Sisters of Sword and Song

by Rebecca Ross

  “Father? Uncle Nico asked you a question.” She exchanged a worried glance with her uncle when Gregor remained silent.

  “Halcyon’s trial will be in six days,” Gregor finally said in a hoarse voice. “It will be held at the agora in Abacus.”

  The moon had risen by the time they reached Isaura. Phaedra, Lydia, and Maia bolted into the courtyard, eager for news of Halcyon.

  Evadne did not linger to witness Nico telling them what had befallen her sister. She was almost to her bedchamber when she heard the echo of her mother’s sobs, closely followed by Maia’s wails. Lydia was silent, but she would cry later, when she was alone.

  Evadne’s room was dark. She moved through that darkness and lay down on Halcyon’s bed.

  For a moment she did not think; she only breathed, her eyes open to the night.

  She had guided her father and her uncle to the sea caves earlier that day, thinking Halcyon had gone there to hide. They had wasted time searching the coast. Of course, Halcyon would go to the mountains, unafraid of Mount Euthymius. Evadne had even stared out her window at the Dacia Mountains, convinced Halcyon would not go that path. How wrong she had been.

  If only Evadne had thought of Dree sooner; if only they could have reached Halcyon before the commander. How different this day would have been.

  Carefully, Evadne reached for Halcyon’s kopis. She unsheathed it to watch the moonlight dance upon the blade.

  If I had magic, I could save you, she thought. I would raise my hand in the agora and cast a charm to set you free, Halcyon.

  But Evadne had not been born with magic in her blood. If she was ever to taste it, she would have to possess one of the divine relics. It was an enticing thought, and she wondered about the relics that were lost. Irix’s Sky Cloak, Magda’s Sunstone Ring of Healing, Acantha’s All-Seeing Crown, Loris’s Pearl Earrings, and Kirkos’s Winged Necklace were all deemed missing.

  If she had Irix’s Sky Cloak, she could control the skies, the weather. She could summon a drought. She could bargain for Halcyon’s freedom in exchange for rain. Or if she had Kirkos’s Winged Necklace, she could descend from the clouds and take Halcyon in her arms. She could fly them far away from Abacus, from Corisande. But where would they go after that?

  No, these whimsies were unfeasible, ridiculous. Evadne was a common girl from a common family, and she would never possess a divine relic.

  If she wanted to save Halcyon, she would have to do it another way.

  Evadne and her parents set out early the following morning. It would be a three-day journey east to Abacus if the weather held. Evadne had never ventured so far from home before, and she watched from the wagon as Isaura began to grow distant, until it was swallowed by the hills.

  The bluffs and valleys soon became flat, open fields, where millet and barley flourished. Falcons and goldcrests soared overhead, wings outstretched to glide on the breeze, and Evadne thought of her sister, how she had always imagined Halcyon with wings.

  She wondered how Halcyon was faring, if she was in pain, if her commander was ensuring her wounds were looked after. She tried to predict what might happen at her sister’s trial. And the desire to redeem Halcyon flared in her again. The sister she had sometimes envied but had always admired and loved.

  She did not envy her now.

  They camped beneath the stars that night, a good distance from the road. Evadne helped her mother set out a small repast of flatbread and smoked fish, and her father sparked a fire with his ember stone. They sat quietly and ate as evening arrived; they had hardly spoken the entire day, each of them lost in their own thoughts.

  Evadne struggled to eat her dinner, conceding to unwind her bedroll on the grass, folding herself into the blankets. She was on the verge of sleep when Gregor finally spoke, low with remorse.

  “I should never have let her go to the legion. I should have kept her where it was safe, in the grove.”

  Phaedra was silent for a moment. “You cannot blame yourself for this, Gregor.”

  She spoke with confidence, because she believed Halcyon would be pardoned, that Halcyon would live. But it was evident Gregor was preparing for his firstborn daughter to die.

  And Evadne did not know what she thought, but she felt strung between her parents.

  She fell asleep thinking of Halcyon, and her sister followed her into her dreams. They were in the grove, and Evadne was writing in the Haleva cipher. She drew the symbols into her wax tablet with a stylus, eager for Halcyon to read the message. But when she handed it to her older sister, Halcyon frowned.

