Song of Blood & Stone (Earthsinger Chronicles #1)(13)

She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “So that gives you license to steal what you wish?”

“As you have not given your tribute yet, this is the least you can do.”

Jasminda froze at the accusation in his voice. He ran a finger across the items on the ground, marking them with his scent like a cat. Anger bubbled up inside her with no outlet. How dare he so much as breathe on her family's belongings? Moreover, her home was no doubt filled with items unavailable in Lagrimar. This ruse of hers was in jeopardy.

Something had to be done about the soldiers, and soon.

She backed away from the men as they conferred about the quality of her brothers’ boots. Praying to the Queen Who Sleeps for the patience she so often lacked, she went out the back door.

Jack was licking the last of his breakfast from the bowl but paused, mid-chew at her appearance. She tried to tamp down her rage, but by the look on his face, she wasn’t doing a very good job. She kneeled next to him, glaring back at the house.

“From now on, eat only food that comes directly from me,” she whispered in Elsiran. “Understand?”

His forehead crinkled in confusion, but he nodded.

“Only from my hands. And be vigilant.”




The morning passed slowly for a man tied to a porch with nothing to occupy him. Jack invented names for each of the chickens pecking away in the fenced-off yard and developed stories for them. Margritt had spent half an hour bickering with her sister-in-law, Heleneve, over whose eggs were larger. Then he listed all of the presidents of Yaly in descending order, and all of the Elsiran Prince Regents in alphabetical order. Anything to keep his mind from the fears that circled, fears of the deluge of death and destruction that would accompany another war, and his current inability to stop it.

He also strove to bar his thoughts from the other force demanding entry into his mind: Jasminda. The feel of her hand in his, the curve where her neck met her shoulder, the hint of collarbone above the fraying fabric of her dress. Even the scent that filled his nostrils whenever she was near. What was it about her that captivated him so? Less than a month ago, he’d attended an officer’s ball and danced with a dozen pretty socialites. None of them had affected him nearly as much.

Perhaps it was his captivity. Perhaps being close to death made his fingers long to lose themselves in the twisting coils of her hair. But perhaps it was just that she was unlike any woman he’d ever known. The giggling debutantes of the city, cinched and beaded to perfection, were lovely to look at, but Jack sensed a bottomless well inside Jasminda that made him want to know more, to sink into the pools of her eyes and linger.

He let out a breath of frustration. The attraction was inconvenient. So was being tied to the bloody porch. The blade under the floorboard called to him. Freedom. He could cut the ropes and head for home. But how long would he last in the storm? It was better to bide his time and trust Jasminda to keep her promise.

Time was precious and steadily running out, though. He had witnessed the Lagrimari brigade gathering a dozen kilometres from the border. Whispers of the True Father’s rapidly increasing strength had spread through the army like a plague. Word was, tributes were being taken from whole towns at a time. Not just adults but children, infants even, were being drained of their Songs to feed the god-king’s unquenchable thirst for power. Darvyn had warned him as much, but Jack hadn’t believed the former POW. How could he have known, having been trapped inside Elsira since the last breach?

But Darvyn knew a great deal, including the location of the crack in the Mantle. He’d led Jack through that place where the magic had weakened in order to personally gather the proof his Elsiran government would not accept from a Lagrimari. The two had agreed to meet in a fortnight to return to Elsira, but Darvyn’s spell had worn off early, and Jack had been exposed, shot, and forced on the run before the appointed date. He rubbed his chest wondering, not for the first time, what had happened to the young man.

The open kitchen window carried a low conversation between his captors to his ear.

“How do you not know where she’s gone? Didn’t I tell you to keep closer watch on her?” Sergeant Tensyn said. Jack perked up.

“Y-yes, sir. But you said to be secretive about it; I can’t follow her everywhere without her knowing.” The timid voice must have been from the boy, Wargi. The soldier was only a handful of years younger than himself, but Jack had been in the army since early childhood, training for his role.

“I don’t want excuses, ensign. I want results. There’s something about this place that isn’t quite right. Too many strange objects and labels.”

“We are on the outskirts, sir. People here live differently than in the towns.”

“Nothing in Lagrimar is that different. When was the last time you saw real honey?”

“I-I can’t say that I’ve ever seen it, sir.”

“Not since the last breach, that’s for sure.” Tensyn may have been a popinjay, but he was not stupid. Jasminda’s instincts to pretend to be Lagrimari had been good, but Jack sensed the gambit would not last much longer.

“Keep an eye on her,” the sergeant snapped.

“Yes, sir.”

Their footsteps faded into the house, leaving Jack on edge.




Hours later, Jasminda reappeared through the copse of trees behind the back garden, a full basket on her arm. Her dark eyes flashed as she scanned the area, always alert. The sight of her ignited him as a gentle breeze ruffled through her mass of curls. She would have made an excellent soldier, if such things were possible. Her beauty was raw and pure, and a torrent of desire he had no business feeling rose inside him.