They didn’t need to be told twice. Their group sat around a fire and devoured the bowls of stew that were handed to them. Inga was clearly these people’s leader; they treated their elder with deference, and she exuded serenity and wisdom.
“What is this place?” Ivayne asked around a bite of food. “You’re the first people we’ve seen all week—well, other than those men who just tried to kill us.”
Inga nodded grimly. “The Songless. We do not claim them as our own.” She motioned to the people around her. “We are what’s left of our world, at least in these parts where the storms rage on. We left our homes to seek shelter here. From the storms—and the Soulless One’s creatures.” Her gray eyes peered at Emory intently.“It’s no easy feat to vanquish these beasts of ash the way you have been doing. You have power in you.”
Emory squirmed under her gaze. “I wasn’t alone in defeating them this time.” She looked over at the redheaded girl who’d sat down next to Inga. “You’re the one who sang out there, weren’t you?”
The girl gave Emory a gap-toothed smile in answer. “They don’t like it when I sing.”
“Elín is one of the few of us still able to call on the Celestials’ magic through song,” Inga explained. She leaned in close to Elín and, in a slightly chastising voice, added, “But she must use that power sparingly so as not to anger the Soulless One.”
Elín pouted but answered with a respectful, “Yes, elder.”
“The Celestials,” Emory began tentatively, “they’re gods of yours?”
“They ruled the skies, long ago,” Inga said, “forming a great pantheon of gods whose power we could call upon with music.”
“Music is what gives a soul to the universe,” Elín recited proudly, “so the Celestials give miracles in return for us feeding that soul.”
Inga pinched her cheek. “That’s right. Songs were like bargaining chips. Different instruments and melodies were associated with different Celestials. There were innocent songs, the ones that called on the more benevolent Celestials who powered us with small magics. Speed and strength, courage and love, talent and renown. Heightened tracking skills. The ability to not grow cold in winters. Protection over one’s flock. A talent for storytelling or dancing. Then there were the songs one dared not play unless willing to accept the consequences that came with the more powerful Celestials’ magic. Stopping avalanches from swallowing villages whole. Diverting storms. Healing abilities that could pull someone from the brink of death. These types of magics came with consequences.”
“What kind of consequences?” asked Emory, eyeing Elín.
“It varied depending on the Celestial who answered. Some had to give years off their life. Others would simply find themselves quickly depleted of energy after wielding their miracle.”
“I get headaches,” Elín said. “But they don’t last too long. At least the Soulless One hasn’t taken my voice.”
“Yet,” Inga said pointedly, and Elín’s smug smile faltered. “The Soulless One was once part of the same pantheon of gods as the Celestials. If the Celestials were gods of peaceful skies and order, responsible for things such as the turning of the seasons and the small miracles of life, then the Soulless One was the god of storms and mayhem. Disruption of nature. They worked in tandem with one another. Equally revered and respected. But then something changed. All we remember is that the Soulless One brought down the entire pantheon of Celestials, silencing them forever. He made himself into the sole deity of our world, ushering in this dark, songless reign of storms and terror.”
“You mean he still lives?” Virgil asked, frowning.
“Oh yes,” Inga said gravely. “Who do you think is responsible for these endless storms? Who controls the creatures who terrorize our world, those soulless beasts made of storm and dust and death? The Soulless One is hunting for songs, for power. Has been for as long as I can remember.”
Virgil met Emory’s eye, and she knew what he was thinking. The Soulless One was supposed to be this world’s version of Sidraeus. But how could that be, if Sidraeus had been trapped in the sleepscape for centuries?
“What about those men we encountered who wielded lightning bolts and rode winged horses?” Vera asked.
Inga seemed to consider her words. “We call them the Songless. Back in the age of Celestials, they were considered… different. Blessed, by some standards, because they did not have tocall on any god with music to wield magic. Cursed, some would say, for their power was that of the Soulless One: the ability to call on storms. It’s no wonder they still follow the Soulless One today. They are his faithful warriors, terrorizing any who come in their way.”
It sounded like the Songless were the equivalent of the Eclipse-born, the result of Sidraeus’s magic, like the hellwraiths in the Wychwood and the eldritch beasts in the Heartland.
“Has no one been able to stop the Soulless One and his followers?” Emory asked.
Inga sighed. “We had thought—hoped—that one of our own would defeat the Soulless One and bring back the Celestials, but…”
“Orfeyi!” Elín exclaimed. “He’s my cousin and his song healed his mother, but he was struck by lightning and survived, which means he’s Godstouched, and then he took the lyre up the mountain and—”
Inga laughed, stopping Elín’s excited rambling. “Take a breath, child.” Her gaze trailed over to a woman sitting alone not too far from them, her face drawn, her eyes red-rimmed. “Orfeyi healed his mother with magic more powerful than anything we’ve seen in a long time. So we sent him to the Godsgate not so long ago, but he never returned to us. And since the storms have kept raging and the Soulless One seems to have grown more powerful…”
She didn’t finish her thought, eyes darting to an unsuspecting Elín with profound sadness. Emory understood. Orfeyi clearly hadn’t defeated the Soulless One.
“Did Orfeyi have a mark like this?” she asked, showing Inga the spiral scar on her wrist.
Inga’s eyes went wide. “Yes. That—you are Godstouched too?”
“Sort of. We’re not exactly from around here.”
Virgil choked on a laugh. “That’s a subtle way of saying we’re from another world.”
