Song of Blood & Stone (Earthsinger Chronicles Book 1) (20 page)

“Almost impossible,” Gerda said. “And there are those who believe he walks among us in secret, taking on the appearance of our trusted friends and confidantes.”

So that was why they found it so hard to trust. “It’s true that no one has ever seen his face?” Jasminda asked.

“No one has seen any part of him,” Turwig replied. “He is always covered from head to toe and wears a painted mask to hide his face. The women of the harems are kept blindfolded when they are with him. And aside from the Cantor, only the Songless are allowed in his inner circle.”

“The Cantor?” Jasminda frowned. “Who is that?”

“Every few generations, a powerful Earthsinger is spared the tribute in order to serve as the True Father’s Cantor, someone who studies Earthsong, finds new ways to create the breaches. They develop new spells and increase the True Father’s power.”

Jasminda had never known how the breaches were created. She doubted anyone on this side of the Mantle knew. “And what about those who give tribute? They must be able to get close to him.”

Turwig shook his head. “Tribute is given while unconscious. No one but the Cantor and the True Father knows how it is done. But we have chipped away, little by little, doing what we could, saving who we could. We’ve grown a network to hide as many as we can, so they may retain their Songs.” He looked to Rozyl and some of the younger Keepers present.

“Like the one who disguised Jack?” Jasminda asked.

“Yes . . . Darvyn. The poor boy spent his entire life hiding from tribute-camp thugs, being shuffled from place to place. His power—” Turwig shook his head at some memory clouding his mind. “His power is blinding. Darvyn was the one who discovered this.” Turwig motioned to the stone. “Years ago, when he was a small boy, we were secreting him away one night—there had been some betrayal at his previous residence, as was often the case. The boy was hidden in a wagon of straw pallets, but when we arrived at the checkpoint, he had disappeared.

“We doubled back, searching for him, but it was the middle of the night and the roads in Lagrimar are not somewhere you want to be caught after dark. I tracked him to the ruins of Tanagol, one of the first border villages destroyed early in the war.”

Turwig’s eyes softened as he became lost in the memory. “Imagine a child of four or five digging through centuries-old rubble, only to come out covered in dirt and muck with this treasure. He had felt the pull of the ancient spell within calling to him. Later, Darvyn began having the Dream of the Queen. She gave him certain instructions that we have been endeavoring to bring to pass for many years.”

Understanding dawned on Jasminda. “She told you to bring the stone here.” Turwig and Gerda nodded. “And did She tell you what it was? What it does?” She held her hand out for the stone, and to her surprise, Turwig gave it to her.

“No, She does not have control over the length or frequency of the dreams, so sometimes information is disjointed. We believe it is a caldera, an object that serves as a container for spells.”

“I’ve never heard of anything like that,” Jasminda said. “Are these common in Lagrimar?”

He shook his head. “Not at all. About a hundred years ago, a Keeper managed to get his hands on the journal of the Cantor. Everything we know about calderas comes from that book, and it’s not much. Only the most powerful Earthsingers can create such objects, and it then holds parts of their Songs. It requires . . .”

She looked up from her perusal of the bundle in her hand. Part of her longed to touch it again, but another part was afraid. “It requires what?”

“A blood sacrifice. A death.”

Jasminda’s blood ran cold. “Cavefolk magic?”

“The diary didn’t say, but once we saw what happened to you in the cave, well, we made an educated guess.”

“And the visions . . . you all have had them, too?”

“Oh, no, child,” Gerda spoke up. “Nothing at all happens when we touch the caldera.”

Jasminda shuddered. “
No one
else has seen a vision when they touch it?”

“No one else could sing inside the mountain, either.” Gerda’s voice was calm, but there was an underlying tension to it.

“So, why me?”

“We don’t know,” Turwig said. “Perhaps because you’re half-Elsiran. Perhaps some other reason. But I believe you are the only one that can unlock the mysteries of this stone.”

Jasminda shook her head in disbelief. “What were the Queen’s instructions? What did She say?”

“Her guidance has led us this far,” Gerda said. “Though it has taken twenty years to find a way to get the caldera safely into Elsira. We had to trust that once we made it here, a way would be shown.” She leaned forward, her intensity piercing. “You are that way.” She placed her hand on top of Jasminda’s closed fist and the caldera pulsed in response.

The importance of the trust these people were placing in her was not lost on her. “Who else knows about it?”

