Requiem of Silence

by L. Penelope

  Zinadeel took a step forward, but Papa raised a hand, holding him off. The older man chuckled and halted. A swarm of banked fury rushed through Varten’s veins. This was the man who had abandoned his mother, ignored his sister when she was left alone to fend for herself. Tried to steal their home out from under her. Varten fisted his hands to stop their shaking.

  His grandfather peered at them carefully in turn before rocking back on his heels. “I find it fascinating what a crisis will do to men. Times like these, times of trial tend to put certain things into perspective.” He crossed his arms and tapped fingers against his biceps. Varten recognized the mannerism as one he did all the time. He vowed then and there to never do it again.

  “I have made … mistakes,” Zinadeel continued. “I can admit to that. I had two beautiful daughters and wanted only the best for them. As any father would.”

  Papa’s nostrils flared and he snorted, but didn’t speak.

  “Eminette was such a bright light. I had high hopes for her life.”

  Varten couldn’t hold himself back. “She had a good life,” he said. “She was happy and she loved us and she should have had better parents.”

  Zinadeel raised a brow. “Maybe you’re right, child. Which one are you?”

  “Varten,” he said through clenched teeth.

  His grandfather’s gaze skated over him. “Well, Varten, this store represents just a fraction of my life’s work. I have built a small empire. I intended to give it to my children and for them to give it to theirs. Sadly, it appears there will be no more grandchildren. Vanesse does not seem inclined. So I have only you.”

  He looked meaningfully at Varten, who shook his head. “What are you saying?”

  “You are my heir, child. You and your brother. I have amassed wealth, businesses, investments, properties. I need someone to leave them to. Your sister wants me to have no contact with you, but you are my flesh and blood.”

  “You talked to Jasminda?”

  “I’m not surprised she didn’t tell you. But you are a grown man now, Varten. You don’t need protecting, do you? You’re old enough to make your own decisions.”

  Next to him, Papa had turned to stone. Zinadeel seemed content to ignore him. So much for being eager to meet him, as his employee had stated.

  “And I should accept this, this generosity of yours?” An inappropriate chuckle bubbled up from within him. “These mistakes you’ve made, the ones you haven’t even bothered to apologize for? You expect me to just forget about them? Pretend they never happened?”

  Zinadeel sighed as if the questions were greatly disappointing to him. “I did the best I knew how to do at the time. I could not have known how the outcome would … feel.”

  Varten shook his head in disbelief.

  “What I’m offering you,” the older man continued, “is freedom. Financial freedom and power and independence.”

  “I’m a prince of Elsira, haven’t you heard?” Varten replied wryly.

  “Purpose then. You’re a prince in name only, but every man needs a purpose, do they not?”

  That stopped him short. He felt like he’d been slapped in the face, like somehow his grandfather had seen into his heart and noticed the splinter wedged inside it.

  “You could learn to run the business—any of them. All of them. Do with them as you see fit. Is that something that would appeal to you?”

  A traitorous part of his heart was tempted. Something of his own, a way to have an impact. He didn’t have magic or wisdom or any particular skill set that was useful, but he could learn, couldn’t he?

  Then the reality of what that would truly mean hit. He’d be responsible for countless others, for employees and merchandise and cashflow—people’s livelihoods—all dependent upon him. His shoulders sagged.

  Papa placed a hand on his arm and spoke to him in Lagrimari. “You know that I would never keep you from your mother’s family if that is what you want.”

  “No, it isn’t what I want. I wouldn’t betray you and Jasminda like that.”

  His father’s large hand squeezed him gently. “It isn’t betrayal you’re feeling. It isn’t even anger at him for what he’s done.” He narrowed his eyes. “Tell me what’s wrong, son.”

  “All of that is in there. Somewhere. But he’s only offering this because I’m not a Singer. Because I don’t look like you.”

  “Yes, but that’s not why you want to tell him no.” His father’s ability to read emotions had always been alternately a comfort and a curse. He couldn’t decide which one it was at this moment.

