A Song for Orphans

by Morgan Rice

  “Is there a back way out of here?” she asked the innkeeper.

  There was, and she slipped through it with Sienne, while she heard soldiers moving toward the front of the inn, probably searching it on the basis that it was the most likely place for her to go. She needed to move quietly now. If she could get down to the docks without being seen, Rupert wouldn’t even know when she left. All she had to do was—

  “Going somewhere?” Rupert stepped from a side street, hand on the hilt of his sword. “I guessed that you would skulk about like a rat.”

  “I’d have thought that description applied more to you than to me,” Sophia said. “Thankfully, I brought a cat with me.”

  It barely took any urging to send Sienne springing forward to slam into Rupert, knocking him to the ground. The forest cat bared her teeth, and Sophia was sure that she could rip out Rupert’s throat easily, but she sent a mental pulse to call the cat back instead. She doubted Sebastian would forgive her for killing his brother.

  She ran instead, with Sienne by her side, the forest cat keeping pace easily.

  “She’s over here!” Rupert called. “Grab her. I want her in chains!”

  A soldier stepped out toward Sophia, and she shoved him away, continuing to run. She plunged down through a space where fishermen were mending their nets, grabbed one, and threw it back behind her to tangle around the legs of another soldier.

  She cut left, not aiming for the harbor now, because she didn’t want to give away where she was heading. Instead, she pushed through the spaces between houses, changing direction rapidly, hoping to confuse the men who were behind her. One came in from the side and Sienne charged at him, bringing him down with a swipe of her claws and then running back to Sophia’s side.

  The forest cat leapt up a pile of low stones, onto a thatched roof. Sophia followed her, because if she stayed at ground level, it was only a matter of time before they managed to surround her. Up here, she could burrow down into the thatch and hope that they wouldn’t think to look up for too long.

  From here, Sophia could see the soldiers making their way around the village. Some burst into houses, others hurried around the streets, trying to run her down through sheer effort. Rupert stood at the heart of it all, yelling orders and threats almost in equal measure.

  “I want her found!” he yelled. “I want her brought to me. Sophia, can you hear me?”

  She wasn’t going to be stupid enough to answer.

  “We’re going to find you, Sophia, and I am going to drag you back to the capital behind my horse, wearing nothing but the skin of that beast of yours. At every place we stop, I’m going to put you on display for the people to see, and every time we make camp, I will find a new way to torture you. By the time we get back to Ashton you will beg, beg to be executed!”

  Sophia had no doubt that he meant it. She’d seen firsthand the kind of cruelty Rupert was capable of. The thought of that was enough to make her wish that she had let Sienne finish him, but if she’d done that, they would never stop chasing her.

  Not that it looked as though they would do so now. Men were already moving among the houses, one walking almost directly below Sophia’s hiding place. She held her breath, one hand on Sienne’s head in a signal to the forest cat to remain silent. The man passed by, and Sophia dared to breathe again.

  The soldiers’ horses were over by the inn. Perhaps if she could get to one of them…

  No, that wouldn’t work. Even if she could somehow ride faster than a company of cavalry, it left her going in the wrong direction. Sophia wouldn’t be able to get to Ishjemme, wouldn’t meet her uncle, and wouldn’t find out what had happened to her parents after the night when the killers had come.

  Still, it gave her an idea. She reached out with her powers, feeling for the minds of the horses in the way that she’d found Sienne’s mind. She could sense them now, well trained but still skittish under that exterior. Sophia built on that skittishness, feeding their fear, then taking an image of Sienne and throwing it at them.

  They reared and bucked, then finally broke free of the sloppily tied reins holding them. Sophia gave them the sense of the forest cat following behind them, and now they ran from the village, charging back up the path into the wild spaces beyond.

  Below her, she saw the soldiers milling about, trying to make sense of it all, and Sophia decided to take a risk.

  “Quick!” she called out, doing her best to imitate the rough tones of a soldier. “She’s getting away!”

  Now they ran, chasing after the horses. None of them seemed to know quite what was going on, but from the thoughts that she could see, all of them assumed that one of the others had seen a glimpse of her among the fleeing horses. Even Rupert took off in the direction they’d gone, running awkwardly in boots better suited to riding.

  Silently, Sophia slipped down from the roof, with Sienne following in her wake. She knew that her distraction would only buy her a limited amount of time, and once Rupert worked out that he’d been fooled, he would be back, angrier than ever, ready to kill anyone who got in his way.

  She needed to get to the boat, so she hurried down through the village toward the harbor.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  The Master of Crows stood impassively, while around him, his captains gathered. So many captains. Another man might have been proud of an army that size.

  “The clear up on the beach is progressing well, sir,” Klathard said. He was a large, dark-skinned mercenary who had joined the New Army when his side had lost a battle ten years ago. “The burnt vessels are out of the way now.”

  “And the ones for the invasion?” he asked.

  “Loading proceeds apace,” Van Jord replied. He had joined his ships to the force when the New Army had taken his city.