The elders shared a glance, looks of resignation appearing on their faces. Rozyl sighed. “The Cantor knows, which means the True Father knows—at least that the caldera exists—and he’s searching for it. All along we had planned to use decoys to sneak it out. Though not quite this many.” She waved her hand around, and Jasminda leaned forward.

“The refugees? They’re all just decoys?” Her heart drummed as if ready to beat out of her chest.

Rozyl nodded grimly. “They don’t know it. Only a handful outside this tent are Keepers, but word was spread of the cracks in the Mantle, and once our contacts did their jobs, the number of those packing up to escape Lagrimar grew and grew.”

She pinned Jasminda with her gaze. “That’s why it’s so important that we trust the right people. If it falls into his hands, there is no hope. If he breaks out of Lagrimar, not just Elsira will fall but other lands will follow. The world could be his to control. We’ve got to end this.”

For once, Jasminda agreed with Rozyl. “What do I do?” she said.

Uncertainty crossed more than one face. “Follow the visions,” Turwig said. “Learn what the caldera wants to show you. It must lead to a way to awaken Her.”

“And tell no one about it,” Rozyl said. “The Cantor is very powerful, and her spies are clever. She could even have Elsirans working with her. We cannot take any more chances.”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

“Not even that prince of yours.” She pinned Jasminda with a hard look.

Jasminda froze. “He would never—”

“Can you risk the future of two countries on it?" Rozyl leaned forward. "The rest of the world? Palaces have eyes and ears. You must give us your word.”

She knew without question she could trust Jack. But if what they said was true, there was nothing he could do to help anyway. The weight of the responsibility lay heavy on her shoulders. “I give you my word. I will tell no one and do all I can.”

Turwig nodded and smiled at her, but she did not miss the anxiety in his eyes. She was truly the last chance for these people. For Elsira, as well. Cold dread took her over. She inhaled deeply, unwrapped the caldera, and lowered her palm.

The fire crackles
before us, and I lean back into the strong hold of Yllis’s arms around me. Eero sits just across from us, roasting tubers on a stick. His melancholy calls to me and I yearn to soothe it, but long ago he made me promise not to sing away his moods. I endeavor to respect his wishes, though it is difficult to see my twin so sad.

“What ails, Eero?” I say to him.

He continues to stare into the fire, his eyes faraway. I disengage from Yllis and move around to sit beside him. “We celebrate our birth today. Why are you downhearted?”

I nudge his shoulder, and his mouth quirks slightly in the beginnings of a smile.

“I do not aim to diminish any happiness of yours. I only wish . . .”

I remain patient as he forms his thoughts. Words are not always easy for him, but they eventually flow. I do not push.

“I wish I could sing, as you do. As Father did.”

I reach out to him, placing my hand on his. “And I wish I shared Mother’s talent at drawing the way you do. The pictures you create are unequaled. Everyone’s talents lie in different directions.”

“Yes, but to control the earth and the sky? It is magnificent.” Wonder fills his voice. I feel ashamed for taking for granted the Song that swells within me, the feeling of oneness that I have with the life and energy of the world.

“We are different,” I say. He looks pointedly at my hand, still on his arm, an example of the difference clearly displayed by the contrasting hues of our skin. Mine like our father and the other Songbearers with our dark hair and dark eyes, his the shade of Mother’s and the other Silents, with eyes of vivid golden copper. “The blue of the day’s sky and the black of the night’s are different, but one is not better than the other. We need both. If I could give you part of my Song, I would, so you could feel what it is like. And perhaps you could give me some of your talent so that I could paint the murals that bring such delight to all who see them, and it will equal out.”

He pulls away from my touch and stands, offering me his roasted tuber before turning to look at the water. “We will never be equals, Oola.” My name on his lips has never sounded so hopeless.

My twin walks toward the water, and I move back to Yllis’s arms.

“He offered for the daughter of the Head Cantor,” Yllis says as I watch Eero’s retreating form. “She turned him down for one of the Healers.” A fissure forms in my heart.

“I did not know. He tells me little of his love life. Once upon a time, we were close as heartbeats.” I shift to face Yllis. “Do you think there is a way?”

He leans his forehead to mine, his Song dancing at the edge of my perception, offering solace and comfort. I do not reach for it, but I am glad it is there.

“A way for what?” he says.

“To share my Song with him?”

A thoughtful look crosses his face. His studies with the Cantors are progressing; he is learning much about new spells, new ways to funnel and control the massive energy of Earthsong. “If there is a way, we will find it. I promise.”

