“Teach it to me,” Syra said, keeping her voice low to not wake the dozing head nestled in her lap, “that songspell you did.”

Her strength returned with the mountains and the threat of the approaching city.

“Me teach you?” Petra smirked at the proposition of teaching magic to her Lightblooded sister. "Do you even know how to Sing?"

“Of course, I do. That's how you found me wasn't it?"

"That was screaming. Not Singing."

"Either way, I can learn. Plus, if Marrak does attack Altaira, we could be caught against their dragonlances. It’d be safer if we both knew it, just in case.”

Petra's brow wrinkled as she rolled the idea around.

“Fine,” her raised finger cut off Syra’s yipping, “but, it’s not easy.” She wiggled her fingers, “There's no weaving involved, so it might take you a lot of prac—.”

Petra scowled as Syra rummaged through her bag, giving her no notice, “Are you even listening?”

“Yes.” Syra pulled paper and quill from her pack. “No weaving; just voice,” she recited as she scribbled notes onto the paper. “What’s next?”

“Well, uh…” Petra stammered but Syra just stared with big, eager eyes. “Lyrics. You uh, should know those or else the spell won’t work. Kind of like that locator spell you made—they’re instructions.”

“Mm-hm,” Syra nodded and underlined the word, ‘Lyrics’, “that makes sense. Which are?”

Petra hesitated with slight confusion, “You already know them.”

The quill stopped and Syra returned the confused look.

“That song you keep singing—the one we all have to sleep through—that’s it.”

Syra set down her paper. It did sound familiar. Very familiar, now that she thought about it. The melody played at her tongue, but the words were lost to her.

“It’s a lullaby,” Petra explained, seeing Syra’s frustration, “that’s probably why you don’t remember—being away for so long.”

“A lullaby? How does that even—”

“It’s a calming spell. It extracts things like pain, fear, anger—that’s why it’s used to make whining hatchlings shut up. I guess it works on physical poisons, too.” Petra laughed at herself, “Oh Lord, I sound like you.”

“Is that really so bad?” Syra asked, "It's better than yelling."

Petra waved her off, “Look, I can teach you the lyrics, but we don't have enough time for you to master it. You'll just have to—”

“I'll use a callar, then.” Syra said, stashing her notes.

"A...callar?"

“It’s like a necklace. All new songstresses get one for training. It stabilizes your voice until you can control it by yourself. Renguard's market has to have one.”

She peeked out at the growing city towers but Cassius was quick to shake his head.

“Oh no, you don’t,” he said. He knew that look. “It’s to the end of the line for us. Aidan’s not even awake yet.”

“We need food and water anyway.” Syra shook her empty canteen in his face.

“Are you still fog-headed from those fumes? Look what happened last time we got off. And that was just for a short potty break.” He leered down at her, “No. We can get supplies when we get to Crescent Bay. For now, we’re staying right here.”

They didn't.

***

Renguard’s marketplace was three times that of Altaira’s, and both sisters gawked at the webbing of stand-packed streets from the shadows of the alleyway.

“Cas isn’t going to let this go easily,” Syra hushed from behind the pile of grain sacks.

“Cas is a cave rat when he’s scared. If he thinks we can take on Marrak with claws and pixie dust, he can sniff my vent.”

Syra snickered, but Petra’s gaze was locked onto the rancher's long stand that reeked of a fresh butchering. And Petra was determined to have some.

“How’re we going to carry all of that unnoticed? There are people everywhere.”

“We don’t.” Syra corrected, taking a page from Aidan’s book and waving her further back into the ally. “You stay here with the bags and get ready to run.”

“And what are you going to do, then? Ask politely?”

Mischief danced in Syra's smile and she crouched, eyes fixed on the stand of goodies, “Just hold the bag.”

Light pulsed from her skin as her outline contoured into a ball barely a foot tall. Black shown through the light veil and a raven flapped in her place. Petra raised an impressed brow and Syra cocked her head and cawed.

“Well get going, smartass.” Petra waved her off and Syra dove at the stand, talons at the ready.

The street echoed with curses, shrieks, and the waving of angry arms. Petra snorted into her hand as she watched Syra swoop and dart over the stand, snatching up meaty morsels. Syra soared into the ally ready to drop the hoard into the open pack, but hurried footsteps followed close behind.

"Bashta," Petra ducked under a back porch just in time to watch the rancher and his comrades give chase after nothing.

In a flurry of light and flapping, Syra crouched outside the porch waiting for her accomplice to crawl out.

“Think you handle a few more rounds?” Syra smirked, taking the bag.

Petra examined its contents with a playfully cynical eye, “Still looks pretty empty. A little bit more wouldn’t hurt. 'Meat makes muscle' and whatnot.”

The sisters muffled their snickering and set their sights on their next target. By the third alley the sack hung low and they closed in on the main square.

“We should stop here.” Petra clung to the shadows beneath the watchtower and readjusted the heavy pack on her shoulders. “This will be enough and it’s way too open out there.”

“We still have to get the callar, remember.” Syra scampered off to the next adjoining street, “It’s probably at one of those fancy booths with all those artifacts.”

