A Chorus of Fire

by Brian D. Anderson

  “Never heard of it,” called someone seated at the table closest to the stool.

  The heckle caused the girl to wince. “I wrote it myself.”

  “Well, play it for us, dear,” Karlia said, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Don’t be afraid.”

  The girl gave Karlia a brittle smile. “Thank you.”

  The room settled down as the first few notes chimed. Simple in the beginning, with a moderate tempo. Her skill was unpolished and in need of discipline. But all in all, not bad, thought Lem. The melody was a series of delicate phrases, employing quick rests to bind them together into a single broader piece. The composition was not overly long—only a few minutes. But Lem liked it very much. Though it did not display a high level of skill with her instrument, the melody was inspired.

  Shouts of scorn, Tilmin’s voice rising above them all, reverberated from the walls. The girl merely sat there, head down, tears falling one blink at a time. Karlia leaned over and whispered something into her ear. The girl nodded and stood, clutching her lyre to her chest. More insults followed as she left the common room through the door nearest the bar.

  The reaction left Lem perplexed. What was wrong with her song? It was delightful. The technique was simplistic, true. But the piece was well put together and competently presented. Lem dismissed it from his mind. It didn’t matter.

  The next few applicants were decent enough, though Lem thought they’d chosen pieces beyond their skill, likely in an attempt to impress. Tilmin looked on, rolling his eyes and whispering to his friends.

  “You seem to think much of yourself,” Karlia said to the young lord. “Why don’t you go next?”

  “With pleasure,” he replied, striding up to the stool and shoving aside its occupant. “I offer for your consideration ‘The Misery of Lady Belatrace,’” he announced proudly.

  Murmurs quickly spread throughout the crowd. Lem had heard of the piece before—said to be one of the most difficult to learn; only ever performed by a full-fledged bard.

  Karlia nodded, taking a step back. “Very well. Let’s hear it.”

  Tilmin took a long breath, then plucked out the first three notes of a major chord, pausing before adding the seventh. Then in a mad flurry, his hands sprang to life. It was clear why this song was thought a challenge. The scales intertwined at a furious tempo, resolving into a barrage of chords and nuanced phrases. Grudgingly, Lem had to admit Tilmin’s confidence was justified. He was good. Very good, in fact. Had he not been such a jackass, Lem would have enjoyed hearing him play. There were a few missed notes here and there, but the sheer speed of the song disguised it well enough that only a trained ear would catch it.

  For ten minutes he went on, sweat pouring down his brow and from the tip of his nose. When the final note was played, the crowd was left dumbstruck. Six people stood, looking crestfallen, and went to their rooms to pack. The rest clapped their hands, their expressions betraying that they had been thoroughly intimidated.

  Tilmin stood and spread his arms, daring a challenge. “Who’s next?”

  No one accepted.

  “Then I suppose I’m the winner. Yes?” He turned to Karlia. “Unless you say otherwise, of course.”

  She looked insistently over to Lem, but he turned away and rose from the table.

  “You see, lads? I told you I’d get him to leave.”

  Lem paid no attention to the jibe and started back to his room. In the hallway, he saw the young girl sitting on the floor, desperately clutching the lyre and weeping softly. Lem would be at his door a few feet before reaching her. He should pretend not to notice; go to his room and read his book. That was absolutely the right decision. But he couldn’t.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Why?” she sobbed. “Do you care?”

  Lem crouched beside her. “Not really, no. I was just curious why you’re crying.”

  “You heard them. I should have never come. I don’t belong here.”

  “I couldn’t say one way or the other, to be honest. I will say that I enjoyed your song. I don’t know why the others acted like that.”

  “Because I’m a joke. All I do is write songs. I’ve never even taken a lesson. I should never have let my mother talk me into this.”

  “Not one lesson? You’re putting me on.”

  She shook her head. “My family couldn’t afford lessons. I only learned to play to keep my younger brother happy. He was sickly from birth and would stop crying when I played for him.” She held up the lyre, tears still falling freely. “What was I thinking, coming here?”

