Song of Blood & Stone (Earthsinger Chronicles Book 1)

by Penelope, L.

  “Are you sure this is wise?” Usher said, following Jack up the stairs and onto the roof. Rain attacked the building; wind gusts blew sideways into the covered awning they stood under, soaking them.

  “No, I’m pretty sure this is the least wise thing I could ever do. But I can’t lose her, Usher. I can’t.”

  “I understand your feelings are strong, young sir, but this country lost a prince to that very airship not three weeks past.”

  “Duty has taken everything from me. Everything I’ve ever loved I’ve lost—and that hasn’t been much. I’ve sacrificed my life for this country again and again and what does it give me in return? Nothing but heartache. I will not allow Jasminda to be another casualty.”

  Usher’s face was grim. Jack didn’t want to argue with him. He didn’t have the strength for it. But to his surprise, Usher merely nodded. “Come back with her quickly, then.”

  “Thank you, old man.” They embraced, and Jack raced over to the airship.

  A lump formed in his throat as he grew closer. He’d never been in anything like it before. They were common in other places—the Fremian army had an entire fleet—but Elsira was not a country that took well to change, adopting new technology only when absolutely necessary.

  He climbed into the cabin where Vanesse’s friend Clove already sat in the pilot’s seat, checking over the instruments. At first glance, the woman was unassuming. She barely came up to his shoulder and her heart-shaped face seemed made to smile. Strawberry-blond hair curled around her head, and he couldn’t place her age. Vanesse was in her early thirties, but Clove could be ten years younger or older—it was hard to say.

  “Everything look all right to you?” Jack asked, taking his place on one of the plush seats, dripping water all over it. Across from him sat Vanesse who had removed her robes and wore a smart-looking pantsuit, similar to the one Clove wore. She appeared perfectly dry.

  “This is beautifully made, Your Grace. It’s an honor to be able to fly it. Just a few more calculations, and we’ll be ready to go.”

  Jack nodded, tamping down his impatience. “How bad is the storm?”

  She turned in her seat to face him. “I’m not going to lie and say it’s a stroll through a straw garden. This will probably be the toughest flight I’ve ever made. But I’m game. When it’s time to face the fiddler, best do it with your dancing shoes on.” She smiled at Vanesse, who beamed back at her. Though Jasminda and her aunt didn’t really resemble one another, something about Vanesse’s smile made Jack’s heart lurch. He recognized adoration when he saw it and sensed there was more to these two women’s relationship than friendship.

  Usher remained under the awning, watching them solemnly, but gave a supportive nod when Jack caught his eye.

  Then the engine whirred to life. “Are you ready, Your Grace?” Clove shouted.

  He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer to the Queen Who Sleeps that he live long enough to save the woman he loved. “The only way to the other side is through it!”

  “That’s the spirit!” Clove said as the ship lurched into the air.

  The refugees traveled on foot, abandoning the wrecked buses. The rain ended shortly before dawn and the cool morning air left Jasminda’s clothes damp and chilled. Guards from the buses formed a perimeter around the group, weapons in hand.

  Tension between the guards and the refugees still crackled, though once Jasminda had translated that Osar was only trying to heal the soldier, things had calmed somewhat. The Elsirans, so fearful of magic, had been uninterested in being aided by an Earthsinger, and Jasminda had warned the children off their natural, helpful instincts.

  The paved road ended at the Eastern Base at the bottom of the foothills. The border loomed just beyond, deceptive in its ordinariness. Her last time here, she had not even registered the proximity of the base to Lagrimar proper. There was no visible line, no wall, just the grass of the foothills giving way to a stretch of rocky dirt about a thousand metres wide. The hills on either side veered up sharply, transforming into jagged mountains towering overhead. This small stretch of flatland was not only the sole break in the mountain range separating the two countries but it was the location of all seven Mantle breaches.

  The only other visible indication that one country ended and another began were the hundreds of Elsiran troops and vehicles gathered with weapons drawn pointing toward an equal number of Lagrimari troops on the other side. Bullets could not pierce the Mantle until it was breached, but the Elsirans showed no signs of backing down from their standoff.