His lips slide to mine, the kiss is not all-consuming, it is simply a reminder that he is here for me and that any problem I face, he faces, as well. My worries flee. I would do anything for my twin, and if it is a Song he desires, I will do all I can to give it to him.

Jasminda pressed her
face to the glass of the auto as it drove through the city and back up the winding roads leading to the palace. The caldera pulsed in her pocket, making her always aware of it.

When she’d awoken from the last vision, she’d tried to touch the caldera again. With the Mantle coming down soon, she wanted to learn as much as she could as quickly as possible, but there had been no effect. Unlike whatever had happened in the mountain cave, this caldera used the strength of her own Song, and after two visions, she was depleted.

She’d held back when telling the Keepers of the last vision. She would reveal everything eventually, but she needed time to wrap her mind around what she’d seen. The girl she’d been, Oola, was an Earthsinger with skin the color of Jasminda’s own, and the girl had been born a twin to Eero, a Silent—as Oola called him—who resembled an Elsiran. These visions were windows into a world where Singers and Silents wed and apparently lived in peace with their children, normal and accepted. There had been no feeling of isolation in Oola’s thoughts, no sense of being always mistrusted or feared for her magic. On the contrary, her brother was jealous of her power.

As soon as Jasminda’s Song was restored she would try again. Unlocking the caldera’s secrets was now her only goal.

The newspaper cartoon
displayed a baby with a shotgun in one hand and a scepter in the other, a crown of bullets sitting askew on his head. On one side, grotesque caricatures of Lagrimari refugees gobbled food from huge bowls, while on the other, waifish Elsiran farmers split a single loaf of bread.

An editorial on the same page detailed Prince Jaqros’s plan to starve his own people in favor of the refugees. It dredged up the swirling chaos surrounding his mother’s emigration after his father’s death. Those days had been dark ones. Jack’s hands curled into fists at the memory.

The country had mourned their beloved prince, but for ten-year-old Jack, a sense of hope had finally begun to creep into his life. The man who had terrorized both him and his mother couldn’t hurt them anymore. He’d thought his mother would feel the same relief he felt, but she slipped further and further away, becoming withdrawn and silent. One day she’d announced she was leaving. Not just on holiday, which would have been scandal enough during a time of mourning, but renouncing her citizenship and moving to Fremia.

She hadn’t even sought him out to say good-bye. Had merely left him a letter of apology, saying if she had to see
his
picture again in the papers or hear all the gushing praise for a man who’d been the source of their own private misery, she would take her own life. So she’d fled, leaving Jack alone to withstand the national animosity left in her wake.

Today’s newspaper article reported “no confidence that the offspring of a woman who many consider a traitor to her country could effectively rule.” Tales of Jack’s early missteps and indiscretions were laid out. Drunken brawls as a teenager. Being caught “cavorting” with the daughter of a Fremian official and almost inciting an international incident. His recent reckless undercover mission and subsequent disappearance. He was young and headstrong and prone to rash behavior.

Though the article did not specifically mention Jack’s, mostly empty, threat of Prince’s Right, it summarized constitutional law on the circumstances under which he could dissolve the Council and act alone. The article also took note that he had not yet relinquished his title of High Commander, strongly inferring that he had too much power.

Jack slammed the paper shut and tossed it to the ground. Usher stooped to pick it up, smoothing the folds and placing it neatly on the bureau.

“What happens if I abdicate?” he said, seriously considering the idea.

Usher sat next to Jack in the armchair in front of the fireplace, a finger to his lips in thought. “Your cousin Frederiq is a lovely boy, but a twelve-year-old Prince Regent would fare little better in the press, I’m afraid.”

Jack groaned. “The Council would run that child ragged and rule unchecked. Sovereign only knows what manner of damage they’d cause if left entirely to their own devices.” He rose and leaned against the mantelpiece. “I don’t know what to—”

Before he even finished his sentence, his secretary burst into his office. “The Council has called an emergency meeting, Your Grace. They’re threatening to vote without you.”

“Vote on what?”

“I’m not sure, sir. They said it was urgent.”

“Thank you, Netta.” He straightened his suit coat and headed for the Council Room.

All of the men were already there, and expectant faces regarded him, some far too smug for his liking.

“What is this about?” Jack said, dropping heavily into his seat.

“Your Grace”—Stevenot’s eyes were wide and round—“the people are demanding action.”

“Action?”

