Songs for the Sacred and the Soulless

by Kameron Williams

  “Would King Aron have it?”

  “Would you?” Rhea challenged, then shook her head as if her own words were ridiculous. “No, you’re not for the usual things, are you, Zar?”

  Zar said nothing, for he had nothing to say. She was right. Everything she’d said had been right. How could he pretend it wasn’t?

  Rhea flashed him a quick grin and back-stepped to the door. “You will always have my love, but if you leave again I’ll likely be wed when you return. Then, I shall only see you as a brother.” She turned and pulled open the chamber door.

  It was a common pastime for Alyn and Zar, shooting apples off the trees in the palace courtyard. They had come up with a game that was as difficult as it was addictive, where one aimed to split the stem of the fruit, causing it to drop to the ground, and the other sought to shoot it before it landed.

  “I’ll never get to take my shot if you keep missing,” said Alyn, posing alongside Zar, bow half-drawn and eyes scanning the apple tree.

  The tree was one of three flourishing in the corner of the yard, in front of two other smaller trees hugged close to where the palace walls joined. There was a small collection of splintered arrows on the ground, bolts that had missed their mark and bounced off the stone.

  Zar sighted down his arrow, aiming at a point he couldn’t see. He saw only the round red bulb of the apple, green leaves fluttering over the branch it hung on. He imagined the apple’s stem, just above the top of the fruit in the middle, where all he could see were the leaves and the branch, as if the apple hovered there, suspended by an invisible line.

  “If you’d stop talking, I might be able to concentrate.”

  “Concentrate?” Alyn challenged. “You shouldn’t need to concentrate. You should just—”

  The prince stopped talking at the whiz of Zar’s arrow, and just a second later, a glossy red orb fell towards the ground, an arrow piercing through it right before it landed.

  “Heavens!” the prince called. “It’s about time!” Alyn’s grin dimmed for just a second before he asked, “Does your shoulder still hurt?”

  “It’s quite healed,” Zar assured him. “I’m good with a bow, but I’m no Prince Alyn. Quite a different story with a sword, I daresay.”

  “Aye, I’ve heard as much,” said Alyn, drawing his bow and aiming at the tree. “Only from you.”

  The prince released the string, and the shaft whistled away.

  Zar jammed the arrow he had readied into his bowstring, stretched it back and released it. “Hey!” he called, watching his arrow miss the falling fruit and crash against the palace’s corner wall. “I wasn’t ready!”

  Alyn burst out laughing. “Excuses,” he barely got out.

  “You’re a ruthless man, my prince,” Zar bantered.

  “Hardly. I’ll give you another shot.”

  “How merciful of you.”

  Alyn sighted down his arrow, still and quiet as he aimed.

  In that silence, a voice called out, “My princes! News from the east!”

  Alyn’s wrist jumped, his arrow flying far west of the apple tree and crashing into the palace’s stone wall. “Leviathan!” he shouted.

  Zar looked to see Garen, the palace steward, approaching, scrolls in each of his hands, their wax seals freshly broken.

  “Aye, Leviathan, Leviathan indeed,” he said. His tunic was plainly colored and designed, not fancy, but noticeably sturdy and well made. It was buckskin brown, with stitching nearly the same color, barely visible over the brown woolen fabric.

  “Well, what is it?” asked Alyn, eyeing the half-rolled parchments Garen clutched. “What news of the dragon that would warrant ruining my perfect archery?”

  “If it was perfect,” Zar started, taking his chance to get Alyn back for the hard time he’d given him about his own shooting, “it would take more than a greeting to throw off your concentration.”

  “Is that certainly so?” returned Alyn, “or are you just sore about your own lack of perfection?”

  “The news is such as any would need to hear,” said Garen, squeezing the paper in his hands until it rustled like dry leaves. “Especially Zar.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Aye, let us hear it,” Alyn added.

  “Well, it seems . . . it seems Leviathan has left the sea . . . it no longer dwells under the waves.”

  “What?”

  “How?”

