Soundless

by Richelle Mead

Genres: YA Fantasy; YA Romance

Synopsis

Penguin presents the unabridged, downloadable audiobook edition of Soundless by Richelle Mead, read by Kim Mai Guest.

For as long as Fei can remember, there has been no sound in her village. Her people are at the mercy of a mysterious faraway kingdom, which delivers food in return for precious metals mined from the treacherous cliffs surrounding them.

When villagers begin to lose their sight, their rations shrink and many go hungry. Fei's home, the boy she loves, and her entire existence is plunged into crisis, under threat of darkness and starvation.

Then Fei is awoken in the night by a searing noise, and sound becomes her weapon . . .

Perfect for readers of THE HUNGER GAMES, this epic fantasy from the international bestselling author of VAMPIRE ACADEMY will have you instantly hooked and on the edge of your seat.

Release date: November 10, 2015

Publisher: Razorbill

Print pages: 272

Sample

***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected proof***

Copyright © 2015 Penguin Random House LLC

CHAPTER 1

MY SISTER IS IN TROUBLE, and I have only minutes to help her.
She doesn’t see it. She’s having difficulty seeing a lot of things lately, and that’s the problem.

Your brushstrokes are off, I sign to her. The lines are crooked, and you’ve misjudged some of the hues.

Zhang Jing steps back from her canvas. Surprise lights her features for only a moment before despair sets in. This isn’t the first time these mistakes have happened. A nagging instinct tells me it won’t be the last. I make a small gesture, urging her to hand me her brush and paints. She hesitates and glances around the workroom to make sure none of our peers is watching. They’re all deeply engrossed in their own canvases, spurred on by the knowledge that our masters will arrive at any moment to evaluate our work. Their sense of urgency is nearly palpable. I beckon again, more insistently this time, and Zhang Jing yields her tools, stepping away to let me work.

Quick as lightning, I begin going over her canvas, repairing her imperfections. I smooth out the unsteady brushstrokes, thick- en lines that are too thin, and use sand to blot out places where the ink fell too heavily. This calligraphy consumes me, just as art always does. I lose track of the world around me and don’t even really notice what her work says. It’s only when I finish and step back to check my progress that I take in the news she was recording.

Death. Starvation. Blindness. Another grim day in our village.

I can’t focus on that right now, not with our masters about to walk in. Thank you, Fei, Zhang Jing signs to me before taking her tools back. I give a quick nod and then hurry over to my own canvas across the room, just as a rumbling in the floor signifies the entrance of the elders. I take a deep breath, grateful that I have once again saved Zhang Jing from getting into trouble. With that relief comes a terrible knowledge that I can no longer deny: My sister’s sight is fading. Our village came to terms with silence when our ancestors lost their hearing generations ago for unknown reasons, but being plunged into darkness? That’s a fate that scares us all.

I must push those thoughts from my mind and put on a calm face as my master comes strolling down the rows of canvas. There are six elders in the village, and each one oversees at least two apprentices. In most cases, each elder knows who his or her replacement will be—but with the way accidents and sickness happen around here, training a backup is a necessary precaution.

Some apprentices are still competing to be their elder’s replacement, but I have no worries about my position.

Elder Chen comes to me now, and I bow low. His dark eyes, sharp and alert despite his advanced years, look past me to the painting. He wears light blue like the rest of us, but the robe he has on over his pants is longer than the apprentices’. It nearly reaches his ankles and is trimmed in purple silk thread. I always study that embroidery while he’s doing his inspections, and I never grow tired of it. There’s very little color in our daily lives, and that silk thread is one bright, precious spot. Fabric of any kind is a luxury here, where my people struggle daily simply to get food. Studying Elder Chen’s purple thread now, I think of the old stories about kings and nobles who dressed in silk from head to toe. The image dazzles me for a moment, transporting me beyond this workroom until I blink and reluctantly return my focus back to my work.

