Song of Blood & Stone (Earthsinger Chronicles Book 1) (22 page)

Jasminda’s breathing was shallow. A tear escaped as she took in her aunt’s misery. “But the Sisterhood. How could she support you traveling the country with them to aid the settlers?”

Vanesse straightened and wiped her eyes again. “The Sisterhood is respectable. The Queen has shown us her blessing many times. Providing for the less fortunate is something that brings some honor to the family. The irony that Emi met your father while in the Sisterhood, is perhaps lost on Mother. Or maybe she just believes that I’m too ugly to be a temptation.”

She dropped her head. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to be there for you. Mother is very . . .” She searched for a word, fear clouding her eyes.

“You’re afraid of her,” Jasminda said, growing cold as a guilty look of assent crossed her aunt’s face. She could not fault the woman. How would she feel if she’d been burned by her own mother for falling out of line? Her grandmother must have a tenuous hold on her sanity to do such a thing.

“How did you come to be here? Where are you living?” Vanesse asked, changing the subject.

Jasminda told her of the events leading her to Rosira and of her visit to her grandmother’s house. Vanesse listened to the story, her horrified expression growing with each twist and turn.

“You mustn’t ever go back to that house,” she said, desperation sharpening her features. Vanesse’s fear was a noose around her neck. Any anger Jasminda had held toward the woman dissolved into pity. The family Jasminda had known was kind and loving. She’d never once feared either of her parents and couldn’t imagine doing so.

“I don’t plan to go back.” The reassurance caused the haunted look in her aunt’s eyes to vanish.

“Good, good.” Vanesse rubbed Jasminda’s hand between her own. “I hope that we can get to know one another. I would very much like that.”

“Me, too.” This was why she’d come to Rosira in the first place.

“There’s a place we can meet where no one will see. Though you may have to invest in a good-sized cloak, or perhaps some face paint so you’re not recognized.”

Whatever else Vanesse said was lost to the rushing in Jasminda’s ears. Her aunt could only get to know her in secret. Hidden corridors, cloaks, and face paint. Late-night rendezvous and secret trysts. Was there no one who would bring their acquaintance with her out into the light of day?

She pulled her hand out of Vanesse’s grasp and stood on shaky legs. “I’m supposed to meet with some of the refugees now. I have to go.”

Someone else’s secret. Someone else’s shame.

She left behind the question on Vanesse’s face and the call of her name on the woman’s lips.

Jasminda wasn’t certain
she’d be able to locate the tent where the Keepers had met the previous day. And even if she did, would any of them be there? They might have changed locations to maintain their secrecy. Especially if the camp really housed spies for the True Father. Though this was hard for her to believe—every face she saw seemed more downtrodden than the last. She fingered her silk dress, now self-conscious of the finery she was afforded because she happened to have been born on a certain side of the border.

A light rain began to fall as she wandered the lanes of the camp. Some of the tents had what she assumed were Lagrimari characters painted on them, but none matched the characters she’d seen on the Keepers tent.

Then she spotted Osar, playing with a group of children in the entrance to a tent. He grinned wide and waved, putting a smile on her face.

Around the corner, she found Rozyl chatting with three of the Keepers from the mountain. She dreaded asking the woman for anything, but she had little choice. The rain was falling harder now, and the thin fabric of her dress absorbed the water, chilling her. As she approached, a ripple of unease charged the air. The Keepers had their faces to the sky, as if they were listening to something.

“What’s wrong?” Jasminda said, but her question fell on deaf ears.

She reached for Rozyl, brushing her hand to get the woman’s attention. A violent press of Earthsong rose and slammed against her like a physical push. Rozyl turned, her surprise indicating she’d felt the force, as well, and hadn’t caused it. Jasminda couldn’t separate herself and was plunged directly into the flow of Rozyl’s connection to Earthsong.

Jasminda cried out, suffocated by the maelstrom of energies of so many people around her. Pain, white and hot, lanced through her body, blinding her. Somehow she had linked to Rozyl’s power, and it felt like being crushed into paste. Suddenly, a filter emerged between her and Rozyl’s Song, like a window shade pulled down to hide the glare of the sun. It muted the volume of the energy, and the vise around her chest loosened.

She was still uncomfortable but could now pick out details in the Earthsong surrounding them. The nearby soldiers—tension rippling through them, fear and distrust pulsing like blood in their veins. The fear of the refugees, the hope and the hopelessness. Their heavy hearts and minds.

Finally, she was able to tear her hand from Rozyl’s. She coughed and gasped, relieved to break the connection. Rozyl regarded her with disbelief.

