The freezing wind blew without rest, chasing the murky expanse of clouds away from the forest and towards the moon. Meya considered herself resistant to cold, but tonight’s wind chilled her to the bone.

Most of the bandits were spread out in a loose circle, patrolling with either clubs or swords in hand. Gillian and Dockar were deep in discussion above a map.

Meya eyed them in silence as her hands twitched behind her back. The icy surface of the tiny blade burned against her sweaty palm as she forced her frigid, tired fingers to close tight around it and wiggled her wrist, sawing against the coils of thick rope binding Lord Zier’s hands.

Judging by the moon’s position and her own sense of passing time, Meya would guess about two hours had gone by since Gillian had sent Jerald and the others off with his ransom demand. It probably would take half an hour to get to the castle from the forest, and another half through the forest to this moorland. Coris should be arriving soon—if he was coming for them, that was.

Biting her lip against the wave of fear, Meya chided herself and concentrated on the task at hand, though she still could not comprehend why in the three lands she was even bothering. First, she wasn’t counting on Coris coming to rescue them. Second, she and Arinel were both almost free—if not counting the rope tying them to the boulder, but even that was loose enough to wriggle free of.

For lack of a better euphemism, Meya had large lady pillows. She simply needed to recline a little, stick her bound hands up high on her back and draw in the deepest breath she could hold when the bandits tied the three of them to the boulder.

She was only waiting for that sluggish storm cloud to move over the moon and block out its light. It would give her that one opening when she could slide out off these ropes then dash off with Arinel.

So, why was she risking her chance of escape by sawing Zier’s ropes as well? What good would it bring? He was sleeping like dead. It was already hard enough running off on your own without dragging along a boy almost twice your size as well.

Yet, the wind still hadn’t done its job yet, and Meya had nothing else to occupy her wait. Concentrating all of her being on sawing through Zier’s rope one strand at a time provided a much-needed outlet for the boiling emotions within her that threatened to drive her insane with every minute that dragged past.

“So...is it true that you stole The Song of May Day?”

Arinel’s voice penetrated the silence. Such an unexpected question it was, it took Meya’s brain a few seconds to register it. Once it did, Meya felt the same pang of pain searing against the old scabbing wound in her heart. Even though it was that one question hurled at her all her life, the pain did not dull with time as she’d liked to hope.

Meya’s grip on the brooch-knife trembled, and she clenched her fingers so as not to drop it.

“It’s been what? An hour? And that’s what you came up with?” She spat at the lady, hacking at the ropes with renewed vigor now.

“We’re about to die here, and you just had to bring it up so I’d have it on my mind when I kick the bucket? What, a flogging and the bridle not enough to satisfy your sadistic urges?”

Meya snarled, exasperated, then went back to tugging against the stubborn rope with her minuscule knife. She regretted bringing up the town square flogging, however. That was uncalled for. And it only served to make herself feel even worse.

Arinel was silent for a beat, before she retorted, her voice cold as the wind.

“I ask, because Crosset needs to know if we’d ever get back our Song. Our crops haven’t been doing well since the famine—caused by you, in case you’ve forgotten. We could use some boost from tourism.”

Meya hitched up a savage smirk. If Freda would be offended enough about one cross-dressing lass working in the fields to strike a whole manor with famine, then there’d be a disaster striking every other damn day all over Latakia with all the killing, cheating, thieving, raping and who knows what else going on.

“No, I didn’t steal it. I destroyed it.” She corrected, turning back to meet Arinel’s gaze with an insolent shrug.

“I don’t have the Song with me. The whole manor knows I couldn’t carry a tune any more than my sow could carry food in her mouth without swallowing. Sorry, my mother ain’t getting her Song back even after I rot.”

Done with the same old lie, Meya turned away and resume sawing. She could still feel Arinel’s scrutinizing eyes on her, and she willed her face to remain blank.

“Are you sure? There are rumors.” The Lady countered, her voice airy, and behind her relaxed lips Meya gritted her teeth.

“Every rainy night, sharp ears would catch a Song drifting from deep within the forest. A Song couldn’t just sing itself. You couldn’t have buried it somewhere then expect it to come to life, could you?”

Arinel’s eyes slid back to stare at her once more. Meya shrugged, unperturbed.

“Could be one of my elder sisters. Since they’re born before I bungled up my mother’s voice.” She suggested, keeping the conversation going to mask the sound of her sawing, “Maybe it’s just them training in the forest.”

Meya strived to remain deadpan, but she laughed herself hoarse inside. Anyone that knew Marin and Morel at all would not buy one blob of that swine dung. Ironically though, they’d be pacified if Friar Tumney said they’re probably imagining things amidst the howling wind and pelting rain.

“Is that so?” Arinel didn’t sound convinced, and Meya snapped out of her gleeful reverie.

