Songs for the Sacred and the Soulless (Roads of the Righteous and the Rotten Book 2)

by Kameron Williams

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

  “I’m a very light sleeper,” said Zar. “I’d like a room farthest away from the other guests, if you please, sir.”

  The man didn’t look back, only quickened his step a bit, leading Zar to the far end of the hall. He stopped before the last room at the end of the hall, holding out an arm and presenting, “the most secluded room.”

  “Ah,” said Zar, donning a sheepish look and a shrug to match. “Too far from the stairs. I’ll be drinking for some time tonight. How about the first room at the beginning of the hall.” He pointed back down the hall.

  The innkeeper sighed, and in the most polite way possible, showed a face that said his time was a precious commodity that wasn’t to be wasted. “Occupied.”

  “The second one, then.”

  “Occupied.”

  “Well,” Zar started, but the innkeeper cut him off.

  “If you want to be close to the stairs you can have the third room in, but then you won’t be far from people. If you want to be far from people you can have this room, but you won’t be close to the stairs. Additionally, you can have any room from the third room to this room, with whatever scale of being far from people and close to the stairs that that particular room provides.” The innkeeper blew out a great wind of exasperation, and after the sigh, looked at Zar with wide, unblinking eyes.

  Zar smiled. “I’ll take the third room.”

  Zar paid for the room, and the innkeeper was gone just as soon as the gold hit his palm. It was a small room that smelled of pine; a straw mat supported by wooden legs lay against the wall opposite the door. Zar scooted the cot to the wall between his room and the second room, placing his ear against the wood for a moment. He didn’t hear much at all.

  He sat on the bed, his back leaned against the wall, resting a bit while keeping alert for any movement or sound. Who was in the room beside his? Was it Lyla or was it the four mercenaries? Should he risk knocking? He finally decided that he’d wait it out, concluding that he was so close to both rooms that he would surely hear something if anything were to happen. He sat back against the wall, periodically turning and pressing his ear against it, hoping to catch some clue of a noise.

  He dozed off a few times, his body sliding down the wall until he noticed and jerked back up. He had to have been there an hour, and as he contemplated whether to make a move for one of the doors or to wait it out until the morning, he heard a rumble in the next room.

  Zar pressed his ear to the wall. Footsteps. He heard a door open. Voices. Broken poetry, the faint melody of a song, a cadence Zar was all too familiar with.

  19

  It’s all in your head, Lyla. They’re minding their own business, now you mind yours.

  She shifted forward on the bench, leaning an elbow on the table. She kept her gaze straight ahead, trying not to glance to the right at the three men seated at the table across the room. There was something off about them, and Lyla swore they kept looking at her. She hadn’t exactly seen them look, but every time she snuck a glance their bodies shuffled and they looked down at their table, as if they’d just squirmed back into position as she looked their way. One had a hood drawn, just like her, but the inn wasn’t cold.

  Maybe she was being paranoid. Maybe she wasn’t. Maybe her instincts were right and they were after the bounty on her head. Lyla wagered if she looked around she’d see a wanted poster with her face on it nailed to the wall, and to save herself the grief of confirming such an ill affair, she didn’t bother finding out if she was right.

  Lyla snuck another look. The cloaked man looked down at his ale mug; the other two had just turned their heads toward her, beards overgrown over their jaws, and stalking eyes, like predators hunting for food. They were looking right at her.

  She caught their glance for only a second before they pulled their eyes away. Lyla did the same and looked back over her table. They were looking at her, and now they knew she knew it.

  The innkeeper passed by and Lyla rose from her bench. “I’ll take a room.”

  “A room? This way please,” the man beckoned.

  Lyla followed without saying anything else, and the man led her to the top of the stairs and motioned to the first room.

  “Here you are,” he said.

  The room’s door hung open, and Lyla looked in unexcitedly. It was dimly lit with candlelight, and a slightly unpleasant smell wafted out from inside. She didn’t want that room, and she didn’t exactly know why, but she never really liked to have the first or last of anything. She got the feeling the room was more used, dirtier than the rest, being the first on the hall, and while she acknowledged it was a silly thought it still seemed altogether logical.