  The sun shone overhead, lighting the bleak landscape of sandy soil and sparse, tough vegetation. The refugees had been quiet since leaving the buses, but now at the end of their journey, their silence was a shroud. Osar stood on one side of Jasminda, Rozyl on the other. The only words the woman had spoken had been to ask whether Jasminda had the caldera on her. After she’d affirmed it, Rozyl had not left her side.

  Jasminda’s fingers itched for her lost shotgun. Rozyl’s hands curled into fists, probably wanting the same thing. Across the border, rows of Lagrimari stood at attention. At the front of the line, an older man with a world-weary face stepped forward.

  “By order of His Majesty the True Father of the Republic of Lagrimar, I, Brigadier Joren ol-Tarikor do hereby declare this a day of peace. My brothers and sisters, I welcome you home.”

  He held both hands over his head and paused dramatically before clapping them together. An earsplitting crack rent the air. The ground shuddered, rolling and shaking, throwing everyone off-balance. From the direction of the army base, an alarm sounded.

  “Breach!” shouted an Elsrian.

  “Breach!”

  “Breach!”

  The word was repeated, the message passed along, as the Elsiran soldiers tensed almost in unison.

  The armies were evenly matched in numbers, though the Lagrimari weaponry was visibly old. The men bore muzzle-loaded, single-shot rifles that were at least fifty years out-of-date. Many had bayonets or swords, as well. Jasminda eyed the Elsiran soldiers nearest her, noting the far more advanced automatic rifles with coils of ammunition at the ready. Tanks were spaced evenly along the border with smaller armored four-wheelers bearing giant rifles and larger weapons that looked like cannons or grenade launchers. The Lagrimari had no vehicles, but the barrels of huge wheeled cannons sat on the front lines. Elsira’s superior economic power and technology was unquestionable. But the Lagrimari had one advantage the Elsirans couldn’t buy.

  The wind grew from a gentle breeze to a gale within the blink of an eye. Jasminda’s hair whipped back, the force of the wind stinging her eyes. It died down after a few breaths. But thick clouds exploded into existence over those on the Elsiran side. They swirled and raged unnaturally, then shuddered as deadly sharp icicles shot down. The ice stopped in midair a hand’s breadth from their heads, then crackled and fell apart, dusting the Elsirans and refugees in a layer of snow.

  The army’s Earthsingers were taunting them.

  Movement at the top of the lower foothills drew Jasminda’s attention. Lines of additional Lagrimari troops came into view from behind the hilltops on either side of the flatland of the breach area. They marched over the hills, descending across the border between the lands.

  “They’ve done it,” she whispered. “They’ve destroyed the whole thing. The Mantle is gone.”

  Within minutes, the number of Lagrimari soldiers more than doubled. According to Jack, almost all of Elsira’s fighting force had been gathered here.

  Technology versus superior numbers and magic.

  Jasminda fought against the building despair.

  The brigadier marched forward, leading his men across the invisible barrier that no longer existed. An Elsiran general marched forward to meet him.

  “There is no need for losing life this day. I will address my brethren,” Brigadier Joren said in broken Elsiran. The general stood aside as Joren approached.

  “Please, listen close,” he said in
Lagrimari. This seemed to be a cue for all the refugees to sit down. Jasminda settled on the muddy ground with the others. “I am happy to welcome you back to the open arms of the Fatherland. Your presence will help us usher in a great peace. But before your return, there is something His Majesty requires of you. One of you holds an artifact that has great significance to our blessed leader. A stone, smaller than my palm.” He raised his hand over his head. The Elsiran troops nearest him followed his movement with their rifles, but he paid them no mind.

  “The stone must be returned before your homecoming may begin.”

  Jasminda’s chest tightened. Though it must have been her imagination, the caldera in her pocket seemed to hum to life. She flexed her fingers, eager for a weapon of any kind, a way to fight through the terror and escape.

  Brigadier Joren paced the length of the tightly gathered crowd of refugees. “To underscore the importance of compliance with any and all beneficent requests of His Majesty’s, I will return one of you to the World After every minute the artifact is not within my possession.”

