This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2016
A Kindle Scout selection
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Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Other books by Elana Johnson
About Elana Johnson
One
Grandmother taught me that silence never goes to waste.
“One need not talk all the time, Echo.” Her voice, rough from age and little use, spoke to me even from the grave. I pictured her rocking in her chair as she dispensed her wisdom. For twenty-three years I had absorbed everything she’d said.
Now, a year after her death, I stood silently in the foyer belonging to a wealthy aristocrat in the city proper of Umon, far from my beloved village of Iskadar. He didn’t wish to pay the agreed upon price, though my sewing did not bear a single mistake. Every stitch resided in its precise spot; the flowering vines along the hem of each tablecloth took my breath away, and a slithering power rose through my throat as I listened to his wife.
“It is beautiful work,” she whispered, her voice vaulting to the ceilings where it rebounded to my ears. “Pay the girl.”
“If I pay her the full amount, we will not have need for the tablecloths,” her husband argued. “I cannot afford the party if I pay full price for these.”
I waited, silent. I inhaled deliberately, the way Oake, my song teacher from Iskadar, had taught me. As if oxygen alone could calm the storm escalating inside. As if air could push out the anger. As if breathing was easy.
But nothing came easy without Grandmother. For magic was a powerful being, formed by two people, as bonds, uniting their voices together. Each sound joining with the other, weaving counterparts and harmonies that tamed their energies into a source of great power. Singing with a bond created a cocoon of magic, where I had felt safe and loved.
But alone, the magic had no stopper and the user no protection. Some people searched for years to find a bond, while others bonded with family members in childhood. Grandmother and I had been bonded as long as I could remember, but death bore a sharp knife that even we couldn’t escape.
I clenched my fists at my sides, pretending I could squeeze back the pain. Or the magic.
I knew I couldn’t perform a spell-song here, not inside this particular house situated so near the Prince’s palace.
The hope that he’d do the right thing faded as the aristocrat and his wife continued to argue. Helplessness crowded my throat. My sister and I needed the full amount from this job if we had any hope of keeping our modest living quarters in the West Tower.
My seam stressing work, while steady, did not provide much money. Olive worked long hours in the market, but sometimes she wasn’t able to sell her flower arrangements before they wilted. When that happened, we lost wages, supplies, time, hope.
“I’m sorry,” the man said, returning to the foyer. His wife lingered out of sight, and the idea further infuriated me. Magic coursed through me, desperate to be released through songs, and chants, and rhymes. I clenched my teeth to keep it inside.
“We are not satisfied with the work,” he said. “We’ll only pay half.” He held the lesser payment toward me, but I didn’t move to take it.
“Your wife said it was beautiful work,” I said, finally releasing my voice. Olive often criticized me for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, but I felt sure she would want me to fight for the full payment in this instance. I’d found my sister thirteen months ago, living in a hovel with three other girls. Together, we’d worked hard enough and saved long enough to move into private quarters in the West Tower a few months ago.
I would not lose it now, not when the alternative was a room with only three walls, and beds stacked to the ceiling.
My mind raced through the possibly of reclaiming the tablecloths and selling them in the market. How long would that take? Could I get the amount this man had agreed to pay?
Uncertain, I steadfastly shook my head at his still-offered payment. “I must insist you pay the full amount.” The beginnings of a melody that would bend his will to mine floated through my mind.
Magic left an imprint, something that could be detected and possibly traced back to me. I stifled the spell-song, my jaw tightening. I could not release my magic carelessly, as I didn’t want to become a magician in the High King’s court. I would not subject my power to the whims of senseless men. “Please.”
He truly looked shamed as he said, “I’m sorry. I cannot.”
A sob worked its way through the contained magic in my body. If I forfeited this income, Olive and I would default on our rent. I remembered her dirty hair, her hollow face, when I found her after I had journeyed from Iskadar. Though we hadn’t bonded magically, as Grandmother had hoped, Olive and I shared a sisterly bond that would not allow me to accept defeat. I wouldn’t send her back to that lean-to.
I dug my fingers into my palms, drew a shallow breath, and hummed a charm that would soften his mind, allowing me to suggest his actions. The notes barely met my own ears, and I felt certain that his wife would not hear me. The imprint I would leave with this simple music would not be noticed by anyone.
Unless that person could detect magicians. I had never met a magician who could sense the power in others, and Oake had not either. But the High King of Nyth seemed to have unlimited resources at his disposal and his magicians had learned—perhaps forcibly—to play by different rules.
