Siren

by Sophia Elaine Hanson

  “But if Maxwell starts his insane mission, they’re doomed.”

  Roark sighed, sagging visibly. He was covered in filth from the rescue operation, but somehow still managed to look startlingly handsome. It made Ronja want to kick him in the shins.

  “We know that,” he said. “They do not.”

  Ronja wracked her brains, rolling the zethas between her fingers. “Maybe . . . ”

  Her thoughts evaporated. Goosebumps flared all over her body. Across the room, haunting music was rising from the crowd, a lone string instrument among the rebels and refugees. She stared, hypnotized as her synesthesia kicked in, threading silver and green through the air. Her heart expanded. She had almost forgotten the ecstatic beauty of real music. It was the creeping fingers of The New Music that stalked her dreams. Ronja dropped her eyes to Roark. “I wish you could see the music.” she said, glancing up at the twisting bands of light and sound. “It’s beautiful.”

  Roark shook his head, a rueful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “With you in the room, everything pales, Siren.”

  Ronja rolled her eyes but felt her chest swell, battering away the hopelessness ensnaring them. She might have lifted from the floor had movement to her right not caught her eye. Her insides turned cold as time scraped to a halt. In the space between the crowds and the tables stood a man, his face tilted toward the ceiling. She followed his line of sight to the bands of green and silver hovering above the trié.

  Before Roark could stop her, she leapt to her feet and started toward him. He did not see her coming until she was practically on top of him.

  “Ronja!” Darius exclaimed, backpedaling away from her. “I had no idea you were going on the rescue operation.”

  Darius was dressed in the uniformed armor of the Kev Fairla. The rings on his fingers had been exchanged for thick work gloves and his gray hair was matted with sweat and dirt. She took him in through narrowed eyes. “What were you looking at, just now?” she demanded, keenly aware that the pulsing colors were growing brighter as the song progressed.

  His surprise was smoothed over by quiet understanding. “Easton told me they call you the Siren,” he finally said, his voice barely audible over the mournful strings. “I thought it was just a coincidence. The Anthemites always were fond of their mythological codenames.”

  “Coincidence?” Her heart was like a jackhammer in her ribs. It nearly drowned out the song. “What are you talking about? What did you see?”

  “The same thing you’re seeing right now,” he said. “The Aura.” Ronja felt the world tilt. Darius, the trié, the colors, all bled from existence. “Your mother would have told you about it, had she been able.”

  Her vision clicked back into focus at the mention of Layla. “What is it?” she whispered.

  “Your birthright.” Darius lifted his stubble-shadowed chin to look at the Aura, reverence and nostalgia flickering in his gaze along with the reflection of the colors. “Revinia was so much more than just an aesthetic capital. It was the birthplace of song, long before our family came to rule it.”

  “Birthplace of song. What does that mean?” Ronja pressed him frantically.

  “It means you are far more powerful than you know, Ronja Alezandri,” Darius said, turning to her. His gaze pinned her in place, making her feel like a bug under a magnifying glass. “Most of the lore has been lost to time and The Conductor’s warpath. What we do know is that forces beyond our fathoming came together to lace the city—and then our bloodline—with music.”

  “That—that’s impossible,” Ronja stuttered, stepping away from him. “What, are you saying this is magic?” No, it was ridiculous. She and the other Anthemites had joked about it in the past, but it was just that, a joke. It was just frequencies clashing, or synesthesia, or some leftover neurological scarring from The Music, or . . .

  “I am saying it is beyond our understanding.”

  “Roark said it was synesthesia,” Ronja shot back, a twinge of desperation in her voice.

  Darius studied her. Orchestral music swirled around them, its physical manifestation riding the air currents like birds. Then he turned his eyes to the ribbons of light. Slowly, he raised a gloved hand toward them. His eyelids flickered shut as concentration rolled over him. For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

  Then Ronja felt the world kick beneath her feet.

