Song of Sundering Read online

  Someone knocked on the door. His father, Kingston Cross, the unofficial ruler of Century, walked to the door. Head up. Tall. Proud. Broken inside.

  Pardee, one of the field hands, appeared as Kingston opened the door. James watched the man shuffle in, seemingly oblivious to the state of the two of them until he had sat down at the table at the front of the room. Pardee’s eyes met James’. Then they drifted over the boy’s face, down to his small, shaking hands. He put the pieces together.

  “Oh, Kingston,” he said quietly. It was all there was to say.

  “Tell me about the livestock,” Papa asked him.

  Pardee shook his head. “It’s nothing we can’t handle.” He looked from Kingston over to James. “Is there anything you guys need?”

  Kingston leaned in close to Pardee and said something James could not hear. The man nodded, then stood to leave.

  A few minutes later his father rejoined him, sitting in silence on the bed. James heard people come in the back door, moving around the bedroom.

  His mother was being removed. A nice grave would appear in the back, he knew. They had buried his grandpa there. It would be clean and neat and give away no details about the horrible way his mother had died. All that was left was the red stain in the floor of his papa’s bedroom.

  2

  Shara

  13 Years Later

  Autumn, 82 A.S.

  * * *

  Shara moved through the dark and quiet streets of Prin. She could feel her unknowing mother’s disapproval like a foul gaze on her back. Though she knew that her mother was unaware of her escapade, she could not help but look over her shoulder periodically to make sure that there was no shadow in the form of her mother. Or, more likely, in the shape of one of her mother’s many men: soldiers or spies. Ayna Shae had eyes all over Prin. It surprised Shara that she could get out at all without her mother knowing.

  Shara had changed out of her embroidered silk and velvet dress. She had donned a pair of denim pants she had bought off a worker that came to the Shae home. They were slightly too large for her, hanging low and buckling forward from the weight of the metal buttons. Shara had left the button-up shirt free at the bottom to hide the way her pants fell forward. As she walked near the shadowed brick wall that opened from an alley onto the main street, she played with the edges of the over-sized shirt, twisting it tight, then remembered the gap between her skin and the waistband of the pants she was openly exposing. She dropped the shirt and smoothed it out as she would one of her dresses when she stood from sitting after a long states dinner her mother made the family attend.

  Jon was often late, so Shara forced herself to maintain a slow pace as she moved toward the meeting spot. She was usually early. It was the curse of their outings; Shara doomed herself to wait and work herself up into a ball of anxiety before Jon came sauntering down the street. He was her guide. The Underground was a maze of collapsed sewers, train tracks, and subway stations. Topsiders that went into the Underground without a guide rarely came out again. Not only was the Underground wet, dirty and sure to ruin any beautiful piece of clothing, but nice clothes would make a Topsider stick out. Blending in wasn’t just necessary for Shara to enjoy the evening, but also for her to survive it.

  She measured each step in her mind as it echoed in the empty streets. The state buildings were a short walk up the road to the west. Straight ahead of the alley in which Shara walked, the looming buildings blocked out the stars behind them. The largest buildings lay here, near the state buildings, at the center of Prin. And next to the heart of all they had built since Prin’s establishment 80 years ago, sat the Nagata. It dwarfed all the buildings. The old generation ship had crashed down from orbit when the Sundering had happened and had not moved since. The old hunk of metal and ceramic reflected the stars dully. The original settlers of Prin stripped her of most of her panels and innards and put them to use elsewhere. They had created half the cobblestones that formed the main street from the ceramic re-entry panels. The founding Illara of Prin had forged the other half, and the bindings between them, with source, reshaping the red rocks of the surrounding land into cobblestones. The merging of technology that the Terrans aboard the Nagata brought with them, augmented by the source the Illara had brought to Sunterra, had formed so much of Prin.

  Without a spaceport or the means to climb around the Nagata with ease, the Illara had manipulated the trees and stone. Where most of the Nagata's missing panels were on the east side of the ship, carefully forged rock rose and intertwined with trees and vines to form scaffolding made entirely of natural elements. Workers had then scaled the Illara's scaffolding to rip pieces off the ship. Initially, the parts had been used to construct buildings and fortifications for the fledgling town, but even those original buildings had been gutted and reconstructed repeatedly. The Nagata Outpost had become a vast farming community before it condensed itself back down to what it was today: the most significant settlement of survivors of the Sundering.

  There were other settlements. Some were nearby. Most of those were still farming communities. There were rumors of a few along the east coast. Ceafield, the mercenary town, was well established in the southern swamplands. What little data came over the Satellite Network verified that there were a few communities in what had been Europe. Praha and Roubaix sent updates to her mother occasionally. There had been discussions about rebuilding long-distance travel options, but when it came down to working on them, it quickly became clear that Prin was the only location that had enough stability to develop luxuries beyond basic survival, and with the Xenai army heading toward them, that luxury was fading quickly. Neither colony in Europe had enough to offer Prin in trade to justify the work that Prin would have to put in to get functioning aeroplanes.

