Blood and Betrayal

by S. K. Sayari

  Seya moved swiftly through the halls and up the stairs to her tower. Singer’s Tower, she decided it would hitherto be known. Changing the names would take time, she knew. But names were important. The change needed to begin now if it was to last. All Songs, please let it last.

  Reaching her chambers, she strode into her library, threw her cloak across a settee, and collapsed with a sigh into a chair at the table. Taking up the greater part of the room, its surface was covered with stacks of books, piles of parchment, ink, quills, lamps, and half-burnt candles. Her head slumped into her hands, and she allowed herself, for the first time that morning, to truly feel the doubt and uncertainty that had haunted her since she’d first spoken to Iker of her plan three nights gone. She could not show any sign of her misgivings to the council, or to anyone ever again. She was a Singer. The last. The only. She must act the part, always . And their plan would work. It must. The Sovereign—former Sovereign—had agreed. It was the only way.

  Shoving away candles and ink, she wiped her eyes and gathered the nearest parchment, smoothing out the wide, wrinkled page. Time to continue from where she’d left off. Singing to the page all she knew of the Source, all the Songs: the melodies and modes, the harmonies, motives, scales, phrasings, pitches, keys, modulations, notes, rhythms, and refrains. Songs on the page would never be the same as Songs sung, but it was the only way to save them. For the future. A future she might never see, but she would not leave the Songs in her to fade and die. They must live on. She closed her eyes, took a breath into her core—and began to sing.

  Some time later, she woke to a soft knock at her chamber door. Woolly-headed, she stumbled to her feet, smoothed her dress, and turned to face the door.

  “Enter.”

  Much to her surprise, her voice was weak and rough, her throat chafed, sound barely able to leave her lips. The knock came again, more insistent. They had not heard. Shaking her head, she paused, then took a breath and tried again, reaching for resonance.

  “Enter.”

  There. This time it came at her call. Thank the Source. But how long until it would not?

  The door opened, and in walked Nylah. The young woman shut the door behind her, then turned and bowed, one hand on the pommel of the sword at her side. “Sovereign.”

  “Champion?”

  “Forgive me, sire, but dawn approaches. Your servants are without, some bearing fruit and bread, and others to dress you and help you pack for the journey.”

  Seya nodded, then looked back around to the table, which—again to her surprise—was covered with page upon page of freshly inked parchment. She must have finished sometime in the night. She lifted the topmost page, checking the final note was right, as she did not recall the singing of it, and then realised the young woman was still awaiting an answer.

  “Very well. I will eat, yes, and would have you join me. Bid them to enter with food. But as to the rest, I shall dress myself, and I have already packed.”

  The young warrior nodded, opening the chamber door to speak with the waiting servants. Moments later, she returned with two servants bearing trays of the aforementioned food and drink. They walked to the table and began to clear the parchments to make room.

  “No!” Seya shouted without meaning to; the servants jumped and stepped back, looking frightened. She shook her head, taking up the pages and placing them beside stacks and stacks of the same, all along shelves she had cleared for the purpose.

  “I do not want these disturbed.” She frowned and turned back, annoyed at herself for the loss of control and for feeling the need to explain. “Carry on.”

  The servants bowed and laid out the trays then, at a wave of Nylah’s hand, left the room. The Champion pulled out a chair and with another bow, smiled at Seya.

  “Sovereign?”

  With a nod, Seya sat down, realising then how hungry she was as her stomach gave a growl that was more than a little musical. She had ripped off a good chunk of bread and slathered on a great helping of butter and jam before she saw that the Champion was still standing. Waiting.

  “Sit. Eat. Please.”

  With a nod, the warrior sat and began to eat with obvious hunger. Seya smiled, and they shared their meal in silence, Nylah finishing first, then seeming to wait again.

  Seya raised a brow. “Is there something else?”

  Her Champion took a breath to speak, then stopped herself, shaking her head and frowning down at her plate.

  “Say your piece, Champion. You may speak freely.”

