Song of Blood & Stone (Earthsinger Chronicles Book 1)

by Penelope, L.

  He dropped his arms. “I don’t care.”

  “Yes, you do.” She drew her shaking arms around her, finally registering the cold of the night.

  “Jasminda, you know I would not let anyone harm you. You’re too important to me.”

  “Me? Important? I thought I was merely acceptable.” She watched understanding dawn on his face. The misery that followed it tore at her, but his words had stung.

  “You heard that? You know I didn’t mean—”

  “Shhh. Someone may overhear. Voices carry up there, don't they?" She motioned toward the terrace.

  "Yours does when you're upset," he said, his eyes full of sadness.

  Her steps were wobbly as she continued backing away from him. “Go back to your ball, Your Grace. Lizvette may want another dance, and you cannot disappoint your people.” She turned then so he would not see the tears overflow their barriers. She knew she wasn’t being fair, but nothing about this situation was fair, nothing about her life had ever been.

  Leaving the music and the finery behind, she ran along the garden to the eastern entrance of the palace and enlisted the help of a passing servant to lead her back to her rooms. Once inside, she locked the door and dragged over a heavy armchair to prop in front of it. She would spend the night alone again. She had better start getting used to it.

  “Lady Oola, are you ready to begin?” My cousin Vaaryn stands in the center of the amphitheater that is the Assembly Room. Rows of benches spiral around him, filled with the other children of the Founders. He is aged and stooping, the eldest of the Thirds. Next to him, spine as rigid and unyielding as his face, sits my beloved Eero.

  When I shudder, Yllis squeezes my hand. I stand, all the heavier for the weight pressing against my heart, and force myself to look upon my twin.

  “Eero, son of Peedar, second-born to the ninth child of the Founders, what say you to the crimes of which you are accused?” My voice sounds strong, but inside I quiver from nerves. The closest relative of the accused must stand up for him in Assembly, but I do not want to be here, not as observer, judge, or as his Advocate.

  “My only crime, sister”—the word is a sneer falling from his mouth—“was being born Silent in a world of Songbearers.” He is not chained or bound in any way and crosses his arms in front of him defiantly.

  I clear my throat and take a breath, still amazed at the cruel way he speaks to me now. “Your crime is the kidnapping of Sayya, Fourth descendent of the Founders. Do you deny this?”

  He looks straight ahead, his gaze boring into the wall. “As a Third descendent, I see no reason to dignify this proceeding with a response.”

  I swallow. “As you well know, only Songbearers are counted in the line of descendants. The Silent are not—”

  “Did you not gift me part of your Song, sister? Does that not make me a Songbearer?” The accusation in his voice cuts me. There are so many feelings swirling inside—anger, pain, despair, even hatred. The person before me cannot be my beloved brother. He simply cannot be.

  I step closer and feel Yllis rise beside me, lending his support, as always. “You are not a Songbearer, and it was my mistake to use that spell,” I say. “I take responsibility for that. Because I love you and would do anything for you.”

  “Anything?” The venom in that one word burns.

  “Anything but give you more of the power you abused. You forced me to cut you off by your actions.”

  “I was innovating, the way the Cantors do.”

  “You set things out of balance. Earthsong is not to be used for better prices in the marketplace or to cheat at cards. You cannot ruin a crop because a farmer insulted you.” Tears well even as the anger rears its head. “And you cannot steal a girl away from her bed at night and attempt to force her to gift you her Song! She could not have done so if she wanted to. It is too advanced a spell.”

  I take a breath and step back, remembering my role as Advocate. “You have heard the accusation and evidence presented against you. And as you have not denied it, now is the time. Unburden your conscience.”

  He shook his head, and a smirk crossed his face. “You all think you can continue to subjugate us. That the Silent will continue living as second-class citizens for the rest of time. Sayya made me believe that she cared for me, but when I offered for her she could not bear to wed a Silent. And now my own sister forsakes me. This Assembly is a sham. If you want to judge me of a crime, then have my peers judge me. Why are there no Silent in the Assembly? Why must we make do with the scraps of life while Songbearers reap all the benefits?”

