by Penelope, L.
Nash certainly wasn’t short on conversation. He regaled her with stories during the trip and told how he came to Rosira following a young lady who had eventually relented and agreed to marry him. Nothing in his manner indicated any suspicion or distaste for Jasminda.
“Nash, I’m sorry to interrupt, but are there many Fremians in Elsira?”
“Not so many, miss. A few servants in the palace and at the premiere vacation spots, some professors at the university, too, but the immigration laws are strict. Down in Portside, you’ll see folk from every corner of the globe working the ships, but they’re prohibited from entering other parts of the city.”
Nash’s native Fremia was a land that valued knowledge and excellence above all else. They had the best schools and universities and offered elite training in everything from art, to science, to warfare and hospitality. Around the world, no one was better at what they did—no matter what it was—than a Fremian.
“And do your people have any . . . opinions on the Lagrimari?”
He gave her a knowing smile. “Fremia has always been neutral, miss. We stay out of the conflicts of other lands.”
They reached the camp, and the town car slowed to a stop. Nash turned in his seat to face her. “It isn’t like here. So many people from all over the world come to study back home, we’re used to differences of all kinds. It must be hard living in a land with so much sameness that any deviation at all stands out.”
She nodded but couldn’t find her voice to respond. Nash sobered, then straightened his hat and exited to help her out of the vehicle.
“I shouldn’t be too long,” she said.
He tipped his hat to her. “Take as long as you like, miss.”
The warm feeling she had from her conversation with Nash faded as she approached the camp. Apprehension about the minuscule progress she’d made with the caldera made her steps heavy.
She paused, noticing activity at the entrance. A familiar-looking boxy vehicle was parked right next to the tents. When a woman in blue robes emerged from the back, Jasminda’s heart nearly stopped. Two Sisters wrestled with boxes at the back of the wagon, but she could not see their faces. The Sisters wrangled their load to the ground while soldiers stood several feet away, watching, not offering assistance of any kind. As much as Jasminda wanted to stay rooted to the spot, she could not.
“Do you need help?” she called out.
The women turned, startled. One was middle-aged with an austere face. The other was Aunt Vanesse. Jasminda’s throat closed up to be once again face-to-face with her, but no recognition sparked in her aunt’s eyes.
“That would be lovely,” the older woman said, her musical voice at odds with her strict appearance. “You speak Elsiran quite well.”
Jasminda peered into the back of the wagon and began unloading the heavy boxes. “It was my first tongue.” Her back was turned, so she could only imagine the women’s surprise.
She dropped her load and looked over. The older Sister’s brow was furrowed, but Vanesse’s expression was quite blank. Jasminda went to grab another box.
“How does that come to be?” the older Sister asked.
“My mother was Elsiran.” With a great tug, she slid a crate forward into her arms then turned to stack it with the others. Brushing off her palms, she chanced a glance at her aunt, whose face had grown ashen.
“Jasminda ul-Sarifor,” she said, holding out her hands. The older woman greeted her with a polite palm touch. Jasminda turned to Vanesse. After a moment’s hesitation, she too offered the greeting, pressing her cool hands against Jasminda’s.
“I’m going to see after that captain who promised the use of that dolly,” the older Sister said. “I can’t imagine where he’s gotten to.” She was off in a swish of blue fabric, leaving Jasminda alone with her aunt.
Vanesse stared at her mutely, recognition flaring in her eyes. Jasminda stared back. She was glad of the fine clothing Nadal had provided her with and resisted the urge to smooth out her navy-blue silk dress. Standing tall, Jasminda dared her aunt to deny her. The tension of the moment broke when Vanesse let out a gasp, almost like a sob, and rushed forward, wrapping her arms around her niece.
Jasminda was frozen in place as Vanesse squeezed tightly. “You look so much like her,” her aunt whispered into her hair.
“No, I don’t. But you do.” She found the strength to wrap her arms around her aunt and hold on as the woman continued to squeeze.