  Nylah frowned. “May I ask, Sovereign, why is it only now you wish to travel to the Sourcespring? Why have you not gone before?”

  Seya smiled. She’d wondered when that question would arise, and was glad it was this young woman to have asked it.

  “You may ask, Champion, and I shall tell you. Until now, no one knew I was the Last Singer. I could not reveal the truth, because my Songs for Lurandia were not complete, and I could not risk leaving the land unsung, should anything happen to me.”

  The young woman looked puzzled. “Unsung?”

  Seya nodded. “A land unsung is a land unprotected. Even Tian with his mages cannot hear the Song of the land, cannot find the harmonies and sing it back, do not know the notes to sing. I have spent the last century singing to the land, infusing every stone, every speck of earth and breath of wind, every drop of water and blade of grass with Songs of peace and protection, of serenity and salvation, beginning with this very tower, out to the Keep and the city beyond, and as far as I could into the lands surrounding, all on my own. The Songs will hold, even should all other magic fail, even should the kingdom fall. I could not leave until the last note was sung.”

  Nylah sat back slowly, understanding blooming across her features. “This is why Iker named you. Why you gave the council those commands.”

  Seya smiled. “Yes. The city shall stand. The Songs I have sung will hold it safe for as long as the land itself remains. Now it shall be a shelter for Singers, should more rise, and for the Song itself, forevermore.”

  The young warrior fell silent, her face dark with thought. She took a sip of cider, then looked up once more. “But why the urgency? Why leave Lurandia now, when you have only just been named? Surely you are more needed here, as Singer and Sovereign, to continue your protection of the land?”

  Seya sat back, considering the woman across from her. How much to tell her? Nylah gazed back, a surprising innocence in her eyes, warrior though she was. Innocence and honesty. Seya supposed she should know the truth. She was the Sovereign’s Champion after all. Her personal guard. More—the warrior was sworn to defend her to the death.

  “That protection has cost me, Champion—and cost me dearly. Singing so much for so long and so often is a strain. My voice is fading, and I do not know for how much longer I may give rise to the refrains needed. To sing harmony back into the world, one must find the right resonance, draw the discord to one’s own self and hold it, to then heal it. It is…trying. Even when the Singers were more, few could undertake such a task. And none alone.”

  Nylah nodded, frowning as Seya went on.

  “When the war was more distant, and Lurandia still free of struggle and strife, I could hear the Source, feel its Song and gather strength from it as needed. But now the dissonance is too great, the Sourcespring too distant and faded. It cannot come to me, so I must travel to it, and there—immersed in its intonation—I will draw strength to sing once more to the world.”

  Seya sighed. The Source would renew her Song, and her Song would renew the lands. She nodded, as much to herself as to the young woman; she took a last sip of cider, pushed the tray to one side, then stood and walked to her wardrobe, laying out the clothes for the journey.

  Nylah stood as if pulled from thought, and then bowed. “Thank you, sire. I shall make ready and await you with steeds and stores in the courtyard.”

  Seya nodded absently as she pulled out two fur-lined cloaks and compared them. “Very well. I will be down shortly.”
>
  Her Champion moved to the door—then paused once more. “Sovereign…forgive me for asking one thing more, but can you show me?”

  “Show you what?” Seya looked up.

  “Show me…something of the Song?” A childlike hope played across the younger woman’s features. “I mean no disrespect, please understand. As a child, I was told stories of the Singers long ago, who held the Three Lands safe in the bosom of their Song. How those Songs could move men and mountains alike, such was their power.”

  Seya smiled. It had been so long since she had been asked such a question. Iker had always known what she was and known, too, that it was her power that had kept Lurandia so long from the worst ravages of war. No one else in the Council of Nine had dared ask last night, out of fear or pride or both, she did not know. And yet here was one who dared.

