Sorrowfish

by Anne C Miles

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Map

  Prelude

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Lexicon

  About the Author

  COPYRIGHT © 2019 by Anne C. Miles

  All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2019

  www.sorrowfish.com

  For Dad

  I need to say thank you to a few people. Thank you, Rodney, for believing in me. You are my Peter, I love you. Thank you, Cheryl for all your hard work and patience. You are the best and I love you. Thank you to the myriad of people who have commented, read, and cheered for me. The NBR group (you know who you are), and Doug, and Jennifer. Your support and kindness has kept me going when I wanted to give up. Thank you, Emily, for your drawings and your heart. You are beautiful.

  And thank you, my Storm King, for being You, and for teaching me that I’m never alone.

  – Anne

  MAP

  PRELUDE

  CANARD

  Trystan’s mouth watered as he approached the trestle table. It held the remains of the noon meal. He still wore a velvet surcoat, fancy dress for a bard, even one noble born. He stood out like a peacock among the other students in their dark-gray robes.

  “Stars and stones, man. Where have you been?” Jerome waved across the table.

  “I’m kept slaving morning till night, composing,” Trystan said. He mimicked the baron’s haughty nasal drawl and gestured to the heavens. “Pickell’s ballad must be perfect!”

  “What will be perfect is not being in the chorister rotation next week,” Jerome said. “Master Standish has assigned three more manuscripts to copy, and he expects them by Tunesday.” He plucked the heel of a loaf from the table, shoving it at Trystan. “Come on. We’re late.”

  Trystan took his seat next to Jerome on a velvet-cushioned bench, out of breath. Narrow tapestries blanketed stone walls, punctuated by arched, stained-glass windows. These warmed the arena with a riot of gentle, colored light.

  “We trade in melodies and myth. History, teaching, crafting, entertainment, and intrigue. These are the bard’s calling.” Master Sondheim Terre’s rich baritone rolled from downstage right. The gray-haired master crossed the stage, midnight-blue robes swishing. “However, another type of music can not only touch the heart, it can quite literally cause a storm. Today you will explore the difference between songs and the Song. This class is one of the most important you will ever attend.

  “You’ve heard about dewin. Music mages. Dewin sounds like divine for a reason. Centuries past, these wizards held the power of gods. Life and death. Each descended into madness as the Wyrm fought the Storm King. A hundred ballads tell the tale, how instead of healing, the dewin killed. Since the War, only those who make lifelong vows to serve the Conclave learn to touch and use the broken Song. Magic.”

  Master Terre’s blue eyes sparkled. He waved his hands, mock-casting a spell.

  “Cantors keep themselves from madness through careful, strict adherence to ritual. Safeguards. Today we shall discuss the most sacred mystery: How to avoid using the Song, though you’re a musician. How to sidestep madness. To do so, you must learn to touch the Song itself.”

  Excited murmuring broke out among the students. A hand shot up from the front row.

  “Yes, Conor?”

  “We aren’t dewin. We can’t use the Song with only our voices, so why would we go mad?”

  “Excellent question. Dissonance in the Song itself causes the madness. Do you think your fellow musicians who take their vows of celibacy, truth, and baldness”—he tapped his thick head of hair—“are all dewin? Yet the Conclave acolytes and cantors wield the Song. They heal. They protect. And yes, they defend when necessary. All with the Song, while exposed to Dissonance. Without going mad, without dewin. How is it possible? Anyone?”

  The hair on Trystan’s arms stood on end. He’d both dreaded and anticipated this lesson. These lessons were taught to children in his home country, Pelegor. Trystan had discovered the Bindery teaching here in the Weldenlands sometimes conflicted with what he had learned there. Disclosing the differences often did not end well.

  He decided to feign ignorance. His hand went up.

  “They use special instruments?”

  “Trystan proposes an interesting solution.” Master Terre’s deferential bow was only mildly ironic. “But no. The instruments you speak of do exist. But each is possibly as volatile as the dewin themselves. They are, therefore, forbidden. You may come across one such in the collection of a titled nobleman. Take care, and do not, under any circumstances, play the thing.”

  Master Terre’s eyes rested on Trystan, pleading.

  Trystan blinked. Is Master Terre trying to warn me specifically?

  “Could a Crafter accidentally make one?”

  The master arched a brow. He knelt to answer Trystan.

  “No,” he said in a voice pitched to reach only Trystan. “We don’t know how to create them. The knowledge was lost with the majisters. When they disappeared, their secrets vanished too. For the best.”

  Terre straightened. “Now, how do you touch the Song without a forbidden instrument...or the voice of a dewin?”