  “Can I have that one?” Lyla asked, pointing to the next room over.

  “You most certainly can,” the man replied. With a dip of the head and a prim smile, he waved Lyla into the room.

  Lyla paid the man, shut the door behind her and locked it. She settled down onto the straw pallet, sliding her leather bag off her shoulder and reaching inside. She drew out a wooden flute.

  It was a small instrument, a squared, dimpled hole for the mouthpiece, with six round holes in a straight line running down its center. It grew a bit wider at the end, flared out like a bell, and it was carved from the palest wood, so much that if Lyla wasn’t holding it in her hand she might’ve thought it was made of bone. She had purchased it when she found out she was a wanted woman in the mainreach, after she’d tossed her drum in a patch of bushes along the roadside. The drum wasn’t easily hidden, and she was known for it. She’d never pass without notice unless she got rid of it.

  This little flute was perfect, though. It was small and light, easily concealed. It was one of the first instruments she’d learned to play as a child, and she felt just as comfortable with it as she’d been with her harp or drum, even if it was considerably smaller. It had worked well enough for the group of bounty hunters she’d left dead in the woods. She’d put them to sleep with a tune and cut their throats as they slept—and she felt like the vilest person in the world for it.

  What had she become? Before, she had sent men to sleep to escape pursuit or to take their belongings. It had always been a matter of survival, but she hadn’t been a killer. She had thieved and told lies, left men asleep on the side of the road absent their gold and possessions, but they were always left unharmed. But this, too, was a matter of survival, Lyla told herself. She didn’t know if she was wanted dead or alive, and why should she risk it? What if one of her would-be captors was a bit overzealous and harmed her in the attempt? Or worse.

  It still felt like survival, and while a heavy pain had wrenched her soul since she’d dragged a blade across the throats of those sleeping men, she kept telling herself it was justified. She had to keep telling herself that. How else could she bear to face her conscience?

  Lyla blew out a sigh, and the wind whispered away restlessly. She scooted back on the pallet and slunk herself against the wall, still fiddling with her little wooden flute. She heard movement on the stairs, and not long after, the voice of the innkeeper and the voices of other men. From how it sounded, they weren’t far outside her door.

  It’s the men from down below. They’re getting a room—right next to mine.

  The sound of boots clopping over hard wood told Lyla the men had entered the room just to the left of hers. Unsurprisingly, they must’ve figured out what room she was in. She readied her dagger, sliding it out of its leather sheath on her belt. She kept her flute in her other hand.

  I can’t use this here, thought Lyla, glancing down at the instrument. If no one knows who I am, they most certainly will if I start playing music. This whole place will know. Lyla shook her head, hearing the steps of what sounded like a single man descending the stairs and fading out.

  She tucked the flute back in her bag, tightening her hand around her dagger. Then, as if in some twisted e
xploitation of her fears by the gods or the universe itself, she heard more movement, this time right outside her door. Lyla stood.

  The sound of booted feet thumped eerily in the hall, an awkward attempt of quietness over the solid wood floor. Then, a trickle, click, rattle.

  Lyla eyed the lock on her door, the square brass panel with a keyhole in the top center. Two vertical bars held the slider to the panel, allowing the bar to move back and forth to secure the door, pegs on each end of the bar to limit its movement. A hook crawled through the keyhole, curving downward and between two of the three pegs on the brass slider bar. Lyla knew what was happening, and she stared at the lock as if she could stop it with the power of her gaze. She didn’t breathe. The hook rotated, swinging the metal slide to the left with a pop!

  The lock had been picked before her eyes, and the door swung open with a creak! that was nearly as frightening as Leviathan’s call. Three men intruded on her, and as the one in front came forward with a blade, Lyla’s was already talking to him.

  “What madness, stop! Can a traveler not rest without you picking the lock?”

