Echoes of Silence (4 page)

I wanted to open my mouth, pull on the magic, and sing my way free. I knew of spells to produce ropes and limericks to quench fire. I’d once been taught to hum a tune that would make a sane man mad, and the words necessary to flee on winged feet.

Of course, unbonded as I was, these songs could just as easily unravel my own mind, impose hallucinations of men that were long dead, or make me so weak I wouldn’t wake for days.

Wet footsteps squealed against the stone floor, followed by a loud scraping sound. My teeth chattered while the wind screamed for us to come back outside and play.

“This way,
please
.
”

I moved two steps further in the darkness, pocketing my magic for the time being, as another scrape produced fire. I shielded my eyes from the sudden brightness as a torch caught the flame, and the guard beckoned me forward into an endless tunnel.

Grandmother’s voice visited me again. “When in doubt, my lovely Echo, just put one foot in front of the other.” She often said that when I would ask what would become of me once she passed.

The familiar ache blossomed inside my chest as I tried to get the world to settle around me. I allowed myself to feel the papery texture of Grandmother’s hands against my cheek; I heard her saying, “I love you, Echo,” the way she did that last time. Her voice had been more pained than usual. It lingered in my memory and caused a fresh wave of grief to settle over me.

“This way,” the guard said.

I followed, putting one foot in front of the other, as Grandmother had told me.

Just when I thought I could not take another step, our party arrived at an intricately carved door. The golden wood bore an owl; his majestic wings spread wide, eyes slanted and wise. His beak gaped, as if warning off anyone who dared to approach this door with a silent scream.

Along with the owl, a gorgeous orb sat in the top right corner of the door, perfectly carved and stained a dark yellow.
A harvest moon
, I thought, and wondered what had inspired this scene. I had witnessed many harvest moons in the village of Iskadar, and a familiar pang of homesickness accompanied the rising fear in my stomach.

The guard stepped forward to knock. His fist looked and sounded insignificant against the greatness of this door, only fueling the jittery feeling dancing through my body.

What lay beyond the door? A squadron of magicians, ready to bind me with songs? A lifetime of servitude?

The guards around me seemed perfectly calm; no one so much as twitched a finger. Inside, I wanted to scream, to infuse sound into this silence and let the tension flow from my body.

The door opened right as I decided to sing, no matter the cost. My soprano voice filled the tunnel, increasing the brightness of the torch-flame until I could no longer see. Another voice joined the melody, but only a few notes flowed from the woman’s mouth before I realized she was undoing my spell-song.

The whiteness darkened, bringing the picture before me back into focus. A woman stood in the doorway, her gray hair tightly woven into a bun at the back of her head. She sang a countermelody that allowed the guards to regain their senses and retake their positions beside me.

The fire that had been burning on the torch transferred to her face, making her skin seethe with golden flames. I ceased my song-magic and stumbled back. The flames licked up her throat for another heartbeat before dissipating. Her song continued, her skin blemish-free and pristine.

I shook my head, wondering what was real and what wasn’t. Had I really seen her shimmering with fire? Or had my use of unbonded magic riddled holes into my mind? I pressed my eyes closed to keep the tears contained. When I felt confident that my emotions had been sufficiently concealed, I looked at the woman.

She examined the six of us in front of her. When her eyes landed on me, she held out one hand. I couldn’t help feeling a small measure of relief that I was to be passed off to a woman, though she could sing me into death as easily as anyone else. The memory of her spell-song rambled through my mind. I stiffened and made no effort to move toward her.

Her nails were immaculate, and her clothes starched. She glanced at the guard who carried the torch. “Thank you, Matu. I trust everything went well?” I noted that she spoke without a foreign accent.

“Indeed, Helena.” He switched his gaze to me for a heartbeat. “Echo believes she’s here for—”

Helena produced a clucking noise, silencing Matu and still reaching for me. “Come, Echo, I will tell you what you’re really doing here.”

A pit opened in my stomach. She knew my name. They all knew my name. I took a step backward, and two guards moved to stop me. The soldier from the market looped his arm through mine again, shushing me as he would a frightened animal. I found the way he kept latching on to me annoying, much like the soothing effect he seemed to hold over me. I narrowed my eyes at him, removed my arm from his, and looked back to Helena.