  “If it weren’t because you thought it would disappoint us, would you say yes?” Papa asked.

  Varten’s jaw trembled. “I don’t think so,” he whispered. “It’s too much responsibility. I can’t … I wouldn’t…” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to fail all those people.”

  “Why do you think you would fail?”

  “Because it’s what I do.”

  Papa’s brows descended and he leaned in closer. “What are you talking about? You haven’t ever truly failed at something you’ve set your mind to.”

  Feelings he’d pushed back for a long time were very close to the surface. Zeli’s face, hurt and disappointed, flashed through his mind. “Yes, I have.”

  “No, son. I don’t know what you think—”

  “It was my fault!” The words burst out of him. “I wandered away on the mountain the day we were captured. They lured me first. If I hadn’t gone off…” He struggled to get the words out. “Neither you nor Roshon would have fallen for the trap. It was my fault. We were kidnapped and then ended up in a Yalyish prison. How can I think about taking responsibility for strangers, how can I truly accomplish anything, when I failed my own family so badly?” His throat ached from saying the words. His stomach clenched painfully.

  Papa closed his eyes on a long blink. When he opened them, he grabbed Varten’s other arm and held him in place. “It was not your fault. It was no one’s fault but those who took us. Blame them. Blame the Goddess for Her interference. Blame me for being in the Goddess’s debt in the first place. You can go on up the chain, trying to find those to hold accountable.”

  Varten shook his head and tried to look away, but his father forced him to hold his gaze with gentle pressure on his chin. “You chose to try to help when you heard a voice calling in distress. You didn’t know it was a trap.”

  “I should have,” Varten spat.

  Papa breathed deeply. “Guilt and shame are like cancers. They multiply and destroy everything in their path. Anger, too. Resentment. That’s why I would not blame you if you wanted to take your grandfather up on his offer. Regardless of all he’s done. Apology or not, when you do a wrong you should try to make it right if you can. If you can’t, you pay it forward. That is what I believe and how I’ve tried to live my life.”

  His father’s steadying hands and calm voice made it easier for Varten to breathe deeply. He tried to ingest his words. “We all make mistakes,” Papa continued. “That’s part of being human. But letting the cancer of the past eat away at you hurts you the most.” He tapped a finger on Varten’s chest, over his heart. “Right here.”

  Varten nodded, feeling the ache in that organ more acutely now.

  “You know what will help?”

  “What?”

  “Forgiveness. I can sense a man’s heart and his intentions. And the most powerful act that someone can take is to forgive.”

  Varten sniffed. “Is that why you didn’t punch my grandfather on sight?”

  Papa snorted. “I don’t want Jasminda to have to grant me a royal pardon.” He smiled sadly. “Do you think you can forgive yourself? Because I never blamed you. Roshon never blamed you. It was just you holding on to this sickness, which has only done you harm.”

  His limbs felt heavy. He was cognizant of his grandfather just a few paces away, unable to understand their words, but listening with growing impatience. He put the man from his mind again. “How do I forgive my
self?”

  “You let it go.” Papa raised his hands, fingers spread wide and waggling.

  Varten froze. “Let it go,” he whispered. “Lay down your burdens.” It was what Gilmer had told Zeli about sacrificing her fear.

  Papa nodded. “Yes, your guilt is a burden. You need to release it.”

  Zinadeel cleared his throat. “You realize I’m a very busy man.”

  Varten held up a hand absently to stop him.

  “Now see here, you—” His voice cut off with a strangle. When Varten looked up, his grandfather was gripping his throat, moving his mouth without anything coming out.

  Papa looked smug. “Forgiveness doesn’t have to be immediate, and I don’t think we need to hear any more from him do we?”

  “No,” Varten said. “I don’t think we do.” His mind was racing, making connections that he wasn’t fully conscious of yet, but something was forming—an idea. Gilmer’s words, Zeli’s face, his own guilt. It all meshed together in a swirl in his head, but was formulating into something more solid.

  “I need to go back to the palace.”

