Page 130 of Requiem of Silence

their scrutiny.

—THE HARMONY OF BEING

The rumbling of the vehicle’s wheels over the pockmarked street jarred Varten’s bones. His father sat across from him on a bench, Elsiran Royal Guardsmen boxing him in on either side. The auto, a wagon-like contraption, seated eight and drove down the steep inclines from the palace to the city’s center.

After he’d fled from Zeli and the obelisk, Varten moped for a day until Papa had finally insisted he do something useful. Accompanying his father in his post-attack clean-up efforts seemedlike a better idea than sitting in their apartment all day trying not to remember the look on Zeli’s face when he ran away.

The truck rumbled to a stop across from a grassy square bordered by benches. In the city, things were slowly getting back to normal. People were out walking, shops were open, autocars peppered the street along with carts and horses. This section hadn’t been hit as hard as the Portside neighborhood. But on the corner, the windows of a bank were boarded up, showing it hadn’t been spared, either. Was that damage from the wraiths or from looters? There had been reports of thievery during the panic of the attack and its aftermath.

Now, Papa and other Earthsinger volunteers were already planning for the True Father’s next blitz. As Varten climbed out of the wagon, a flatbed truck came around the corner with several young men standing up in back.

“Be a helper, get to shelter! We can win if you go in! Be a helper, get to shelter!” The lads shouted in unison, holding painted signs echoing the message. One rang a handbell, punctuating their words.

With the electricity in most of the city still out, newspapers and radio broadcasts remained unavailable, so the message was being spread the old-fashioned way.

“Those are Zann Biddel’s men?” Varten asked as the truck passed by.

“It seems so,” his father said.

“He’s holding up his end, then.”

“Hmm,” was Papa’s only reply. He stood pensive until the truck disappeared from view, then shook himself and turned toward the building they stood in front of. The massive, three-story structure took up the whole block, a sign readingOLIVESSE’Swritten in decorative script over the wide entry.

“What are we doing here?” Varten asked.

“They’ve applied to be an emergency shelter. Some of the existing ones in this area were damaged yesterday. Apparently, this department store has a large basement space and the owner is willing to accommodate people. I’ve been asked to review the location and meet some new volunteers, Earthsingers willing to protect non-Singers.”

Varten had never been inside such a large store, he hadn’t had to do much shopping since arriving in Rosira—clothes seemed to appear in his closet as if by magic. Though logic told him that Usher, the valet, and his staff must have been responsible. The store was closed for lack of power, but a uniformed guard at the door let them in without a word. A harried-looking woman rushed over to them.

“Master ol-Sarifor? You’re the Singer they sent, right? Oh dear, do you speak Elsiran?” She turned to Varten and raised her voice, slowing her speech. “Does he understand me?”

Papa and Varten shared a look. “I speak Elsiran,” Papa replied.

“Oh, thank the Sovereign.” She placed a hand on her chest, her relief almost comical. “Our owner is eager to join the safety effort. He especially wants to meet you Master ol-Sarifor.” Papa’s brows rose.

They followed the woman who carried an electric flashlight to light the way through the darkened store. She never bothered to introduce herself and led them down row after row of clothes on racks and then past a wall displaying kitchen appliances, the purpose of most of which Varten couldn’t begin to imagine. Finally they went down an aisle that led to a hallway, impenetrable by the light’s weak beam.

“Sir?” the woman called out into the darkness.

“Thank you, that will be all,” a deep voice replied. A buzzingsound preceded a bright flash of light that illuminated the space. A work light on a stand was attached to a battery pack of some kind. It took a moment for Varten’s eyes to adjust, but the woman’s footsteps were already heading away.

Standing before them was a tall Elsiran man, quite a bit older than Papa. Varten had never seen him before, but he seemed somehow familiar.

“Do you know who I am?” the man intoned.

Varten shook his head; Papa didn’t respond at all.

“My name is Marvus Zinadeel.” He peered down his nose at them, obviously expecting a reaction.

Varten swallowed and nearly took a step back. But he stood his ground next to his father as his grandfather scrutinized them, the man’s expression appraising.

“What do you want?” Papa asked slowly.

Zinadeel took a step forward, but Papa raised a hand, holding him off. The older man chuckled and halted. A swarm of banked fury rushed through Varten’s veins. This was the man who had abandoned his mother, ignored his sister when she was left alone to fend for herself. Tried to steal their home out from under her. Varten fisted his hands to stop their shaking.

His grandfather peered at them carefully in turn before rocking back on his heels. “I find it fascinating what a crisis will do to men. Times like these, times of trial tend to put certain things into perspective.” He crossed his arms and tapped fingers against his biceps. Varten recognized the mannerism as one he did all the time. He vowed then and there to never do it again.

“I have made… mistakes,” Zinadeel continued. “I can admit to that. I had two beautiful daughters and wanted only the best for them. As any father would.”

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