpus—were a constant photoplay in her mind.
Varten was concentrating on what looked like architectural drawings when she approached. “Are you searching for the obelisk?”
He jumped, startled. A wave of something warm and intoxicating hit her as he turned. “You sho
uldn’t go around sneaking up on people,” he said with mock affront.
“I didn’t sneak up on you. I walked normally across the room, you just didn’t notice.”
He narrowed his eyes playfully then looked back to the drawings. “These aren’t much help. The only blueprints on file are of the additions made to the palace over the past hundred years. They don’t show the older parts of the building, see how all of this is shaded in gray?” He pointed to large sections of the plans with no detail in them whatsoever. “I’ve spoken to the palace steward and he said this is all they have.” Zeli sat next to him, leaning over to study the rendering.
“Has Yllis said anything more about the obelisk?” he asked.
“No, just that it had been in a chamber in the heart of the palace. But there have been so many additions and renovations, he hasn’t been able to get his bearings.” She traced her finger across the page. The Elsiran writing was printed in neat blocks, but she saw nothing here that could help them.
“Can he sense the obelisk with Earthsong?” Varten’s voice was very close to her ear. She realized that she’d leaned far into his personal space and froze. Their arms were touching and she hesitated to lose the contact.
“He doesn’t have his Song, he gave it to Oola to awaken Her, remember? And no one else would even know what to look for.” From the corner of her eye she registered his surprise. She really should sit back, but didn’t dare move.
“Oh, I didn’t realize,” Varten said, apparently unaffected by the small point of contact. “So if—when you restore everyone’s Song, he won’t get his back?”
She struggled to follow his logic and with great effort pulled away to sit all the way back in the chair. “No, Yllis won’t get his Song back unless Oola does something—shares with him maybe. I don’t know exactly how it would work since he’s technically a wraith.”
He twisted to face her. “Mooriah still has her Nethersong—oh, but she never gave it away.” He shrugged and they settled into silence.
His fingers drummed on the surface of the table as he stared into the distance. She wanted to reach for him and hold his hand, but wasn’t sure if she had the right. Or if he would welcome the contact.
“Is something … wrong?” She winced. “I mean, something new?”
His fingers stopped their movement and his posture stiffened. “It’s the vote tomorrow. If the referendum passes, what does that mean for … the people I care about? Will Papa have to leave?” He paused, then looked at her from the corner of his eye. “Will you?”
She did grab his hand then and squeezed it with both of hers. “I don’t know what will happen. Would you be willing to live in a land full of Lagrimari?” Her voice was light, but her heart was heavy.
He squeezed her back. “If you were there, yes.”
She swallowed and smiled, looking down. He slid his fingers down her wrist, pressing gently as if feeling her pulse. Her heart was racing a bit.
Varten cleared his throat. “Um, have you talked to the Goddess? She must know where the obelisk is.”
“She’s still missing. Nobody has seen Her in days.”
“Maybe She’s trying to find Her brother.”
“I hope so,” Zeli said, unable to hide her doubt. “But there’s no way to know. We might just be on our own.”
“Again,” he whispered. “Maybe we should try to create our own drawings of the old section of the palace. We can go from room to room and measure and recreate all the missing parts of the plans. The obelisk could have been walled up during one of the renovations by people who didn’t understand what it was.”
Zeli beamed at him, a slow smile spreading across her face. “That’s a good idea.”
He shrugged and tapped his lips with the fingers of his free hand. She tightened her grip on him. “You have good ideas, Varten, it’s okay to trust them.” He ducked his head, for some reason unable to accept the praise.
“Want to start now?” she asked, letting him off the hook. He smiled gratefully.
Within minutes, he had found a sketchpad and acquired measuring tape from the palace steward. He and Zeli started where the detailed blueprints ended, evaluating the rooms in the original section of the building, making measurements, taking notes, sketching walls and doors. They worked for hours, Zeli testing her new lock-picking skills to enter unused rooms full of dusty, covered furniture.
As Varten continued to add to his sketchpad, he frowned. “Something is strange here.”
“What is it?” Zeli let the measuring tape slide back into its case with a snap.
“There’s a gap.” He led them from a room bearing only a long dining table covered in a white cloth back into the hallway. They were in the same corridor where their secret parlor was located.
