by L. Penelope
You hurry your steps, pausing every few paces to pick up the sound of scurrying feet. You’re getting closer.
Candlelight flickers ahead. You enter a chamber honeycombed with cubbies meant to hold bodies. Many are empty but some contain shrouded remains. This is where the maze intensifies into an arcane nest of passageways. You make a mental map of the turns you take, rushing to beat the invisible clock ticking away what could be the last moments of your life. But the risk is worth it.
The ground slopes downward and the next doorway leads to a natural cave barely illuminated by a winking glow. You step through to find Nikora standing in profile, the jar cradled to her chest in one arm, a candle burned down to a nub in the other hand. She stands a dozen paces away; just behind her the ground drops off. The sound of a stream trickles, but you can’t tell from your position just how far down it is.
The only exit to this cave is behind you, leading back to the catacombs. You spread your arms apart, affecting a harmless demeanor. “Please tell me you know a way out of here.”
She spins around, eyes dancing madly. “This is an attack. The rebels within the Physicks destroyed the Great Machine and now they would destroy Saint Dahlia’s ancestral home.” She spits out the words. A sheen of sweat coats her skin.
You approach slowly. “Will you not fight? Protect your people?”
She laughs, eyes wide and unstable. “This is the only thing that matters.” She squeezes the jar to her more tightly. “Dahlia’s flesh must be protected at all costs.”
“Let me help you protect the flesh,” you say, stepping closer.
“Stay back!” Her body begins to vibrate with madness or fear—you’re not sure and don’t care.
“We are allies,” you coo. “The flesh is just as important to me as it is to you.”
She backs closer to the ledge, her grasp on the jar never loosening. “You are a trickster. You think I do not know what you are, that I can’t see the truth in your cold, dead eyes. True Father.” She laughs. “True Deceiver is more like it.”
You take another step. She retreats to the very edge of the ledge. Now you see that the drop is significant. A glint from the stream shows it must be fifty paces down. Far enough to kill? The blood spell prevents you from harming her directly.
“Give me the jar. I will protect Dahlia’s flesh—I vow it.” You place a hand over your heart, gird yourself for the pain, and reach for the jar.
She does what you expect. Leaps away, dropping the candle to embrace the jar with both hands. Her feet slide right off the stone and there is a long moment where she struggles for footing. And then she falls.
A splash sounds when her body hits the stream, followed by silence.
The wound on your arm begins to knit itself.
You hope the jar has not broken. It will be incredibly disgusting to have to touch the flesh of the dead goddess with your bare hands. You will need to use some of Nikora’s clothing to bundle it up.
You kneel in the darkness and feel for the sharp stone corner of the ledge. Running the back of your hand across it opens up a gash. Blood wells on your skin. You swipe your index finger through it and touch it to your tongue.
The taste of copper and power fills you.
Your laughter echoes across the cavern even as explosions start to sound above.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Pride bolsters the spine and shreds the mind,
restoring dignity,
erasing community.
If not in service to unity
it does not serve at all.
—THE HARMONY OF BEING
The room in which Zeli stood was wide enough for the base of the obelisk, but not much wider. The pillar itself looked much like the one in the center of Gilmer’s Archives, but instead of a rich bloodred, this one was a pale rose quartz. As if the color had faded in the many years since it had last been seen.
She also had no sense of its relative size. She hadn’t been this close to Gilmer’s monolith, and the tiny, truncated room here meant she couldn’t back up to get a good look at the thing. Up close, the four sides of the stone were perfectly smooth. Lanterns did nothing to penetrate the opaque surface but if it was truly a caldera, something must be trapped inside.
Whoever had closed this up had obviously not intended to leave space for even three people to stand here gawking up at it the way she, Varten, and Darvyn now were. All of them were exhausted, having been up all night due to the wraith attack.
She didn’t know where Darvyn had been stationed during the assault—Zeli had been in one of the palace ballrooms, protecting as many of the gathered staff and residents as she could with her Song. In the aftermath, when she’d located Darvyn and asked for his help, his Song hadn’t been drained and the Shadowfox had been able to easily break through the bricks and reveal the treasure held within. But now that they’d found it, she didn’t know what to do with it.
“Do you feel that?” Darvyn asked. Grit and sweat clung to him. He must be exhausted.
Zeli could feel something, though she suspected it was quite a bit less than what Darvyn sensed. “There’s a pulse … like if Earthsong is an ocean, this is a puddle.”
He nodded, still peering at it with awe.
“Why couldn’t you sense it before if it’s been here this whole time?” she asked.
“It’s weak,” a new voice said from the open doorway behind them. Zeli spun around to find Yllis and Oola there, staring at the massive caldera.
“I’d forgotten how beautiful they were,” Oola said. She approached and ran Her hand along the smooth surface. “Breathtaking.” Zeli had been afraid to touch it, but Oola didn’t appear to suffer any ill effects.
“You likely could not sense it before because it hasn’t been used in so long,” Yllis said. “It was designed to link hundreds of Singers together. Without any in this land, it went dormant.”
“Gilmer’s still worked, and he’s only around every ten years,” Varten said. He was pressed into the corner to allow space for the others.
