Requiem of Silence Read online

  Darvyn leaned to speak in her ear. “Ella’s husband was a soldier here and has secured us a ride to the foothills along with additional supplies.”

  “Her husband is friends with the king, right?”

  “Yes. Benn is with Jack now visiting another country’s leader.”

  “Then she must have many worries,” Kyara said, her heart aching. Husband out of the country, daughter nabbed and taken away—Kyara’s respect for the woman doubled.

  Along with the soldiers marching about, intent on their tasks, refugees were still straggling into Elsira from Lagrimar. And surprisingly, though it really shouldn’t be so, a steady trickle of travelers were heading in the opposite direction. No doubt these Lagrimari had grown weary and disillusioned with Elsira and were now willing to face whatever remained in their own land. Likely there would be warlords or strongmen who’d risen in the wake of the True Father’s departure.

  Kyara wished them luck. She had no desire to go back. Then again, she didn’t have a true desire to do much of anything. She turned at the sound of her name being spoken by the soldier talking to Ella. He passed the woman an envelope, and she frowned, looking down at it. The writing on the envelope was a childlike scrawl, written in Elsiran.

  Ella’s voice was uncertain; Darvyn translated. “It’s for you. She thinks it’s Tana’s handwriting.”

  “For me?”

  He nodded and passed the envelope over to her. She ripped it open to find it empty except for a small, black stone humming with a hint of Nethersong.

  “Mooriah made a caldera,” Kyara said, voice biting.

  “A message?”

  “A way to find them.” Certainty filled her as her jaw clenched. Mooriah knew Kyara would come for the girl.

  She sighed deeply. “I need a knife.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  To witness joy without jealousy,

  celebrate without resentment,

  applaud without lament,

  is to harmonize in tune with the ultimate

  accord.

  —THE HARMONY OF BEING

  Zeli’s steps grew slower as she reached the entrance to the Blue Library. Two soldiers walked by, locked in conversation. She stopped suddenly, then turned to stare at the tapestry on the wall, pretending an intense interest in it. When the men’s footsteps receded, she released the breath she had been holding.

  The fear was stupid, she knew. She was often sent on errands taking her all around the palace, and sometimes around the city. No one would look twice at her coming to the library. But the weight of what she was doing, added to the secrets she was already keeping, was immense.

  When she entered the room, Varten was already there, bouncing on his toes with anticipation. For the past three days, they had been meeting together—usually in that old, dusty parlor in the unused section of the palace. The night of the birthday party, when Varten had stolen the journal from her and begun reading it, the revelations he discovered set both of them on this uncertain path.

  “Do you think this is what the Goddess was concerned about?” Varten had asked that night as they reeled from shock.

  Zeli’s body had jerked at the thought. “I hope not. Why would She be? Restoring our Songs would be wonderful. It would change everything. Go on, keep reading.”

  He flipped the ancient pages carefully. “This is all about experiments, I think. The author has theorized about restoring Songs, and spends a long time trying to get it to work.”

  As his finger traced the text, Zeli watched him, her mind too busy to focus on the words on the page. In concentration, he looked different. Serious, almost scholarly as he frowned down at the antiquated language. Still not like a prince—though she had no idea what a prince should look like. Once upon a time she’d thought she’d known, but that prince had turned out to be a monster.

  “There’s mention of the cornerstone of the Mantle—and of obelisks.” He looked up. “Kyara told us of an obelisk she encountered in a strange city in the desert. The buildings were all built by ancient Earthsingers out of sand and glass.”

  Zeli tilted her head, intrigued.

  “Apparently, these obelisks focus Earthsong and can also help to combine it with blood magic.” He read on silently, and Zeli grew impatient.

  “What? What does it say?”

  “More formulas. Equations.” He flipped another page. “He talks about meeting an emissary from the south. Another Earthsinger. Here, listen to this: ‘The young man, Gilmer he calls himself, has the strength of a Second. This land has not seen a Singer so strong since the days of my grandparents. Already, he has taught me much, helping to refine certain techniques that the Cantors struggled with. He says mere curiosity has brought him here, but I am not so certain. I hope he can aid my quest and help me find a way to correct the mistakes of my past.’”

