Song of Blood & Stone (Earthsinger Chronicles #1)(5)

He was an odd one, surely—his manner, his clothing, his perfect Lagrimari speech and accent. She’d never heard of an Elsiran who could speak the language. Even her mama had never been able to master it. And with his talk of crossing the Mantle, of course she’d thought him deranged. The magical border between the two lands followed the mountain range. The Mantle had stood for five hundred years and had only been breached seven times, each resulting in months or years of war.

Her papa had come over during the Sixth Breach. He’d been one of the soldiers stuck in Elsira as prisoners of war when the gap in the Mantle closed. After their release from prison, they’d been unable to obtain citizenship or find jobs, so the Lagrimari had formed settlements, shantytowns really, and eked out a meager living with the help of the Sisterhood. But Papa had met Mama and built a life with her. He never talked much of home or said anything about wanting to go back.

Jasminda had asked him about it, over and over, always afraid that as soon as the chance came, he would disappear into the mysterious country of his birth. He would reassure her that he wasn’t going anywhere—sometimes with a chuckle, sometimes with an exasperated sigh, and occasionally with a haunted look in his eye that made her stop the questions.

The Seventh Breach took place the summer of her fifteenth year. The fighting had ended before her family even heard about it, isolated as their valley home was. Jasminda was glad they didn’t find out until the breach had closed. She believed Papa’s words that he would never leave her—believed them until two years ago when he’d been proved a liar.

But now her own two eyes bore witness of Lagrimari soldiers on her mountain. The odd Elsiran had been convinced he was still in Lagrimar. That meant he’d crossed the Mantle without even knowing it. Was this the start of another breach war, or something else entirely?

The snow fell steadily as the men wandered down the mountain. They took paths that led nowhere, then would double back and end up bickering about how whichever of them who was supposed to be leading the way was stupider than a fergot zinteroch, whatever that was. They used Lagrimari words Papa had never taught her.

The temperature seemed to drop another few degrees as they quarreled, and she pulled her coat tighter. A whispered prayer to the Queen Who Sleeps left her lips, asking for protection during the storm. Following the men had been an impulse, one born of guilt. If she had believed the odd Elsiran, could she have helped him avoid the men? There was little she could do for him now, not until her Song restored itself, but she was unable to walk away and leave him to his fate.

It made no sense; he was nobody to her. Just another Elsiran. Except . . . He had not stared at her or been cruel. He had, in fact, shielded her from those men, put himself in their path so they would not find her. Why would he do such a thing?

More than curiosity motivated her, more than guilt. What more she could not say, but she followed the soldiers for hours as the storm began in earnest, pelting her with cold. The direct route she’d planned to take would have had her home and warm in bed by now, but she did not change course, even as the men took wrong turn after wrong turn. Dawn poked its head over the jagged peaks, and with its arrival came the crowing of a rooster. The soldiers stopped short at a fork in the path. Jasminda knew that crow all too well.

The men conferred for a moment and chose to follow the crowing. The mountain made the sound seem closer than it really was, but the sign of civilization could not be mistaken. Emotion battled within her, relief to be headed out of the storm and alarm that these strangers were now on a path that led only one place.

Her home.

The Elsiran had regained his senses by now, and instead of being dragged behind the men like a sack of beets, he stumbled along, his hands tied in front of him. The men climbed down the mountain, leaving the storm behind bit by bit. The snow and ice would grow worse over the next few days, but it would stay at the higher elevations. The valley where her home lay would remain lush and green, protected from the harsh weather either by the mountains surrounding it, or some lingering spell of Papa’s, or perhaps a little of both. But there would be no way out. These men would be trapped in an area that was only a two-hour walk from end to end. They would find her cabin; there was no way to avoid it.

She doubled back and took a shortcut she usually avoided, though it had been a favorite of her brothers. It involved a very steep climb, required scaling several large boulders, and brought her far too near one of the caves that peppered the mountain. She ignored the yawning black opening and focused on beating the men to her cabin.

Awake now for over twenty-four hours, she pushed herself far beyond exhaustion. Snow made the rocks slippery, and she lost her footing and slid down an embankment, skinning her hands and forearms. She picked herself up, ignoring the injury, and raced to her cabin, confident she had at least twenty minutes before the soldiers arrived.

She hurried to the barn, where she found the goats already awake, agitated and jittery, no doubt because of the storm. They were like her, craving peace and quiet. Any interruption to their routine or change in the weather troubled the sensitive creatures. She checked their food then barred the outer barn door to keep them from wandering.

Her next stop was the cabin, where she set down her bag and retrieved her shotgun. She carried a pistol with her on trips to town, but the shotgun was her favorite. It was almost an antique but shot straight and true. She loaded it with the shells she’d purchased the day before, then sat on the porch steps. Waiting.