Darius smiled. “You’re a fool,” he said. “You were in over your head the moment you tried to control the Siren. You should have known that an Alezandri in their prime cannot be contained.”
“Shut up!” Maxwell barked, raising his other hand to his gun to steady it. “You are going to die. I’ll string your body up over the palace.”
The king wet his lips and began to whistle. Before his eyes, his coppery Aura bloomed, wavering in the frigid night air that was spilling in through the open doors. Maxwell’s eyes popped. He stumbled backward, staring blankly at the writhing creature before him. Darius had allowed him to see it, just this once.
Every man deserved to see his death coming.
“You freak,” Maxwell spat, raising his gun again and aiming at Darius’s head. “I’ll—”
Darius snapped his fingers. His Aura shot forward, a vicious spike straight through The Conductor’s chest. Maxwell fell backward, landing on his side, the bolt of energy still sizzling in his ribs. The king crashed to his knees, the fight fleeing his bones. Before him, the tyrant was choking on his own blood, his pale eyes flickering in their sockets.
Then, with a final twitch, he died.
Darius drew a deep shuddering breath, turning his gaze to the chandelier above him. His lungs rattled weakly; his heart beat sluggishly. He closed his eyes. Painted on the backs of his lids were the faces of his daughter and his love, smiling brightly in the late winter sun. They were walking through the outdoor market on the afternoon of the solstice, wrapped in warm furs, a song strung between them.
Darius was carried away on the wings of that song.
65: Daybreak
Three Days Later
Ronja awoke slowly, then all at once. Her body ached. She struggled against the weight pinning her eyelids shut. A moan escaped her lips. Then—pressure around her fingers. She opened her eyes. Leaning over her was the most beautiful face she had ever seen—golden brown skin, faint freckles like constellations, bottomless eyes as warm as the sun on her back.
“Roark,” she rasped, struggling to sit up. He pushed her down as if she weighed nothing at all. She flopped back onto the feather pillow, blinking rapidly. “What happened?”
“You did it, Ronja,” he said, reaching down to brush an escaped curl from her face. “You freed everyone.”
“The mainframes?” she asked hoarsely.
“Here,” Roark said. He slipped a warm hand behind her back, helping her sit up slowly. “There you go, drink this.” He pressed the edge of a glass to her lower lip, tipping it back gently. She drank gratefully, though the cool water felt like a kick in the gut. He laid her back down with a sigh.
“Roark, the mainframes,” Ronja asked again, her voice a bit stronger now.
He smiled. “Blown to bits.”
Relief like she had never felt washed over her, giving her a slight burst of energy. “What about everyone else? Evie, Iris . . . ?”
Roark got to his feet swiftly. He swam in her vision, which was taking its time to return. “I’ll be right back, stay here.”
Ronja gave a hoarse laugh as he slipped out of her line of sight. She blinked up at the ceiling. It was eggshell white and smooth, with warm winter sunlight streaming across it. She struggled to sit up on her elbows, her curiosity overwhelming her exhaustion. She was in a large, fine bedroom with dark wooden furniture and wide windows with cream dressings. Her bed was huge, large enough to fit three people at least. A fire roared in the corner. She did not recognize any of it.
Then the door opened across from her.
“Ronja!”
A mousy blur shot at her, scrambling up onto the bed and bowling her back into her pillow. “Georgie,” Ronja whispered, cradling her head to her chest and rocking her back and forth. “Georgie.”
“And me.” Ronja struggled to sit up, still clutching at Georgie with all her strength. Cosmin wheeled up to the edge of her bed, grinning at her lopsidedly, a new pair of glasses on his nose. Ronja stretched out her trembling hand, and he took it firmly. “Welcome back, sis.”
“Ro!”
Ronja looked up as three more bodies tumbled onto her bed. She let out a noise that was half a laugh, half a sob as Evie, Iris, and Mouse all struggled get to her, gently pushing Georgie aside. Iris kissed her face, Evie tousled her hair, and Mouse hugged her around the middle with more affection than he had ever shown her in the time they had known each other.