When Vanesse pulled back, tears were streaming down her face. She raised her hands to cup Jasminda’s cheeks. “No, I see her in you. Your chin, your forehead.” She stroked each part as she mentioned it, and the tears continued. Jasminda felt them welling in her own eyes, as well.
“Why did you never respond?” Jasminda spoke softly, uncertain she wanted to know the answer.
Vanesse released Jasminda and wiped at her eyes, sniffling. “Come, let’s sit.” She motioned to a log in the grass a few metres from the wagon. They settled in next to one another, and Jasminda studied the burn scars marring her aunt’s cheek and jaw.
Vanesse touched her face self-consciously and dipped her head. “Your grandmother did that.”
Jasminda’s jaw slackened as she struggled to comprehend a mother burning her own child. “Was it an accident?”
Vanesse let out a snort. “No. I was sixteen and she caught me with—” she looked over nervously at Jasminda “—someone she thought unsuitable.” After coming upon her aunt’s secret in the carriage house, Jasminda could imagine what sort of person her grandmother would find unsuitable.
“Emi had been gone for four years, sending us letter after letter. Mother would burn them, so I started going for walks to meet the postman so I could read them.” Her voice hitched. “Mother had told everyone Emi died of a fever out in the Borderlands, but Emi had written letters to her friends telling what really happened. Mother was incensed. So when it looked like I was going to end up an embarrassment, as well—” Vanesse’s gaze lengthened. She stared across the field towards the expanse of tents.
“When she came after me with the oil, I thought she wanted to kill me. She doused my bed and then lit the match before I even knew what was happening. Said she wanted to make sure no one at all would steal me away from her. No one would want me. I would never shame her the same way my sister did.” Vanesse’s hand fluttered near her face, never quite touching her scars.
Jasminda’s breathing was shallow. A tear escaped as she took in her aunt’s misery. “But the Sisterhood. How could she support you traveling the country with them to aid the settlers?”
Vanesse straightened and wiped her eyes again. “The Sisterhood is respectable. The Queen has shown us her blessing many times. Providing for the less fortunate is something that brings some honor to the family. The irony that Emi met your father while in the Sisterhood, is perhaps lost on Mother. Or maybe she just believes that I’m too ugly to be a temptation.”
She dropped her head. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to be there for you. Mother is very . . .” She searched for a word, fear clouding her eyes.
“You’re afraid of her,” Jasminda said, growing cold as a guilty look of assent crossed her aunt’s face. She could not fault the woman. How would she feel if she’d been burned by her own mother for falling out of line? Her grandmother must have a tenuous hold on her sanity to do such a thing.
“How did you come to be here? Where are you living?” Vanesse asked, changing the subject.
Jasminda told her of the events leading her to Rosira and of her visit to her grandmother’s house. Vanesse listened to the story, her horrified expression growing with each twist and turn.
“You mustn’t ever go back to that house,” she said, desperation sharpening her features. Vanesse’s fear was a noose around her neck. Any anger Jasminda had held toward the woman dissolved into pity. The family Jasminda had known was kind and loving. She’d never once feared either of her parents and couldn’t imagine doing so.
“I
don’t plan to go back.” The reassurance caused the haunted look in her aunt’s eyes to vanish.
“Good, good.” Vanesse rubbed Jasminda’s hand between her own. “I hope that we can get to know one another. I would very much like that.”
“Me, too.” This was why she’d come to Rosira in the first place.
“There’s a place we can meet where no one will see. Though you may have to invest in a good-sized cloak, or perhaps some face paint so you’re not recognized.”
Whatever else Vanesse said was lost to the rushing in Jasminda’s ears. Her aunt could only get to know her in secret. Hidden corridors, cloaks, and face paint. Late-night rendezvous and secret trysts. Was there no one who would bring their acquaintance with her out into the light of day?
She pulled her hand out of Vanesse’s grasp and stood on shaky legs. “I’m supposed to meet with some of the refugees now. I have to go.”