  “What are you talking about, Eero?” I crouch down, near enough to look into his eyes, yet far enough so that he cannot reach out and strike me. The fact that I even think this is a possibility is sad proof of how much has changed over the past two seasons. Last summer he was the other half of my heart, but by the time the leaves fell from the trees, he had become my enemy.

  “There are no Silent in the Assembly because only a Songbearer can read a man’s heart, can know the truth buried within. How can a Silent judge? What scraps has life given you? We ate at the same table, all our lives. What inequities have you suffered, brother, that makes you hate us so?” My voice cracks on this last sentiment.

  His eyes harden but still he does not look at me. His jaw is set, and his body may as well be made of stone. As his Advocate, I cannot use Earthsong to determine his state of mind, but as his twin I would never need to.

  Yllis pulls on my shoulder gently, and I allow him to lead me back to my seat. Vaaryn struggles to his feet and calls upon Cadda, Sayya’s mother and Advocate, to have the final word.

  “It is so rare for us to hold one of us in judgment, crime in our land is so infrequent. The guidance of the Founders steers us toward mercy.” Her voice is soothing and calm. “Though my daughter was troubled greatly by Eero’s actions, she was not harmed. We ask for his captivity so that a Healer may give him the aid and comfort he so obviously needs.”

  Eero snorts and rolls his eyes.

  Vaaryn stands before Eero, and suddenly my brother’s expression freezes. He rises into the air, his arms locked to his sides, his legs still bent in the sitting position. For criminal proceedings, a random sampling of nine Assembly members serve as judges, communicating using Earthsong to make their decision. Eero floats for a few moments until Vaaryn speaks again.

  “The Assembly agrees with the recommendation of Cadda. It is decided that Eero, son of Peedar, will be delivered to the Healers, who will tend to his mental instability until a time wherein he is determined to again be in his right mind.”

  “Be it so,” the Assembly says in unison.

  I do not want it to be so, but I cannot change reality. I watch my brother float away and wonder when I will see him again.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Pugeros said as he stalked sulkily into the Council Room. “Summoning us at this ungodly hour?”

  The sun had not yet crested the horizon. The ministers were likely cranky, and perhaps a bit hungover from the ball the previous night, but Jack’s exhaustion had nothing to do with alcohol. “We will begin once everyone arrives.”

  The grumbling around the table continued in the background, but he paid it little mind. Instead he focused on pushing the weariness back, tucking the hours of sleepless worry away to the far reaches of his mind. He didn’t want to box those emotions up, but he needed the disquiet of this latest disaster to distract him from the pulsing ache that had started when he recognized Jasminda’s heartbreak. But she was not his only woe. What had started as a pebble was now an avalanche, and he’d once again been swept away by its sheer force.

  When the last minister arrived and took his seat, Jack took a deep breath. He opened the folder before him and pulled out a curling sheet of paper.

  “I received this late last night. It appeared in my offices. And when I say appeared, I mean it popped into existence in midair right over my desk.”

  Gasps came from around the table. Jack had
worked late after being denied entry to Jasminda’s room. He’d risked being seen in the hallway outside her door for long minutes before finally returning to his offices. Not long after, the paper had hovered until Jack plucked it from the air, feeling the residual vibrations of Earthsong on the single sheet.

  “It pertains to the True Father’s terms for peace.”

  Another round of gasps and murmurs resonated.

  Jack ran his fingers across the letter. He could recite it by heart now, had spent the early-morning hours thinking and worrying and reading it over and over again. He peered at every shocked face around the table, then repeated each word.

  “It has come to the attention of the beloved leadership of the Republic of Lagrimar that preparations for war are being made by the Principality of Elsira. While We assert Our right to pursue the protection of Our people against the ambition and reckless dominance of all outsiders, We acknowledge that a peaceful and permanent solution to the many years of strife between our lands would be advantageous.