“How did you link with me?” Rozyl said, looking at her like her hair were made of spiders.

Jasminda shook her head. She’d had no intention of linking with anyone.

“And why did you not shield yourself?”

“Shield?” So that must be how Earthsingers coexisted in large numbers. Again, Jasminda shook her head. “My father was the only other Earthsinger I knew. He did not teach me.” She wondered what other lessons she had missed.

“Your Song is so weak.”

Jasminda shrugged, her breathing slowly returning to normal. “My brothers could not sing at all.”

“Half-breed. I don’t know why it must be you,” she said with disgust, and took off down one of the wider paths through the tents.

“I don’t know what just happened, but I didn’t ask for it, either. I didn’t ask to be the only one the caldera will work for,” Jasminda called out, racing after Rozyl’s quick steps. The other woman ignored her, and soon they emerged at the camp’s entrance where a crowd had grown. Rozyl disappeared into the throng of people.

Still shaking from the unexpected force of the link, Jasminda strained for a better view of what had captured everyone’s attention. “What’s happening?” she whispered to a woman cradling a sleeping baby.

“I think they’re holding back the rations.”

Jasminda moved to the front of the group to verify. Vanesse and two other Sisters stood near a line of soldiers arguing with the captain. At their feet were the crates of rice, potatoes, and vegetables sitting out in the rain.

“You cannot keep rations from these people. I won’t allow it,” the oldest Sister said.

Jasminda approached, mindful of why Jack had wanted her here in the first place. A few other refugees broke away from the crowd and drew nearer to the soldiers, as well.

“Is there a problem delivering the rations, Captain?” Jasminda said.

The man looked at her sharply, evidently surprised at her command of Elsiran. He glanced at her dress, obviously expensive even in its wet state and so different from the threadbare fabric covering the refugees. She’d not seen this man before, and he probably had no idea as to her identity, but he could plainly see she was different than the rest.

“This witchcraft will not be tolerated,” the captain said.

Jasminda crossed her arms and stood her ground. “Exactly what witchcraft are you referring to?”

The man glowered at her, rain dripping off his nose. Jasminda looked around, searching for what could have angered the soldiers into withholding the rations. Finally, she looked down at her dress, clinging to her wet body. The rain had stopped where she stood, yet it still poured upon the captain standing less than a metre away. She looked to the sky—overcast—and then around at the camp. About a dozen metres of land were dry in the midst of the rain.

The explanation turned out to be simple. Several lines of laundry had been run between the tents near the entrance of the camp. Someone had cast a small spell, most likely to avoid having the clean laundry rained upon.

“It’s just a spell for the laundry, Captain,” she said, pointing to the lines of clothes.

The man’s face hardened. “It’s evil. The whole lot of you
grols
are evil.” He spat, aiming at Jasminda’s feet on the dry part of the ground. The Sisters raised their voices in protest.

A boy of about twelve or thirteen came to stand next to her. She did a double take, recognizing him as the child who’d aided the settlers in Baalingrove. On her other side, two old men she hadn’t seen before regarded the confrontation warily.

Outrage overcame the pain of the words she’d heard so many times before. “You have no right to withhold the rations, Captain. You have orders to feed these people. Where is your honor?”

The captain’s face contorted. “You’ll not speak to me of honor, witch.”

“Just leave the food here. We’ll carry it in ourselves.” She pointed and moved toward the nearest crate. The boy at her side approached, as well.

“Stay back, witch. Don’t come any closer.” The captain’s hand hovered near the pistol strapped to his waist.

Jasminda stilled, but the boy kept moving, not understanding the captain’s command. In the space of a heartbeat, the captain pulled his sidearm and pointed it at the boy. The entire line of soldiers drew their rifles on the gathered refugees. The Sisters, startled, took several steps back.

“No!” Jasminda screamed. In Lagrimari, she shouted, “Stop!”

The boy looked over at her, brows drawn. His eyes glittered, warm and golden brown, lighter than most Lagrimari’s. His face still held the roundness of youth, but those enchanting eyes were hard.

The boy took another defiant step toward the food. Somewhere close-by, a woman screamed, “Timmyn!” He tensed, hearing his name, then took another step.

Time slowed as Jasminda shook her head and opened herself to Earthsong, struggling to work out the shield technique she'd witnessed Rozyl use during their unexpected link. It worked just enough so that the other energies weren’t screaming in her head, drowning out her thoughts and severing her connection, but she was far from proficient. The soldiers’ emotions were a whirlwind of fear and aggression. Too far gone to be soothed by Earthsong, even if she’d been strong enough to do so.

