The Sundered Sky
THE SONG OF MOURNING
The waking Choristers needed time to adjust.
They had been trapped in their stone prisons for so long that their memories had fragmented. Some could not remember their names. Some could not remember their songs. Some could not remember why they had chosen to sleep in the first place.
Morwen took charge of them, leading them through the tunnels, helping them remember. Seraphine stayed with Lyra, continuing her lessons.
On the eighth day, Seraphine taught her the Song of Mourning.
“This is the song your mother should have had,” Seraphine said. “The song that calls the dead back, briefly, to say goodbye.”
“Why didn’t she have it?”
“Because she did not know it. The Song of Mourning was lost. Forgotten. Buried with the Choristers who died in the wars.”
“How did you find it?”
“I dreamed it. In my hundred years of dreaming, I heard the voices of the dead. They sang to me. They taught me. They begged me to remember.”
Lyra looked at the stone in her hand.
“Will my mother come? If I sing it?”
“She might. The dead are not bound by distance. They are not bound by time. They are bound only by love. If your mother loved you — and she did — she will hear you. She will come.”
Lyra closed her eyes.
She sang.
The Song of Mourning was not sad.
It was gentle. Soft. A lullaby, almost, like the ones her mother had sung to her when she was small. The notes rose and fell like waves on a shore, like breath in a sleeping chest, like the beating of a heart.
The chamber grew warm.
The golden light of the stone softened, becoming something else. Something silvery. Something that looked like moonlight.
And then she appeared.
Her mother.
Young. Beautiful. Smiling.
“Lyra,” Elara said. Her voice was distant, echoing, as if it came from far away. “My little one. You grew.”
Lyra could not speak.
Tears streamed down her face.
“I’m sorry,” her mother said. “I’m sorry I left you. I’m sorry I couldn’t stay. I’m sorry you had to watch.”
“I’m not angry,” Lyra whispered. “I was. For so long. But I’m not anymore.”
“You’ve become strong. Stronger than me. Stronger than anyone.”
“I had to.”
“No. You chose to. That’s the difference.”
Her mother reached out. Her hand passed through Lyra’s cheek, cold as winter air, but Lyra could feel it. A ghost of a touch. A memory of a caress.
“I’m proud of you,” her mother said. “I’ve always been proud of you.”
“Can you stay? Can you stay with me?”
“No. The song is ending. I have to go.”
“Then take my love with you.”
Her mother smiled.
“I always have.”
She faded.
The silvery light dimmed.
Lyra sat alone in the chamber, weeping.
But they were not tears of grief.
They were tears of release.