  One of the silver threads peeled away from the mass, slithering toward his outstretched hand. It snaked around his forearm and pooled in his hand. Its edges were blurred, like the boundaries of a dream. Ronja reached out slowly, her gritty fingers trembling in the pulsing glow. She flinched when her hand passed through it sending warmth coursing along her bones. “It’s real,” she whispered. “I can feel it.”

  “With time, you can learn to control it, if you wish,” Darius said, examining the gracile light with a faint smile. “Music is more than just beauty, Ronja. It is life.” The song drew to a close, the last mournful notes reverberating through the hall. Bittersweet applause followed. The crowd dispersed as sobriety was reinstated, parting to reveal a young man sitting on an upturned crate playing what looked like an elongated cello. He was covered in dirt, dressed in a newsboy cap and baggy shirt. He grinned broadly as rebels and refugees alike clapped him on the shoulder and tousled his hair. She looked back at Darius just in time to see the glistening thread evaporate from his hand like fog in sunlight.

  “I thought I was insane,” Ronja finally said, her eyes glued to his now empty palm.

  “Not insane,” Darius replied with a knowing chuckle. “Gifted.”

  “What can you do?” Can you do the things I can do? Can you kill The New Music?

  “Our gifts vary. My brother was a healer. He could stitch skin together with song, make a stomachache disappear with a lullaby. Me, I could sing the truth out of people. All of us can see and touch the Aura, make it solid.”

  “I freed Roark from The New Music by singing,” Ronja said, switching her gaze to Darius’s face. He appeared calm, if weary. Utterly different from the man she had encountered at dinner. “I freed Revinia, too at least, until Bullon cut off my broadcast. Did—did anyone in our family ever do anything like that?”

  The shadow of a memory passed over his weathered face. “Even if they could have, they never got the chance. The Conductor wiped them out.”

  “Which is why he came for the whole family, not just the king,” Ronja realized with a chill. “And why he was so afraid when he recognized me.”

  Darius nodded patiently as she continued to sift through her tangled thoughts.

  It was insane, preposterous. Yet it made more sense than any other theory she had come up with since she first saw The New Music writhing in the air at Red Bay. Ronja bit her lip. Not six hours ago, she had stormed out after railing at Darius and ordering him never to speak to her again. She cleared her throat, her face heating. “I—”

  “I believe I owe you an apology, Ronja,” he broke in. The Siren stared up at him, her mouth hanging open dumbly. He scratched the back of his head, something she had come to associate with Roark. “I was terrified to meet you, and I made an ass of myself. I wanted to impress you, but I believe I only succeeded in showing you the worst parts of me.” He gave a tiny, hopeful smile. “Can we start over?”

  He held his hand out for her to take, the same one that had moments ago been wrapped in the ethereal light of the Aura. Ronja twisted around, suddenly remembering Roark. He was watching them from the table, a bemused smile on his face. Their eyes met, and he gave a subtle nod. Go. She turned back to Darius. “Can you teach me how to control my voice, how to become more powerful?”

  “Yes.”

  Ronja grasped his hand firmly. “Then we have a deal.”

  34: Bloodlines

  Darius begged Ronja to get some rest before they began their first lesson, but she insisted they start immediately. When the king refused, she beckoned Roark to back her up.

  “Once she makes up her mind, there is no changing i
t,” he told Darius with a brief chuckle. “Just go with it.”

  “Fine,” Darius conceded with a sigh. His tone was aggravated, but beneath it she could sense he was just as eager as she was. “I’ll wait for you by the south exit, Ronja,” he said, backing away from the couple. “Take your time.” He locked eyes with Roark, nodded formally, then started off across the trié.

  Ronja rounded on the Anthemite, nearly vibrating with excitement.

  “So are you going to tell me what happened, or do I have to guess?” he asked, his eyebrows high on his forehead.

  “He can see the colors, Roark,” she whispered, the words tumbling out of her mouth like stones down a hill. “He can see them. He’s just like me.”

  Roark tilted his head at her, surprised. “He has synesthesia?”