  “Aye, it’s true,” the steward insisted. “I’ve confirmed it with two different sources, both of whom I trust enough to let them shave my throat in the dark.”

  “What is the meaning of this change?” asked Alyn.

  Then Zar, shortly after, “And what are the consequences?”

  “Well, the general word is that Lyla the Dragontamer is to blame. Most seem to agree that her, ah, unnatural taming of the dragon was an aberration, and one that caused a change in the beast’s habits. As for the consequences, my princes, worse than you can imagine. They say the whole mainreach has been set on fire. All the dragon does is fly and burn.”

  Zar dropped his bow as the steward’s words went down like spoiled food. “Have you been told where? Which cities, which towns, which parts of the mainreach have been attacked?”

  Garen’s mouth dropped, his eyes shuffling a quick dance between the two princes. “Why, all of it.”

  III

  18

  Vlysa was a half-burnt ruin, not the lively little town that Zar had once known it to be, but an awkward sight of smoldering, dilapidated buildings. It looked like a campfire that a hunter couldn’t decide if he wanted to let burn, and thus had lit and extinguished it several times.

  Zar heard a screech in the distance, and even from afar the sound was enough to spook his horse. Only one creature under the sun made that noise, and Zar looked to the sky to witness a dark form soaring under the clouds to the south.

  A boy peeked around a cottage to Zar’s left, face smeared with ash, camouflaged against the corner of the house’s wall, which was burnt black. His wide eyes relaxed to a sort of relieved look, as if seeing Zar was a welcome sight compared to other things he had seen lately. And it was obvious what other things he had seen.

  Zar made his way to the inn, gaping without end at the new Vlysa, not wanting to believe what he was seeing while knowing that—unless he had gone mad or was dreaming—it was all very real.

  The inn was a confusing sight. It was very much still in commission, and still whole, mostly, except for one sizeable corner of the roof that was burned and crumbled away. It left two rooms exposed, charred beams with no walls, a section of the building that was a crisped architectural skeleton. The rooms were still occupied, Zar noticed, seeing flashes of movement between the fire-blackened beams, the late morning sun stirring up the laggards. He imagined those patrons received quite the discount.

  Zar had stayed the night with Prynner in Bazhia and had left for the mainreach before sunrise. He hadn’t come to the inn for a room. He’d come for the gossip.

  “Aye, we’re still open,” she said. “We’ll be open until that damned beast burns everything down.”

  It wasn’t the usual innkeeper, but one of the barmaids who worked the tavern. Zar had seen her there several times before, and she was always talking about anything and everything, a trait Zar always found helpful, to him if not to anyone else. In this case, she was exactly who he needed to talk to.

  The inside of the place looked normal enough, though a bit empty, as it should be that time of day, and no sign of fire or ash from where he stood on the first floor. Zar left his horse to stand outside the door and didn’t bother tying it. He’d only be there for a moment, and he stood just inside the doorway, his mount nearly in arm's reach.

  “What’s happened here?”

  The woman’s face flared, and she looked at Zar like he was from another world. “Well, Leviathan! Leviathan happened! Came out of the sea breathing fire everywhere. Won’t go back to the sea now, wants to stay here on land and burn everyone up.
That’s all it does,” she said, brows raised—a warning—her voice reflecting the same. “It just flies around and burns stuff up. It never did that before. It’s that Dragontamer is what it is. I’m telling you. Wasn’t natural what she was doing. She messed everything up. What, you don’t think so? Everyone thinks so, I’m telling you. That’s why she’s got gold on her head. A thousand pieces. Dandil won’t stop until—”

  “I’m looking for my sister.” Zar knew the only way to get her to stop talking was to simply cut her off. “Quite plain in appearance, I daresay, but her horse is memorable enough.”

  Zar was sure Lyla would make some attempt to hide her Cyanan features, so he didn’t mention anything about her red hair. Instead, he’d use her horse to identify her—a horse Lyla seemed to adore and couldn’t bear to be parted with. He smiled, recalling the dappled mare’s beauty.

  “Black and white. Speckled all over.”

