CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The world outside the Mountain Mother’s womb

Kept secrets from the Folk incurious

With Songs now silent, quiet as a tomb

Outsiders had become injurious

Here entered a new player to the stage

An enigmatic stranger to engage

—THE BOOK OF UNVEILING

“Again.”

Ydaris’s voice echoed against the walls of the darkened chamber. Iron bars surrounded Kyara, forming a cage meant for a large animal. Beyond the bars, the edges of the surrounding room faded into shadow. The Cantor was out there somewhere, watching her every move.

“No more,” Kyara cried, struggling to breathe. Her entire body was a tangle of misery, her muscles were jelly, and she could barely lift her head off the cold floor.

“Again,” Ydaris repeated, her voice steely. This time it held the command of the spell. Flames of pain licked out from the carving in Kyara’s chest, her own skin and flesh turning against her.

“Grab hold of the scarf and this will all be over.”

Kyara’s vision was nearly gone, only a few spots of light marred the field of dark before her eyes. She rolled to her knees and propped herself on her forearms. The blaze in her chest quieted a fraction—it rewarded obedience.

She dragged herself across the slick brick floor, wet with sweat and blood and other bodily fluids Kyara didn’t dare think of, until the bars stopped her progress. On top of the anguish of the wound’s searing pain, she was hungry, sleep deprived, and caked with dirt and grime.

She pressed herself against the bars, reaching one skinny arm through. The scarf lay just out of reach, only a hairbreadth from the tips of her fingers. Try as she might, she could not reach it. The echoing of Ydaris’s command pressed her to try harder, pushed her until she wedged her already torn and bloodied shoulder into the space between the bars farther and farther, regardless of the fact that it did not fit.

Resisting the spell brought pain, but even trying to obey brought no relief if she was not progressing.

“I want you to understand very clearly the consequences of your stubbornness,” Ydaris said. All this because Kyara had faltered in her practice.

Her training had progressed over the past year from small animals to larger ones: insects, rats, tortoises, and a pair of captured wild dogs. She had killed them all, slowly becoming able to remain conscious and aware of how and when her power unfurled. The grief for all the creatures whose lives she’d taken was buried deep within her; she numbed herself to its bitter taste.

She’d found the pale iguana just outside her bedroom window, located next to the Cantor’s library. Unsure of how it had gotten so high in the castle, she’d befriended it and fed it leaves she collected during the rare times she was allowed outside. The lizard ate directly from her hand, and she’d poured all her love into it, hoping to keep it safe.

But Ydaris had told her she would have no secrets. The Cantor found the iguana and ordered Kyara to kill it. She’d hesitated, withstanding the initial suffering, hoping maybe her little friend would sense the danger and scurry away. But Kyara could not hold out for long. Her weakness and desire to be free from the agony had won out and the iguana had gone still.

Now she was being punished. She screamed as the muscle in her shoulder tore against the rough texture of the bars. The Cantor would not accept anything less than full compliance. The unyielding pain propelled Kyara to search for a way to obey. She pushed against the rigid metal harder and harder still, until a pop sounded and the excruciating pain in her chest was replaced with one almost as severe from her dislocated shoulder. But her fingertips finally grasped hold of the scarf, curling it tight to her palm as she shuddered at the edge of consciousness.

Footsteps sounded across the floor, and the Cantor’s jewel-studded shoes stopped next to Kyara’s hand. The scarf was plucked from her fingertips.

“Very good,” Ydaris said. “We shall try something a bit harder tomorrow.”

Kyara didn’t have the strength to pull herself back. She rested her forehead against the iron, her arm still bent unnaturally, shoulder out of joint, her only solace the knowledge that it would be several hours yet before her training continued.

A shroud of heat pressed against Kyara, taking with it the vestiges of the dream. She had not thought of those dark days in some time. She’d hoped to never think of them again. The sun beamed down upon her closed eyes, blinding her even in the darkness. She pressed her lids tighter, seeking relief. Suddenly something shaded the light, and she opened her eyes a fraction.

A round object floated above her head. Her mind cleared enough to name it as a parasol. She opened her mouth to try to speak, and water was promptly poured in. The liquid was warm but refreshing. She relished every drop. Her entire body was sore, as if she’d undergone a sound beating, but this was a far cry from the raging torment of her training.