  “I do not know these symbols, Eva.”

  A shock went through Evadne. “What? Yes, you do, Hal. It is our language.”

  Halcyon shrugged, hopeless. “I have never seen this before.”

  Evadne stared at the wax tablet. She watched as her letters began to tremble, growing wings and scales, morphing into creatures that moved off the wax, vanishing into golden dust.

  Magic. Evadne’s hand had just wrought magic.

  “Did you see that?” she breathed, eyes wide in wonder. And she was not imagining it. Halcyon also saw the words awaken, metamorphose. “Do you know what this means, Hal? I can save you now.”

  “Save me from what?” Halcyon asked.

  Evadne never answered. She was woken by a thread of laughter. Men’s voices, and they were growing louder.

  “Phaedra!” Gregor hissed.

  Evadne sat upright, startled into lucidity. She turned to see her father standing nearby, a dagger glinting in his hand. The fire cast an eeire light about their camp.

  “What is it, Gregor?” Phaedra whispered.

  “Grab your dagger. Someone is coming.”

  Evadne listened to her mother fumble through her pack to find her blade. She did not move, her heart skipping as the voices drew closer. They had seen the fire. They could see Evadne and her parents, but Evadne, Gregor, and Phaedra could not see them.

  The gooseflesh rose on her arms.

  “May we join your fire, humble friends?” a man called out, his body still hidden in night. He spoke with a strange yet pleasing lilt.

  Gregor was silent, but Evadne could tell his eyes were desperately searching the darkness, to catch a glimpse of the stranger.

  “Come now. We mean no harm to you and your wife and daughter. We just want to warm ourselves by your fire.”

  “Show yourselves,” Gregor demanded.

  There seemed to be a deliberation. Evadne heard murmurs, and then, at last, the speaker stepped into the firelight. Two more people were with him, a young man and a woman, trailing at his sides.

  Evadne warily studied the speaker. He was dressed in a white chiton with gilded trim so rich it looked as if the linen had been dipped in molten gold. A blue mantle was wrapped across his chest, clasped at his shoulder by a pin fashioned as a storm cloud. A symbol of the sky god, Irix, who he must claim as his ancestor. His raiment alone proclaimed what he was. A mage.

  Evadne’s gaze dropped to his hands. Every mage wore a silver ring after they graduated the Destry. Which finger they wore the ring on corresponded to how powerful their magic was. A ring on the pinky revealed a very shallow well of magic, but as the fingers progressed across the hand, the deeper the magical well ran. A ring on the thumb signified the greatest depth of magic.

  This stranger wore the silver ring on his forefinger.

  Gregor lowered his dagger, and Evadne felt her father’s dread. For what could a man with a blade do against a man with magic?

  “Ah, thank you, friend,” the mage said. Again, his voice drawled with languorous power. It sent a shiver down Evadne’s back. “I am Macarius, and this is my scribe, Beryl, and my friend Cyrus.”

  Scribe? Evadne’s attention focused on the woman, who was dressed just as fine as Macarius, in a white chiton cinched with a belt crafted of bejeweled leaves. Golden suns were clasped at her shoulders, and an indigo cloak shielded her back. She returned Evadne’s stare, cold and haughty. And then a smile played on her
lips, and Evadne cast her eyes away to the other young man, who wore the telltale saffron sash of politicians. His face was ruddy and beaded with sweat, as if they had been wandering for miles, and hanging from his arm was a leather satchel, brimming with ornate scroll handles.

  “Shall we toss another stick on the fire?” Macarius suggested.

  Gregor obeyed. Evadne watched him toss two more sticks on the flames, the sparks swarming. And then her father moved to sit close beside her, so that Evadne was hemmed in by both of her parents.

  The mage and his scribe sat first, directly across the fire. The politician dropped the satchel with a groan, rubbing his shoulder before he ungracefully collapsed on the ground.

  “You do remember what you carry, Cyrus?” the scribe, Beryl, said in a sharp tone, looking at the politician with heavy-lidded eyes.

  “Yes, and I don’t know why I ever agreed to it!” Cyrus countered.

