Requiem of Silence Read online

  “The temperature inside was simply … raised. No fire. And no smoke. Just heat, so intense that those who did not get out simply … cooked.”

  Nausea threatened, and this time it wasn’t the wind that made her shiver. “Earthsong,” she whispered. “The Sons of Lagrimar?”

  A group calling themselves the Sons of Lagrimar had begun a spate of violence recently, answering each of the pro-Elsiran assaults with one of their own, twisting Earthsong to use it as a weapon.

  “None of the Lagrimari will talk to me or to the constables,” Camm said, “but that would be my guess. Ilysara is trying to get more answers.” He motioned to Jasminda’s other new assistant, a Lagrimari woman standing among the huddled victims, still in their sleeping clothes.

  Ilysara broke off her conversation and approached, greeting Jasminda with a bow and Camm with a nod. “Your Majesty,” Ilysara said in Elsiran, a language that she’d grown remarkably proficient with in a short period of time. She was several years older than both Jasminda and Camm, and had been some kind of recordkeeper in the True Father’s harems.

  “What have you learned?” Jasminda asked.

  “The family I was just speaking with was awakened by a neighbor who arrived home from working a late shift and noticed all the smoke.”

  “Did any of them see who could have committed the counterattack?”

  “No,” Ilysara replied, frowning. “But a strong Earthsinger could have done it from a short distance away and not be seen.”

  “Anyone take responsibility?”

  “The Keepers haven’t said anything.”

  Jasminda nodded, biting her lip. For an Earthsinger to cause harm or death was incredibly difficult—for a sane Earthsinger, that is. A Song connected you to the life energy of every living thing, and purposefully taking a life while being a part of that connection was unnatural, painful, harrowing. It could easily drive you mad.

  Jasminda reached for her Song and joined the infinite flow of life energy. She let it wash over her, filling her up, before reaching out to sense the emotions of those nearby. Fear, resentment, anger. A few shields keeping her out, those were other Singers. It could be that whoever perpetrated the violence had stuck around, but she had no way of knowing. If so, they were not feeling particularly guilty.

  She sighed, releasing her power. “Everyone here has been healed who wanted to be?”

  Camm nodded, and Ilysara pursed her lips. “The Elsirans who survived refused Earthsong healing,” she said.

  Camm shrugged. “You can’t force someone to be helped.”

  Ilysara turned away looking sour. While neither had expressed any opposition to working with one another, Jasminda sensed that the two did not exactly get along. However, she could not possibly have chosen an Elsiran over a Lagrimari or vice versa—the optics would have been horrible, so she’d chosen one of each. Camm had come recommended by the royal event planner and was from an aristocratic family. Ilysara, with a few prematurely gray hairs at the temples of her short, kinky hair, had been identified by the Keepers of the Promise. She never spoke without careful consideration of her words, but her intelligence was nearly frightening. Jasminda liked them both very much.

  “If they don’t want healing, they won’t be healed,” Jasminda said with a sigh.

  “There aren’t many Singers willing to heal Elsirans anyway, given how ungrateful they are.” Ilysara’s eyes were flinty. Camm looked uncomfortable with the assertion, but wisely stayed quiet.

  A commotion among the citizens caused Jasminda to turn as her Guard tightened its protective circle around her. She peered around broad shoulders to find two young men—possibly teenagers—one Elsiran and one Lagrimari, tussling. They fell to the ground in a flurry of fists. Several cautious onlookers seemed ready to step in once an opportunity presented itself, but none did.

  She could use Earthsong to distract them, pull them apart, or drop a wall of darkness around them like Darvyn was so fond of doing. But what would that solve? This scuffle was being played out on stages big and small around their land.

  An elder Lagrimari man barked out some words she didn’t catch, then grabbed the refugee boy by his collar and dragged him away. The cut on the boy’s cheek was healed before their eyes by an unknown Singer.