“Yes, we’ve received a petition with well over two thousand names.”

“And what do all of these people want?”

Calladeen leaned forward, hands clasped in front of him. “To eject the refugees from Elsira.”

Pugeros passed around mimeographed copies of the treasury reports. “The numbers do not lie, gentlemen. The Principality simply cannot afford to continue providing food and care for the refugees. In a few more weeks, we will have run through our reserves entirely.”

Jack reviewed the documents in front of him. “How is there no money?”

Pugeros widened his arms and lowered his head, the motion indicating that he was not to blame for the dire financial straits.

“Then we take out a loan.” Jack turned to Stevenot. “And we work to educate the people on why ejecting political refugees is not only a callous move but is fundamentally un-Elsiran. We would send these women, children, and elders where, exactly? Back into the grip of a madman?”

“They could go to Udland. It is closest to the climate they’re used to. Or perhaps Raun,” Stevenot said.

“Udland is a wasteland of superstitious tribes. They would never allow outsiders entry. And Raun . . .” Jack shook his head. “You would send women and children to a nation of pirates?”

“Your Grace is surely not suggesting that we destroy what’s left of our economy and plunge ourselves further into debt for a handful of savages?”

Jack slammed his hand on the table. “What of our honor?”

“Honor is not about doing what is right in a vacuum of consequences. Honor is doing the hard thing and letting history determine your legacy.” Calladeen’s voice was low and measured. He quoted words Alariq had said many times. Jack wanted to punch the man. “Besides, we have no knowledge that their safety is at risk if they are sent back to their home.”

Jack’s teeth ground together. “Why exactly do you think they risked their lives to leave?”

“I believe Prince Jaqros is right,” Nirall spoke up. “The people are jumping to rash conclusions not borne of fact. Perhaps if His Grace were to give a speech? Take to the radio waves with a formal address and assure our people that we hear their concerns. That may go a long way toward assuaging them.”

Jack considered. The idea of a speech made him antsy, but he had not formally addressed the people since gaining power. Maybe that was just what everyone needed, to be reassured he wasn’t just the reserve prince, though that’s how he felt every day. A strong statement could put things on the right track, acknowledging that though times were hard, Elsirans overcame.

He nodded, filled with gratitude for Nirall. The speech could change their minds. Even as he agreed to the plan, the faces looking back at him were less than convinced. Pugeros shuffled his papers, and Stevenot blinked his round, watery eyes rapidly. Calladeen seethed, glaring at his uncle.

“There is another matter, Your Grace,” Stevenot said, some color returning to his features.

Jack kneaded the bridge of his nose, wary of whatever else the man had on his mind. “What is that?”

“High Commander of the Armed Forces.”

“Is that a question?”

Stevenot swallowed. “The Prince Regent generally does not hold both titles at once.”

“Minister, the eve of war is not a time to change the leadership structure of the military. I’m leaning on my top generals while I deal with things here, but it would be foolish to make a formal switch now. Besides the High General is only months from retiring, someone else must yet be groomed for the position.”

Calladeen leaned forward, propping his chin on steepled fingers. “The option of a choosing a High Commander from outside of the military has been broached.”

The air in the room changed as Jack met Calladeen’s gaze. “And whom do you propose?”

No one spoke for a long moment, but Jack waited them out.

Nirall broke the silence. “Minister Calladeen focused on military science in university and even spent a year abroad observing the Fremian Warriors. He would be a suitable candidate for the interim.”

Jack’s eyebrows rose. “Observed and studied, but never fought, is that correct?” No one at the table would now look at him. “You gentlemen honestly believe our country is safer with the military led by an untrained novice who’s never looked a man in the eye in battle and shot him where he stood?” He turned to Calladeen. “Or have you, Minister? Is there some secret life you’ve led of which I’m unaware?”

Calladeen’s jaw tensed. “No,” he gritted out.

“I trained for nine years before taking over the title I was born to. I lived side by side with the men whose lives would be affected by my decisions. I fought next to them in the last breach.” He leaned forward, gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles cracked. “I have bathed in the blood of the men who gave their lives for this land, and I will not allow you to disrespect their memories with your ignorance or incompetence.”

Outrage had his blood moving faster. He stood suddenly, the heavy wooden chair in which he sat screaming as it slid across the floor. “Is there anything else?”

Downcast eyes met him from every seat at the table. He stormed from the room, rubbing his chest where his wound had suddenly began to ache.

Or maybe that was just his heart.

