Ronja looked up again, her eyes roving across her comrades. “Some will survive, and Maxwell’s conquest will be over.” She settled on Easton. He offered a sharp nod. He would do what needed to be done.
The Siren reached for the switch. It felt as though her limbs were coated in honey, heavy and slow. Her body railed against her, begging her not to put it back in that awful cage. The one that had held her for most of her life. Drawing on the last shreds of her courage, she flipped the switch.
Nothing happened. Temporary relief wrapped around her. Maybe the zetha was working. She licked her lips, preparing to sing.
The world was snuffed, licked fingers pinching a wick. Her beating heart was petrified. Her blood ground to a halt in her veins. But somehow, she was able to let out a roar of agony as The Birdsong swarmed her. The zetha was no match. It was searing, white hot against her temples, unbearably bright through her closed lids. Nothing compared. Not The Day Song or The Night Song, not even The Quiet Song. In those days, she was comfortably numb.
Now, she was awake.
Someone laid a hand on her shoulder.
“NO!” she screamed, lashing out blindly. “GET BACK!”
She forced her eyes open. Horror engulfed her. The room was gone. Everything was gone. Even the sky had been ripped away. There was nothing but The Birdsong, black like thunderheads. It swallowed everything in its path, leaving a trail of decay in its wake. It was every stinger that had ever been pressed to her skin, every cut and every bruise she had ever received. Every person she had ever lost and everyone she would lose again.
Come to me, it whispered without words. Come to me, sweet child. Little bird, you are so tired. You have worked for so long.
Shut up! Ronja screamed.
Come to me, little bird. You will be rewarded. You can sleep. You can finally sleep.
Exhaustion like she had never felt enveloped Ronja. Somewhere far beyond her, her knees gave out. She felt them hit the marble floor of a room that did not exist.
Give yourself to me, little bird. You are so tired. You have done so much for so many people, and look where it has gotten you. Beaten. Mutilated. Scarred. Assaulted. Tortured. Killed.
Leave me alone!
Little bird, your wings are broken, but I can make you fly.
Infinity swirled around her, sinking its hooks into her skin.
Little bird, rest now. You are so tired. You have worked so hard. You deserve to sleep.
Yes . . .
You deserve to rest.
Yes . . .
Ronja!
The Siren shuddered. That name. Where had it come from? Not from the gentle blackness bearing her weight. It was attached to something warm and firm, pulsing with life.
Roark.
Leave him, little bird. He has caused you nothing but pain.
Ronja!
NO!
Ronja crashed back into her body, the force of her return rattling her bones and teeth. She was heaving before the dashboard, her pale skin dripping in icy sweat, her war paint running into her eyes. Roark was at her side—Roark. She reached out to him through the suffocating Aura of The Birdsong. He was there in an instant, her anchor. The Siren opened her mouth and began to sing.
When the day shakes
Beneath the hands of night
Each word was like a white hot blade in her skull. She forced herself to keep her eyes open, holding her screams of agony in her belly. She raised her chin, searching for her Aura among the black clouds that were eating her alive. There was not a thread of white anywhere. There was nothing. She was nothing. She kept singing anyway.
When your page is ripped
From the Book of Life
Someone else grabbed her free hand. She could not see them through the black Aura, but she knew who it was. She could feel the power sizzling between them. Darius. What had he said? Her Aura was an extension of the self, like her arm.
Ronja felt her eyes roll back into her head. Her back arched as wave after wave of agony rolled over her. A thousand memories poured from her, spilling into the black mass.
Layla. Dead at her feet. Georgie, crying after a classmate had broken her finger like a pencil. Cosmin, struggling to speak after being exposed to the prototype of The New Music. Henry, his voice on the radio. Henry, his eyes empty as drums as he pulled the trigger on Samson. Evie. Iris. Mouse. Imprisoned below the palace. Because of her. Terra, face down on the marble, dead or close to it. Darius, just a child when he was ripped from his home.