“This hallway is two hundred and fifty paces long. But the rooms inside only add up to two hundred and eighteen paces. And that’s accounting for the width of the walls.”
They stepped back into what might have long ago been a small dining room. The narrow chamber featured a marble floor and walls with no windows. But none of the rooms in this section had any windows.
“So there are thirty-two paces missing,” she mused. “That’s too big for a closet.”
“Big enough for an obelisk?”
They stared at each other for a long beat before rushing back into the hallway. The next twenty minutes were spent remeasuring and checking the sketches until they’d located the missing space.
A wall stretched between two doors, papered in a faded damask pattern that looked gray but could have been red many years ago. Zeli ran her hand across it feeling the smooth, even surface.
“If there’s a room behind here, there must have been a door at some point,” she said.
Varten drummed his fingers against his thigh, scanning where the floor met the wall and doing the same for the ceiling. He ran a finger under a curling strip of paper that had lifted away from the molding along the floor. After he gave a tug, it ripped from the wall, revealing cracked plaster.
Zeli stayed watchful; though they hadn’t yet encountered another soul in this corridor, she didn’t imagine the palace staff would take too kindly to this sort of defacement. Varten continued peeling away strips of paper, which came away easily. Beneath the wallpaper, water damage from an old leak had left a brown stain. Other than that, the plaster revealed nothing—no obvious doorways that had been covered over.
“We’ll need a hammer,” Varten said, wiping dusty hands on his trousers.
“Wait, let me try.” Zeli closed her eyes and drew in Earthsong to fill her Song. She couldn’t help but smile at the sensation of life energy flooding her. On a deep breath, she focused a concentrated blast of air and pummeled it into the plaster. The wall cracked and then shattered, raining bits and pieces of gypsum all over them. Too late she realized that she could have directed it away from their bodies with a blast of air.
Her chest felt heavy from the exertion and the feeling of euphoria faded away. Her Song was already drained, just from that simple action. She wasn’t a strong Singer, and still very far from proficient after so many years without her Song, but she was still proud of herself.
Her blast had also cracked the old and rotting wooden lath strips, which lay horizontally behind the plaster. And behind that was a wall of stone.
She helped Varten clear away the wood, creating a large pile of rubbish from the castoffs. They moved faster once the rounded corner of a stone archway came into view. Soon an entire bricked-up stone entryway was visible. Carved into the top stone of the arch was an inscription written in a script similar to that of Yllis’s journal, but Zeli couldn’t read it.
“This is more like modern Elsiran,” Varten murmured. “Must be from when the languages started to diverge.”
“What does it say?”
“‘Keep the secrets. Spread the lies. Remember the truths.’”
Zeli frowned. “Strange. I wonder what that means.”
“And who put it her
e?” Varten shook his head as they considered both their progress and this new impediment. The bricks had obviously been added many years after the original stone entry had been constructed.
They’d need a chisel to get through it and maybe a few strong workers. Or Earthsong. Zeli’s power was depleted, likely for the rest of the day, but there were others who could help.
“Do you think the obelisk is behind here?” Varten whispered.
“It must be,” Zeli replied, allowing herself to hope.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Hidden places still need light.
Make sure your secrets get the
brightness of the
sun
to occasionally
subdue the melancholy.
—THE HARMONY OF BEING
Ella Farmafield kept a tight hold of her daughter Ulani’s hand as they wound their way through the stalls of the night market. The little puppy, Raven, trotted along at their heels, tongue hanging out. Benn wasn’t too far behind with Tana; they had stopped at a trinket stand, where the girl was picking out another sparkly bracelet that Benn would no doubt buy her. He couldn’t deny either of the girls anything—case in point, the puppy of mysterious origin that now lived in their home. Luckily, the creature had been created already housebroken and was not prone to chewing. And he was fiercely protective of the girls, which Benn appreciated.
Ella found her husband’s indulgence of the children sweet, but was wary of the nightmare of raising children spoiled rotten by their father. Though that seemed an unlikely outcome—neither child asked for very much, and the likelihood of them truly becoming spoiled was slim. If her eldest daughter wanted a case full of inexpensive costume jewelry, it would probably do little harm.
