The Sundered Sky
THE VILLAGE OF THE FORGOTTEN
They found the village on the fourth day.
It was small — no more than a dozen buildings, huddled together at the edge of the bone road. Most of the structures had collapsed, their roofs caved in, their walls crumbling. But one building still stood. A tavern, by the look of it, its sign hanging crookedly above the door.
Smoke rose from its chimney.
Someone was inside.
Davin held up his hand, signaling them to stop.
“We should go around,” he said quietly.
“There are people in there,” Lyra said.
“People who have survived the Sundering. People who are probably terrified and armed and willing to kill anyone who threatens them.”
“They might need our help.”
“They might kill us before we can offer it.”
Morwen stepped between them. “We need supplies. Food. Water. Warm clothing. If this village is inhabited, we should approach peacefully and ask for assistance.”
“And if they’re not friendly?”
“Then we sing.”
Davin’s jaw tightened, but he nodded.
They walked toward the tavern.
The door opened before they reached it.
A woman stood in the doorway. She was young — younger than Lyra, maybe sixteen — with dark hair and darker eyes. She wore a man’s shirt, too large for her, and trousers that had been patched a dozen times. A knife hung at her hip, its blade stained with something that might have been blood.
“State your business,” she said. Her voice was steady, but Lyra could see her hand trembling on the knife’s hilt.
“We’re travelers,” Davin said. “We need supplies. We can pay.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed.
“Travelers? Out here? On the Road of Bones?”
“We’re heading to the Spire.”
The woman’s face went pale.
“Then you’re either very brave or very stupid.”
“A bit of both.”
The woman looked at Lyra. At Morwen. At the stone in Lyra’s hand.
“You’re Choristers.”
Lyra didn’t answer.
“You’re the ones the Inquisitor is hunting.”
Still no answer.
The woman stepped aside.
“Come in. But if you try anything — if you sing, if you pray, if you so much as hum — I’ll cut your throats and feed your bodies to the shadows.”
Lyra believed her.
They went inside.
The tavern was warmer than Lyra had expected.
A fire burned in the hearth, filling the room with light and heat. A dozen people sat at the tables — men and women, old and young, all of them wearing the same expression of wary exhaustion. They had been running for a long time. They were tired. They were scared. But they were still alive.
The young woman who had greeted them led Lyra and her companions to a table in the corner.
“Sit,” she said. “I’ll bring food.”
She disappeared into the back room.
Davin leaned close to Lyra. “These are refugees. From Ironhold, probably. Or one of the other cities. They’re scared of us because they’ve been told the Choristers caused the Sundering.”
“Did we?”
“No. But that doesn’t stop people from believing it.”
The young woman returned with bowls of stew and mugs of water. The stew was thin and salty, but it was hot, and Lyra drank it greedily.
“What’s your name?” Davin asked.
“Wren.”
“Wren. I’m Davin. This is Lyra. And Morwen.”
Wren looked at Morwen. “You’re old.”
“I am.”
“You were alive before the Silence?”
“I was.”
“What was it like?”
Morwen was silent for a moment.
“It was beautiful,” she said. “The world was green. The seas were blue. The Choristers sang in every city, and the gods answered. Not always kindly. But always.”
“And now?”
“Now the world is dying. The seas are black. The skies are torn. The gods are waking, and they are hungry.”
Wren’s face hardened.
“Then why are you going to the Spire? To wake more of them?”
“To stop them.”
“How?”
“By singing the deep songs. The songs that killed the gods before.”
Wren looked at Lyra.
“She’s the last Chorister,” Morwen said. “The daughter of Elara Vane. The one the prophecy speaks of.”
The room went silent.
All eyes turned to Lyra.
She felt their fear. Their hope. Their desperation. They had been running from the shadows, from the Inquisitor, from the waking gods. And now they were looking at her like she was their salvation.
“I’m not a savior,” she said. “I’m a beggar. A mute who learned to speak again. I don’t know if I can stop the Sundered King. But I’m going to try.”
Wren nodded slowly.
“Then we’ll help you.”