Elder Chen is very still as he takes in my illustration, his expression unreadable. Whereas Zhang Jing painted dreary news today, my task was to depict our latest food shipment, which included a rare surprise of radishes. At last, he unclasps his hands from in front of him. You captured the imperfections of the radishes’ skin, he signs. Not many others would have noticed such detail.

From him, that is high praise. Thank you, master, I say before bowing again.
He moves on to examine the work of his other apprentice, a girl named Jin Luan. She shoots a look of envy in my direction before also bowing low to our master. There’s never been any question who his favorite student is, and I know it must frustrate her to feel that no matter what she does, she never grasps that top spot. I am one of the best artists in our group, and we all know it. I make no apologies for my success, especially since I’ve given up so much to achieve it.

I look to the far side of the room, where Elder Lian is examining Zhang Jing’s calligraphy. Elder Lian’s face is as unreadable as my master’s as she takes in every detail of my sister’s canvas. I find I’m holding my breath, far more nervous than I was for my own inspection. Beside her, Zhang Jing is pale, and I know my sister and I are both braced for the same thing: Elder Lian calling us out for deceiving them about Zhang Jing’s sight. Elder Lian lingers much longer than Elder Chen did, but at long last, she gives a cursory nod of acceptance and strolls on to her next apprentice. Zhang Jing sags in relief.

We have tricked them again, but I can’t feel bad about that either. Not when Zhang Jing’s future is at stake. If the elders dis- cover her vision is failing, she will almost certainly lose her apprenticeship and be sent to the mines. The very thought makes my chest tighten. In our village, there are really only three jobs: artist, miner, and supplier. Our parents were miners. They died young.

When all the inspections are finished, it is time for our morning announcements. Elder Lian is giving them today, and she steps up on a platform in the room to allow her hands to be visible to all who are gathered are part of an ancient and exalted tradition. Soon we will go out into the village and begin our daily observations. I know things are hard right now. But remember that it is not our place to interfere with them.

She pauses, her gaze traveling around the room to each of us as we nod in acknowledgment at a concept that has been driven into us with as much intensity as our art. Interference leads to distraction, interrupting both the natural order of the village’s life as well as accurate record keeping. We must be impartial observers. Painting the daily news has been a tradition in our village ever since our people lost their hearing centuries ago. I’m told that before then, news was shouted by a town crier or simply passed orally from person to person. But I don’t even really know what “shouting” is.

We observe, and we record, Elder Lian reiterates. It is the sacred duty we have performed for centuries, and to deviate from it does a disservice both to our tasks and to the village. Our people need these records to know what is happening around them. And our descendants need our records so they can understand the way things have always been. Go to breakfast now, and then be a credit to our teachings.

We bow again and then shuffle out of the workroom, heading toward the dining hall. Our school is called the Peacock Court. It’s a name our ancestors brought with them from fairer, faraway parts of Beiguo beyond this mountain, meant to acknowledge the beauty we create within the school’s walls. Every day, we paint the news of our village for our people to read. Even if we are only recording the most basic of information—like a shipment of radishes—our work must still be immaculate and worthy of preservation. Today’s record will soon be put on display in our village’s heart, but first we have this small break.

Zhang Jing and I sit down cross-legged on the floor at a low table to wait for our meal. Servants come by and carefully measure out millet porridge, making sure each apprentice gets an equal amount. We have the same thing for breakfast each day, and while it chases the hunger away, it doesn’t exactly leave me feeling full either. But it’s more than the miners and suppliers get, so we must be grateful.
Zhang Jing pauses in her breakfast. It will not happen again, she signs to me. I mean it.

Hush, I say. It’s a topic she can’t even hint at in this place. And despite her bold words, there’s a fear in her face that tells me she doesn’t believe them anyway. Reports of blindness have been growing in our village for reasons that are just as mysterious as the deafness that fell upon our ancestors. Usually only miners go blind, which makes Zhang Jing’s current plight that much more mysterious.
A flurry of activity in my periphery startles me out of my thoughts. I look up and see that the other apprentices have also stopped eating, their gazes turned toward a door that leads from this dining room to the kitchen. A cluster of servants stands there, door, a boy scurrying in front of her. Cook is an extravagant term for her job, since there’s so little food and not much to be done with it. She also oversees running the Peacock Court’s servants. I flinch when she strikes the boy with a blow so hard that he falls to the floor. I’ve seen him around, usually doing the meanest of cleaning tasks. A frantically signed conversation is taking place between them.