  Lem stood, hand extended. “Come with me.”

  She looked up at him, confused. “Why?”

  “I want you to hear something.” When she didn’t move, he smiled. “Please. If you do it, I’ll pay for your room.”

  Diffidently, she took his hand and allowed Lem to help her up. Stopping to retrieve his balisari, he led her back to the common area. Tilmin was standing at the bar, surrounded by a large group of fawning applicants, looking triumphant and relishing the attention. Karlia was on the stool where the contest had been held, taking copious swallows of ale.

  “He’s back!” Tilmin shouted. “And he brought the composer with him. Leaving already?”

  Lem leaned in close to the girl. “What’s your name?”

  “Valine.”

  “I’m Inradel. Go stand by the stool. I’ll be right there.”

  Lem crossed over to Tilmin and unslung his balisari. “You weren’t bad for an amateur. In fact, you’ve inspired me to give it a go.”

  Tilmin puffed up at the insult. “The contest is over. Why don’t you go back to whatever pig farm you came from?”

  “Karlia,” Lem called. “Is there time for one more entry?”

  Karlia grinned. “The contest ended. But I’m fine with opening it back up. That is, if Lord Tilmin isn’t afraid he might lose.”

  Tilmin stiffened, his eyes darting around the room to the gathering group of onlookers. “Of course not. Let the poor fellow embarrass himself if he wants.”

  Lem nodded, then paused and turned after a few steps. “Would you like to raise the stakes?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If I win, you go home … tonight. If I lose, I’ll do the same.”

  Tilmin looked nervous—unsure of himself—but was not about to lose face in front of the other applicants.

  “Agreed. But only if you take that poor excuse for a lyrist with you.”

  “Then it’s a bet.”

  He grabbed a second stool from the bar and pushed his way over to where Valine was standing. “I’d like her to accompany me, if that’s all right,” he said to Karlia.

  “That’s fine by me,” she replied, sliding from the stool and offering it to the frightened girl.

  “I don’t want to do this,” Valine said.

  Lem situated the stools one beside the other. “It’ll be fine. You have my word. Just play the song you played earlier. I’ll take care of the rest.” When she did not take her place, he added: “You were going to leave anyway. So what difference can it make?”

  Slowly she nodded her compliance and sat down, though she refused to look into the crowd. Lem did the same, taking a moment to be sure his instrument was in proper tune.

  “When you’re ready,” Lem said.

  Once again, a note sang out from Valine’s lyre. But this time, Lem laid down a counterpoint layer of flitting scales and tones above it. Valine looked over at him, eyes wide. Lem smiled back and continued to improvise over the melody. He glanced up to see universal expressions of amazement as he followed the progression, weaving the base structure into something far more complex.

  When he was finished, the room was silent. Tilmin looked furious and defiant. He was not ready to concede … but he will be, thought Lem.

  “Thank you, Valine. That was wonderful. I just have one more thing to play, if you don’t mind.”

  Valine stood and backed away until she was b
eside a stunned-looking Karlia.

  Lem looked over to Tilmin. “That piece you played … I heard what you were trying to do. But perhaps this is more like what you intended.” He affected an innocent expression. “I hope I can remember it all from one hearing.”

  For the next ten minutes, Lem played “The Misery of Lady Belatrace.” Though a difficult piece when taken from the standpoint of technique, it was not a complex progression and one easily repeated. And where Tilmin had made errors, Lem most certainly did not.

  When he was finished, the room broke into sporadic applause, their expressions still plastered with astonishment. A few more stood and started back to their rooms … Tilmin among them.

  “You see?” Lem said to Valine. “Your composition was lovely.”

  Valine beamed. “It … it was exactly as I’ve always imagined it played in my mind. You’re wonderful. Thank you.”

  “I’ve never heard anyone play ‘The Misery of Lady Belatrace’ like that before,” Karlia said. “No wonder you don’t look nervous about the audition.”

