The Last Singer (The Falcon Chronicles Book 1) Read online

  Then I saw Calia. She stood near her desk, between two burly guards.

  “There she is.” Her finger pointed at me. “The earrings were in her locker. She’s the thief.”

  I heard gasps of surprise. Events unfolded in flashes. Calia’s taunting expression. Sue’s sly smile. The horrified faces of my colleagues. The pressure on my arms as the guards took hold. The stark hallway, one tube, then another and another until I lost count. Finally, thrust into a thinly lit room.

  The air was dank and foul. I recoiled at the odor of rotting fish, but a hand pushed hard on my back. My foot caught in the hem of my robe and I toppled to my knees. The door clanged shut. A lock clicked. Booted feet clattered then faded.

  “Brynna?”

  I thought I was dreaming when I heard my name. From the shadows, beyond the circle of faint light, a figure emerged.

  “Brynna?” An arm linked with mine and pulled me upright. It was Stick.

  “St…Herbert? Are you okay?” I wiped my wet hands down my juba then squinted to see him in the dim light. His clothes were wrinkled and soiled, but there were no signs of physical abuse. “We thought you’d been sent to the mines at Haven.”

  “Impossible. Whoever said that is fear mongering. I have connections on the council. They can’t send me away.” He seemed confident and almost cheerful. “But why are you here?”

  “Calia accused me of stealing. I’m more certain than ever that she’s the one behind all the thefts from our dorm.”

  “Greedy liar. But don’t worry. Your father will get you released.” He pulled a metal chair from a dark corner and waved me to sit.

  I perched on the chair and looked around. “Where are we?”

  “We’re in a storage room in one of the water purification domes but I expect to be out of here very soon. You probably will too.”

  “I’m not so sure.” His offensive statements had been bravado at best, whereas the authorities had found physical evidence of my alleged crime. “Stealing is more serious than a subversive speech.”

  “Not to Delio.” Stick leaned against the wall beside me. “When I got here yesterday, there was a woman being held because she refused to take a job in the children’s nursery. She eventually worked in the kitchens but couldn’t keep up because of a back problem. A waste really, because she was super smart—knew all about solar batteries, sunspots and other science stuff. This morning, she was shipped off to Prima Feminary. Can you believe it?”

  My vision of the feminary had become tainted. I could no longer discard as fiction the stories of women being sent to Prima Feminary. Less a sanctuary, it was spoken of in the same dreaded tones as Haven.

  “My cousin told me that more people have been transported since Delio became Premier than during the whole history of Hypor City. It makes you wonder what he’s up to.”

  I remembered Marta’s concerns about people disappearing. Rebecca hadn’t returned either. More recently, Grub had vanished from the foodpod.

  “It’s a good thing we have family on the council.” Stick repeatedly kicked one heel against the stone wall. “Privilege has its benefits as they say.” His laugh faded but the kicking continued.

  “Did that woman say anything about the threat from the sun?”

  Stick looked momentarily puzzled. “Oh, the one who was here? Yes, she believed it was real. That’s why I’ve decided to try to find out more when I get back. Perhaps you could help me. We could work together, secretly.” His eyes widened like an eager young boy with a mystery to solve.

  “Sure.” I agreed. Who was I to break his balloon of optimism? Besides, part of me hoped he was right and we would get released.

  Later that night four guards took Stick. I lay curled in a corner.

  “See you soon, Brynna.” His cheery tone sounded forced as he left the cell.

  The guard closing the door growled, “He’s for the boat.”

  I prayed for his safety but was certain I’d never see Stick again. I felt his loss. We were only colleagues but his presence had made the cell less oppressive. While I clung to the memory of his optimism, doubts arose as the night progressed. Would Father be able to help me or was I destined for the docks to be shipped across the water to Prima Feminary?

  The darkness amplified every tiny sound. My mind writhed with fear, causing me to clench and twitch uncontrollably. My acute hearing had become my foe and I covered my ears in an attempt to silence it.