“Marin, locked indoors all hours of the day? Morel, never once stepping away from the hearth except to get supplies? Venture into the forest—on a stormy night?”

The casual revelation struck Meya dumb like a bolt out of the blue. She jolted so hard she almost cut herself with the little knife. Lady Arinel—the Lady of Crosset, sitting there analyzing Meya’s sisters? It wasn’t possible. It just couldn’t be.

Meya’s eyes were wide and fearful as she turned slowly, unsurely back towards her lady. How long had they been watching her family? And for what?

“How come you know so much about my sisters?” She demanded in a strained whisper. “The Hilds are nobody. Why d’you even care?”

“The Hilds aren’t nobody. Because your father happens to be married to Alanna Clariden of Noxx, who possessed one of the most beautiful voices in Latakia.”

Arinel rebuffed, her voice once again dropping in temperature.

“Father once told me that before she lost her voice, we had to hold the May Fest out on the hills, because that many people came from all over Latakia to hear her sing.”

“And look what’s left now. We barely needed the town square for all the young people we have nowadays. Of course, we kept an eye on Alanna’s daughters to see if any of them showed signs of inheriting her Song—especially you, Meya.”

As Arinel attempted to pierce her with those sharp blue eyes, Meya turned away and glared at the ground. Shame burned hot on her cheek as her heart drummed, every throb as painful as the next.

That Song was nothing but misery. A curse. From the very beginning.

“Why else do you think my father spared your life when you tainted our wheat?” Arinel continued in a seething whisper. Meya could easily sense the thinly veiled resentment.

“My father had meant to make Alanna his mistress, but she begged for freedom in exchange for her singing for Crosset and him whenever he so wished. And he gave in.”

Meya could only stare, speechless. Arinel was losing her aloof cool with every syllable, her breath coming in short, choppy huffs as she went on a fiery tirade,

“That’s just how much he enjoyed her song. And for sixteen years, he had not heard it. And now that he’s dying, the only person who could give him what he missed most—is sitting right here—before me—ready to die along with it out of sheer spite!”

The silence rang with Lady Crosset’s outburst. Meya blinked in disbelief as Arinel panted, their eyes locked, icy blue against luminous emerald. Arinel broke away first.

“I’m sorry. Please forget what I said. It’s just—I’ve lost so many of my family.” She stammered, sniffling back tears. After a moment, she gathered herself and turned back to face Meya.

“I know what my father did to you was unforgivable, and I apologize. I know the way Crosset treated you was unfair, but you also risked a famine befalling us just so you can earn some gold for yourself. For many, it’s not the result that matters, Meya. It’s your selfishness.”

Meya lowered her gaze, contemplating, recovering. Arinel was both right and wrong. True, she hated pretty much everyone— except maybe Friar Tumney, Old Silma, Deke and Draken, but she hadn’t meant to bring about a famine when she disguised herself as the then underage Marcus to work in the fields.

She didn’t believe it would be such a big deal with the goddess Freda. All she wanted was for Dad to smile and pat her head or hug her, like he did to Maro when he brought home gold and wheat—to Marin when he woke up to her looking prettier than the day before—to Morel when she welcomed him home with a scrumptious meal—and to Marcus, Myron and Mistral for nothing in particular.

And for that, Marquess Crosset had her chained and flogged with her head locked in a bridle. She swore then that she’d never forgive him.

Yet, Arinel was there that day as well. And she had just apologized. Something that had never happened to Meya in Crosset.

“If this is your revenge, Meya, I’d say it’s your right.” Arinel hung her head with a sigh and closed her eyes in resignation. Meya’s gaze slid slowly to her, uncertain and hesitant. An idea was taking shape in her head, but she wasn’t sure if it’s a good one.

“None of us certainly deserved to hear your Song. But wouldn’t it be better, for you, if you’d share it with your family, with Crosset, with Latakia? Just like your mother did?”

“And what if I lose it someday like my mother did? Then I’d become like her? Forgotten, left behind in a crumbling mud cottage for the rest of her days?”

Meya retorted . Raising her gaze to glare back at Arinel for the first time, she demanded,

“You said your father loved her Song. Where was he during the Famine when my mother was starving herself half-dead to keep seven children alive?”

“My father was in Icemeet. He didn’t know of the Famine.” Arinel dipped her head in shame and Meya froze, remembering. Then, the Lady looked up once more with a plea.

“While he was in Crosset, even in normal times he often offered Alanna gold and land, Meya, but your parents never accepted what is not rightfully earned. You of all people should know.”

Meya blinked, taken aback. Sighing, she grumbled, disgruntled with both the lady’s excessive knowledge of her family and Dad and Mum’s stupid pride.

“You know about the Ice Pillory, too?”