In the distance
, the clouds have not yet begun to form, but I feel them coming. A raw wind races across the mountain ridge, but I want to feel it so I do nothing to block its bite. The sensation of the air whipping against my skin grounds me.

Above my head, Eero turns circles in the air. I briefly wonder who taught him the trick, but no one needed to. He has been a quick study. He swoops before me, hovering just out of reach. I grab for him anyway, knowing it will make him smile, and he races away.

“You will burn yourself out,” I call up to him, making sure my voice carries as his form becomes smaller and smaller. Within minutes, I sense him weakening. He has just enough Song left to land gracefully by my side, laughing, his face full of joy.

“A little more please,” he says, holding out his hand.

“More? So you can waste it flying through the air like a deranged bird? There is a reason you do not see any other Songbearers tearing through the skies disturbing the clouds.”

He snorts. “Because you are stodgy curmudgeons with no sense of adventure.”

I roll my eyes. “No, because we respect the energy and do not squander it on frivolity. If you needed to fly to escape danger or forestall some terrible event, that would be one thing.”

His resonant chuckle echoes off the mountain peaks behind us. “If you give me a little more, I will endeavor to seek out some poor soul in peril and give aid straightaway.”

I turn away from him and cross my arms.

“My dearest, most beautiful and talented sister.” He leans into me and makes his most pitiful face to engage my sympathy.

“Your only sister.”

“Yes, and a more wonderful sister there could never be. I promise not to squander it. I shall give the Song the respect it deserves. Please?”

I want to hold my ground against him. But in the weeks since Yllis discovered the spell that allows gifting a portion of a Song from one to another, Eero has been happier than I have seen him since the loss of our parents. Perhaps happier than I have ever seen him.

We thought it best not to make the spell widely known, and so we are all sworn to secrecy. Eero and I come up into the mountains above town to let him practice so as not to be spotted. When I gift it to him, I give him just a little, but he has been using it up faster and faster, asking for more and more. Some part of me advises caution—having been born Silent, there is no telling how the power will affect him—but it brings him such joy.

With a sigh, I turn back to him and hold out my hands. The power is always there, humming inside me, a leashed beast waiting for release. I set a trickle free and sing it into my twin, deep into the core of him where it would last him quite a while if he didn’t waste it.

“No more until tomorrow,” I admonish. His eyes shine as he nods his understanding.

With a flick of his wrist, he pulls the moisture from the air until it forms a tiny dense cloud hovering above his palm.

“What are you going to do with that?” I ask, holding back a laugh.

His grin is mischievous, and he winks at me. “Just a bit thirsty is all.” He opens his mouth and the little cloud becomes a stream of water that arcs, landing on his tongue.

I shake my head and turn back toward the ocean. “The storm will be here in a few hours,” I say. “We had better head back down.”

He squints into the distance unable to see what I see. “You cannot stop it?”

I shrug. “If we stopped every storm, nothing would ever grow.” A greater unease pushes at me, but I brush it away. One storm at a time is all I can deal with.

Jasminda opened her
eyes and sat up from where she’d sagged into the bench on the balcony of her room. The view of the ocean was beautiful, almost exactly the same as the one she’d seen in her vision. But the city of the vision had been only one-tenth its current size. Rows of small, wooden structures lining dirt roads stood where the clusters of magnificent stucco buildings with red-tiled roofs were today. She’d seen the Rosira of another time, a past where Earthsingers were called Songbearers
and were vastly more powerful than they were now.

She knew without a doubt that if Oola had needed to cross a mountain during a snowstorm, she could have easily stopped the snowfall to do so safely. Or even flown across, if needed. Little Osar who had saved them from the avalanche was one of the most powerful Singers any of the Keepers had seen, except for perhaps Darvyn, and even the boy could not control the weather.

The glimpses she saw of the past made her long even more for that faraway time when life seemed calmer and easier.

“Miss?” Nadal called from inside.

“Out here,” she replied, wrapping up the caldera and placing it in her dress pocket.

“Would you like lunch on the balcony, miss?” the maid said, already searching for a place to set down her tray.

“No, I’ll eat inside. And can you arrange for a driver for this afternoon? I need to make another trip to the refugee camp.”

“Certainly.” Nadal nodded and breezed back through the door.

Jasminda tried to mesh the Rosira of her vision with the one that lay out before her. When had everything gone wrong? Why had the city and the country transformed into a place that feared magic and hated anyone who could perform it?