  I surrendered to tears, allowing them to exhaust my overwhelming emotions. Tired and hungry, I unconsciously started to hum. It was an old folk song and the melody was soothing. I felt stronger, braver. In defiance, I sat up and sang louder, not caring who heard me. No one did, no one cared. I lay back down and sang myself to sleep.

  A booted foot nudged my thigh, thrusting harder until I groaned.

  “Get up. You’ve got a visitor.”

  I saw a man outlined in the doorway but couldn’t see his face.

  “Leave me with my daughter.”

  The familiar voice acted like a balm. I jumped up, ran toward the door and threw my arms around Father’s neck. I didn’t care that my juba was dirty and reeked of fish. His solid presence brought comfort. I was a child again needing his support. I didn’t want to leave the safety of his embrace.

  “Steady, Brynna.” He held me at arm’s length. “I need to ask you some questions.”

  His tone puzzled me. It was clinical when I needed compassion.

  “I didn’t do it. I didn’t take the earrings. It was Calia. She’s the thief.” I blurted my defense and moved so that his face was visible in the dim light. I needed to see his eyes.

  “I believe you, but they found the earrings in your locker. And one of your co-workers says she saw you wearing them.”

  “That’s a lie!”

  “Unfortunately, the council has voted.” A sigh shuttered from his chest. “They found you guilty, but not unanimously.”

  Blood drained from my head. I felt faint. “What will they do to me?” Prima Feminary loomed dark in my imagination.

  “Fortunately, I’m not without some influence and your roommates all vouched for you, even the one whose earrings were stolen. As a result, your sentence has been reduced to three months labor in the laundry.”

  “Can I see Mother and Jarryd before I go?”

  He held up his hand to halt further questions. “In addition, during that time you will have no contact with your friends and family.”

  His words knifed my chest.

  No Jarryd, no Mother, no Marta, no Weyland, no Father.

  “No—” I pushed at his arms as he reached for me. “They can’t do this. I’m innocent.”

  “I’m sorry.” His shoulders sagged. “I did what I could.”

  I wanted to rant at him and the injustice, but Father’s tired face crumpled my resistance. He’d aged ten years.

  “I’m so sorry, Bryn.” Anguish choked his voice. His eyes were wet.

  This time I reached for him. Our arms encircled one another. I felt the beating of his heart as he held me, and mine answered.

  “I know Calia is a troublemaker. I’m sorry you’ve been caught in her web. I love you and I believe in you.”

  His simple words acted like an injection of courage. “I love you, Father. Give my love to Mother and Jarryd. Tell them I’ll see them soon. Take care of Circe.” I forced some of Stick’s optimism into my voice. “It’s only three months.”

  A guard entered. “The Premier is waiting, Councilor Bokk.”

  Father’s kiss was light on my cheek. We stood apart and I watched him once again become a leader: back straight, face stern, attitude confident. However, as he moved into the hallway’s brighter light and glanced back, his gaze reflected apprehension.

  I took two steps forward and whispered, “Don’t worry, I’ll be okay.”

  There was hope in his faltering smile, and pride.

  The rigid guard saluted as Father walked past, head high. His steps died away.

 
I repeated the words for me this time.

  “I’ll be okay.”

  17

  Confinement

  The metal cell door banged shut.

  Confined and alone again, I slumped into the chair and took a deep breath barely, noticing the rank odor. Thanks to Father, I wouldn’t be transported. I preferred three months physical labor in the laundry to the uncertainty of Prima Feminary. The hardest part would be the isolation from my loved ones.

  I waited for guards to appear. Several times, I heard muffled noises outside, but no key rattled the lock. My stomach growled. My lips were dry and cracked. Thoughts of thirst and starvation churned through my mind. A vivid imagination was sometimes a curse. I forced my brain into another direction.

  Mind over matter.

  Weyland’s favorite words surfaced, reminding me of the day on the island. Had Mother found an explanation for his reactions to my singing? Would the diary from the cave explain the portrait I’d seen?