She reached out to Timmyn and found the well of pain to be deep. He was in a place beyond hearing, yet she still wished she had the power to push a message to him the way Osar could.
You don’t have to prove anything
, she wanted to tell him.
We will not let you starve here.
I know the prince, and he would never allow it.
Her helplessness crushed her as she felt his hurt.

When the shot rang out, Jasminda lost her connection to Earthsong. She grabbed at the air in front of her, too far away to catch him as Timmyn fell backward onto the ground. A deep-crimson stain ballooned across the fabric of his shirt. Jasminda looked up at the caption in horror. His face was an emotionless mask.

She fell to her knees. Her breath came in short, shallow bursts. Tears blurred her vision. She vaguely registered a group of refugees taking the boy away to be healed. Through the fog she heard Vanesse speaking somewhere close-by. Her words were just a jumble of sounds that didn’t penetrate. Time ceased to exist. All she could hear was the crack of the gun and the thud of Timmyn’s body hitting the earth, over and over again.

Wetness on her shoulder brought back her awareness. Nash stood over her, rain dripping from his jacket. He held out a hand. She took it and struggled to her feet. Her legs were stiff from kneeling for who knows how long.

The soldiers parted for them as Nash led her back to the town car. Jasminda looked over her shoulder. The rest of the crowd had long ago disappeared into their tents; all that remained was a ghost town.

Bedlam Strikes Refugee Camp

(continued from page 1)

An ambassador from the palace to the refugee camp, Ms. ul-Sarifor was a witness to the attack by the refugees on Elsiran military personnel. While she did not take part in the attempted mutiny, a witness reports that her presence may have inflamed tensions and emboldened the Lagrimari to pursue their assault.

According to sources within the palace, Ms. ul-Sarifor is purported to be an Elsiran citizen of mixed heritage and was specifically requested by the Prince Regent to initiate diplomacy with the foreigners on our soil.

Jack crumpled the thin newsprint in his fist. He knew very well there had been no attempted mutiny. The evening papers had gone from printing gossip and long-ago scandals to outright lies. He regretted more than ever not being able to make it to Jasminda’s rooms the night before. Palace business had kept him up late into the night, and he’d fallen sleep at his desk, surrounded by paperwork. He hadn’t realized she’d been so close to the child’s shooting.

News of the incident had enraged Jack the moment he’d heard. The captain had been arrested immediately, and while the boy had made a full recovery due to the camp’s Earthsingers, Jack was resolved to court martial the offending officer. A decision that would no doubt be met with opposition.

The door to his office opened, and Usher stepped in. Faint music filtered in through the open door.

“You will have to at least make an appearance, young sir.” Usher stood looking reprovingly at him.

“I don’t know why they didn’t cancel the bloody thing. Now is no time for a ball.”

“Third Breach Day falls on the same day every year. They cannot cancel an entire ball because the Prince Regent is in a foul temper.”

Jack stood, rolling down his shirtsleeves and buttoning them. “Don’t I have the right to be in a temper when unarmed children are being shot? When this entire country seems to have fallen victim to lunacy? At what point, I ask you, am I permitted to be upset?”

Usher picked up Jack’s discarded formal dinner jacket and held it out for him. He slipped his arms through and focused on working up some joviality for the ball he was being forced to attend. It wouldn’t do for him to scowl his way through, giving more fodder for the papers. Only one thing would truly make him smile, though.

“Is she coming?” he asked, unable to keep the hope from his voice.

“Would it be wise for her to?”

Jack’s shoulders slumped.

“She would prefer not to be at the center of any undue attention. Isn’t that what you agreed to?”

“I know, I know. It’s just . . .” He sighed and checked his appearance in the mirror. He looked tired, older than he had even a week ago. For a moment, he had an inkling of how this position could have turned his father into a brute. Jack could feel his edges hardening. The bit of himself that he’d always held back when he’d been in the army, that person he would have been if he’d been born to a baker or a farmer had always remained inside him, catching the odd glimpse of sunlight in stolen moments when he hadn’t had to flex his muscles as the High Commander. But that hidden self was now being choked. The only times he could seem to breathe anymore were when he was with Jasminda, and even then they had to remain hidden, secret. He couldn’t acknowledge anything true about himself, and he was afraid it was changing him.