“Everybody knows. You’re the nightmare of every daughter’s mother.”

Arinel sounded as if she would’ve shrugged if she weren’t a noble lady. Meya snorted and nodded in surrender. Noticing darkness creeping over her, she looked up at the sky and saw that the cloud sheet has now edged tantalizingly close to the moon.

Meya gave Arinel a nudge to signal the time is near, even as she heaved a weary sigh.

“I like to think that...that I can be more than just Mum’s Song.”

She confessed, her voice low and shaking, as she mulled over her life up until now. In time, she had hoped she would find something she could call her own, master it and show it to Dad while he was still alive, but it seemed sixteen years wasn’t enough for her incompetent bum to achieve such a thing. And, depending on tonight’s outcome, that might be all the time she’d ever get from Freda.

“It’s your Song now, Meya.” Arinel countered softly. Meya whipped around to her, perplexed, and the lady held her skeptical gaze firm as she went on. “And, if you don’t let it define you, then it won’t. So, why are you so afraid?”

Meya found herself unable to reply. Arinel blew a heavy sigh and gazed off ahead, her eyes following the bandits pacing before them. She glanced at Gillian and Dockar. Seeing them still absorbed with the map, she went on, her voice barely audible,

“I’ve been keeping a terrible secret from my father for years. Even though the truth would give him some peace, I still can’t tell him. And it’s a torture watching him suffer.”

Two sudden notions shot by in Meya’s head. She wondered if the secret Lord Crosset was dying to know—figuratively, of course—was about his missing son. Arinel’s older brother that the Hadrians often mentioned—Sir Klythe.

But Meya also couldn’t help remembering Dad— how much he loved Mum, and how much he resented Meya for taking her Song. Would she ever have a chance to give it back to him? And should she?

“I was just wondering—wouldn’t it be better if you’d just—set your Song free. If not for your father, then for yourself.”

Arinel fell silent, then. Her expression remained flat and unreadable as ever in the falling shadow, but her eyes were filled with fear. Not a desperate, terrified panic, but regretful, mourning, full of pain.

There was nothing Meya could do to help the lady with her dying father, but there was still some time for one more thing. The cloud’s shadow still hadn’t covered Gillian and Dockar whole. If all went well, this could give her and Arinel a smoother escape.

Here we go, Mum. Time to see if you’re just ballyhoo or the real deal.

The tiny blade sliced through the last fibers of Zier’s rope. Meya wasn’t preparing for the impact, and she dropped the knife. Cursing her butter fingers, she shook her head and whispered into the lady’s ear.

“They say Mum’s voice can charm birds, beasts and barbaric men. Is there any song you want to hear—right now?”

Arinel looked as if she had been turned to stone. Then, she turned around. Seeing the confidence in Meya’s gaze, she suggested after a pause,

“Over The Peaks of Neverend Heights.”

A popular folk lullaby. Meya nodded and glanced back to check on Gillian. The head bandit and his trusted adviser were no longer poring over their map but staring up at the sky. Soon, they would notice the opportunistic window the total darkness provided, and light a lamp or something. She must act— fast.

A gust of wind lambasted them. The thick expanse of clouds swallowed up the last sliver of the moon and its light. It was time.

“Don’t listen. Pinch your butt hard. Or something.”

Meya whispered. Grabbing Arinel’s arm in preparation, she filled her lungs and bowels, hoped for the best, then released the air back through her lips along with the Song she had kept repressed for so long.

“Over the peaks of Neverend Heights,

Where birds of a feather they circle up high.”

As Meya paused for breath, she could feel silence and stillness falling on the clearing. It was as if time itself had stopped. All the bandits had ceased pacing and fidgeting as one. Reassured, she raised her voice and sang louder.

“I’ll fly like an eagle, so graceful and proud.

I’ll fly like a dove, so gentle and free.

I’ll whisper in your ear, and wake you come morn.

I’ll sing you to slumber, and see you in your dreams.”

“Go!”

As soon as she finished, Meya pulled herself out of the maelstrom of emotions back to reality. The darkness was now complete. She slid out of the ropes, pulled Arinel to her feet then sprinted blindly into the gloom.

Their hurried feet stamped noisily on the high grass. The charm would wear off in a few moments. Their best chance of survival was to put as much distance between them and Gillian’s men as possible before—

“Argh!”

Meya’s foot collided into something rock-hard and she tumbled headfirst to the ground, pulling Arinel down with her. Her little yelp had broken the brief spell, however, and Gillian’s voice that pierced through the gloom turned Meya’s blood into ice.

“Southside! After them!”

Before Meya could even think of getting up, several somethings whooshed by her and pelted up towards the makeshift camp with light, nimble footsteps. Screams of pain and terror rented through the darkness—along with wolfish barks and growls.