  “All right,” Papa said. “Do you want me to go with you?”

  “No, stay and do what you came for. I think … I think I have an idea.”

  He turned to Zinadeel, whose face was turning purple with frustration at not being able to speak. Whatever Papa had done to silence him was obviously enraging the man. Varten spoke to his grandfather in Elsiran.

  “I think one day I will try to forgive you. I don’t know if you’ll deserve it or not. But I do. My sister and my father and my brother deserve to be free of the weight you left us with. I think Mama would want that, too—for us to forgive you. One day.”

  He stepped closer to the man. “If you need to leave your wealth and businesses to someone, leave it to the poor. Leave it to people who need it. I don’t want it. My brother doesn’t, either. We don’t want anything to do with you.” His chest was heaving and he felt like he’d just run up a hundred flights of stairs.

  “Eminette deserved better,” Papa said quietly. “I did my best to give her everything, so she wouldn’t feel like she was missing out, choosing us over you. Choosing me over you. And I have no doubt that I would do it again.”

  With a final nod, Varten turned to leave with Papa right behind him. As they reached the front doors of the store, they heard Zinadeel’s voice bellowing, Papa’s spell now lifted. Varten didn’t catch the words, but it didn’t matter. He never needed to hear his grandfather’s voice again.

  Outside, the street seemed quieter than it had been a half hour before. He needed to get back to the palace, back to Zeli, where he should have been all along. He was just figuring out how to do that when the emergency alarm began to blare.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Apply yourself with grace to all you do.

  For it will serve as sword and shield

  when winds of dissonance blow steadily near

  and you find yourself with nothing else to cling to.

  —THE HARMONY OF BEING

  Sirens echo, ringing in Ulani’s ears as she rushes down the street toward the theater’s basement again. Raven scurries along on his little puppy legs behind her, not wanting to be left behind. The last time the wraiths came, she didn’t get a chance to see any of them. Tana told her how scary they were, but she would still rather see for herself. She’s seen Mooriah, but knows that somehow these spirits are going to be different. All she wants is a peek, but Mama’s got a tight hold on one hand, and with Papa on her other side, hurrying along, there’s no way she’ll get a chance.

  Tana has already gone off to fight with the Poison Flame. Ulani wishes she could fight, too, but she has an important job to do. Papa told her that sometimes you need a sword and sometimes you need a shield—Ulani is the shield.

  They arrive at the theater to find the basement doors wide open. Down the creaking steps and then they’re in a space that feels much smaller than it did a few days ago. There are so many more people here.

  “It worked,” Mama says, surprised.

  Lots of people Ulani doesn’t know stand alongside familiar faces from around the neighborhood. She opens her Song and fills herself up with Earthsong. It feels bubbly and tickles just a little bit. Excitement sparkles in her belly.

  But fear pushes against her Song, thick and dark like molasses. Mama is a little bit relieved and a little bit something else—it’s a feeling Ulani doesn’t have a word for, sort of like waiting for something good to happen, but also thinking it may really turn out bad.

  Papa towers over her like a tree giving shade. She presses into his leg to keep from being shuffled around as more and more people run down the steps. Raven steps on her feet, never far away. Outside, the alarm still screams.

  “Who’s the Earthsinger?” someone yells.

  “Who’s going to protect us?”

  Mama starts shouting orders, telling everyone to line up and hold hands. Ulani won’t have to touch any strangers, Mama and Papa will be on either side of her, and everyone else will link hands with them.

  “We’re supposed to rely on that little girl?” an old man says. Ulani doesn’t know him, but his hair looks like broom bristles and a sludge of panic clings to him.

  “She’s a very strong Singer,” Mama says. “If you don’t trust her to help, then you’re welcome to take your chances out there.” She points to the staircase and the man steps back.

  Outside, the sirens stop. Ulani takes her parents’ hands, closes her eyes, and focuses on her Song. Holding in the Earthsong is like holding in a sneeze that never comes out. She does as Fenix taught her and creates a kind of bubble to protect them. Only it’s not a bubble, and she can only pass it through people who are connected to her. It would be better to go around, but that’s not how it works.

