It was barely perceptible, but Silas felt it. A faint ripple spread from his Voice—yet it vanished immediately, swallowed by the greater noise. The Voices ignored his feeble effort, too weak to notice.
Physical touch drew Silas back to reality. He clung to the sensation, using it to reel himself back. A hand on his shoulder. Cold air in his lungs. Carpet beneath his feet. He dug deeper, and bit-by-bit, his body returned to him. His cheeks twitched. Then his eyelids. He blinked them open.
He found himself doubled over in the backseat of Ilyra's new boiler, hands clamped over his ears. Corin leaned close, his concerned face hovering at the edge of Silas's vision. Corin's lips moved, but Silas could hear nothing besides the Voices flooding his brain.
Ilyra was talking too—her expression taut with annoyance. She glared at Silas over her shoulder, shouting so fiercely the veins in her neck bulged. This was the first time Silas had seen her composure break. Corin still held Silas's shoulder. With his free hand, he gestured, pointing at Silas and then waving vaguely at his ear. Ilyra spat something at him with such vigor she wrenched the steering disc.
The boiler lurched off the road, dust spraying from its wheels. Unharnessed, Silas slid sideways, slamming into Corin's chest. The young soldier held him tight. He said nothing, but he glared at Ilyra, his mouth twisting into a snarl.
Silas couldn't go on like this. Ilyra would cut off his hands—or worse—if he failed to filter out the Voices. He straightened, hands falling away from his ears.
That's it! Silas thought, shutting his eyes again. Humans hear countless sounds all the time, but only notice the ones they choose. Surely, the Unspoken decide which Voices to listen to and which to overlook. I must be able to as well, I just need to learn how.
Silas regretted closing his eyes. Once again, he was stunned by the volume. There had to be thousands of Voices, at least. Just how many Unspoken were in the Western Quadrant? How many did Ilyra intend to apprehend?
Focus! Silas couldn't afford to get distracted. Maybe if he singled out a single Voice and fixed his attention to it, the others would fade away.
The trouble was finding a single Voice. It was like looking for a stranger in a crowd of unfamiliar faces. Silas didn't recognize any of these Voices, and they didn't recognize him. The moment he thought he had one, it shrank away, immediately replaced by several new Voices.
Silas noticed the boiler was no longer moving. Finding his eyelids again, he opened his eyes to watch Ilyra and Corin through the windshield. Far in the distance, large tents were pitched to the loose ground. Figures in scarlet uniforms marched between them. Otherwise, there were no landmarks. The land stretched empty in every direction—dead and colorless. It was a barren wasteland of desiccation.
What could the Empire possibly want with this place? Silas was unimpressed with what he saw. The Archarbiter claimed humans have a right to cultivate this land. He also said that the Unspoken hoard relics out here. Was that a lie?
Silas considered where the Voices were coming from—where the Unspoken were hiding. He looked down at his feet. Could they be below?
The heat of Ilyra and Corin's argument dragged Silas's attention back to the windshield. Ilyra stood rigid, her arms trembling with fury. She stomped and thrust a pointed finger at the tents, shouting something to Corin. Jaw clenched, her words squeezed past gritted teeth. When she finished, Corin threw up his hands in exasperation and turned his back on her. She scowled at his back, then took a steadying breath. Face blank, she stormed toward the boiler, her piercing gaze locked on Silas.
He scrambled away, slipping over his restraints. He only succeeded in falling face-first onto the seat. Ilyra threw the door wide with a blast of icy wind. She seized Silas's collar and hauled him outside. A sandy gust smacked him in the face. Silas coughed and sputtered. His teeth crunched on grains of sand when he closed his mouth.
Ilyra hauled him up so hard his toes barely touched the ground. Nose scrunched in disgust, she gave him a once-over, her green eyes pouring over him. Abruptly, she released his collar, and he staggered a few steps back. When his rear hit the boiler, he looked around in fear. There was nowhere to run.
