“There’s no fee on it, Maesteri,” Seanbea said, smiling. He embraced the old man, who gathered the large Ta’Opin in his white-robed arms like a mother bear cuddling her cub. The gentleman stood an apple taller than Seanbea.
Releasing him, the man said, “And who’s this?” He bent over to look Penit in the eye.
“I’m Penit. I’m going to win the Lesher Roon.”
“Is that right?” The old man winked. “I like a confident tone. Well, you’ve arrived just in time, then. The race is tomorrow.” The Maesteri then glanced at Wendra. “And you came along with Wendra, did you?”
Penit looked back at her. “We kind of watch out for each other.”
She stepped beside the boy and put her arm around his shoulder. “Seanbea says you might let us stay a night or two. I can work to earn our meals.”
Both Seanbea and the man in the robe gave Wendra a puzzled look.
“You’re both guests here,” the old man said, “for as long as you’d like. We’ll talk more on that later. Now, you may call me Belamae, if you wish. I teach music here.”
“He leads all music here,” Seanbea corrected. “I see they’ve added you to the wall.” He indicated the portrait. “A good likeness, I’d say.”
Belamae gave a somewhat self-conscious smile. “Not my idea,” he said. “And the placement is kind of conspicuous. But I’m honored to be numbered among the Maesteri. They were rather forgiving with my nose, don’t you think?” He chuckled warmly.
Seanbea joined him. “She creates,” Seanbea said a moment later, “new song such as I’ve never heard.” He pulled a roll of parchment from an inner pocket and unfolded it before handing it to the old man.
With a gentle smile, Belamae began inspecting the sheet. Wendra caught a glimpse of the unique musical notation and knew Seanbea had transcribed for himself a copy of the duet she’d sung with him. Embarrassment rippled through her, with a tinge of anger.
Belamae’s smile faded, the light in his eyes flickering like a candle. Wendra might have thought the man had just read a warrant or elegy. His eyes rose from the parchment and locked Wendra in a serious gaze. She returned the old man’s stare, uncertain. After a long moment, he stepped back through the door and motioned her to follow.
“Take the boy to the kitchen and get him something to help him grow,” Belamae directed. “Give us an hour. Then we’ll join you.”
In each corner of the room, stands and easels stood overflowing with large books opened to a number of different musical notations. Beside each, instruments lay carefully set on pedestals uniquely crafted to receive them. On the walls hung more paintings, smaller portraits and a few pictures of musicians in battle settings. In the middle of the room sat a large desk with twin lamps burning brightly, one at either end.
The entire study shone with a great deal more light than the hall, the several easels and pedestals casting washed shadows across the floor like veins under skin. Directly opposite them, another door remained closed. And the distant sound of Suffering, like a warm undertone, could still be heard.
Belamae took a seat behind his desk and folded his hands in his lap. “Please sit down,” he said.
Wendra sat and surveyed the scattering of music sheets and quills and drawing graphite. Near one lamp lay a metal instrument like a small horseshoe attached to a handle. Seeing her interest, Belamae picked it up and struck it against the edge of his desk. The tines hummed and vibrated a single musical pitch.
“Can you match the sound?” Belamae asked.
Without thinking, Wendra hummed the sustained note.
“Harmonize with it.”
Wendra shifted her pitch several times to sing different harmonies with the chiming fork.
“Can you name the separate harmonies you’ve just created?” Belamae asked, deadening the instrument with a touch.
Wendra shook her head. “A few. My mother taught me. But I can’t remember all their names.”
He struck the fork again and asked her to sing a higher note. He then added his own voice in a lower register. The three notes sang together in a unity she’d never heard, seeming to fasten together as one. Belamae doused the chime and ended his note. Wendra stopped singing with a bit of regret.
“You’ve come to study,” the teacher said, hopeful.
“I don’t know.” Wendra glanced at the music stands and their sepia parchments scrawled with notes and signatures.