  “No.” She shook her head, a shocked grin exploding onto her mouth. “No, we were wrong, this is not synesthesia. This is something else.” Ronja had stopped herself before she said the word on the tip of her tongue, but he seemed to understand. “Darius is going to teach me how to use my voice—I mean, really use it.” She grabbed him by the hand, gazing up at him with watering eyes. “Do you want to come?”

  Roark smiled, affection blooming on his face. “No, love. I believe this is a family matter.” He leaned down and kissed her on the brow. “I’ll find Jonah and see if I can do anything to help. Maybe they can find a place for me.”

  “Good, good.”

  Roark snorted, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. “Go,” he said, jerking his head in the direction Darius had moved off in. “Find your voice, Siren.”

  Ronja bobbed her head, buzzing with adrenaline. “Okay. I’ll find you later. I love you.”

  He winked at her coyly. “I know.”

  She spun on her heel and rushed after Darius, darting between somber Kev Fairlans. The king was waiting for her near the southern exit, just as he had indicated. He smiled as she came up on him, his greenish eyes luminous against his dark clothes.

  “Hi,” Ronja greeted him, awkwardness slamming into her like a rogue subtrain.

  “Hello, again,” he said, looking away from her. Evidently, she was not the only one feeling awkward. “Come on,” Darius said, starting down the busy corridor. “We’re going to the library.”

  “The library?” she asked, jogging to catch up to him. “Why?”

  “Space and privacy,” he answered. “No one will be there tonight, not with the influx of refugees.”

  Ronja felt her enthusiasm wane. She had been so fixated on the prospect of better understanding her abilities, she had almost forgotten the horrors of the day. The image of the boy crushed by the concrete wormed back into her brain. Shame wrapped around her, bowing her head.

  “You have nothing to feel guilty about,” Darius said, reading her thoughts. “How many people did you save today?”

  “Not enough.”

  The king surprised her by barking a dark laugh. “It never is.”

  Ronja passed him an inquisitive look as they made their way through the packed halls. Today, no one was eyeing her. They were too focused on the crisis at hand, not to mention she was probably unrecognizable under the layers of soot. “You’re different,” she commented. “What changed between now and dinner?”

  “As I said, I was behaving like an ass,” Darius said with a visible wince. “I thought I could impress you with—”

  “Those stupid rings?”

  Darius blushed. “My father gave me those.”

  Ronja smirked up at him. His face fell, and for a moment she thought she had gone too far. Then he spoke. “You look so much like Layla when you do that.”

  Now it was her turn to frown. They rounded a bend in silence. To her surprise, they had already arrived at the impressive entrance to the library.

  “Shortcut,” Darius explained as they crossed the threshold.

  “Right,” Ronja murmured. She craned her neck back to view the lofty stone stacks, the weight of her troubles slipping away. It was even more beautiful than she remembered.

  “You like to read?” Darius asked, watching her.

  “Yeah.” She spun in place slowly, drinking in the full effect of the room. The green shaded lamps bathed everything in an unexpectedly warm light. Just as Darius had predicted, there was not a soul in sight. “I had to drop out of school to work when I was fourteen, but I kept reading.” Ronja chuckled mirthlessly as she came to a stop, motioning at the thousands of volumes. “I bet these books have fewer redactions than the ones in Revinia, though.”

  “I see,” Darius murmured. She leveled her gaze at him, trying to place the hitch in his tone. Before she could, he clapped his hands together smartly. “Shall we?”

  “Yeah,” she said, straightening up. “Uh, what are we doing, exactly?”

  The king crossed to the nearest polished wooden table, scooting aside a stack of books to perch on the edge. He looked rather out of place with his leather armor and stiff gray hair. “Now, tell me what happens when you hear real music.”

  Ronja considered for a moment. No one had ever asked her the question point-blank. “I see colors, but they’re more than that,” she explained. “They move, almost like they’re alive, and they’re different with every song.”

  “Indeed,” Darius said with a subtle nod. He leaned toward her, lacing his gloved fingers loosely. “Each song is like a fingerprint. No two are exactly alike.”