  Varten lifted his head and they shared a look of wonder. “There’s a lot more here. It will take some time to get through it all. I don’t think all of it is written in order, either, which is … kind of odd.”

  “If the writer really found a way to restore lost Songs, why haven’t we heard of it before? He was doing experiments, but must have failed.” False hope was worse than no hope at all, and she couldn’t bear this kind of disappointment.

  “Maybe.” Varten tapped his chin. “But he seemed confident that he was on to something. This guy was really smart, obviously, and he spent a lot of time on this, from all appearances. If we can figure some of this out, wouldn’t that make all the difference in the world for the Lagrimari?”

  Zeli was dubious. “Whoever he was, he had his Song and was way smarter than us. And the Goddess said whatever was in here was best left unread. She—”

  “Didn’t even read it. Are you sure She knew what was in it? What if you went back to Her and told Her—”

  “Told Her what, that I disobeyed Her and read the journal when She told me to take it straight to the vault?” She shook her head. Visions of being sent back to a refugee camp, standing in line for rations filled her head. Varten pursed his lips and sat back.

  “You’re right though,” Zeli said. “Her reaction to the journal was really strange. Sometimes … I’m not sure about Her sometimes,” she whispered, hunching down, ashamed to have even said that much. Worries about the True Father on the loose had never left her—the promise she’d made to keep his escape quiet haunted her. And now, hiding the wraith attack from everyone—none of it felt right.

  “If there’s a chance to restore the Songs of the Lagrimari, isn’t it worth just about anything, even the Goddess’s wrath? More Earthsingers could give us a fighting chance against the wraiths at the very least. It would give the Lagrimari options.”

  He was right. Zeli knew he was, but fear still raced through her veins. “We have no idea of how to do it.”

  “I think we need to go through this journal with a fine-toothed comb. Study it and everything it references. Find out about this Gilmer from the south—that must be Fremia or Yaly. I didn’t even know there were Earthsingers there. Then again, I didn’t always pay attention to all my history lessons.” He looked a bit abashed.

  “This is crazy. I don’t think we can do this on our own.” But if she got on the Goddess’s bad side, she could very well lose her position in the Sisterhood and kiss her future good-bye.

  “What if we find something in here we can take to the Goddess or my sister? Something real that could help?”

  Zeli took a deep breath. “All right. We’ll read this very carefully and see what we can find out.”

  * * *

  “The Singer from the south, what was his name again?” Varten asked, looking up from the large book he’d been reading. More like it were spread all over the library table before them. Zeli squinted in thought and tapped her lips. He fought to wrench his attention away from her mouth and not be distracted by her skin and her scent and her presence beside him. What they were doing was serious and he needed to focus.

  “Gilmer,” she
replied. “He’s the traveler who came and shared knowledge with the journal’s author. And then disappeared again.”

  “And this would have been after the erection of the Mantle, right?”

  “Yes, I think so. The author talks about how he wishes the others were still around to help, so I think it means that he was the only Singer left in Elsira after the Mantle went up and trapped everyone else in Lagrimar.”

  “What do you think happened to him?” Varten asked. “I wonder why nothing of him remained?”

  “You mean stories or legends? Maybe more of him persisted than we know,” Zeli said. “Have you found anything about a Singer named Gilmer anywhere in all of these? Or any other Singers at all?”

  “No.” He shut the large, musty history text he’d been scanning. It probably hadn’t been opened in decades. “It’s like once the Mantle went up, magic disappeared from Elsira until the First Breach. There’s nothing in any of these books about Earthsong.”

  Since most Elsiran writing wasn’t in the peculiar script of the journal that could be understood by readers of both languages, Varten would read from the Elsiran texts and Zeli would take notes. Visions of teaching Zeli to read Elsiran swept Varten’s mind. It would give them a reason to keep meeting after all of this was over.