  The first intruder faltered—for half of a second—but it was all Lyla needed. She slashed at the man’s throat, her dagger tearing through the edges of his drawn tunic hood, finding a fair amount of neck flesh in between. Blood wet Lyla’s face, and before she could utter more words a boot struck her in the stomach and sent her flying back into the wall behind her. Her back hit the wall, hard, and her head jerked back and knocked against the wood. Dazed, she fumbled with her dagger, swinging at the blurry shapes advancing on her, retreating into a corner of the room.

  Lyla screamed, squinting to force her eyes back into focus. Her head felt as heavy as a boulder, and she sunk down into the corner, forcing herself back up to meet the man that rushed in at her. She swung her blade with abandon, the image of her attacker finally crystallizing, like a foggy glass slowly wiped clean. The man caught her hand at the wrist, snarling through a messy black beard. He threw her to the ground and shouted some cry, stepping back from her and trying to turn around.

  Lyla tried to scoot away, trapped in the corner, just now noticing the blood pooling down where she sat. A body fell on top of her, and Lyla pushed it off, throwing frantic kicks with both feet to push it away. Blood soaked into her cloak, and she threw up her gaze to see the body of the third bounty hunter lying in front of the door, and another man—quite alive—standing over her.

  “I thought you could use a hand,” said Zar.

  In a little grove west of Palta, a screech pierced the morning air like a javelin through butter. Both Zar's and Lyla’s horses jumped, and ahead, beyond the cover of the trees, a dark form flew over the plain.

  “Whoa,” Zar coaxed his spooked bay. “Whoa.”

  He glanced at Lyla at his right side, mounted on Storm, whispering to the animal and running fingers through its mane to calm her. They had made camp in a small grove of chur trees after fleeing the inn and had meant to be on their way after a meager breakfast of dried meat and chur fruit. But as they sat mounted at the edge of the trees, watching Leviathan soar over the plain ahead, Zar suddenly felt content to remain there a while longer.

  Another screech rang in the distance, and now, farther away, the dragon’s form had waned from a vivid bluster of claws and wings scaled in swampy green, to a smaller, indistinct shape of the same, looking like a shadow over the field. The shadow spun, a line of fire streaming out ahead of it, and something else was there in the distance, some cabin or cottage, as it looked, and the dragon swept towards it. Then, the little structure was engulfed in flames, and Zar and Lyla sat there and watched without comment.

  Zar determined something should be done, but realized shortly after the thought, there was absolutely nothing he could do. It was done, as quick and easy as a snap of the fingers, someone’s home brought to a blaze. If anyone was inside, he’d never reach them in time.

  “Maybe we should stay here for a bit,” said Zar.

  He looked to Lyla. Her eyes were still and grave, with so much water around them he thought the orbs might drown. Zar could tell, despite the sight they had just seen—as if it wasn’t gripping enough—there was something else on the woman’s mind.

  “Is it true?” she asked. “What they’re saying about me? Did I do this?” Her face looked duller than its usual copper radiance, even her curls of fire seemed less bright.

  Zar dismounted and pulled his horse from the tree line and back into the grove. Lyla followed suit, in silent agreement that she’d also prefer to remain hidden from the dragon.

  “I don’t know,” said Zar, sitting down. “Nor does anyone else, I daresay, so don’t let them convince you that they do. No one knows anything. We only have our guesses.”

  Lyla sat down beside Zar, hugging her knees to her chest. She stared off in the direction of the ill-fated home, and although there was no way she could still see it from where she sat on the ground, she looked that way with strange, brooding eyes, some potent amalgam of sorrow and shame and fear.

  “And what’s your guess?”

  Zar looked at Lyla. She was still looking off into space. Her posture lied of casualness, but the tone in her voice had been so pointed Zar couldn’t help but be intrigued. She had asked it like it was the most important question in the world. Perhaps, for her, it was.

  Lyla blew out a sigh, wavy red locks fluttering over her brow like petals of rusted rose. She buried her face between her knees.

  “Fix it,” said Zar.

  The young woman’s head popped up and her eyes nearly jumped from her face. “What?”

  “You can spend your days sulking and wondering who thinks what . . . or you can make this right.”