  Nylah smiled in return, an expression that lit her entire face. Seya considered the young woman before her. She had never had much time for those of the warrior class. All her long life she had considered the ability to fight and to know the methods of battle a base, if necessary, skillset. Her own talents—the ability to sing, to know the notes, to see the strands of life and hear the music they made, and to control it all—were far more useful. After all, when Singers held sway, there was no need to fight. No space for discord. For that was what fighting was. Discordance. Cacophony. No harmony in it. And yet in Nylah’s face, Seya saw now there was beauty and grace in the way the warrior held herself. Like a cat, resting, but ready and willing to pounce.

  She acquiesced. “I will show you. Just a little now, as I am tired, and as I said, my voice is not what it once was. Still.…”

  So saying, she searched the room and, spying a candelabrum atop the mantlepiece, closed her eyes, took a low, deep breath, and loosed it as a hum. Reaching out with the Sight of Song, she found a single strand, grasped it to her, and wrapped it around her fingertips. Not too taut for so light a task. She sent the opposite end thrumming toward the candelabrum and changed her humming to words, singing the Song of Fire, sending the notes in harmony to each wick, lifting the melody to a quickening crescendo—and the candles burst into flame. Behind her, she heard the warrior gasp as she finished the Song, let go the strand, and opened her eyes once again.

  Shock reverberated through her as the sour notes clashed against the rest. Fighting to keep her voice steady, she found the loosening strands and wound them tighter, until the harmony settled again—then yet another loosened, another wrong note souring the whole. No. Once more she found it, once more she wound it, once more the Song rang true, but now she knew. She could hold no more. Every fibre of her being shook with the effort of keeping what she had. So she pulled back, concentrating only on healing the strands she bore. She turned her steps inward, spiralling in toward the Sourcespring, drawing the strands with her, weaving them, round and round, keeping each clear and separate from the rest, yet all part of the whole, her voice soaring in healing Song above it all.

  “But I do not understand.” Nylah shook her head. “I’ve read the old stories, and The Book of Names. They give no mention of Singers coming to Lurandia. They all state that the Singers died off throughout the Three Lands long before the First War.”

  They had been sailing for two-and-a-half days without incident, keeping to the centre of the Torring, the middling river that flowed from Lough Argia southeasterly past Kings Isle—now Song Holme—and on into the Southern Sea. The guards that had accompanied them had disembarked at Torringside—the last town before the lake—on the shores of the smaller Lough Torring, after much reassurance from Nylah and further insistence from Seya herself. They would undertake the rest of the journey alone.

  Seya nodded. “Yes. The stories and books do not mention Singers in Lurandia because I willed it thus.”

  Nylah frowned, but after a moment, nodded. “You did not wish to be remembered.”

  Seya looked to the warrior and smiled. “Precisely. It had become obvious that someone—or many someones, I still do not know—wanted the Singers not simply dead, but eradicated completely. I decided the best prospect for our survival—for my own and the world’s—would be to let them believe they had succeeded. Once I was the last, and a generation or two had passed, it was simple enough to change the records and let myself be forgotten, by all save the Sovereigns of Lurandia. The task fell to each Sovereign to keep The Last Singer secret and safe within the bounds of Kings Isle, and in return—”

  “In return, you kept the discord of war from the land.” Nylah finished for her.

  Seya nodded. “A vow I have kept. But a task in which I have failed.”

  She sighed and looked out across the water as they passed yet another abandoned village. There had been more of them as the river veered west. Drought and plague were already stalking these lands and moving further inland with each passing day. It was eerie to see no children running along the shores, no farmers in fields, nor fishermen in other boats. Only the river, the reeds, the water birds and insects, and the odd jumping fish accompanied their journey.

  As the day wore on Nylah grew silent, one hand on the tiller, the other on the bowline. Like most Lurandians, she was an expert sailor. The nation’s common second name was Land of Rivers, and all children born and raised in the land knew their way around water and boats from birth. The past two days had been pleasant, or would have been, had it not been for the urgency of Seya’s impending task. She found the young warrior’s company easy enough. They spoke of their upbringings, how Nylah had been a fisherman’s daughter, had taught herself sword-and battle-craft long before she found a knight to sponsor her, and so went from page, to knight, to Champion, then to Sovereign’s Champion, far more swiftly than most. Her calling, she named it—which made Seya smile.

