Montanya missed a step, but tried flowing back into the rhythm.
The master knew then that Montanya could dance the step a hundred times that night, and never find the focus needed to break the board. She could imitate the moves, but she wasn’t focused on the union of mind and body required for the proper effect. He spoke to her as she unconsciously sped up her momentum. “What do you see when you focus on the board? What is in your mind?”
Her greenish-blue eyes flared in anger, and her lips once again sneered. Her tired voice admitted the truth. “I see their faces. I see the boards of the crate they stuffed me in. I try to break their awful smiles.”
Grandmaster Woshan lowered his head, “That is the core of your anger: the men who murdered your parents in that robbery long ago. It clouds your mind.”
Montanya breathed heavily as she moved. Fluid grace of movement changed to a stiff, almost wooden dance akin to a puppet’s jerky movements.
The teacher looked upon the locket that swung around Montanya’s neck. “You hold what little they left behind in such high value, such as the locket you hid from them.” As the woman twirled, he took note of the torn pink fabric holding back her long hair. “And a torn strip of your mother’s dress.”
Montanya moved much faster than the dance required. She was supposed to feel her inner strength and focus with calmness, but her body betrayed the pent up anger building inside.
“How much did they take from you, Montanya su Troyeal bara Westonhout?”
With a piercing scream of fury, Montanya’s momentum built to the point of release. She spun a full circle, releasing the full steam of bottled up anger. Her bare foot slammed into the caleocht board and rattled it. There was no crack, nor spray of splinters. The board simply vibrated in its holder. Its undamaged surface mocked Montanya’s frustrations.
Montanya became a wild, untamed beast. As quickly as she recovered her balance from the strike, she launched another one. Time and again she sent forth kick after kick to no avail. Wailing like the banshees of old, she finally resorted to wildly swinging her fists at the unyielding wood. She vented all the frustration she could inside her own little world. There was no school, no teacher, not even the caleocht board. The wooden plank was replaced in her mind with the faces of the men who had stolen her childhood in a bloody street.
By the time reason came back to her, she sniffled her own tears while sitting against the unbroken board’s support stand. She didn’t expect to have any water left in her after all her sweating earlier, yet the tears came. She looked through blurry eyes at her bloody knuckles. When Grandmaster Woshan pushed a cup to her lips, she reflexively drank without question. It was a vial of healing draught. The divine potion not only healed the scars on her knuckles, as well as the bruises on her body, it also healed the bones in her hand broken during her wild outburst.
“You lack spiritual balance,” the teacher lamented to her. “Your youthful anger has built your life around a shaky foundation. What do you plan to do with your life, Montanya? How can you form a living around a core of hate?”
“I won’t be a victim anymore,” Montanya croaked through a strained throat. “I will save others that pain as well. I will learn to strengthen my body against the physical harm. I don’t hate people, I hate thieves. Others still suffer from the greed of others, but I will stand up to them. I swear on my dead parents, rogues will learn to fear my name.”
Grandmaster Woshan rose to his full height. His face reflected his shock at her resolute tone. “This is not the way of chiaso. We spend our lives creating a spiritual temple within our minds and bodies. Despite the rigors of the world, we weather the outside storms by drawing from the calm serenity and focus within us.”
Montanya, head bowed in shame, got to her feet. She avoided looking towards the caleocht board. Her master witnessed her shame as she stood uncertainly before him. Montanya’s body was at its limits. She had cried and exerted herself as much as she could for one night. The woman wanted to go to her bunk and sleep away her embarrassment.
In a sudden movement, Grandmaster Woshan made a fast kick at the caleocht board. A moment earlier he had been standing very still, hands clasped behind his back. Now his body exploded in lightening motion. A tremendous crack resounded through the large, open room as the board broke. The master nonchalantly resumed his comfortable stance. Montanya could not resist glancing at the split wood.
