She rubbed her clipped locks. “Hurry, Miz!” she said. “They’re still calling.”
“Stay here,” I told her. “It might not be safe.”
“Nothing’s safe around here. I’m going to see you get there!”
I couldn’t argue with her logic. It was true. The Sanctum was anything but a sanctuary. The only thing it harbored was constant threat. We ran down halls, steps, and little-used passages, up steps and down steps again. The short distance suddenly seemed like miles. It was not an easy terrace to get to. I prayed I wasn’t too late, but at the same time, I hoped Rafe had left without me and was already safe across the river. We passed no one, thankfully, and finally reached the portal that led to the terrace.
“I’ll wait here and whistle if anyone comes.”
“Aster, you can’t—”
“I can whistle loud,” she said, her chin set in the air.
I hugged her. “I’ll know if someone’s coming. Now, go. Get back to the jehendra and your bapa and stay safe there.” She reluctantly turned away, and I hurried through the long portal to the terrace. It was covered with a thick layer of snow, and I walked to the north wall, knowing I was already late. There would be no stories this morning, only the shortest of remembrances so the guards in the square would suspect nothing, and then I’d be on my way, but when I reached the wall, a pervasive silence spread through the crowd. It spread to me, like hands reaching out, taking mine. Tarry, Jezelia. Tarry for a story. I alone possessed the last surviving copy of the Song of Venda. It wasn’t my story to keep. Whether babble or not, I had to give it back to them before I left.
“Gather close, brothers and sisters of Venda,” I called out to them. “Hear the words of the mother of your land. Hear the Song of Venda.”
* * *
And so I said it, verse after verse, holding none of it back. I spoke of the Dragon feeding on the blood of the young, drinking the tears of their mothers, his cunning tongue and his deadly grip. I told them of hungers of another kind, ones that were never sated or quenched.
I saw heads nod in understanding, and puzzled guards looking at one another, trying to make sense of it. I remembered Dihara’s words, This world, it breathes you in … shares you. But there are some who are more open to the sharing than others. For the guards and many who stood below, my words were only babble, just as Venda’s had been so long ago.
As I spoke, a breeze circled around. I could feel it inside me, stretching, reaching, then moving on again, traveling over the crowd, through the square and down the streets, through the valleys beyond and across the hills.
For the Dragon will conspire,
Wearing his many faces,
Deceiving the oppressed, gathering the wicked,
Wielding might like a god, unstoppable,
Unforgiving in his judgment,
Unyielding in his rule,
A stealer of dreams,
A slayer of hope.
Until one comes who is mightier,
The one sprung from misery,
The one who was weak,
The one who was hunted,
The one marked with claw and vine,
The one named in secret,
The one called Jezelia.
A murmur ran through the crowd, and then Venda was there, standing beside me. She reached out and took my hand. “The rest of the song,” she whispered, and then she spoke more verses.
Betrayed by her own,