“How did you get out?” Ronja asked breathlessly, leaning back to look them all in the face. Her heart wilted when she caught sight of Iris. Her face was a patchwork of bruises, her right eye covered with a thick bandage.
“Long story,” Evie said. “We’ll tell you later.”
“You did it, Ro,” Iris squeaked, sounding just like herself despite her injuries. “You freed the city. You saved everyone.”
Ronja shook her head, too overwhelmed to put a finger on any of her emotions.
“All right, let her breathe,” Roark said in a voice close to a growl, shooing them away. Grumbling, all four of them slipped off the bed and joined Roark standing beside it.
“Where are we?” Ronja asked, looking around at them all with wide eyes.
“One of my apartments in the core,” Roark said, folding his arms with a sly grin. “It took a while to get the heat up and running, but with my father gone, I am the sole proprietor.”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” came a sarcastic voice from the hall.
Ronja cast her eyes to the door. Her jaw dropped. “Terra?”
The girl grinned, shaking her long blond hair over her muscled shoulder. “Hey there, Siren.”
“How did you get out? How are you . . . ?”
“Alive?” Terra strode toward the edge of her bed. “I cut a deal with Bullon, and found my way to Cicada’s place. Blew up the ships with his rather large collection of whiskey.”
“That was the seventh explosion,” Roark exclaimed with an approving nod.
“I had help, though,” Terra said. She looked over her shoulder. Ronja followed her line of sight.
“Hey, Ro.”
“Henry,” Ronja whispered in a quavering voice. He filled the frame, just as solid as the others around him. He was dressed in a navy sweater, his broad shoulders hunched with shame, his brown eyes flooding. “Henry.”
He started toward her slowly. The other Anthemites moved out of the way as he approached the edge of her bed. “I’m so sorry, Ronja, I . . . ”
“Stop,” she said, shaking her head. “Just stop.”
Pain shot across Henry’s expression. She shook her head again and beckoned him. “Come here.”
The boy kneeled at the bedside slowly, never taking his eyes off her face. He looked haunted around the edges, exhausted. But alive. Whole. She opened her arms to him and he leaned into her, wrapping his thick arms around her skinny body. Ronja inhaled his familiar scent, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. Henry shuddered against her, silent sobs wracking his form. Over his shoulder, Ronja made eye contact with Roark. “Darius?” she asked hopefully.
Slowly, Roark shook his head.
Ronja buried her face in Henry’s sweater and wept.
66: Forward
The days bled into weeks. The weeks into months. Slowly, Revinia crept back to life. The shops opened first. People needed groceries, supplies, medicine. Dozens were killed and hundreds had been wounded when the mainframes blew. They had everything from minor cuts and scrapes to broken bones. Then there was the withdrawal, of course.
The dead were buried beyond the northern edge of the great black wall, the gates of which had been thrown open to usher in the winds of change. When Ronja heard that mutts had been used for target practice, she insisted they be buried alongside the rest of the dead humans. She assumed she and her inner circle would be the only ones to load their bodies into the backs of the trucks, but to her surprise dozens of everyday citizens turned out to help.
Since the
fall of The New Music, her story had spread like wildfire. It was twisted, as rumors always were, but at least the basics were accurate. The mutt princess from the outer ring had overcome The New Music, sending the shockwave of white light over the city. They had all seen it flash, momentarily washing out the stars and the moons. They had all felt the strange warmth that followed, and the sting of their waking brains.
The ache of life.
The hospitals reopened. Statues of The Conductors—Atticus and Maxwell both—were torn down to resounding cheers. The black and red flags were burned, the white eye of the original Conductor struck from the sides of buildings. The few who remained loyal to Maxwell even after their Singers were neutralized were arrested. Those who escaped were left to the wilderness. “They’re not worth chasing,” Terra had said.
Three weeks into the aftermath, Ronja heard Red Bay had been burned to the ground.