  The Elsiran was helped up by a woman who immediately began scolding him. Shouts and curses were traded back and forth in the respective languages of the two groups—though neither could understand each other.

  Jasminda took a deep breath. “Get the constables to separate these people.” Camm and Ilysara both nodded and pushed their way outside the wall of Guardsmen to go and defuse the situation.

  Unity, when it came, would be hard-won, they’d all known that. But right now turning two nations, whose only commonality was an abiding mutual hatred for one another, into a unified populace didn’t just look hard, it looked impossible.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A road undriven leads nowhere.

  All lives are journeys. Some will take

  you across the globe while others

  consist of only a single

  step.

  —THE HARMONY OF BEING

  The squawk of a large black-and-white bird diving into the sea startled Kyara. Waves crashed in a soothing percussion, lulling her into a place just beyond consciousness, not asleep, but not quite awake, either. She yawned and straightened her back, slightly sore from sitting hunched over for who knew how long. The sand beneath her was warm from the sun, though the air had a jagged bite to it and a light wind had picked up, chilling it further.

  The strange bird—they had no such creatures in Lagrimar, and she didn’t know its Elsiran name—dropped into the water with a splash, then rose again on beating wings, a wriggling fish in its mouth.

  She gave a wry smile, silent kudos for the talented predator, and rose to her feet, dusting off her bottom to little avail. Elsiran sand was much the same as the sand back home; it might sparkle subtly and be a bit softer to the touch, but it still crept into every crevice imaginable and held on for dear life. Her trousers and skin were not immune.

  The sun was beginning to lower and she contemplated turning back toward the little cottage she’d been living in for the past few weeks. She wasn’t exactly sure how Darvyn had found the place an hour’s drive outside the city—his friend, the king, had likely helped—but she’d grown to love the small space they shared. It sat mere steps from the ocean, on the outskirts of a tiny town of artisans and tourists.

  She and Darvyn had retreated there a few days after her execution had been interrupted. The house’s sparse white walls and simple, comfortable furniture had brought her a peace she wasn’t sure she deserved. Especially when she’d expected her last home to be a dungeon. But as lovely as it was, today she wanted to walk a bit farther, explore a little more, especially since the beach was deserted now that the weather had chilled.

  Though she hadn’t ventured into the town, Darvyn reported that his presence had not caused a riot or even elicited much comment. These folk, used to foreign tourists, seemed not to mind the presence of two Lagrimari among them. Still, Kyara had no desire to push her luck, and when the sound of voices rose just beyond the dunes to her right, she froze.

  She would have turned around and retreated, had she not recognized the language as Lagrimari. Female voices chattered, too quiet to make out more than a few words. Children’s laughter rang out as well. Now, curiosity won out over Kyara’s desire for solitude.

  She crouched and climbed up the small hill, hoping to remain hidden among the waist-high, wispy grass as she peered beyond. A small group of Lagrimari were seated about fifty paces away, the wind bringing their voices closer. Instead of facing the ocean, they sat looking toward a three-story building, teeming with construction workers.

  Darvyn had mentioned this place to her the other day, a seaside inn, vacant for at least a year after the owner died. The Sisterhood was restoring it for use by the refugees.

  The presence of
the women and children made Kyara suspect that at least part of the building was inhabitable. The camps were being emptied as quickly as alternate housing could be found. A half dozen small children chased one another, squealing and laughing, remaining a safe distance from the construction and under the watchful eyes of the mothers. Just beyond them, a group of older children played carryball. Kyara flattened herself against the ground, observing, an ache of longing pulsing within her.

  Near the women, a tiny boy began to spin, laughing riotously at his own antics. As other children egged him on, cyclones of sand started to twist and turn around him. Earthsong. A young woman who might have been his mother gasped when she saw it, her gaze darting toward the building and the workers, mostly Elsiran from what Kyara could see. The woman hurried to the boy and snatched his arm.

  “No! No singing, not where they can see you.”

