A Song of Wraiths and Ruin Read online

  The soldier riffled through the thin stack of papers with deliberate precision. Then he raised the hilt of his sword and bashed it against the old man’s skull. “No Eshrans, with or without papers!”

  No Eshrans. The world swam once more, but Malik forced himself to remain upright. They were all right. Their papers listed them as a trio of siblings from Talafri, a city well within the Zirani border. As long as their accents didn’t slip, no one would know they were Eshran as well.

  The family’s screams resounded through the air as the soldiers took the old man’s body and led the cart away from the checkpoint. In the chaos, no one noticed a single person falling out of the cart onto the dry ground. The child could not have been older than Nadia, yet every person ignored him as they fought to take his family’s place in line. Malik’s heart nearly broke into two.

  What if that had been Nadia lying there in the dirt with no one to help her? The mere thought made Malik’s chest constrict painfully, and his eyes kept wandering back to the boy.

  Leila followed Malik’s line of vision and frowned. “Don’t.”

  But Malik was already moving. In seconds, he was hauling the boy to his feet.

  “Are you all right?” Malik asked as he checked the boy over for injuries. The child looked up at him with hollow eyes sunk deep into a battered face, and Malik saw himself reflected in their black depths.

  Quick as a lightning strike, the boy pulled Malik’s satchel over his head and dove into the crowd. For several seconds, all he could do was stare openmouthed at the spot where the child had just been.

  “Hey!”

  Cursing himself for his own naïveté, Malik then did what he did best.

  He ran.

  2

  Karina

  The Dancing Seal was one of those establishments that was both older and dirtier than it had any right to be, with a questionable layer of grime covering every visible surface as well as the staff. However, the food was great and the entertainment even better, which was what had brought Karina to the restaurant near the Outer Wall of Ziran.

  As Aminata sulked beside her, Karina kept her eyes trained on the musician currently commanding the crowd, a stout, oud-playing bard with a mustache so perfectly coiled that it had to be fake. Appearance aside, the man had skill, and from the easy way he swaggered around the circular stage in the center of the room, he knew it.

  The audience for the evening consisted mostly of travelers and merchants, their faces lined from years of trekking the unforgiving desert roads. In the chatter of the crowd, Karina recognized Kensiya, a language of the Arkwasian people from the jungles north of the Odjubai; T’hoga, a language spoken on the Eastwater savanna; and even the occasional word in Darajat screamed at frightened Eshran servers. Every major group in Sonande was represented that night.

  But best of all, no one knew who Karina was.

  Seated on low cushions around tables laden with thick bean stews and steaming cuts of lamb, the audience howled suggestions at the bard, each raunchier than the last, and sang off-key to every piece he played. Solstasia made even the most miserly freer with their purses, so many in the audience were well into their third or fourth drink of the evening even though the sun had yet to set.

  The bard’s eyes met Karina’s, and he grinned. She cocked her head to the side, angelic innocence spreading across her face in response to the brazen suggestion on his.

  “Are you going to stand there looking pretty, or are you going to play something worth listening to?” she challenged. Another howl went up through the audience, and the man’s dusky cheeks purpled. Despite its less-than-sanitary appearance, the Dancing Seal was one of the most respected music venues in Ziran. Only the best musicians could win over the crowd here.

  The bard proceeded to play a raucous song that detailed the doomed love affair between a lonely spirit and a poor slave girl. Karina leaned back on her cushion as she examined the man. Her original appraisal had been correct; he was quite talented, twisting the melody in time with the shifting mood of the audience and biting into the tune at the story’s climax. If she had to guess, he was likely Fire-Aligned; that Alignment had a flair for the dramatic.

  Smoothing her headscarf to ensure not a single strand of her hair fell out of place, Karina leaned toward her companion. “Do you think he oils his mustache every day to get it that shiny?”

  “I think we’ve been here too long,” replied Aminata, angling herself away from the suspicious liquid that covered their table.

  “We’ve been here ten minutes.”