  She pushed her notebook away to lean her forearms on the polished wooden table. “We might have to start—” But whatever she was going to say was swallowed up when the door crashed open.

  Varten jerked around to the entrance, then relaxed to find it was just Roshon. “Fancy meeting you here,” his brother said dryly.

  “Told you I was helping Zeli with her Elsiran.”

  “Welcome, please be seated,” she said in formal Elsiran, playing along. It wasn’t a lie, they had been working on her language skills while they studied the journal.

  Roshon looked around skeptically at the towering shelves stuffed with books. This place was Jasminda’s fantasy, but it wasn’t filled with the type of reading material that either of the twins preferred: comics or detective novels.

  “Oh, you found him,” Ani said from the doorway. She entered and stood next to Roshon.

  Varten froze at her appearance. He blinked rapidly then produced a smile. “I wasn’t hiding.”

  “Weren’t you?” Roshon asked, sharp eyes focusing on him intently.

  Had he been avoiding his brother? A thread of guilt wormed through him. The thing was, he really liked Ani. He didn’t have any problem with her being his new sister. In fact, he was the one who had pushed Roshon to challenge for her and issue the Raunian version of a proposal in the first place. She’d been in a bad situation, about to become the apprentice and future fiancée of a truly vile man, and Roshon had been her way out. And though the two hadn’t seen or spoken to one another in two and a half years, as soon as her ship had docked in Rosira, and they’d gotten through some initial missteps, she and Roshon had become closer than ever. Inseparable.

  Varten was just preparing himself for the inevitable by pulling away. He was surprised Roshon had even noticed.

  Ani paced around the room, peering at the shelves and the books scattered on the tables. She wasn’t wearing her prosthetic today, but apparently didn’t need it, using her maimed arm adeptly, pushing books out of the way to get a look at what was beneath.

  “So, I wanted to tell you,” Roshon said, “we’ll be leaving on Firstday.”

  Two days away. Varten swallowed. “Oh, okay.”

  “We’re going to postpone the wedding for a while, you know, to avoid a war.” Roshon spoke in Elsiran, probably for Ani’s benefit as, of the many languages she spoke, it was the only one they shared. Varten turned to Zeli, hoping she was keeping up. She nodded at him encouragingly.

  “Makes sense,” he said.

  Ani had made a small circle around their table. She was the kind of person who couldn’t sit still for any length of time—the opposite of Roshon, but maybe that was why they liked each other.

  “Hi, I’m Ani,” she said to Zeli.

  “Oh, right, you guys haven’t met. Zeli, Ani.”

  Zeli smiled and stuck out her hand for a Yalyish-style handshake. “Pleasant to meet you.” Ani chuckled and they shook hands. Zeli didn’t display any visible reaction to Ani’s missing limb.

  “How do they greet each other in Raun?” Varten asked.

  “We don’t. Unless it’s someone who owes you money, and then it’s usually with a blade.” She grinned, the tattoos on her forehead and chin stretching slightly. Then she continued on her circuit, moving off to the other side of the room, casually inspecting the wall art and the morning’s newspapers stacked neatly on a table.

  “We, ah, wanted to know,” Roshon began. “That is, the offer’s still open. For you to come with us.”

  Zeli turned to him and whispered, “You’re leaving on Firstday?” Panic flared in her gaze.

  “No, I…” he said, flustered. Zeli reined in the terror in her expression, dropping her head to stare at the floor. Varten cleared his throat. “Thanks, but I think I’ll stick it out here. I’m not sure a life on the sea is for me.” He spoke to his brother, while watching Zeli’s reaction from the corner of his eye. She didn’t lift her head, which had him worried.

  “Are you certain?” Ani called out from across the room. “We were going to catch the Festival of Frogs in Dunbay on our way south. You haven’t really lived until you’ve seen a trained racing frog wearing a tiny diesel flyer shoot through the air above your head. It’s hysterical.”

  Varten and Roshon shared a look of incredulity.