She wore a kind smile now. It probably should have calmed me more than it did. “Come, child,” she said. “I’m here to help you.”

“Echo, no harm will befall you,” the soldier said again, placing one hand on my shoulder.

“She will need proper attire, and probably a bath, before meeting His Majesty,” Matu added.

Helena shot him a glare. “Do not suppose to instruct me in my work, Matu. I know exactly what this poor creature needs.” She directed her attention toward me again, and the anger in her face softened. “Come, a hot bath first.”

I felt much like a pig being fattened up before the slaughter. For I knew the Prince wouldn’t exile me, nor make me one of his servants. No, once he discovered what I could do with my song-magic, he’d steal it from me.

I pressed my lips closed, adopting Olive’s role of magical secrecy.

Helena still reached for me, and I hadn’t the strength to fight five guards and a magician. I figured I had a few more hours to find a solution to my problem if I agreed to a bath before seeing the Prince. Besides, nothing sounded better than warm water, so I stepped away from the guard. Before I crossed the threshold, I half turned back to Matu. “Thank you,” I said, remembering another of Grandmother’s lessons—one I’d failed to follow in the market earlier. Shock traveled across his features before he gave a brief nod.

Helena took my hand in hers and heaved the carved door closed. The lamplight glowed dimmer inside the room, but color still assaulted my eyes. Having grown up in a plain cottage in the country, I wasn’t used to so many hues on the walls.

The room where I now stood seemed to be a receiving room, with three of the walls bursting with a burnt orange tint. Tiny patterns that alternated between flowers and flourishes adorned the top of the wall, painted in bright blues, purples, and greens.

Helena led me through the room, which contained a single, blindingly blue settee, and into another chamber. Here, the sand-colored walls held one terrifyingly huge mirror and tapestries done in beige and gold, red and silver, green and brown. A rich chocolate-colored carpet stretched from the middle of the room toward a closed door, where two maids waited at the ready, one fair and close to my age, and the other dark and closer to Helena’s.

“Echo, this is Lucia and Greta, my right and left hands.” Helena gestured to each girl as she said her name. “We will be here to assist you in all things.”

I wanted to tell her that I didn’t require their assistance, that I was more than capable of drawing a bath for myself, though at the moment I needed rest and something to eat almost as much as I needed oxygen.

Before I could speak, the younger of the two maids, Lucia, curtseyed low. Her golden hair hung in a braid over her shoulder, and when she smiled at me, it felt genuine.

Greta lifted one of her veined hands in greeting and nodded. Her black uniform seemed pale in comparison to her deep, dark skin. Her hair had been shaved close to her head, and made her look more frightening than she would have otherwise.

“Do you wish to bathe?” Helena asked, but already she herded me toward a darkened doorway on Greta’s left.

“I wish to know what I’m doing here,” I said, taking a step only because I couldn’t resist the pressure of Helena’s hand on my lower back. I met the eyes of all three ladies, trying to appear confident. Truthfully, I felt like crying. Perhaps I could hide the tears among the bathwater and no one would know of my weakness.

“My dear, you’re here as one of His Majesty’s guests. He’ll be choosing a bride at the close of summer and your application was selected.”

The glittering tapestries suddenly spun into the sandy color of the walls. Helena’s grip on my elbow intensified. I blinked a few times and inhaled deeply to infuse reason into my mind. But reason did not come; only the confusing scent of flowers and fresh paint.

“Choosing a bride?” I managed to choke out. “Application?”

Helena reached into her apron pocket and extracted a sheaf of thick parchment. “Are you not Echo del Toro of Iskadar village?”

“I am,” I said, wondering at how she knew such things. “But I didn’t apply for marriage to His Majesty.” The thought sickened me. Why would anyone from Umon want to marry the person who had invaded our country, changed our way of life, and restricted our freedoms? Who hunted magicians, caged them, abused them?

