Requiem of Silence

by L. Penelope

  The hint of a smile bled from her face. “If that’s what it takes. Unless we find a way to stop the True Father, nothing else really matters, does it?”

  He reached for her hand and she met him halfway, gripping his fingers in hers. “We’re going to find a way,” he said. “We’re going to beat him once and for all and make a place that’s safe—a home—for everyone who wants one. If I do one thing with the life I have left, it will be that.”

  She squeezed his hand harder and he repeated the vow to himself. It was almost like a prayer, though he had no deity left to pray to. Only his hope. Only his love.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Are destiny’s ties binding or elastic?

  Iron or plastic?

  Will you run screaming from its bruising grip

  or embrace its hold, enthusiastic?

  —THE HARMONY OF BEING

  Jasminda’s feet, which were supposed to be taking her toward the dungeon, instead veered off. She found herself standing in front of Camm’s and Ilysara’s desks with no real recollection of how she’d gotten there. She blinked rapidly and avoided both of her assistants’ curious gazes before ducking into her office.

  Then she peeked her head back out. “I’d like to not be disturbed.” Camm, seated closest to her, nodded, bemused.

  Certainly she could spare a few minutes to gather her thoughts before heading down to the dungeon. She dreaded seeing Biddell’s smug face, dreaded asking anything of him, but it was the right choice. He had proved his superior skill in wrangling the people and affecting their opinions. He would no doubt be able to do it again—that is, if he agreed.

  She fell into her favorite armchair near the fireplace, the fire’s crackling light bringing warmth to the drafty room. The consequences of her actions were coming back upon her. She still had no regrets about incarcerating Biddell, but there was a heavy price inherent in being a ruler. Give and take, and compromises, and pounds of flesh to be collected.

  Before her on the coffee table, someone had spread out the day’s newspapers. The headlines had not grown more complimentary, at least not where she was concerned. The vote results were emblazoned upon every front page. Her failure in large black print for the world to see. She sat back heavily in the chair and closed her eyes, breathing deeply.

  The office door opened. She sighed dramatically, knowing that neither Camm nor Ilysara would have interrupted her had it not been extremely important. But the heft of the new presence began to weigh upon her. She opened her eyes to find Oola, Yllis, and Mooriah walking in together.

  She sat up straight, blinking in surprise. They looked like a family, the resemblance clear now that they stood side by side before her. Loomed was more like it. Part of her wanted to stand and assert her meager authority, but what really was the point amongst these ancient people?

  “To what do I owe this visit?”

  “May we sit?” Yllis asked.

  “I’m quite sure you may do what you like, but please.” Jasminda motioned to the couch. Oola and Yllis sat together, while Mooriah chose to hike a hip onto the arm and perch herself there.

  “Would you like some refreshment?” Jasminda’s voice held humor if only to diffuse the tension building in the air.

  Though the reunion appeared to have gone well, Jasminda had experienced some of Oola’s memories, knew of Her love for the man beside Her. Knew also of the pain between them from long ago as the war with Her brother and their mutual guilt for their part in Eero’s downfall had slowly driven a wedge between them. Whether the old wounds had faded with time or a reckoning was still on its way, she did not know. But it was obvious they had something important to share with her.

  “Has something new happened?” Apprehension rose as three grim faces regarded her.

  “No.” Oola’s voice was resonant as ever, and Jasminda released a relieved breath.

  “My mother has something she wishes to tell you.” Mooriah’s matter-of-fact way of expressing herself further put Jasminda at ease. The woman looked at her mother expectantly.

  Oola’s chin tilted up. “You have often wondered why I made you queen.”

  Jasminda stiffened. “Yes.”

  “You doubt your ability. Your right to rule.” Dark eyes bored into her like a drill.

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Do you doubt Jaqros’s?”

  The question caught her off-guard. “An Alliaseen has been the ruler of Elsira ever since you left. He was raised to rule.”

  “Yes.” Yllis nudged Her and She glared at him. But the corners of his lips cracked a fraction. Such strange relationships these people had. So much said without uttering a word. Jasminda wished she could interpret it.

  “Yllis installed an Alliaseen as regent of the land to act in my stead. But their blood is no more royal than my own. Than ours.” Oola took Yllis’s hand in Hers and returned Her intense gaze to Jasminda. “If it is destiny for a descendant of royalty to rule, then it is your destiny as well.”

  Jasminda swallowed. She did not speak, waiting for Oola to continue. But it was Mooriah who spoke.

  “Six generations ago, my great-great-great-grandchildren left the caves and found their way into Lagrimar. They took the name of my father. The House of Eagles—Sarifor. They kept the secrets, spread the lies, and remembered the truths, just as I’d instructed. Two branches of that tree remain: your father and his children, and Kyara. If my mother was queen, if our line is royal, then so are you.”

  Oola smiled slightly. “You have long suspected as much, I believe.”

  Jasminda couldn’t deny it, though Oola had never explicitly stated it before and it was too much to hope for. Too much to believe. “And you never told me because you thought it would do me no good to know?”

  Oola pursed Her lips and looked away, sighing. “Indeed. But my … family have convinced me that my logic in that regard has some detriments.” Yllis snorted and Mooriah rolled her eyes.

