I said, lifting the empty water flask like a flag of surrender.
She turned back to the spring. When she spoke, she didn’t look at me. “There used to be a bard who came through our parents’ village, a few times a year. She played the violin like nobody you’ve ever seen. Piper and I were only tiny, then—we used to sneak out after bedtime to listen.”
She said nothing more. I hesitated before speaking—I was remembering her blade at my stomach, after she’d learned that I’d seen her dreams.
“If you want to talk—” I said, eventually.
“You’re meant to be the expert on the future,” she interrupted, striding toward me and grabbing the flask. “Concentrate on that. That’s what we need you for. Keep your nose out of my past.” She knelt at the spring and wrenched the stopper out before filling the flask.
We stood facing each other. I watched the water drip from her wet hand, and I tried to come up with words that she couldn’t throw back at me.
Before I could speak, the music stopped suddenly. From up the hill, Piper was calling to us. Zoe strode past me and didn’t look back.
“The song’s not finished yet,” Leonard warned us, when we were gathered around him and Eva. A fog had descended with the darkness, and Piper had rekindled the fire. “It’ll change, too,” he added, “as we travel, and as other bards take it up. If a song’s alive enough, it changes.” I remembered the different versions of songs that I’d heard. The song about the blast, which changed from bard to bard, or from season to season.
Leonard began quietly, his fingers strumming a series of almost cheerful chords on the guitar. There was none of the intricate fingerpicking that had impressed me when he’d performed for us earlier. “I’ve kept it simple,” he said, as if he could see me staring at his fingers. “If you want it to catch on, it has to be something that any bard could play, without fifteen fingers.”
As the tune went on, melancholy notes were slipped in like contraband, so that by the time they reached the chorus, the tune had soured. Eva’s melody parted from Leonard’s, her voice climbing to new and mournful highs, as his stayed steady and low. Their voices counterbalanced and resonated until the space in between the notes was stretched like a rope, thick with longing.
There’s no refuge in the refuge,
No peace behind those gates.
No freedom once you turn to them
Just living death, where the tanks await.
They throw you in a cage of glass
Not living, and not dying.
Trapped inside a floating hell
Where none can hear you crying.
Oh, you’ll never be hungry, you’ll never be thirsty
And the Council’s tanks will have no mercy.
Oh, you’ll never be tired, you’ll never be cold
And you’ll never ever, ever grow old,
And the only price you’ll have to pay
is to give your life away.
They drive us to the blighted land
Then bleed us with their tithes,
And if you go to the refuge
They’ll take your very lives.
The taboo has been forsaken
Within the refuge walls.
The machines have been awakened
And the Council plans to tank us all.
Oh, you’ll never be hungry, you’ll never be thirsty
And the Council’s tanks will have no mercy.
Oh, you’ll never be tired, you’ll never be cold
And you’ll never ever, ever grow old,
And the only price you’ll have to pay
Is to give your life away.
When Leonard and Eva had played for us in the morning, we’d whooped along with some of the fast jigs, and clapped after some of the pieces where Leonard’s fingers had been at their swiftest. But none of us clapped now. The last notes slipped away, between the trees that encircled us like a gathered crowd. Our silence was the song’s best testament.
I wanted to send something into the world that wasn’t fire, or blood, or blades. Too many of my actions in recent months were bloodstained. The song was different—it was something we had built, rather than destroyed. But I knew that it was still a risk. If Leonard was caught, the song would hang him as surely as any act of violent resistance would. If Council soldiers heard him sing, or traced the treason back to him, the song would wind itself around his neck sure as a noose, and it would be his dirge, and Eva’s. Their twins’, too.
“It’s a brave thing that the two of you’re doing,” I said to Leonard, as we were packing up the camp in the dark.