After what feels like an eternity, they turn to confer with Constable Dunne while the crowd watches. Dunne’s jaw is set uncomfortably. His broad brow furrows, shining with sweat.
The crowd begins to murmur softly, the sound moving from the front to the back of the crowd like wind over grass.
“Did you hear anything?”
“Perhaps they’ll show mercy…”
“… the lowest-performing village in the region,” I hear a woman nearby say to her aging father. “The Bards will refuse their blessings again.”
Another sobs, handkerchief clutched to her mouth. “We’re not worthy.”
The constable is pleading with the Bards, but they don’t even seem to hear what he says. Desperation is mounting in the crowd with every passing second. It’s strange to see the esteemed Constable Dunne, usually a measured and reliable man, cower so powerlessly.
If the most important man in town can’t get them to listen, what chance do I have?
My frantic thoughts are cut short as one of the Bards, a tall man with shoulders even broader than Dunne’s, steps forward with his hand in the air. A call for silence. The crowd obeys immediately.
“Good people of Aster,” he addresses us. Although his voice is not raised, I hear him clearly—as though he’s standing right beside me. It’s a deep, resonant sound, tinged with a faint, sophisticated accent I’ve never heard before. “As always, High House is humbled by your generosity. It pains us greatly that your tithe is not equal to the spirit in which it is given.”
My insides twist. Another rush of voices begins to rise from the people, but the Bard cuts them off, raising his hand higher. His eyes pinch in anger. “Sadly, this marks yet another visit wherein Aster has disappointed. By the grace of Lord Cathal, High House can only offer as much as you provide us in return.”
He approaches Fiona’s father’s cart and picks up a shriveled turnip. The carefully placed display falls away, revealing the overturned basket beneath that props everything up. Another Bard picks up an apple and turns it over, revealing a bruise that shadows the fruit’s skin. The Bard clicks his tongue and shakes his head. Fiona’s father stands stock-still, his face ashen.
“Where other villages beyond the plains have offered bountiful harvests, here, the crops are meager,” the dark-haired Bard continues, delicately placing the turnip back on the cart. “We want to help you. Truly. But clearly there is something amiss here. Aster will benefit little from a Telling.”
Constable Dunne clears his throat. “It’s the drought. Nothing will—”
“Please show mercy! We’ll never survive without a Telling,” the woman next to me wails, cutting off the constable’s speech. Tears are streaming down her face.
The Bard signals for silence once more, and the crowd complies, the air thick with their unspoken pleas.
“As I said.” The Bard’s voice is firmer. “There is a reason that Aster alone is experiencing such hardship. A responsible party.” He pauses, looking over the gathered faces. I’m certain his eyes meet mine from beneath his hood—and I let out a ragged breath when they sweep past me to continue surveying the crowd. “I encourage anyone with information to step forward. Has someone you know spoken a forbidden word? Used or kept ink? Withheld banned objects?”
The woman next to me inhales sharply.
Constable Dunne steps forward, nodding weakly. “The time to divulge is now. The fate of Aster depends on it.”
The crowded square falls into silence, but the people of Aster are not looking at the Bards—they are looking at one another. Their eyes are wide and fearful. Cruel, even. I should know; they are the same stares that forced my mother and me from our home. Could they be searching for someone I know?
A frost creeps through my core. Could they be searching for me?
A small boy steps into the center of the square, walking silently toward the Bard. I recognize his mop of dark tangled hair. Grandfather Quinn’s youngest grandchild.
The towering Bard leans down to allow the child to whisper in his ear. A thunderstorm overtakes my mind.
Is he whispering my name?
My heartbeat echoes dully in my ears, growing faster and louder as the Bard stands upright again. He sends the child away with a gentle pat on the shoulder.
“The village elder known as Quinn hereby stands accused of spreading stories of Gondal,” the Bard says, folding his hands neatly behind his back. “Step forward, please.”
My fists unclench. Sounds of a scuffle rise from the back of the crowd, punctuated by pleading as Grandfather Quinn is grabbed roughly by the nearest townspeople and dragged forward. He is deposited with a shove at the Bard’s feet where he cowers, his aged body trembling violently. Bile rises in my throat—but I can’t avert my eyes. I believe it, yet I’m still in shock. At his betrayal. That he could be so foolish. That he would risk us all.
“Please, good Bards…”
“Silence!” The Bard’s voice is edged with anger.
“Do what he says.” I can’t help but wish for it under my breath. Thankfully, the old man falls quiet.
“For the crime of uttering forbidden language, you are hereby sentenced to a silencing. Your tongue shall pay the debt owed to High House.”
The expression on his face unreadable, Dunne nods to the group who brought Quinn forward. They hesitate, throwing glances at one another—until the broadest of the group pounces on Quinn. The motion reminds me of a cat digging its claws into a mouse. Quinn throws a watery smile at his grandson over his shoulder, but remains quiet as they drag him toward the decrepit town hall.
It isn’t until he disappears into the shadows of the building that his scream pierces the silence.
Constable Dunne rushes to close the doors. With a bang, they separate Quinn from the crowd as firmly as a sharp blade slices meat from the bone.
Eventually, Constable Dunne turns to the Bards, hands pressed together tightly. “Surely, noble Bards, the removal of this stain will be enough to lift the blight from our town and earn back the favor of High House?”
The Bard regards Dunne impassively. “Aster has shown impressive loyalty to High House today,” he replies. “It took great bravery for one so young to come forward. For your efforts, we shall grant a Telling.”
This news is enough to completely transform the tension in the air. A cheer surges from the crowd, along with promises of abundant harvests, breathtaking festivals—and vows to root out traitors. The Bard nods briefly in approval before stepping back to prepare the Telling.
I draw a deep breath into my lungs, rising up on my toes to see them—and to stop myself from fainting in the close press of bodies.
There’s a charge that moves through the air as my eyes linger on the Bards. The three black-and-gold figures stand facing one another, their fingers tented in front of their chests. They are so still that they look as though they could be made of stone. But their lips move wordlessly in unison, raw energy corralling in the space between them, pulling toward them through their voiceless chant. The wind tightens around us. It feels as if the fabric of the world is being drawn closer with every passing second. The pull grows stronger as their lips move faster.
A booming clap of thunder issues from overhead. Hundreds of awed faces look up at once, their mouths open in wonder at a dark cloud newly overhead.