Seya looked out from under the trees that sheltered the Sourcespring, their branches covering the deep pool in a canopy of green. The sun beamed above, its light reflected by the glass-calm lake surrounding the island. Everything was so still this morn. Too still. At the island’s edge, the water mirrored with perfect clarity the trees that curved from its banks, each branch and leaf looking back upon itself. It was as if she stood between twin worlds. There was not a sound around her. Neither birdsong nor rustle of animal nor whisper of wind. It was as if the island, the lake, and the world beyond were holding their breath. Waiting. Waiting for her to act.
“Enough!”
Sovereign Iker slammed his palm on the stone table, sending small, carved figurines flying in every direction. One—hooded, hands raised—went clattering across the maps and charts and then rolled to an awkward stop right in front of Seya, one of its arms breaking off in the process. She stared down at the tiny, one-armed mage, a familiar fist of dread clenching around her heart.
The rest of the council fell silent as their sovereign pushed himself to his feet. Nylah—
Sovereign’s Champion—stood, offering her hand, but Iker waved her off and so she sat back down, her frown echoed on the rest of the visages in the room.
Seya did not need Song to read what lay behind each. The Sovereign was ill, aged before his time by the ravages of war, grey and withered with a disease that neither magic nor medicine, Song nor sage could cure. He was the last of his line, with no heir to follow. His death without naming a successor would leave Lurandia leaderless while the world was ending. Nine generations of enmity and hate had left the people of the Three Lands starving, the realm wasted. Plague and drought, vestiges of dark magic, had devastated what war had not already taken. Lurandia was the last unbroken hold, the last land whole, the only hope. The other kings were long dead, their heirs divided, their lands broken into smaller and smaller domains ruled by warlords and dark mages, and these in constant conflict—when they were not pitted together against Lurandia itself. Which they now were. Under siege for nigh on three years now, the country’s stores were almost empty, its cities full of refugees who had fled from border towns and farms where no more food could grow.
Iker had not started the war. Like his mother, and his mother’s father before her, he had proffered peace. Once or twice, he had even succeeded. Seya recalled time upon time in these very chambers, meetings between heads of state from Vrenia and Annerid, accord upon accord signed and swiftly broken.
With a grimace of pain, Iker finally rose to his feet.
“Enough.” He declared again, his voice firm, its deep timbre belying his illness. “It is past time for debate. We have already attempted every course of action you suggest, thrice over.” His gaze traversed the room, lingering on each member of the council as he spoke. “The war has ravaged the Three Lands beyond repair. Our armies still repel those of Vrenia and Annerid, ’tis true—but they cannot hold much longer. Plague has already begun to take our people all along the edges of the kingdom; it takes our soldiers. Already, drought moves inland. Our magic is failing.”
His gaze stopped then. His eyes—once blue, now grey with illness—grew dark as they met her own.
“Councillor Seya.”
Seya did not stand, although her inaction bought sideways glances from the others. She was too tired, and besides, her true station did not require her to stand for any sovereign. She was a Singer, and the last of her kind.
Once, long long ago, Singers had held the Three Lands in perfect harmony, soothing any dissonance. Once, Singers had flourished, with eighteen glorious Choruses in nine illustrious Halls. Once, they had gathered the prodigies—children with the Song inborn—from the length and breadth of every land, had trained those children in schools renowned throughout the Three Lands. Once, the refrains, sung in perfect pitch and radiant resonance, reverberated across the lands, year after year, voice after voice. No longer. Now the Songs were soured, the melodies broken, the refrains lost. Forgotten.
“Sire?”
“It is time.”
It was time. Loosing a long breath, Seya drew another, from deep within her core. Then a second, and a third. With the fourth she let forth sound—a low hum, closing her eyes and reaching out with her spirit for the strands of life and strife around her. With the fifth, she found the Source; with the sixth she breathed it in, its shimmering waves filling her, matching its resonance to her own. With the seventh, she began to walk deosil around the pool, eyes closed so she could see the dissonance as with the eighth she drew it forth: strands of black, shimmering with echoes of copper, silver, and gold, arching toward her from everywhere at once. From the trees and stones of the island, from the lake beyond, and further still. With the ninth breath, her hum changed to Song, and she raised her arms, up and out, reaching further. Beyond the lake, to the three great rivers, coaxing, drawing, pulling as her Song grew louder still.
