The Deathsinger: Book 1

Ch. 4: Rumor

"There's a Deathsinger in Edresh."

"A Deathsinger... Your kind is known to us."

Damning words followed me all the way back to my room. Every so often, I checked over my shoulder, but I was not consoled by the empty corridor stretching behind me. Not when its corners were cloaked in shadows that could conceal assassins with the power to harm the most powerful elf in our realm. What was I compared to the king?

"A Deathsinger."

For ten years, I worked to convince myself it didn't matter where I came from because that life was over. The desperate need to understand how I lost my memories died the day the soldiers pulled me out of the cabin in the woods and took me into the city, and a determination to survive no matter the price replaced it.

When my abilities manifested, I questioned whether I could keep living this way, especially when I stood by and watched Wardens drag girls in for interrogation. I sensed their impending death each time, and I did nothing, even knowing—the same way I knew they would die—that they were innocent. But it would be my head adorning the gate if anyone found out what I could do.

I slipped into my bedroom, closed the door, and leaned against it. Head tilted back, I blinked away hot tears. I might cry for others, like the prince, but I would not waste tears on myself. They were a weakness I could not afford.

The weak light of a waxing moon filled my chamber, offering me enough light to maneuver around furniture in the cramped space. Being Astreia's companion afforded me with several perks, like nice clothes and fancy meals, but they drew the line at lavish living quarters.

And by they, I meant the queen. She was of the opinion that they should only spend money on what someone else could see, and they assigned me to a room in the servant's quarters. Not that I minded. As much as I loved Astreia and Tievel, I always felt out of place in their glittering world, not because I didn't like the shine, but because no amount of money spent on polish could make the other elves see me as anything but a low elf.

Going to my bed, I crawled into the center without undressing and pulled my knees to my chest. Through the window, I could see the roofs of the tallest buildings in the city. The oldest were flat, having been built when winters were temperate and snow happened once every few years. All that had changed in the last few years, with each winter growing colder than the last. Steep sloped roofs topped the newer buildings to better bear the weight of heavy snow.

I overheard a group of pixies talking about the changes once while Astreia and I were on Market Street shopping. They huddled together—their filthy rags doing little to keep them warm in the harsh cold. It had been hard to hear over the buzzing of their iridescent wings, fragile and frosted. If they stopped moving, they might never start again—but I heard enough to know that their spoken words echoed my secret thoughts.

Cursed. The war might be over, but it was no longer clear if we had been victorious. And now a darker thought came to me. Perhaps I was part of the blight upon the city.

"Are you going to sit in the dark all evening?"

I sucked in a gasp, preparing to let loose a scream this time, when a flame flared brightly across the room. A small figure blew out the match and twisted the knob on the lantern, and the room flooded with golden light.

"Joreen," I snarled, slapping my hands on the thin mattress and glaring at her. "Why are you in my room?"

The rickety desk chair creaked as the vixen leaned forward, her ever present mischievous grin plastered on her pointed face. "Because you left it unlocked."

"No." I swung my legs over the side of the bed and smoothed my skirts. "That's how you got into the room. Why are you in the room?"

Joreen clicked her tongue. "Are you sure you're not part Vixen, Morana? Always so clever."