  “Exactly.”

  Karina rolled her eyes, wondering why she’d expected any other response from her maid. Convincing a fish to swim on land would be easier than convincing Aminata to relax for even a single night.

  “It’s Solstasia, Mina. We may as well enjoy ourselves.”

  “Can we at least go somewhere that isn’t filled with people who could stab us?”

  Karina began to retort that technically any room that had people in it was filled with people who could stab them, but the bard switched to a song Baba used to play for her, and a dull pain like a mallet banging the inside of her skull cut her off. Squeezing her eyes shut, Karina breathed out through her teeth and gripped the edge of the table until splinters dug into her skin.

  Aminata frowned, realizing at once what had triggered the migraine. “We should go before it gets worse,” she suggested in that careful tone people used whenever Karina’s grief discomforted them.

  “Not yet.”

  This was likely the last moment of freedom Karina would have until Solstasia ended. Migraine or no, she couldn’t let the opportunity pass her by.

  A cheer resounded through the restaurant as the bard strummed his last note. He collected his donations in a velvet coin purse, then strode over to their table and dropped into a low bow.

  “I hope you found my performance tonight as pleasing as I find your appearance.”

  Fighting back the wave of dizziness that often accompanied her migraines, Karina raised an eyebrow at the man. Perhaps she might have found his appearance pleasing as well had she been nearing seventy. As it was, she was only seventeen, and he reminded her of the toads who croaked in the fountains of the palace. The corners of her mouth tilted up, but she didn’t smile.

  “It was impressive.” Karina’s gaze slid to the coin purse on his hip. “If I may ask, exactly what do you plan to do with your earnings?”

  The bard licked his lips. “Give me an hour of your time, and you’ll see firsthand what I can do.”

  Aminata gave a barely concealed snort as Karina replied, “I think I know of the perfect home for your coins.”

  “And where may that be, my sweet gazelle?” he leered. Karina checked his left palm—no emblem, meaning he was Unaligned. This man was from somewhere very far from here—the Eastwater savanna, perhaps.

  “In my pocket.” Karina leaned forward until her nose was inches from his, close enough to smell the orange essence he definitely oiled his mustache with. “I’ll play you for them. One song. Audience decides the winner.”

  Surprise followed by annoyance flickered across the bard’s face. Karina bit back a laugh.

  “Do you even have an instrument?”

  “I do. Aminata?”

  Aminata sighed, but dutifully passed the leather case in her lap to Karina. The bard sneered when he saw the state of Karina’s oud; thin cracks lined the instrument’s pear-shaped body, and the floral patterns Baba had carved into its neck had long faded beyond recognition. But holding the last gift her father had ever given her sent a wave of calm flooding through Karina, dulling the ache in her head.

  “If I win,” said Karina, nonchalantly tuning one of the oud’s eleven strings, “I get all the money you earned today.”

  “And when I win,” said the bard, “you will give me the honor of calling you mine for the rest of the night.”

  It took all of her self-control not to visibly gag. “Deal. In the spirit of Solstasia, I’ll allow you to pick the song.”

  The bard’s eyes narrowed, but then his grin widened. “‘The Ballad of Bahia Alahari.’”

  The pain in Karina’s head throbbed anew as her heart constricted. Baba had loved that song.

  Refusing to let her opponent see he’d rattled her, Karina simply said, “After you.”

  “The Ballad of Bahia Alahari” was a mournful tune that told the story of how the first sultana of Ziran had battled her own husband, the Faceless King, when he had sided with the Kennouan Empire during the final battle of the Pharaoh’s War. Within minutes, the audience had tears streaming down their faces, many even openly sobbing. However, a number of patrons, many of whom were noticeably non-Zirani, seemed unaffected by the performance, and Karina kept her attention on them as her opponent played.

  With one last haunting note, the bard lowered his oud as a raucous cheer filled the air.

  “Your turn,” he said, his eyes roaming over her body with a predator’s gaze. Karina stepped forward, moving her hands into position and ignoring the snickers at her instrument’s destitute state.