  “Would you tell Lord Tilmin that he should stay?” Lem said. “I wasn’t being serious about the wager.” He turned to Valine. “I hope you’ll stay too. The world needs more music like yours. I’m sure the bards will see that. And if they don’t, they’re not worthy of you.”

  All eyes followed him through the common room, though no one spoke above a whisper. Lem knew what he’d done was probably a bad idea, particularly given his intention of failing the audition. At least it proves you’re not heartless, he told himself. Not yet.

  After a relaxing wash, he slipped into bed. Outside in the hall, he could hear the voices of the applicants talking about his performance. There was a time this would have fed his pride. But he no longer cared what people thought of his playing. Occasionally he feared he would lose the ability to experience the joy music gave him. To lose his love for music would be like having an arm or a leg hacked off. Only losing Mariyah terrified him more.

  As he drifted, he allowed the memories of his childhood to cradle his mind. Carefree days of play and study, when everything felt new and clean. Each day a fresh adventure.

  5

  THE BARD’S COLLEGE

  Through music, a bard extends their soul to heal the woes of Lamoria. They are a salve to soothe the burn, a blanket to combat the cold. Healers and poets resolved to pit themselves against the madness and turmoil. Do not enter into this lightly. Your battle is eternal, for evil will never cease its march. Where they fight with steel and fire, you will beat them back with words and song. This is the choice you are given this day. What say you?

  Excerpt of the Bard’s Eternal Pledge. Written by Bard Master Rukil Vanoria and recited by every fledgling bard on the day of their elevation.

  The clack of the lock sent Lem scrambling to sit upright. Instinctively, he reached for his dagger, which he typically kept on the floor by the bed. Realizing it was packed away, he threw back the blanket just as the door swung open.

  Lem leapt for his pack as a shadowy figure rushed in. Realizing he could not make it, he shifted his body and kicked upward. His right foot thudded into the midsection of his attacker, his left only managing a glancing blow, but it was enough to send whoever this was back a pace. The glint of steel caused a surge of panic as Lem scrambled to the wall.

  “You think you can get away from me?”

  It was Tilmin. And from the strong odor of spirits, he was drunk. The young lord dove forward, dagger held high. Lem rolled left, groping for anything he could find to use as a weapon, but there was nothing other than the small dresser. The blade missed his head by inches. The momentum of the attack and the inebriation of the attacker sent Tilmin crashing down on top of him. The impact forced the breath from Lem’s lungs, and for a terrifying second, he was helpless and gasping for air.

  Tilmin yanked his dagger free from the floorboards and straddled Lem’s chest. He wasn’t very heavy, having roughly the same build as Lem, but his position made it impossible to get free. Tilmin glared, drool dripping from the corner of his mouth.

  “You think you can humiliate me and get away with it?” he roared, his slurred words revealing that he was very drunk.

  Lem still hadn’t caught his breath, the pressure bearing down on his chest making it even more difficult, and could not form a reply.

  “Thanks to you, my sister will be named heir.” He struck Lem in the jaw with his empty hand.

  Given with Tilmin’s weaker arm, the blow wasn’t hard, which allowed Lem the time he desperately needed to recover.

  “Please. Wait,” he managed to choke out. “I told Karlia to tell you not to leave. The wager’s off.”

  Another punch landed, this time to the center of his forehead. “Shut your mouth, you son of a swine. I don’t need your charity.”

  Lem recognized the unreasoning rage in his eyes, even in the dim light of the lantern on the nightstand. No words would calm him. Lem’s arms were free, but with his foe sitting upright, he could not reach his eyes or mouth. But there was one thing he could reach that would be just as effective. With his right hand, he grabbed at Tilmin’s testicles. The loose-fitting trousers made it a simple matter to find his target.

  Tilmin let out a yelp as Lem squeezed down hard. The young lord twisted away, allowing for Lem to sit up and shove him in the chest. Lem scurried to his feet, the whisper of steel cutting the air as his would-be killer lashed out blindly, driving him onto the bed to avoid being cut.