  “Our offer is peace in exchange for the immediate return of every Lagrimari within the borders of the Elsiran principality. Our people are Our greatest resource, and it is within Our right to negotiate for their safe return to home soil.

  “The entire power of Our crown is united behind this generous offer of peace. Once Our people are returned, a guarantee will be made to honor all current borders in perpetuity for the length of Our reign and to immediately cease and desist in any actions that may be deemed by the Principality of Elsira as acts of war.

  “In witness whereof We have hereto set Our hand the eighth day of the tenth month this five hundred and twelfth year of Our reign.”

  Silence descended. Jack released the paper and let it fall back onto the table.

  “The refugees,” Minister Nirall said under his breath.

  “Yes,” Jack replied. “He’s promising to abandon whatever scheme he has for the Mantle if we return them.”

  Calladeen leaned forward, not meeting Jack’s eyes. “But why all of a sudden? Of what military value are they?”

  Nirall shook his head. “Women, children, old men. Some of the children may have powerful witchcraft, but would that prompt the offer of permanent peace?”

  “It seems the path forward is clear,” Pugeros said. Every head in the room turned toward him. “We must return them,” he said, wilting under the scrutiny.

  “Return them?” Nirall asked, aghast.

  “What is a handful of savages compared to peace?”

  Jack ground his teeth together. “And what makes you think the True Father would keep this promise of peace? What confidence do we have in his word?”

  “We have negotiated peace treaties before,” Pugeros said.

  “And they have all been broken. Whether in five years, fifty, or one hundred there is always another breach!” Jack slammed a hand on the table for emphasis. “He wants out of that Sovereign-forsaken desert he’s been stuck in. That hasn’t changed. What happens if we return the refugees and the Mantle falls anyway? He will be that much more powerful before he comes to invade us. We have no leverage here.”

  “It is a risk,” Stevenot said thoughtfully.

  “A great one,” said Nirall, adjusting the spectacles on his face. “We will need time to consider the ramifications. Let us bring this to a vote tomorrow.” He looked to Jack for confirmation. Jack gave his assent but stayed seated as the rest of the men filed out.

  He did not move for a long time.

  Jasminda jumped at the knock on the door. Nadal had just taken away her breakfast tray and the drumming did not have the rapid cadence of Jack’s knock. She approached with caution, mindful of Calladeen’s menacing tone the night before.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Miss Jasminda, it’s Usher.”

  She relaxed and opened the door, glad to see him. His gray head and kind face were welcome sights. Over the past week he’d delivered notes from Jack, assisted her in finding the library and helped in other small ways.

  “Please, sit,” she said, leading him to her favorite place in front of the fire.

  “Thank you, miss.” The smile in his eyes was edged with sorrow. “I overstep my bounds a great deal by coming here.”

  “Jack did not send you?” She hadn’t recognized the bubble of hope blossoming within her until it suddenly deflated.

  “Not precisely. But I have looked after him since he was born, and I know how his mind works.”

  He tapped his fingers on the armrest, clearly choosing his words carefully.

  “Prince Edvard, Jack’s father, was not an easy man. Alariq’s mother was his true love and when she died, something in him changed. He remarried, but Jack and his mother were not well treated.”

  Usher sat back in his chair, clasping his hands before him. Jasminda hung on his every word and movement, eager for this glimpse into the boy Jack had been.

  “It did not help that he was a peculiar child, given to flights of imagination. Did you know he painted? From a very young age he was able to create the most beautiful landscapes you’ve ever seen. It was quite a remarkable gift.”

  “Can I see them? Are they hanging in the palace somewhere?” She had been right when she first met Jack and thought him an artist. Something about his soul was far too bright to have been made for the military.

  Usher lowered his head. “All of his paintings were destroyed. Burned by his father shortly before Jack was sent away to train. He did not paint again.”

