by R. R. King
Ellianna still loved music. The passion of her heart, and the substitute for the nothingness in her eyes. Though she was determined to face the enemy like Rodmordt, she still preferred the touch of sentiment the music brought. Rodmordt’s training and fighting against the constantly falling rain drove her crazy.
She continued playing her music behind Rodmordt’s back, down in a dungeon dug a day’s walk beneath the earth — her Tower had been destroyed by King Thorn’s soldiers.
Then Rodmordt faced a dilemma.
His men, no matter how strong they grew, were still vulnerable. He needed an upper hand over his enemy. If all men were vulnerable, then there were no guarantees he’d win the war. He was advised to seek the Power of Magic of Eluria, which King Thorn used sparsely. It permitted him to control the weather in his castle, and even the dragons at his feet.
No sorcerer was of use to Rodmordt. Whatever secrets his brother had laid his hands upon, were out of Rodmordt’s reach. He was told magic wasn’t possible where there was continues rain. Water diffused magic spells and interrupted the flow of its powers.
Defeated again, Rodmordt sought Ellianna’s tender heart. She surprised him with a secret she had learned from playing her music. A magic like no other. A magic so powerful they would be almost immortal.
8
Harp of Hallows
“It’s the Harp of Hallows,” Ellianna told Rodmordt.
“What about it, love,” he said, staring at the huge curvy instrument in front of her.
“It can conjure magic. A magic of two parts.”
“I am listening.”
“The first part was scribbled on a piece of leather I found inside,” — I will explain how she read it later — “It explains how certain melodies on the harp can ‘elevate a man’s mortality.’”
“Elevate a man’s mortality? I don’t truly follow.”
“It’s a song of obsolete notes. If I play it while you’re submerged in the rain’s water, the listener’s soul elevates by the Power of Do’reh’ma, one of the Seven Season’s Seven Creators.”
“Elevate the soul?” Rodmordt liked the idea, but it was beyond his comprehension.
“When the Seven Creators breathed life into us, they blessed our bodies and souls with life from the First Plane of Consciousness,” she elaborated. “When someone kills us, we die because no human had ever been taught how to elevate to the Second Plane of Consciousness. Remember ancient paintings that show a man’s soul elevate to the Heavens when he dies? That is the Second Plane of Consciousness”
Rodmordt continued listening, skeptically. It sounded like the kind of magic he was looking for, but also didn’t quite believe in.
“If a man is granted the Art of the Second Plane of Consciousness, which is called Ta’far, ordinary death cannot kill him.” She smiled with her blind eyes.
“Are you sure?” Rodmordt squinted.
She nodded, taking his hand in hers.
“Does that mean we could be immortal?”
“I think so,” she said. “if the Obsolete Song works.”
“What do you mean by obsolete?”
“It’s a musical expression, but I can simplify it. As you know, Melodies are made of Shouts. Some shouts are silent; some are audible,” she said. “Man knows of seven main Shouts and five Half-Shouts that compose any song in the world. All in all, twelve Shouts, repeated on different patterns, meaning they could be higher in pitch and lower.”
Rodmordt nodded. He already knew that.
“But this hasn’t been the case at all times,” she said. “Before the Seven Seasons, the world was simply one big land where seasons changed in the same place. You didn’t have to travel to another land to experience a certain season. And they were certainly not seven seasons. Only four.”
“I have heard that from the older and wiser women in the village,” he agreed. “And?”
“At those times, some tribes played hundreds of notes, not only twelve.”
“That’s impossible. It’s not even applicable.”
“They did,” she insisted. “They were talented enough to play a third note between each note we know of now. Even better, between the new notes, they were able to play a fourth. And so on.”
“But even if that were true, I don’t think a man’s hearing would comprehend the small differences.”
“Only a man who lives on the First Plane of Consciousness,” her blind eyes glittered. “Do you understand it now?”
Rodmordt smiled. If it were true, it was magic like no other.
“All I need is play the melody while you’re submerged in water for a few breaths,” she said. “Then your soul will elevate. The more I repeat it, the more you elevate. Up to the Second Plane of Consciousness.”
“And then no one can kill me?” Rodmordt said.
“As long as I play my music while you fight,” she said. “The levels aren’t an easy gift for a man like you who lived on the first plane for so long. Whenever you fight, or your army fights, my music can elevate your souls. As long as I do, no man can even stab any of you. They will always miss because they are stabbing on another Plane of Consciousness.”
Rodmordt would have preferred if he didn't risk Ellianna’s mortality, as it meant she had to be present in the battlefield. But this was the first time he had encountered the kind of magic that countered his brother’s.
“So let me guess the second part,” Rodmordt said. “You have to play alongside us when we fight.”
Ellianna nodded, happy that she’d be part of the battle. “I play, you fight. The music elevates your souls, and your grit in the battle strengthens my music from the Harp of Hallows.”
“Ellianna, my love,” Rodmordt held her dearly. “I think we’re ready to face the enemy.”
9
Fallen Stars
“You expect the King to believe that a blind woman read a note tucked in a Harp?” Dragan laughs at me again. “You’re making this story up.”