—think you wouldn’t get caught? the cook demands. What were you thinking, taking more than your share?

It wasn’t for me! the boy tells her. It was for my sister’s family. They’re hungry.

We’re all hungry, the cook snaps back. That’s no excuse for stealing.

I give a sharp intake of breath as I realize what has happened. Food theft is one of the greatest crimes we have around here. The fact that it would occur among our servants, who are generally fed better than other villagers, is particularly shocking. The boy manages to get to his feet and bravely face the cook’s wrath.
They’re a mining family, and they’ve been sick, the boy says. The miners already get less food than we do, and they had their rations cut while not working. I was trying to make things fair.

The hard set of the cook’s face tells us she is unmoved. Well, now you can join them in the mines. We have no place here forthieves. I want you gone before we clear the breakfast dishes.

The boy falters at this, desperation filling his features. Please. Don’t send me to work with them. I’m sorry. I’ll give up my rations to make up for what I took. It won’t ever happen again.

I know it won’t happen again, the cook replies pointedly. She gives a curt nod to two of the burlier servants, and they each take one of the boy’s arms, hauling him out of the dining room. He tries to free himself and protest but can’t fight against both of them. The cook watches impassively while the rest of us gape. When he’s out of sight, she and the other servants not working our breakfast service disappear back into the kitchen. Zhang Jing and I exchange glances, too shocked for words. In his moment of weakness, that servant has just made his life significantly more difficult—and dangerous.

When we finish breakfast and head to the workroom, the theft is all anyone can talk about. Can you believe it? someone asks me. How dare he give our food to a miner!

The speaker’s name is Sheng. Like me, he is one of the top artists at the Peacock Court. Unlike me, he is descended from a family of artists and elders. I think he forgets sometimes that Zhang Jing and I are the first in our family to achieve this rank.

It is certainly a terrible thing, I respond neutrally. I don’t dare express my true feelings: that I have doubts about whether the food distribution is fair. I learned long ago that to keep my position in the Peacock Court, I must give up all sympathies to the miners and simply view them as our village’s workforce. Nothing more.

I see a few others walking near us nod in agreement. He lifts his head proudly at their regard, showing off fine, high cheekbones. Most of the girls around here would also agree he’s the most attractive boy in the school, but he’s never had much of an effect on me.

I hope that changes soon, as we are expected to marry someday.

Boldly, knowing I’m probably making a mistake, I ask, You don’t think the circumstances played a role in his actions? Wanting to help his sick family?
That’s no excuse, Sheng states. Everyone earns what they deserve around here—no more, no less. That’s balance. If you can’t fulfill your duty, you shouldn’t expect to be fed for it. Don’t you agree?

My heart aches at his words. I can’t help but give a quick glance at Zhang Jing, walking on my other side, before turning back to Sheng. Yes, I say bleakly. Yes, of course, I agree.

We apprentices begin gathering up our canvases to take them out for the other villagers to view. Some are still wet and require extra caution. As we step outside, the sun is well above the horizon, promising a warm and clear day to come. It shines on the green leaves of the trees among our village. Their branches create a canopy that shades much of the walkway to the village’s center. I watch the patterns the light creates on the ground when it’s filtered through the trees. I’ve often thought about painting that dappled light, if only I had the opportunity. But I never do.

I’d love to paint the mountains too. We are surrounded by them, and our village sits on top of one of the highest. It creates breathtaking views but also a number of difficulties for us. This peak is surrounded on three sides by steep cliffs. Our ancestors migrated here centuries ago along a pass on the mountain’s opposite side that was flanked by fertile valleys perfect for growing food. Around the time hearing disappeared, severe avalanches blocked the pass, filling it up with boulders and stones far taller than any man. It trapped our people up here and cut us off from growing crops anymore.