Almost as one, the rest of the council turned to look at her, their disquiet palpable. Seya let loose a sigh she had been holding for too long and shook her head. “I still do not know if it is right.”
“Perhaps not.” Iker leaned forward, trembling hands splayed out on the map before him. “But it must be done. For the sake of all the lands.”
Nylah looked from one to the other before turning toward Seya, her voice full of trepidation. “What must be done?”
Seya did not answer. Instead, she stood, gathered up the figurine in one hand, and walked around the table, stopping just opposite Iker. “I have failed. Failed the land. Failed the Song.”
“Not yet.” Iker smiled at her—then turned to the rest. “I am dying.” He held up his hand at the vocalisations of dismay. “Do not protest. You all know it to be true. It is time.” He repeated the phrase, then turned again to Seya, his tone changing to one of ritual and authority.
“Seya of Kings Isle. I, Sovereign Iker Aberel, last of my line, do now name thee Sovereign, and all thy line after thee, until such time thou or they should name another. As it is said, so let it be done.”
She had expected someone to gasp or shout. But no. Every voice in the room was silent, every eye staring as Iker moved slowly around the table to sit with a grateful sigh into the chair she herself had not so long ago abandoned. Seya waited until he was settled and then she, too, sat gently into the Sovereign’s seat, the furs that draped it still warm from the heat of Sovereign— Councillor Iker’s recent habitation.
She took a calming breath as every eye drifted from Iker back to her. In each face she read varying degrees of apprehension. Understandable. Her now-former office, that of Arch-Archivist, had commanded little respect and even less attention. Coupled with her grey-streaked hair, apparent middle age, and lengthy time spent quietly attending and chronicling council meetings—long before any of the other councillors were promoted to their stations—this had had the intended effect: none of them had taken much note of her.
Until now.
Seya leaned in and placed a pale finger in the very centre of the map laid out before her, where a small circle was inked in blue. Giving resonance to her voice so none of the Council of Nine would mistake her next words, she spoke.
“You all know it is from Lough Argia the three great rivers—the Lura, the Vre, and the Anner—spring forth. It is from these waters all music was born. Both high and low. You know this also.”
She took the one-armed mage figurine. “What you do not know, because only Singers know, is that here”—she placed the figurine in the very centre of the blue-inked lake—“is an island, sacred to Singers. It is called Iturria, and in the centre of the island is the Sourcespring.”
“The what?” Nylah again, her brow furrowed further.
“The Sourcespring. The spring is the Source, and the Source is life. It is light also, and love. It is what gave the waters Song, and they in turn gave the Song to Singers and the Singers gave it to the world.”
“But all the Singers are gone.”
“No.” Iker’s deep voice reverberated around the walls. “Not all.”
“Indeed.” Seya looked again to Iker, then to Nylah. “The Last Singer stands before you.”
The room erupted into exclamations of disbelief, even dismay. Seya raised her hand, but even then it took a few moments for the council to quiet. In the silence that followed, it was the Keeper of Stores who spoke first, his dark eyes clouded.
“Surely the Singers are a story only. One told to soothe children. When we are grown, we learn better the ways of the world. No one can sing away the troubles that haunt man. No one can sing away hatred, nor defeat a warlord or dark mage with a Song.”
Seya smiled. “But I say to you, I am a Singer, and have sung those very Songs. I am a Singer, and the last of my kind. I have been such long before you were born, and Source willing, I will remain so after you are dead.”
Seya waited a moment, to allow them time for thought, then continued. “Singers live very long lives—lives connected to the Song, and the Song to waters, and the waters to the Source. As long as the Source remains, Singers remain. And the Source”—again she tapped the map, lifting the little figurine up and putting it back down again, bringing them back to the point at hand—“is here.”
Murmurs and grumblings filled the room, and then a voice, louder than the rest. The Exarch and Provider of Providence, his intonation honied with the long habit of homilies.
“The Source has no earthly station. It cannot be located, for it is and is not within and without all things.”
“As always, Exarch, your words remove all meaning from what you say,” Seya snapped. Her patience, long tested, was wearing thin. “The Source is a thing in a place, and I know this, for I have been there. I have seen it.”
She did not say what else she had done. Further knowledge—of the sound and of the taste and the feel of the Source—was hers and hers alone. Once, it had been shared with others. No longer. She shook her head and turned back to the council, taking a breath to continue before being interrupted again, this time by the stern and frowning Lady of Legions.