I exhaled the last notes along with my fear, fury, and desperation, feeling more in control of my emotions as I gave voice to my magic. I hadn’t used a spell more advanced than the childhood songs Olive and I once sung while we peeled turnips and planted pole beans, because I didn’t truly know what would happen if I performed powerful magic while unbonded. Now, with this stronger, persuasive spell, the rich wallpapers spun, and the light from the elaborate gas-fueled chandelier sharpened into white light as bright as glinting diamonds.
“I must have the full amount,” I managed to
say in a strong, sure voice.
The aristocrat turned without a word and moved on stiff legs into the room where his wife waited. As soon as he left my sight, I reached for the grand piano to steady myself.
Thankfully, the room settled to stillness. Such startling side effects had happened when I’d hummed a detection rhyme on my journey to the city. It was simple magic, but used without a bond, every note felt like an attack instead of relief.
A whispered conversation began between the man and woman, and a moment later he returned. This time, he dropped the full payment into my hands without a word. I disliked the glazed look in his eyes, but I couldn’t dwell on it. He had agreed to the price, and Olive and I desperately needed the income.
I hastily spun in my well-worn shoes and fled the premises. Outside, the sun beat down on the city, hinting at the promise of a hot summer. The light felt blinding, the heat oppressive, due to my use of magic.
I stuffed the money into my satchel, and casting a glance down the street to the Prince’s palace, nearly lost my footing on the steps.
A man stalked toward me, his black uniform screaming of his military standing. He had dark hair, Nythinian molasses-colored skin, and a well-placed scowl.
I hurried down the steps, looking over my shoulder as I met the street. I cursed myself as I forced my eyes forward again. I couldn’t appear to be so shifty, like I had broken a law and did not wish to be caught.
Though I had done exactly that. Oake had educated me on the history of Nyth and the High King’s rise to power. He ruled his people through ruthless spell-songs and fear. He’d driven the magicians from his land, at least those he couldn’t use for his advantage. Those who couldn’t escape he forced into servitude.
I would not let him take me, nor would I stop my voice from unleashing its full power if I was ever caught. I worked hard to live as inconspicuously as I did, and I increased the speed of my flight in the hopes of maintaining my anonymity and freedom.
I couldn’t believe I had used magic to secure money. My goal these past thirteen months had been to conceal my powers in a city devoid of magicians, keep the quarters Olive and I had obtained, and continue to work hard so we could improve our situation further.
I expected a shout in the northern language of Nyth, which I still hadn’t learned, or the grip of the soldier’s fingers to clamp around my wrist. Instead, I heard only the wheezing of my breath as I flew toward safety.
At the corner, I ducked around a hedge guarding another aristocrat’s beautiful home. I leaned against it, catching my breath and hoping the man was simply militia and not magician.
I gathered my courage and peered around the corner. The man stood at the door of the aristocrat’s home, listening to the noble. From this distance, I couldn’t hear their words, but the soldier looked directly at me. He held my eyes for several long seconds before entering the aristocrat’s house.
I didn’t wait for him to emerge, to send his guards after me, to follow me home and arrest me there. I hurried toward the towers located on the edge of the walled city.
#
My arrival at the cramped residence I shared with my sister came much earlier than usual. Olive looked up in surprise, and the emotion in her face morphed to fear. “What’s wrong?” She paused her arrangement of a wedding bouquet. She had secured the job the previous week, but took only half of the commission up front. She had used nearly all the money buying the flowers she needed for the event, but we’d also purchased another chicken for our balcony. We now had two, and we each enjoyed an egg at breakfast every day. I didn’t miss the flatcakes I had been consuming for so many months before.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I lied, unwilling to tell my sister about the situation in the nobility sector. She valued my anonymity above all, and she wouldn’t appreciate that I had used song-magic to secure payment.
Frustration skated through her expression, and her fingers pinched too tightly on the rose stems. “What are you doing home, then?” she asked. “Do you not have work to do?”
Looking at my sister, I was once again reminded of Grandmother’s counsel. Sometimes you have words, Echo, that do not need to be said.
I wondered what she would tell me now. She had given no instructions for how to survive in Umon, how to live without singing magic into beauty. Her parting words, after giving me a letter for Olive, had been, “Do not use your magic near the city. I love you, Echo.”
I had wondered then, as I did now, how she thought I would use my magic at all without her.
Olive finished the bouquet and moved into our small living room. I stayed rooted to the spot just inside the door, watching her. She gave me an exaggerated sigh—her lead-up to a lecture—as she fiddled with the drapes and adjusted the few trinkets we owned on the shelves.
