Page 79 of Requiem of Silence

She took a deep breath and then did as he commanded. She was seeing herself at eleven, running around the courtyard of theharem she had grown up in. “Ahlini,” she whispered. Her only childhood friend, alive and well, eyes shining, braids flying out behind her as she pumped her arms and raced around a corner.

Little Kyara was laughing, too. Until she followed around the corner and was stopped by a frowning woman in uniform, one of theul-nedrimguards. Kyara wasn’t allowed to play with the harem girls. But the guard looked around slyly and inclined her head slightly. Kyara grinned and took off running again.

Adult Kyara had no recollection of that. This memory, if it was one, had been lost to the ravages of time. “This is real? Not just another vision?”

“It is real,” the ghostly man intoned.

The images continued: Ahlini teaching Kyara to read from her own slates, sneaking food from her plate to supplement the meager rations servants received. Kindness. And not just from her friend. Kyara also did not recall the small things that the adultul-nedrim,the other rare daughters sired by the king, had done for her. Not being boys and ineligible for whatever dubious benefits harem women had, they were second-class citizens. Destined only for guard duty or drudgery. But theulla—the woman in charge—had looked out for Kyara, unbeknownst to her child self. She’d been given extra clothes, extra rations, lighter duties than others in her position in different cabals of the vast harem. Kyara’s eyes misted to watch the things she never knew had been happening.

And then that fateful day. Kyara was playing shelter-and-search with Ahlini. Her friend went off to hide and not long after the screaming began. Kyara followed her friend’s shouts to find the girl in a storage room being choked by a bedraggled man in tattered clothing. A man who had somehow gotten into the harem.

Ahlini’s untrained Song had lit every lamp and then sparked flames on the shelving as she’d tried to protect herself. Kyara hadbeaten at the man uselessly and smashed a jar over his head, but he was locked in madness. He reached out an arm and smacked her. She flew across the room and crashed into the wall.

Kyara had blacked out, never knowing how she’d killed the man and Ahlini, but in the vision, she saw the tiny kitten avatar leap from her prone body, transforming midair into the ferocious wildcat. It had entered the man’s body, instantly exploding the Nethersong within him and killing him.

The cat did not target Ahlini, but they were so close, only a hairsbreadth away from one another that the poison of Nether was absorbed by her as well. The avatar seemed to know what it had done and regret it immediately. It shrank back into its kitten form and retreated sadly into Kyara’s body.

The image changed to the infirmary. A guard cradled Kyara against her chest and lay her on the cot. Theullaarrived, out of breath.

“What’s happened?” she cried.

The guards shook their heads. “It looks like plague,” one said. “But it makes no sense.”

“It is not plague.” The old woman stroked a hand over Kyara’s forehead. “I had a dream about this child before she was born, a message gifted to me by my ancestors. In our branch of the House of Eagles, there is a tale that has been passed down for generations. It tells of an oncoming storm, one that will upset the three worlds and pit the living against the dead. When it comes, it will be silent like a viper approaching unseen through the brush. I sense within this child the oncoming clouds.”

The guards seemed perplexed, but hung on her words.

“She is special, she is a scorpion and we must protect her from the True Father.”

Kyara startled, recalling the little book she had found,The Book of Unveiling.It had been written by Mooriah’s descendants and told a cryptic tale of her story, calling her the Scorpion. She’d lost the book somewhere, in one prison or another. Had theullabeen one of Mooriah’s line?

In the vision, the guards nodded, more loyal to the woman who led them than the despotic king. But in the end, the Cantor herself had come for Kyara, accompanied by a contingent of Golden Flames. They had overpowered theul-nedrimguards, cutting them down mercilessly, and dragged Kyara off to the dungeon. Theullawas executed for hiding such a valuable resource.

The colors of the image faded and then the waters fell down to the frothing lake. Tears streamed down Kyara’s face. She scrubbed at them violently. “Why did you show me this?”

The Breath Father did not emote, but the constant shifting of his form slowed sympathetically. “You were cared for, Kyara, always. You were loved and protected.”

“Those women died trying to help me.”

“Yes. They gave their lives because of their faith, their knowledge that you were special. They didn’t know how special, but the wheel of fate was rolling across your life even then.” The death stone in her pocket pulsed suddenly, as if it had woken up and wanted to be used. A burst of frigid air blast down her thigh and she shuddered.

“Our lives are not always what we think they are,” the Breath Father continued. “Our histories are oft tainted by memory.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” she breathed.

“If you cannot have faith in yourself, have faith in those who believe in you. Theulla,Mooriah, Murmur. They understand something about your potential and the need you must fulfill.”

“And if I disappoint them?”

“You disappoint them if you fail to try. That is what they are asking of you.”

She fished the stone from her pocket, still pulsing icily inside its wrappings. “And this? What does it do?”

“The Song of an ancient Nethersinger—it is mighty indeed. Its creator, a man named Yllis, poured a desperate intention into it—love and fear and strong desire—all of which increased its potency beyond the original Songbearer’s ability. And over the centuries, fed by death and time, that power has grown beyond anyone’s imagining. Once you unleash what it holds, there is no going back. You have only to touch it to release its fearsome force into this world and become a goddess of death.”

“I don’t want to be a goddess of death.” Dread welled within her at the thought.

The Breath Father nodded sagely. “Then you are wise not to use it. In the hands of the careless, the unworthy, or the reticent, the death stone is more dangerous than even an army of wraiths.”

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