  Oola’s expression turned apologetic. “You are unique, Jasminda. You empathize with the lost and abandoned. You have felt the wrath and the pain of isolation and separation. You grew up weak and so use your new strength with care. You are generous and kind, steely and determined, stubborn and purposeful. You are much like me, flaws and all.”

  The goddess looked uncomfortable. “If I could remove your bitterness, I would,” she said. “For it is corrosive. It was the people who insisted I become queen—you know it was nothing I wanted. Perhaps it was not right of me to accept. Or perhaps the time for kings and queens is coming to an end.” She stared at the newspaper on the table in front of Her. “The people speak in ways that we often do not understand. But you should know why you have the position that you do. It was my legacy, my burden. I felt strongly that my time to bear that particular weight had passed. You will be a better queen than I was—you already are.”

  Warmth bloomed inside Jasminda’s belly. It filled a hole she hadn’t even been conscious of before. The doubts and fears were still there, but they were cocooned inside this knowledge. The vague sense of betrayal she felt over Oola’s omissions battled with the comfort of a lineage now known. Of a family discovered.

  Oola was flawed, as was Jasminda. But they could both acknowledge their imperfections and work to improve them. She wasn’t sure if Oola had any intention or desire to be better, but Jasminda certainly did.

  “Thank you for telling me,” she said, rising. “It is something that I needed to know. Will you find my father? Make your peace with him?”

  The Goddess nodded solemnly.

  “Good. If you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere I should be.”

  * * *

  The dungeon wasn’t Jasminda’s favorite place. She supposed every sane person would say the same, but she had spent a nervous few hours here several months ago and hadn’t ever planned to return. Now each step she took brought her closer to a meeting she still didn’t want, but that the country sorely needed. She could never forgive Zann Biddell, but she could work with
an enemy toward a common good. She hoped.

  Each footfall on the stone floor was like an echo of the screams of some victim of his malice. She girded herself, strengthening her resolve and building her outer shell before she faced him again. The last time they’d met, she’d lost control. She could not afford such a display today.

  The cell that Biddell had been given in the solitary confinement wing of the dungeon was large and held more amenities than most. As she approached, he sat on a wooden chair reading a book. More were stacked beside him on the ground. His feet rested on the narrow cot and a wooden table against the wall held the remnants of his lunch.

  He turned at the sound of her footsteps and paled when she stepped up to the bars. The book cracked shut, held between his palms like a prayer.

  “Master Biddell.” Jasminda stood straight, her face wiped clean of emotion.

  “Your Majesty,” he said warily, rising to his feet. He did not bow, and she was almost grateful for the lack of hypocrisy. But just as he would not show her the respect of her position, she would not apologize for her actions the last time she’d seen him. Now was not the time for insincerity.

  “You consider yourself a patriot, do you not?”

  He kept a safe distance from the bars, eyeing her cautiously. “Yes, I love Elsira.” His voice was low, but threaded with music and energy. “Everything I have ever done has been for her.”

  Jasminda’s brow rose. “You murder Elsirans and destabilize the country, yet tout your love for it.”

  “You must prune the thorns to love the rose.” His head lowered somewhat, but he maintained the courage of his convictions, such as they were.

  She needed to get this over with. “I have a proposal for you. I’m certain you’re acquainted with the latest news. If you are, as you say, a patriot, then you do not want the land to fall into the True Father’s hands. He is close to getting what he’s wanted for five hundred years, control of this land. What would a patriot be willing to do to stop him?”

  “What are you suggesting, Your Majesty?” The honorific was stated simply, without any snideness this time.

  “Almost every living person in this country is a potential soldier in the True Father’s army.” She held his gaze steadily, even as inwardly she cringed to look at the man. “We need to reduce the number of that army. We need the people to go to the shelters and accept help from the Earthsingers so that they cannot be made into wraiths and fight for our enemy. The people are not listening to our pleas, but they may listen to you.”

  Biddell frowned and began to pace his cell. Jasminda gave him a moment to think. “And if I don’t help you?”

  She shrugged. “Then you stay here. The wraiths can get to you here, walls don’t stop them. When the palace becomes a target, as it will, you will become one of them and your patriotism will turn against your people the same way you will.”

  His pacing stopped. He stared at her, face blank, but a tic in his jaw gave a hint to the dread the idea spawned within. “And if I do help?”

  “You will be released. Of course, you’ll be monitored, but you may go free and use your organization and connections to convince as many people as possible that their safety is part of our best defense against the True Father. The choice is yours.”

  Biddell stroked his chin, eyes calculating. “Perhaps it’s better if he wins. Maybe this land needs to be purged.”

  Jasminda shrugged again. “Maybe so.” She looked away down the darkened hallway. “Maybe this is a country full of small-minded people full of hatred and bigotry and it would be better if nothing of them survived. Maybe they deserve to have the brutality of the True Father’s regime imposed upon them. You make a good point and I find your patriotism impressive. However, I do believe there are good people here. Compassionate citizens with love in their hearts, open to those who are different. More curious about the unfamiliar than they are afraid of it. I have to believe that and remind myself of it every morning, or else I could not rise from my bed.”