  “Do we see the same thing, when we look at a song?” Ronja asked. The question jolted her insides. The entire situation felt like a drug-induced dream.

  “Yes. The Auras exist without us; they do not come from us. The first mistake would be to believe that they did. Now.” Darius raised a finger, as if to illustrate his point. “What happens when you sing?”

  “Uh.” Ronja itched the bridge of her nose, fidgeting under the weight of the question. “I used to see a black cloud with flecks of color in it, but now I see this bright white thing.” She flushed as Darius stared openly at her, abruptly certain that she was crazy after all. “Is—is that normal for us?” She winced. The word us had leapt from her tongue before she could swallow it.

  If Darius noticed her tumult, he chose to overlook it.

  “That is actually fairly common,” he told her. “For personal Auras to evolve with time, that is. Mine was bright red when I was young, but as I aged it became more of a copper.”

  “But what are they?” Ronja pressed him.

  Darius sighed, old disappointment radiating from him. “Like I said, most of the lore was lost. My father was never much of a historian. He packed my ship with plenty of gold when he sent me away, but I imagine most of the books burned when the palace did.”

  Ronja felt her heart sink. She had been hoping for some sort of text that might help her puzzle out her supposed inheritance.

  “What I can tell you is that the Auras are the physical manifestations of songs, and that they are, in a sense, alive.”

  “What do you mean, alive?” she asked. Chills crept up her spine, born of both fear and fascination.

  “Not in the sense that you and I are alive,” Darius assured her. “They’re not sentient, but they do live and die. They are born when a song begins and fade when it ends.” Ronja nodded, though she found the concept rather unnerving. “You can bend any Aura from any song to your will, but your voice is your most powerful tool. With me so far?”

  “I think so.”

  “Tell me about your voice,” he prompted. “What can you do, exactly, and how did you come to discover it?”

  Ronja chewed the inside of her cheek, letting her eyes wander throughout the vast room. “That is a bit of a long story,” she answered. “I feel like I’ve told it a million times.”

  “You’ve been through a lot.”

  He did not phrase it as a question, but the Siren found herself nodding anyway, gradually allowing her gaze to drift back to him. “More than I can take.”

  “Sit down,” Darius said, scooting over on the
edge of the table. “Will you tell me about it, one last time?”

  For a long moment, Ronja stood rooted on the spot. She knew the question ran deeper than just understanding the mechanics of her voice. It was an invitation to open up to a man who should have known everything about her. He should have been there to protect her, to hold her, to watch her grow.

  “When you left Revinia,” she said, keeping her voice low so it did not shake. “You really didn’t know Layla was pregnant?”

  “I had no idea,” Darius assured her gently. “Even without you in the picture, I would have given anything to stay with her. Kostya dragged me away, quite literally.”

  “Will you tell me about her, sometime?” Ronja asked. There must have been some dust in the air, because her eyes were watering. “Layla, I mean.”

  “Anything and everything you want to know.”

  “Okay.” Ronja sucked in a steadying breath, then sat down next to her father. They both smelled like war and looked like hell, but somehow it did not matter. “It started when I met Roark on the subtrain tracks . . . ”

  35: Sentiment

  Terra

  “Put these on.”

  The Off with the reddish hair tossed a coarse black prison uniform at her feet. Canvas slippers followed, landing on the hard floor with two successive slaps. Terra eyed the outfit distastefully, then looked up at her warden. “No thanks.”

  “You won’t survive the cold in your current attire,” he replied, eyeing her filthy tank top and ripped pants.

  “Your concern is touching,” Terra said dryly. “But I’ll pass.”

  “Concern is corruption. This is a command.”

  The Anthemite raised her brows, genuinely surprised. “Oh, a new one. You fascists really dig alliteration.”

  The Off drew the stinger at his hip, snapping it to life with a twist of the handle. Violent electricity crackled at its tip, close enough to sear her skin. She lifted her hands in surrender. “Fine. Turn around.” The guard did not. Worth a shot, she thought dully.