Zeli’s Song was just now starting to return after she’d drained it during the wraith attack. But even without using it, she sensed something off with Varten. He’d been distant ever since this room had been revealed.
“Gilmer’s Song is powerful. This obelisk will awaken eventually,” Oola said, drawing Her hand away with an expression of regret.
“We can awaken it now.” Everyone’s gaze shot to Yllis. “Well, you can.” He motioned to Oola and Darvyn. “Go ahead, touch it.”
Zeli shifted out of the way to allow space for the other two Singers to get close to the obelisk. She squeezed next to Varten who stiffened. His action shot a dagger into her heart, which she tried to ignore.
“What now?” Darvyn asked, hand pressed flat to the pale surface.
Yllis looked thoughtful. “Draw Earthsong into you and allow the obelisk to sense it.”
It made little sense to Zeli, but she watched carefully, though there was nothing to see. Only, just there—did the stone grow a touch brighter, the pink deepening just the slightest bit?
“Oh,” Varten said, leaning forward. Their arms were pressed against each other’s and there was nowhere for her to go.
The obelisk was darkening, faster now to a richer color, though still not the deep red of the king stone. Oola and Darvyn both released their holds at the same time. The pond that Zeli had sensed earlier grew into a vast sea. The transformation was amazing.
Her chest grew tight. As the obelisk awakened, the weight of expectation on her shoulders pressed down. Even without her old fear beating against her confidence, she was not sure that she was the one who should be entrusted with restoring the lost Songs.
“One of you should do Gilmer’s spell,” she announced to Yllis and Oola.
“I don’t have my Song any longer,” Yllis reminded her. “I cannot.”
She turned to Oola. “You can, can’t you?”
“Is that what you want?” Oola’s gaze on her wa
s heavy as ever and Zeli struggled not to flinch.
“I’m not sure if I can do it on my own. I know the mechanics, but I still don’t know how it will work. What the sacrifice will be or how to get the people to offer it.”
Oola clasped Her hands and lowered Her head. “And I am not certain that I am the one to do it, either.”
Zeli’s jaw dropped. “Didn’t you start all of this? Shouldn’t you end it? You let the True Father escape. Someone could have gone after him, tried to find him. We could have prepared in some way for his return. But you did nothing.”
“I searched for him.” Her voice was low and uncharacteristically solemn. “Every night, all night. And every moment of the past days. I flew hundreds of kilometers, seeking some sign of him. Trying to feel for him, or for those who took him. But I could not.”
Zeli’s jaw set and she stared at the floor, unwilling to meet the woman’s eyes. But a finger grazed her chin, lifting her head. “I did not do nothing,” Oola said. “I did what was in my power to do, though it was not enough. Nothing anyone else would have done could have been enough. If I couldn’t find him, no one could. And yet…” She dropped Her finger and sighed. “I do owe you an apology.”
Zeli leaned back, shock surging through her. The Goddess had never apologized before.
“I was arrogant and prideful,” She continued. “And my brother is one half of my heart, no matter the evil that he has done. I have failed him and my people over and over again. But that burden did not need to be placed on your shoulders. You did not deserve the weight, and I am sorry.”
Zeli’s mouth hung open; she stared into the woman’s eyes. “Why did you do it?”
Oola still looked regal and formidable, but also … tired. “I do not belong here. Not anymore. I will see this through but then … There is no place for me here. Not in the temples, not in the land.”
It was just like Her to not answer the question. “What about the faithful?” Zeli whispered instead of pressing the issue.
“Are there any of those left?” She chuckled. “It is time for them to have faith in something else. I think perhaps they should have more faith in themselves. Not in me. It should never have been placed in me. And for the part I played in stoking that particular fire, I am also sorry.”
Zeli’s head spun trying to process this. Darvyn appeared to be having a similar reaction, while Yllis looked on sadly. “You said you want to finish this. Will you help unlock the Songs?” Zeli asked.
“I do not know any more than you do.” Oola spread Her hands. “I don’t even know the spell.”
This new humility of Hers was more galling than the arrogance. “I can teach it to you,” Zeli said.
Oola held up a hand. “Gilmer did not come to me or contact me. He could have. He did not teach it to Yllis or gift him a Song, which he also could have done. He entrusted the spell to you. It is for you to do.”
Tears formed in Zeli’s eyes as frustration wanted to pour out. “But I’m not strong. I’m not anything.”
“You are something, Tarazeli. You have already learned so much. You have sacrificed as well. Now you just must learn to have faith in yourself. You know it, you must feel it. And then you will find what you need.”
“But how do you know?” she pleaded as tears spilled over.
“Because I have more faith in you than I do in me.” Oola’s face, which Zeli had only ever seen placid and calm, was now wracked with sadness.
Yllis took Oola’s hand, his expression similarly downcast. Darvyn stared at them, his disbelief evident.
Zeli began shivering, tears flowing freely now as the two ancients turned and left. She wanted to cry out, to beg and plead, but she couldn’t find the words. Gilmer hadn’t said that only she could restore the Songs, but he could have made so many other choices and he hadn’t. His knowledge rivaled that of Yllis and Oola and still he’d taught Zeli the spell. What did that mean?
