CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The chief of the mountain village met the seeker on her way back down the trail. “We have heard tales of your travels. Will you join us in making merry? For we have just left the presence of Gilmer the Hunter, and there is much to celebrate.”

She longed to refuse, but her weary feet made the decision for her.

—THE AYALYA

The unholy clattering they were making in the early-morning hours finally brought the guards in, and Kyara exhaled the heavy breath she’d been holding. Dansig spoke urgently in Lagrimari, gesturing wildly toward his son, who lay on the bed writhing in pain. Sweat poured from his skin as his eyes rolled back in his head.

The guard took one look at the boy, pulled out a metal hearing cone from his belt loop, and placed it in his ear. It must be a communications amalgam, for he spoke into it like a telephone, alerting the medical staff that one of the prisoners was incoming. Someone replied, too far away and muffled for Kyara to understand. Not long after, two white-robed servants arrived with a stretcher and carried the twin away. The whole thing had taken under five minutes.

Sitting propped against the wall, his brother looked on without moving. As soon as the outer door clanked shut, he slid back down onto the bed and exhaled loudly.

“Do you think it will work?” Varten asked, his coloring paling to a ghostly hue. The tiny bit of healing that Roshon had managed had faded rapidly. It must be a difficult thing to master with the medallion, for he had only been able to help Varten for a scant few minutes at a time.

“It’s got to work. Have some faith, son.”

The plan was for Roshon to get to the medical wing and find a way to escape. Earlier in their incarceration, the whole family had been frequent visitors to the infirmary, subject to all manner of testing, and so they were familiar with the layout of the place. Roshon was sure that with the medallion, he could find a way out and then contact the police or the Elsiran ambassador for help.

Dansig placed an arm around Varten, holding him close. He touched his son’s forehead and frowned.

The spell Roshon had created for himself mimicked a very dire version of his brother’s illness—though Varten’s situation was nearly as grim. Seeing Roshon in such a state reminded Kyara of how little time they had, of how this gambit needed to pay off so they could help Varten.

Roshon had practiced nonstop over the past twenty-four hours in order to manage the medallion well enough to enact the ruse. They had no choice but to place their trust in him as the only one who could wield the amalgam magic.

Peering at the door to the prison chamber, Kyara silently wished him luck. Asenath had not returned, and now Roshon appeared to be their only hope.

She wished she had been able to help Roshon more, but mastering a power like that took time. She could not bear to dwell on her own brutal training at Ydaris’s hand. Those days were among her darkest. Dansig, on the other hand, was a patient tutor. He never raised his voice, and his calm demeanor balanced Roshon’s impatience and frustration.

Kyara wished she’d had a teacher like him, though it would not have mattered. There were no other Nethersingers for Kyara to learn from. The Physicks had certainly tried to find one, and while Ydaris had hidden Kyara in plain sight for a decade, she suspected the Cantor, too, had sought news of any other Nethersingers for her own gain. After all, it was because she’d delivered Kyara that Ydaris was now accepted by the Physicks again after living in exile for so long.

Kyara sat up as recognition slammed into her. That’s where she knew the name Mooriah! The memory had niggled at her for days, struggling to come to the surface. During her time with the Cavefolk, an old shaman called Murmur had mentioned another Nethersinger, one who had lived hundreds of years ago, whose name had been Mooriah.

Back in that time, Nethersingers were killed at birth, but Mooriah’s father had saved her and brought her to live with the Cavefolk in secret. Kyara strained to remember what else Murmur had told her, but it hadn’t been much. Was it possible that the Sad Woman from her dreams was the ancient Nethersinger?

Mooriah had expected Kyara to understand her message: Embrace the Light. She racked her brain, trying to remember what Murmur had told her deep in those underground caverns where the Cavefolk dwelt. She recalled a vision he’d seen in his youth of the war among the three worlds. He’d insisted that her deadly Song would be needed to fight for the Living World. According to Asenath, the Light was the Living World, but was that what Mooriah meant? Somehow Kyara thought not.

Murmur had wanted to teach her how to control her Song, but his teaching style had involved nearly killing Darvyn. Thankfully Kyara had saved him, pulling the deadly energy of Nethersong from his body, a feat she’d never achieved before.

She had to admit that she was stronger at managing her Song now than she was before Murmur’s trick, but she still didn’t trust him. Being manipulated and controlled was something she’d had enough of. The wound on her chest was a constant ache as it was, and now she suspected there were even more forces at work wanting to use her power. It made her wish the Physicks would just drain her dry and end it. If only the True Father had stolen her Song the way he did so many others’.