  Shara did not let these facts get in her imagination's way. She had spent hours on her father's lap, looking at his LightTab with him. Praha was her favorite. The gothic architecture, the spires, the feel of the place spoke to her. She wanted to go there. She imagined that someday she would, and that would be where she’d meet her husband. Inevitably, her marriage would be political, just as her grandmother's had been. Just as her mother's had been. But, from duty had sprung a deep well of love between her parents, and Shara figured any multi-national political union could also be filled with love if it started in a place like Praha.

  Praha and Roubaix had inspired her father in their own way. His political career took a turn into city planning not long after he had married Ayna. This had led to Prin’s main corridor being filled with buildings that spoke of European inspiration, from the cathedrals of old London to the bulbous spires of Russia. The central state building, where her mother kept offices, was inspired by a famous structure in a place in the old world called Tehran. Shara could see the shadow of its upside down 'V' off in the distance. The base of the shape swirled into concentric circles that swept up into grand ramps and stairways behind, branching off to various floors. It had taken her father nearly 30 years to build the state house. They had used up the last of the materials the Nagata had on hand to print her own repair parts. In the night, it looked like a bulb of darkness that came to a sudden point. Shara turned her back to the building and headed towards the shanties.

  As more and more of the outskirts of Prin encountered problems, those that were not beholden to their fields or cattle had come to Prin for shelter and security. Prin had to make do. The Underground had flourished in the past few years. It was this growth that led Shara to this alley tonight. Along with the masses of people that filled every livable corner of the various structures of Prin, had come layers of culture. They performed spoken-word stories and poetry a few times a month, and Shara snuck out of her tightly guarded home in her shabbiest clothing to attend.

  These were nights when she was not the half-breed daughter of the most prominent political couple in Prin. She was not the First Inari. She was not the Peace of Prin. She was not responsible for these people, but one of them. She savored each moment.<
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  She ran her hand along the last of the stone buildings as they gave way to the fallen buildings that had never been rebuilt after the sundering, but had still been made into homes. Residents had thrown up tarps and planks of wood where they could to segments off areas of the buildings as their own. The small fires they made for warmth were visible, flickering in between the gaps in their privacy.

  Shara walked on for another minute, coming to the barricade that desperate people pushed aside long ago. She walked between the concrete barriers that came to her waist, up to the doors of the Underground and stepped over the broken glass as she ducked through the metal frame. She paused for just a moment at the top of the metal staircase before she spied a shadow at the bottom move unexpectedly.

  Excitement rose in her as a light bloomed in the darkness below, but she still leaned against the side of the stairs as she waited. As it came closer, Jon’s form became clear. Shara pushed herself off from the rubber railing and moved down the stairs toward him when he brought his hand up in a 'stop' motion. He shook his head at her.

  No? Why not?

  He looked back over his shoulder before darting out of the shadows, across the main street, and into her alley.

  "The Artificers have moved against the Bloodsmiths. No meeting tonight."

  She opened her mouth to protest that there had to be something to do in the Underground tonight, but she could feel disapproval radiating off him, along with fear. His words sunk in.

  “Is there anything we can do? To help?” she asked, even though she knew that the question itself betrayed how entrenched she was as a topsider.

  “Yeah. Stay the fuck away.” He turned on his heel and darted back across the street.

  It had always been the Shae family.

  As she turned to retreat from her failed night Underground, Shara shivered at the cold, or perhaps at the thought of ruling. Her mind again turned to the thought of a political marriage, but without the tinge of romance. Despite her Terranity, Ayna Shae was in tune with people in a way that cast a shadow over the abilities of her Illara husband and step-children, and far surpassed Shara’s own Inari abilities to sense people. Ayna was a born mother, and so she mothered an entire city of survivors. Shara never wanted children of her own, let alone a city of people to serve as if they were her children. As Shara stepped through the doorframe, out into the streets of Prin, she kicked a piece of the shattered glass.

  Shara meandered down the streets before turning toward circular streets that made up the state home streets. As all the eligible bachelors in the ranks of the Pact came to mind, and she wondered if she could forge a loving marriage with any of them, she took a sharp left and decided she would not head home. She would go to see Hafi, General of the Pact Army and the confidant of both her herself and her mother. Stone walls gave way again to small buildings. Hafi’s own house was a well kept squat unit. She came to the crimson door she knew so well and knocked.

  As the door swung open, Hafi’s concerned look melted into a smile, and he swept Shara into a hug, enveloping her in his large frame.

  “What are doing you out here so late, little princess?” he asked as he set her back down.

  She laughed. “I was supposed to be at a poetry reading tonight in the Underground, but it was… cancelled.”

  He didn’t miss a beat. “Fighting in the Underground again. Seems like a lot of trouble for people who have no credits on either team.” The slight frown on his face turned into a small smile as he took a half step back and asked in a conspiratorial tone, “Were you heading to the place with the good sangria?”

  Shara smiled back at him—the same smile she had given him since he began training her ten years ago—and she kept her silence as she leaned over and propped herself up on the doorframe. He laughed—the same laugh he gave her when her antics amused him. He had not broken her trust in the past, and he wouldn't break it now. If her mother found out about her excursion in the morning, then Hafi would be the person who Ayna would complain to about it, and he would still keep her secret. But, for now, he was Shara’s General, not her mother’s.