My breath caught in my throat.
Olive.
The soldier had said she would be well taken care of. She’d counseled me to see what I could do to improve our situation from within. Could she have submitted the application in exchange for a large payment, or simply to find another solution to our troubles?

“Well, someone did,” Helena said, neatly stuffing the paperwork back into her apron pocket. “Lucia, Greta, and I will do everything in our power to make sure His Majesty chooses you for his bride. It would bring us great honor.”

I could only nod resolutely at her sincere smile. My body felt numb as the maids stripped my common clothing and helped me into the steaming water. Their forms blurred, sometimes showing me six sets of hands, and sometimes twelve.

Helena sang a calming note I instantly recognized. Grandmother had once sung this beautiful piece of magic into my bathwater after I’d contracted the walking plague. Her spell-song rocked me on calm seas, renewing my energy and strengthening my mind. Helena’s magic, though slightly different, accomplished the same thing.

I sighed into the bubbles as Helena massaged my shoulders, feeling the life return to my magic-weary body.
Perhaps Olive has done me a favor after all,
I thought just before Lucia began washing my hair.

“Such beautiful hair,” Greta said as she plaited strands into a crown around my head in my dressing room.

My hair was as dark as a raven’s wing, and Grandmother often said I’d have to keep the suitors at bay by shaving my head. I also possessed unusually colored eyes—halfway between amber and brown, much too light to be exotic and too golden to be considered normal. A smattering of freckles across my nose told of mixed heritage, for those in Umon typically bore unblemished skin and light-colored eyes. It was the Nythinians that had deep, dark eyes, hair as black as night, and freckled, molasses-colored skin.

I’d only met a few people that hailed from Heona—diplomats who lived near the Prince’s palace and needed the odd sewing job done. They were fair-skinned and strong, accustomed to living in a land tasked with loading and unloading ships and battling thick ocean winds.

Combined, my features forced me to stand out in a crowd no matter how much I wanted to hide. I looked into Greta’s dark eyes as she brought out makeup pots and fine-tipped brushes. She watched me with eyes filled with wisdom, much the same way Grandmother used to.

I once listened to the rasp of her voice as I washed the dishes. Her ancient rocker creaked forward, splintered back. Creaked forward, splintered back. I scrubbed a plate, the faint sound of soap bubbles popping in the silence.

She cooked. I cleaned up afterward while she told stories. Outside, the wind battled against the glass, as if angry it could not witness Grandmother’s story, too.

“When the world needed structure, the magicians of Relina brought it,” Grandmother said. “With their power, they put order to the chaos. They made life simple again with their spell-songs.”

Grandmother paused. I finished my chore and unstopped the sink. Wiping in a pattern, I washed the counter and then the table. As I hung the towel from the rack near the icebox, Grandmother began again.

“They removed the distractions from our lives. The unpredictabilities. I remember my mother telling stories about the way magicians used to be revered. Her mother spoke of golden-haired women who could sing comfort to an entire village, and men who chanted seven years’ worth of crops into storage, and those who searched for the broken-hearted and healed them.”

A smile formed on Grandmother’s weathered face. “Such stories my grandmother used to weave.”

“Could you weave one for me?” I settled on the hardwood floor next to her creaking-splintering chair.

“No, dear Echo, I cannot.”

The wind moaned with me. “Why not?”

The wrinkles around Grandmother’s eyes seemed to grin with her. “Oh, all right. I may be able to remember one or two tales.”

Now, here without her, a sob shuddered through my chest. Greta paused in the application of my makeup. “Are you all right, child?”

“Yes,” I murmured, trying desperately to box up the memories of Grandmother.

“No crying now,” she scolded. “You will ruin your perfect eyes.” She smiled at me, meaning it as a playful jest, and a swell of gratitude warmed me.

“Tell me what His Majesty is like,” I said.

Greta tapped the applicator brush against the lip of the blush container. “He is very handsome,” she started. “And tall, and his holdings increase by the day.”

None of this interested me, as handsomeness was subjective and I didn’t need a large palace to be comfortable. “What of his favorite food?”

“I do not know, my lady.”

“Does he like animals?”

“I do not know, my lady.”