Belamae captured her attention, his kind eyes intent. “You’ve a gift, Wendra. I can hear it. It’s probably brought you comfort and delighted your friends and family. But what you possess … it’s got other purposes.” His eyebrows rose as though asking whether she understood him.
Wendra remained silent.
“The warmth and enjoyment of a voice, a musician’s hands upon his strings or fingering the notes on his flute,” he explained, “these are joys for evening meals and to accompany a good tobacco pipe at day’s end. But given to a few is something more. For these few, the fulfillment of that … gift can only be achieved by careful training. Training to learn Resonance. Training to sing the Song of Suffering. This is what I do.”
“I can’t stay,” Wendra blurted. “I’ve friends to find, and my brother. There are things…”
“Child,” Belamae said, his voice filled with patience and experience. “With everything you’ve seen, is there anything more important than learning to sing Suffering?”
Thoughts flashed in her mind: her child, Tahn, Bar’dyn, Jastail … but mostly she saw the chalked feet of women and children on the blocks, and the world cast in a relief of dark and bright and nothing more. She closed her eyes and listened to the distant lilt and rhythm of Suffering.
“Come with me,” Belamae invited.
She followed him to the rear door of his office. He ushered her through, pulling the door shut behind them. All grace and flowing robes, he bustled down the hall. His white hair floated in the long bob of his stride. Wendra had to step lively to keep pace with the elderly Maesteri.
They passed more oil paintings. Many depicted recitals, musicians at the center of amphitheaters filled with listeners. Further on, the paintings showed battles. In some, a single man or woman stood before a terrible onslaught; in others, a chorus of men and women stood together.
They walked through another door, and left the intimate warmth of cherrywood for the relative coolness of marble. They strode into a large vaulted hall, their footfalls like small things in a great cavern. Striations of color shot through the smooth stone surfaces in crimson, cobalt, green, and a dozen other hues. It reminded Wendra of the play of light on the water’s surface when viewed from the bottom of a shallow lake.
Up steps and across short mezzanines they went, the ceiling a full six stories above them. Statuary replaced the oils, as did great, wide, intricate tapestries four times a man’s height, woven with obvious skill. Sunlight fell through windows set in the ceiling high above. And on the air wafted the smell of rosemary and peppermint. Soon, they passed small pools set into the floor and surrounded by low benches. Within the pools, shallow steps allowed one to dip her feet and relax them there. Warm mist curled over the water’s surface.
To the left and right, arched passageways led out of sight. The glow of candles set on simple, but elegant pieces of ironmongery gave the marble a fleshlike quality.
At the center of the vaulted hall stood a much larger pool, twenty-five strides across, with a narrow walkway to its center. Belamae strode to the edge and looked back at her. “Walk to the center. Go slowly so you don’t fall.”
“What is it?” she asked.
His face showed a curious expression, part frown, part smile. “Resonance,” he said. “Something about which we’ll talk quite a lot. Today, it will tell us both a little about your song.” He pointed to the small dais at the center of the pool. “When you get to the center, sing. Create something.”
She gave him a puzzled look.
“The way we talked about in the cave b
eneath Sedagin. The way Seanbea says you can.” He smiled warmly. “Water gives us reflections, doesn’t it? Let’s see where you’re at with your own song.”
“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” she warned. “The last time—”
“Let me be the judge of that, if you will, my dear. I’ve some experience.” Belamae gestured toward the pool.
Wendra nodded reluctantly and walked down the narrow path to the center of the pool. She peered into the depths around her for a moment; the waters were deep. Then she gave Belamae a last look, took a deep breath, and started to sing.
She began soft and low, sketching out a melodic variation to the tune of her song box. The sound seemed to ride fast along the surface of the water, and out into the wide chamber. Then she gave the song words, lyrics drawn from the events of the last several weeks. She didn’t bother with rhyme. She sought the right emotional words.
The water rippled around her.
Belamae watched intently.