  Yes, her opponent was good.

  But she was better.

  Too fast for anyone to stop her, Karina leaped from the stage onto the table in front of her, earning startled yelps from its occupants, and slammed her sandaled foot on it in a steady rhythm that echoed throughout the restaurant. Though Karina wasn’t facing her maid, she knew Aminata was clapping along, scowl and all. In seconds, everyone in the room had joined her in the beat, banging whatever they had on hand against their tables.

  Grinning a grin that would put a hyena’s to shame, she began to play.

  It was still “The Ballad of Bahia Alahari,” but Karina bent the melody almost beyond recognition. Where the bard had focused on the stifling yet beautiful grief the song was known for, Karina pushed the beat to a frenzy, playing at a speed normally used for the fastest dance songs. She brought the song to a crescendo where she should have quieted and bit into the parts that were meant to be soft. Through it all, the song never lost the undercurrent of sorrow for which it was famous—but it was sorrow converted into manic energy, the only kind of sorrow she knew.

  Karina sang the first verse in Zirani, turning in a circle as she played so every person could hear.

  For the second verse, she switched to Kensiya. A delighted cry went up from the group of Arkwasians, engaged in the performance for the first time that night. Then she went to T’hoga, and back to Kensiya. With each verse, Karina made sure to hit a different major tongue of Sonande. The only language she did not sing at least a line in was Darajat. None of her tutors had considered the language of Eshra important enough to teach her, and she lacked the incentive to learn it on her own.

  The cheers of the audience drowned out Karina’s last notes. She smiled sweetly at the bard, who looked ready to toss his instrument to the ground.

  “I’ll be taking that.” Karina grabbed his purse and bounced it in her hand. There had to be at least a hundred daira in there.

  “I want a rematch!” the bard demanded.

  “Rematch with what? What else do you have to lose?”

  His face twisted into a pained grimace as he pulled a heavy object from his bag. “I have this.”

  In the bard’s hands was the oldest book Karina had ever seen. The green leather cover sported bite marks around the edges, and time had yellowed the pages with mold. Faded almost to invisibility, the title read in Zirani, The Tome of the Dearly Departed: A Comprehensive Study on the Curious Matter of Death within the Kennouan Empire.

  “The man who sold this to me couldn’t even read the title,” said the bard. “He didn’t realize that he had pawned away a true remnant from the time of the pharaohs of old.”

  A shiver ran down Karina’s spine as she eyed the Kennouan glyphs embossed on the book’s cover. Reading had never been her preferred pastime, and she neither needed nor desired a dusty old book about a culture long lost to history.

  “If this book is so special, why are you gambling it away?”

  “Anything worth obtaining is worth sacrificing for.”

  Karina wasn’t one to turn down a challenge, no matter the prize. Baring a smile that showed all her teeth, she unstrapped her oud from her back.

  “One more round.”

  Twenty minutes later, Karina skipped from the Dancing Seal, her bag heavy with her new book and Aminata trailing behind her like a second shadow as last-minute preparations for Solstasia swirled around them. Workers suspended from scaffolding strung garlands of jasmine and lavender between tightly packed buildings while white-robed acolytes yelled for people to bring forth anything they did not wish to take with them into the new era so that it could be offered to the Great Mother during the Opening Ceremony. Throngs of all ages streamed toward Temple Way, engaging in spirited debate about who the seven Champions might be.

  Karina’s new coins jingled in her pack, and she couldn’t help but grin as she imagined adding the winnings to the ever-growing pile of daira she’d hidden within a jewelry box in her vanity. Every coin brought her closer to the life she truly wanted, one far away from Ziran.

  “Must you always be so dramatic?” sighed Aminata as they sidestepped a group constructing an altar to Patuo in the middle of the street.

  “I have never said or done anything dramatic in my life, dear Mina.”