  For her part, Seya told the young warrior of her own origins. The daughter of a smallholding lord, she was found at the age of three to have the Song inborn and was then taken to join the Chorus in the nearest Great Hall in Vrenia.

  Nylah looked surprised at that. “You’re not Lurandian, then?”

  “No.” Seya smiled. “I’m Vrenian by birth. Near Olnda, in the north. Sorry to disappoint.”

  The young woman shook her head. “Not disappointed. Just surprised. Sovereign.”

  “You must remember, when I was young, the Three Lands were not at war. They were as one, and their Sovereigns allies. Besides, Singers give up allegiance to land and liege once they take the Song.”

  “I see.” Nylah frowned in thought and fell silent for a time.

  The day wore into evening, the river carrying them on and on. As the sun set behind the western mountains, the young woman spoke again.

  “’Tis only a short way now, Sovereign, to the lough.”

  Seya nodded, her gaze drifting, half dreaming, once more toward the shore now cloaked in mist. She could hear the Sourcesong louder now, and the sound lit a light of hope within her—then she gasped awake to a thump, and a jolt.

  “We’ve run aground.” A tight-lipped Nylah was already gathering in the sail. “I’m sorry, Sovereign, but we’ll have to wade from here.”

  “Where are we?” Seya blinked, looking around.

  “It’s difficult to say, sire.” The young warrior gestured, and Seya stood to find the boat surrounded by mist, through which loomed the ghostly stalks of nearby reeds.

  “How long did I sleep?”

  “Half the night. It is morning now. I let you rest, Sovereign, as you seemed tired. The journey was quiet, and I knew the way. We’re in the source of the river now, where it meets the lough. Only it’s shallower than it should be. And I’m not certain where to go from here.”

  Seya squinted, peering through the mist, but she could not see more than a few yards in any direction. The mist swallowed the dawn light, and it was impossible to know which way to go, much less how they were going to get there. She looked over to find Nylah watching her. Waiting.

  Seya nodded. “Let me listen.”

  Tired. Sh
e was so tired. How long had she been walking? How long singing, how long holding the strands? She did not know. But she must go on. Round and round, in and out, with each pass building the Song. Her bones ached now, each step agony, and her arms—she could no longer feel her arms. She could only feel the thousand strands, only hear the constant, thundering chorus. More than half were healed now. Harmony began to surpass discord. Soon. Soon the melody would reach its end, soon she could let go the Song—perfect and pure—into the Sourcespring, filling it, freeing it, helping it to flow once again. Whole and new. Soon. She breathed in, air filling lungs, and out, Song leaving lips. Soon. Strand upon strand. Soon. She was almost there.

  “Almost there.” Seya spoke, eyes closed, from where she was carried in Nylah’s arms. They had waded this way for what seemed like hours through the mist, Seya listening, Nylah carrying her. The mist was so heavy at times it drowned out even the Source and she had to have the young warrior stop and hold perfectly still until she could hear it again. But it was louder now. And was the mist clearing?

  “There!” Yes. She opened her eyes. Not a hundred yards away. The island. Iturria, covered in low trees that curved up from shore like the leafy arms of dryads, beckoning, welcoming.

  “I will walk from here.”

  “Sire.” Nylah nodded, and put Seya down into murky water that reached only to her knees. The shallowness of the lake was troubling. It used to be so deep. No matter. Soon she would clear the Sourcespring, find the discord and change it, free the lands from the bonds that held them, right the wrongs, and the Song and the waters would flow again. Then Singers would be born anew, and the Three Lands would heal.

  She smiled to Nylah and began to wade toward the shore, the young warrior following close behind. The mist curled away as they neared the island—so much so that by the time they were out of the water and onto the sand, it had cleared completely. As if the island had expected her. Wanted her there.