  I gasped as the door hammered back against the adjoining wall and light flooded into the cell.

  “Out.” A beefy outline filled the doorway.

  I stood and stumbled into the light, following one guard as another fell into position behind me. My arrival had been a blur so I glanced around as I walked, curious about my location.

  Apart from the guards’ booted steps, the only sound was the low hum of machinery. Large pipes snaked through the dome, twisting and turning before disappearing into towering holding tanks. Workers monitored numerous gauges on the monolithic structures. No one looked up as we passed.

  Nearing an exit, the first guard veered toward a cupboard and extracted two waterproof capes. They settled them around their shoulders and pushed me forward. When one opened the door, a horizontal spray of water slapped my face, drenched my juba and blew my hood down my back. Gasping for breath, I struggled to reposition the soaked material, stretching the hood forward to shield my eyes.

  I was on a dock, outside the dome. One guard led the way.

  The lashing storm made progress difficult. Head down, my view was restricted to my feet as I picked my way unsteadily along the heaving wharf. Water crashed on either side, each wave threatened to sweep me into the cold sea. I held my footing but cringed when the planks beneath me swayed.

  My mouth went dry when I saw the boat. I wanted to run, but the two guards flanking me made it impossible. I stoically accepted my fate. Father’s efforts had been in vain. A trip by water meant Prima Feminary. Like Stick, I was being transported.

  The waiting vessel was unlike the long Hypor transports I’d seen from the air. It was a small fishing dory like the ones from home, equipped with nets and outriggers. It thrashed against its fenders, snapping the tie lines like whips.

  My slippers were sodden and useless on the slippery dock. As the guards urged me into the boat, I grasped the edge of the wheelhouse and lifted the hem of my juba to step down. When my foot landed on a coiled rope, I started to fall forward toward the metal anchor. I windmilled my arms for balance but continued to topple. I cried out with relief when two strong hands gripped my waist.

  “Thank you.” My words were lost in a howl of wind.

  He dragged me forward. “Watch your head,” he yelled in a gruff, but familiar voice.

  I ducked as I entered the cabin then clutched the arm of a portside bench and sat, hunched and trembling.

  “Thank you.” I glanced up but only saw the back of my rescuer’s grizzled hair as he stood at the opening of the cabin. The guards stayed out on the deck, huddled under their rain slicks, despite the steady downpour.

  “Where’re we heading?” The old man called out to them.

  I held my breath anticipating the guards’ response.

  “The laundry.”

  I closed my eyes and exhaled. I was wrong. I wasn’t being transported after all. Three months in the laundry suddenly felt like a reprieve.

  Free of its mooring, the boat plunged wildly as it ventured into the choppy waves. White caps sloshed onto the deck. I raised my feet onto the bench and hugged my knees, but my tense body quaked with the cold.

  The seaman stood at the helm, his hands gripping the wheel. He muttered as he fought the gusty wind and thrashing crests. I’d never been good on boats and started to feel my stomach roil. My feet hit the floor. I lurched toward an open hatch, hoping a few deep breaths might help, but a sudden plunge increased my anguish. When I started to heave, the old man thrust a rusty bucket at my chest. Sick and miserable, I collapsed to the floor.

  I closed my eyes and forced thoughts of home. The pungent air of the ancient forest. The heady delight when Circe soared elegantly overhead. The soft sweet melody Mother sang as she tended her greenhouse blooms. I tried to hum along, but my throat was raw. Hot tears scorched my cold cheeks as my body heaved again.

  The pitching stopped many agonizing minutes later. In the lee of a city dome, the gale had subsided and the sea was calmer. I swiped a wet sleeve over my cheeks and mouth.

  I felt better and looked out the cabin window, curious about the laundry. Clean clothes were something I’d taken for granted. I’d never considered where they came from.

  The laundry dome’s structure was similar to others, except the top third was transparent. Along with the usual fans, giant vents at the peak belched continuous clouds of steam. As we neared, the boatman steered the craft into a wide channel cut into the side of the dome. The diminished light made it difficult to see, but above a steady hum of machinery I heard voices. Women’s voices.