  “Peace, my friends,” Macarius said. “We have yet to meet our new acquaintances.” He looked at Gregor, and when Gregor remained taciturn, his eyes shifted to Evadne. “And you are . . . ?”

  “Our names are not important,” Phaedra responded.

  “But names are how we measure ourselves, are they not?” Macarius tilted his head to the side. His hair was long and fine, the shade of the moon. But his brows were dark, a contrasting beauty that was difficult to look away from. His eyes remained on Evadne, and he said, “What is your name?”

  “Evadne.” She spoke before she realized it, her name escaping like smoke. She half wondered if he had enchanted her to speak, and her throat narrowed.

  “Evadne,” he echoed, as if he wanted to taste her name. “Where are you and your parents traveling to, Evadne?”

  This time she held her tongue.

  Macarius’s smile widened. It made his face appear skewed. “We could be journeying in the same destination. We could join traveling parties.”

  “We are heading to Abacus,” Gregor answered.

  “Ah, the splendid Abacus! Such a beautiful, ancient city. It is a shame that we are not traveling the same path, then. Although, I will say, the nightlife of Abacus is rather dull.”

  Another beat of awkward silence. What did Macarius want? Evadne wondered, avoiding his gaze.

  “Well, then,” the mage said, his hand drifting upward in elegant offering. “Perhaps I could sing a little song for you, Evadne and your nameless parents, as a way to express my gratitude for the fire?”

  “That will not be necessary,” Gregor said. He sounded afraid; his hand found Evadne’s, and he entwined their fingers. It almost seemed like he was worried that Evadne would leave her parents to go with the mage, bewitched.

  But that sort of magic was illegal, Evadne thought, her pulse quickening. Mages were never to cast their magic to cause harm, to bewitch another. And she looked to the politician for reassurance, but Cyrus was yawning, completely disregarding the conversation unfolding around him.

  “It is the least I can do,” Macarius said, glancing to his scribe. “What should I sing for our new friends, Beryl?”

  Beryl grinned. Her teeth gleamed like a scythe in the firelight. “Perhaps the Song of Sustenance?”

  “Excellent choice.”

  Evadne did not have vast knowledge of magic, only bits and pieces she had gleaned from reading myths and listening to gossip that trickled through places like Dree. But she did know that magic could be spoken, and then it could be sung. And sung enchantments were always more potent, more dangerous.

  Her eyes darted from Beryl to Macarius to the mysterious satchel of scrolls sitting in the grass at Cyrus’s feet. Evadne was still trying to understand the dynamic among the trio, how Beryl seemed to intimately know the mage’s spells, and then Macarius started to sing.

  His voice was smooth as river rock. He sang in the God Tongue, the ancient language where magic burned its brightest.

  Evadne did not want to admire or yearn after it, but his song, his enchantment, stirred longings within her, and she realized she was hungry, that there seemed to be a hole within her and she did not know how to satisfy it.

  She listened closely to his words, knowing he had carefully chosen them for his charm. Her mind was slow to translate at first; it had been years since she had read and written in God Tongue. But soon his words began to click in her mind.

  Macarius sang of bread and wine, blood and meat. He sang of olives and cheese and fruits that grow heavy on vines. He sang of plenty; he sang of satiety. He sang of long journeys that come to an end by slaking thirst in cupped hands full of ale.

  The song brimmed with joy.

  But it did not make Evadne feel that way. Again, she felt a pang of emptiness, as if she had been scraped clean.

  She was wary when Macarius finally reached the end of the song. And yet he had not hurt them or enchanted them. Her mother was still holding her dagger in her lap, her jaw clenched. And her father was still gripping Evadne’s hand, so tightly it ached.

  “I believe that is payment enough for the fire,” Macarius said. “Unless you would like another song?”

  Gregor declined.

  “Very well, then. We shall be on our way.”

  Evadne watched as Macarius rose. He extended his hand for Beryl, to assist her to her feet. Cyrus had to help himself up, and he moaned as he rose, scowling at the satchel of scrolls he had been delegated to tote.

  They disappeared back into the night, laughing just as they had come. And when the quiet returned, and there was no sound but the wind and the fire crackling, Evadne wondered if she had dreamt the entire encounter.

