Song of Blood & Stone (Earthsinger Chronicles Book 1) (4 page)

Jasminda shook her head, expression grim. “She fell pregnant, and her family disowned her. Papa found this place and built a home for them.”

She stroked the board beneath her feet, cut and nailed with her father’s two hands, a structure that proclaimed a love that never should have been. That even now, twenty years later, was not accepted.

“We’re so far out, the Prince Regent doesn’t even send tax collectors. He must not know we exist.” She ducked her head, unable to stop thinking of her family in the plural. Their lives were etched into the walls and the floors; even the smell of the air brought them back to her. She clenched her jaw to keep the emotion at bay.

Jack laid his hand on hers, and her skin tingled at the contact. The intensity in his expression dissolved her creeping sorrow, bringing instead a pang of yearning. She did not touch people. She barely even spoke to people. She was either here alone with no one but the animals as audience, or in town armoring herself against the cutting stares. The tingle in her hand turned into a warm heat that threatened to spread. With great effort, she pulled away from the impossible temptation of his body.

“How far is it to—”

He paused as a floorboard inside the house groaned under the weight of heavy footsteps. Jasminda froze as another floorboard creaked. She grabbed her shotgun, scooted away, and crept down the steps into the yard. The moonlight cast heavy shadows on the yard and she crouched beside a cherry tree, holding her breath.

Two soldiers darkened the doorway. They stepped onto the porch. One nudged Jack with his foot, and Jack moaned, pretending to be asleep. The men chuckled to themselves and leaned over him.

“You’re sure the sergeant is out?” one of the men said. Ginko, she thought his name was.

“Thank the Father for thick walls and a soft bed. He sleeps like he’s in his mother’s arms,” the second man said. Based on the outline of his large, misshapen head, Jasminda thought this was the one called Fahl. He’d eaten the last of the boiled eggs earlier, before she’d even had one.

Fahl squatted down and ran his hand across Jack’s body. The action took an impossibly long time, and Jasminda’s stomach hollowed. When he moved to loosen his own belt, she fought back a gasp. They were going to whip Jack.

“The bitch is upstairs. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather . . .” Ginko said.

“I’m thinking the sergeant has her in his sights. Besides, she looks like she’s got a mean scratch. No. I’ll make sure this one won’t make a peep, and who’s to care what state he’s left in? What Tensyn don’t know won’t hurt him.”

The two snickered, and Ginko scratched his meaty head, looking back toward the house.

Understanding dawned on Jasminda like a blow to the face. She had worried for herself, expected trouble from these men seeking
her
out in the middle of the night, but she’d never considered Jack’s vulnerability. Never considered how depraved these men might actually be. She could not sit by and allow him to be violated, though she was not sure what could be done to stop it.

They’d said the sergeant wouldn’t approve. Maybe if she woke him, he would stop this. But she couldn’t be sure, and going into his room at night could put her in the same predicament. She gripped her shaking hands and prayed to the Queen Who Sleeps for a solution.

The soft bleat of a doe rang out from the barn. The storm on the mountains was still making the goats uneasy. An idea took hold. What she needed was a distraction, and quickly.

Jasminda crouched, setting her shotgun down at the base of the tree, and felt around for a stone or branch. After finding a good-sized rock, she threw it with all her might. It sailed across the yard to hit the chicken coop. Once the men turned toward the sound, she raced around the front of the house, taking the long way to the barn.

The first distraction bought her a minute, but now she needed something larger to really draw the men away. She slid open the well-oiled barn door. Instead of nestling on the floor sleeping, many of the goats were awake and stumbling around, agitated. She hoped that, for once, the stubborn animals wouldn’t need much cajoling. Luckily for her, the buck was eager to be out of doors and the does were of a mind to follow him. Grabbing the shovel, she nudged the herd along, increasing the pressure on their backsides until they bleated in disapproval.

The goats operated almost as a hive mind—when one was upset, they all were—so Jasminda continued poking and prodding at them, pushing them from the barn. Their discontent grew louder. Whines and cries pierced the night air. She’d often cursed the herd’s fickle temperament, but tonight it was a blessing.