  “Hmm.” The barmaid pondered. “Aye, I’ve seen just the one. The rider was a strange one, so I kept my eyes on her when she left.” The woman stopped, as if just remembering that Zar had just said it was his sister. “Meaning no offense,” she added. “She just kept her hood on the whole time is all. She rode south—I’m sure of it. I watched her myself.”

  Lolia. It made perfect sense. Being wanted throughout the mainreach didn’t leave one with many other options. Lyla had told him that she couldn’t return to Cyana, for she was wanted there as well. Lolia was close by, less inhabited than the mainreach, and less traveled. As for crossing to Serradiia—Lyla was far too known in those parts to get by unnoticed.

  Zar rode south, the sun passing its cycles in the sky until he had ridden through morning and noon, the dusk greeting him as the sun slipped toward the horizon in the west. He was just above Or, and Zar looked south through the dim air at the peaks in the distance he used to be so fond of seeing. While climbing those hills to reach the caverns was always a trial—a rather dangerous one at that—him and Asha had done it so many times it had become nothing more than an annoyance, like getting up when you’re tired in the morning or having to hunt when you’re hungry. It was Ramla who had made that treacherous climb worth every slip or tumble they’d ever met with along the way.

  Zar stopped there, making camp with what little sun he had left. There was a small hill with a rather steep bank on one side of it and a few trees, one of which Zar selected to tie his horse to. Zar made a small fire at the base of the hill, its steep bank rising like a wall behind him. The nights were warm this time of year, and he’d need nothing but the blanket that was rolled up behind his saddle to keep warm. There was some faint feeling of unease which Zar attributed to not having Asha with him. The camel would readily alert him to anyone or anything that approached too close to them. While the magnificent bay that Prince Alyn had given him to ride was a horse fit for royalty, it would do nothing to protect him from bandits or thieves. With that thought, Zar extinguished his fire.

  The morning came, and Zar was back on his way. He rode for half the day and came to a wood that lay southwest of Or, leagues north of the town of Palta. While Zar imagined a man like Tuskin was a far better tracker than he was, he had travelled the wild enough to know that the gashes he saw scattering over the plain toward the tree line were made by one thing and one thing only. Boots.

  Several boots. Each track showed the ground dip where the weight of a foot had smothered the grass, the heel of the print digging deeper than the front, exposing the dark soil. Every track had a matching counterpart about a stride away, and the pairs were stamped beside several others, a little crowd of parallel imprints.

  Zar dismounted, leading his bay by the reigns, following the tracks into the woods. He had traveled nearly a half of a mile, the boot marks as clear over the forest floor as they were out on the plain. It wasn’t much longer when he smelled a stench.

  Zar released his mount’s reigns and crept forward on his own. Dagger out, he slipped between trees, moving himself closer to the smell, the wind seeming to blow the scent in his face with every current. He scanned the way ahead, a trail of broken twigs and rubbed off bark, obvious track marks disturbing the leaves and soil. And then, a body.

  Another body. Several bodies. Strewn between the trees were the corpses of about a dozen men, all armed but none holding their weapon, and no blood save the red lines across their throats and the spillage from the wound beside their necks. Their throats had been cut—all of them. As Zar examined their positions, he thought that they looked especially peaceful, some with their backs resting against banks of trees, others cradled on their sides, hands folded under their cheeks. It looked like they’d been sleeping, and just as he thought that, Zar realized that’s exactly what they’d been doing.

  “These men were killed in their sleep. Lyla.”

  Zar examined them more closely. Their weapons were sheathed, with no sign of a struggle, looking as comfortable as dead men could. They were fresh, less than a half day old, and the foulness he smelt wasn’t from rot but from loose bowels. They were lightly equipped, a few swords, mostly daggers, and one had a club. They weren’t important men, and they didn’t look to be skilled mercenaries. Most likely, they were poor, ordinary men who hoped to split a reward of a thousand gold pieces. But claiming this bounty was far above their station.