She stretched her stiff limbs and blinked again. The parasol above her was purple. Odd. Where had it come from? And what was she lying on? The hard surface under her back trembled and shook. The roll of wheels vibrated below her and the clop of horses’ feet kept good time.

“What do you need?” a familiar voice said from somewhere beyond her vision.

Darvyn.

She wanted to scramble away, needed to keep him safe, but she couldn’t lift herself up. The best she could do was roll to the side, away from his voice, only to find three women staring at her.

Kyara’s mouth hung open in surprise. Two of the women had hair streaked with gray, the third appeared closer to her own age. Their wide-eyed stares were unnerving. She painfully turned her head away only for her cheek to meet something solid and warm. Darvyn’s face appeared directly above her, blocking her view of the parasol. She realized that she must be lying with her head in his lap.

Gasping out breaths, she tried to form words, but her mouth was as uncooperative as her arms and legs. All she could do was rotate her head again to find the three women still ogling her.

“Hot,” was the only word she managed to eject from her lips.

“You were shivering. I wasn’t sure if you were cold or not,” Darvyn said. A weight was lifted from her, allowing her skin to breathe again. Her limbs felt immediately lighter, and she turned her head the other way to see Darvyn folding up a blanket.

“Who?” Her throat and tongue were still not cooperating entirely.

Darvyn’s mouth settled into a grim line. She wished he would smile. “They’re Avinid pilgrims. We came across their caravan, and they were kind enough to give us a ride. The swiftcycle doesn’t handle two very well. We were too heavy and slow. I was afraid we wouldn’t make it in time.”

Kyara vaguely recalled the sound of wind beating against fabric. She must have regained consciousness briefly, but she had no idea how much time had passed or where they were even headed. “Where?”

Fortunately, Darvyn understood her monosyllabic communication. “We’re heading to Serpent’s Gorge.”

Her head felt wobbly as confusion clouded her mind. She turned away, needing him out of her line of sight if she had any hope of concentrating on his words. Except now her vision was assaulted by the brilliant clothing of the pilgrims. The women wore the garish, multihued tunics that marked devout Avinids. Yellows, oranges, blues, greens, and purples—all mashed together in chaotic patterns, no two the same.

Brightly colored fabric was largely a frivolity reserved for payrollers. However, even their brilliantly varied wardrobes paled in comparison to the dizzying array of the Avinids. Ironic, since, judging by the intense heat, these believers were currently on their way to certain death.

While she professed familiarity with the Void, Kyara had never quite understood the sect. Avinids met weekly in their temples, meditated, and prayed to the Void, and the very devout, once they’d reached a certain level of enlightenment, made the pilgrimage, either north to the burning Scald or to the Gelid, the frozen tundra in the south of Lagrimar. They claimed it was not a suicide trip, but no one had ever returned.

If the blood spell hadn’t made suicide impossible for Kyara, she may have asked to join their one-way journey a long time ago. Would death in the burning sands of the north be more peaceful than her life had been thus far?

Darvyn’s face moved into her vision again. She wanted to close her eyes against him but couldn’t bring herself to. Haloed in the filtered light still coming through the parasol, he looked like some being from another world here to bring salvation. Like the men of light Nerys was always going on about.

Nerys.

Darvyn’s tunic was untied at the top and the two pendants were visible lying against his chest. She reached out to them before she could stop herself, then quickly withdrew her hand.

He leaned back out of her limited range of sight. The cart rolled along, jerking and bumping over the desert terrain. The pillow of his thighs against the back of her head made her blood heat in a way that had nothing to do with the stifling temperature.

The all-over ache that had overwhelmed her when she’d awoken was melting away. “What’s in Serpent’s Gorge?” she finally asked once she felt she could get all the words out.

“Have you noticed anything different about your desire to kill me?”

“I’m not supposed to kill you,” she muttered but noticed that her chest pulsed only with a dull ache. She was literally on top of an unrestrained and uncollared Shadowfox, yet she remained conscious and alert. She was not in agonizing pain. “What’s happened?”

“I think it’s starting. The closer we get, the more peaceful you’ve been. We’re still half a day away, but you’re so much better. The Nethersong is keeping the Cantor’s spell at bay.”

Kyara’s hand shot to her breast. The wound was still there, covered with the days-old, blood-encrusted bandages. “How do you know about the spell?”