  As Karina flipped idly through The Tome of the Dearly Departed, her eyes glazed over various chapter headings: “Differentiating Zawenji Magic from Ulraji Magic”; “Care and Feeding of an Infant Serpopard”; “The Rite of Resurrection Involving the Comet Meirat.”

  Karina paused. The Comet Meirat was what the Kennouans had called Bahia’s Comet.

  . . . the Rite of Resurrection is the most sacred and advanced technique, possible only during the week the Comet Meirat is visible in the sky . . .

  She skipped to the images below the description. The first showed masked individuals around a corpse wrapped in bandages while the second showed the figures laying a human heart stuffed with a bright red substance on top of the corpse’s body. The third image depicted the corpse walking around, color returned to his form.

  Karina clicked her tongue and stuffed the book back in her bag. If the Kennouans had really known the secret to resurrecting the dead, someone else would have discovered it by now. Perhaps she’d give the book to Farid when she returned home. He’d always been fond of boring, ancient things.

  They reached a bend in the road. To go left would lead them to River Market and the Western Gate, while going right would take them through Jehiza Square and into the Old City. Though some time remained until sundown, the desert night’s chill had already taken hold, and Karina pulled the scarf round her head tighter as she contemplated which road to take.

  In a way, Ziran was truly two cities in one. The first was the Old City, the original kasbah in which Bahia Alahari had built her fortress of Ksar Alahari and which housed the Zirani court. Unfurling westward from the Old City was the Lower City. This sprawling jumble made up nearly three-quarters of the city’s square area, and it was where all the people who made Ziran interesting lived.

  Surrounding it all was the Outer Wall and, beyond that, the rest of Sonande. Karina had spent enough time studying the map of their continent to know what she’d find if she ever left Ziran. Going north would take her to the dense jungles of Arkwasi while heading west would lead to the Eshran Mountains, and those were only Ziran’s immediate neighbors, just a small part of a world waiting to be explored.

  But knowing the world was out there and actually seeing it were two different things. Yet every time Karina approached the Outer Wall, a sharp pull in her gut tugged her back toward home. Despite her efforts to fight it, her sense of duty was annoyingly strong.

  Karina turned left, ignoring Aminata’s grunt of protest. “Let’s head to Temple Way. Maybe we can get a spot at the Wind Temple Choosing Ceremony.”

  Karina herself was Wind-Aligned, though she felt little attachment to her patron deity, Santrofie. She’d had only one prayer after Baba and Hanane had died, and her god had never answered it.

  “By the way,” said Aminata as they flattened themselves against a wall to make way for a team of dancers leading an irate warthog. “I didn’t know you knew that song in all those languages.”

  “I didn’t. Not before tonight, anyway.”

  “You were translating as you played?”

  “Years of language tutors have finally paid off,” said Karina, not hiding the smugness in her voice as Aminata rolled her eyes.

  At first glance, the two were quite the mismatched pair, her maid plain and reserved in all the ways Karina was outgoing and careless, Water-Aligned to Karina’s Wind, thin and lean where Karina was thick and soft. Aminata’s tight coils were cut nearly an inch from her head, whereas Karina’s curls poofed out past her shoulders when she wore her hair down. But Aminata’s mother had been Karina’s favorite among her army of nursemaids, and the two girls had been inseparable since childhood. The only people Karina had spent more time with as a child had been her parents’ ward, Farid, and her older sister, Hanane.

  “If you put even half as much effort into your actual lessons, you’d probably have the highest marks in the city.”

  “And give the Kestrel even more expectations for me? I’ll eat camel dung first.”

  “I’m sure your mother,” Aminata pressed, refusing to use the nickname the common folk had coined for the sultana, “would be delighted to know you’ve absorbed so much of your studies. Speaking of, we should head back before she notices you’re gone.”

  “I could fall to the ground dead before her eyes, and my mother wouldn’t notice I was gone.”

  “That’s not true.”

  An unusually strong pang of guilt hit Karina’s chest. However, she had not come all this way to debate the Kestrel’s affection for her—or lack thereof.