  Chastened, the boy nodded, and the small tornadoes died. The children all quieted, and the woman pulled him into her arms and squeezed, relief making her face go slack.

  Kyara crawled back down the hill, oblivious to the sand abrading her skin. Part of her wanted to be able to walk up to them, introduce herself, and sit for a chat. The thought made her snort. She hadn’t had a friend since she was eleven years old—and look how that turned out. She’d accidentally killed her.

  One look at the Poison Flame, so recently liberated from the hangman’s noose, and the children’s easy laughter would turn to screams. She started back toward the cottage, heart heavy, when shouts behind her caused her to turn.

  The ball the older children had been playing with flew in a wide arc over the small dunes, all the way to the water, where it splashed as it fell with a thud. At this time of day, the waves beating at the sand were frothy and white, rippling angrily as they came ashore. The ball disappeared into the jaws of the water, swallowed whole.

  Kyara blinked, and in that time the body of a preteen boy came barreling across the sand. He raced through the wispy grass and down the incline, accompanied by the calls of his friends who trailed behind him.

  “Taron, no!” a girl shouted. “Just leave it.”

  “But it’s our only ball,” another boy said.

  “We’re not supposed to go near the water. It’s dangerous.”

  The commotion had brought the women to the hilltop as well, and Kyara stood frozen, not wanting to draw attention to herself. Taron raced across the beach on bare feet, but stopped short at the water’s edge. The ball was nowhere in sight.

  The boy’s breath heaved in his chest as he scanned the water, panic in his eyes. His friends caught up to him, staring longingly at the rowdy waves.

  “Leave it, Taron,” the girl’s voice came again, sounding sensible.

  “We won’t get another,” a boy spoke up from the middle of the pack.

  By the time Kyara had been this age, she was already in service to the True Father, quickly becoming his favorite assassin. Killing his enemies, and even his friends, when the mood suited him. She’d never actually played carryball, barely knew the rules, and so didn’t understand the group’s fascination with something so trivial as a leather bag filled with stuffing. But they all looked at the sea as if it had stolen their closest friend.

  Taron was nearest to the water; he stood, hands on his hips, without taking his eyes from the writhing waves. “I can get it back,” he said, and the determination in his voice caused the hairs on Kyara’s neck to rise.

  Without any further hesitation, he marched into the water, cursing at the cold as it swallowed his feet and legs. The women’s voices raised in alarm, and several of them descended the hill in a panic.

  Kyara stood locked in place. She should really go home to her cottage before she was recognized. She didn’t know these people, had no connection to them. Then again, maybe she did … Maybe she’d killed one of their loved ones. Maybe they’d been there that day when the noose had been prepared for her and she’d been led over to it, ready to lay down her life in payment for her crimes. She had no way of knowing.

  A surge knocked Taron off balance and his body disappeared beneath the frothy waters of the Delaveen Ocean. Screams rose up from the gathered audience and several women grabbed at the children rushing forward to go after him.

  Kyara sank into her other sight, into her ability to view the Nethersong around her. The energy of death glowed in the adults, less so in the children. In the water, the glow of fish and sea creatures peppered the darkness of the waves. The largest form she sensed was about thirty paces away and sinking quickly, glowing brighter as death energy filled the young boy’s body.

  She couldn’t reach him, not with her physical self. Like most Lagrimari, she couldn’t swim and had never gotten more than her feet wet in the ocean. Diving in after him would be folly; however, standing by while he drowned was not an option, either. She was done with death—both causing it and witnessing it.

  But she could keep him from dying—or at least staying dead.

  Quieting her mind even further, she sank deeper into her Song, moving past her other sight until darkness once again filled her vision and the doorways appeared. She stood at the threshold of worlds, glowing arches of muted light before her. One led to the World Between and one to the World After.