“The Queen Who Sleeps told me.”

“The Queen— What?”

“It’s a long story, but I can speak with Her. She told me that a place with an abundance of what She called Nethersong is the only thing that could help you. And so, Serpent’s Gorge.”

“And Death River?”

He leaned over her again, his face grim but not unkind. She almost asked him why he was helping her after she’d tried to capture him, but then she caught sight of the pendants again.

“Nerys,” she said. “You want to know.”

Darvyn froze. His gaze flicked over to the women sharing the cart.

Kyara closed her eyes, grateful for the reprieve. He deserved the full story. She had made a promise, after all.

The cart rattled on. Darvyn’s voice, when it came, was weary and cautious. “The Queen showed me what happened to you. How you got the spell.”

Kyara rubbed her chest, the familiar, ever-present ache just a low hum.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice heavy.

Her eyes flew open. “No. Don’t waste sympathy for me.” She turned her head until the purple of the parasol was the only thing in her vision. Whatever he thought he knew was just a fraction of the whole story. If he knew the rest, he’d realize just how misplaced his compassion was. There were many who deserved his kindness, but Kyara was not one of them.

---

When the caravan stopped for lunch, Darvyn decided to ride up front with the wagon’s driver. Watching over Kyara had grown unbearable. The unwanted pull toward her was still there under his skin, itching where he could not scratch. At least up top, gazing at the barren landscape, he could ignore her for a time.

Next to him, the driver whistled a cheerful tune. The man had introduced himself as ol-Waga—the same name every other Avinid pilgrim took. It meant “son of the Void.” The women were all called ul-Waga for “daughter of the Void.” Darvyn had no idea how they identified themselves more specifically, but perhaps it wasn’t necessary when you were on your way to die.

He had waved the caravan down the day before, when it was clear the swiftcycle would not carry him and Kyara the distance they needed to travel. The pilgrims hadn’t questioned why he was bringing an unconscious, battered woman to Serpent’s Gorge. They merely agreed to transport them. The caravan would then continue west, following the twisting path of the canyon to the base of the western mountains where one could enter the Scald.

“What will you do when you arrive?” Darvyn asked during a break in the driver’s whistling. This ol-Waga was a man of about forty with a salt-and-pepper beard.

“We will journey as far as we can, and then the Void will take us.”

“But if you want to die, why go so far to do it? There are many ways to kill yourself.”

“We do not seek death. Those who enter the World After will face the toils of life again one day when this world is ash and the next begins. What we seek is peace. And that may only be found in the emptiness beyond death.”

“How do you know that the Void will take you before the Scald kills you?”

Ol-Waga smiled and lifted his face to the sun. “Faith. Our faith begs us make this pilgrimage.” The man clapped Darvyn on the shoulder. “One day you will have faith in something that others cannot understand. It will not seem so strange to you then.”

The man chuckled to himself and began whistling again. Darvyn looked back to Kyara, resting in the back. Perhaps he did understand.

The women and elderly rode in the open wagons. Half a dozen other men rode on horseback, bringing up the rear of the party. All were arrayed bright as peacocks, and all were on their way to die.

Try as he might, he could not tear his mind away from Kyara for long. She was growing stronger, but the closer they drew to the gorge, the less he was sure he was ready for the answers he desperately sought. The pendants pinged together with each jerk of the wagon and brought to mind his mother’s voice. He could no longer picture her face, but her words were still clear: I will find you again. They repeated over and over in his mind.

No matter how Kyara had come into possession of the pendant, it could mean only one thing: the only place he would see his mother now would be in the World After. The hope he’d nurtured for a lifetime would take a long time to die.

As they drew closer to the gorge, the landscape began to change. Gone were any birds flying overhead. The yellow-brown dirt deepened in color, changing to a coppery red. The mountains looked different, as though they had been worn away from something even bigger and more imposing at one time. Earthsong revealed little else alive for kilometers around. This place must truly be glutted with death energy.

