Songs in the Night: Book One

by Laura Frances

  The king took a handful of men into the villages before our march south. I rode at the back, and the first sound that reached my ears was the shrill, shrieking cry of a woman. She knelt outside a charred, thatched roof home, hugging a cloth doll and rocking forward and back. Smoke hung thick in the air, rising in black clouds from structures still smoldering. Bodies lay strewn across the path, dead now for hours. But it wasn’t the scene as it appeared that struck me. It was an eerie silence behind the screaming. A hollow emptiness encapsulating the small town. The absence of lives stolen.

  Figures ran from the shadows, hidden survivors rushing into the dusty light at their first glimpse of the king. They stumbled weary onto the road, and hands reached, clinging to his legs. His boots. The king leaned forward, stretching to grasp their fingers. Stroking a palm over ash-filthy hair. They wept, and when I looked to my master, tears streaked his solemn face.

  They didn’t need words; his tears and presence were enough. Had he ridden off in silence, they would still have loved him. But he did speak.

  “Your pain is mine,” he said to the gathering crowd. “You have my promise, we will not rest until we’ve recovered every Omarian who still draws breath.”

  His words pricked, but they were honest; some would not return. Others would be brought back to be buried. He would not lie, even now, when such a thing might bring comfort.

  He was the Good King. Lord Adriel, son in the East. He wore truth as a mantle, and they honored him for it.

  Later, as we rode hard toward the Great Forest, the wind carried the woman’s cries, following us out. Crushing silence wound through our ranks. The day wore on, and soon the sun sank low, casting the barren stretch of land in fire. The thundering of our war horses scattered across the empty earth, thinning without the mountains to toss it back. Still, the ground trembled.

  We stopped only once for a fast meal and to water our horses along the rocky shore of a wide lake. By the time orders were repeated to mount again, the moon sat high, it’s pale light blinding in the dark.

  We were a fierce company. I’d tasted battle in my year, fighting off smaller bands in the south, but we were charging into uncharted land. Unexplored wild. A vague threat lurked in the shadows, veiled and misty at the corner of our eyes. Not one soldier had yet grasped the fullness of our enemy, but as I glanced before and beside me, a deep sense of purpose burned in my heart. Some were warriors of renown, large men with names only uttered in whispers. Men I’d admired since childhood.

  There was no fear in their eyes, no quiver in their strong hands and thick, knotted arms. Moonlight reflected from their breastplates and shields. From the hilts of their swords and the smooth curve of their helmets. They were champions among men, masters of the beasts they rode. Nightmares to any foe who dared challenge them.

  I suppose I looked the same, in my armor and build. But I lacked something they so naturally possessed. Being born noble gave them an advantage I couldn’t grasp. It ate at me.

  I would prove my place among them. Earn fame as they had done.

  The route we traveled took us along the edge of the kingdom, at times only a stone’s throw from Sithian land. Our bodies screamed for rest, aching and battered, but not one face betrayed fatigue.

  A range of hills rose before us, mounds of black against the silvery light. Beyond the closest rise we expected to find a sleeping border town, with candlelight flickering out in windows as the inhabitants settled in to rest. It was called Bryn, and I imagined our noise would wake them. Send them running to the road for a look at our power and might. But we smelled the smoke before the hills receded.

  Fires still raged when our horse’s hooves clattered onto the cobblestone street. Townspeople darted from one home to the next, racing to put out the flames. With a sharp tug of the reins, my horse turned a fast circle, allowing me a sweeping view of the town. But I saw no enemy. Only the frantic inhabitants screaming for help. Our warband flooded the streets, several soldiers leaping from their saddles to offer aid.

  “Where have they gone?” shouted the king to passing men, but no one could answer. They’d been attacked in silence. Not a soul in sight. We were ordered to fan out and search.