  “One year, Father and I bought an army of frogs from Sirunan to enter,” she continued. “The best ones are raised and trained in Gilmeria, but we didn’t want to spend that much. Anyway, our team made it past the first round, solidly in the middle of the pack. We would have made it farther, only Father lost a bet and all our diesel went to a very lucky Udlander.” She crossed back over and settled next to Roshon, leaning against a table. “I’ve always thought I’d make a good frog racer, if I wasn’t sailing, you know?”

  “So, wait, you’re saying the frogs—” Varten began, but Zeli straightened abruptly and cut in.

  “Did you say Gilmeria?”

  A loose thread in the carpet had snagged Ani’s attention. She nudged it with the toe of her boot. “Yeah. One of the commonwealths of Yaly.”

  Zeli turned to Varten with a wide-eyed expression. “Would that have anything to do with someone named Gilmer?”

  “Saint Gilmer is the hunter, I think. The commonwealths are all named after their saints. But there’s a lot of them and it’s confusing. You know the Gilmerian Rumpus starts next week, too. I wish we had time to get up there and check it out.” Ani tapped her chin. “I wonder if we can sneak it in, just for a day…”

  Zeli had turned ashen; Varten reached over to touch her arm and ensure she was all right. She didn’t draw breath for a few seconds.

  “What’s the Gilmerian Rumpus?” Varten asked, as casually as he could manage. Fortunately, Roshon was watching Ani and not either of their reactions.

  “Basically the biggest party on the continent. Only happens once every ten years. People come from around the world to honor Saint Gilmer with three days of feasting and hunting and dancing and general madness. And it’s the only time anyone can access the Gilmerian Archives, which are supposed to hold all the saint’s knowledge. You know, we once had a passenger, a scholar from Fremia, whose grandfather had won access to the Archives during a Rumpus. The old guy had found something in there that led to him inventing the first salt engine. I didn’t believe him at first, but Tai looked it up and it was true.”

  “That’s … amazing,” Varten said, still gripping Zeli’s arm. He thought she might faint.

  “Well, salt engines were notoriously inefficient compared to solar or even diesel”—she shuddered—“but the tech was a big leap forward for its time.”

  Zeli leaned into him, and for a moment, Varten was distracted by the
warmth and closeness. Then he heard her whisper that Ani was talking too fast, and he translated for her.

  She sat back, pulling away from their contact. “So … the saints. They are real?”

  Ani shrugged. “Doesn’t everyone believe their gods are real? I don’t know if Myr ever walked the seas like the legends claim, but there must be some truth to the myths. Look at the Goddess. A few months ago, who could have predicted She’d be real enough to touch?”

  “And this Rumpus starts next week?” Varten asked.

  Ani jogged over to the table with the newspapers and riffled through them until she found the one she was looking for. “Yeah, just saw it here. A group of Yalyish musicians, expats living here, are headed over to play at the celebration. This article says they’re raising money in Portside for the trip down.” She came over and tossed the paper on the table in front of them. Varten scanned the brief article.

  Ani leaned next to him, tapping her fingers against the end of her abbreviated arm. “The partying is supposed to be legendary. I’d hate to wait another ten years to see it, but I just don’t think my seller will stick around.” She returned to Roshon’s side and lay her head on his shoulder, frowning in annoyance at the circumstance.

  “It’s okay,” Roshon said. “The frog thing sounds … interesting.”

  She elbowed him, good-naturedly. “Until you’ve been hit in the face with a flying frog, you can’t judge.” He held up his hands in surrender.

  Zeli stared at the newspaper, though she couldn’t read it. With great effort, Varten pulled his attention away. He didn’t want his brother to suspect that he and Zeli were doing anything other than studying the language, both for his and Ani’s safety and another reason that Varten couldn’t share. Roshon had a new life at his fingertips, a plan for his future. The only things Varten had for himself were the journal and the hope that he and Zeli could restore the lost Songs of the Lagrimari. It wasn’t a life plan, but it was something no one else in his family could lay hold on, at least for now, and he wanted to keep it that way.