The wagon stopped one hundred paces away from a great cleft in the earth. Darvyn climbed down for a closer look. Walking in this heat was like wading through waist-high sand. He reached the edge and peered over. It looked as if someone had taken a giant knife and carved a twisting shape into the terrain. The gorge went straight down, nearly two kilometers in some places, he’d heard. At its floor was a still, black river—Death River some called it. Sunlight reflected off the water, making the surface sparkle but also displaying the horrible reality of the gorge. Along its shores, animals from birds to lizards to wild dogs and bobcats stood frozen. From this distance they looked like statues, carefully carved with the meticulous detail of a skilled artist. But they weren’t made of stone. No artist would have lived long enough to carve them down there.

Darvyn hadn’t truly believed it. “What caused this?” he wondered aloud.

The driver of the wagon came to stand behind him. “The river is fed by the Scorned Sea, that cursed place on the border of Lagrimar, Udland, and Yaly. To drink or touch its waters is to invite death. Those animals are sentries. They’ve been there for hundreds of years. Petrified from the inside out from the toxic water.”

“Are we safe here?”

The man nodded. “But do not attempt to descend into the gorge.”

Darvyn took a step back. The wind had changed and the smell coming from the water below hit his nose. It was not the fetid stink he had imagined, but a scent both bitter and tart that coated the back of his throat.

A dozen paces away, Kyara stepped right up to the edge of the cliff. Darvyn was relieved to find her upright and looking well. She wore a rainbow-colored tunic and trousers—she must have borrowed them from one of the pilgrims—and her pack was slung across her shoulders. Part of him was relieved to see her out of her bloodstained, torn clothing.

She took in the bizarre sight below with a grim expression at odds with her colorful attire. She hadn’t looked at him directly yet. Instead, she kept her distance, her body as rigid as if she had been carved from stone herself.

“We must continue our journey,” a younger ol-Waga said, approaching.

Darvyn tore his attention away from Kyara to greet him properly. “Thank you for your aid.” Both men bowed slightly in acknowledgment.

“We will leave you a horse so that you may make the return trip,” the newcomer said.

Darvyn had not considered the fate of the horses, leading these men and women into the Scald. He wondered if the Avinids believed animals, too, were accepted into the Void. Perhaps they thought the fate a blessing for the creatures and not a senseless loss of life.

“Thank you,” Darvyn said, bowing. “That is much appreciated. Best of luck on your journey.”

“The Void requires no luck, my friend. It will come to those who seek it.”

Both men backed away and returned to their caravan. The horsemaster approached and handed Darvyn the reins of a black stallion. Soon the pilgrims were on their way again, headed off toward the mountains.

Once they retreated into the distance, Darvyn turned back to Kyara who was still staring off into the canyon below. The gorge had captured her attention. He took a moment to study her profile. He’d done virtually nothing but stare at her for the better part of two days on their journey north and never grew tired of her face.

Her injuries had disappeared. This Nethersong must be the cause. The power she held was fascinating. Part of him feared the unknown magic, but part of him was excited to learn of something new, even if it was lethal. He well knew the hazards encountered by someone who bore a power that few could understand. He knew how it felt to be different.

It seemed Kyara and the gorge were linked in some way, and both were absolutely captivating.

“It’s a strange sort of beauty,” he said. She startled, her eyes darting in his direction and then away again.

“Beautiful but deadly,” she whispered. She crouched down, sifting the red dirt between her fingers as Darvyn stepped closer. “All land holds both death and life. But this place…”

“Earthsong is here,” Darvyn finished, spreading out his senses. “But it feels different.” The energy that usually felt like a rushing rapid was muted.

“It has made its peace with death here,” Kyara said. “They don’t struggle as they do other places.”

“What do you mean?”

She stood, letting the dirt fall through her fingers, then wiped her hands on her multicolored trousers. “They’re in harmony. It’s like they accept each other. Perhaps Earthsong has conceded control of this place.” She closed her eyes. “In other places they’re at odds, there’s a tension that locks them in conflict. Here, that isn’t the case.”

“I think I understand.” Darvyn couldn’t sense Nethersong at all, but he could imagine what she felt. “Is that why it recharges you?”

She shrugged. “Perhaps. For all the horror down there in that water, there is also peace.”

Peace. It seemed to be what everyone was seeking.

Kyara sat again, hugging her knees to her chest and looking small and alone. He secured the horse’s reins to the thick branch of a bush and sat next to her. The wind echoed a hollow melody below them.

It was a long while before Kyara began to speak.

“I met her in Checkpoint Three.” Her voice sounded as hollow as the wind, like it hurt her to speak. Almost as much as it hurt him to listen.

