Page 4 of The Song Rising

One of the newcomers—a pale redhead—actually curtsyed. “Th-thank you, Underqueen. We’re honored to be part of the Mime Order.”

“You don’t need to curtsy.”

Leaving them in Leon’s capable hands, I made my way to the top floor. My deepest injuries still throbbed, but we had just enough medicine to keep the pain under control.

The surveillance center was eleven floors up. When I entered, I found Tom the Rhymer and the Glym Lord—two of my high commanders—eating breakfast and poring over a map of the citadel, which showed the positions of newly installed Senshield scanners: our latest concern. Numa were spread among the paperwork and laptops on the table: shew stones, keys, a knife, and a fist-sized crystal ball.

“Good morning to you, Underqueen,” Glym said.

“We have a problem.”

Tom raised his bushy eyebrows. “Now, that’s no way to greet anyone at this time of the morning. I’ve not even finished my coffee.” He pulled out a chair for me. “What’s the matter?”

“Jaxon’s supporters burned down the Juditheon.”

He sighed. “Maria told us. They’re small fry.”

“Even so, it’s not something we can ignore for much longer.” I poured a coffee for myself. “We need to consolidate the syndicate, and fast. A replacement for Jaxon would be a good start.” I said it more to myself than to them. “How are you both getting on?”

“New recruits are arriving daily,” Glym said. “We need far more, of course, but I have no concerns at this stage. Many voyants seem to be taking to the idea of the Mime Order, and the more of them that join us, the more will feel emboldened to follow them into our ranks.”

Tom nodded. “We rescued a pair last night—mediums. They were caught by a Senshield scanner. I had a vision of it happening; Glym sent some of his people to where we knew they would be hiding.” He cleared his throat and glanced at Glym. “They had an . . . interesting story. Said the scanner went off, but they couldnaseeit. They just heard the alarm.”

I frowned. Scion had started to put Senshield scanners in the Underground—an unwelcome development—but they were so big that it was fairly easy to avoid them. “They must have seen it—they’re huge. Where was this?”

“I havena heard all the details yet.”

“Send your mollisher to investigate. I don’t like the sound of it.”

I purloined a ginger bun before I left, causing Tom to gather the rest protectively into their box.

Downstairs, in the training room, daylight spilled through the broken windows, dappling the concrete and the disused machines. At some point, a cave-in had taken out most of the ceiling; you could see up to the pearl-gray sky. There were rings for cell members to train in physical and spirit combat, as well as a knife range.

At Terebell’s command, the Ranthen had taken to regularly visiting cells to help our recruits hone their skills. Pleione Sualocin was in the ring on the left side of the room, teaching spirit combat. The voyants around her were transfixed by their instructor.

“When the spool makes contact with your opponent’s aura, the spirits will unleash a disturbing sequence of images, disorienting them. However, a weak spool can be deflected or broken. To hold true, spools must be tightly bound. In the fell tongue, we call this artweaving.” She cast a gloved hand in front of her, lacing the spirits together. When she saw me, she let them go and said to her students, “There are enough spirits in this building for you to practice with. Go.”

The class raced off. Some of them mumbled “Underqueen” as they passed me. Pleione watched them leave.

“The sovereign-elect has asked me to inform you that she will be carrying out an inspection of the I Cohort cells tomorrow,” she said to me.

“Fine.”

The light in her irises burned low; she was hungry. I had forbidden all the Ranthen from feeding on the voyants in my care, forcing them to lie in wait for those who lived outside the syndicate. It hadn’t done much to improve their temperaments.

“Terebell is disappointed,” she continued, “that you have had no success in erasing the influence of the arch-traitor from London.”

“Trust me, I’m trying.”

“I advise you to try harder, dreamwalker.”

She gave me a wide berth as she left. I was used to it by now.

Mutual hatred of Jaxon was holding us together, but barely. All of the Ranthen knew now that he was the human who had betrayed them the first time they had revolted against the Sargas, the ruling family of Rephaim. I wasn’t wholly sure that I had been spared from guilt by association. After all, I had worked for the arch-traitor, their sworn enemy, for three years—it was hard to believe that I had never noticed anything, never learned his dirty secret.

There were voyants sparring nearby. An augur rolled a spool together and hurled it at the other Rephaite instructor, who was standing in the middle of the ring.

Warden. A quick motion of his hand shattered the spool and put the spirits to flight.

---