Olive knew how to make a space beautiful, where to put a vase of flowers so that all would notice it, how to dress a window to get the best light in the winter and yet keep the sun out in the summer. While I noticed clothing and thread, she remembered people; their faces, their voices, their tastes.
Her long, earth-colored hair cascaded over her shoulder as she returned to the kitchen and retrieved our lunch from the oven. My stomach yearned for something of substance, but the scent indicated that Olive had made hash—once again. She said potatoes stretched our limited supply of beef, but we had run out of the meat last week. The thought of choking down more dry hash made me ill.
She slammed the oven gloves on the counter. “Tell me what happened.”
I looked at my shoes, which provided the answer she sought.
“Echo, tell me you didn’t.” Her voice ghosted between us, heavy with fear. “You cannot use magic here!”
“He was only going to pay half,” I said, still unable to meet her gaze. “I had to do something.”
“Like you had to do something to persuade the coal master?” Desperation tainted her voice, and I appreciated her concern for me.
“Yes, exactly like that.” I finally raised my eyes from the floor. “That spell-song provided us with heat for a week—during the coldest month of the year.”
“Even so,” she said. “I fear for you. You cannot—”
“We would have frozen to death,” I interrupted. “And this song made it possible for us to pay the rent.” I dropped the satchel containing the money on the counter, a river of fire flowing beneath my skin. “Almost.”
“A few extra coins are not worth using your voice.” Her words came from a genuine place of concern.
“This is a lot more than a few coins.” I pinned her with a pointed look. “I will not allow you to go back to that pit.” I moved to the window in the living room while she spoke about the High King and his magician hunters. I’d heard the stories from Oake before coming to the city. Whispered rumors told of hunting parties with magicians gifted with the ability to detect their own kind. Stories of orange-eyed magicians who chanted until the trees sharpened their limbs and stabbed holes through the hearts of men.
“It was a simple melody,” I said, tearing my thoughts from Oake. “I barely felt faint.” I sank onto a ragged chair, wishing I could eat and lie down, for though the song had been simple, I didn’t call on my magic often enough to be able to use it without extreme fatigue.
“Echo, please,” Olive said, the fight leaving her body. “What happens when you are caught? I cannot watch you get stripped of all freedoms, hung upside down, and bled out as the High King steals your power.”
She moved to sit next to me. “You cannot imagine the horrific things he would do for power like yours. Please.” She held me at arm’s length. “Please do not give voice to another song, no matter how simple.”
How easily we slipped into the roles we had shouldered. Her as my protector, always worrying about concealing my power from the Nythinian soldiers, and me as the financial administrator, worrying over whether or not we had the means to maintain our inconspicuous life.
“I want more for you,” I said.
&n
bsp; “I simply want you to be safe,” she said. “That is why you came here.”
I thought of Iskadar, of the eight-day journey that had brought me to the city just twenty-four hours after Grandmother’s funeral. Rumors of Nythinian hunting parties in the village had made Oake concerned, and he had all but packed my bag in encouragement for me to flee to Umon for safety.
“Please,” Olive said again, drawing me into a hug. “No more magic.”
“I will try,” I said.
“That’s not good enough. You simply cannot let everything you think come out of your mouth.” She stood, reclaiming her position over me. “If you won’t do it for yourself, consider the danger you’re causing for me.”
I hung my head. My sister had a special gift to invoke guilt, even if doing so was meant to help. In this case, she was right. “I am sorry, Olive.”
Grandmother had said Olive had left Iskadar to find someone to bond with, but she never had. She had few skills, and she felt frustrated that she couldn’t provide for herself. She felt as caged in her life as I felt in mine. I was unable to do magic; she was unable to buy enough meat and milk.
There was precious little either of us could do to change our situation, so we stuck together, bonding in a nonmagical way, as we worked to make the best life for ourselves, even if it wasn’t the life we truly wanted.
“Please,” she said. “The dangers of using magic are too great.”
“I understand,” I said. “I won’t use magic again.” The statement seeped like poison into my bloodstream.
Two
Grandmother taught me to evaluate a situation before acting.
“Look and listen first,” she said, her wise eyes noticing details in Oake’s magical puzzles that, even after she had pointed them out, I couldn’t seem to find.
And so I always looked and listened whenever I went to the market. Most of the merchants I dealt with for my sewing supplies knew me, and were fair. Still, I didn’t trust them, and we constantly haggled over prices.
My stomach growled at the tantalizing smell of pork kabobs and honeyed carrots. I had left home after choking down as much hash as I could—which was only a handful of bites. I feared I would faint if I ate nothing, though I’d flirted with the prospect.