Ilyra was yelling again, this time at Silas. He stared dumbly, not comprehending. Silas assumed she was barking orders at him, but he had no idea what she was trying to say. He shook his head and averted his gaze, hunching his shoulders to his ears.
Ilyra sighed. She wound Silas's chains around her arm and marched past Corin toward the tents. Silas scrambled to keep pace. The young soldier fell into line beside them. He offered Silas a hesitant smile. The boy huffed in response and slipped, sand gliding through his new boots’ tread.
We're off to a great start, he thought sardonically.
Soldiers strolled to and from tents. They loitered outside—sitting on the ground or standing in small groups, exchanging words and flasks. Dirt caked their hair and skin. Their eyes caught the light strangely—too bright against their grime-smudged faces. Unlike the soldiers in the barrack, levity evaded these weary fighters. Frowns creased their chins. Laughter was nonexistent. Silas's skin crawled; the somber mood made him uneasy.
The soldiers didn't even notice Ilyra. She stopped, dug in her heels, and yelled. Silas couldn't hear, but this command he did understand:
"ATTENTION!"
Tents snapped open. Soldiers poured outside. They organized themselves into neat rows. Bowing, they saluted Ilyra, arms crossed over chests. Yet their gazes were locked on Silas. The boy squirmed, the weight of their stares stealing his breath.
To Silas's surprise, Corin fell into line with the other soldiers. With how Corin talked back to Ilyra, Silas assumed the two were of similar rank. Silas squinted at the chevrons displayed on Corin's uniform. He expected Corin to be of superior station to the officers around him, but from Silas's understanding, he was actually the lowest. Silas tilted his head.
Ilyra addressed her soldiers. Deaf beside her, Silas had no idea what she was saying. She barely gesticulated—her hands stiff at her sides. She must have explained Silas's purpose at some point, because the soldiers became visibly unsettled. None spoke out, but their expressions betrayed their apprehension. Some glared at Silas with obvious loathing. Others refused to look at him, their eyes wandering everywhere but toward him. One soldier brushed his thumb over his lips and brow—a superstitious gesture unfamiliar to Silas. All of them disagreed with whatever Ilyra had told them, but none were willing to contradict their superior officer.
Silas considered Corin who, unlike his colleagues, was unfazed by Ilyra's words. He and Ilyra clearly share some history, he thought. I need to know more.
When she finished speaking, Ilyra dismissed the soldiers with a wave of her hand. They bowed and broke formation, hurrying to follow her commands. Corin approached. Ilyra handed Silas's shackles to him and left, following a group of soldiers into a tent. Silas peered up at Corin.
The young soldier leaned close. He said something slowly, enunciating each word for Silas's benefit. The boy tried to read his lips, but gave up, shaking his head in defeat. Corin drew in a deep breath, exhaling it as he straightened. He cocked his head at a large tent and guided Silas toward it.
It was surprisingly warm inside, the thick tarp a shield against the biting wind. The compost radiator churning in the corner helped too. Silas's eyes were drawn to a large central table. Maps and charts covered it, weighed down with scattered books and parchment, along with a lone starbloom lantern. A few chairs were scattered around the table, pushed back like those who sat in them previously left in a hurry.
Is this some sort of command center? Silas wondered, led to the table. He peered down at the files. A piece of parchment laying atop the others had recently been written on—the ink dark and fresh. Silas's heart stuttered. Three words were underlined at the top of the page:
Operation Concordant Incursion
'Concordant' definitely refers to me. Silas's thoughts raced. I wager this is the mission Ilyra told me I'd be a part of.
Corin freed a plain piece of parchment from the pile and jotted down a quick message: "Can you hear?"
Silas shook his head.
Corin swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. "Are the Unspoken drowning out all other sound?" he scrawled under the first message.
Silas nodded.
Corin scowled. "I'll be back. Stay here," he wrote and exited, the piece of parchment left on the table.
