The Sundered Sky
THE GATHERING
They came from everywhere.
At first, Lyra thought the shadows were approaching the Spire from all directions, a sea of darkness swallowing the dead city. But then she realized that not all the moving shapes were shadows. Some were people. Survivors. Refugees from Ironhold, from the villages, from the hidden places where Choristers had been hiding for three hundred years.
They had heard the singing.
The Song of Awakening had traveled across Aeldwyn, carried by the wind, by the water, by the stones themselves. It had reached the ears of every Chorister who still lived, every Chorister who still remembered, every Chorister who still hoped.
And they had come.
Wren was among them. The young woman from the village on the Road of Bones had survived the Inquisitor’s attack. Her face was scarred, her arm was in a sling, but her eyes were bright. She brought a dozen fighters with her — men and women who had been soldiers in the old wars, or children of soldiers, or grandchildren. They carried swords and bows and axes, and they looked at Lyra like she was their salvation.
“We heard your song,” Wren said. “The Song of Awakening. It woke something in us. Something we thought was dead.”
Lyra stood at the entrance of the Spire, looking out at the growing crowd. The sun — such as it was — had begun to set, painting the sky in shades of gray and ochre. The shadows were gathering at the edges of the dead city, watching, waiting.
“How many?” Lyra asked.
“Three hundred. Maybe more. They’re still coming.”
“Three hundred against thousands?”
“Three hundred against thousands. But we have something they don’t.”
“What?”
Wren smiled. “We have you.”
Lyra wanted to argue. She wanted to tell Wren that she was just a beggar, a mute who had learned to speak again, a woman who had spent twelve years hiding in gutters and alcoves. But she looked at the faces of the people gathering at the base of the Spire, and she saw something there that she had never seen before.
Hope.
They believed in her.
She could not let them down.
The Choristers gathered in the central chamber.
There were more of them now — not just the sleepers Morwen had awakened, but others who had come from across Aeldwyn. They had been hiding in caves, in forests, in the ruins of old cities. They had been waiting for a sign. The Song of Awakening was that sign.
Seraphine stood at the altar, her silver hair glowing in the golden light of the stones. She had not slept since she woke, and she did not seem tired. The dreaming Chorister existed in a different state of being — not quite alive, not quite dead, suspended between the world of the waking and the world of the dreaming.
“We are many,” Seraphine said. “But we are not enough. The shadows are thousands. The Sundered King is ancient. He has consumed worlds. He has devoured gods. He will not be defeated by numbers.”
“Then how will we defeat him?” a Chorister asked.
“With the Song of Ending. Sung by a single voice. Supported by all of us.”
A murmur ran through the crowd.
Some of the Choristers looked afraid. Some looked determined. Some looked resigned.
“Who will sing it?” another asked.
Lyra stepped forward.
“I will.”
The chamber fell silent.
Morwen moved to stand beside her. “She is the last of Elara’s line. The daughter of the woman who climbed the Spire. The one the prophecy speaks of.”
“The prophecy is old,” a Chorister said. “It may not be true.”
“The prophecy is a possibility,” Seraphine said. “Not a certainty. Lyra may succeed. Or she may fail. But she is willing to try. That is more than most.”
The Choristers looked at Lyra. At her threadbare clothes. At her scarred hands. At the stone in her palm, pulsing with golden light.
“I am not a hero,” Lyra said. “I am not a savior. I am a beggar. A thief. A mute who learned to speak again. But I have seen what the Sundered King does. I have seen the shadows. I have seen the destruction. I have seen the faces of the people who died because no one sang.”
She paused.
“I will sing. I will sing the Song of Ending. And I will stop him.”
The Choristers were silent.
Then one of them stepped forward. A woman, young, with dark skin and darker eyes. She knelt before Lyra.
“I will lend you my voice,” she said.
Another Chorister knelt.
Then another.
Then another.
Soon, all of them were kneeling, their heads bowed, their hands raised.
Morwen touched Lyra’s shoulder.
“You are not alone,” the old woman said. “You have never been alone.”