“Nerys ul-Tahlyro. I was half-starved and she was little better. She was begging in the street by the market, speaking about men made of light to anyone who passed. The townspeople said she was touched by the stars—addled, you know?” Kyara shook her head. “When a man shoved her to the ground, I helped her up.”

“When was this?”

“I was eleven. Ten years ago.”

Darvyn swallowed as a shiver went through him. So long ago.

Kyara continued. “She was limping, from the fall. Was she injured when you knew her?”

He shook his head.

“I helped her back to her little cottage at the edge of the spiral.”

Darvyn closed his eyes. “She was an outcast?” Only those at the edges of society lived in the outer spiral of the Midcountry towns.

“Her home shared no walls. There was nothing to protect it. The wind whipped against it something awful and sandstorms would fill the place with grit, but it was the best place I’ve ever lived.”

He looked up to find her smiling.

“Warm and full of love. Like she was.” More emotion glimmered in Kyara’s eyes than he’d ever seen.

“What were you doing all alone like that?”

Her expression sobered. “You said the Queen showed you?”

“I saw what the Cantor did.” His gaze dropped to her chest. “Nothing afterward.”

Kyara swallowed and looked off. “I was offered the opportunity to become an assassin for the True Father. Ydaris said she could teach me to control my power. To kill only when I meant to. I said no.”

Darvyn frowned. “You said no?”

She eyed him with hostility. “I was a child. Of course I said no.”

He held up his hands. “And what did the Cantor do?”

“She said I was free to go.”

Darvyn’s eyebrows climbed to his hairline.

“Of course food, clothing, and shoes were only available to the king’s employees. And so I took my ripped tunic and left. I walked out of the glass castle determined never to return.”

She ran a hand across her head where Ilynor’s braids were still tightly woven. “A merchant’s wife took me in and hid me in her stable, kept secret from her husband. She was very kind, but when her husband found me, he beat her for wasting food on an urchin.” Kyara wrapped her arms around her as if to ward off a chill.

“When I tried to stop him, he pushed me back, and I fell against the stove.” Absently, she ran her fingers across an old burn scar on her arm. “I could not help what happened next.”

Children had to be taught to control their Songs. Even Darvyn, who was impossibly strong virtually from birth, had had the Keepers eventually to teach him. If what the Queen had said was right about Kyara, there were no other Nethersingers to show her how to manage her power. Kyara didn’t give voice to what had happened to the man and his wife, but Darvyn could guess.

“After that, I stayed to myself. When I could. When I couldn’t … people died.” She cleared her throat. “Mostly nabbers and others with bad intentions, but anyone who was close to them would get caught as well. I didn’t want to stay with Nerys, I didn’t want to risk hurting her, but she needed me. And we were far enough away from everyone else that I thought maybe…”

The thought of his mother all alone and outcast cut Darvyn deeply. He should have been there. He should have found her. “What happened to her?”

“I already told you.”

Darvyn’s eyes widened.

“The physician.” Her words hung in the air for a moment as the sorrow that had been kept at bay by the last shred of uncertainty rushed in. “He came offering salvation, but he killed her instead.”

He stood suddenly, unable to keep still. “Did she suffer?” The lump in his throat made the words sound muddy.

“Her life was full of suffering. But not at the end. I made sure of it.”

“Did she tell you why?”

“Why what?” Kyara looked up at him.

“Why she never came to find me?”

Her expression softened. She stood and touched his arm. He stared at her fingers on his skin for a moment before meeting her gaze.

“She did. She searched for you. Went from town to town, wherever she heard of the works of the Keepers. She would find them and ask them about the boy she’d given up, but no one would ever tell her where he was. Then she’d stay in a place for a while—she wove baskets and sold them for money—and then be off again. Always searching. Always.”

Her fingers rose to his chest to the pendants hanging there. “‘When I am gone to the World After,’ she said.” Kyara’s lip began to quiver. “‘Promise me you will find him.’ She was sick and knew she didn’t have much time left. I promised I would tell you that she loved you and never forgot you. And that you brought so much light into her life. Her little sun.”

Darvyn’s breath stuttered.

“I-I’m only sorry that I couldn’t have kept my word sooner.” She rubbed her chest again and walked away.

Unable to speak, Darvyn watched her go.