That was when our people worked out an arrangement with a township at the mountain’s base. Each day, most of our villagers work in the mines up here, hauling out loads of precious metals. Our suppliers send those metals to the township along a zip line that runs down the mountain. In return for the metal, the township sends us shipments of food since we can’t produce our own. The arrangement was working well until some of our miners began losing their sight and could no longer work. When the metals going down slowed, so did the food coming back up.

As my group moves closer to the center of the village, I see miners getting ready for the day’s work, dressed in their dull clothing with lines of weariness etched on their faces. Even children help out in the mines. They walk beside their parents and, in some cases, grandparents together and waiting for the day’s handouts. They sit immobile with their bowls, deprived of the ability to communicate, only able to wait for the feel of vibrations in the ground to let them know that people are approaching and that they might receive some kind of sustenance. I watch as a supplier comes by and puts half a bun in each beggar’s bowl. I remember reading about those buns in the record when they arrived a couple of days ago. They were already subpar then, most of them showing mold. But we can’t afford to throw away any food. That half bun is all the beggars will get until nightfall unless someone is kind enough to share from their own rations. The scene makes my stomach turn, and I avert my gaze from them as we walk toward the central stage where workers are already removing yesterday’s record.
A flash of bright color catches my eye, and I see a blue rock thrush land on the branch of a tree near the clearing. Much like Elder Chen’s silk trim, that brilliance draws me in. As I’m admiring the sheen of the bird’s azure feathers, he opens his mouth for a few seconds and then looks around expectantly. Not long after that, a duller female flies in and lands near him. I stare in wonder, trying to understand what just took place. How did he draw her to him? What could he have done that conveyed so much, even though she hadn’t seen him? I know from reading that something happened when he opened his mouth, that he “sang” to her and somehow brought her, even though she wasn’t nearby.

A nudge at my shoulder tells me it’s time to stop daydreaming.

Our group has reached the dais in the village’s center, and most of the villagers have gathered to see our work. We climb the steps to the platform and hang our paintings. We’ve done this many times, and everyone knows their roles. What was a series of illustrations and calligraphy in the workshop now fits together as one coherent mural, presenting a thorough depiction of all that happened in the village yesterday to those gathered below. When I’ve hung my radishes, I shuffle back down with the other apprentices and watch the faces of the rest of the crowd as they read the record. I see furrowed brows and dark glances as they take in the latest reports of blindness and hunger. The radishes are no consolation. The art might be perfect, but it’s lost on my people in its bearing of such dreary news.
Some of them make the sign against evil, a gesture meant to chase away bad luck. It seems ineffectual to me, but the miners are extremely superstitious. They believe lost spirits roam the village at midnight, that the mist surrounding our mountain is the breath of the gods. One of their most popular stories is that our ancestors lost their hearing when magical creatures called pixius went into a deep slumber and wanted silence on the mountain. I grew up believing those tales too, but my education in the Pea- cock Court has given me a more practical view of the world.

Slowly, the miners and suppliers turn from the record and begin the treks to their jobs. Elder Chen signs to us apprentices: Go to your posts. Remember, observe. Don’t interfere.

I start to follow the others, and then I catch sight of Elder

Lian taking the steps back up to the dais where the record is painstakingly studying each character. Such scrutiny isn’t part of the normal routine. The other apprentices have left, but I can’t move, not until I know what she’s doing.
She stands there a little longer, and when she finally turns away, her gaze meets mine. A moment later, her eyes fall on some- thing behind me. I turn around and see Zhang Jing is standing there, hands clenched together nervously. Elder Lian descends the stairs. Go to your posts, she signs. The silk thread that edges her robe is red, and it flashes in the light as she walks past.

Swallowing, I take Zhang Jing’s elbow and steer her away from the village’s center, away from the blind beggars. Most of them are old and former miners, I remind myself. She isn’t like them. She isn’t like them at all. I squeeze her hand as we walk.

She will get better, I tell myself. I will not let her become one of them.
I repeat the words over and over in my mind as we move past the beggars, but saying them to myself can’t erase the image of those cavernous faces and blank, hopeless stares.

