Page 137 of Requiem of Silence

Words and spells recalled from Yllis’s journal came to mind. They hadn’t made much sense before, but now she understood. So much knowledge had been lost to time, so much had been impossible with so few able to retain their Songs and pass on the knowing. All she had to do to bring her voice to the ears of the people all around the city was to open her mouth and speak.

Her voice was carried on streams of invisible energy pulsing through across the distance. She spoke as Oola did to other Singers, not as sound on the eardrum, but as words in their mind. But not just those with Songs could hear her, everyone stopped to listen when the solitude of their inner thoughts was pierced with a foreign voice.

Even the wraiths paused their destruction, the human part of them thrown into shock at this mental intrusion. In basements and closets and rooms fortified with cement and iron, they all heard. And what’s more, due to the unusual way that she spoke to them, they did more than hear, they listened.

And this is what she said:

People of Elsira. People of Lagrimar. The True Father started a war five hundred years ago that divided us. It tore us apart and turned brother against sister, father against mother. Singer against Silent. He separated families and friends with the Mantle so that he could steal our magic for himself and subdue us. Right now, his army of the dead is tearing apart the land that we all originated from. He’s trying, once again, to take our home.

But we don’t have to let him. We can get our Songs back.

It may sound impossible, but a few moments ago, wouldn’t you have found my voice in your head impossible? You don’t know me, you have no reason to trust me, but please listen.

The True Father wants us divided. Now maybe the days of Singer and Silent living together side by side are over, and maybe they’re not, but today each of us has a choice. We can be transformed into armies for him, armies for hate and destruction and death, or we can form a new army. One working against him.

If you want to survive today and into the future, you have to sacrifice. We all do.

Magic requires a sacrifice. Earthsong, blood magic, all of it. Only this time, the sacrifice will have to come not from the magic users, but from you. From all of you.

What can you give up to save us?

All of you holding hands, seeking protection from the wraiths, look to the person next to you. Are they someone who you wouldn’t bother to speak to on the street? Someone who’s treated you badly, called you names, shut doors in your face? Someone you fear, who speaks a different language and has different customs and abilities?

Can you admit that the person you’re holding hands with right now might not be like you, but their presence in the chain is helping to keep you safe and alive? If you’re in a chain then you have an Earthsinger to thank. If you’re in a chain and the spirits are passing you by and not invading you, then don’t you owe it to yourself and those you care about to let go of your resentment, hatred, and bitterness?

Are you willing to release it in order to save your life? To save all of our lives?

In shelters in the city, Lagrimari refugees hold hands with Elsiran citizens. It is something neither of them would have chosen, had the world not been ending. But as it stands, with the deadly forms of enemy spirits filling the small, dark space, they dare not let go.

The girl’s voice begins speaking inside their heads, for a moment jarring those within the chain of protection enough that they almost let go. But one hand tightens on another, and the links in the chain remain intact.

The words spoken directly to their consciousnesses are accompanied by feelings, as if each of them are privy to all this mysterious girl’s hope and earnestness. A sense of freedom rushes through them that they haven’t felt since childhood. It’s exhilarating and a little frightening, if only because it will certainly go away, and they will long for it again.

An impression of peace—the kind of peace that seems unattainable once one is weaned off a mother’s teat—brushes over their senses and takes root in their hearts. This sensation is so different than anything they can recall feeling, that it has never occurred to them it could exist.

It draws a stark contrast to the bitterness and disappointment, the blame and jealousy which usually fill them. Which usually are directed against the person they’re holding hands with. They’ve grown up with hate, hearing all the usual complaints against the other person: they’re lazy or spoiled, untrustworthy or cruel, boorish or snobbish—the words have left stains that have seeped deep inside them. So deep they can never be cleaned… or can they?

For the words in their heads and the sensations brushing their souls reveal another way. Reveal that these long-held feelings and ideas are warped, that they are something separate from reality. A belief about a person is not that person. It is not the belief-holder, either.

These beliefs and these warped feelings can be let go.

Like a heavy burden set down.

Tears form in their eyes as this realization arises. They wonder how they can do what the voice asks of them, how can they let go of this weight they’ve carried since their memories began?

Their cheeks become wet with tears as this desire intensifies. Yes, they will give it up. Yes, they want this peace that is hinted at,even for a short time. Even if it will doubtless retreat back into the place where it hides.

They do not know that blood spells require intent, but it does not matter. Their tears leave their cheeks and lift into the air. The droplets hover over them, impervious to the hungry, diving spirits, careless of gravity and natural forces. The tears rise and hover, their clear translucence deepening and tinting to red.

They have never heard the word “caldera” before, they would not know what it means, and this, too, does not matter. Because they have chosen to listen, they have chosen to feel, and they have chosen to give up something that has been deeply embedded within them. Something they held precious, even if they didn’t know it.

And so, this sacrifice hovers before them, coalescing. Tears from all who gave them up, regardless of race or magical propensity, draw together, reddening and brightening into something that the spirits shy away from.

As more and more give in to the message and the desire to be free from the cancer that has marred their souls, they release the hate and mistrust, and with their release, their tears join together. The floating red masses grow, fed by the tears of the penitent.

Half a kilometer away, in a palace built at the base of a dormant volcano, the king stone accepts the sacrifice and shatters.

Zeli stood just as Gilmer taught her, with one hand on the obelisk, the other holding the dagger that was once the king stone.

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