Song of Blood & Stone (Earthsinger Chronicles Book 1) (13 page)

“But you won’t. You have much more power than a dockworker.”

Jack leaned a hand against the glass. It was still early, the base just beginning to come to life. “Wouldn’t it be simpler though if that’s all I was?”

Benn’s brows drew low, and he was quiet for a moment. “Duty is a hard thing,” he said, “but it’s the measure of a man. How you respond to its call is what the world will remember. If they remember you at all.” He clapped a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “
You
they will remember, my friend.”

Jasminda’s face stole into his vision, blocking out all else. He didn’t want to be remembered in the history books; he only wanted to live in a world where he could exist inside her kisses, breathe in only air scented with her fragrance. Where position, class, duty, and race were not things that could keep people apart.

He sighed and turned back to his office.

This was not that world.

The calm blue
day died with a blood red sunset that faded to black during the long journey from the eastern border of Elsira to the capital city on the western coast. It was a journey Jasminda had never imagined she’d make. For security purposes, Jack rode in an armored vehicle, which couldn’t legally transport civilians. He’d woken her with a kiss before disappearing into his work, and she had only seen him briefly that morning before the caravan of trucks and buses left the base.

She had a vehicle to herself, though her driver’s eyes would flick back and forth to the rearview mirror, shooting cold, suspicious glances at her. She didn’t waver, meeting his gaze each time until he looked away. He was no doubt wondering why he was chauffeuring around a Lagrimari-looking Elsiran girl.

The rolling hills and dense forests of Elsira’s picture-perfect countryside sped past. Only occasionally did they pass a small village; most of the population lived on the coast. As night fell, dusty, unpaved roads eventually gave way to wider, paved highways, illuminated by electric lights and full of vehicles of all shapes and sizes.

Jasminda sucked in a breath when she got her first glimpse of Rosira from the crest of a hill. The city swept up and away from the ocean like a gentle wave. Lights sparkled from thousands upon thousands of houses, which from this distance gave the impression of being stacked on top of one another, but as they drew closer, were really etched in layers going up the steep hillside.

There were no skyscrapers or especially tall buildings like in the pictures she’d seen of the megacities of Yaly and other countries. The main industry here was commerce, and docks stretched the entire length of the coastline with an assortment of vessels anchored there like great beasts asleep in their pens.

Before reaching the city limits, her truck turned onto a rough path cut into the dirt, and they drove another half kilometre or so before stopping. A miniature city lay before them, made up of orderly rows of white tents with oil lanterns strung up on poles to form the perimeter.

Jasminda’s driver parked the truck and got out, but she stayed put, not wanting to be mistaken for a refugee again. There was nothing overtly frightening about the camp; it was quiet and seemed clean. Still, she felt equal parts glad she would not have to stay here and guilty for being glad.

She reached for her connection to Earthsong, then dropped it quickly, immediately overwhelmed by the dense press of so many energies. How could anyone use magic in a place so heavily populated as this? Did Lagrimar have cities, and if so, how were the residents able to cope?

Word of the refugees' arrival must have spread quickly, for soon people emerged from the tents to curiously gape at the caravan. They were almost all women, children, and elderly folk. All with dark hair and dark eyes, sturdily built with skin the hue of her own.

Jasminda loved her skin as much as she hated it. These people were beautiful, and they made her miss Papa even more. But she shrank lower in her seat, not wanting to be singled out. Though she spoke the same language, she could not relate to the bleak hopelessness coming off them in waves. Even from the children. The past two years had been lonely without her family, but she’d been surrounded by memories of them every moment. The house her father built with his own hands, her mother’s quilts, her brothers’ tools. And the poor goats . . . She hoped they were safe and hadn’t scattered too far. She’d had a happy life before the sadness, but these people had a permanent melancholy etched into them.

The bus emptied and the new refugees were swallowed into the crowd. Jasminda spotted the gray heads of Gerda, Turwig, and Lyngar, along with other elders. Only Gerda turned towards her and gave a nod good-bye before being swept away by the others.