“But why then, are there no other Singers? If they—if you—cannot die?”
“I did not say we cannot die. I said we live long. But we can die, and we can be killed. And the reason the world remains at war, Lady Legion, is because we have been killed. And not merely killed, but decimated.”
Seya stood, and walked across the chamber toward the western window. “It began slowly. So slow, so subtle, that none noted it. In each generation, fewer and fewer Singers were born. When we did note it, we thought perhaps we simply had not found them, or that it was a shift that would right itself again. But it did not. And then, what Singers were left began to disappear.”
She pulled back the heavy curtain, her gaze taking in the citadel and the rest of the island below before wandering further, across the River Torring and to the west. Her mind ranged across the lesser rivers and plains, over the hills toward the Great Lura, and the Sourcespring. Too far to see from where she now stood, but she could hear its Song, though faint.
“You are all too young to know what it was like. To live in peace. To be allowed to flourish, and to move freely throughout the Three Lands. To learn. To love. To sing.” She shook her head and turned back from the window to the room, carrying on.
“When we finally realised what was happening, it was too late. All but twelve Singers were dead or missing, and all those here in Lurandia. Of the other Choruses not a note remained. The Halls were abandoned. No new Singers had been born anywhere in three generations. And then began the first war.”
The Master of Ships scoffed—then looked around and saw no one else laughing. He gulped, then looked to Seya, a tremor in his voice. “You are saying that you witnessed the First War?”
“I did. And the Second, and the Third. After the Fourth, there were only six of us left. After the Fifth we stopped singing against the dissonance, for the cacophony was too great. That was when we realised the Sourcespring was waning. The Song flowed less and less with each passing year. We tried to get back to it, but we were too few, and the power of the enemy too great. We retreated then, back over the Three Rivers, here to Kings Isle. Concentrating our power on protecting Lurandia from what we feared would come. After the Sixth War, three of us lost our voices singing against the discord and died not long after. After the Seventh, there were only two of us left. And now we are in the Ninth War. And it is only myself who sings.”
When the first strand touched her outstretched arms, the pain of it arched through her, like the piercing of a hundred thorns. She winced but did not falter—her Song constant, melodious with each intake and outgive of air, no space now between the notes. A second strand followed fast upon the first, then a third, each tendril spiralling around her outstretched arms, tighter and tighter, slicing into her skin as she bound them to her. As each was pinioned, she listened, hearing what notes were needed, and so willing the winding until every strand thrummed in echo, their oscillation sending shimmering resonance back along each filament, back to whence they came and back again to her, and forth and back, note upon note.
Once more, the room fell silent. Seya felt she could almost see their thoughts, such was the disquiet on their faces. Then Tian, the Master Mage, spoke for the first time that evening.
“What, then, is the thing that must be done? I do not assume you and now-Councillor Iker only spoke of your naming, Sovereign.”
Seya nodded, turning from the window and walking once more to her chair, resting her hand on the back of it.
“I, Seya of Kings Isle, Sovereign of Lurandia and Last Singer, command that from this day forth, Lurandia shall be ruled by Singers. Here our existence shall be secret no more. I command that Seekers be sent forth to every land, searching anew for those children who may yet have the Song inborn. I command that any child so gifted be brought here under guard, and with great haste. I further command that Kings Isle be henceforth known as Song Holme, and this castle as Singer’s Keep.” She paused, looking to each councillor, meeting and holding every gaze, as she continued. “Lady of Legions, I command our armies be called back from the borders to guard the citadel. Place our legions in secure encampments at a distance no greater than a hundred leagues from the citadel.”
Penah, Lady of Legions, nodded, her lips a tight line as Seya turned to the round-bellied merchant in the next chair.
“Rhain, Keeper of Stores, I command you ensure the stores and coffers of the kingdom are counted then placed under guard; thereafter, all citizens of Lurandia must be given food and fresh water, rationed to last as long as they may whilst keeping as many alive for as long as possible.”
She looked then to the white-haired and long-bearded Elcin.
“Chief of Colleges, I command your schools gather all the knowledge they can as swiftly as possible—in whatever form it may be—and bring all back here, to the Athenaeum. Every Song, story, poem, and saga; every name; every word; every record and number, is to be copied and put to memory by as many scribes and oracles as can fit within the walls.”
