A Chorus of Fire

by Brian D. Anderson

  Lem thought back to their arrival. “No. But I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “It was removed and placed in its current location by the final Bard Master to serve here.”

  Lem furrowed his brow. “Final Bard Master?”

  “The bards were once very different. But we’ll get to that in due course … if what I suspect turns out to be true.” She rose and crossed over to the shelves. “This is my private study. The acoustics here are flawless. Even when compared to the rest of the college.” She searched the books with her finger, then gently removed a thin, cloth-bound folder. “Will you play something for me?”

  “If you’d like.” Lem placed the balisari in his lap and strummed a few chords to be sure it was still in tune.

  Master Feriel flipped through the pages, then laid it on the ground by his feet.

  “Forgive the lack of a stand. I rarely use one.”

  “This is fine.”

  The paper was old and stained, and the notations faded. His eyes strained to make out what was written. A simple tune, easily memorized, but with strange, dissonant chord choices and broken scales. As he plucked out the first bar, Lem winced. Very strange. To the point of being off-putting.

  Upon reaching the second phrase, a flash of light caught his attention. At first he thought he’d imagined it. Then another popped in and out of existence, directly above the Bard Master’s head. He stopped playing and looked back down at the music.

  “What is this?”

  The Bard Master’s expression was a stone mask. “Please continue.” When Lem hesitated, she said: “It’s perfectly safe.”

  “Not before you tell me what it is.”

  “A test.”

  He eyed her warily. “If this is some sort of trick…” allowing the implied threat to hang in the air.

  “It’s not a trick.”

  Lem began again, the inharmonious notes grating at his ears. The lights reappeared, flashing randomly in various parts of the room, and by the third line were accompanied by a sizzle and a sharp crack. The composition’s crescendo was a mad flurry of ascending parallel chords. The lights increased in number and intensity in concert with the music until Lem was forced to close his eyes lest he be blinded. When the final note was played, he opened his eyes and saw the Bard Master in her chair, her formerly calm demeanor now a look of pure astonishment, hands covering her mouth and tears spilling down her cheeks.

  Lem sprang up. “You had better tell me what that was. Or I’m leaving.”

  It took her a moment to regain her composure. “Forgive me,” she said in a half whisper, wiping her eyes. “I never thought I would be the one. It affected me more than I’d anticipated.”

  “The one for what?” His anger was nearly boiling over.

  “That piece is … well … the best way to put it is a spell.”

  Lem stiffened. “A spell? How can music cast a spell?” He was sure there was trickery involved. She was playing some sort of game.

  “I don’t know how. But I know why. You, Inradel Mercer. You are why.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. Only a true bard has the gift. One who possesses the power of the ancients. A power that, until this very moment, we thought lost for eternity.”

  Lem looked back at the binder, then to the Bard Master. “Are you saying the bards are a kind of sorcerer?”

  “They were in the ancient past,” she said, the slight tremor in her voice denoting the storm of emotions she was suppressing. “Though perhaps not in the way you understand it.” She cleared her throat and smiled. “I know it’s a difficult thing to understand. After all, today we are but musicians. Should I play the same piece, nothing would happen.”

  “But you’re a bard. Aren’t you?”

  “I am. And then I’m not. I am a skilled musician. Without boasting, I can say that I’m the most skilled of all the bards. But I lack the gift that once made us truly powerful.” She held out her hand. “May I see your balisari?”

  Lem was reluctant to give it over, and only did so when it was clear she would not speak further until he did.

  “This was handed down, you say?”

  “Yes,” he replied.

  The Bard Master examined it for more than a minute, running her finger over the joints and strings as if looking for something specific. “How often do you break a string?”

  “Never. I replace them from time to time. But I’ve never broken one.”

  “Don’t you find that odd? Balisaris are prone to strings breaking.”

  This was true. Lem had always attributed it to his instrument being of unusually high quality. “I’m careful. Strings are expensive. Especially balisari strings.”

  She gripped it by the neck. “Has it needed repair?”

  “No. Just the occasional refinishing.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “As I suspected. And for this, I ask your forgiveness in advance.”

  Before Lem could move to stop her, Feriel raised the balisari high and slammed it into the stone tiles. The deep hollow thud and the ringing of strings were closely followed by Lem’s panicked scream. He reached out and yanked his instrument free, shoving the Bard Master hard to the floor.

  “What did you do?” he shouted, holding it up to inspect the damage.

  “Nothing,” she replied, struggling to her feet and rubbing her backside. “As you can see.”

  Lem’s eyes shot wide and his jaw went slack. There was a small chip in the veneer, but the instrument was otherwise undamaged. “That’s not possible. It should have shattered to splinters.”

  “I could smash it against the walls all day, and I doubt I could do more than scratch the finish. Perhaps if I rolled over it with a wagon filled with granite blocks, it might crack. But I doubt it.”

  Lem was awestruck. He was tempted to try it himself, but stopped short.

  “Come,” Feriel said. “There is something you should see.”