Wendra moved the song into a faster rhythm. Higher notes. Rougher notes. She sang of gambling tables and auction blocks and dark poets. She sang about Jastail. And the sound of it shrilled from her throat as anger got inside the song.
The bottom of her pain.
The water around her began to roil and churn. The ripples rose like small waves. The musical splash of water against the stone became frantic. It heaved over the edge of the pool like tide after tide.
She hardly noticed any of it. And gave more to her song.
Things turned dark and bright in her eyes. A mosaic. Like they had in the mountains, singing down a band of Bar’dyn. And the highwayman.
She sang that moment. The moment when he’d tried to sell her womb to the Bourne. The boy, too. Penit. She sang about the contrast in her eyes that turned the world white and black.
Something inside her resonated deep and angry.
Around her the water erupted upward in gouts, forming the mountain scene.
As she sang it, it came to watery life. Jastail striking her in the face. Bar’dyn figures ready to take what they wanted. Penit being pulled. Jastail negotiating even as he lost control.
And her song.
Dark and bright.
It tore from her throat like a controlled scream. Melody inside it, but filled with a torturous rasp.
The water moved in the air above and around the pool. Bar’dyn tried to flee, amazement clear in their faces.
And Wendra was there. A figure at the center of it all, standing above her as she related what had happened with the same sounds that gave it life the first time.
The chamber filled with the sound of rushing water, like a great falls.
She screamed it out until the memory of another voice joined her. And in moments her dark song ebbed. And the battle depicted in watery forms heaving through the air … lost form and fell down. It splashed over her, leaving her wet and cold. The chamber echoed with the sounds of a flood as water thundered home again to the pool.
Wendra dropped hard to her knees at the center of the dais, drenched. Her song retreated back inside, but left her heart racing. Panting, she lay down on the wet stone. Her vision swam with the same stark mosaic, until her eyes, slowly, focused again on the world and its color.
She was in Descant Cathedral.
She had sung for Belamae. And it had left her feeling feverish again.
The cool water helped, and she rolled over, placing her cheek against the wet stone.
A pair of feet came into few. The Maesteri hunkered down beside her. She looked up at him.
“That’s one hell of a song, my girl.” There was worry in his eyes. “My deafened gods…”
CHAPTER FIFTY
A Servant’s Tale, Part II
It’s not a prison if you choose to stay.
—The Rigor of Choice, an Emerit guide to self-discipline
“I do,” Rolen said with a quiet steadfastness. “I choose to stay bound here in the stinking bowels of Solath Mahnus. But with good reason.”
The Sheason cleared his throat. “Several years ago the Recityv Council debated a new law known as the Civilization Order.”
Tahn nodded. He’d heard Vendanj speak of it.
“The League called it a progression in civility. Only two days did the debate rage before it was ratified. The order was read into the Library of Common Understanding. Anyone rendering the Will is subject to execution.”
A pained silence followed.
“The League claims what a Sheason does makes for a slothful working class, destroys self-reliance.” Rolen shook his head, and smiled in disbelief. “They mocked us. Said ours is the work of scops, deceiving others for gain, manipulating them to our own advantage. Some even called us spies for the Quiet.”
“You didn’t fight back?” Tahn asked.
“Our call is to serve,” Rolen said with halting speech. “Some of us thought we could do so without having to render.”
“Obviously Vendanj wasn’t one of them,” Tahn said.
“Vendanj isn’t posted in Recityv.” Rolen’s half smile suggested he knew Vendanj. “And so far, thank our abandoning gods, the Civilization Order hasn’t moved beyond Vohnce. But it’s nevertheless helped drive a wedge between Sheason.”
Rolen sipped some water, and swallowed hard in the dark.
“Some Sheason ignore the law,” Rolen continued, nodding as he spoke. “They use the Will as they please. They argue they’re doing the ethical thing, even when it’s not legal.”
“Is that what brought you here?” Tahn asked.