Roark. Chained to the wall by his father, the discoid scars on his arms glaring white in the fluorescents. Tears sliding down his cheeks as he spoke of Sigrun. Screaming as Maxwell dragged her limp body away. Under The New Music. Unfeeling. Uncaring. Unmade. No. Not again.
Sing my friend
Into the dark
Sing my friend
Into the black
Ronja got to her feet, staring up at the dark Aura. There was not a trace of white in its midst, not yet. She closed her eyes, curling each individual memory to her chest, crushing them into a knot of iridescent agony.
Sing my friend
There and back
With a roar that could topple mountains, Ronja released her Aura. It exploded from her chest, a deafening flash of the purest light. It shattered the faces of the clock tower, reducing the glass to dust. It poured over Revinia, bathing every street, every house, every tortured corner of the walled city in light that none could run from. It shredded the black Aura that choked them, until only shivering threads remained, slinking away into the night sky.
Then silence.
She crashed to her knees again, though she did not feel it. She was far beyond the realm of her body. She was in the stars. Only this time, they were warm. They were luminous. She was luminous. She was everything and she was nothing. She was the Siren.
She was song itself.
63: All Fall Down
Roark
Roark lunged, catching Ronja by the waist before she crashed forward. He might have been screaming, it was impossible to tell over the roar in his ears. Her body was hot to the touch, but the color had been drained from her cheeks, her wan skin stark against her war paint. The blood that leaked from her nose and remaining ear was already drying on her face. No. He pressed his fingers to her neck, hunting for a vital sign. Something. Anything.
Beat.
“Roark!”
Roark looked up. The world screamed back into focus. He knelt on the floor of the clock tower behind the dashboard, the limp form of the Siren cradled in his arms. Around him was chaos. The glass faces of the clock had been reduced to dust, the frigid winter winds pouring through them. Darius, Easton, and Paxton stood above them, struck dumb.
Then the commander shook himself free of shock. “We have to get out of here,” he said. “Jonah should have set the charges by now.”
Roark found his voice. “Jonah, Larkin, do you copy? The Siren has done it. If you can find your way out, the Revinians will be harmless.”
“Copy that,” came Jonah’s breathless voice. “Rigged the first blast to blow the door, we’ll meet you at the extraction point.”
Easton nodded and began to speak in rapid Tovairin into his zethas. Darius took that time to crouch next to Roark and Ronja, laying his weathered hand on her wan cheek. Her head lolled to the side, her lips parting slightly.
“Will she be okay?” Roark asked, desperation making his voice crack.
“Yes,” Darius replied, not taking his eyes off her. He shook his head in wonderment. “Never in my life have I seen anyone do anything like that, not even my father.” He smiled, lifting his eyes to Roark. “You’re lucky to have her in your life.”
Roark opened his mouth to respond, but just then Ronja began to stir in his arms. “Ro, hey, Ronja. Look at me, love.” He tapped her face lightly, giving her body a little shake. “Come on, love, look at me.”
Her eyes peeled open like dawn peeking over the horizon. The whites were fill
ed with red, burst capillaries. “Roark,” she whispered, her voice scarcely more than a breath. “Did we do it?”
“You did it,” he told her, bringing his brow down to hers. The touch burned his skin, but he barely felt it. “You did it, love. Now we just have to blow the mainframes.”
“Darius, Roark.” Both men looked up. Easton and Paxton stood at the edge of the north face. “Two minutes.”
“How the hell are we going to get down in time?” Roark asked. As soon as he spoke, the answer came to him. “Oh, right.” he said. He hooked his arms under Ronja’s knees and neck, curling her to his chest. Even in her armor, she was light as a feather. She’d passed out again, but the pulse at her neck was still strong.
“Pull your chute the second you jump, understand?” Easton said, looking around at them all. They nodded in turn. The commander locked eyes with Roark. “Hold her tightly.”
Roark flattened her back to his chest, holding her with one arm and gripping the chute release with his free hand. “Always.”