  He pulled his pistol from the holster at his hip and pulled back the hammer. The Elsiran soldiers tensed almost as one. The general closest to Joren pulled his sidearm, as well.

  Brigadier Joren chuckled. “I will harm no Elsiran. This is between me and my countrymen,” he said in Elsiran. The general nodded but continued pointing his own pistol at the man.

  The brigadier produced a pocket watch, and though Jasminda was at least a dozen metres away, she could feel each tick of the clock like a beat inside her chest.

  The minute that passed felt like the longest of her life, until it ended and Joren grabbed a random refugee from the crowd. Gray hair, a stooped stature . . .

  Gerda.

  Jasminda barely stifled a gasp. When Joren lifted his pistol to the old woman’s head, Jasminda hurtled into motion. Her body acted without thought, but she struggled against an immovable object while trying to get closer to the woman. She looked down to find hands wrapped around her waist, squeezing painfully and holding her in place. Wrenching her neck around, she stared into Rozyl’s hard eyes. They were wet with unshed tears, but Rozyl’s face was implacable. Jasminda turned back to the front. Through the crowd, Gerda met her gaze and gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. Jasminda squeezed her eyes shut.

  The shot rang out.

  “No!” Jasminda’s scream echoed in the wake of the gunshot, reverberating off the mountain peaks. Many things could be healed with Earthsong, but a close-range shot to the head was not one of them.

  Rozyl didn’t let go, tightening her embrace and forcing Jasminda’s head down.

  “Someone has something to say? The location of the artifact perhaps?” Brigadier Joren’s voice was self-satisfied. Nausea swept over Jasminda. Her empty stomach heaved, but nothing came out. The Elsiran general looked horrified, but made no moves to stop the executions.

  The clock continued to tick, and Jasminda couldn’t watch another person die. She couldn’t be responsible for the death of one more innocent.

  This time Brigadier Joren pulled a young girl from the crowd, out of the arms of her shrieking mother. Jasminda slackened her body, and Rozyl’s hold weakened slightly. Taking advantage, Jasminda broke out of the woman’s arms and shot to her feet.

  The brigadier’s gaze landed on her, and Jasminda opened her mouth to confess. Before she’d taken a breath, Rozyl shot up beside her.

  Turwig was next, moving faster than a man of his age rightly should. One by one, the other Keepers she’d met in the cave and at the camp stood, and even Lyngar, a man she’d suspected of having no emotions whatsoever, had tears in his eyes as he looked at Gerda’s lifeless form sprawled on the ground.

  Brigadier Joren was not impressed at the show of solidarity. “The artifact. Where is it?”

  “I have it,” Rozyl called out, her voice strong and clear.

  “I have it,” Lyngar said.

  The statement was repeated by every Keeper standing.

  “I have it,” Timmyn said, taking to his feet. Other refugees, children and mothers, the young and the elderly all stood, proclaiming to have the caldera. Most of them had no idea what they were even admitting to, but Jasminda was moved all the same. She had thought she’d known misery and heartache since the loss of her family, but she had nothing on these people. She’d also thought she truly understood love, but the actions of the other refugees humbled her.

  Her hands shook, and she stuffed them into her pockets, brushing against the photo of her family. Fingering the smooth paper, she felt her family now extend to everyone here. They were all in this together. These people that she never thought she’d fit in with were acting as one with her. Standing together in the face of almost certain death. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she swiped them away.

  Osar grabbed her hand. Without even thinking about it, she reached for Rozyl’s hand, as well. When their skin met, like before, Jasminda was thrown forcefully into a connection with Rozyl’s Song. She instinctively slammed down a shield. Rozyl startled. Through her energy, Jasminda sensed the Songs of the others crowded around her vividly, in sharp contrast to the bleak, emptiness of the many Songless.

  The caldera pulsed again, vibrating through the layers of fabric, warming Jasminda’s skin. The spell Yllis had taught Oola in the vision tickled her memory.

  A blood sacrifice.