  “See that it is done faster,” the Master of Crows said. “In war, the side that moves fastest wins most often.”

  They hung on his words, of course. One, Haddet, even wrote them down as though planning a monogram on his general’s genius. The Master of Crows had no time for it. He had seen death, and everything else felt like dust.

  So many men, from so many lands, so many sides, all absorbed into his New Army. So long as they fed his crows with the energy of the dying, the Master of Crows didn’t care where they came from.

  “What else?” he asked. He could have seen for himself, of course. He could have reached out and seen through the eyes of any corvid he wanted, but sometimes it was easier to ask.

  “I have sent men to clear the bodies from the beach,” K’tha said. He hadn’t even been part of the wars on the continent. He had simply come in from Morgassa to fight when he had heard about the scale of the conquest on offer.

  “Leave them,” the Master of Crows said. “Let the crows feast.”

  He had been the one they’d been feasting on once, after a spear had taken him in a battle so long ago that the world barely remembered it now. They had come for him and he had reached out for them with a talent he hadn’t known he had until then.

  He’d lost his name in that moment, but it hadn’t mattered.

  There had been many more battles since then, and many more crows. The Master of Crows had found that the speed and power others’ energy gave him was an advantage, but not as much as being able to see through the eyes of all corvids, knowing exactly where his foes were, and what their plans would be.

  “You should be aware, my lord, that one of the gifted has been captured,” Captain Var said. He’d joined them after being part of a force sent to bring them down by one of the churches after they’d declared him anathema. He’d maintained the skills used in hunting the talented, but now he did it for more useful purposes.

  “Show me,” the Master of Crows replied, half hoping that it would be the girl he had fought on the beach. But no, that one would not be taken so easily by his men. Siobhan’s pet was a more powerful thing than that.

  Even so, any of the gifted was a good thing. Their essence fed the crows better th
an anything.

  “You have a talent,” the Master of Crows said.

  “And so you think you’re going to declare me some kind of heretic or witch?” the man countered.

  The Master of Crows laughed bitterly at that. “You have me confused with some servant of the Masked Goddess. Would you like to live? Are your skills useful ones to add to my army?”

  “You tell me,” the farmer said, and lashed out with a burst of mental power that would have been quite impressive against anyone else. The Master of Crows had the full power of his crows behind him, though, all the energy they had taken with their feeding, and he brushed the attempt off.

  “Take him and put him in a gibbet,” he said. He’d found that power lingered longer while the talented were alive. The crows could feed for longer, and they always needed feeding.

  How long had he been feeding them now? Fifty years? More than that? It was impossible to say for sure. His face didn’t show the years, but only because of the constant swell of power from all corners of his growing empire as the crows did their grim work.

  For now, he let his attention flicker between sets of eyes wherever he could find them. One flew on the edge of desert sands, hunting for carrion in a space where monuments almost as old as humanity stood half buried. Another flew over ice, watching bears hunting in the snow that formed a barrier between there and Ishjemme. He watched a dozen cities, some still in the process of being taken, some held in the grip of harsh laws that promised a feast for the crows, one in the middle of being razed as an example.

  He found himself thinking again about the girl he’d fought on the beach. She’d had skill, and she’d had power, enough to feel like a threat for what seemed like the first time in forever. His plans had taken into account the magic of things like Siobhan, and the other known powers of the island, but this had been an unexpected addition. He still wasn’t sure what to make of it.

  “Crow food,” he told himself. “I’ll make crow food of them all.”

  He walked back toward the edge of the town, where his army was gathering, its ochre uniform a reminder of a time when those had truly been his colors. His captains followed him, waiting for his orders, trusting him with a faith that bordered on the religious. None of them seemed to understand that he would see them dead as easily as his enemies.

  “Are the men prepared?” he asked.

  “They will fight with the strength of true warriors!” Captain Namas said. He was one of the newer ones. The Master of Crows still wasn’t sure if he would last.

  “I have no time for warriors,” he said. “I want obedient soldiers, not heroes. Will they march where I tell them, die if I tell them? Will you?”

  “In a heartbeat,” the captain said.

  The Master of Crows cocked his head to one side. “Then prove it. Take a knife and kill yourself.” He fixed his captain with a level gaze, then handed him a blade. “Now.”

  The other man laughed. “You… I was speaking figuratively, my lord.”

  The Master of Crows nodded and took the blade back, then thrust it through the other man’s chest so fast he probably didn’t even see it.

  “I was not.”

  He stood there, watching his captain fall. He considered simply letting him die, but the crows had been fed well by the battle, and he was feeling generous. He pushed energy into the wound, closing it as easily as he’d caused it. Captain Namas gasped, looking shocked as he found that he could breathe again.

  “When I give a command, you will follow it,” the Master of Crows said.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  The Master of Crows could hear now that his captain would. He believed now.