“How did you escape tribute and manage to hold on to your Song?” she asked Dansig to fill the uneasy silence.

He looked up thoughtfully. “My mother kept us mobile. She was a peddler. We lived on the highway in a caravan, stayed ahead of the Collectors.”

Kyara nodded. She’d lived much of her life on the road, too. Between assignments, she’d preferred staying away from the castle as much as possible.

“My sister was caught by the nabbers when I was fourteen,” Dansig continued. “I went straight to the Keepers then. Joined the same week.”

Kyara leaned forward. “Did you find her?”

Dansig’s eyes were hollow. He shook his head. “The Keepers embedded me in the army—spying, relaying info back to them.”

“You fought in the Sixth Breach, right?”

He held her gaze with a considering look. “I came over to Elsira during the Sixth Breach,” he said slowly, “but I did not fight.”

Dansig looked down at his sleeping son and sighed. “I wanted to leave the Keepers. Not because I disagreed with their mission, but their methods could sometimes be…”

“Cutthroat?” A member of the Keepers had betrayed Darvyn, and she’d witnessed his own people collar him when he stood up for her. Freedom fighters they may be, but they were still imperfect men and women.

“People working for a good cause are still people,” Dansig said, echoing her thoughts. “At the end of the day, a group is only as good as its leaders, and I had some … problems with the elders.” He shifted and wiped the sweat from Varten’s sopping brow. “It didn’t help that I had the Dream of the Queen several times. Some were jealous of that.”

Kyara leaned forward. “You saw Her?” She still wasn’t sure she even believed in the Queen Who Sleeps, though Darvyn had assured her the deity was real.

“Just before the Sixth Breach, I asked Her for help leaving. She guided me to a tear in the Mantle, a weak point in the magic. I slipped through and lived in the mountains for a time. After the fighting ended, I found the prisoner of war camps where the Lagrimari soldiers trapped in Elsira were housed. That’s where I met Emi.”

The twins’ Elsiran mother had been a member of some sort of religious order that worshipped the Queen Who Sleeps.

“Why do you think She did it? Helped you leave?” Kyara asked.

Dansig’s expression slackened. The emotion drained from his face. “She never does anything without a reason.” The words were cold. “I believe She wanted me in Her debt. I wonder if my child’s life is payment enough.” The last was a bitter whisper likely not meant for Kyara to hear. The mission that had landed his family in prison had been undertaken at the Queen’s behest.

“They like to meddle in our lives, don’t they?” Kyara mused. Dansig looked up questioningly. She waved her arm in the air. “The powerful. The strong. The gods. They push us this way and that way, and for what? Sometimes I just want to push back.”

Dansig scratched his jaw. “I do think they have their reasons. Sometimes we are sacrifices for the greater good. What is it you’re struggling with, Kyara?”

She dropped her head into her hands, running her fingers through the rows of braids. Darvyn’s face flickered in her mind briefly before fading away. “I just want to choose. I want a choice in what happens to me.”

Dansig was grim, his voice heavy and low. “All I can say is this: when you get the choice, choose wisely. More wisely than I did.”

His hand went back to Varten, who murmured restlessly in his sleep. Kyara closed her eyes. She would remember his words and hoped she lived to see the day she could heed his advice.

---

For Lizvette, Dahlia City, while large and teeming with people, had a very different air from Melbain City. She and the others left the train station and emerged in the modern metropolis of the central business district. Like in Melbain, towers rose into the sky around them, though these were considerably shorter and less grand. But after only a handful of blocks, the architecture changed drastically. Worn-down buildings with brick facades lined the streets; the neighborhood was dingy and unkempt. Even the automobiles charging down the street were all older, without the gleam of regular polishing.

“Those markings,” Darvyn said, scanning the people going about their business on the streets. “What do they mean?” He turned to peer at a woman who had just passed them, her head covered in a colorful scarf. A blocky tattoo was emblazoned on the back of her neck. Several of the people they’d seen in the commonwealth bore the marks. Men often had them on shaved heads, while women bore them on their necks.

Lizvette faced forward, her stomach churning. “Those tattoos are how the Dahlineans mark Bondmen—the lowest caste in Yaly. Investors use an ink that fades away after seven years, the period of their indenturing.”

“Indenturing?” Darvyn asked.