“You’re still a victim, Montanya, because you do not choose to live your life. Instead, your pain festers under your conscious thoughts. Thieves took your parents from you during a robbery. You once told me thieves in the guise of nobility and men of gold took your mansion and holdings from you while still a young orphan. I have watched you grow. Throughout your whole life, there have been thieves and rogues willing to take something from you or others.”
The chiaso master paced. “I wonder about your ability to distinguish a good man from one whom you would bring about your retaliation. You are so full of hate. I offered you the chance to train and calm your spirit. Instead, you turn away from the spiritual path I offer. You focus only on the perceived ability to turn your body into a weapon to exact your vengeance. Your justifications are irrelevant. Your thoughts will put you into an eternal war against a foe without a face. You ask for training so you can go into the world as a punisher seeking someone to be punished.”
Montanya tired of the lecturing. She apologized again, if only to hurry towards her bunk. “Accept my apologies, sensei. I will try to learn better.”
Woshan turned towards her with sorrowful eyes. “I can not teach you.”
The red-haired student paused her thinking. How could he not be able to teach her?
Grandmaster Woshan adopted a stern visage. “I’m sorry for failing in my teachings. Apparently I have not been able to send you down a better path. Perhaps someone else will succeed, but I will nay longer attempt to train someone with such hidden rage waiting to be unleashed.”
He held his stern visage even as Montanya finally looked him in the eyes. For once, her customary scowl was replaced with open helplessness. Her mind couldn’t digest the fact that her lifetime mentor was refusing to aid her any more.
“Sensei…”
He interrupted her, “You must leave. I will nay longer train you, or have you disrupt the other students. Remain here while I grab your belongings from the bunkroom.”
The older man didn’t give her time for any reply. His back turned to her as he walked out of the room. Montanya stood barefoot on the cold floor. Despite the sweat-soaked clothes clinging to her body, she felt naked and helpless. Alone in silence, she turned her master’s words over in her mind.
Montanya found it hard to believe that she would not be going to sleep in her old bunk after all. No longer would she share a meal with those whom she trained alongside since childhood. While she had worried about whispers in the night over her shameful actions, it would be preferable to having a closed door behind her. Montanya’s future came crashing down uncertainly. Who would take her in? How would she make a living? Where could she go for a place to stay? How could she complete her training and make rogues fear her?
All too soon her master returned holding a couple small bags and a warm robe. He stood near one exit to the training hall. Beyond that exit lay a hallway leading to the street door. She walked with wooden steps towards him. All of her meager belongings, everything she had left in the world, resided in those two small sacks. She accepted the proffered robe, putting it on to guard against the night’s chill. Though she said no words, her lips moved in half-formed pleas that never found substance in the air. Holding her bags, she was ushered to the door. Grandmaster Woshan said nothing else as he opened the street door and stood to one side.
The street appeared dark and uninviting. Montanya tried to find her voice once again, but held it back as her lips quivered. She hoped he would speak and offer anything more. Montanya needed him to give her another chance. She spent so many years under t
hat roof; she had no comprehension of how she to survive alone. He said nothing, standing there as a cold statue, holding the door open.
Montanya’s knees were shaking, but she moved past the door and down the dark steps out front. Behind her, the hinges gave a mournful squeal as the door closed. It clicked shut with a finality that Montanya would never forget.
The red-haired woman felt orphaned again. She stood in the clustered side street of Orlaun, feeling small, lonely, and dwarfed by the sprawling towers. No one witnessed her expulsion from the place that had been her home for the last several years. Only the stars of the sky looked down upon her, as unreachable as her old bunk.
It wasn’t long before Montanya’s thoughts retreated into her hatred once again. Her anger at the injustices of the world lending her assurance that she would survive somehow. Montanya slowly put one foot in front of the other, making her way aimlessly. She left the Order of the Mind’s Eye monastery without looking back. Somehow, she knew, she would survive this like every other tragedy in her life. In the end, the result would be the same. Some thief would suffer for what Montanya had lost over the years.