The scholar bowed his head slightly, his eyes dark with thought as Seya focused on Tian, who was now pale and staring in shock.
“Master Mage. I command that you gather to the citadel your most loyal mages. Bid them prepare to defend all the land and people behind the outermost walls for as long as they can. I command also that you work your strongest spells upon the Keep, safeguarding it with all the power you may hold.”
She then looked to the two councillors in the last seats. Mail, and Nylah.
“Master of Ships, you will ready your swiftest craft, small enough to be sailed by two, and stocked with supplies for a three-day journey down the Torring. Champion Nylah, at first light on the morrow, you will meet me outside the gates and escort me to the river. We sail at dawn for the Source.”
So saying, she stood, and without a look behind, strode from the council chambers. As soon as the guard shut the door after her, the room behind became a storm of voices, as she knew it would. Great change always birthed great consternation. But although they might question, or argue, they would obey. They must. Each had taken a sacred oath, upon their lifeblood, to obey the word of the Sovereign. This was the reasoning behind Iker’s naming of her. Her word—the word of a Singer—must be law, and her laws must be followed. It was the only way to save the Three Lands from what might come should she fail.
Her arms grew tired, trembling as more strands latched and wound around them, as she fastened and tensed them, turning and tuning, discordance to harmony, again and again—and still she reached for more. She must gather it all. Beyond the lake, beyond the great rivers, she reached, pulling strands wherever she found them. Where armies gathered, she took; where men argued, she took; where they fitfully slept, she took. Where plague reigned, she took; where drought worried, she took. Within and around her, the discord grew. And still, she Sang; and still, she walked; and still, she pulled and turned and changed, each strand reluctantly releasing the blackness that tarnished its tone, each note resolving, one by one. And still she sought out more, gathering the sounds of hate, of fear, of jealousy, of envy, and of rage—she coaxed all into the Song, listening, singing, changing, healing, until she could take no more. She was already so burdened, so weighted. It was so hard. Too hard. For a moment her breath faltered, and the burgeoning harmony soured.
Seya moved swiftly through the halls and up the stairs to her tower. Singer’s Tower, she decided it would hitherto be known. Changing the names would take time, she knew. But names were important. The change needed to begin now if it was to last. All Songs, please let it last.
Reaching her chambers, she strode into her library, threw her cloak across a settee, and collapsed with a sigh into a chair at the table. Taking up the greater part of the room, its surface was covered with stacks of books, piles of parchment, ink, quills, lamps, and half-burnt candles. Her head slumped into her hands, and she allowed herself, for the first time that morning, to truly feel the doubt and uncertainty that had haunted her since she’d first spoken to Iker of her plan three nights gone. She could not show any sign of her misgivings to the council, or to anyone ever again. She was a Singer. The last. The only. She must act the part, always . And their plan would work. It must. The Sovereign—former Sovereign—had agreed. It was the only way.
Shoving away candles and ink, she wiped her eyes and gathered the nearest parchment, smoothing out the wide, wrinkled page. Time to continue from where she’d left off. Singing to the page all she knew of the Source, all the Songs: the melodies and modes, the harmonies, motives, scales, phrasings, pitches, keys, modulations, notes, rhythms, and refrains. Songs on the page would never be the same as Songs sung, but it was the only way to save them. For the future. A future she might never see, but she would not leave the Songs in her to fade and die. They must live on. She closed her eyes, took a breath into her core—and began to sing.
Some time later, she woke to a soft knock at her chamber door. Woolly-headed, she stumbled to her feet, smoothed her dress, and turned to face the door.
“Enter.”
Much to her surprise, her voice was weak and rough, her throat chafed, sound barely able to leave her lips. The knock came again, more insistent. They had not heard. Shaking her head, she paused, then took a breath and tried again, reaching for resonance.
“Enter.”
There. This time it came at her call. Thank the Source. But how long until it would not?
The door opened, and in walked Nylah. The young woman shut the door behind her, then turned and bowed, one hand on the pommel of the sword at her side. “Sovereign.”
“Champion?”
“Forgive me, sire, but dawn approaches. Your servants are without, some bearing fruit and bread, and others to dress you and help you pack for the journey.”
