Song of Blood & Stone (Earthsinger Chronicles #1)(80)

Vanesse’s brow furrowed, but she nodded. “I will pray for us to meet again.” And then she was gone.

Within a half hour, Jasminda was herded toward a bus with the others. A soldier pushed her roughly into a seat and locked her handcuffs around the bar, securing her in place.

Rozyl tripped up the steps, a soldier at her back. The two locked eyes. “I guess you’re one of us now,” the Keeper said, her lip curling up. The soldier shoved her toward the back of the bus.

Jasminda pressed her head against the window and slumped in her seat, her mind racing. She had no intention of being dragged into Lagrimar, especially with the caldera heavy in her pocket. Besides the obvious lack of appeal of living in a land she knew nothing about, she could not allow the stone to fall into the hands of the Lagrimari. Even if she could not figure out all of its secrets, she must keep it concealed. That meant finding a way to escape as soon as she could.

The picture in her hand burned with almost as many memories as the caldera. Seeing the faces of her family again gave her hope. She stared at the picture until the bus pulled forward and the long journey began.

A sudden jerk brought her back to the present. Through the windshield, the headlamps illuminated only a few feet ahead of them. The rest was inky blackness, rain tapping a staccato beat on the roof. The driver took to the radio, inquiring as to whether they would be stopping due to the hazardous conditions. The only response was static.

Flash floods pooled in the dips of the road, and crackles of lightning raced across the sky, illuminating the scenery in quick flashes. Lush, fertile farmland stretched on around them. The driver shouted a curse and twisted the steering wheel violently. Jasminda slid in her seat, banging her shoulder against the window. Headlights flew past the hulking form of a cow in the middle of the road, and the bus careened in an attempt to miss it. Water sloshed around the tires as the massive vehicle tilted, the driver unable to wrestle back control.

They teetered that way for agonizing seconds, everyone frozen in shock. Then the bus was falling, pushed off the road and onto its right side. It slid down the muddy incline and flipped again. Jasminda squeezed her eyes, holding her body rigid as the impact of the crash shook her body.




Lizvette’s only movement came from the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. She didn’t move so much as an eyelid in order to blink. She sat rigid in the chair, hands clasped neatly in her lap.

Jack, on the other hand, was all motion, pacing the floor of the sitting room in the Niralls’ residence suite. Two Guardsmen stood at the door. Jack did not trust himself to speak yet, so they all waited in silence.

Then a knock sounded and a terrified maid was led in by the same Guardsman from the dungeon.

“Is this the woman who delivered this note, Captain?” Jack asked.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“And you . . .” He rounded on the maid who shrank into the Guard still holding her arm. He gentled his voice and posture; there was no need to give the poor woman a heart attack. “Who gave you this letter?” He held up the forged paper.

The maid’s eyes darted back and forth between Lizvette and Jack.

“It’s all right, Cora,” Lizvette said. “You can tell him.”

“Miss Lizvette gave it to me, Your Grace.”

“Thank you,” said Jack. “You may go back to work. All of you.” He made a motion with his hand and the room cleared, leaving him alone with Lizvette. He did not face her, could hardly bear to look at her.

“Where is she?” he ground out.

“On a bus with the other refugees.”

He dropped his head into his hand. “Why?”

“It was the best place for her.”

Jack spun to look at her. “And that was your decision?” His supposedly healed wound throbbed angrily, as though the grief and pain were trying to claw their way out through his chest. He wrenched open the door and ordered the Guardsman outside to radio the refugee caravan and pull Jasminda off the bus.

“And was it you who destroyed her dress?” he said, resuming his pacing.

Her head shot up, brows furrowed. “Her dress?”

“Her ball gown, ripped and burned and left in front of my office today.”

Lizvette blinked slowly and took a deep breath. “That wasn’t me.”

“Do you know who it was?”

She notched her chin up higher and stared straight ahead.

Jack made an exasperated sound and crouched before her, careful to maintain his distance. “Tell me.”

A single tear trailed down her cheek. Her jaw quivered. “I think it was Father,” she whispered.

“Nirall?” Jack reared back on his heels, almost falling. He braced himself with a hand on the floor and shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

Her hands were squeezed together so hard, the tips of her fingernails had lost all color. She shook her head and another tear escaped her eye. Those were more tears than Jack had ever seen her shed in her entire life. She had always been a stoic child, never screaming or crying, not even when injured. Everything kept bottled up inside, even now.

Her whole body vibrated as if the strength it took her to remain composed had run out and pure chaos reigned underneath her placid exterior. She was at war with herself. Jack could see it plainly. Her distress stole a measure of rancor from his anger.