  6

  THE HIGH ORDER OF KYLOR

  Within us all hides a secret—one that most never bother to seek out. For its discovery will lay the soul bare and reveal who we truly are. For most, this is a terrifying prospect. And why the world remains shrouded in ignorance.

  From the diaries of Bard Master Lumard Raphille

  Lem was taken through a series of narrow corridors and down a long flight of stairs to the subbasement. The air was cool and dry, and he caught the faint scent of honey. As far as he could tell, there was no obvious light source—no lamp or torches as on the floor above. Magic. He’d seen it used in the homes of nobles and wealthy merchants, but for some reason, here it felt out of place. Obscene, in a way.

  “Are students allowed down here?” he asked.

  “Students who live in the main building have little time to explore. But it isn’t strictly forbidden.”

  Most of the rooms they passed through were empty, their former purpose indiscernible; several were spacious enough to have been ballrooms or grand banquet halls.

  After several minutes they arrived at a chamber with rows of glass cases, inside which were placed a variety of instruments cradled on fitted cushions. On the walls were more of the gold plates similar to those in the main gallery, and at the far end stood a silver door with the Eye of Kylor etched in bright red upon its face.

  “I didn’t think the Bard’s College worshiped any particular god,” Lem remarked with just a hint of contempt.

  “We don’t.” She gestured to the cases. “Take a look. You will never see a finer collection in all Lamoria.”

  “I’m sure they’re very nice. But I didn’t come to see instruments.”

  Feriel frowned. “You are quite a rude young man. Do you know that?”

  When it was clear she was not going to say more, he heaved a sigh. “Fine. I’ll look at the collection, if it will get me an explanation.”

  The cases were set up in long rows—two on either side of the room, leaving a pathway down the center. The instruments were without a doubt of high qualit
y, with intricate inlay and carved headstocks on the stringed instruments and delicate letterings and designs on the flutes and woodwinds. There was another balisari, similar to his own, though with a deeper finish and white fingerboard. But nothing he had not seen before.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  Lem stopped and faced the Bard Master. “I think you should tell me what I want to know. What happened in your study? What were those lights? And why didn’t my balisari break?”

  She began to stroll among the collection, running the tips of her fingers over the glass. “The lie you told me. The one about where you are from. Why?”

  Lem was struck for a moment. “Why do you think I’m lying?”

  “Because the song you played could have only come from two places: my personal chambers … or Vylari. And as I’m sure you have never been in my chambers, I can only assume the latter.” Seeing his distress, she affected a reassuring smile. “I will not reveal your secret. But it explains much. The song you played was a gift to the final Master of the Bards. The elder of two sisters who fled these halls long ago. Elyn Adunay.”

  “I’ve never heard the name.”

  “Truly? That’s surprising, given that she, along with the rest of the bards, founded your homeland.”

  “No one knows when or how Vylari was founded,” Lem said. “Or by whom. The only stories we know tell us that they were trying to escape the evils of magic and war.”

  “In a way, that’s true,” she said. “They left to find a new home, shortly after the end of a terrible war that had left most of Lamoria in ruin. But they could not flee far enough, and violence hounded them. So they called upon an ancient magic to spirit their new home away where no one could ever find it again. No one knows for sure where they went. It was as if Vylari had vanished from existence.”

  “Sounds like a bedtime story to me,” Lem scoffed. “Vylari wasn’t spirited away.”

  “I never thought it was. But legends are usually grounded in truth, even if only in an indistinct way. It’s a simple conclusion to draw that Vylari was concealed by a barrier of some sort; one that makes it impossible to find. We know the war was real. And we know the ancient bards possessed powers we do not. So what we are told may be little more than a bedtime story. But there is truth buried within it.”

  Lem considered this for a moment. “If you brought me here to ask me how to find it, you’ve wasted your time,” he said firmly.

  Feriel sighed. “A pity. But I thought that’s what you’d say. Don’t worry. I won’t press you on the matter. If the legends are true, I doubt you could find it yourself. There are a few accounts of Vylarians returning to Lamoria. Supposedly, once you leave, you can never return.”

  Lem thought this was not something which he needed to keep secret and nodded that she was correct. “But if others have come, how is it I’m the first to have this so-called gift?”

  “Perhaps you’re not. Or perhaps not all children of the bards possess the gift.”

  Lem thought that she knew very little, considering her high position. Either that or she was holding back. “You still haven’t told me what it is you want.”

  Feriel turned her attention to the instruments, lingering over a silver flute for a moment. “I don’t know what I want from you, Inradel.”

  “Lem. My real name is Lem.”

  She smiled as if this were something she should have known. “Of course it is. Inradel is a Lytonian name. I suppose Lem is the only name you have?”

  “My people don’t use family names.”

  “Neither did the ancient bards,” Feriel said. “They left their old names behind when they arrived and were then renamed by the Bard Master after their second year.”

  It was common in Vylari to wait until a child’s second birthday to give them a name. If what she was telling him was true, it was another piece of a lost puzzle. Lem had been named at birth, however, by his mother. She had said that she knew what he would be called the moment she found out she was with child. “Hope.”

  “Hope for what?” Feriel asked.