Silas decided this would be a good time to try filtering out the Voices again. He gingerly sat down, his chains catching on the legs of the chair. Closing his eyes, Silas focused on his breath to steady himself. He couldn't allow himself to get lost in the noise again. He needed to isolate his own Voice, and push it outward to make his presence known to the Unspoken.
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There was no response. As soon as he projected, his Voice was absorbed by the clamor.
No, I need to have conviction. Silas focused inward. Not on his breath. No, that was too shallow. He needed to go deeper. Farther, farther, into the core of his being. If he was to be heard, he had to go all out.
For a heartbeat, Silas blocked out the noise. The only thing he was aware of was his thoughts. With everything he had, Silas hurled his Voice outward.
Silence. The Voices stilled for but a moment. Briefly, hearing rushed back. Silas gasped, snapped back to reality. His cheek was squished to the table. A small puddle of blood collected under his chin. As quickly as it returned, his hearing left. The Voices crashed back in a deafening, thunderous swell.
Silas wanted to cry. So close! He was so close. He did everything he could, but the Unspoken still wouldn't listen to him.
I can't do this! Shaking, Silas peeled his cheek off the table. Ilyra's going to kill me!
Frantically, he wiped the blood off his face. His eyes widened—staring down in horror. He'd spilled his humors all over important documents.
So distraught by his plight, Silas failed to notice Corin reenter the tent. The young soldier gently laid a hand on Silas's shoulder. Silas screamed, reeled back, and fell out of his chair. He landed hard on his rear, tangled in his own chains.
Corin's mouth fell open. Silas's gaze shot upward. Spotting Corin, he relaxed, releasing the air that had caught in his throat.
Corin's chest heaved. He pressed his lips tight, attempting to smother his laughter. When Silas tried to stand up, he slipped on his chains and sprawled at Corin's feet. The young soldier lost it. He doubled over, laughing until he clutched his stomach.
Ears tinged red, Silas finally managed to pick himself off the ground. He stood before Corin, awkwardly brushing sand off his trousers. Collecting himself, Corin grinned, his convulsive chortles dying down. He bent over the table to pen a message.
"Have you figured it out yet?" he wrote. Frowning at the puddle of blood on the table, he added, "It looks like you gave it another go."
Silas's mind buzzed. He couldn't tell Corin he had no idea what he was doing. If he did, and if Corin told Ilyra… Silas didn't want to think about the consequences.
Instead, he raised his left hand and tilted it side-to-side. "Almost," the gesture conveyed.
Corin drummed his fingers on the table, thinking. Silas noticed the light inside the tent was growing dimmer. He swiveled on his heel to face the tent's entrance. Through the flaps in the tarp, he could see Dysol's dim glow dipping low in the sky, the solset smearing rouge along the horizon. It was nearly nightfall.
Hadn't Ilyra said she wanted to move under the cover of darkness? Silas clenched his good hand into a fist. Night was fast approaching. If he didn't figure something out soon—
Ilyra burst into the tent. She glanced at Corin and flicked her chin, motioning him over. Arms crossed, she listened while Corin spoke. The young man glanced over his shoulder at Silas several times. Ilyra looked murderous but held her tongue, gripping her elbows so tightly her fingers paled.
As they spoke, Silas stood awkwardly beside the table, trying to read their lips. He could discern nothing from their conversation.
Silas jumped in surprise. A clear Voice sliced through the chatter. It was cautious yet curious, and vaguely feminine.
Echo? Hope swelled in Silas's chest.
Ilyra and Corin turned, watching Silas intently. The boy raised his bound hands, urging them to wait a moment. Then, he sank into the chair and closed his eyes.
No response. Silas panicked, fearing he had upset the Unspoken. The connection nearly broke, his concentration wavering.
Echo finally said.