He stalked down the hallways toward the cacophony of the ball. The ballroom had been decorated, somewhat garishly, in orange, the color of Third Breach Day. Each of the seven breaches had a holiday attached to them, initially as a memorial for all that had been lost in the wars, but more recently it was just an excuse for a celebration. None were as lavish as the yearly Festival of the Founders where all work ceased for three days, but each Breach Day was commemorated by excessive decorations in the color of the holiday and a palace ball for the aristocracy.

Jack entered the corridor outside the rear of the ballroom where a dozen butlers were organizing trays of appetizers. The lead butler did a double take and rushed over, admonishing him, in the most respectful way, for being in the servants’ hall. Jack brushed off the man’s request to stop the band and make a formal announcement of the Prince Regent’s arrival.

“I just want to watch for a bit,” Jack said. “I promise you can announce me once this dance is finished. I’d hate to interrupt.” The butler’s obsequious expression barely hid his displeasure at this interruption to the normal order of things, but he backed off, allowing Jack to peek through the curtains separating the hall from the ballroom.

This was the vantage from where he’d watched these events when he was too young to attend and still longed to. The elegance, the glamor—long ago he’d found them fascinating. Now all he wanted to do was escape.

The band played one of the up-tempo, syncopated melodies that had become popular of late. Couples on the dance floor marched back and forth to the beat of the music. He wasn’t the best at these modern dances but enjoyed them more than the tamer, boring classic steps.

A delicate fragrance reached his nostrils, and for a moment, his heart rose in his chest. But the light feminine scent wasn’t Jasminda. He turned to find Lizvette standing next to him.

“How did I know I’d find you hiding back here?” she said, a smile on her lips. There was still tension around her eyes, but Jack knew that would take time to fade.

“What can I say? I’m terribly predictable.”

She stepped to him, linking an arm through his and peering out at the crowded dance floor. “Perhaps
consistent
is a better word.”

“Yes, I far prefer that. And I’m not hiding. I’m biding my time.”

She chuckled and pulled him toward the doorway. “Come, Your Grace. There is no time like the present. And yes, I would love to dance.”

He barely masked his grimace and followed her out past the bewildered lead butler just as the band finished the current song. The man scampered up to the microphone on the bandstand and rushed through the recitation of Jack’s titles at top speed as all present bowed.

Jack suppressed a groan as the band started in on a tame, traditional melody. He danced the long-practiced steps with Lizvette, holding her stiffly. Just beyond the dance floor, glass doors opened to the terrace and gardens beyond. A cool breeze filtered in, reminding him of his time in the mountains.

He could almost imagine he was holding Jasminda. They had never danced, though. Perhaps he would have a phonograph delivered to her rooms so he could hold her against him and feel her heartbeat as they moved in time to the music. The thought loosened the tension that was binding him. He would dance a few more songs then steal away to be with her.

“My father came to see you, did he not?”

Jack tuned back into the room, almost having forgotten it was Lizvette he held. “Ah, yes. He told you about that. I’m sorry he had to bother you with that business. Don’t worry. The thought never crossed my mind.”

She grew rigid beneath his fingertips. “Would it be so bad?” Sad eyes blinked up at him, and he missed a step, nearly bumping into a burly man dancing inelegantly beside him.

“What are you saying?” He was barely able to get the words out through his shock.

“I know the press has been harsh . . . with everything about your mother and this dreadful business with the Lagrimari. I just— Well, perhaps Father is right. Perhaps I can help.”

Her face was open and hopeful. He couldn’t sense any guile there, but her words were madness.

“What of Alariq? His memory?”

She lowered her head. “I will always hold Alariq’s memory dear. He was truly one of a kind. But wouldn’t he want you to be at your best advantage? I think he would want this.”

Jack snorted. “My brother would not so much as let me borrow a pair of his shoes, much less his future wife.”

“Alariq is dead.” Her voice was clipped. “And I am not a pair of shoes.” The eyes staring up at him were full of hurt.

“Of course not, Lizvette. I didn’t mean to say— I only meant that — Wouldn’t Alariq have wanted for you to find love again? Happiness? Not just sacrifice yourself to aid my popularity.”

Her expression melted as she looked up at him. “Love?” She said the word like it was a curiosity, some foreign species of fruit that had appeared on her table. Her hand on his arm squeezed gently, then turned into almost a caress. Discomfort swirled within him. “Do you not think something could grow? Here?” She placed a hand on his heart.

The music stopped, and the other couples on the dance floor clapped. Jack drew away from Lizvette, from the unwelcome pressure of her hand on his chest, and turned to give polite applause, as well. He used the moment to gather his thoughts. She was in mourning, perhaps confused. He and Alariq were not much alike, but perhaps she was only grasping for the last threads of him left. He'd known her his whole life . . . at least he thought he knew her.