Most of the Tovairins, had been extracted by aeroplane in the immediate aftermath of the battle. The few who stayed behind after the fall of The Music had left a week later. To Ronja’s great relief there had been no Tovairin fatalities. Hugging Jonah goodbye was harder than Ronja expected it to be. When she put her arms around him, he lifted her off her feet and twirled her around the living room, drawing a shriek from her.
“Put me down, fiester!”
“Anytime, princess,” he said, setting her down with wink. Larkin rolled her eyes in the background. She had survived her wounds, but just barely. She still walked with a cane, but Iris said she would make a full recovery.
“Perlo,” Ronja said, locking eyes with her and tapping her fist to her brow and heart.
Larkin had raised her chin, the faintest smile drifting across her mouth. “Pevra,” she replied. “Good luck, Siren.”
“Wait,” Ronja called. She turned to Jonah. “Where’s Easton? I need to talk to him.”
Twenty minutes later, Jonah returned to the flat with the commander, who was still dressed in his armor. “Alezandri,” he had greeted her with a dip of his chin. “The aeroplane is waiting—what do you want?”
“Do you have everything you need?” she asked.
“Yes, the weapons have been loaded.” He gave a slight bow, making Ronja blush scarlet. “We are indebted to you, Queen Alezandri.”
“I’ll be dropping that title as soon as the Revinians choose their own leader,” Ronja replied, her nose wrinkling with distaste. She stuck out her hand for him to shake. Easton took it firmly, not taking his eyes off her face. “Thank you for your help, Commander. We never could have done this without you.”
“And now Tovaire will be free, because of your generosity.”
Ronja let go of his hand, her smile slipping. “No one is free until everyone is,” she said.
Easton looked at her for a long moment, his expression inscrutable. Then he gave the slightest nod and strode from the apartment. Larkin saluted them, Jonah winked, and they were gone. Back to their own home to fight their own wars.
The Anthemites, who had fled through the sewers at Terra’s insistence, filtered back through the open gates. The Belly was pried open, allowing them to return and collect the belongings they had left behind. Some stayed in the subterranean tomb, too afraid to grace the surface just yet. Others threw themselves into the cleanup effort, most of all Ito.
The lieutenant—or commander, as Ronja often had to remind herself—quickly took charge of the organized chaos, dividing the remaining Anthemites into groups. Some went to the slums and outer ring to deliver food and supplies. Some helped the strapped hospitals care for the wounded. Others simply offered answers, standing on the edge of the demolished fountain at the center of the town square. People wondered what had happened while they were under The New Music. What were they to do, now? Why did their eyes leak when they were not in physical pain? Ito headed most of those events, or “Humanity 101” lessons, as Evie called them.
When Ronja was not aiding in the cleanup, her curly hair stuffed under a cap and her face partially obscured by a scarf, she was in the beautiful apartment Roark had claimed near the center of the core. The space was only large enough to comfortably house four—Ronja, Roark, Cosmin, and Georgie—but without anyone saying anything, it had been designated meetup point for their inner circle.
Their healing was slow. At times it stopped and sputtered like a rusty faucet. In the first days following the fall of The Conductor, there was mostly silence. Ronja spent the majority of her time sleeping, Roark at her side. They all slept scattered throughout the apartment, making beds out of the sofas and armchairs and plush rugs. Iris spent most of those days staring into oblivion while Evie read her poetry.
Henry and Charlotte were inseparable. The only times the boy left her side was to visit Ronja. Lapses occasionally occurred in his consciousness. Names and places temporarily forgotten, forks dropped as he swore at thin air. Like Cosmin, he had been exposed to The New Music before it was perfected. Like Cosmin, he would never fully recover.
Terra had rarely stopped pacing.
Mouse and Theo were the first to leave the apartment, after only five days. They retreated to the flat Theo had rented in the middle ring. Ronja understood. It had to be difficult to be around such a broken group, and neither of them had ever really been an Anthemite. “We’ll visit,” Mouse promised, squeezing Ronja on the shoulder as they bid her farewell at her bedside.
