The Songbird

Chapter 18: Nameless

The masses were lined up in droves, a sea of clothing characterized as both rich and destitute depending on who you looked at. Dots of blue and red caught the light, even if no one would look up.

Dante huffed as he dismounted from his horse, a bundle of new cloths laid across his arm in case anyone needed a replacement.

He hated Collection Day. Jess, Sam, and Izan hated Collection Day. And after last week, that hatred had only grown tenfold among the four of them. As if it wasn't enough for it to be deathly boring, but an added danger of explosions gave the entire thing a new veil of scrutiny. Dante understood that Abbott's treasury had to stay full, but he didn't understand why they had to collect it. The King had an entire collection of insignificant servants that could do just as good of a job.

It was a chore made all the more unpleasant by the people they collected from.

They'd only just begun, but the anger from alley dwellers was thick enough to cut through Dante's armor. Nobody dared challenge him though as he held out his hands for their coins.

No one outside of the knights, Abbott, and whatever prisoners they interrogated knew what his magic was. There were whispers and rumors, of course, all of which proved to be vastly entertaining. Part of him wondered what these people would do if they knew, if they'd fall at their feet or run away in terror. But he preferred they not know, and the King had agreed. Just the uncertainty was enough to keep them in line, angry as he knew they were. Defiant as they wish they could be.

He went down the line of people before him, inspecting their cloths and taking their dues. An exchange of money here. A new cloth given there. A glance over everyone's head to find Sam and make sure he was alright, then repeated with Jess and Izan. Dante doubted there'd be another attack so soon, but a part of him would always worry about the others. A horde of people in The Joiner's Square, and he only cared about those three.

Dante moved on to the next person, looking down at a young woman with a hooded cloak wrapped around herself.

"Hold out your cloth," he commanded, voice sluggish from the phrase he'd used countless times already. She did so wordlessly, and he fought the urge to roll his eyes.

It was such a shriveled piece of fabric, the red color so faded and riddled with rips, frays, and splotches that it could hardly be presentable. Even the tips where it was tied were blackened, despite her best efforts to tuck it in. "You'll need a new one," he said.

"I'd prefer to keep it," she replied, voice no louder than a whisper. But even that whisper scratched at his mind, hinting at something that felt familiar. She pressed her coins into his palms, almost as if she were trying to make him forget the topic at hand. Dante looked at them, surprised to find pieces of pure silver among the rusted ones. Then, he caught sight of Abbott's insignia on them just as the girl lifted her eyes to his.

The displaced familiarity suddenly had an answer.

"I remember you," Dante said. "You're that girl who sang on top of the fountain."

* * * * * * *

You're that boy who imprisons people in darkness, Mina wanted to say, body stiff even as it begged to tremble. And you'd do the same to me if you knew who I was.

* * * * * * *

The memory was in his mind's eye, the sound of her voice that had practically begged Dante to keep listening...listening...

Tell me how to find you, he remembered begging the strange apparition from his dreams, one who was faceless. Just as the figure in Jesmyn's dreams was always faceless.