Petra trudged after her, but they were met by a heavy thud as a cloaked blur rounded the corner and smashed straight into them, sending the small figure stumbling to the dirt.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Are you alright?” Syra blurted out and knelt down as a young boy picked himself up.

“Just fine,” he snapped, his eyes darting over his shoulder as Syra helped him to his feet.

But while Syra fretted over the shaken boy, Petra’s eyes caught the glimmer of crystals scattered about the ground.

"What are those?"

The boy yanked himself away and scrambled to gather them in his cloak, “You didn’t see anything.”

“Oh, we totally saw.” Petra looked down her nose at the boy, but eyed the stones hungrily.

Voices grew from around the corner and the boy cowered away, “Please. Please say you didn’t see anything.”

Syra’s conscious wreaked havoc on her face, but Petra remained transfixed on the mosaic cupped in his hands.

“We’ll take the purple one.”

“What?” The boy flinched up at her.

“That one.” Petra pointed to an amec crystal and plucked it from the pile.

“B-but—”

“Now go. They’re getting closer.” Petra huffed him away and he sprinted off into the narrow street.

Petra stuffed the stone into her pocket just in time for an out-of-breath guard to duck into the ally.

“Have either of you ladies seen a young lad?” He asked between pants. “’Bout ye high, wearin’ a brown cloak an’ carryin’ somethin’?”

Petra eyed Syra and she offered up a sweet, apologetic smile with a tilt of her head.

“I’m sorry, sir, we have not.”

“Oh, I see. Alright, sorry to bother you.”

He went to continue down the ally but the contents of Petra’s bag spun him around, “Wait a minute, I know those cookies.”

“You do?” Syra feigned innocent surprise.

“Yeah,” he glared down at her, “they flew off a few minutes ago.”

“Syra?” Petra mumbled, not liking his aggressive stance.

“On it.”

With a quick skip forward, her hands flew to his face and the fog filled his head. He slouched and his eyes drifted. But the gem dangling from his earring glowed and they refocused. This time on her, and this time he smiled.

“Shit.” Syra ducked away but his fist snatched up her braid and sent her feet flying from under her.

“Run!” Syra called to Petra and squirmed to pull herself free.

“You’re not goin’ anywhere, missy.”

There was the tap-tap of boots, scraping of metal, and a rush of wind as the tension on Syra’s head vanished.

“Move it!” Petra grabbed Syra’s arm and dragged her away as the guard stood in a brief stupor, Syra’s braid still hanging from his hand.

Around a corner, up one ally and down the next they zig-zagged with the echo of boots after them.

“There.” Syra pointed to another porch just big enough for one.

“What about y—”

Syra shoved her away and slid into a pile of rugs, draping one over herself.

The guard stopped at the corner, seeing no one down the long, narrow street.

“I know yer here, little mage. Don’t you dare think that your little magic tricks put you and yer friend above the law. You’ll lose those shiny hands o’ yers when I find you.”

Petra watched from behind the wooden lattice of the porch as the guard kicked over barrels and crates on his way to the stacks of rolled carpet. She bit her hand to mute her yell when he threw Syra’s drapery back.

But Syra was not there. A high pitched squeal sent the guard leaping back, stomping at the ground like a toddler in a tantrum. From under his feet, a rat scurried around the crates and barrels, and under the porch where Petra crouched in silent surprise.

“Damn rats are everywhere!” The guard shealthed his sword and threw the rug back in its place before running off down the street.

When quiet returned, the glowing rat left the porch and Syra took its place, her cheeks red and her hair a wild mess of waves.

“And here I thought Cas was the cave rat.” Petra laughed, half-tripping into the street.

Syra caught her breath and picked at the loose strands that brushed her shoulders, “Do you know how long it took to grow this out?” A wave of disappointment and loss came and went, “Aidan’s not going to be happy.”

“That boy's never happy.” Petra sheathed her blade, “Let’s just go find that callar and leave.”

They weren’t halfway down the alleyway when a whisper came from above them.

“Hey!”

They spun around, hands ready, but saw no one.

“No, up here!”

Waving at them from a broken window was the boy from before, “Quick! He’s coming back.” He pointed to the series of railings, gutters, and windowsills which they made quick work of—though Petra had a harder time squeezing through the small window.

All three watched with held breaths as the guard made a second pass through the ally.

“Alright, I think he’s gone for good this time.” The boy left his peep hole at the window to sit on the nest of fabric scraps in the middle of the abandoned room.

“What is this place?” Petra scrunched her nose at the dilapidated living quarters that smelled of mold and rotting wood.

“Currently, it’s home.” The boy met her upturned nose with unblinking eyes that challenged her to insult him one more time.

Neither sister pushed the subject. Instead, they took to oogling the collection of stones and magical items laid out on the floor.

“This is your home, yet you have all of these?” Syra picked a fancy metal tube from the selection, fidgeting with the series of levers along its length.

“You’re not the only one with magic tricks.” He took the tube from her hands but stopped when he saw the scrape on her arm. It was glimmering.

“You’re a Lightblood?”