  Gregor let out a shaky sigh. He released Evadne’s hand, but he remained close to her side, stiff as a plank.

  “Go back to sleep, Pupa.”

  How was she to sleep after that? How could she sleep with the mage’s happy yet terribly empty song echoing in her head?

  She lay down, her blankets cold. Evadne closed her eyes and pretended to sleep until dawn finally came.

  Phaedra was the one who discovered it. She was sifting through their travel sacks to set out breakfast when she gasped.

  “Gregor! It’s gone. All of it.”

  Evadne watched in disbelief as her mother turned the food sack inside out. It had been brimming with provisions. And now it was nothing but empty linen.

  “What of the others?” Gregor lunged to his feet, joining her at the wagon bed.

  They went through the other sacks, all of them limp. They opened the jars of ale, the water flasks. All of them bone-dry. Gregor’s money pouch, which he kept belted at his side, was also empty. Even the oats they had packed for the donkeys were gone.

  Gregor knelt, the sacks strewn about him on the ground. His fingers tore through his hair, his eyes bloodshot.

  “Should we turn back?” Phaedra asked. “We are only a day from Isaura.”

  “We cannot turn back,” Gregor said, his voice hollow. “We would miss the trial.”

  Slowly, Evadne moved toward him to take one of the sacks in her hands. She searched it, even though she knew it was empty. She pressed her face to it, smelling the memory of figs and cheese. Her stomach growled in response, and she remembered how Macarius’s song had made her feel.

  Empty.

  The mage had not touched the wagon. He had not approached it at all. She had not even noticed him studying it. But he had sung his enchantment, and in a single chorus he had stolen nearly everything they owned.

  “Father,” she whispered.

  Gregor’s face softened. He reached out to touch her hair, to quietly reassure her. She leaned into him, shaken.

  Once she had been a young girl, dreaming of magic, believing it to be something good and honorable and worthy. Now she realized how naïve she had been, how uneducated.

  Magic was not at all what she had thought it to be.

  And Evadne realized there was still much of the world she needed to learn.

  When they finally reached Abacus, Evadne and her parents were bedraggl
ed, their hunger and thirst a constant ache. Phaedra had found a patch of wild berries growing in a thorn patch, which had sustained them, and Gregor had speared two fish from a river, but that was all they had eaten.

  Evadne was so ravenous she could hardly take in the splendor of Abacus, the city of warriors, where Halcyon had spent a portion of her life.

  It was a bright, sprawling place, the terra-cotta roofs smoldering in the sunlight. The buildings were made of white walls, stacked high upon themselves so that the paved streets felt like winding ravines. The doors were all painted red, their lintels carved with the symbols of Nikomides. Snakes and swords and spears. Herbs grew from the window baskets and urns, and there was a constant scent of smoke on the breeze. Evadne could hear shouts from the market mingling with the hammering of forges. Everyone moved quickly, honed with purpose.

  They had no coins to purchase a room, so Gregor ended up bargaining for one in addition to two meals a day, on the promise of five jars of first-pressed olive oil.

  Evadne ate with her parents, and then they retired to their room to wash the grime from their hands and faces. They combed the tangles from their hair and dressed in fresh clothes—the only possessions that Macarius had not wanted.

  They set out on foot toward the agora, to speak to the archon—the judge—of Abacus. Since Halcyon’s crime had been committed within Abacus’s boundaries, her trial would be overseen by the city’s magistrate. Her trial was to take place in this ancient building, a grand structure built of white marble. Its bronze roof was upheld by pillars, each one carved as a hoplite.

  Evadne felt small as she ascended the stairs of the agora, her ankle popping. She had never been in a building so vast, and she followed her parents into the cool shadows of a lobby, lost in both wonder and dread.

  Halcyon had once explored this city; she had trained and dwelled in the valley beside it. Evadne wondered if she had loved it here, with its constant noise and brightness and bustle. She wondered if Halcyon had walked the same places, through the lobby, into the heart of the agora.

  The archon was an old man, his hair white as goose down, his face wrinkled from years of training beneath the sun. He had a private room in the agora, and he sat behind a desk laden with scrolls and maps and dispatches, a jar of quills blooming by his hand, his brow arched as Evadne and her parents approached him.