  Some rode farther in, toward the heart of the town. The rest aimed their animals toward the outer edges, to the forest and hills. Without a moment’s thought, I made for the stables nestled on the town’s farthest side. I’d been a boy the last time I stepped foot in Bryn. But I remembered the long line of stables near a blacksmith’s forge. A steep hill rose behind the rambling building, with thick trees that blocked the moon’s glow...making it black and secluded, difficult to search on horseback. As a child, I’d followed a dog into those shadows. Now the shadows reached their fleshless arms and drew me again.

  I passed taverns, torched and burning. Villagers called from high windows. The noise of my gallop echoed through the narrow housing streets, a clattering on flattened stone. I felt it even then, as I flew by crying children and plumes of smoke. The same chilling presence of sorcery I’d experienced on the battlefield. The same dark power. The stables came into view, and a deep foreboding bore through me. I reined up, dismounting, and led my animal as I inched toward the darkness.

  The crude stone building stood unharmed, housing nervous horses who stamped and snorted hot breath into the cool air...abandoned for the greater needs farther in town. I stood a moment unsure, not knowing why I’d come...what I’d imagined would be there. I heard nothing but the clamor from town and night sounds drifting from the hills.

  Unease crept over my skin; a presence lurked nearby. What a fool I was for having ridden off alone. My heart drummed, but I ground my teeth and walked toward the back side of the stables, into the cover of the woods.

  When I rounded the corner to the back, fear slammed my chest.

  He was young, like the one I’d killed in battle. But he stood completely still on the steep, rising hill, bare toes gripping the earth, stark white against the night. His ragged clothes were light, as was his skin and hair. I thought I was seeing a wraith.

  I tied my horse to a low branch and drew my sword, but it felt wrong. The boy emanated innocence. A softness in his gentle, absent gaze...eyes fixed on the back of the stable building. Slowly I approached.

  “Who are you,” I asked, and his pale face turned to me. “Did you lure me here?”

  His voice was soft, the voice of a child barely gone from his mother. But by his appearance, I guessed he was nearly fifteen.

  He answered, “Have you come to kill me?”

  “Should I have? Do you deserve punishment, child?”

  The boy looked back to the stone wall. My eyes flicked to the far side of the stables, spotting Maledin inching closer in the dark. He must have followed me. Relief hit like a flicker of light. I raised a silent hand for him to hold.

  “Are you responsible for this attack?” I pressed, moving closer. This time when his head turned again to look at me, his eyes lingered a moment on the wall, as if something there had captured his attention and rivaled to keep it.

  “Please,” said the boy, agitation in his tone. “If you leave me in peace it will go well with you.”

  “If you’ve attacked this town, you must pay a price for your crime. They’ve done nothing to you to deserve such treatment.”

  A sharp wind cut through the trees.

  His words came quiet, though unnatural, unfitting from his tongue. “The price of a crime often wounds the innocent,” his eyes bore into mine as onyx stones, black as death, “and when the crime is great, so the suffering must be.”

  “Do you accuse King Adriel of such a crime?” I challenged, raising my sword. “Is that why this town was scorched? Is that why blood soaks the earth between the mountains? Why have you targeted Omaria?”

  I glared into his eyes, and the longer I looked, the surer I felt I was looking at someone else. Another presence making use of his body.

  “Your king is but a pawn to a greater end. And the suffering
of his people merely the same. But he, too, will learn to fear us.”

  As would I. Fear seeped into the very marrow of my bones, raising chills at the emptiness of his eyes. At the listless puppet before me.

  “Why now,” I asked, fighting a tremor in my grip. “What have we done to deserve this?”

  A grin lifted the boy’s mouth, but it wasn’t his own. “That you believe this is the beginning is a credit to us. Long have you suffered because we willed it.”

  His eyes flicked again toward the wall, and when they returned, they were light again. A pale blue. He showed no fear of my blade.

  “He will not return,” said the boy. “I must go.”

  “Who speaks to you?” I asked, lowering my sword. He made to leave, but I took a long step, moving in his way. “Who is your master?”

  Maledin approached from the shadows, brow drawn in confusion at what we’d just witnessed. The boy tensed.

