Page 7 of A Fractured Song

“I don’t know,” said Marieke helplessly. “There’s no benefit I can see. Which is why I wondered if someone did it purely out of spite.”

“I can’t think of a living soul who’d be so motivated to hurt us that they’d try to convince a singer to burn down our fields!” Mrs Mosley protested. “We don’t have any quarrels like that with anyone, at least not that I’m aware of. And even if we did, why would a singer agree to attack us?”

Marieke shook her head slowly, fairly certain the woman wasn’t hiding anything. “They wouldn’t. The council regulates song-related services offered for hire. As you’d imagine, arson isn’t on the approved list. Any singer who took part in something like that would be locked up.”

“So I’d imagine,” Mrs Mosley agreed.

“In any event,” Marieke went on, “the fire should be reported to the Council of Singers.” She couldn’t restrain a sigh as she added, “I suppose I ought to travel to the capital with the messenger and give my own report directly.”

She caught the swift look her father threw her. He could obviously read her reluctance about the idea, and would surely have questions. After all, last she’d told him, she’d been hoping to be offered a position in the capital, and working for the Council of Singers had been her ideal option.

“Well, a messenger already went,” Mrs Mosley said, smoothing her apron distractedly. “They won’t report your suspicions, of course, but they’ll tell the council about the fire.” She must have seen her listeners’ confusion because she added with a slight frown, “Every farmer I know is under instruction to report anything that threatens their crops. In case you hadn’t noticed, our whole country is becoming more barren by the season.”

“We had noticed,” Marieke’s father said heavily. “We’ll be headed for a famine if something doesn’t change.”

“Well, we can’t do anything to change it,” Mrs Mosley said, her frown deepening. “That’s the council’s job. Singers are supposed to be the ones who can manipulate the land and keep things healthy.” Her face softened a little as she nodded at Marieke. “It’s possible, as this one’s proved. It’s just a matter of willingness.”

Marieke sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, all her earlier discomfort returning. “The Council of Singers do want to resolve the blight on the land,” she felt compelled to say. “It’s not that they aren’t willing. But they don’t know what’s causing Oleand to deteriorate, and they don’t know how to magically fix a problem this pervasive.”

“Don’t you worry, dear, we’re not going to march on your council or pull down your academy.” There was a hint of indulgence in Mrs Mosley’s voice as she stood. “I’ll go and double check whether the messenger already left.”

Marieke watched the older woman bustle out of the room, aware that she placed no stock in Marieke’s reassurances. Mrs Mosley would assume that Marieke spoke out of blind loyalty, duty-bound as a singer to defend their ruling council.

And she wasn’t entirely wrong. After all, it wasn’t as though Marieke was rushing to share all her thoughts. She believed she’d spoken the truth that the council didn’t know how to fix the affliction on the land. But was it really true that they had no idea what was causing it, and would do all in their power to find out if they could?

Marieke turned the apple over in her hand, her eyes on its smooth red skin as her thoughts flew back over the months. Apples always made her think of Zev now. This one surely couldn’t be as sweet or juicy as the ones she’d eaten at his farm. Was his beloved orchard continuing to thrive? No doubt it was, given Aeltas wasn’t affected by whatever was eating Oleand away from the inside.

Marieke’s unease grew as she remembered all she’d learned during her time with Zev—and all he’d continued to withhold. Most troubling was the ruined trade city of Port Taran, from which the deposed royals had supposedly fled to exile on the far-off continent of Providore. Even after generations, the marks left on the city seemed to support the version of history Zev had been taught—a version in which the royals weren’t exiled but hunted, pursued as they fled to the port and massacred in cold blood.

Marieke put the apple back on the tray, her appetite gone as cold fear stole over her, just as it had done when Zev had first challenged what she’d been taught. Could Oleand be under a curse, caused by the slaughter of the royals so long ago? A slaughter carried out by singers—the predecessors of the current council.

If that was so, she wasn’t certain that the council wouldtruly wish to identify the cause of the blight, or be willing to do all in its power to resolve it. Not anymore. Not since she’d experienced the council’s treatment of her for the crime of being exposed to information they might not wish her to have.

But she couldn’t say all this to Mrs Mosley. She couldn’t even say it to her father. What would they do with the information? With nothing certain, it would be not only a burden to them, but a dangerous one.

Marieke pulled her thoughts away from the spiral they’d been stuck in for the last month, the one where she battled with the uncomfortable realization that if the council couldn’t be trusted to genuinely pursue the truth about what was happening to Oleand, someone else would have to.

And she seemed to be the only one who was asking the right questions, with the exception of a former student, Jade, whom she very much feared had been permanently silenced for her questions.

At least, she was the only one in Oleand. Inevitably, Marieke’s thoughts flew back to Zev and his family, so unlike the other farmers she knew. They weren’t exactly asking questions, but he’d certainly seemed to know a great deal she didn’t.

Most of which he’d declined to tell her.

Scowling, Marieke once again tried to push him from her mind. However much her heart ached over his absence, he’d made it clear that whatever Oleand was suffering wasn’t his fight. There was no use looking to him to help her figure things out. Which meant that she would have to pursue other means of helping her country. She couldn’t do it alone, and whatever risks were involved in seeking out the council, everyone who could help her was in the capital.

“What will you do if the messenger has already left?” Her father’s quiet voice broke into her reverie.

She looked up to find his eyes on her, his gaze unusually piercing.

“I think I’ll need to travel to the capital anyway,” she said.

He sighed, the sound resigned. “You’re not coming home with me today, are you?”

She gave him a twisted smile of apology. “I don’t think so. I won’t leave for the capital until I’ve had a chance to have a proper look around here, though.”

“Well, I don’t doubt the Mosleys will be happy to house you,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. “But I imagine our friends would also be willing.”

“That’s a good idea.” Marieke brightened at this mention of the family whose horse her father had just treated. She had a feeling the Mosleys’ gratitude could get stifling if she stayed where she was. “I’m not the expert you are, but I know enough about horses that I can probably be helpful in monitoring the mare’s progress.”

---