She couldn’t see the back porch from where she stood, but an oil lamp flickered on inside the house. The goats’ racket would keep the soldiers awake, and Ginko and Fahl wouldn’t have the opportunity to hurt Jack.

She slipped into the garden shadows as the front door opened and the smallest soldier, Wargi, stumbled out. The sergeant’s voice carried over the yowls of the animals as he barked orders. The remaining two soldiers, Pymsyn and Unar, followed Wargi out to investigate what had spooked the goats.

She stifled a laugh at the way the men floundered, chasing after the scattering herd. They wouldn’t get much sleep trying to track down each animal. If they asked her in the morning, she’d say she slept through it. She’d been listening to them her whole life, after all.

When she returned to the backyard, she retrieved her shotgun and found Jack as she’d left him. He opened his eyes and the moonlight made them sparkle. She knelt and pulled the blanket down from his chin to check him out, not sure what she was even looking for.

“Are you all right?”

“What did you do?”

She shrugged. “A distraction. Have they . . . harmed you?” She grimaced at the foolishness of her question. “Further, I mean.”

He shook his head, his face a mask. Warrior Jack was back.

“But they will . . . when they can,” she admitted aloud, the braying cries still echoing in the distance.

She gathered up the hem of her robe and nightgown, and reached for the band holding the knife in place around her thigh. His eyes widened, and her face grew hot as she hurried to remove the blade and put her gown back in place. After prying open the same loose floorboard as before, she hid the knife beside the tin of food.

As she laid the board back in place, his hand covered hers. “Thank you.”

She flexed her fingers under his palm, ignoring the tingles sparking on her skin again. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you yesterday.”

“You thought I was mad.” His mouth quirked. He must have been in a great deal of pain, but it hardly showed. Perhaps he was a warrior jester—fierce one moment, jovial the next.

“I still might.”

He snorted a laugh, then winced.

Guilt tightened her chest. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t laugh.”

“I’d rather laugh than cry. Wouldn’t you?”

She couldn’t even remember the last time she had something to laugh about.

Jasminda sat back on her heels. “Is this a new breach?”

He sobered. “Not yet, but soon. There are cracks in the Mantle. Places where people can slip through, either knowingly or accidentally. But a breach is coming. The Lagrimari think they’ve found a way to tear it down permanently.”

“Permanently?”

He nodded. “The True Father has never been able to cross during a breach, not while any part of the Mantle is intact. But without it . . .”

“Without it, he could cross. What would that mean?”

His grip on her hand tightened. “The end of Elsira.”

The True Father was the most powerful Earthsinger alive. He had ruled Lagrimar for five hundred years, stealing more and more of his peoples’ magic through the “tributes” to keep him alive and in power. But it had never been enough. Each breach had been an attempt for him to expand his influence.

Though her relationship with the land and its people was tenuous at best, Elsira was her home. She had no connection to its government; the Prince Regent, his laws, and the structures of society had never applied to her. But she couldn’t believe her isolated home would be forever immune to the fall of the country. “Could nothing stop it?”

“Are you a follower of the Queen?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“If She were awoken, they say Her power is great enough to stop the True Father.”

“Do you believe that?”

His expression turned guarded. “I don’t know. She has never visited my dreams. I’ve prayed to Her many times without response.”

“Papa dreamed of Her when he was younger,” she admitted. Both of her parents had been devout followers of the Queen Who Sleeps, the long-absent ruler of Elsira. A visit from Her was a blessing, as She dispensed Her wisdom through dreams. But those dreams were exceedingly rare; few people ever received them.

“Is there no hope then? She has slept for hundreds of years; there’s little chance She will awaken now.”

Jack shrugged. “We can fight. We can prepare. There is always hope.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “But I must get back to alert the others. Lagrimar is already amassing their forces; the breach is likely only days away.”

A cloud passed over the moon darkening the porch.

“You can’t cross the mountain before the storm dies.” She released his hand and laid it down gently. So much of his body was still cracked and bruised. “It is too dangerous, and your wounds must heal more. I will do what I can to help you. I promise.” She rose and moved to the door. “Now get some sleep.”