Syra hadn’t even noticed the cut until now, but she wiped the beads away with her cloak and brushed the subject away, “Yep.”

She avoided eye contact, not wanting to incite any more questions, but he simply smiled.

“Me, too.”

Surprise made her look back. She couldn’t tell by his face—which was scuffed and dirty and half-hidden by the blonde mop on his head—but there was a quiet sincerity in his voice that spoke of mutual understanding. Of there being safety in silence.

Her shoulders relaxed and she held out a hand, palm-side up—the way mages greeted one another back in the city, “I'm Syra.”

He stared at her hand for a long moment and Syra wondered if he didn’t know the custom. But then four small fingers met hers as he placed his hand atop hers.

“Piper.”

She'd never seen a Lightblood outside the Academy, especially not a Throwaway, and she couldn’t help but stare fondly at the boy. Even though his skin had a healthy glow, his cloak was oversized and his arms thin. But given his living conditions, she wasn’t surprised.

“Petra,” she said, taking back her hand, “give him the crystal.”

“Why?” she sneered, “We could use it.”

“He needs it more.” She turned a pleading gaze to her. “Spare the young,” she said—a Draconic saying to prioritize the clan’s future.

Petra huffed a heavy sigh and dug the stone from her pocket, holding it out to Piper. But she did not let go when he grabbed it.

“In exchange,” she said, inciting a curious look, “we want to know where to find a callar.”

“A callar?”

“Yes,” she eyed the array of items on the floor, “you seem to know your way around artifacts. Surely you can point us in the right direction?”

Piper tugged on the stone, but her grip was firm and she smirked up at him.

He looked to Syra for assistance, but she dipped her head.

“Please? We need it.”

He rolled his eyes, “Fine. I know of one stand that might have one.”

“Good.” Petra released the crystal, causing his hand to smack his nose. “Where is it?”

Piper set the stone with the others and took the tube to a window that faced the square. Looking through the tube, he adjusted the toggles then handed it to Petra.

“The stand with the green cover—the one with the suit of armor—that’s the one. Not sure if it’s still there, but I saw one a few days ago.”

“Excellent work, brat.” Petra handed over the tube for Syra to take a peek.

“Don’t call me that.” He left the window and returned to the ledge where they entered, “Now go, before any more guards start looking for you. I don’t need them finding this place.”

“It’ll be fine,” Syra said, climbing out the window, “I didn’t see anything.”

Syra gave him a wink and he dipped his head as she slid down the gutter to the street below.

They circled the square nearly a full turn before they found an ally close enough—and unpopulated enough—to take cover. By then, the sun grew red and the crowds thinner.

“Make it quick,” Petra took her position with the mouth of the bag gaping, “we don’t know when the train’s going to leave.”

Syra nodded and in a rush of wingbeats was airborne again. She landed on the rooftop overlooking the stretch of glinting merchandise.

Now, which one was it?

Item by item, she scanned the tables—hopping this way and that for a better angle—until the jeweled choker came into view.

There you are.

With the merchant’s back turned, she sprung from the eave. On silent wings she glided down to the table where nimble claws slipped the necklace from its display. The jingling of its chain caught the merchant’s attention, but Syra was already aloft and his curses faded as she circled back to the ally.

“Nice work.” Petra latched the bag shut as Syra shifted back, “Who would’ve thought you’d make such a good thief?”

Syra grimaced, shoving unruly locks behind her ear for a third time, “It’s not something to be proud of. When this is over, I’ll make sure they get paid properly.”

“Suit yourself.” Petra strapped the pack to her back and rounded the corner.

Then there was scuffling, a flash of light, and a muffled yell.

“Petra?” Syra bounded around the corner and skidded before she ran over Petra who convulsed on the ground.

“That’s her.”

Looming over Petra with sparking staffs were two robed men. And behind them, wearing a brown cloak and flat face, was Piper.

“Run.” Petra wheezed up at Syra as she struggled to her knees.

Syra spun on her toes, but the muscles in her back seized and hot pain jolted through her. Her feet stumbled and her knees buckled. Her cheek smashed against stone and all breath left her lungs as the shock shook her body. She doubled over, clutching her stomach that threatened to heave, and watched Petra get jabbed a second time for standing.

“Leave her alone!” Syra clawed at the cobblestones, pulling herself to her elbows.

The men scoffed and raised their staffs again, but Piper held out a hand.

“Let her be. Morin only wants this one.” Piper stared down at Syra and the men withdrew, leaving Petra to cough up the last bit of that morning’s ration.

Syra charged her hand, but the thick head of a staff knocked her back before she could send off the attack.

“Why are you doing this?” Syra squinted up at Piper. She took a knee but it wouldn’t hold her.

Piper said nothing. He only pulled a tiny crossbow from his belt and locked a dart into place. Before another word could leave her mouth, a sharp sting flared from Syra’s neck as the dart was loosed. Her muscles gave out and her head swam. Her skin tingled and her vision went fuzzy. The last thing she saw before the darkness was Petra’s scared eyes and a spiral of light that wrapped around her and Piper.