Dragan’s words make sense. What I told them sounds like a lie. I say nothing.
“I do believe him, Dragan,” King Thorn says. “The details he mentioned about my brother are true, and very few men know of them.”
Dragan shrugs and lowers his head. I can see him from the corner of my eyes while staring up at the King.
“But still,” King Thorn says to me. “How did a blind woman read the notes?”
“They were written in Brai’oh’elle,” I say. “The language of the blind.”
“Huh!” Dragan retorts.
“It’s a language written in pinches and dots. A blind woman feels the letters with her hands — in her case, the musical notes,” I say. “That’s why it was written on leather.”
“I know of such languages,” the King said. “Delight of the Dark, my wife’s fortune teller uses it, as she is also blind to all colors but black.”
“The irony,” Dragan grits his teeth beside me.
I don’t comment or laugh. The irony in the Seven Seas is a common motif. There is enough evidence of it when one realizes that each Season is different, and that some seasons like the Season of Words makes no sense at all.
“But why haven’t you told me how Ellianna read the notes before I asked?” King Thorn demands.
“When you tell a story, you tend to miss details,” I say. “It’s the nature of life. You can’t tell the same story twice.”
“I agree. But that would leave room for concealed truth and inserted lies.”
“Truth and Lies,” I nod. “They say our perception of life lies somewhere in between.”
The King takes a moment to reflect. Words are the name of the game we play. Words have always been a liar’s best friend. Beautiful, interesting words can distract from the facts.
“Well, everything you said about him is true so far,” King Thorn considers. “Only a man who has sneaked into the Season of Rain would know of such things. And even so, there are few things that you don’t seem to know about, Shadow.”
“Like?”
“No one knows how and why Rodmordt won each of his fights. Very few people know about the Elevation, which is an Elurian Magic I haven’t been able to acquire myself — or fully understand.”
“So how did this Lurker kill a man with such a gift?” Dragan addresses his king, as he sizes me up from top to bottom.
“A question,” the King says. “which demands an answer.”
“I arranged for a Feud,” I answer them both. “Rodmordt was fond of Feuds, a meeting with a warrior who longed to challenge him. Few warriors dared to ask for it, as they knew they’d end up dead.”
“And he just accepted?” the King is skeptic.
“Of course not,” I say. “Rodmordt didn’t fight just anyone, though Ellianna’s magic had started to make him lust for more blood — the dark side of any magic. He lived in a simple house, not a castle like you. Not to say he owned no castle. He did, but never lived in it. Rodmordt demanded volunteer warriors to challenge him each day, so he strengthened his power of Elevation with Ellianna. He was preparing for you.”
“And how did you persuade him to fight you?”
“I asked what would make Rodmordt want to fight me. What would interest him in me? What would he consider a challenge?” I say. “I was told to get a sword of at least Ten Million Souls. That he’d would love to fight a man with such a powerful weapon.”
“How did you get such a sword?”
It is a sound question. Only legendary ruthless men owned such swords.
“I sought to buy such a sword,” I say. “My mother helped with the price.”
“Price?” Dragan scowls. “No warrior would sell his sword after so many kills.”
“For twelve Falling Stars, they do.”
“Falling stars?” King Thorn stretches the syllables of the words, as if he is moaning them.
Dragan is as skeptic.
“My mother knew a man in the Season of Sin, who told her of a place where stars had fallen from the skies, and were most can be found buried deep in wells.”
“Stars are too big to fall from the sky,” the King says “Though the legend of Falling Stars and them being used as currency in the Season of Sin is a well-known myth.”
“It’s not a myth,” I say. “It’s true. I paid a man from Per’uh’sia twelve stars, which could be held in the palm of one’s hand, for a sword with Ten Million Souls.”
“Shrinking stars, the size of a man’s hands,” Dragan scorns. “Nonsense and lies.”
“True, Dragan,” the King says. “But I am willing to hear the rest of the lie — the story.”
“Why so, my King?” Dragan has to ask. “What if it’s only lies.”
The King smiles. For the first time, I could see the faint curves from this far — if I am not imagining this — his stare is directed my way. “Because what are stories but beautiful lies?”
It is both a compliment and mockery. Trust and suspicion. The King plays the game, and loves it like I said before. Bored and restless, my story would either entertain or prove to be true.
“The sword’s name was the Shade,” I say. “It had been used to kill Ten Million Souls in the War of Art where religious tribes massacred millions of artists for challenging the way the Seven Creators had made the world.”
“A sad, ancient war,” the King says with respect. He isn’t just a man of science with the knowledge of stars, but also interested in arts. Never have I met a ruthless King of such education. “I was part of the army that was sent to kill the tribe when I was your age. Continue please.”
“The sword had also been buried in Veruvian Sands for seven years, yielding to a stronger mold like nothing I had even seen.”
“I only met one warrior with such a sword in my life,” the King notes. “So was that enough of a sword for Rodmordt accepting your Feud?”
I nod.
“How did you plan to kill a man who had the Power of Elevation?” the King says.
“I wasn’t sure. It’s complicated. I had to meet him and see his powers for myself.”