  “You’re outnumbered now,” I said. “Tell me why you’ve come.”

  He considered me a moment. “To set fire to the rooftops.”

  I exchanged a look with Maledin. The boy had just confessed without a hint of remorse. What power did he possess that a child could raze a town without a single touch? His clothes were clean, as was his skin and hair. Did he act alone or was it by the same power that spoke through him? I asked him this.

  The boy smirked, and it was wicked.

  “Fire is easy. It’s the dousing I’ve not yet mastered.”

  I stared hard in a rush of anger.

  “You burned this town? No one else?”

  “I’ve told you I did.”

  What I saw as innocence only moments ago now dissolved into arrogance. The softness of his tone deepened to adolescence.

  “Explain yourself,” demanded Maledin, stalking until he stood over the boy. “How does a child achieve such a thing?”

  The boy flinched, but he stood his ground. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

  Maledin grabbed his arm, but the boy struggled free, dropping limp to the ground and scrambling to run. I sheathed my sword and leapt, catching him easily as he clawed up the steep rise. He carried no muscle. No strength.

  “Let me go!” he shouted, writhing under my weight. I raised to my knees and hauled him to standing.

  “Save your cries for the King.”

  “Your king is damned! He’s no match for what’s coming.”

  I shoved him forward, holding fast to his arms. What came next played out in a fury of movements. Fire billowed between us, a flash of heat and light. I fell away from the flames, and a moment later, the boy slumped to the ground, bleeding from a gash in his side.

  Maledin stood over him with a bloodied blade, conflict warring in his expression, shock and fear. He looked as though he might scoop the boy up and run for help. But he didn’t.

  The boy choked on a laugh, starring glassy at the knight. He died quickly, and Maledin carried the body to our horses and to the king.

  In the moonlight of the smoky square, where His Majesty heard our report, I caught a glimpse of the boy’s palm, and I froze.

  “What is it?” asked Maledin in a hushed tone, but I gave no answer.

  A scar circled the center. Similar to the mark worn by the girl I’d met as a child. Then again only some years back in the market. Her name was Eris, and she was marred this way. But the boy’s scar appeared enflamed, a fiery red.

  “Take him into the hills and bury him,” instructed the king.

  Maledin hesitated, readjusting the child’s weight in his arms.

  The king noticed. “What do you fear?”

  “Sire, this boy is cursed. To bury him so near the village may bring trouble upon them.”

  “He is not cursed, Maledin. He is dead…as is any enchantment he carried in life. We will bury him, as his punishment is complete.”

  The king’s large hand settled carefully on the boy’s chest, and with sadness, he uttered, “What a shame to see children fall.”

  Our band reassembled at the base of the next hill. The men waited while Maledin and I dug a hole and set the boy’s body in the earth. We worked without speaking, pulled to silence by consuming thoughts. I admired the king in all things. Trusted his wisdom above all, my father aside. But to show kindness to this boy sat uneasy in me. He’d nearly destroyed Bryn without regret, and I had no doubt he belonged to the same raiders who just hours before stole children from their beds. The same hordes who distracted our army while they pillaged and murdered our people.

  I did trust the king. But while I battled to reject the thought, his grace felt vaguely like betrayal.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ERIS

  Sharp pain burst in my temple.

  I rose, pushing off the ground with a grunt. Moonbeams broke past high branches, illuminating the forest floor in an eerie glow. From somewhere hidden, an owl called questions into the night.

  Standing sent the world spinning. I pressed into a tree with my shoulder and hip, fighting for balance. He’d spared my body, only hitting me once before I fell, but the dizziness threatened to topple me.

  I stumbled on from trunk to trunk, and for the first time in years, had no sense of where I was. These trees appeared foreign, misshapen and wrong. I squinted toward the dark distance, searching out a familiar landmark, but the woods lurched the harder I tried to focus. In the end, it was a scent that drew me in. Smoke from embers still dying out. A fire long since forgotten. Hours had passed since Danior pulled me from camp, and when I finally stepped among the sea of tents, a deep ache drove through my heart.