Someone else’s secret. Someone else’s shame.
She left behind the question on Vanesse’s face and the call of her name on the woman’s lips.
Jasminda wasn’t certain she’d be able to locate the tent where the Keepers had met the previous day. And even if she did, would any of them be there? They might have changed locations to maintain their secrecy. Especially if the camp really housed spies for the True Father. Though this was hard for her to believe—every face she saw seemed more downtrodden than the last. She fingered her silk dress, now self-conscious of the finery she was afforded because she happened to have been born on a certain side of the border.
A light rain began to fall as she wandered the lanes of the camp. Some of the tents had what she assumed were Lagrimari characters painted on them, but none matched the characters she’d seen on the Keepers tent.
Then she spotted Osar, playing with a group of children in the entrance to a tent. He grinned wide and waved, putting a smile on her face.
Around the corner, she found Rozyl chatting with three of the Keepers from the mountain. She dreaded asking the woman for anything, but she had little choice. The rain was falling harder now, and the thin fabric of her dress absorbed the water, chilling her. As she approached, a ripple of unease charged the air. The Keepers had their faces to the sky, as if they were listening to something.
“What’s wrong?” Jasminda said, but her question fell on deaf ears.
She reached for Rozyl, brushing her hand to get the woman’s attention. A violent press of Earthsong rose and slammed against her like a physical push. Rozyl turned, her surprise indicating she’d felt the force, as well, and hadn’t caused it. Jasminda couldn’t separate herself and was plunged directly into the flow of Rozyl’s connection to Earthsong.
Jasminda cried out, suffocated by the maelstrom of energies of so many people around her. Pain, white and hot, lanced through her body, blinding her. Somehow she had linked to Rozyl’s power, and it felt like being crushed into paste. Suddenly, a filter emerged between her and Rozyl’s Song, like a window shade pulled down to hide the glare of the sun. It muted the volume of the energy, and the vise around her chest loosened.
She was still uncomfortable but could now pick out details in the Earthsong surrounding them. The nearby soldiers—tension rippling through them, fear and distrust pulsing like blood in their veins. The fear of the refugees, the hope and the hopelessness. Their heavy hearts and minds.
Finally, she was able to tear her hand from Rozyl’s. She coughed and gasped, relieved to break the connection. Rozyl regarded her with disbelief.
“How did you link with me?” Rozyl said, looking at her like her hair were made of spiders.
Jasminda shook her head. She’d had no intention of linking with anyone.
“And why did you not shield yourself?”
“Shield?” So that must be how Earthsingers coexisted in large numbers. Again, Jasminda shook her head. “My father was the only other Earthsinger I knew. He did not teach me.” She wondered what other lessons she had missed.
“Your Song is so weak.”
Jasminda shrugged, her breathing slowly returning to normal. “My brothers could not sing at all.”
“Half-breed. I don’t know why it must be you,” she said with disgust, and took off down one of the wider paths through the tents.
“I don’t know what just happened, but I didn’t ask for it, either. I didn’t ask to be the only one the caldera will work for,” Jasminda called out, racing after Rozyl’s quick steps. The other woman ignored her, and soon they emerged at the camp’s entrance where a crowd had grown. Rozyl disappeared into the throng of people.
Still shaking from the unexpected force of the link, Jasminda strained for a better view of what had captured everyone’s attention. “What’s happening?” she whispered to a woman cradling a sleeping baby.
“I think they’re holding back the rations.”
Jasminda moved to the front of the group to verify. Vanesse and two other Sisters stood near a line of soldiers arguing with the captain. At their feet were the crates of rice, potatoes, and vegetables sitting out in the rain.
“You cannot keep rations from these people. I won’t allow it,” the oldest Sister said.
Jasminda approached, mindful of why Jack had wanted her here in the first place. A few other refugees broke away from the crowd and drew nearer to the soldiers, as well.
“Is there a problem delivering the rations, Captain?” Jasminda said.