  The vessel veered right. At the far end of the docking area, the engine rumbled to a stop as the boat nudged a cement landing.

  “Get the lines,” the old man commanded the guards. He then approached me and shoved a small oil-skin wrapped parcel into my hand. I looked up, surprised to see a familiar face.

  “From your mother,” whispered old Joe Campbell, one of the village fishermen from home. “Hurry. Hide it somewhere. They’re returning.” He stood so he blocked the guards’ view.

  There was no time to ask questions. I pushed the package under my hair at the back of my rain-soaked hood. From its size and shape, I knew it was the diary.

  “Take care, Lassie.” He gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze that I didn’t want to end.

  The connection to home brought tears. I choked out a thank you for his warm gesture. As the guards neared, he returned to the wheel.

  “Out.” One guard flicked his thumb at me.

  I stood, but the hem of my juba caught the ragged edge of the metal seat.

  “Hurry, we haven’t got all day. If I have to come and get you, you’ll be sorry.” The second man fumbled under his rain cape and produced a document and a small leather bag.

  Fabric ripped as I freed my juba. I climbed onto the landing and hastened after the guards.

  I heard women talking again. Then a man’s voice yelled for quiet.

  Across an expanse of water, another landing ran parallel to ours. A metal barge, piled high with clothing, clanged against it. The women ferried armloads of garments from the massive pile into the dome. An obese man stood nearby, surveying their progress for several moments before switching his gaze to us. He crossed his arms and waited for us to reach him.

  The document and the bag changed hands. The guards lingered only moments. After saluting the fat man, they returned to the boat.

  The recipient of the salute ignored it, and instead scanned the information. I took note of his heeled boots that boosted him to my height. His corpulence was evident under a knee-length tunic, heavily stained with patches of sweat. Oily strands of hair curled on his brow. He pushed them back with a pudgy hand and looked up.

  “Prisoner 6572?” His accent was difficult to decipher, but I detected a hint of an old Mediterranean language.

  “So…Councilor Bokk’s daughter.” There was no warmth in the man’s thin-lipped smile. “Such shame on your father and your family.” His eyes roved over me. Despite efforts to loosen the wet ma
terial, my grimy robe clung tight. His inspection left me feeling even dirtier. As much as I hated the juba, my nondescript garb was a welcome if ineffective shield against his lascivious gaze.

  I suppressed a shudder and waited for his next words. He looked at the paper again. It was then that I noticed his long earlobes. They were an unusual feature I’d seen before.

  Other things started to add up. Short stature, dark hair, swarthy complexion. Except for the paunch that threatened to burst the seams of his tunic, he was a double for Premier Delio. There was one other difference. Whereas the Premier’s eyes showed cunning, this man’s eyes radiated cruelty.

  Three months felt increasingly like a life sentence.

  I’ll be okay was my silent mantra.

  “I am Podmaster D.” His lips twitched in an attempt to grin. Tilting his head back, he took a full breath that widened his nostrils and curled his upper lip. “There’ll be no privileged treatment here despite your parentage. You’ll work as long and hard as the other detainees and have to earn any concessions.”

  I hated to imagine what a woman would have to do to gain privileges from this man.

  “At the end of three months, there will be a review. Then, depending on your behavior, your sentence will be extended or you may be released. The decision will be mine.” His narrowed gaze searched my face.

  The last statement terrified me but I forced a neutral expression. I was sure this man would prey on weakness.

  “Ruby.” The man beckoned to someone behind me. A thickset woman strolled toward us. Her dress was unlike anything I’d seen elsewhere on Hypor. Clearly, the rules were different here

  She wore skintight leather leggings tucked into knee-high boots and a deep-necked tunic pulled taut across her ample bust. Her bare arms were muscled and covered with tattooed sleeves. Inked designs ringed her thick neck and plunged into her cleavage. An army of studs made her ears more metal than flesh. Several hoops adorned her bottom lip and nose.