  Zar mounted back up, rode south a league through the woods until he was back on the plain. The town of Palta was just a few more hours south, and if it was indeed Lyla who had killed those men in the woods, he could think of no other place she’d stop to rest besides somewhere in the wild. While towns weren’t the best places for wanted folk, Lolia was a remote, quieter sort of place, and the influx of Cyanans from the south made Lyla’s features quite the opposite of an anomaly.

  He was right, he saw as he entered Palta. For even in this little town in Lolia he had already seen a handful of Cyanans. Though they were grim, soldier-looking men, lacking all the exquisiteness and grace of the Queen of Coasts, it told Zar that the rumors he’d heard of the mainreach being heavily populated by the Cyanans was no exaggeration. And whatever abundantly occurred in the mainreach always trickled down into Lolia to some degree.

  It was just before sunset, and Zar was starving. He found the inn, lashed his mount to the tying pole, and laughed as he looked up, thinking his hunger had dulled his senses. He just now noticed a horse, one horse away from his, its coat milky white with a blizzard of grey and black spots. Lyla’s mare.

  Zar shuffled around to the door and slipped inside. It was a bit hot, the aroma of roasted onions thick in the air. There was a group of four men at a table across from the door who studied him for about a second before looking away disinterestedly. The other patrons didn’t mind him at all.

  “A room? This way, please.” The innkeeper, a tall, bald man, leaned over a table, bidding a hooded patron to follow him up the stairs to the rooms on the floor above. The patron’s head dipped, but nothing was said in response, hood drawn so far down only the tip of a copper nose showed.

  Zar took a seat at a small table by the door, watching the group across the room eye the lone patron like prey. Zar was curious and gazed at the hooded figure shuffling behind the innkeeper, ascending the stairs in light, nimble footsteps. It was certainly a woman. Lyla?

  Zar shot a furtive eye at the group on the far wall, scanning their weapons, their raiment, their mien. Dingy cloaks, some black, others gray, dusty woolen trousers, well-worn boots; hilts poking up from their belts, pommels worn and unpolished, catching no gloss or shine from the light, looking as rough as stone; faces grim, over half of them bearded, with eyes as cold as a midwinter night. The men were mercenaries, or, if that was indeed Lyla who had just ascended the stairs, bounty hunters.

  The innkeeper came back down alone, and just as soon as he did, the group of four rose and asked to be shown a room.

  “I would have a room also,” said Zar, standing up. The mercenaries looked over, a canny suspicion showing in their icy eyes. The innk
eeper just looked annoyed.

  “Well, alright, alright,” said the innkeeper, “you’ll have to wait like everyone else.”

  In hindsight, it wasn’t the best course of action, but Zar didn’t have many other choices. He wanted to get Lyla’s attention, but she was already in a room, and he couldn’t exactly call out her name. If he could find out which room was Lyla’s, he could quietly knock at her door. If not, being as close to the mercenaries as possible was the next best thing. They were, after all, likely after the same person. If he couldn’t take a room beside Lyla, he would take one beside these bounty hunters.

  “I’ll be right back down,” the innkeeper insisted.

  “Of course,” said Zar, stretching a fake grin. “But I might as well come up now—save you a trip back down.”

  The innkeeper waved his hand, shooing off Zar’s proposal. “No need to crowd the hall. I’ll be with you presently.”

  The mercenaries showed Zar more leery eyes, on one of their faces a pointed look—a warning—that he should give up whatever he was up to. The men weren’t stupid. They must’ve known there was something going on, even if they weren’t exactly sure what it was. Zar nodded gingerly and sat back down.

  The innkeeper returned a short time later, hovering under the doorway to the stairs and beckoning Zar to come over. Zar had been scheming for a way to find out what rooms Lyla and the mercenaries occupied since the man had disappeared up the stairs, and something was starting to come together. It wasn’t brilliant or innovative, but it would work. He was in a small inn in a small town, and there weren’t many patrons in the tavern area. While it was night it was still quite early, and he doubted that many rooms were occupied. In fact, he would even go as far as to wager that Lyla and her four hunters were the only ones who had requested rooms for the night, thus far.

  He followed the man up to the top floor, a long, narrow hall with rooms running down along the right wall.