  Lem’s pack was behind Tilmin, who was already pushing himself to his feet, wiping spittle with the back of his dagger hand, his mouth contorted with hatred. In a single stride, Lem was off the bed and through the door. Unable to halt his momentum, he slammed into the wall in the corridor. With a dull pop, pain ripped through his right shoulder, and it fell limp and useless. Ignoring this, he raced for the common area. A few heads were poking out from their rooms to see what was causing the commotion.

  “Get help!” Lem shouted, as he raced past.

  The pounding of boots and the feral snarls at his back hastened his pace. He threw open the door, and with his good arm, slammed it shut behind him. The common room was empty, the chairs turned upside down and placed neatly on top of the tables. He thought to use one as a weapon, but with only one arm, he doubted it would do much good. The door was flung wide, and Tilmin paused in the doorway until spotting Lem running toward the exit.

  “They lock it at night, pig,” he shouted. “You can’t escape.”

  Lem tried the door anyway. But as Tilmin said, it was locked. Lem spun around, eyes darting about the room. Now on his feet and seeing his attacker coming, he would have stood a decent chance—if both arms worked. Tilmin stepped from the corridor, grinning maliciously and wiping more spittle from his mouth.

  “You don’t have to do this. I wasn’t serious about the wager. Karlia should have told you.”

  “Oh, she told me. She told me all about your generosity.” With each word he was moving closer. “You don’t offer me charity. I’m the son of Lord Gyfar Tilmin. I will not be humiliated by the likes of you.”

  The bar, he thought. Surely there would be a knife … or something. A stick would do at the moment. His muscles tensed. But before he could move, a figure exploded from the still-open door of the hallway. Tilmin started to turn, but it was too late. There was a thump, accompanied by an oddly dissonant chord. Tilmin lurched forward with a heavy grunt, then fell facedown to the floor, unconscious. Standing there in her nightshirt and bare feet, holding a broken lyre, one half dangling by the strings, was Valine.

  A few seconds later, the woman who had been at the front desk entered from the opposite side of the room.

  “What in blazes is going on in here?” she demanded, looking down at Tilmin and then at Lem and Valine.

  More heads were peeking out from the hallway, curious as to what happened.

  Lem strode over to Tilmin and kicked the dagger away. Valine was staring down at the body, red-fac
ed and fists clenched.

  “Thank you,” Lem said.

  Valine was silent for a long moment, before blinking hard and looking down at her shattered lyre. “It’s broken,” she said.

  The innkeeper came closer, looking confused and angry. “I said, what the hell happened?”

  “Lord Tilmin broke into my room and attacked me,” Lem explained.

  The woman looked at him skeptically. “Why would he do that?” Before he could answer, she waved her hand. “Never mind. I’ll let the city magistrate sort it out. You two wait here. And don’t try leaving.” She stalked over to the front counter and retrieved a key from a drawer. “If you’re not here when I return, warrants will be issued, I promise.”

  By now, the applicants were entering the common room.

  “You’re hurt,” Valine said, pointing to Lem’s limp appendage.

  “It’s nothing,” he replied. “Dislocated, is all.”

  Valine sat her broken instrument on a table and went over to Lem. “Let me help.”

  Lem hesitated a moment, then nodded his compliance.

  She gripped his bicep and shoulder. “This will…”—she shoved the arm back in place—“hurt.”

  The pain was intense but brief, soon resolving to a dull throb. Sensation returned at once, and he was able to move his hand and wiggle his fingers. “Thank you … again.”

  Tilmin’s companions arrived and hurried over to their fallen comrade. There was a gash on the back of his head, but he was otherwise fine. They looked over to Lem, but said nothing. They actually appeared quite worried … and not about Tilmin.

  “I told you,” Lem heard one whisper to the others. “He’ll get us thrown out.”

  “His father will disown him,” another said.

  “Him? Who gives a damn about him? What about us?”

  Valine was looking despondently at her lyre. “My mother bought this for me.”

  “I’ll buy you a new one,” Lem offered. A decent lyre was not all that expensive compared to other instruments, and he had brought more than enough gold for the trip.