Soon after, the driver returned and the vehicles were back on the road, traveling a serpentine path through the city. Jack had assured her he would find lodging for her, though he hadn’t mentioned where. She suspected the Sisterhood had a dormitory of some kind where she could stay. If so, perhaps she could discover more about the woman she suspected was her aunt.

The steep road through the densely packed buildings turned back on itself several times, dizzying Jasminda. After half a dozen twists and turns, the truck approached a gilded gate guarded by soldiers wearing black uniforms with gold trim and fringed epaulets. The gates swung open revealing a brightly lit, curving drive that ascended even higher.

The Royal Palace of Elsira loomed in front of them, white stones gleaming under the illumination of a shocking quantity of electric lights. The pictures in her textbooks did not do it justice. Columned porches ran along the first floor with a seemingly endless number of arched windows just beyond. Carved into the stone above each window were images of the Founders, the magical Lord and Lady in various poses showing how they’d transformed Elsira.

Somewhere within this building lay the sleeping body of their descendent, the Queen herself, protected by the Prince Regent who was to rule in Her stead until She awoke and returned to power. Seeing it in person, Jasminda was transfixed. Though there was no longer any magic in Elsira, the palace seemed to give off its own energy and spoke to her in an unfamiliar way.

Once again, the driver exited the vehicle and Jasminda remained, hoping that whatever business Jack had here would be quick. The trip had been exhausting, and she wanted nothing more than to fall into whatever bed she was assigned. The door she leaned against jerked open and there stood Jack, holding out his hand.

She stared at it uncomprehendingly. “Can I not wait here for you?”

“You would prefer to sleep in the truck?” The corner of his mouth quirked, shattering his grim expression.

She looked from him to the palace and back again. A knowing smile crept up Jack’s face.

“When you said you’d find lodging for me, I didn’t think . . . Jack, I can’t sleep in the
palace
.”

“Whyever not?” He crossed his arms and leaned against the truck.

“Because I’m a goat farmer. Palaces are for royalty. The Prince Regent cannot possibly allow someone like me here.”

“Trust me, it’s all right. Many officials and dignitaries live in the palace. A whole wing is devoted to ranking officers and their families. Honestly, it’s more like an inn than a proper palace these days.”

“But—”

“I’m well acquainted with whom the Prince Regent allows under his roof.” A flicker of pain crossed his face, and he took a deep breath. “Jasminda—”

“Commander!” an insistent voice bellowed from across the driveway.

“One moment, General,” Jack responded while his eyes pleaded with her. She accepted his offered palm, gripping it as she stepped from the vehicle and approached the palace.

A battalion of servants greeted them inside the entry. Jack announced her as an honored guest and conferred with a matronly woman who must have been in charge of things. Two maids whisked her away before she could even thank Jack or say good night, let alone find out what he had wanted to tell her. Hopefully it was whatever he'd said she needed to know about him. Her heart burned to know his secrets, even as part of her was glad she didn’t.

She barely registered the dazzling hallways of the palace, the opulent room she was led to, the plush carpeting, detailed tapestries, or hand-carved furniture. She saw only the bed, canopied and enormous, and then the backs of her eyelids as she sank into the extravagant mattress.

A knock at
the door brought Jasminda fully awake. She garbled a greeting and a tiny maid, not yet out of her teens, appeared with reams of fabric in her arms.

“Have a nice rest, miss?” the girl said in a crisp city accent. Jasminda tried to prop herself on her elbows but gave up after a few moments and collapsed back down.

“I’ve never slept better,” she said, mostly to the pillow.

The girl chuckled, then flitted around the room, opening the curtains. Late-afternoon sunshine filtered in.

“It’s time to bathe and change, miss. The Prince Regent has requested you for dinner.”

She startled into wakefulness. Was she to be the main course? Neither the servants last night nor this girl reacted to her Lagrimari appearance, but Jasminda remained on her guard. Why could the prince want to dine with her? Jack must have set it up, though after enduring the suspicious glares of the soldiers, she could not imagine the prince would be more welcoming to her than they had been. However, it stood to reason that Jack would be in attendance, as well; he was the reason she was staying there, after all. Her excitement at being near him again grew as she followed the maid into the gold-trimmed bathroom.