Seya nodded, then looked back around to the table, which—again to her surprise—was covered with page upon page of freshly inked parchment. She must have finished sometime in the night. She lifted the topmost page, checking the final note was right, as she did not recall the singing of it, and then realised the young woman was still awaiting an answer.
“Very well. I will eat, yes, and would have you join me. Bid them to enter with food. But as to the rest, I shall dress myself, and I have already packed.”
The young warrior nodded, opening the chamber door to speak with the waiting servants. Moments later, she returned with two servants bearing trays of the aforementioned food and drink. They walked to the table and began to clear the parchments to make room.
“No!” Seya shouted without meaning to; the servants jumped and stepped back, looking frightened. She shook her head, taking up the pages and placing them beside stacks and stacks of the same, all along shelves she had cleared for the purpose.
“I do not want these disturbed.” She frowned and turned back, annoyed at herself for the loss of control and for feeling the need to explain. “Carry on.”
The servants bowed and laid out the trays then, at a wave of Nylah’s hand, left the room. The Champion pulled out a chair and with another bow, smiled at Seya.
“Sovereign?”
With a nod, Seya sat down, realising then how hungry she was as her stomach gave a growl that was more than a little musical. She had ripped off a good chunk of bread and slathered on a great helping of butter and jam before she saw that the Champion was still standing. Waiting.
“Sit. Eat. Please.”
With a nod, the warrior sat and began to eat with obvious hunger. Seya smiled, and they shared their meal in silence, Nylah finishing first, then seeming to wait again.
Seya raised a brow. “Is there something else?”
Her Champion took a breath to speak, then stopped herself, shaking her head and frowning down at her plate.
“Say your piece, Champion. You may speak freely.”
Nylah frowned. “May I ask, Sovereign, why is it only now you wish to travel to the Sourcespring? Why have you not gone before?”
Seya smiled. She’d wondered when that question would arise, and was glad it was this young woman to have asked it.
“You may ask, Champion, and I shall tell you. Until now, no one knew I was the Last Singer. I could not reveal the truth, because my Songs for Lurandia were not complete, and I could not risk leaving the land unsung, should anything happen to me.”
The young woman looked puzzled. “Unsung?”
Seya nodded. “A land unsung is a land unprotected. Even Tian with his mages cannot hear the Song of the land, cannot find the harmonies and sing it back, do not know the notes to sing. I have spent the last century singing to the land, infusing every stone, every speck of earth and breath of wind, every drop of water and blade of grass with Songs of peace and protection, of serenity and salvation, beginning with this very tower, out to the Keep and the city beyond, and as far as I could into the lands surrounding, all on my own. The Songs will hold, even should all other magic fail, even should the kingdom fall. I could not leave until the last note was sung.”
Nylah sat back slowly, understanding blooming across her features. “This is why Iker named you. Why you gave the council those commands.”
Seya smiled. “Yes. The city shall stand. The Songs I have sung will hold it safe for as long as the land itself remains. Now it shall be a shelter for Singers, should more rise, and for the Song itself, forevermore.”
The young warrior fell silent, her face dark with thought. She took a sip of cider, then looked up once more. “But why the urgency? Why leave Lurandia now, when you have only just been named? Surely you are more needed here, as Singer and Sovereign, to continue your protection of the land?”
Seya sat back, considering the woman across from her. How much to tell her? Nylah gazed back, a surprising innocence in her eyes, warrior though she was. Innocence and honesty. Seya supposed she should know the truth. She was the Sovereign’s Champion after all. Her personal guard. More—the warrior was sworn to defend her to the death.
“That protection has cost me, Champion—and cost me dearly. Singing so much for so long and so often is a strain. My voice is fading, and I do not know for how much longer I may give rise to the refrains needed. To sing harmony back into the world, one must find the right resonance, draw the discord to one’s own self and hold it, to then heal it. It is…trying. Even when the Singers were more, few could undertake such a task. And none alone.”
Nylah nodded, frowning as Seya went on.
“When the war was more distant, and Lurandia still free of struggle and strife, I could hear the Source, feel its Song and gather strength from it as needed. But now the dissonance is too great, the Sourcespring too distant and faded. It cannot come to me, so I must travel to it, and there—immersed in its intonation—I will draw strength to sing once more to the world.”