Without another word, they leapt from the tower, leaving the remnants of the battle behind. The cold air rushed past them for a split second—then Roark yanked his chute. It pulled him back ferociously. He wrapped both arms around Ronja, clinging to her as they sank toward the ground. The city sprawled around them, an infinity of warm light and confusion. They landed a bit harder than he would have liked. He twisted and fell backward to protect the Siren.
Groaning, he deposited her on the ground and got to his feet. He hit the button that retracted his chute, stumbling slightly when it snapped back into its pack.
There were hundreds of bodies in the square, living and dead. The dead were strewn around haphazardly, blood and bone glinting in the city lights. The living wandered like lost children, silent and exhausted. Some touched their Singers, others cried. Some sat on the ground, staring at the dead.
“She all right?”
Roark rounded on the familiar voice, unprecedented relief cutting through him. “Jonah,” he said. “You made it. Is Larkin—?”
“She’ll live.” He gave a pained smile. His hands and armor were coated in blood. He glanced down at Ronja, who had not moved since they landed. “Our girls are a hell of a lot tougher than we are.”
“That they are,” Roark agreed.
“We gotta move,” Easton called, beckoning them with a gloved hand. “We have to—”
“ROARK!”
Roark stiffened. Time screamed to a halt. He turned slowly, as if his limbs were coated in honey. Before his brain could catch up with his body, someone slammed into him with the force of a steamer, tackling him to the slushy ground.
“YOU STUPID BASTARD!”
“EVIE!” Roark wrapped his arms around her, shocked laughter tearing from his lips. “You’re not dead!”
“Not yet, mate.” She rolled off him and shot to her feet, sticking her tattooed hand down for him to grasp. He let her pull him up, then roped her into another tight hug. She was filthy, her hair stiff with grease and her skin coated in grime. Somehow, she still managed to smell like home.
“Is anyone with you?” Roark asked, pulling away and sobering.
“Iris and Mouse,” Evie said with a broad grin. If he had not known her so well, he might not have detected the flash of pain in her honey-brown eyes. “They’re in an auto a block away. I came to see what all the fuss was about.”
“What about Terra?”
Evie shook her head, her smile slipping. “Dunno. She supposedly got out a few days ago, but she’s in the wind.”
The ground shuddered. Evie clamped her hands over her ears. Roark scooped Ronja up as if she were made of feathers and took off toward the park.
“MOVE!” Easton shouted from ahead. “Yessan!” Snow shook free of the bare tree branches. The panes of the gas lamps rattled.
“What the hell is that?” Evie screamed as they ran.
“You’re about to find out!”
Inferno blossomed behind them. The blast sent them flying forward, a tangle of bruised limbs and adrenaline. Roark rolled on to his back, spitting out a mouthful of dirty snow. Ronja was still unconscious next to him, her dark curls splayed against the white. Evie struggled to her feet, coughing profusely. Roark followed her. Together, they gazed up at the flaming clock tower. It was magnificent against the dark winter sky, rubble still raining down in deadly waves.
“Holy shit! You did it!” the techi exclaimed, punching him in the arm with a maniacal laugh. “You—”
More explosions shattered the night. Orange light washed over them. Roark began to count the eruptions. Three . . . four . . . five . . . six. . .
Seven . . .
The seventh was more of a rapid series, like the final burst of fireworks at a celebration.
“What was that last set?” Roark shouted, whipping around to find Easton. The commander was looking off into the city with a troubled expression.
“I have no idea,” he said. “But we need to get to the extraction point.”
“I can help you there,” Evie said with a grin. She tapped her fist to her brow, then her chest. “Perlo, Tovairin.”
A slow smile spread across the tense mouth of the commander as understanding clicked into place. He stood up straighter, then crossed his fingers over his heart. “Eliest, Arexian.” Before either of them could say anything more, a sleek black truck with three doors came roaring into the park, skidding to a stop in the snow.