CHAPTER 2

WE SOON NEAR A SMALL PATH branching from the main track through the village, and I nod at it. Zhang Jing nods back, turning toward the fork.
Before we get very far, a group emerges unexpectedly from a nearby wooded area. It is Sheng with two boys dressed in suppliers’ attire. They’re dragging someone between them, and I recognize the servant from our school, the one who was caught stealing. New bruises and welts accompany the one the cook gave him, and from the gleeful look on the faces of the others, they have more planned. I can understand their outrage at what he did, but the enjoyment they take in doling out such pain sickens me. Zhang Jing cringes back in fear, not wanting to get involved in any altercation. I know I should do the same, but I can’t. I step forward, ready to speak my mind.

Before I can, I am knocked to the side by yet another person rushing past. He wears the dull clothes of a miner and strides right up to Sheng and the others, blocking their way. When I realize who this newcomer is, my breath catches, and I feel as though the very ground beneath my feet has shifted, knocking me off-balance.

It is Li Wei.

What do you think you’re doing? he demands.

Sheng regards him with a sneer. Teaching him a lesson. Look at him, Li Wei says. He’s learned his lesson. He can barely stand anymore.

That’s not good enough, one of Sheng’s supplier friends says. Are you saying he should be let off easy? You think it’s okay for him to steal food?

No, Li Wei replies. But I think he’s been punished enough. Between your “lesson” and losing his job at the school, he’s more than paid for the crime of trying to help his family. All you’re doing is hurting his ability to help us in the mines. We can’t afford that right now. It’s time to let him go.

We’ll say when it’s time to let him go, Sheng says. Li Wei takes a menacing step forward. Then say it.

Sheng and the suppliers hesitate. Although the numbers are in their favor, Li Wei is unquestionably one of the biggest and strongest in our village. Muscles gained from long hours of grueling work in the mines cover his arms, and he towers over them by nearly a head. He stands straight and tall, his tough body braced and ready for a fight. He doesn’t fear three-to-one odds. He wouldn’t fear ten-to-one odds.

After several tense moments, Sheng gives a shrug and smirks as though this is all one big joke. We have work to do, he says far too casually. He deserves worse, but I don’t have time for it. Let’s go.

The supplier holding the servant releases him, and Sheng and the others begin sauntering away. Seeing me, Sheng asks, Are you coming?

We’re going a different way today, I say, nodding toward the path.

Suit yourself, he replies.

When they are gone, Li Wei reaches out a helping hand to the servant, whose face is filled with terror. The boy backs up and then scurries away, fear having given him a burst of energy, despite his pain. Li Wei watches him go and then turns in our direction, looking surprised to see us still there. He bows in deference to our higher station, having noticed our blue robes, and then stiffens slightly when he looks up and sees my face.

It’s the only outward indication of his surprise. Everything else about him is perfectly respectful and proper. Forgive me, apprentices, he says. I was in such a hurry to help, I’m afraid I jostled you earlier. I hope you aren’t injured.

Although he is addressing both of us, his eyes are locked on me. His gaze is so piercing, I feel as though it will knock me over. Or maybe that’s just the earlier dizziness I felt from being near him. Regardless, standing there before him, I find myself unable to move or speak.

Zhang Jing, unaware I am reeling, smiles gently. It’s okay. We’re fine.
I’m glad, he says. He starts to turn from us and then pauses, his expression both curious and hesitant. I hope you don’t think I was wrong to help that boy.
It was very kind of you, Zhang Jing says politely.

Although she has answered for us, Li Wei’s gaze lingers on me as though he hopes I will add something. But I can’t. It’s been too long since I’ve seen him, and this sudden, unexpected confrontation has caught me unprepared. After several awkward moments, Li Wei nods.

Well, then. I hope you both have a good day, he says before walking away from us.