Seya sighed. The Source would renew her Song, and her Song would renew the lands. She nodded, as much to herself as to the young woman; she took a last sip of cider, pushed the tray to one side, then stood and walked to her wardrobe, laying out the clothes for the journey.
Nylah stood as if pulled from thought, and then bowed. “Thank you, sire. I shall make ready and await you with steeds and stores in the courtyard.”
Seya nodded absently as she pulled out two fur-lined cloaks and compared them. “Very well. I will be down shortly.”
Her Champion moved to the door—then paused once more. “Sovereign…forgive me for asking one thing more, but can you show me?”
“Show you what?” Seya looked up.
“Show me…something of the Song?” A childlike hope played across the younger woman’s features. “I mean no disrespect, please understand. As a child, I was told stories of the Singers long ago, who held the Three Lands safe in the bosom of their Song. How those Songs could move men and mountains alike, such was their power.”
Seya smiled. It had been so long since she had been asked such a question. Iker had always known what she was and known, too, that it was her power that had kept Lurandia so long from the worst ravages of war. No one else in the Council of Nine had dared ask last night, out of fear or pride or both, she did not know. And yet here was one who dared.
Nylah smiled in return, an expression that lit her entire face. Seya considered the young woman before her. She had never had much time for those of the warrior class. All her long life she had considered the ability to fight and to know the methods of battle a base, if necessary, skillset. Her own talents—the ability to sing, to know the notes, to see the strands of life and hear the music they made, and to control it all—were far more useful. After all, when Singers held sway, there was no need to fight. No space for discord. For that was what fighting was. Discordance. Cacophony. No harmony in it. And yet in Nylah’s face, Seya saw now there was beauty and grace in the way the warrior held herself. Like a cat, resting, but ready and willing to pounce.
She acquiesced. “I will show you. Just a little now, as I am tired, and as I said, my voice is not what it once was. Still.…”
So saying, she searched the room and, spying a candelabrum atop the mantlepiece, closed her eyes, took a low, deep breath, and loosed it as a hum. Reaching out with the Sight of Song, she found a single strand, grasped it to her, and wrapped it around her fingertips. Not too taut for so light a task. She sent the opposite end thrumming toward the candelabrum and changed her humming to words, singing the Song of Fire, sending the notes in harmony to each wick, lifting the melody to a quickening crescendo—and the candles burst into flame. Behind her, she heard the warrior gasp as she finished the Song, let go the strand, and opened her eyes once again.
Shock reverberated through her as the sour notes clashed against the rest. Fighting to keep her voice steady, she found the loosening strands and wound them tighter, until the harmony settled again—then yet another loosened, another wrong note souring the whole. No. Once more she found it, once more she wound it, once more the Song rang true, but now she knew. She could hold no more. Every fibre of her being shook with the effort of keeping what she had. So she pulled back, concentrating only on healing the strands she bore. She turned her steps inward, spiralling in toward the Sourcespring, drawing the strands with her, weaving them, round and round, keeping each clear and separate from the rest, yet all part of the whole, her voice soaring in healing Song above it all.
“But I do not understand.” Nylah shook her head. “I’ve read the old stories, and The Book of Names. They give no mention of Singers coming to Lurandia. They all state that the Singers died off throughout the Three Lands long before the First War.”
They had been sailing for two-and-a-half days without incident, keeping to the centre of the Torring, the middling river that flowed from Lough Argia southeasterly past Kings Isle—now Song Holme—and on into the Southern Sea. The guards that had accompanied them had disembarked at Torringside—the last town before the lake—on the shores of the smaller Lough Torring, after much reassurance from Nylah and further insistence from Seya herself. They would undertake the rest of the journey alone.
Seya nodded. “Yes. The stories and books do not mention Singers in Lurandia because I willed it thus.”
Nylah frowned, but after a moment, nodded. “You did not wish to be remembered.”
Seya looked to the warrior and smiled. “Precisely. It had become obvious that someone—or many someones, I still do not know—wanted the Singers not simply dead, but eradicated completely. I decided the best prospect for our survival—for my own and the world’s—would be to let them believe they had succeeded. Once I was the last, and a generation or two had passed, it was simple enough to change the records and let myself be forgotten, by all save the Sovereigns of Lurandia. The task fell to each Sovereign to keep The Last Singer secret and safe within the bounds of Kings Isle, and in return—”
“In return, you kept the discord of war from the land.” Nylah finished for her.
