Page 51 of Firebird
Sniffing at the memory of Lela’s lovely face, I pressed my forehead to the stone and let my tears fall on the altar of Proserpina.
“Please, mother of the underworld, queen of the afterlife, watch over my sweet sister Lela.”
Then I gathered my bag, wiped my face, and headed toward the exit of the temple.
Right as I walked through the columns, a wintry wind passed through me, kissing my flesh and bones, the scent of wildflowers swirling around me.
Pausing, I turned and looked. “Kizzy?”
For some reason, the ethereal touch felt and smelled like her. Peace was left in the wake of her scent. “Sleep well, my darling.”
Then I wiped my eyes and left the temple. The sounds of a cart rattling and people shuffling about and talking loudly brought me back to reality. Ivo stood straight and smiled as I approached.
“Let’s get home,” I told him, knowing I’d be leaving tomorrow morning for Moesia. Not that I had anything to prepare for. Still, I wanted to wash and pack a few tunics, what little I had.
We walked side by side at a leisurely pace out of the forum and past some other shops toward the road that wound up to Julian’s home.
A sound coming from a tavern pricked my attention. The familiar instruments called to me like a siren song. The soft clink of metal zills, keeping in tempo with a lute and a tympanum beating a slow rhythm. My body jerked at the memory of Rukeli and Yoska. I could still see their grizzled, smiling faces as we took the stage.
Instantly, I hurried to one of the three doors of the tavern open to the street. Ivo followed and stood at my back as I leaned in the doorway.
Disappointment washed through me when I saw the faces of the musicians. I didn’t recognize them as anyone I knew in Dacia, not in our village or the ones close by. And yet, they felt familiar, especially when they played that music. The sound of home.
Then the woman, a dark-haired Dacian dressed in a plain tunic, not the colorful wardrobe of our homeland, her slave collar fixed around her neck, stepped up toward the front of the makeshift stage. She clicked the zills and danced slowly in a circle, a memory of Lela dancing the same way twisting my broken heart.
Then the Dacian woman sang, and my heart shattered a little more. She sang in our tongue, not in the common Latin. I covered my mouth to hide my sob. I hadn’t heard my own language in so many years. I’d forgotten how beautiful the lyrical sound was, a sweetness I’d been without for far too long.
A Roman soldier walking by stepped up to the open door ahead of me to listen, but I’d heard enough of the song to know he shouldn’t be hearing it, even if he didn’t know Dacian.
Unraveling my tether, I latched onto him instantly, recognizing the authoritative presence at once. Without even thinking, I poured an unwarranted fear into him, whispering through the magic that something must be wrong at home, urging him there.
The Roman soldier instantly stepped away from the door andmarched up the hill in a hurry. Relaxing, I turned my attention back to the singer. Instantly, her words hit my heart.
“What does she sing?”
I spun at the sound of Julian’s voice, and looking over my shoulder, I was surprised to see it wasn’t Ivo hovering at my back.
Julian’s steady, golden gaze held mine, a touch of sympathy in those depths.
“What words does she sing?” he clarified, since I’d done nothing but stare.
Turning back to the tavern, I noticed the audience was a mixture of slaves from different countries and a few plebeians, free Roman men and women. No soldiers, like the one I’d sent away. I focused on the singer, who could’ve been my mother. She bore the same regal face—a woman who’d lived hard, and loved hard as well.
She clinked the zills and twirled once, then began singing the chorus again in that slow, sonorous tempo.
“We live in the moment, for a stolen heart and a pretty face…”
“Malina,” he interrupted. “You’re speaking in Dacian. I don’t understand.”
Another tear rolled that I’d lapsed so easily into my native tongue, my heart yearning for home like never before. But some part of me wanted him to know the singer’s words, the hurt they caused as she sang them so beautifully. So I began again in Latin.
“We live in the moment, for a stolen heart and a pretty face… we stare into an abyss, with a brave soul and the gods’ grace.”
I swallowed hard as she paused. When she began singing again, I continued to translate for Julian, who’d eased closer, his chest pressing against my shoulder blade. My body automatically leaned back, needing his strength, needing someone to lean on and help me with this heartbreaking burden of loss.
“We must not imagine a future that cannot be… we must bow to the demons and cherish what they cannot see.”
I stopped translating on the next line. My pulse quickened as he remained fixed behind me, his hand wrapping around my waist as he lowered his head to whisper.