  They were all asleep, and I was nothing to them.

  I slipped into my tent, collapsing with a lump in my throat. The morning passed slow. I lay awake, dreading everything. Dreading what would come when Nehemiah emerged from rest. Dreading Danior and the regret he’d inevitably feel. I knew him well enough; the deed would haunt him...in time. But I refused to dwell on it. He would find no satisfaction in me.

  One look at him, I thought, and I’ll lose my place for good. I’ll bruise him like he bruised me.

  When Nan dragged her small form from the blankets, my eyelids cracked. Weighty sleep lingered, though I didn’t remember drifting off. Late morning sunlight streamed through the entrance.

  “That was awful,” Nan muttered, slipping into a clean, blue dress. My silence drew her eyes to me, but I stared at the tent wall, ignoring whatever look she was producing.

  “Someone else had a bad night,” she managed to say before bending with a hand to her stomach. I caught the pleasure mingling with malice in her tone but didn’t acknowledge it. She was still sick.

  “You should lie down.”

  Nan scoffed. “Like you know anything. Do they teach cures in Sithia?” She tied the strings at the front of her dress with trembling fingers. “From what I hear, your people run wild like animals, mindless and unclean.”

  I rolled onto my back, tightening my jaw. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “That’s right,” she murmured with a laugh. “You wouldn’t.”

  A rush of anger swept through me, strong enough to lift me to my feet. Nan took a long step back, alarmed, but still she smirked. “Feisty today.”

  “I’ve cared for you in every sickness since childhood,” I ground out. “I held a rag to your head when you burned with fever. And gathered herbs to heal your skin.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and the space between us closed. It might have been my own steps...or hers. We met in the middle, in the small gap between our beds.

  “You think mopping my sweat makes you my equal?” Nan said in a low, cruel tone. “You gathered herbs? Sounds to me like you’re nothing more than a servant.”

  I held her glare, mirroring the fury I saw there. She was no match for me in a real fight. Her tiny bones couldn’t hold against my strength. I breathed down the urge to shove her to the ground. To let her feel the rage spiraling through me.

  Nan broke away, sweeping an arm to exit. “Honestly, I d
on’t know why you stayed. You were never wanted.”

  The empty tent shrunk around me, suffocating. My heartbeat throbbed in my temple, in the mound of swollen flesh. I was softer once, innocent. But now all I summoned in response was fury. Pain. What would they do if I screamed...if the force of my voice ripped the walls to shreds?

  But she was right. I should have left years ago.

  My eyes lost focus. There was only one reason for which I stayed.

  When I was twelve, they took me along to visit a market far-off near the coast. Sithian blood was not welcome, they’d told me, but a nomad child would not be turned away. My task was to distract the shop owner. I’d faked a cough, collapsing to my knees. But the hand that touched my back didn’t belong to the old man selling cloth. I looked up, and the eyes staring back were gray, the lashes light. Freckles dusted pale, young skin, and red hair crowned his head in fire. I didn’t remember him at first. He was growing older, and I was still a child. But he plucked a yellow flower from a basket and handed it to me, and I watched his gaze flick to my palms. The pieces fell together.

  He spoke my name, but I couldn’t remember his. Only his gaze. I’d met him once in a yellow field. The day my mother left.

  I decided then to be whatever the drifters demanded. I would obey every order, if only they would take me with them again to the place where he lived. To his kindness and smile. But in all the years since, the journey had been denied me.

  I moved past the well, where a line had formed...all tired, sunken faces. Their weary eyes followed me.

  At the far end, by the horses, stood a small, one-man tent with a tall stick holding up the front end. Chimes of rock and shell hung from holes cut into the canvas, each small opening reinforced with stitching. Their soft tinkering created an atmosphere of comfort around the old musician's space. A separate world from the rest of the camp.

  Near the entrance, the wiry dog slept sprawled on his belly. One eye opened at my approach, but he didn’t move. I knelt to scratch his ear.

  “Take care, old man,” I whispered.