Free The Refuge Song by Francesca Haig

are you going to learn that we need to be more cautious?” Zoe said.
    â€œIn case word gets out?” I said. “Isn’t that what we’ve been trying to do? We’ve been trying to spread the word ever since we left the deadlands, and we’re getting nowhere.”
    â€œIt’s one thing for word to get out about the refuges,” Piper said. “Another for word to get out about us, and where we are. If it had been Zach, and not the Ringmaster, who found us the other day, we’d all be in cells by now, or worse. I’m trying to protect you, and keep us all alive. We don’t know who we can trust.”
    â€œYou saw what happened at the refuge,” I said. “And there are more people turning themselves in every day, thinking it’s a haven. We could stop them, if we could spread the word about what really happens there.”
    â€œAnd you think two strangers can do it better than us?” Piper said.
    â€œYes,” I said. “We need people who travel without raising suspicion. Who draw a crowd to hear them wherever they go. People who can make the news catch on, so it starts to spread by itself.” An Omega bard could count on a welcome at any Omega settlement, and an Alpha bardcould expect to be hosted at any Alpha village. Bards were the roaming memory of the world. They sang the stories that would otherwise be buried along with their subjects. Their songs traced the love stories of individuals, and the bloodlines of families, and the history of whole villages, towns, or regions. And they sang imaginary tales as well: great battles and fantastical happenings. They played on feast days, and at burials, and their songs were a currency accepted all over the land.
    â€œNobody’s listening to us,” I said. “They listen to bards. And you know how it works. Songs spread like fire, or plague.”
    â€œThey’re not exactly positive things,” Zoe pointed out.
    â€œThey’re powerful things,” I said.
    Piper was watching me carefully.
    â€œEven if we can trust the bards, it would be a lot to ask of them,” he said.
    â€œGive them the choice,” I said.
    Neither Zoe nor Piper spoke, but they’d stopped their packing. The music was drawing nearer. I looked back down the hill to the pair approaching. The bearded man wasn’t leaning on his staff; instead, he swung it loosely in front of him, back and forth, sweeping the air for obstacles. He was blind.
    When they reached the edge of the woods, Piper called a greeting to them. The music stopped, the sounds of the forest suddenly loud in the new silence.
    â€œWho’s there?” called the woman.
    â€œFellow travelers,” said Piper.
    They stepped into the clearing. She was younger than us, her red hair plaited and reaching all the way down her back. I couldn’t see her mutation, though she was branded.
    â€œYou heading north, to Pullman market?” the man asked. He still held the mouth organ in one hand, the staff in the other. His eyes weren’tclosed—they were missing altogether. Below the brand on his forehead, the skin stretched uninterrupted across his eye sockets. His hands had extra fingers, unruly offshoots from every knuckle, like a sprouting potato. Seven fingers, at least, on each hand.
    Piper avoided his question. “We’re leaving tonight, when it’s dark. You’ll have the clearing to yourselves.”
    The man shrugged. “If you’re traveling at night, then I shouldn’t be surprised you don’t want to tell us where you’re headed.”
    â€œYou’re traveling at night, too,” I pointed out.
    â€œNight and day, at the moment,” the woman said. “The market starts in two days. We were delayed at Abberley when the flooding swept the bridge.”
    â€œAnd I always travel in the dark, even if the sun’s shining.” The man gestured to his sealed eye sockets. “So who am I