She turned to Varten, still wedged in the corner. His eyes were wide and full of fear. “What is it?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I—I should go. Let you work on this.”
“Wait, what? No. Where are you going?”
He swallowed, clearly shaken.
“Please stay,” she said, reaching for him.
He avoided her, heading for the door. “She’s right. You can do this, Zeli. I believe in you. I just—” He shook his head again. “I need to go.” And then he was gone.
Zeli swallowed as the empty doorway tempted her. She turned to Darvyn, whose expression was pitying. “You can teach me the spell. If I can help…”
“We still need the sacrifice. It won’t even matter without that.”
He nodded. “You’re not alone, Zeli.”
She appreciated his offer, but he was wrong. She was on her own again, just as much as she’d always been. If the Goddess was right then she would have to figure this out, somehow.
She wiped her cheeks and squared her shoulders.
Faith in herself. That was all she needed. And she would have to find it fast.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Our heritage we can recite until our breath
runs low and tongues go dry.
The ancestors are not deaf to our plight.
But we must craft a legacy worthy of
their scrutiny.
—THE HARMONY OF BEING
The rumbling of the vehicle’s wheels over the pockmarked street jarred Varten’s bones. His father sat across from him on a bench, Elsiran Royal Guardsmen boxing him in on either side. The auto, a wagon-like contraption, seated eight and drove down the steep inclines from the palace to the city’s center.
After he’d fled from Zeli and the obelisk, Varten moped for a day until Papa had finally insisted he do something useful. Accompanying his father in his post-attack clean-up efforts seemed like a better idea than sitting in their apartment all day trying not to remember the look on Zeli’s face when he ran away.
The truck rumbled to a stop across from a grassy square bordered by benches. In the city, things were slowly getting back to normal. People were out walking, shops were open, autocars peppered the street along with carts and horses. This section hadn’t been hit as hard as the Portside neighborhood. But on the corner, the windows of a bank were boarded up, showing it hadn’t been spared, either. Was that damage from the wraiths or from looters? There had been reports of thievery during the panic of the attack and its aftermath.
Now, Papa and other Earthsinger volunteers were already planning for the True Father’s next blitz. As Varten climbed out of the wagon, a flatbed truck came around the corner with several young men standing up in back.
“Be a helper, get to shelter! We can win if you go in! Be a helper, get to shelter!” The lads shouted in unison, holding painted signs echoing the message. One rang a handbell, punctuating their words.
With the electricity in most of the city still out, newspapers and radio broadcasts remained unavailable, so the message was being spread the old-fashioned way.
“Those are Zann Biddel’s men?” Varten asked as the truck passed by.
“It seems so,” his father said.
“He’s holding up his end, then.”
“Hmm,” was Papa’s only reply. He stood pensive until the truck disappeared from view, then shook himself and turned toward the building they stood in front of. The massive, three-story structure took up the whole block, a sign reading OLIVESSE’S written in decorative script over the wide entry.
“What are we doing here?” Varten asked.
“They’ve applied to be an emergency shelter. Some of the existing ones in this area were damaged yesterday. Apparently, this department store has a large basement space and the owner is willing to accommodate people. I’ve been asked to review the location and meet some new volunteers, Earthsingers willing to protect non-Singers.”
Varten had never been inside such a large store, he hadn’t had to do much shopping since arriving in Rosira—clothes seemed t
o appear in his closet as if by magic. Though logic told him that Usher, the valet, and his staff must have been responsible. The store was closed for lack of power, but a uniformed guard at the door let them in without a word. A harried-looking woman rushed over to them.
“Master ol-Sarifor? You’re the Singer they sent, right? Oh dear, do you speak Elsiran?” She turned to Varten and raised her voice, slowing her speech. “Does he understand me?”
Papa and Varten shared a look. “I speak Elsiran,” Papa replied.
“Oh, thank the Sovereign.” She placed a hand on her chest, her relief almost comical. “Our owner is eager to join the safety effort. He especially wants to meet you Master ol-Sarifor.” Papa’s brows rose.
They followed the woman who carried an electric flashlight to light the way through the darkened store. She never bothered to introduce herself and led them down row after row of clothes on racks and then past a wall displaying kitchen appliances, the purpose of most of which Varten couldn’t begin to imagine. Finally they went down an aisle that led to a hallway, impenetrable by the light’s weak beam.
“Sir?” the woman called out into the darkness.
“Thank you, that will be all,” a deep voice replied. A buzzing sound preceded a bright flash of light that illuminated the space. A work light on a stand was attached to a battery pack of some kind. It took a moment for Varten’s eyes to adjust, but the woman’s footsteps were already heading away.
Standing before them was a tall Elsiran man, quite a bit older than Papa. Varten had never seen him before, but he seemed somehow familiar.
“Do you know who I am?” the man intoned.
Varten shook his head; Papa didn’t respond at all.
“My name is Marvus Zinadeel.” He peered down his nose at them, obviously expecting a reaction.
Varten swallowed and nearly took a step back. But he stood his ground next to his father as his grandfather scrutinized them, the man’s expression appraising.
“What do you want?” Papa asked slowly.