  The Master of Crows didn’t care. He didn’t need belief, so long as the men fed the crows, and through them, him. So long as they gave him the power to keep going. That was the part that mattered. Anything else was ephemeral. The Master of Crows looked down at them, seeing the numbers there, and the determination.

  He suspected the Dowager’s kingdom would feed him well.

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  Kate found herself looking around every few strides through the mountains, unwilling to believe that she might really be on the right path. Nevertheless, the details seemed to line up with her dream almost exactly. There were boulders and overhangs in the same places, the path twisting to the same degree. Kate kept following it, still not sure if she was doing the right thing.

  She took another step forward, and fear and pain hit her like a hammer.

  It came out of nowhere, there one step after there had been nothing. There was terror such as Kate had never experienced in her life, coupled with pain that felt like she was rolling in stinging nettles, or set on fire. The sheer shock of it made her recoil, and as she did so, Kate felt the sensation fade, gone as quickly as it had come.

  She took a step forward again, and the screaming agony was there once more.

  Kate stepped back, trying to work out what was happening. There was no sign of anything there beyond a faint shimmer in the air, but even that told her something: this was some kind of barrier. Siobhan had done something similar to her once in the forest. So, how did she get through it? There was only one answer that Kate could see.

  She stepped forward again.

  She couldn’t ignore the pain, but was it worse than the endless pain she’d endured in the House of the Unclaimed? Was it worse than feeling blades sliding into her endlessly as Siobhan trained her to fight? Was the fear worse than the times when she’d been in battle? Step by step, Kate forced herself forward across the rocky ground.

  Finally, the pain and the fear disappeared, leaving only the crisp air of the mountains, and the soft gravel of the path ahead. Kate stood there, letting the agony pass from her body, feeling her muscles relax after cramping so hard with pain. It took long minutes before Kate felt able to keep walking.

  There was a bend in the track ahead. Around it…

  It was strange, seeing reality match her dreams so exactly. Strange, and a little frightening as she looked at the low stone cottage there, ringed by plants that seemed to be surviving in spite of the harsh environment of the mountains. If this much was true, then the rest might be as well. This really might be the place for her to learn the horrific power Siobhan had shown her.

  Was that really what Kate wanted?

  She didn’t have an answer to that, but she also didn’t have anywhere better to go, so she started forward toward the cottage’s door. It swung open as she got close, but no one stepped out to meet her. Kate stepped inside, knocking on the wooden frame of the door even though it was obvious someone was expecting her.

  “Hello?” she said. “Is anyone there?”

  “Was the barrier not enough of a hint?” a man’s voice demanded.

  The interior of the cottage was a cluttered place, as if the contents of some much larger space had been crammed down into it. There were boxes and scrolls, flasks and beakers, plants in jars and pots.

  The man who stood at the heart of it all was bent over with age, his hair and beard both white and unkempt. He wore robes that looked more like a scholar’s than a priest’s, while crabbed hands seemed to be in ceaseless motion by his side.

  “Well?” he demanded. “Are you going to tell me who you are, and what’s so important that you clambered through my mountains, then fought your way past my barrier?”

  His mountains. There was something about the way he said it that reminded Kate of the way Siobhan talked about her woods.

  “My name is Kate,” she said. “Siobhan sent me to learn from you.”

  “Ah,” he said, and his expression changed. It was no longer irritable, but now there was a note of wariness there instead. “That is a name I haven’t heard in years.”

  A part of Kate wanted to ask how many years, because this man had a look of age to him that Siobhan didn’t show. Of course, Kate already knew that Siobhan was far older than she appeared.

  “I am Finnael, though most of the farmers o
ut this way call me Old Finn, if they remember me at all. If you are from her, and you are here to learn, then you will have something for me.”

  He stood there expectantly, and Kate had the sense that this was as much a test as the barrier had been.

  “Siobhan gave me something in a dream,” Kate said, “but it wasn’t there when I woke.”

  “Perhaps it was just a dream then,” Finnael said. “Siobhan knows the price of my help. I told her a long time ago, and she is not one to forget. Strange that such a thing would fade though.”

  Kate frowned at that, and then a thought came to her. What if she didn’t need a physical version of the object Siobhan had passed to her? Siobhan had said that it was a representation, a collection of choices given form. Could Kate remember it?

  She reached for the memories of the dream, and found that while the rest of it was starting to fade, the moment where Siobhan had passed the object to her remained, as clear as in the moment when Kate had first seen it. She found that if she concentrated, she could see every detail of the twigs and leaves, twine and feathers. She could turn it around in her mind, so that she could see it from angles she was sure she hadn’t in the dream.

  On impulse, she took the image and sent it across in Finnael’s direction using her talent.

  “Ah,” he said, and Kate saw his expression change again. He seemed pleased now, and a little surprised. “I never thought that she would give me this. This must matter a great deal to her.”

  He stood there, and Kate could imagine him turning the image over in his mind, examining it from every angle. She didn’t dare look, in case he took that as an insult. She did, however, step forward after a while to put a hand on his arm, if only because it seemed that he had forgotten her.