The Kev Fairlans all aimed at it, but Roark waved them off. The front window rolled down and an uncommonly pale head stuck out. “Need a ride?” Mouse asked cheekily.
“Mouse!” Roark shouted.
The other boy grinned. His face was considerably thinner than the last time they had seen each other, but he appeared to be unharmed. The back doors of the truck slid open, revealing Iris. Joy swelled in Roark, but it was quickly replaced with horror. She was covered in bruises, her left eye swollen shut and her thigh swaddled in a bloody bandage. Still, she smiled.
“Well, get going!” she ordered shrilly.
Roark did as he was told, scooping Ronja up and hurtling toward the truck. He carried her to the back of the auto, setting her on one of the leather seats gingerly. The rest of them filtered in after him and Iris slammed the door. “Go!” she shouted at Mouse. The boy stomped on the gas and they flew forward.
They were halfway down the block when Roark realized Darius was not with them.
64: Last Stand
Darius
The walk to the palace went quicker than he had hoped it would. It was snowing by the time he arrived. He had passed many Revinians on his way. None of them paid him any mind. Some were passed out in the snow. Some wandered aimlessly, tears leaking down their faces. Their Singers clung to their ears, now nothing more than decorative metal.
Still, he walked on.
The gates were open when he arrived at the white wall. He paused at them, gazing up at his childhood home with tired eyes. It was just as he remembered. Bright and pure as the Aura Ronja had cast over the city, the palace sat proudly atop a rolling hill, an oasis. He started toward it, his footprints crunching in the snow.
Uniformed Offs wandered past him, blinking wearily in the gently falling snow. None of them even spared him a glance. They had no doubt done terrible things while under The New Music. Darius hoped for their sake they would not remember.
When he reached the palace steps, the king paused again. He had to crane his neck to see all the way up. The stark white pillars were brightly lit even in the deepest part of the night. They watched him silently, a solemn welcome home.
He started up the stairs, his footsteps echoing through the sprawling courtyard.
The golden front doors were unlocked, just as he had expected. He opened one with a groan of great hinges, spilling moonlight onto the smooth stone floor. The entry hall was otherwise dark. He lifted his eyes to the ceiling, where dozens of unlit crystal chandeliers still hung.
They had always been too opulent for his taste. Slipping inside, he strode down the hall, running his hand along the cool wall until it found the lever. He pulled it sharply. The chandeliers ignited, bathing the stunning entry hall in warm light.
“I was expecting someone else.”
Darius rounded on the voice slowly, leaving his weapons sheathed at his sides. Before him was a young man, perhaps in his late twenties, with a shock of black hair and glossy blue eyes. He was unusually pale and gaunt, dressed in what might have once been a beautiful suit. Now, it was rumpled and torn, stained with a dark substance Darius knew was blood. He held a gun in his hand, his fingers twitching around it anxiously.
“Maxwell, I assume,” Darius said.
“How astute,” Maxwell purred. His face fell. “My little bird has beaten me at my own game.”
“She was never yours, boy,” the king replied. “She was never mine.”
Recognition sparked in Maxwell’s pale gaze. “Darius Alezandri,” he murmured. “The lost king of Revinia.”
“Indeed.”
“You’re supposed to be dead.” His tone was more curious than anything. He cocked his head to the side. “Where did you run off to?”
“My father sent me to Tovaire,” Darius explained. “Though I returned briefly when I was about your age.”
“Ah, so that’s when you met the mutt?” Maxwell sneered.
The king just looked at him, unruffled. “She will never be anything but Layla to me.”
“Why have you come here, old man?” The Conductor snapped.
“I came here to die, and to take you with me.” Darius placed a weathered hand on his chest, over his armor. “I’m on borrowed time as it is.”
Maxwell raised his eyebrows. “Is that so?”
“Bad lungs.”
“I see,” Maxwell drawled. He raised his gun, aiming squarely at Darius’s head. “Then you won’t mind if I put you out of your misery.”
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