Zhang Jing and I continue on our path, and my heart rate slowly returns to normal. You didn’t say much back there, she remarks. Do you disapprove? Do you think he should have let Sheng and his friends take their revenge?
I don’t answer right away. Zhang Jing is a year older than me, and we have been nearly inseparable our entire lives, sharing everything. But there is one secret I have kept from her. When I was six, I climbed an old rotting shed our mother had warned us about many times. The roof collapsed while I was on it, trapping me below with no one in sight. I was stuck there for two hours, frightened and certain I would be there forever.

And then he appeared.

Li Wei was only eight but had just begun working full-time in the mines. When he came to me that day, he was returning from his shift covered in fine, golden dust. As he held out his hand to help me, the late afternoon sunlight caught him just right, making him shine and glitter. Even back then, the striking and beautiful always moved my heart, and I was spellbound as he helped me out of the rubble. His easy smile and sense of humor soon helped
me overcome my shyness, beginning a friendship that would span almost ten years and eventually become so much more. . . .

Fei? asks Zhang Jing, truly puzzled now. Are you okay?

I push my memories aside, shaking off the dazzling image of that golden boy. Fine, I lie. I just don’t like to see that kind of violence.

Me neither, she agrees.

We divert to a path that is much narrower than the village’s main thoroughfare but sees enough foot traffic to be well-worn and packed down. It takes us along one of the cliff’s sides, giv- ing us spectacular views of the peaks surrounding us. It’s early enough in the morning that mist still hangs in the air, obscuring the depths below.

Zhang Jing and I come to a halt when we reach the cypress tree. It looks greener and fuller than the last time I saw it, now that summer has fully arrived. I feel a pang in my heart for not having been here more recently. The venerable cypress clings doggedly to its rocky perch, its branches spreading wide and high into the sky. See how it stands proudly, even in such inhospitable conditions? our father used to say. This is how we must always be—strong and resilient, no matter what’s around us. Our family used to go on evening walks together, and this path past the tree was one of our favorites. When our parents died, Zhang Jing and I had their ashes spread here.

She and I stand together now, saying nothing, simply gazing out at the vista before us and enjoying a faint breeze that plays among the needled branches of the tree. In my periphery, I notice her squinting, even here. As much as it hurts, I feel compelled to finally say something. Stepping forward, I turn so that she can better see my hands.

How long has it been going on?

She knows immediately what I’m referring to and answers with a weary face. I don’t know. A while. Months. It wasn’t that bad at first—just occasional hazy spells. Now those spells are more frequent and more intense. On some days, I can still see perfectly. On other days, things are so blurred and distorted I can’t make any sense of them.

It will get better, I tell her staunchly.

She shakes her sadly. What if it doesn’t? What if it’s only a matter of time before I’m like the others? Before everything goes dark? Tears glitter in her eyes, and she obstinately blinks them back. I should tell our masters and give up the apprenticeship now. It’s the honorable thing to do.

No! I tell her. You can’t.

They’ll eventually find out, she insists. Can you imagine the disgrace then, when they throw me out on the streets?

No, I repeat, even though a secret, scared part of me fears she is right. Don’t say anything. I’ll keep covering for you, and we’ll find a way to fix this.

How? The smile she gives me is sweet but also full of sorrow. Some things are beyond even you, Fei.

I look away, fearing my own eyes will fill with tears at the frustration I feel over my sister’s fate.

Come on, she says. We don’t want to be late.

We continue on our way, walking along the cliffside path, and my heart is heavy. I won’t admit it to her, but this might indeed be beyond me. I might dream incredible things and have the skills to paint any vision into reality, but even I can’t restore sight itself. It’s a humbling and depressing thought, one that so consumes me that I don’t even notice the crowd of people until we practically walk into them.

This path that traces the village’s edge goes past the station where the suppliers receive shipments from the township below. It looks as though the first shipment of the day has arrived up the zip line and is about to be distributed. While that’s often a cause for excitement, I rarely see it draw this many people, which makes me think something unusual is happening. Amid the sea of dull brown clothing, I spy a spot of blue and recognize another artist apprentice, Min. This is her observation post.

I tug her sleeve, drawing her attention to me. What’s happening?

They sent a letter