Silas did. He walked her through the past few weeks, starting with his arrest after the Foundry School attack. Echo bristled at the mention of Vera Stroud—Arbiter of Aberrations. She said nothing, but Silas could feel her tumultuous emotions through their connection. It made sense to him that the Arbiter in charge of Unspoken crimes would elicit such a strong response, but Silas hoped he could clear Vera's name with the rest of his story.
He explained his recent adventures. First, to 47 Brimthorne Lane, then to Coldspire Depot. Silas admitted he killed an Unspoken on accident. Echo paused, thinking, then told Silas he had done nothing wrong and encouraged him to continue. When he told her about Project Concordia, she went quiet.
Reluctantly, Silas resumed his narration. He told her about the Archarbiter's schemes—about his existence being revealed to the Empire. Recounting the moment of Vera's sacrifice nearly broke him. Echo soothed his despair, sending him something gentle and soft that calmed his spiraling thoughts. Finally, Silas concluded with the experiments, and how he ended up in the Western Quadrant.
Silas nodded inwardly.
Silas no longer blamed Echo or the Unspoken for what happened at the Foundry School. It was a tragedy born of misunderstandings stacked on one another. The Unspoken came to help him, but he didn't understand their intentions and ran away in fear. The man who shot Echo thought he was acting in self defense, but he unintentionally incited violence. If only Silas could tell the people of Brassanthium what actually happened that day. If only he could reveal the truth. Not just about the Unspoken; about everything. The Empire was built on a framework of treachery and lies. He wished to tear it all down and rebuild with honesty and understanding. But who would listen to him? He was an artificial anomaly, neither human nor Unspoken. Worse, he was voiceless. Who would hear the words of a mute abomination? Who would believe him?
Vera would. Silas knew this to be true. If he could somehow escape the Garrison Mordant, he could reconnect with Oscar and work to free her and Pa from the Sanctorium. Together, they could make a difference.
And maybe Echo could help us. Hope kindled, burning through the helplessness that Silas had hidden behind for days.
There was a silky rustle like sand drifting in the wind. The sound pulled Silas from his musings.
Is Echo laughing?
Silas mulled that over. He worried Echo's treatment would be unpleasant.
Silas still wasn't convinced. He told Echo as much.
That sounded well and good to Silas, but he failed to see how his presence here made the Unspoken's mission easier. Couldn't they have done this without him?
he said, feeling worthless.
He couldn't see her of course, but Silas swore he felt Echo smile. But the Unspoken don't have lips, Silas thought, bemused.
Silas’s heart pounded so loud he could hear it over the Voices. He was choosing to side with the Unspoken. There was no going back from this.
Silas said, resolve solidifying.
Echo seems like a very important member of Unspoken society. Is she their leader? Is she someone like General Curne—a military commander? Silas wanted to learn more about the Unspoken. He trusted this alliance would grant him the opportunity to do so.
When he opened his eyes, the first thing he noticed was how dark it was. He blinked, looking around. How much time had passed? It felt like he conversed with Echo for mere minutes, but Ilyra's impatience suggested otherwise.
Tilting his head back, Silas beheld Ilyra's testy expression. She raised her eyebrows. Well? she seemed to ask.
Corin sat next to Silas. He looked up from the map he was examining. When he opened his mouth to speak, Silas only shook his head, still unable to hear.
Corin nodded hesitantly, his eyes darting to Ilyra. "Anything new to report?" he wrote on a fresh piece of parchment.
Silas grinned.
He leapt from his chair and scurried to the tent's exit, stumbling when Ilyra stepped on his trailing chains. Silas huffed. He jerked his head at the tarp. Come on. This way.
Ilyra frowned. Corin said something to her and her face softened. Stepping off Silas's chains, she waved him onward. As best he could, Silas bowed and saluted, his bandaged finger and manacles marring his Imperial address. He then spun on his heel and exited the tent, leading Ilyra and her men toward the Unspoken volunteers. Their Voices called out, beckoning him to their location.
His arrival heralded their certain demise.