* * * * *
Master Falerno Giantcharmer succeeded in helping out his former student. The Brotherhood of the Circles planned to host a notable event before the other nobility of the city, and some chosen from the order sat in judgment over the entertainers wishing to perform. In the chambers of their magically laced guildhall, Lindon of Orlaun and many others offered up music and tales.
In the audience hall’s lower level, the judging council sat at one end while the performers staged their act before them. A mixed lot of mages, comprised of humans, elves and gnomes, formed the council. In the upper balconies of the same chamber, numerous other guild members and apprentice mages enjoyed the free show. Around the upper balconies, at the base of the great dome which capped the room, were numerous large arches leading to an outdoor patio. On a good day the doors would let in fresh air from outside. Today the doors were closed, sealing off the noise of the outside world and maintaining a high degree of acoustic isolation.
The Artistic Enlightenment College sent a mix of representatives, but other performing groups also received invitations. Lindon knew the wizards wanted to see a good number of novice entertainers to encourage youthful talent; however, he also believed many reputable acts would be invited to perform. Lindon presumed the mage guild hoped to gain more influence and social standing with the rulers of the city. It was rumored that King Acer MigTolo might even be in attendance, or at the very least Count MigRelke, the ruler of Orlaun’s province. The event offered an unprecedented chance for lesser known performers to gain prestige.
The competition would be fierce among minstrels and bards. Just the act of being selected to perform for the occasion would be room for bragging rights. Already it was the second day of performances, with the council observing numerous occasions to applaud or reject candidates. Inside Lindon remained nervous, but on the outside he wore a confident smile.
He opened his act by throwing his wide-brimmed hat to the floor. Taking up the metal flute, he began to play a dance jig that went faster with every chorus. The minstrel positioned his body directly over the hat. He began a dance in which he turned and twisted, never stepping on his hat. As the notes increased in pace, the entertainer danced to a faster rhythm. Between the fast song and the prowess displayed with the dance, Lindon earned applause right away from the upper balcony.
During his next song, strumming on his mandolin, he faced a challenge. Lindon sang with a fine voice, fingers dancing lightly over the chords of his instrument, despite a distraction. Although the chamber accommodated resonating voices beautifully, the air carried the noise of someone who seemed to be doing his best to distract from the performance. The occasional cough, the sounds of a glass of water tinkling against a table repeatedly, and the crunch of nuts from a snack bowl disrupted the otherwise wonderful musical sounds.
Lindon could not believe his misfortune.
A familiar face sat at the table of guild wizards. The man was middle-aged, dark hair peppered with gray. He had a thin mustache, along with a pointed goatee. Emotionless dark brown eyes offset a face that was often smiling and charmingly handsome. Although Lindon did not know Jentan Mollamos by name, he remembered the mentalist who tried to magically subdue Jolynn into a night of unwanted passion. Now the man sat among the council judging who would be attending the most prestigious entertainment event to hit the City of Spires in many years.
There would be little gain in trying to accuse one of the wizard council members of dishonest acts in front of such an audience. Likely, Lindon’s words would carry little weight. The accusation might cause him to lose this chance. Instead, Lindon retreated into that part of his mind where he could feel perfect harmony. The minstrel worked to achieve the heightened awareness of mind and soul that allowed him to feel the magical harmonic web encompassing the world. The musical protégé ignored disruptions while delivering the essence of emotions upon the vibrations of his mandolin strings. His voice carried sweet notes that sparked images in the minds of the listeners. Minstrels so attuned to their feelings could weave spells through such a link, but there was no magic other than the natural gifts of his talent.
When he finished, a moment of absolute silence descended among the listeners. The last lingering note fading into pleasant memory. The moment was broken by one disinterested listener that would do all in his power to deny Lindon’s dreams.
“Well, I believe we have heard enough cacophonous passages for one afternoon.” Jentan Mollamos stated. The mentalist waved a dismissive hand over the pile of cracked peanut shells on his table. “That is enough for now, you may leave and will receive word just like the others.”