He bowed to her. “Thank you for the dance.” Ignoring the question in her eyes, he rushed off the dance floor to stand near the doors leading to the terrace. The collar of his shirt constricted like a noose. He longed for fresh air to breathe.

“Your Grace,” a voice called out behind him. He turned to find a cluster of men from the Merchants’ Board regarding him expectantly.

He could see now how the conversation would go: A few minutes of pleasantries, how lovely the ballroom was decorated, how fine the musicians. Then, possibly a round of complaints when he inquired after their families—a son too enthralled by the weekly radio dramas for their liking or a daughter being courted by an unsuitable beau. Then, far too quickly, they would get around to what they really wanted to talk to him about. Some favor or request, with just a nudge so that he recalled how useful their support was and thinly veiled threats of the damage that would take place if that support were withdrawn. Nothing overt, but enough pressure exerted on any joint could eventually cause a break.

The men wrangled from him a promise to consider a proposal to reduce worker wages. He didn’t tell them that as soon as the plan escaped their lips he did consider it . . . and found it untenable. No, he smiled and nodded, shook hands and wished them back to wherever they’d come from as quickly as possible. Just when he thought the Queen had finally smiled upon him and the conversation had reached its death throes, a rotund character called Dursall spoke up.

“Quite a shame what happened to that little
grol
boy yesterday.”

Jack’s jaw clenched at the epithet.

“Well, with so many of them there, something like that was bound to happen,” a wine importer named Pindeet said.

“I don’t know,” said Dursall. “I don’t suppose a
grol
is any more likely to commit violence than, say, an Udlander. If they were brought up in a proper environment, I’d think you could almost entirely erase their more barbaric tendencies.” The gathered men nodded in agreement. “Speaking of which, what’s this I read about an ambassador to the refugees? A Lagrimari woman raised in Elsira?”

Jack chose his words very carefully. “She is Elsiran. Born of a settler and a woman of the Sisterhood.”

“Quite unusual,” Dursall said. “But it proves my point. Perhaps it is in large part to the gift of half her parentage, but from all accounts she is well spoken and well groomed. I daresay almost fit for polite society. How do you find her, Your Grace?”

Eight pairs of eyes were trained on him. He tasted each word on his tongue before allowing it to leave his mouth. “In truth, I don’t know her that well. In the handful of times in which I’ve made her acquaintance, I’ve found her to be quite . . . acceptable.” He swallowed.

The conversation continued for a few minutes but was impossible for him to follow. He regretted the words as soon as they’d left his mouth, but what was he to say? To mention that he was in a constant state of longing for her touch, that a day without seeing her was incomplete, that she was the most fearless and impressive woman he had ever encountered would have been more than these old hogs needed to know. Could it ever be enough that
he
knew? That he had these feelings very near to spilling over inside him with no outlet?

He was about to slip out to the terrace when an elderly woman dripping in diamonds, the wife of a former Council member, stopped him to complain about her neighbor's roof. Jack looked longingly at the doors to freedom before plastering on a smile.

She had only
wanted to watch, perhaps from a balcony where she would not be spotted, but the ballroom had only one floor. The best place to observe without being seen was from the shadows of the terrace. The billowing folds of the curtains hid her body, clad in the ball gown Nadal had insisted she put on, just in case she changed her mind about attending. The dress was midnight blue and let her fade into the night. She was a ghost and felt as diaphanous as one, as though her existence was mere myth. Jack’s words to those men echoed in her head and seized her heart in an icy grip.

Last night had been the first night without him—the first of many she would surely experience. Soon she wouldn’t even be able to watch him in secret. He would be only a memory.

A voice from behind startled her. “Not going in?” Calladeen’s low timbre raised gooseflesh on her arms.

“No. A bit crowded for me,” Jasminda said, keeping her back to the man.

“I can imagine.”

She turned at his condescending tone. With a glare, she shouldered past him and dashed down the short staircase to the garden. A nearly full moon hung overhead, outshining the lanterns hung every metre along the gravel paths. Calladeen’s slow footsteps clicked behind her on the steps. At the bottom, she turned to face him.

“What do you want?” she bit out.

“A young woman should not be walking the exterior of the palace unescorted. Even here there are unsavory characters around.” He spread his arms to indicate the potential villains lurking about, but the only unsavory person here was him. “I’m sure our Prince Regent would never forgive me if harm were to befall you.”