Seya nodded. “A vow I have kept. But a task in which I have failed.”
She sighed and looked out across the water as they passed yet another abandoned village. There had been more of them as the river veered west. Drought and plague were already stalking these lands and moving further inland with each passing day. It was eerie to see no children running along the shores, no farmers in fields, nor fishermen in other boats. Only the river, the reeds, the water birds and insects, and the odd jumping fish accompanied their journey.
As the day wore on Nylah grew silent, one hand on the tiller, the other on the bowline. Like most Lurandians, she was an expert sailor. The nation’s common second name was Land of Rivers, and all children born and raised in the land knew their way around water and boats from birth. The past two days had been pleasant, or would have been, had it not been for the urgency of Seya’s impending task. She found the young warrior’s company easy enough. They spoke of their upbringings, how Nylah had been a fisherman’s daughter, had taught herself sword-and battle-craft long before she found a knight to sponsor her, and so went from page, to knight, to Champion, then to Sovereign’s Champion, far more swiftly than most. Her calling, she named it—which made Seya smile.
For her part, Seya told the young warrior of her own origins. The daughter of a smallholding lord, she was found at the age of three to have the Song inborn and was then taken to join the Chorus in the nearest Great Hall in Vrenia.
Nylah looked surprised at that. “You’re not Lurandian, then?”
“No.” Seya smiled. “I’m Vrenian by birth. Near Olnda, in the north. Sorry to disappoint.”
The young woman shook her head. “Not disappointed. Just surprised. Sovereign.”
“You must remember, when I was young, the Three Lands were not at war. They were as one, and their Sovereigns allies. Besides, Singers give up allegiance to land and liege once they take the Song.”
“I see.” Nylah frowned in thought and fell silent for a time.
The day wore into evening, the river carrying them on and on. As the sun set behind the western mountains, the young woman spoke again.
“’Tis only a short way now, Sovereign, to the lough.”
Seya nodded, her gaze drifting, half dreaming, once more toward the shore now cloaked in mist. She could hear the Sourcesong louder now, and the sound lit a light of hope within her—then she gasped awake to a thump, and a jolt.
“We’ve run aground.” A tight-lipped Nylah was already gathering in the sail. “I’m sorry, Sovereign, but we’ll have to wade from here.”
“Where are we?” Seya blinked, looking around.
“It’s difficult to say, sire.” The young warrior gestured, and Seya stood to find the boat surrounded by mist, through which loomed the ghostly stalks of nearby reeds.
“How long did I sleep?”
“Half the night. It is morning now. I let you rest, Sovereign, as you seemed tired. The journey was quiet, and I knew the way. We’re in the source of the river now, where it meets the lough. Only it’s shallower than it should be. And I’m not certain where to go from here.”
Seya squinted, peering through the mist, but she could not see more than a few yards in any direction. The mist swallowed the dawn light, and it was impossible to know which way to go, much less how they were going to get there. She looked over to find Nylah watching her. Waiting.
Seya nodded. “Let me listen.”
Tired. She was so tired. How long had she been walking? How long singing, how long holding the strands? She did not know. But she must go on. Round and round, in and out, with each pass building the Song. Her bones ached now, each step agony, and her arms—she could no longer feel her arms. She could only feel the thousand strands, only hear the constant, thundering chorus. More than half were healed now. Harmony began to surpass discord. Soon. Soon the melody would reach its end, soon she could let go the Song—perfect and pure—into the Sourcespring, filling it, freeing it, helping it to flow once again. Whole and new. Soon. She breathed in, air filling lungs, and out, Song leaving lips. Soon. Strand upon strand. Soon. She was almost there.
“Almost there.” Seya spoke, eyes closed, from where she was carried in Nylah’s arms. They had waded this way for what seemed like hours through the mist, Seya listening, Nylah carrying her. The mist was so heavy at times it drowned out even the Source and she had to have the young warrior stop and hold perfectly still until she could hear it again. But it was louder now. And was the mist clearing?
“There!” Yes. She opened her eyes. Not a hundred yards away. The island. Iturria, covered in low trees that curved up from shore like the leafy arms of dryads, beckoning, welcoming.
“I will walk from here.”