  Jasminda sucked in a breath.

  “Princess Rienne, his mother, slowly wilted, becoming more and more withdrawn, hiding away from society. When Jack would come home to visit, she would rally a bit, but he did not know how bad it had gotten until after Edvard’s death. Even before then, the rumors and gossip flowed. Her bizarre behavior, skipping important functions, acting oddly when she did appear. By the time of Edvard’s death, she was being openly vilified in the press, some going so far as to blame her for the prince’s heart attack.”

  Usher rubbed the bridge of his nose, then locked his gaze on her. “When she left, she took a piece of that boy with her. He was only ten years old and blamed himself for not protecting his mother from his father, and from the rest of the country, as well. The press, the gossipmongers—in her absence, the brunt of their scrutiny fell on him, and it has followed him ever since.”

  Jasminda nodded, as the reason for Usher’s visit became clear. “He wants to protect me.”

  “As much as he can, yes. He needs it.”

  Her throat ached for the boy he had been and the man he had become. She wiped away the single tear that trickled down her face. “Where is he?”

  Usher led her through the bowels of the palace, down many steep staircases, each older than the last. Here, the original stone walls and floors had not been plastered over or carpeted. Kerosene lamps instead of electric shone dimly, lending an acrid tinge to the cool air, though to Jasminda’s mind, torches would not have been out of place.

  “This is the oldest part of the palace, Miss Jasminda. It is used exclusively by the Prince Regent, and none but his most trusted are allowed entry.”

  Something odd brushed against her senses. The energy of this place was almost overwhelming. She opened herself the tiniest bit to Earthsong, once again testing out the shielding technique. The crush of the city hovered in her periphery, but an even stronger force snapped her connection shut. She gasped and wobbled on her feet. Usher reached out to steady her.

  “I’m all right, I just— There’s something odd about this place.”

  Usher grew solemn. “Come and see.”

  The hallway in which they stood ended with a door. He pushed it open with some difficulty and motioned her through. Giving him a quizzical look, she stepped cautiously and found her feet sliding down almost immediately. The floor was like a bowl; the inside of the room a white sphere with the door hanging in the middle. Candles glowed eerily from little alcoves notched into curved walls ma
de of no material she could fathom. Everything was smooth and white, but the shadows from the candles flickered gloomily.

  Jack knelt on one knee at the bottom of the bowl, underneath a long, white capsule floating in midair. The smooth, seamless surface of the capsule was made of the same strange material as the walls. The object resembled an elongated egg, about six feet in length. It hovered courtesy of an ancient, intensely powerful spell that tingled the edges of her senses like static electricity.

  Jack rose, facing her as she found her footing and gingerly stepped down the concave floor. Exhaustion wearied his features, but his expression brightened at the sight of her. She slid into his arms, and he held her so tightly she could scarcely breathe. But she did not complain. Finally, he released the embrace, stroked her face, and kissed her.

  “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

  “No, don’t be. I should apologize. I cannot change the rules we both agreed upon.” She was instantly lost in the depths of his eyes and wanted to stay there.

  “I don’t want there to be any rules for us. I just wish—” He squeezed her tight to his chest again, and she relaxed against him.

  “Are we where I think we are?”

  Jack lifted his head, looking up at the floating capsule. “The resting place of the Queen Who Sleeps.”

  She stared in awe. “But this chamber is sacred. I should not be here.”

  “Not even the Sisterhood may come down here—only the Prince Regent and those closest to him.” He took her hand and pulled her directly underneath the Queen’s encased form, then led her to kneel with him. “We come to seek Her counsel and wisdom, to pray for the knowledge and strength to lead in Her stead.”

  She wrenched her gaze from the smooth surface of the Queen’s tomb. Not tomb, for She slept only, and if the Promise was true, She would one day awaken. Jasminda looked at Jack, his expression heartbreaking.

  She ran her fingers through his somewhat disheveled hair. “What is happening?”