  The weight of the past weeks settled into her bones, making them feel as though they were filled with lead. She faced him again, not bothering to hide her exhaustion. “I could threaten you. Offer to reveal your heritage publicly. Expose you as a public fraud. Have you photographed with that ghostly pale stubble atop your head, which reveals you cannot possibly be as Elsiran as you claim.”

  His smugness dropped away like a discarded mask and he touched his head self-consciously, a week’s worth of hair growth visible.

  “But I honestly don’t care what people know about you. You are not all that important any longer and I have many more things to worry about than where your mother was born. If you don’t agree to help, we will move on to our next plan. You will stay here and maybe the True Father will find you more useful than I have.” She turned to leave. “If you change your mind, this offer is open until I am out of earshot.”

  Her steps began to echo in the silence as she walked away. She would not beg. Especially not him.

  She was halfway down the hall when his voice called out.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  The endless, infinite melody,

  which makes concordant euphony

  cannot be muted by a dampening blow.

  Harmony must grow.

  —THE HARMONY OF BEING

  The rumbling of stone awakens you from a dream-filled slumber. You groan, reaching for the vision of the throne—your throne—sitting atop the steps of the Elsiran palace, a sea of heads both dark and ginger bowing down before you. The future.

  However, in the present, a frigid awareness claws at you. A foreboding warning of danger. The deep groan sounds again, and the walls begin to shake.

  In the distance, a violent boom rings out; dust and rubble fall from the ceiling. Is that cannon fire?

  You rise and dress quickly in your stinking furs. The fireplace is cold, the room is icy, and, if you are not mistaken, this castle is currently under attack.

  Explosions echo and what sounds like an avalanche roars as the ground beneath you thunders like the head of a pounding drum. You hurry into the hall to find it empty. No guards at your door—if this is an attack, then there are no men to spare. This is the chance you have been waiting for.

  Though you carry no lantern, the orange glow of a fire burning outside the walls slips through the cracks in the stone and the holes in the ceiling. You make it to the precarious staircase leading up to where the Wailers are kept. It is likely unguarded as well, but their Earthsong will not overcome Nikora’s blood spell carved into your arm. You cannot harm her until it is gone and unless she releases it willingly, only her death will end the blasted thing.

  You take the staircase to the lower level as great blasts assault what’s left of this decrepit fortress. You make it to the bottom just as another wall drops away. Dodging falling stone, you pause in an archway and catch sight of the fight. A small group of mages surround a rusted, antiquated cannon, though it appears to be firing on its own and must be some kind of amalgam.

  Nikora’s Physicks have banded together, less than two dozen men and women retaliating with magical attacks against the newcomers’ offensive. You spot Cayro in their midst, hands up, gathering magic to himself. Then he turns on his own men and begins taking them down. Chaos ensues and a group of the raiders backs him up. Soon all of Nikora’s Physicks are down.

  The newcomers are covered in dark furs, and one removes her hood revealing a young woman with a dark complexion. “Are there more?” she shouts over the roar of the wind, racing into the rubble. Voices carry across the echoing stone.

  “No, Nikora sent her whole force here,” Cayro answers. “She’s trying to flee through the catacombs with Dahlia’s flesh.”

  “Should we go after her?”

  Cayro peers in the direction of the central hall toward a staircase leading down. “It’s a maze down there. I don’t want anyone else harmed, and she has neither her medallion nor a compass, so she can’t go far. Let’s set the e
xplosives and bring this castle down. It will either flush her out or destroy her.”

  You smile. Cayro has been plotting to remove Nikora all this time? Your estimation of the man climbs a notch—if he kills her, that will solve a number of problems for you.

  “And Asenath, thank you for coming,” Cayro says, grabbing the girl’s arm. “And for trusting me with this mission.”

  The one called Asenath nods. “You did well. But how close has she gotten? Did the wraiths tell her anything?”

  Cayro snorts. “I doubt there is anything to tell.”

  “Hmm.” She puts a finger to her lips and scans the area. You crouch down farther in your hiding spot. “And where is he? We cannot allow him to run free.”

  “I’ve sent guards to retrieve him, as well as the prisoners. But he’s prohibited from causing harm by a blood spell.”

  You wonder at Cayro’s offer of escape, would he truly have helped free you or was that just another deception? Regardless, his insurrection has been expedient.

  You skirt the damage, careful and silent, keeping well away from the others, and head down to the catacombs to find Nikora. You need her dead, but you also need that jar if you are to retake Elsira with an army of wraiths. Finding her before Cayro’s people set their explosions is imperative.

  The bowels of the castle are even colder than the upper levels. No torches are lit, but light from the cracks in the walls above filters down, muddy and dull. You can barely make out your own feet as they trip down the stone steps.

  You stop on a landing and close your eyes, listening. All is quiet, whatever creatures call this place their home have likely burrowed away due to the noise of the attack. But just there—the padding of feet, shuffling quickly.

  The passageways truly are maze-like, but the main halls are wide and laid out in a grid. So long as you recall how to get back to one, you feel certain you can get out of here again. Making it out before the blasts go off will be the challenge.