“Sire.” Nylah nodded, and put Seya down into murky water that reached only to her knees. The shallowness of the lake was troubling. It used to be so deep. No matter. Soon she would clear the Sourcespring, find the discord and change it, free the lands from the bonds that held them, right the wrongs, and the Song and the waters would flow again. Then Singers would be born anew, and the Three Lands would heal.
She smiled to Nylah and began to wade toward the shore, the young warrior following close behind. The mist curled away as they neared the island—so much so that by the time they were out of the water and onto the sand, it had cleared completely. As if the island had expected her. Wanted her there.
Seya turned to her companion who had freed herself from pack and shield and was now stringing her longbow.
“I must begin. I do not know how long this will take, nor entirely what it may entail.”
The young woman nodded. “No matter, sire. I am your champion. I shall guard you, guide you, lend you whatever skill and strength I may have.”
“Thank you, but all I need now is for you to wait as I do what must be done.”
“As you wish.” Nylah looked at her, suddenly serious. “May I ask what it is you are going to do?”
“You may.” Seya nodded. “I am going to sing. To heal the lands, renew the Source, and end the war.”
The young woman bowed low. “Then I wish you well, Sovereign. May your Song be true.”
Seya smiled, to hear the old blessing. It was right. She gave Nylah one last nod, then headed into the trees, seeking the Source.
Seya gasped as the music built and built, until it was near more than she could hold, the rhythm ringing through her bones, the Song falling from her lips and rising toward perfection, each strand she held now shimmering, soaring, into one shining, heavenly crescendo. Her feet, bare, curled into the moss around the pool as she circled inward, faster and faster, lifting her arms, her voice pure and sweet, holding the notes high as she turned toward the Sourcespring—it turned toward her, reaching, needing the Song, thirsting for it. Yes. She took the last step, and stopped, facing the water. One final breath, one last long note—and then something struck her in the back. The strands, held so perfectly, jolted; the clarion chorus wavered.
Pain bloomed then, or fire, she was not certain. She opened her eyes and looked down, surprised to see the bloodied head of an arrow protruding from her breast. She tried to breathe, tried to hold the last note, but her breath failed. The Song faltered. Fled. And then she fell, face down into the pool, her lifeblood joining the stale water. The strands of discord, freed from her grasp, plunged in after, a tangled cacophony of chaos—clashing, crashing, sinking. Down with her into the dark.
The woman who had for a long time been called Nylah knelt on the sand as she unstrung her bow. It had been a good shot. Clean, she’d made certain. There’d been no need to make the Singer suffer. And no orders to. She’d been Vrenian after all, like herself. She stood up, shrugged on pack and quiver, and took one last look around the island. Curious, how silent it was, now the singing was gone.
That Song had been beautiful. Sad, and heart-achingly lovely. As she’d listened, she swore she’d been able to hear more than just the one voice. It was eerie. No one should hold that kind of power. She’d done the Three Lands a favour. Now Vrenia would prevail, and soon there would be one land, with no Singers to interfere.
She nodded to herself. Better get back to the boat. As she waded away, she looked back and was surprised to see the island shrouded in mist again. Yet this time the mist seemed to be full of shadows. Reaching, twisting shadows that swallowed all light, all sound. Shadows that were moving with purpose toward the shore. Toward her.
Fear curled into her throat as she rushed into the water, but where before it had been waist high, now it grew deeper, and deeper still, until she wasn’t wading, but swimming, and then something cold curled around her outstretched arm, and another something around her waist, tearing her with sudden force up and out of the water. She screamed—or tried to—as the cold that held her curled tighter and tighter, crushing the breath from her lungs. Her heart pounded hard as she kicked and struggled—but the cold only held on, crushing her in its icy arms. She fought to see what had her as her vision blurred to red, but all she could see was shadow. Darkness.
She felt pain then, all across her skin, as if a thousand bees stung at once—and then felt only an oddly pleasant sensation. She couldn’t think what it reminded her of. For some reason, to her mind came an image of a babe, suckling at its mother’s breast. She dully wondered why, as her heartbeat faltered. Faded.
And then she was falling, to land against something wet. Cold. Sand. The island’s shore.
She stared, cheek down on the sand, across where the lake should have been. Except now there was no lake. Instead, she lay dying at the edge of an impossible abyss, itself infested with swarming, twisting shadows; shadows that branched out across the Three Lands, dark strands that hummed with terrible hunger as they reached: wanting, drinking, taking.
Leaving only silence.