Rolen became quiet for a long moment. “I don’t agree with Vendanj, or others like him. I may not like the law, but I respect it. And I don’t think it’s always necessary to render the Will to help someone.” Again he grew quiet. “And yet …
“Two months ago, a young girl came to my door. Leia. She’s twelve. For months she’d been helping me hand out food and clothes down on ‘beggars’ row.’ She was sobbing, and said her sister had suddenly fallen sick. Very sick.
“She pulled me through rainy, empty roads in the small hours of the night. Led me to a modest house in the merchant district. A thin lamp burned in the window. The rest of the street was dark. The one-room home was cluttered with boxes and sundries.
“Her little sister, only four years old, lay on a pile of rags and old clothes in the corner. Kneeling over her were her parents, speaking softly and wiping her brow with a damp cloth. The roof was leaking. And the smell of mold and wet wood were strong. Leia’s home was one step from beggars’ row itself. Her family worked hard to get by.
“Her father looked up as I entered. I could see concern in his face as he began to shake his head. But his wife’s hand came to rest on his own. He looked back at her, then down at his little girl. Some internal debate waged for a few moments. Then he sighed and nodded.
“I removed my cloak and went to the little girl’s side. Next to her father, I could see the man weeping silent tears. It’s the kind of grief parents learn when their children are close to death.… I’ve seen it too many times.
“I felt for fever, listened to the child’s breath and blood. It was too late. Leia’s sister was dying and there was nothing I could do for her … unless I broke the law and rendered the Will to save her.
“That’s when I saw it. Something familiar. A cloak tucked under the girl’s head as a pillow. Pulling back one fold of the garment, I found the crest of the League emblazoned on russet wool. If there was danger in helping someone by use of the Will, then rendering on a leagueman or his family … was plain foolish.
“I understood the look in the man’s eyes. He was a member of the League. My presence in his home was dangerous for him and his family.
“And for me, the law was clear. Using the Will meant death if I was caught.
“I cursed the law then. How could letting the girl die be an advancement in civility? All the arguments that our Order hindered self-sufficiency and promoted idleness fell away like so much wax
from a spent candle. They’d fashioned hatred and mistrust of Sheason into a law that could bring me here to this prison.” Rolen slammed his fist against stone. “For the crime of saving a dying child.
“I turned to the girl’s father, whose name I never learned, and meant to tell him of my dilemma.” Rolen’s wheezing ceased. “But I never did. I saw the terror in his eyes at the prospect of having to watch his little girl die. The anguish of it got inside me. I’d seen too much suffering already. Suffering that might have been avoided if it weren’t for this law.” Rolen gave a dry laugh in the shadows. “I even had the audacity to think that helping a member of the League might somehow change their attitude about the Sheason.
“So, I leaned close and put my hands on her head. I spoke the words, and called health from myself into the child’s fevered body.
“When the girl opened her eyes, her mother took her gently into her arms. Around the child, she reached and touched my hand, a strange mix of gratitude and regret in her eyes.
“I understood that look,” Rolen said with sympathy, “since the woman knew what might happen to me if others found out what I’d done. But there was something more.
“When I put my hands on the girl, I learned of the deception that had ensnared me. This child burned from a poison fabricated by League hands. The truth of it passed into me as my Forda passed into her. This little girl had been poisoned to test her family’s loyalty to the League and my obedience to the Civilization Order.
“At the moment of healing I still could have stopped, saved myself. But the child would have died.” He came momentarily into the light, a satisfied smile on his lips. “She didn’t die. So I’m able to suffer my irons just fine.” Rolen jangled his chains.
“The rest happened very quickly. The door burst open and six leaguemen carrying swords surrounded me. Coarse oaths were uttered. They feigned jabs with their weapons, and laughed as I flinched. I remember asking only that they close the door; the cold air was bad for the child.
“They put me in cuffs, then turned on the family and asked which one had sought the Sheason to heal the girl. The question surprised the parents. Do you know why?” Rolen asked.
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