Marble floors and walls greeted her. She gaped at the ivory-handled sinks with hot water flowing from the taps and marveled at the modern efficiency of a water closet with a seat that warmed her bottom. Papa had devised a plan for plumbing in the cabin, using some spell she suspected, but water still needed to be heated on the stove.

The bathtub, however, proved to be a stumbling block. The little maid was adamant about bathing her. Jasminda protested that she could very well bathe herself—she wasn’t a child—but finally gave in to the girl’s steely determination.

At least a bucketful of dirt disappeared down the drain. Her hair was washed and doused with a sweet-smelling concoction. Nadal—for if another woman was to see her naked, Jasminda should at least know her name—carefully combed Jasminda’s thick, tightly coiled locks free of snags in front of the fire, drying it as much as possible. Then she helped her into a complicated dress she wasn’t sure she’d be able to get out of again. At a gentle tap on the shoulder, Jasminda turned to face the full-length mirror in the dressing room.

She gasped at the vision in front of her. Shiny, golden fabric flowed around her body, hugging her curves and making her appear, for the first time, like she was worthy of staying in the palace. Her hair was even tamed into a cascade of thick waves.

“You are a miracle worker,” she praised Nadal, who blushed.

Nadal searched the pocket of her apron and pulled out a tiny oval mirror on a gold chain. “Where would you like it, miss?”

Jasminda gaped. “Who is it for?” Mourning mirrors like the one Nadal held were worn after the death of a loved one. It was said those in the World After could peer through the mirrors and say their final good-byes to the living. After her mother died, she’d worn one around her neck for a year. When her father and brothers died, she hadn’t had the heart.

“You haven’t heard?” Nadal’s hushed voice filled with wonder. “I’d thought since you arrived with . . . Miss, the Prince Regent has gone to the World After.”

Jasminda took the mirror from the girl, gripping it lightly, and shook her head. “When did this happen? And how could he have invited me for dinner?”

“They made the announcement this morning, but he could have been dead for days. They never proclaim the death of a royal until his heir has been sworn in. Fear of attack during the changeover or some such. I heard from a girl who works in the prince’s wing that she’d seen His Grace last week, Seconday. But she’s just a duster, and she didn’t see him that often.” The torrent of words seemed to take something out of the girl, and she dropped her chin, staring at the floor as if embarrassed to have spoken at all.

“So the new prince invited me?” Cold dread made her skin go clammy. The air in the room suddenly grew thin, as if Jasminda stood at the peak of a mountain. Jack had wanted to tell her something that night at the base, and again before they’d entered the palace . . .

She shook her head, unwilling to believe such a thing. He was a warrior, and perhaps a poet. He was almost certainly not a . . . She couldn’t even attach the word to him. An image of his face slightly twisted in one of his grim smiles filled her vision. He would have told her something so monumental.

“Is this dinner special in some way? Is it in honor of the prince?”

Nadal shook her head. “It is just dinner. The changeover is seamless. Outside, the people will mourn and most here will wear the mirrors for a week or so, but the business of the palace never stops, not even for death.”

Jasminda sucked in a breath and fastened the gold chain around her neck. It fit snugly at the base of her throat. Not quite tight enough to choke her.

“It’s time, miss,” Nadal said.

Jasminda steeled her nerves and ignored the questions battling for dominance in her mind. They exited the rooms, and Nadal led her to the top of a grand staircase where a black-clad butler ushered her down and through a maze of hallways to a grand dining room. The grandeur of the palace was a blur, the empty feeling in her bones stealing most of her attention.

“Jasminda ul-Sarifor.” A hush descended over the vast room as her name was announced by a silver-haired attendant. Every head swiveled in her direction, and she froze under the weight of expectation in the air. The sense of foreboding remained, but she tilted her chin a few notches higher and stepped farther into the hall. Yet another butler appeared at her elbow, a kindly faced man who, despite his Elsiran appearance, reminded her of Papa.