  “It's not like sangria is in a good state right now, anyway—With trade with the western towns growing increasingly difficult, their fruit choices are more limited,” she replied.

  At this, he threw his head back and laughed loudly as he began to turn and retreat into the house, “Figures you would pay attention to trade issues when it effects getting good fucking sangria.”

  Shara brushed past him into the living room, giving him a shrug as she turned and dropped herself onto the couch, "A girl has to have priorities."

  Hafi sat in his winged armchair and looked her over. He could never turn off his guardian mode entirely, and she felt his eyes appraising her for wounds or any evidence she had gotten close to the fighting. She felt him relax back into the chair when his search revealed that she was unscathed.

  She donned her girlish smile again, “Did you finish aging the whiskey Mom sent you?”

  When he responded with a raised eyebrow, she shamelessly broadened her smile to the point of ridiculousness. He grunted his disapproval, but got up from his chair. She followed him into the kitchen where leftovers sat on the counter from a quick meal: roasted fowl he had half-shredded, half-sliced into thick slabs.

  “I must see if I can get my hands on some new flours that came in. I overheard the cook saying that one was the right weight to make a good pasta.” She offered.

  Hafi handed her a short glass with a few ounces of amber fluid. “It's been a while since I have had pasta... That would be an acceptable payment for this—enough flour for two weeks worth of pasta—since you know how long I take to age this stuff.” He poured himself a glass, swirled it under his nose, and smiled. “This would go well with a good Bolognese sauce. A pity to waste it on sangria-lovers who can’t appreciate the complexity of flavors.”

  “I may not appreciate it fully, but I listened to Dad droning on after he made you the cask. Something about the dark and peaty flavor that would come from the wood. And without me you'd have nothing to put your sauce on.” She took a sip and was careful not to wrinkle her nose. “What the hell does peaty mean, anyway?”

  “For the pathetically uneducated, it is the salty and smoky flavor. And, despite your father's brilliant attempts to season the wood with flavors, this really is sad compared to the real stuff.”

  She rolled her eyes at the barb and smiled. “Ah, I must ask Dad to make you a second cask with a less peaty finish for my uneducated palate. How would you know what the real stuff tasted like?”

  Hafi grunted, "Ceafield lives on salvaging. Eighty years is nothing for a properly sealed scotch bottle. They last. The Hall was filled with treasures like real Old Terra scotch."

  "The Hall? You've never told me of this glorious place."

  "Eh—it's like a museum, except the Guild uses everything in it for payment for jobs."

  Shara opened her mouth to ask about the Guild, only to get a glare from Hafi.

  "That's enough of that."

  Dark tones and quick words always ended every discussion Shara tried to create with Hafi about his mercenary days, so she turned and walked back to the living room, where she sprawled out on the couch again, half-upright, to continue drinking. She watched the liquid shift in transparency as the various sources of light around the room filtered through while she sipped it.

  “Hafi?”

  “Mmmmmf?”

  “I know things aren’t going well. Mom only works so late when there is a problem… Is it the Xenai?”

  Hafi took another sip and started eyeing her protectively again. After a moment he sighed and took a large gulp of his whiskey, “Yes. We lost the canyon this week. Completely cut off. We are mustering everyone we can with the conscription clause to go out there and defend the edge of the pass, before any Xenai get to Prin.”

  The Xenai horde so close to Prin? Shara squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, the black behind her lids seeming to s
wirl like the smoke barrier that surrounded each Xenai. She could almost see Prin—her home—enveloped in it. No wonder her mother was so busy.

  “The sorghum…?”

  Hafi gave her a nod and took another sip. Despite its hardy nature and that Prin could have used the full harvest, Ayna had elected to send almost all their usable sorghum to the south-west because of the settlements over the mountains’ lack of crops. They had hunted most species to near extinction and had almost nothing to eat besides small handfuls of foraged food. Ayna made them a deal: they would send half of their harvest to Prin, along with recruits for the Pact army: every young person between the ages of 17 and 25. Despite the lower yield, the sorghum saved the people on the other side of the mountain and provided Prin with enough of two different needed resources over the summer.

  The agreement was a sore spot for many of Prin’s leaders, given how indefensible the settlements were. If the Xenai ever attacked them, Prin would lose all their yield from the crops. And that's precisely what had just happened. Ayna would face the backlash from the other leaders, who didn’t care about the people she had saved, or that she had mustered up more soldiers for the army when Prin needed soldiers most, but only that the resources were lost.

  “How many died?”

  “We aren’t sure yet, but they completely wiped the small troop of men we had out there. Aaron Shriver sent us a message on the SatNet.”

  Aaron had been a few classes ahead of Shara in her school days, and given her age, she felt safe in assuming that he was pretty far down the command chain. That wasn't a good sign. She glanced at Hafi. He sat staring at the last drops of whiskey in his glass. His eyes flashed between sadness and anger.