  But something is wrong. The bubble isn’t spreading out the way it’s supposed to. “Someone isn’t holding hands,” she whispers.

  Mama jerks, probably looking around. Ulani’s eyes are still closed. She’s trying to force the spell through the barrier it’s hit. It’s kind of like pouring water through a series of funnels connected to each other, except that one of the funnels doesn’t have an opening on the end. She can’t reach the one below it.

  The room is getting hot with all these people here. Sweat pools on her back and beads her forehead. Raven sitting on her toes makes her shoes feel like an oven; she struggles not to lose her concentration.

  Then Papa yells like he’s surprised and his hand rips away from hers. Raven barks and Mama wrenches away, too, and the top funnel is completely blocked. She opens her eyes.

  It takes a second to understand that both of her parents are fighting people. Papa with his fists and Mama with the little wooden club she keeps in her bag, the one she told Ulani and Tana never to touch. The man Papa keeps punching is Elsiran, kind of skinny, but with a mean face. Mama swings her club at the older man attacking her and a loud crunch sounds as his arm breaks. Raven growls, standing right in front of her and pushing her backward.

  People are screaming but everything is too loud to understand what they’re saying. She knows the fighting men are angry, angry at her.

  “The True Father wants the Lagrimari,” another man screams from the middle of the confused jumble of people. He races toward Ulani, his feelings sharper than a thornbush. She shrinks back as Raven snarls, but the puppy is too little to do much damage and both Papa and Mama are fighting new Elsiran men—the first two are already on the ground, one moaning in pain, the other still as a stone.

  She’s frozen with fear, not sure what to do, when an older Lagrimari man she’s seen at the market lunges for the man coming toward her. He tackles the Elsiran and sits on his chest. Two Elsiran women help to hold the attacker’s arms and legs as he flails, shouting, “We’re safer without the grols! Let the True Father have them!”

  The man fighting Papa falls, and Papa swings around, grabbing Ulani and lifting her up. Two more angry red-ha
ired men begin to shout about grols, but they can’t push their way through the tight mass of people.

  Mama knocks another angry man in the head with her club and stands there panting, looking around, madder than a homeless hornet.

  Ulani closes her eyes, Papa’s arms are tight bands of safety encircling her. “There’s two more angry men here,” she whispers. “But they’re waiting.”

  He repeats this to Mama who begins speaking in Lagrimari to someone. Ulani senses two men being pulled from the crowd and brought forward. Their energy feels like a deep, dark hole, sad and bitter and endless. Someone shouts that they’ve found some rope in the corner and all the men who wanted to fight are quickly tied up.

  “Zann Biddel planted his people in the shelters,” Mama says into Papa’s ear.

  “What did he think he was doing?” Papa asks.

  “I don’t know. Sacrifice the Lagrimari to the True Father, barter for peace that way? Only one of them is talking, the rest are staying silent. Loyal to their leader to the end.”

  A shiver races down Ulani’s spine and she opens her eyes to look up toward the door. “Link hands!” she yells.

  A dark column of smoke emerges through the wood of the closed doors. It hovers over the stairs and the people rush and leap, falling over themselves to join up.

  Ulani is still in Papa’s arms with Mama pressed in close. Hands shoot out to grab any part of their neighbor they can, arms, shoulders, heads, feet. She pours the spell through funnel after funnel, protecting everyone who’s touching, hoping she can reach them all in time.

  But something startles her and the trickle of protection wobbles, though it still flows through the funnels. A lady is staring at her from across the room. She’s really a girl, a skinny teenager with long, red braids. Her eyes are hot coals, and Ulani missed her anger because it wasn’t thick and slimy like the men’s. It’s lighter, like a cloud of poison.

  The dark spirit hovers above them all, looking for someone to attack. But even the men tied up on the floor are in the funnel, they’re being pressed down with feet on their chests.