  In the water, Taron had been shining with Nether, a blinding brightness in a sea of dark. He was drowning and would soon pass to the World After, if he hadn’t already. If she could catch him there before he got near the Eternal Flame, she could bring him back. She chose the softly glowing archway and stepped through.

  The World After was nothingness. No light, no sound, not at first anyway. But she set her mind to locating Taron and found him easily. A recently discovered quirk of her power over Nethersong enabled her to navigate the World After at will. The boy appeared before her, lit from within, peering into the darkness, confusion marring his face.

  “Taron,” she called. He turned and stared at her uncomprehendingly. “I’m here to bring you back.”

  His brows descended. “B-bring me back?”

  “Yes. You want to live, don’t you?”

  “Y-y-you … You’re.…” He raised a finger at her and took a step back. His voice a mix of wonder and fear, unable to even identify her by name. “But that’s impossible.”

  “No, it isn’t. I’ve done it before. Did you hear about Queen Jasminda being poisoned?”

  He nodded.

  “She’d come here. To the World After. And I brought her back.”

  He blinked and dropped his arm. “Y-you brought back Queen Jasminda from the dead?”

  “I did.” Hundreds had witnessed the first time Kyara had stepped into the World After and returned with their queen—though virtually none had understood what they’d seen. She didn’t know exactly how she’d been able to do it, crossing from the Living World was nothing she’d heard of before. Then again, she’d never known another living Nethersinger. Though she’d only done it once, she felt confident that she could repeat the action with this child. Perhaps bring him back to the living as often as it took until his body could be pulled from the ocean.

  “Come with me, Taron. I’ll help you go back. Do you have any family?”

  He shook his head, and took another step away, looking around at the darkness that surrounded them. “Something’s wrong here,” he whispered.

  Unease descended over her. “Yes. Something is. But we have to leave now. Take my hand.”

  “What’s wrong with this place?” he asked, still peering around warily. She didn’t know what he saw or felt, it must be something different than she did—maybe something only the truly dead could discern. But right now, it didn’t matter. She didn’t have long before his doorway would go dark and the path back to the living would close to him.

  “Take my hand, Taron. It’s time to go.”

  He shivered and looked at her again, gaze full of questions, then gingerly placed his hand in hers. She slumped with relief, then led him back to the glowing arch, pul
sing in the infinite blackness.

  Pulling the dead back through the archway was like walking through thick, knee-high mud. It took effort and strength. It was nothing like the normal manipulation of Nethersong, but she focused all her energy on the task and dragged the boy through a darkness that didn’t want to let him go.

  Finally, they were through and shuttled back into their bodies. Her eyes were squeezed shut and she felt the sand on her palms—she’d fallen to her hands and knees at some point. Her lingering connection to Taron told her he was still unconscious. She sank into her other sight to find him still underwater, with every indication that he’d be back in the World After very soon.

  But the light of his Nethersong was still dim. She began pulling the Nether from his body as he struggled and kicked in the water. If she could draw enough away, she could keep him from death for a time, and maybe he could break free of the waves and find air.

  As she funneled death energy out of him, the Void took its place—neither life, like Earthsong, nor death, the Void was a mysterious energy that filled in the spaces between. Life, death, and the Void were the three forces at play in the world.

  If the boy could get himself out of the water, one of the Earthsingers would be able to replace the Void with life energy and revive him. But that was a big if. It was likely the only Singers on the beach were small children. Still, one of them should be able to eventually manipulate the water and drag Taron out.

  As she contemplated how difficult it would be to drag Taron from death a second or even a third time, a figure with the Nethersong of a middle-aged adult charged into the water. Kyara forced her eyes open to watch an Elsiran construction worker swim with sure strokes to where Taron was flailing. He grabbed the boy and swam, one armed, back to the shore. Cradled in Taron’s arms, safe as a baby, was the waterlogged leather ball.

  Other construction workers stood nearby, their concern evident, but Taron rolled over, spitting out the water in his lungs, aided by vigorous thumps to his back from the Elsiran man.