Page 25 of Burning Her Beautiful
She laughs, soft and incredulous. “Borrowing signatures from demon lords now? You are incorrigible.”
“That is my charm,” I whisper. We embrace again, longer this time, before I retreat into the mist. Garrik materializes beside me as if conjured by farewell.
“Laundry army recruited?” he drawls.
“Give them a day,” I reply. “They will run the palace before you can oil your blades.”
He huffs a laugh, then shadows my return to the tower.
Late afternoon finds me hunched over a resonance console in Varok’s laboratory, adjusting copper dials that encircle a quartz pillar. Each turn of the gear alters the pitch humming through the stone; tiny amber glyphs pulse in time with my heartbeat. The laboratory windows overlook the chasm beyond the palace wall, and every now and then a stray lightning flare paints the crystal with ghostly fire.
Sael arrives balancing a tray of vegetable stew and seed bread. She lingers at the threshold until I beckon her in.
“Stay,” I invite. “I need ears that know how rock sings. Will you listen?”
Her mismatched hazel and brown eyes widen, but she sets the tray on a stool and perches on the floor beside the console. I ask about the miner song she mentioned yesterday, a pattern used to gauge safe fractures. She hums a descending minor scale, soft as thread. The quartz responds with a quake so gentle I feel it only through my fingertips. Joy sparks.
“If we embed this underneath a banquet hall,” I muse, “a single hum could shatter every goblet without cracking stone.”
Sael giggles behind her hand, the sound shy and delighted. “May I hear what you plan?”
I outline the vision—codes traveling through pipes, crystals acting as nodes. She nods, leaning in. We tap timings against the crystal until the pillar flickers green with potential. By thetime she returns to evening duties, we have the skeleton of a communication web.
Dusk steals in, painting corridors violet. The empty root cellar off the main kitchen feels colder than memory, but its thick stone walls promise secrecy. Ten humans gather beneath sputtering lanterns: Lys, Sael, two kitchen boys, three laundry women, Jonn the chain-maker with scarred palms, and a fragile-looking groom who nevertheless crushes iron nails into neat spirals while he waits. Garrik stands by the arch, arms crossed, eyes sweeping each face for threats. He does not speak, yet his presence shields us.
I climb onto an upturned crate and clear my throat. Lantern flames flutter, sending shadows dancing across the ceiling.
“A collar weighs less than a stone,” I begin, “but it crushes dreams all the same. We cannot lift it by brute strength alone. So we use whispers, and those whispers will become wind.”
Lys squeezes my ankle in encouragement. I demonstrate the hum code: a low note for watchmen, a paired trill for safe passage, a high sustained pitch for urgent summons. Sael hums alongside me, her voice guiding others into resonance. We practice until every throat vibrates with shared purpose.
Jonn raises a battered hand. “And if these whispers are heard?”
“Then we scatter like embers,” I say, “and we burn in different corners until the fire meets again.”
Eyes gleam, some frightened, some hungry. No one refuses the plan.
When the lanterns sputter low, Garrik ushers them out in small clusters. He pauses beside me while Sael extinguishes the last flame.
“You plant more than whispers tonight,” he says quietly. “You plant loyalty.”
“Loyalty nurtured by hope,” I reply, tugging the hood up. “It grows faster than fear.”
He nods once, and we part ways down diverging corridors.
Night settles thick and windless over the tower when I step onto the balcony. Varok stands at the rail, backlit by a half moon that floats between tower spires like a pale coin. The enchanted vines, quiescent all day, rustle awake at his presence, leaves brushing his forearms in greeting.
I move beside him, resting my elbows on the cool stone. From this height the cloud ocean spreads endless, silvered by moonlight. A hush stretches between us, serene yet charged.
“Council chatter?” I ask.
He releases a breath. “They chase Sarivya’s scent but stumble over her perfumes.” He turns, and moonlight spills across his face, accentuating the subtle strain around his eyes. “I heard you visited the washhouses.”
“They were overdue for a song,” I say lightly. “And I collected musicians.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Your orchestra may topple kingdoms.” Admiration warms his tone, a balm against the day’s trials.
We exchange the events of our separate missions, aligning strategies for Yalira’s decree. A comfortable silence follows, broken only by leaf sighs. He studies my braid where the moon-white blossom still nestles.