Lindon looked to the responses from the man’s fellow councilors. As the minstrel guessed, a number of the mages on the council looked confused or frowned at the mentalist’s outburst. Clearly, the man was placing himself above protocol.
Lindon set aside his instrument but made no move to leave. Quite the opposite of what Jentan intended, Lindon put on an easy smile and decided to put his charm to use. Red hair and beard framed an easy, unworried smile as the minstrel addressed the guildsmen.
“I was allowed three songs, two of which have already added warmth to hearts and eased troubled minds. I still have a third song to perform, as promised to me.”
A few mages began whispering amongst themselves, glancing in discontent towards Jentan. The middle-aged man would not be intimidated by his associates.
Jentan spoke again, “Two was quite enough I assure you. I am unimpressed by your fancy clothing and lackluster notes.”
“Jentan,” one of the other mages spoke, loud enough for the audience, “You are out of line.”
“I was thoroughly enjoying the performance,” revealed a gnome at the council table.
Jentan paid little attention to their words. He shook his head as they spoke, self-righteous in his attempt to oust Lindon from performing. The mentalist was set to strike back any way he could at Jolynn’s rescuer. “This man does not impress me; therefore, he would not be my pick.”
Before Jentan could say more, Lindon reached into his vest pocket. “I have one more song to perform, at the behest of not only this council, but of one of your own members many years ago.”
Lindon drew forth the bamboo flute from his vest, from a pocket appearing way too small to hold the entire length of the instrument. The wooden flute gave a polished shine in the light of the room. Lindon’s light blue eyes sparkled as he cradled the treasured piece in his nimble fingers.
“Are your notes so bad because your ears are so daft?” Jentan asked. “Did you not hear me?”
“Did you not hear me, good sir?” Lindon countered, gingerly tipping the flute closer to his lips. “I was granted one more song to play today. The song is at the request of one of your own, many years ago. It was a request from the beneficial wizard who gave me this flute.”
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br /> A new voice, not so deep and yet spoken with authority, carried easily across the chamber. “By whose request do you offer up this special song today?”
All the eyes under the dome turned their attention to a figure sitting in one of the dark seats of the upper rows. From the well-lit performance area, it was hard to see the speaker in the dim alcoves around the closed upper doors. Lindon of Orlaun could not make out details of the man; nonetheless, the unknown person gave the minstrel the opening he needed.
Lindon told his tale, “It is because of that kind soul that I stand before you this day, instead of trying to scrape a meager living out of the slums of the Highwater district. I was a man without a name and of nay repute. I was simply another of many beggars tucked into the pits of Orlaun until the day when a stranger came to me and handed me a gift.”
Lindon cradled the bamboo flute high for all to see. “Such a simple gift, yet it is as highly treasured as the sum of all the coins I have touched in this life. This flute was my gateway to a finer existence. Through it, I learned to know music, the arts, and to revisit the world in a new light. I owe all my fame and successes to the man who gave this to me on a bleak day in Highwater. Along with this gift he gave me one request: learn it well so I can play it for him.”
The minstrel looked up to the unseen stranger in the upper rows. “I came to play this flute at the performance, not for the nobility and royalty, but for the generous elf who gave this to me. I owe a song to Korrelothar Balshav, The Highwater Conjuror.”
The figure in the balcony stepped forwards into the light from below. The first thing notable about him was the long length of golden hair, streaked with the silver strands of age. His fashions advertised wealth. Flowing elvish designs embroidered a coat next to jeweled buttons. Rough stubble of hair was visible on his chin. Many elves who reached middle-age found such facial hair a common and yet unsightly trait. This elf did not hide it by the use of spells or a razor. Instead, he left his chin hairs to grow, believing it demanded respect. Although no wrinkles marred his brow, deep lines etched into his face. A jeweled earring adorned one ear as a common symbol of elven marriage. The figure smiled down upon the minstrel below.
The Earthrin Stones 2 of 3: Trials of Faith Page 13