Song of Blood & Stone (Earthsinger Chronicles #1)(52)

“Is there a chance of that?”

“Of them living here or living happily?”

“Happily. Ever after,” she said softly. “There are five hundred years of reasons for our people to hate one another.”

Even as she spoke, Jasminda was not certain who she had meant by “our people.” She had not told Jack about meeting Calladeen, convincing herself it was nothing, simply an aristocrat looking down his nose at her. She expected nothing less. But there were other things she didn’t mention. The whispers and glances following her about the palace. The scowls from the Royal Guardsmen, snickers from passing maids. She felt like a monster on display. The gruesome sideshow act everyone stared at. No one had been overtly rude—she had not heard anything specific—but the fear and distrust followed her.

Only with Jack was she comfortable, safe, happy. Could the refugees ever have that sort of security on Elsiran soil?

“Everyone has the right to seek happiness. I wish I could guarantee it, but I am only a prince.”

She traced a pattern across his chest, then placed a kiss over his heart.

“Very well,” she said. “I will go talk to them.”

He took her hands in his and kissed them. “Thank you.”

Jasminda nestled her body even closer to him as he dozed. She stayed awake for the next few hours, enjoying the feeling of their intimacy before duty and responsibility took him away from her.

The first light of dawn glowed pink through the windows. The early-morning sky was so different in her valley. With this new task heavy on her shoulders, she longed even more for the simplicity of the farm. For a Jack who was not a prince and would be happy with a quiet life. She would teach him to herd and plant, and they would spend evenings in front of the fire, reading and talking and making love.

In this imagined life, she would have her own family, a place to belong that could never be taken away. People around her who looked at her only with love. And her parents and brothers would live on in the tales she’d tell her children and then their children.

Jack awakened when the first rays of light hit the bed. She pretended to be asleep as he dressed, kissed her forehead, then slipped out the door. The bubble of Jasminda’s dream popped. She was alone in a strange bed, in a strange city, about to go and meet more strange people.

She rolled into the warm spot Jack had vacated, plunging her nose to the mattress to capture his lingering scent. She stole a few more minutes in bed, grasping the threads of her impossible dream before facing what lay before her.




The camp loomed larger than it had a few days before. Jasminda was not sure how many refugees were housed here, but little white tents filled her vision. The same driver as the day before pulled up to the entrance and let her out, then returned to the town car to wait out her visit.

She stood wide-eyed, surrounded by rifle-wielding soldiers and unsure where to begin. Tents were organized in wide and narrow lanes alternating in a grid, marked with letters and numbers. She walked along the wide center path, observing the mid-morning camp life. The subdued atmosphere hung thick and heavy. Women huddled in small groups outside their tents, mending clothes or doing laundry in small wash bins. Children sat quietly, often clutching ragged dolls. The raucous laughter and play she’d seen in the tiny mountain town was absent, the light in the children’s eyes dim.

“So you return to us, eh?” a familiar voice said.

Jasminda turned to find Gerda standing behind her, hands on her hips. Jasminda offered a weak smile.

“Come, child,” the old woman said before marching away down one of the narrow alleys. Jasminda followed. They turned corner after corner, passing identical white tents, moving deeper into the camp until she had no hope of finding the entrance again. Finally, Gerda stopped in front of a tent with a strange symbol painted on the outside.

“What does this mean?” Jasminda asked.

Gerda’s eyes narrowed. “Can you not read Lagrimari, child?”

Jasminda’s cheeks grew hot, and she shook her head. “My father had no books with him when he came here. We learned to read only in Elsiran. Is this how Lagrimari looks?”

“She’s not one of us. She shouldn’t be here.”

Jasminda held back a groan. She spun to face Rozyl, who stood behind her.

“Slumming it, are we?” the woman spat.

Jasminda’s jaw tightened. “No, I was sent here to help. To translate, if needed. There has been some trouble with the soldiers?”

The scarred woman’s face contorted into a sneer. “It doesn’t take a translator to know what these pigs’ sons think of us.”

“Rozyl, hush,” Gerda said, and motioned toward the tent. “Let us go inside, beyond the reach of prying ears.”

Jasminda scanned the area. The soldiers only manned the perimeter of the camp; she had seen none in the interior. What prying ears was Gerda afraid of?

“What is going on?” Jasminda asked.

“A meeting,” Gerda said.

“I don’t want to intrude.”

Rozyl snorted in disbelief, and Jasminda tensed, restraining herself from turning on the woman and letting her temper reign.

“You are needed at this meeting, child,” Gerda said, her gruff voice softening a bit.

When she pulled back the tent flap, Jasminda took a deep breath. Casting a glance at a scowling Rozyl, she ducked into the tent. Gerda, Rozyl, and several others followed her in. It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior. With their arrival, the small space had grown quite crowded. Over a dozen people sat spiraled around the camp stove in the center. She took a place at the outside of the spiral, near the door.