She started to go inside, then turned back for one last look and found his gaze on her. The two sides she’d seen before—soulful Jack and warrior Jack—merged before her, giving a complete picture for the first time. She took in a jagged breath as a renewed surge of longing crashed into her.

I promise
, she mouthed, and closed the door behind her.

Sleep was impossible
, so Jasminda had spent the quiet, predawn hours in the garden picking herbs by lamplight. Her morning chores went by quickly. The goats, safely back where they belonged, had been milked and were now grazing, and the eggs were collected before even one of the soldiers awoke. She made a modest breakfast—so many mouths were taking a toll on her food stores—but she was sure to set aside a bowl for Jack.

The six soldiers crowded around the table, devouring what she put in front of them. Their favorite pastime seemed to be making fun of the youngest and smallest: bespectacled Wargi.

“This one is more coddled than an Elsiran brat,” Pymsyn said through a mouthful of eggs. “Came into the army straight from his mother’s skirts, he did.”

“Thinks he’s better than the rest of us because he’s not harem-born,” said Fahl. “Just because your mam didn’t have to spread her legs for the True Father doesn’t make you top shit.”

“And doesn’t make your mam any less of a whore than ours,” Ginko grunted. The table erupted in laughter.

Jasminda paid close attention to the men as she washed the dishes, not wanting to make any mistakes to cast suspicion on her Lagrimari identity. But she knew next to nothing of life in that land. Her father had been tight-lipped, and it wasn’t as if any of her books had information on their culture or practices. Aside from the breaches into Elsira over the years and very limited trade with Yaly, their neighbor to the east, Lagrimar was cut off from the rest of the world. Mountains surrounded the country on all sides, with only a small flat area a few hundred metres wide on the Elsiran border, where all the breaches had occurred.

As the men continued to mock Wargi, the young soldier just smiled and laughed, appearing to take it all in stride. But his eyes remained tense, and Jasminda almost felt sorry for the boy. His round face hadn’t yet lost its baby fat; he couldn’t be older than sixteen.

Soon enough, the sergeant called the table to order, issuing instructions for the men to split into pairs to explore the valley and monitor the progress of the storm. All the soldiers except Wargi and Tensyn himself headed out.

The sergeant turned his attention to Jasminda. “Is there anything my men can help you with, Miss Jasminda?” His stained smile verged on lecherous. She swallowed the bile that rose and forced herself to smile back.

“No, sir. Dishes are almost done. Once the spy gets his rations, I’ll be back to my chores.”

“Wargi, finish the dishes for the lady, then throw some crusts at that vermin outside,” he barked as he walked away.

Wargi stood and gently removed the dishrag from her hand.

“Thank you,” she whispered to him. He looked embarrassed and began tackling the pots in the sink.

“Come, rest your feet a moment, dear girl,” Tensyn said.

She could think of no way to refuse and keep her cover, and so took the seat offered, cringing as Tensyn slid uncomfortably close to her.

“Beauty such as yours should never have to look upon that filthy Elsiran. Wargi, find a bag to cover the pig’s head with.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jasminda shot a quick glance toward the porch but couldn’t see Jack from her position. Tensyn launched into a long and meandering tale of his valor during the Seventh Breach, of the vast number of Elsirans he’d killed and the accolades he’d received from the True Father. Every so often, he would twirl the tips of his mustache and pause to check her reaction. She’d never thought herself a good actress, but she strove to appear impressed.

He finished his story, and she bobbed her head enthusiastically, eyes wide as saucers to portray her awe. He then gave a great yawn and announced he was off for a nap. Jasminda slumped in her chair, exhausted, and noticed Wargi had slipped away at some point. She stood to retrieve the extra food she’d set aside for Jack before heading out to the porch.

He sat propped against the railing, looking like a discarded scarecrow with the sack covering his head. She knelt before him and removed the bag. He blinked at her, then frowned.

“I was rather enjoying the privacy.”

She bounced the sack in her hand. “I can put it back if you like.”