“It’s like slavery,” Tai spat. “The commonwealths keep the lower classes, the poor toilers, tightly controlled. The workers are required to use commonwealth banks and stores, and are paid in a currency that is worthless elsewhere. Yet somehow they always remain in debt. They nearly always have to extend their indenturing.”

Darvyn looked troubled, and Lizvette couldn’t blame him. It was an abominable practice.

“Let’s go in here,” she said, coming upon a store with coats and winter gear displayed in the window. Her autumn shawl was doing nothing to protect against the colder northern temperatures.

Once arrayed in a warm—if utilitarian—woolen coat, Lizvette led them on foot to the nearby arts district. Her plan was to find a costume shop to purchase the type of heavy makeup that would cover Tai’s tattoos. A wig for him and one for her own distinctly Elsiran hair color would help, as well. But as they crossed deeper into the neighborhood of colorfully painted shops, they found it nearly deserted. Stores that should be open at this time of the morning were barred with the windows shuttered. Trash lay piled up in cans that had not been emptied in weeks, from all appearances. The arts district seemed dead. They turned a corner onto Theatre Row. The marquee of a single hall was lit, but it advertised a photoplay. Experience the Talkie Revolution! proclaimed the poster in bold script.

Lizvette looked down the desolate street. The wind whistled through the air, blowing bits of trash from the overflowing cans. She shook her head. “Perhaps we’ll have to take our chances disguising ourselves with Earthsong. It doesn’t look like we’ll find what we need here.” She wrung her hands, both in frustration and to bring warmth to her frozen fingertips. She should have purchased gloves.

Darvyn’s grim expression didn’t change. He was coiled tight with tension, and her heart went out to him. But Tai tilted his head to the side. “Do you hear that?”

Lizvette closed her eyes but only made out the sound of the wind.

“There are people in that theatre over there,” Darvyn said, pointing across the street.

The lights on the marquee were dark, but the lettering advertised, A SIDE-RIPPINGLY HILARIOUS ROMP. NIGHTLY.

“We could get what we need from the theatre’s makeup supply. If they’ll sell to us,” Lizvette said, leading the way across the street.

The front doors were barred, but she could hear music now, coming from around the side of the building. She turned down the narrow alley next to the theatre only to be stopped short by Tai’s hand on her shoulder.

“Not so fast there, duchess.”

She shivered from his touch before steeling herself and turning around.

He looked down the dark alley with suspicion. Whatever unsavory things might be hiding nearby could certainly not stand up to the fiercely protective look in his eye. He stepped around her so that he was in the lead.

They marched down the alley. Other than being perilous to the cleanliness of her hemline, it held no visible threats. Behind the theatre’s side door, loud music played. She knocked and waited a minute, but no one came. She was raising her hand to knock again when the door swung open on creaking hinges.

The young woman on the other side was about her age with straight, black hair that fell past her shoulders. Violet eyes took up half of her heart-shaped face. Lizvette saw the exact moment she caught sight of Tai. Her eyes, at first filled with vague curiosity, widened, tracking him up and down, no doubt taking in the dusting of hair on his chest, exposed by the way he insisted on unbuttoning the top few buttons of his shirt, regardless of the temperature.

Lizvette cleared her throat, bringing the woman’s attention back to her. “Hello. We’re so sorry to bother you, but we’re—”

“Come in,” she said, speaking only to Tai.

Lizvette shot an annoyed glance over her shoulder. Darvyn appeared to be holding back a smile. She was glad someone found this so amusing. Meanwhile, Tai’s eyes twinkled. He unfurled a roguish grin upon the woman, who ushered them into a chaotic room beyond the door.

Two dozen people lounged about a cluttered space littered with wardrobes, tables, boxes, discarded furniture, and contraptions she couldn’t identify. The front half of an automobile lay next to a miniature cardboard replica of the city’s skyline. The music was courtesy of a phonograph blaring from the corner.

In the center, an enormous bearded man was engaged in a very bawdy jig with a voluptuous blonde. Others gyrated suggestively with partners or alone. Everyone here was in a costume of some kind—colorful breeches, fur-covered jackets, formal gowns. One man even wore a boar’s head over a tuxedo.

Lizvette clasped her hands in front of her, taking it all in.

“I’m Brigit,” the woman who’d ushered them in said. “Are you here for the party?” Once again, she had eyes only for Tai.