The man looked at her sharply, evidently surprised at her command of Elsiran. He glanced at her dress, obviously expensive even in its wet state and so different from the threadbare fabric covering the refugees. She’d not seen this man before, and he probably had no idea as to her identity, but he could plainly see she was different than the rest.
“This witchcraft will not be tolerated,” the captain said.
Jasminda crossed her arms and stood her ground. “Exactly what witchcraft are you referring to?”
The man glowered at her, rain dripping off his nose. Jasminda looked around, searching for what could have angered the soldiers into withholding the rations. Finally, she looked down at her dress, clinging to her wet body. The rain had stopped where she stood, yet it still poured upon the captain standing less than a metre away. She looked to the sky—overcast—and then around at the camp. About a dozen metres of land were dry in the midst of the rain.
The explanation turned out to be simple. Several lines of laundry had been run between the tents near the entrance of the camp. Someone had cast a small spell, most likely to avoid having the clean laundry rained upon.
“It’s just a spell for the laundry, Captain,” she said, pointing to the lines of clothes.
The man’s face hardened. “It’s evil. The whole lot of you grols are evil.” He spat, aiming at Jasminda’s feet on the dry part of the ground. The Sisters raised their voices in protest.
A boy of about twelve or thirteen came to stand next to her. She did a double take, recognizing him as the child who’d aided the settlers in Baalingrove. On her other side, two old men she hadn’t seen before regarded the confrontation warily.
Outrage overcame the pain of the words she’d heard so many times before. “You have no right to withhold the rations, Captain. You have orders to feed these people. Where is your honor?”
The captain’s face contorted. “You’ll not speak to me of honor, witch.”
“Just leave the food here. We’ll carry it in ourselves.” She pointed and moved toward the nearest crate. The boy at her side approached, as well.
“Stay back, witch. Don’t come any closer.” The captain’s hand hovered near the pistol strapped to his waist.
Jasminda stilled, but the boy kept moving, not understanding the captain’s command. In the space of a heartbeat, the captain pulled his sidearm and pointed it at the boy. The entire line of soldiers drew their rifles on the gathered refugees. The Sisters, startled, took several steps back.
“No!” Jasminda screamed. In Lagrimari, she shouted, “Stop!”
The boy looked over at her, brows drawn. His eyes glittered, warm and golden brown, lighter than most Lagrimari’s. His face still held the roundness of youth, but those enchanting eyes were hard.
The boy took another defiant step toward the food. Somewhere close-by, a woman screamed, “Timmyn!” He tensed, hearing his name, then took another step.
Time slowed as Jasminda shook her head and opened herself to Earthsong, struggling to work out the shield technique she'd witnessed Rozyl use during their unexpected link. It worked just enough so that the other energies weren’t screaming in her head, drowning out her thoughts and severing her connection, but she was far from proficient. The soldiers’ emotions were a whirlwind of fear and aggression. Too far gone to be soothed by Earthsong, even if she’d been strong enough to do so.
She reached out to Timmyn and found the well of pain to be deep. He was in a place beyond hearing, yet she still wished she had the power to push a message to him the way Osar could. You don’t have to prove anything, she wanted to tell him. We will not let you starve here. I know the prince, and he would never allow it. Her helplessness crushed her as she felt his hurt.
When the shot rang out, Jasminda lost her connection to Earthsong. She grabbed at the air in front of her, too far away to catch him as Timmyn fell backward onto the ground. A deep-crimson stain ballooned across the fabric of his shirt. Jasminda looked up at the caption in horror. His face was an emotionless mask.
She fell to her knees. Her breath came in short, shallow bursts. Tears blurred her vision. She vaguely registered a group of refugees taking the boy away to be healed. Through the fog she heard Vanesse speaking somewhere close-by. Her words were just a jumble of sounds that didn’t penetrate. Time ceased to exist. All she could hear was the crack of the gun and the thud of Timmyn’s body hitting the earth, over and over again.