  Lem hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud. “My name. It means hope. Or at least that’s what my mother told me.”

  “I pray you were aptly named. Hope is in short supply these days.”

  “It’s just a name,” Lem said.

  “And yet you are much more than just a musician, so perhaps not. You may very well be the key to our redemption. The key to bringing back the magic of the bards.”

  “I have no interest in magic,” he said. “Or the bards. Just tell me what happened in your study or I’ll leave right now.” The idea that he possessed some sort of magical ability made his skin crawl.

  “You cast a spell,” she stated flatly, giving him a displeased look over his perceived rudeness. “That is what happened.”

  “But that’s not possible,” he said, unwilling to accept it. “Only a Thaumas can use magic.”

  “You saw it with your own eyes,” she said. “How else would you explain what happened?”

  Lem searched for an answer. “I can’t. But that doesn’t mean it was magic.” He knew this was a weak argument, but he could not come up with another. “Maybe it was something in the paper. The Thaumas can enchant objects, can’t they?”

  “I might be inclined to agree but for one thing. I have every student play that piece on the day they are accepted. Nothing has ever happened.”

  It made no sense. How could music and magic be one and the same? Magic was violent. Foul. Evil.

  “You asked about the mark on the door.” Lem nodded. “It is not the symbol of the church, as you probably think.”

  “Of course it is,” he said. “I know the Eye of Kylor when I see it.”

  “It is the Eye of Kylor. But it was not always the symbol of the church. It’s far older. The Church of Kylor adopted it centuries after the disappearance of the bards. You see, the Thaumas and the bards were once two parts of the same order. The High Order of Kylor.”

  Lem glanced to the door, the eye staring back at him. He turned away, his head teeming with doubt. “I … I don’t believe you. This is some sort of game.”

  “With what objective?” she retorted. “What do I have to gain from lies?”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t mean you’re telling me the truth.”

  “I don’t know how else to convince you.” She leveled her gaze. “But I must. Dark times are coming, Lem. I need you to understand that I’m not trying to deceive you. Your arrival was the last thing I would have expected. But the fact is you are here. And that is something I cannot ignore.” She turned to the door. “Come. There is more to see.”

  None of this made sense. Bards, magic, the Thaumas—all connected. But why would his people reject magic if they had once used it … could still use it?

  Feriel placed her hand over the eye, and the door slowly swung open. Reaching into her robe, she produced a small silver orb attached to a thin chain.

  “This allows me to enter the main archives,” she told him. “You do not need such a device. I will give you the musical notes when we’re done here. If you come without your balisari, any of the instruments will do.”

  “I’m allowed to play them?”

  She stepped past the threshold. “Of course. Strictly speaking, they belong to you. Along with everything else here.”

  With each word the Bard Master spoke, a thousand questions sprang up in his mind.

  They entered a sitting room with an assortment of plush chairs and sofas scattered about. An exit to their right was slightly ajar, from which a chill breeze flowed, giving Lem goose bumps.

  “It’s kept cool to preserve the archives,” she explained, when Lem began rubbing his arms.

  Another door directly ahead opened into an enormous library with thousands of books crammed into dozens of rows of shelves. They threaded their way to an open space where a round table and six chairs were situated. Feriel took a seat and gestured for Lem to do
the same.

  Lem peered between the rows before placing his balisari on the table, but could not see where the library ended.

  “Impressive, yes?”

  “Very. I’ve only seen one other that could match it.”

  Feriel rolled her eyes. “Let me guess. In Xancartha.”

  Lem nodded.

  “Well, here you will find no books on Kylor riddled with nonsensical garbage. Only the truth.”

  Lem coughed a sardonic laugh. “All books about Kylor are like that.”

  “Not all. But most. They portray him as something he was not.”

  Lem sneered. “Are you saying Kylor was real?”

  “As real as you and I,” she replied.

  Lem had never considered that Kylor was a living person. A myth at best. “How do you know this?”

  “The origin of Kylor is the first thing a Bard Master is taught. But I would ask that you keep what you are about to learn to yourself. Repeating it will only cause you problems.”

  “So far you haven’t told me anything that doesn’t sound completely insane.”

  “I realize this is difficult. I’m struggling with it myself. I never expected to meet a true bard. There were even times I wondered if the stories were nothing more than fanciful tales.” She paused to regard Lem, then lowered her head and clasped her hands on the table. “So that you understand how important you are to us, I must tell you about Kylor. Who he really was.”

  She looked up with a faraway expression. “Before the upheaval, the Thaumas and the bards were as one, each possessing their individual talents, yet when working in concert, able to accomplish wondrous things. Alone, they were powerful, bards with the gift of light and healing, the Thaumas able to manipulate the physical world. Yet together … it is said they could cure entire cities of plague; heal crops; bring rain during times of drought; even turn back the storms coming off the Sea of Mannan.”

  “So Kylor was a bard?” Lem asked.

  “Kylor was … unique. He originally brought the bards and Thaumas together. He was the first to see how their abilities could be united. He was neither bard nor Thaumas, but both.”