Lizvette fumed. “No, we’re—”

“I’d never pass up a good party,” Tai interrupted, his smile broad.

Darvyn looked considerably less amused now. His jaw was locked, eyes scanning the partygoers, arms rigid at his side. His single-minded focus on rescuing his Kyara had kept him tied in knots since the day before.

Lizvette stared at Tai, trying to communicate to him that they needed to hurry, but his attention had been captured by Brigit.

“What are we celebrating?” Tai asked.

“The end of our fair theatre,” she replied with a dramatic curtsey, designed to allow Tai the optimal angle to see down her dress, no doubt. “Our last show is tonight, and then we go the way of the rest.”

“What happened to them all?” Darvyn asked. His voice sounded strange and tinny. Perhaps the communications amalgamation around his neck was running out. Lizvette made a mental note to pick up a new one after they left. If they could get what they needed and get out.

Brigit shrugged. “Ticket sales have been down for months. Everyone wants to see the talkies instead. But a few days ago, word came down from on high that all government allotment for the arts has been pulled. Without those stipends, we can’t pay the bills here.”

Lizvette watched the revelers more closely. Though they laughed and danced and acted cheerful, careful inspection revealed gloomy undertones.

“What will you do?” she asked. She had to repeat the question as Brigit was staring at Tai and didn’t hear her the first time.

“Take jobs in the factories, I suppose. They’re on a hiring kick. No one turned away. Production is way up.” She took a step closer to Tai, tilting her head. “You aren’t from around here, are you?”

Tai laughed as if her question was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. Lizvette rolled her eyes, gritting her teeth when Brigit looped her arm through his and dragged him over to a table laden with food. Red clouded Lizvette’s vision.

“Let’s get what we need and go,” Darvyn said tightly.

Lizvette couldn’t have agreed more. She tore her gaze away from Tai’s broad back and looked around. Thick, black curtains indicated where the stage was. They stood in the backstage area, and far on the other side was a hallway.

“Dressing rooms are most likely through there,” she said. From being in a few productions at school, she knew the basic layout of a theatre.

Darvyn motioned that she should lead the way. They skirted the edges of the rowdy affair. No one seemed to pay them any mind.

“Why do you think the Dahlinean government is pulling funding from the theatres?” she asked, thinking out loud.

“And increasing production at the factories? Maybe they’re diverting the money there,” Darvyn said. “More amalgams on the market … it must be significant somehow.” He shook his head.

Soon they were in the long hallway, peering through the doorways. The first led to a storage closet, but the second appeared to be a dressing room.

Lizvette quickly found a blond wig for herself and stuffed it in a paper sack that had been lying on the ground. A pair of tinted spectacles would do to mask the shade of Darvyn’s eyes. It was Tai who stood out the most and would need the most work. Lizvette sighed as she opened jar after jar of heavy, tinted face paint. “If he were here I could better match his tone, but this will have to do,” she said, choosing one she thought would work. She grabbed a black wig to cover his blue hair, then left a few coins on the table so she didn’t feel like they were stealing. With their supplies now procured, they headed back to the party.

Tai and Brigit were on the dance floor, where the latter was rubbing her considerable cleavage on him like a cat in heat. Lizvette crossed her arms over her own more modest chest and sighed.

When Tai looked over, she pointed to her wrist, though she wasn’t wearing a wristwatch. He had the nerve to grin at her and swing Brigit around one more time before whispering something in her ear that made the woman blush redder than an apple. Then he disengaged from her and approached them.

“Having fun?” Lizvette snapped.

“Did you get what you needed?” he asked, oblivious to her mood.

“I think so, though if you end up looking chalky it’s only because I couldn’t match your coloring with you out here … gallivanting.”

“Gallivanting?” He chuckled in the most irritating way and plucked the paper sack of supplies out of her hand. “After you,” he said with a bow. Lizvette marched toward the door. She thought that Brigit would stop their exit, but they made it back outside without incident.

“I’m surprised you weren’t roped into a full bacchanal before we could leave.”

Darvyn lengthened his stride, now in the lead. “I sang a small spell to avert everyone’s attention.”

Lizvette stopped in her tracks, mouth agape. “You couldn’t have done that when we first went in?”

With a furrowed brow, he motioned to Tai. “He didn’t give me a chance.”

Tai spread his arms out, not looking remorseful at all. “What?”

She reached into the sack he held, pulled out the black wig, and tossed it in his face. Then she stomped down the alley back to the street.