“None of the warriors I’ve ever sent survived. I’ve been vaguely told about his Elevate Power. Some of my spies have told me about watching him transcend to the sky, but no one ever understood how it happened.”
“That’s because they didn’t understand the power of Ellianna’s obsolete melodies,” I say. “The music from the Harp does grant Rodmordt the power of the Planes of Consciousness. But it does also grant it to anyone else fighting him if the desired strength and will was present.”
“Oh. Are you saying you manipulated Ellianna’s music…”
“If I listened to the notes with an open mind and heart, and moved accordingly.”
“A Dance of Swords?”
“A dance of life and death,” I say. “Actually, my fight with Rodmordt was one of the most memorable. I must say the events that followed are far from predictable.”
“Did you have any prior knowledge of music to know how to manipulate the energy of Ellianna’s song?”
“No knowledge,” I said. “I dug deep into the earth, crawled on all four, risked death in underground tunnels and then sneaked closer to her every night and listened to the song over and over. At some point, I disguised as one of the men who provided her with the food. I listened to her until I memorized each note, felt each rise, and opened my heart to the parts when the melody ascended or descended.”
“Clever,” the King says. “I will not ask about details of a man digging a hole that stretched a day’s walk deep into the earth, but I will ask about the Feud. What happened with Rodmordt?”
I close my eyes.
10
Terrace of Teardrops
The Feud took place at the Terrace of Teardrops, named after the thousands of women who’d cried, mourning their lost sons in the war against King Thorn. It’s said that the perpetual rain in this Season had thickened because of the perpetual of angels, crying in the seventh sky, but who knows.
The Terrace was large enough to fit a small army of three hundred men or so. It had enormous columns at its four corners. The columns were so high they disappeared somewhere in the sky above. A shiny architecture of black Lavval stones.
A series of smaller columns were built at intervals between each of the main ones in the corners. With the falling rain, they made the place looks like an ancient underwater city.
The ground was made of black cobblestones, not Lavval, but something I had never seen before. It didn’t glitter. It sucked in the few sun rays slanting through the grey clouds above, and spit it back into tiny spots of golden fireflies, sprinkling their light here and there. The atmosphere was black and silver with the tiny gold of butterflies, and the semi-translucent rain created a dense layer of invisible curtains that made it harder to see through.
Upon my arrival, Rodmordt had already been warming up, training with his fellow warriors, knocking them down one by one, but killing no one.
Seeing him in this atmosphere, I wondered about his yellow outfit. It made him the easiest target in the terrace. I admired his vulnerability, his courage to stand out and fear no one. Why did I hide under my black cloak and not expose myself like him? I reminded myself that I had to figuratively remain a shadow — sometimes literally.
The Terrace sank into silence once I arrived, all but the dribbling of rain. The warriors bowed their head in a gesture of respect. I bowed back. A mutual respect. They knew that asking for a Feud with Rodmordt was pure insanity, if not blunt suicide.
Those honorable gestures made it harder for me to kill him.
“Welcome…” Rodmordt bowed his head. “I am Alagor Rodmordt, ruler of the Season of Rain.”
“Shadow,” I bowed back, my hands already gripping my sword. I didn't pull it out yet.
Rodmordt straightened up and stared at me. He seemed to want to ask me about my name. Then… I think he changed his mind. Maybe, he recognized who I really was. Maybe he knew my real name — if I had one. Maybe he didn’
t care.
“A warrior needs to know what he is fighting for,” he said with a tone that strangely resonated through the pouring rain. No spit or spatter. No muffled syllables. Clarity in intent and speech. “So may I ask why you asked for the Feud?”
“I am a warrior. I need to learn.” I said, all spatter and spit.
“Eager enough you might die — probably will today?”
I shrugged. I was talking to a man who had killed every opponent so far.
“An ordinary man fights for his life, and maybe the life of his loved ones,” Rodmordt educated me. His tone was welcoming, though flat. He didn’t fear me. He didn’t look down on me. He had no prejudgment of who I was. “A warrior fights for a reason. Learning has to have a point.”
“Why should a warrior have a reason?”
“A warrior will end up doing horrifying things,” he explained. “He might end up killing a whole village with its women and, unfortunately, children. A warrior, no matter how righteous, is bound to regret his kills later in life. Is bound to eternal nightmares, so harsh that his death will be his salvation and redemption from his Memories of Madness. So unless he has a greater reason for his killings, he would end up with a severe sickness called ‘insanity.’”
I knew about insanity. My father was insane. They called it Eh’luh’nai were I was raised. I just hadn’t known it to be the result of killing so many people in war. It had always been considered a possession of otherworldly demons that drove a man mad. I was grateful to have learned something as important as this from the man I came to kill.
“So why did you ask for the Feud?” Rodmordt still sounded relaxed.
“I’m afraid to greatly upset you if I told you.” I bowed my head, loosened my grip on the sword.
Rodmordt smiled, like a father to a son. “You would upset my woman, Ellianna, more if you kill me,” he slowly pointed her direction. She was sitting still, eyes closed, hands resting on her Harp, ready to play. There was only me, her, and Rodmordt in the terrace now. “If you kill me.”