“You better,” she said with a weak smile. Mouse hugged her. Theo shook her hand. Then they were gone. Moving forward. Moving on.
One week after the boys left, Iris and Evie moved into the empty mansion across the street. No one knew where its owners were—if they had perished in the firefight outside the clock tower or if they had deserted the city. None of them particularly cared to ask. Soon after, Charlotte and Henry took over their basement, dividing it into two comfortable halves.
Terra remained in Ronja and Roark’s living room, sleeping on the deep green couch. They did not ask her to leave, nor did they ask why she woke up with raw eyes and cheeks.
Slowly, surely, life found its way back into their eyes. Iris’s bruises healed, revealing her lovely features. The bullet wound in her thigh scarred over. She still walked with a cane, but each day she moved a little faster.
Ronja’s wounds healed, too. The ring of purple bruises around her neck faded. The scars left behind by Maxwell’s bit smoothed over. Her cracked ribs healed. The pounding in her head faded to a distant drum, then to nothing at all. She and Roark spent every night together in the huge bed, tangled in each other’s arms, so that when one of them woke up screaming, the other would be there to anchor them.
Healing came slowly.
Every night, the Anthemites gathered at the kitchen table at the apartment, squeezing in as many chairs as they could. Henry and Iris cooked, though the boy was not allowed near the knives. Georgie and Charlotte set the table. Sometimes, Roark played the violin. On those nights, Ronja sat on the rug at the center of the living room, coaxing her Aura into view, making the ribbons dance around her friends—her family. They did not feel foreign to her anymore. They were a part of her. When they danced, her soul followed.
Three months later, Ito was instated as president of the city state. Helping the election run smoothly was quite the undertaking, especially because half the population did not understand the concept of an election. There were several candidates on the ballot, but Ito won in a landslide. She refused to move into the palace, which had been empty since the fall, instead choosing a modest row house in the middle ring. On the first day of her governance, she selected Terra as Captain of her official guard.
And so Terra moved from their living room to a large room at the back of Ito’s new house.
Spring spread like wildfire, ushering in foggy gray mornings and tentative blossoms. One such morning, Ronja slipped out of bed early, wrapping herself in one of the thick blankets and putting on her boots. Silent as a shadow, she left the apartment and climbed to the
roof. The city sprawled around her, brass and gold and endless possibility.
She closed her eyes to it, leaning up against the edge of the guard rail. Listening. Waiting. It came to her almost at once, the murmur of the great Aura that wrapped around the metropolis. She opened her eyes to its wonder. A curling cloud of golden dust that arched above Revinia like thunderheads, fed by the music of the city. The symphony of three million voices, just learning to sing.
“Where are you, Siren?”
Ronja smiled as Roark appeared at her side, leaning up against the railing. She looked up at him. His hair had grown longer in the passing months. She liked it that way. Her own curls nearly brushed her shoulders now.
“Right where I want to be,” she said, linking her arm with his and leaning into his shoulder.
Roark pressed a kiss to her temple, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. The damp wind rose around them, stirring their hair and clothes. “Do you miss him?” he asked after a while.
“Not exactly,” Ronja replied, knowing who he was talking about. “I miss what he could have been.”
They had found Darius on the floor of the palace opposite Maxwell’s rotting body when they arrived at the palace to take The Conductor into custody. The others were bewildered. The once king did not appear to be injured, and there was a gaping hole straight through Maxwell’s sternum. Ronja understood perfectly, but she had not explained it to anyone. Some things were better left unsaid. She did not need them knowing that she could kill with her voice, too.
“Ito’s going to be a great leader,” Roark said after a while.
“Yeah,” Ronja agreed. “She will be.”
“Do you think they’re gonna be okay?”
“Who?”
Roark gestured out at the city.
Ronja nodded. “Yeah, I do.”
“Do you think they can do it without us, for a while?”
The Siren turned to her heart, her brow creasing. “What do you mean?”
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