  Gerda’s blood bathed the ground beneath her body.

  A powerful Song.

  Rozyl’s Song was intense, stronger by far than Jasminda’s own father’s. She knew from linking with Osar before how strong he was, as well. Many of the other children, as well as the Keepers, held Songs of varying strengths.

  “Osar,” she whispered. “Can you send a message to everyone to link with me?”

  His big eyes shone as he nodded. Like a ripple spreading through a pond, every refugee took the hand of the ones next to them. Jasminda felt each link expand the pool of power she had access to by orders of magnitude.

  She felt every heartbeat inside her body, every breath. Insects burrowed deep under the ground came into crisp focus. Every blink of every eye of each of the thousands of soldiers surrounding her was loud as a camera’s shutter. The brutal rainstorm drifted off to the west. Access to every living being within a million metres was at her fingertips. Power raced through her. Every Song linked with her was at her control.

  She centered her attention on the ground beneath their feet and reached for the memory of Oola’s spell. Through the link she could almost taste Gerda’s blood mixed with the dirt and sand. She twisted the energy of Earthsong, mixing it with the woman’s lifeblood.

  The power swelled within her as she wove the threads of the differing energies together. The spell came to her as if channeled from another mind—in a way it had been. The complex fabric of intermingling energies was nothing she could explain, but she sang the spell as if possessed.

  When she was done, she looked up, breathing heavily, coming back into the knowledge of her surroundings. Below her feet, the ground had become glassy and smooth. Dark as midnight, it extended all around them, like fast-spreading molasses. Soon, the earth beneath the soldiers, both Elsiran and Lagrimari, was transformed to the polished rock surface of the caldera. Just as in the caves.

  Shouts of alarm rang out around them as the soldiers took in the transformation. Jasminda’s vision, blurred from the heavy strain of working magic far beyond her experience, came back into focus. Then the shots began. She did not know which side fired first, but a hail of gunfire whizzed around her, heralding the beginning of the war.

  The refugees shrank back as a group, scurrying to move out of the line of fire as the bullets flew. Jasminda’s feet were leaden, but she was dragged along with the others, still hand in hand, as they moved backward to allow Elsiran troops to fill in the gap they created.

  Some refugees fell, struck by bullets as they made their retreat. The others ran toward the squat buildings of the Eastern B
ase, taking cover behind them. Here, the ground was hard and shiny, as well. The massive caldera extended far beyond the base as far as she could see.

  Jasminda placed a palm on the ground and caught a subtle trace of the wrongness she’d felt in the cave. She recognized it now as the residue of magic that required death. There was something unnatural about it that made a shiver go up her spine.

  What had she done?

  She peered around the corner of the building to view the fighting. The Elsirans were pushing forward against the overwhelming number of Lagrimari. Tanks and weaponry felled many a Lagrimari where he stood. She sighed and slumped against the wall, all energy draining away.

  “They’re not using Earthsong,” said Rozyl, watching the fighting unfold.

  “They can’t,” Jasminda breathed. “This land is like the cave now. No one can sing.” She let out a hollow chuckle, then winced and grabbed her stomach in sudden pain. Looking down, she scrunched her brow in confusion. Her palm came away coated in blood.

  “You’ve been shot,” Rozyl cried, kneeling before her. “I’m no good at healing. Osar!” she called, looking around for the boy.

  Jasminda shook her head, then placed her hand over Rozyl’s. “No one can sing but me.”

  Recognition sparked in Rozyl’s eyes. “Then sing. Link with me.”

  “Making this—” she tapped the hard ground beneath her “—even with the link . . . it took almost everything I had. I can’t link again or heal myself.” The last vestiges of her Song’s energy were dwindling.

  “Then we’ll get you off this bloody thing. How far does it go?” Rozyl looked around wildly.

  “Too far,” Jasminda whispered, struggling to breathe. The pain was a haze. It seemed far away but she was losing control of her body. Her arms were so heavy. “Rozyl, my pocket. I can use the last of my Song to read the caldera one more time.”

  Rozyl sat stubbornly motionless, her face a mix of betrayal and hurt.