  Lyla’s hazel eyes squinted, a glimmer of hope peeking through. “How?”

  “Well, we could kill it.”

  Just then, Leviathan’s cry broke through the sky, as if in defiance of Zar’s suggestion.

  “See,” said Zar, “even now the beast taunts us. It is only fitting we take it up on its challenge.”

  “What good would that do me?” asked Lyla, looking like she’d figured out the answer just as soon as she’d asked the question.

  “I think it will do you all the good in the world,” said Zar. “You hold some fear that may be legitimate, that Leviathan’s rampage is your fault. If that is true, what better way to make amends than to destroy it? If it’s not true—well, everyone seems to think it is so it might as well be—you still have gold on your head because of it. I can think of no better way to convince King Dandil of your good will and sincerity than to help get rid of the beast anyway. Surely, after that, he’d come to realize that as such a respectable person you couldn’t possibly be responsible for turning the dragon mad, and, even if you were, helping defeat the beast should be more than ample restitution.”

  Lyla looked focused. She was nodding, almost eagerly, eyes searching Zar’s when he looked over at her. Then she said, “You’re helping me again.”

  Her eyes twinkled, polished bronze mingled with jade, and Zar knew there was so much left unsaid.

  The girl fidgeted, turned her head back to look out at the grove and twiddled her thumbs. “You were right—what you said to me at the coast. I’d lost my way.”

  “No matter,” said Zar, showing Lyla a smile, even though she wasn’t looking at him.”

  “I was—”

  “No matter,” Zar repeated. This time Lyla turned and met his gaze. “If I had to explain every foolish thing I’ve done, the whole world would know my life story.”

  She giggled at this, shoving a hand over her mouth like it wasn’t supposed to happen.

  “Aye, I’m helping you,” Zar kept on, “I’m helping myself, and I’m helping Krii, I daresay. Regardless of who called the dragon out to play, Leviathan is everyone’s problem. We can kill it, you and I. You calm it with a song, and I’ll stick a sword in it.”

  Lyla shone a grin at him, eyebrows dancing before crimping low ove
r squinted eyes. “You’re quite mad, you know?” She didn’t wait for Zar to answer. “But I like the sound of it.”

  20

  The inn was a terrible sight, almost comical. Many of the walls were burnt away, and the ones that remained were brittle and charred, and looked as if one touch might cause them to flake away. It was a half-eaten corpse of a frame.

  Inside, the afternoon sun peered down through a gap in the burned roof, lighting the sparsely filled room. A man looked up from his meal, half his face burned, pink, and shedding like snake-skin. It made Yari think of the bizarre man she’d seen on the roadside. ‘The fate of us all is fire’, he’d said. ‘Fire from men, then fire from the dragon’. Coincidence?

  The edges of the parchment crumbled like dry autumn leaves as Yari ripped if off the wall. “Lyla, the Dragontamer, 1000 Gold Pieces,” it read. The portrait of the young Cyanan woman was painted in red ochre. How appropriate. Yari had nothing else to do, so she’d do this.

  She had to keep her mind off the fact that she’d lost mostly everything. She’d lost her new home, lost nearly everyone she knew in the siege that took it. She’d lost Anza. While the news of Anza’s death had been singularly grievous and painful, there wasn’t a measure of her that wanted revenge. For Anza, she concluded, had been killed by Anza—ambition to rival the plans of the gods—and the real Anza she had grown to know and love had long been snuffed out by the woman who had died at Snowstone Castle.

  As for Zar, Yari didn’t quite know how to feel about the man. Finding him was the last mission given to her from her queen, and while she knew she was released from that obligation, she’d be lying if she said she didn’t want answers. The man had come to them, lied to them, somehow been involved in a plot that foiled all of theirs, and then left without so much as a ‘good day’. She owed him something, whether an arrow through the heart or a good questioning, she hadn’t yet decided.

  The last time she’d captured Zar he’d been with this Cyanan girl, this Dragontamer, and with luck she’d find them in each other’s company again. If so, she could claim her reward, and she’d have closure for Zar’s contrivances, through blood or through answers.