  Thornton Febwump, a third-year journeyman from Teredhe, answered. “Some ancient songs activate safely within range of certain plants.”

  “Why?” The master disappeared behind a curtain. He returned with a tray full of blooms.

  Thornton’s chest puffed out. “Those plants carry Virtue granted by the cyntae. Cantors use the blossoms as they go about their duties. Their Virtue guards us from Dissonance.”

  Master Terre nodded and held up a large blue flower. It chimed. “This is a tunebell,” he said. “It’s not the only flower with an aural nexus but is one of the most common. It will activate the Song. These flowers are restricted, forbidden for common use. Why?”

  Jerome lifted his meaty arm with a grunt. “To grow such is a threat. Using the Song incorrectly might destroy you.”

  Master Terre said, “Indeed, Ser Niall. Lest anyone not fully grasp the point, allow me to demonstrate. I shall demonstrate only the broken Song’s effects. Fear not. You will be perfectly safe.�
�

  Master Terre crushed the tunebell in his large hands. The Song oozed from his mouth like thick blood from a wound. The world melted with it.

  Trystan just saw madness.

  Fae, fickle spirits who haunted dewin, flashed on every side. Like flames, they appeared, vanished. People of all colors and ages screamed, gasped, cried, laughed. The world shifted. Emptiness yawned beneath Trystan’s feet. Faces stretched into death masks with glowing eyes.

  No wonder the dewin went mad.

  Trystan focused on the words the master used. Unintelligible. Trystan tried to grasp even one. Brenin. A second later, it had slipped away. His mind would not hold the strange language.

  Around him, students murmured with surprise and fear. Some fled the arena, hiding their eyes.

  The singing stopped.

  “Now you have seen the world as dewin must. The Song is dangerous. The Conclave guards its secrets for a reason. Over the next few weeks we will practice rudimentary exercises to protect your mind. We’ll study blooms which can shield you and learn to recognize songs with potential to harm. You’ll learn to take every precaution possible to play music which is only that…music.

  “One slip could be your last.”

  Trystan jerked his thumb at a line of new apprentices being led up the stairs.

  “Fresh victims. You can claim three and be finished with your manuscripts before Moonday.”

  Jerome surveyed the retreating figures. “I can’t risk my scrolls on apprentices. Or bully near-masters into working on them.” He glared at Trystan’s silver ring. “Come on, I’ll show you the lot.”

  Trystan gave a low whistle. “Standish let you take scrolls to your rooms?”

  Jerome scratched the back of his neck. “Let is too strong a word. But if he wants these finished... Tell me what you make of them?”

  Trystan fell into step next to the burly scriv. They passed the Composer’s wing and turned into a narrow corridor. Jerome opened the door at the end of the hall, revealing comfortable rooms.

  “I have something to tell you as well,” Trystan said. He looked around while Jerome lit the lamps. The man was a curious sort, but Trystan trusted him. They had bonded over no small amount of ale and discovered a shared interest in dead languages. Trystan appreciated Jerome’s insight and scholarship.

  Jerome grunted and went to a sideboard for a decanter and two tumblers. “We’ll have a glass first.”

  He poured generous portions and brought one to Trystan. “Let’s have it then. Are you planning to hide from your fate or are you off to make your Journey?”

  “I’ve been here less than a year. Would the masters allow it?”

  “I think they’ll call you soon, like it or not. You’re noble-born, you have a keen grasp on composing. The cantors can’t press you into the Arcanum. But as a proven master?” He raised his eyebrows, counting off on meaty fingers.

  “You’ll be married to a noblewoman, cementing power at court for the Bindery and your father, groomed to take a political position. You’ll be coddled, favored, with no time for yourself and your studies. Or”—he leaned forward and lifted his glass—“you’ll complete your Journey, be raised, and return to the ice halls from whence you hail. Where you face much the same prospects.”

  Jerome polished off his drink, settling back in his chair.

  “Except the lady in question will be half goblin and bearded, which is why you left home in the first place. I have none of these problems. ’Tis pleasant to be a peasant.”

  “They’re having me spend more time at court. And father wants me to marry the youngest daughter of Duke Finnegan upon my return. She has the voice of a gargoyle and a face to match. If I do make my Journey, it had best be a long one.”

  Jerome regarded his friend, eyes hooded by bushy brows. “Do you have a placement in mind?”

  Trystan gulped, bracing himself. “Siarad.”

  Jerome sat up, spluttering. “Stars above! You’re not planning to come back?”

  “I’m not looking to be cursed. I’ll leave, no worries. A placement in Siarad will give me time to learn but keep me away from court and the Conclave. I must leave and return at measured intervals to avoid the Dread’s hold. It’s perfect. The curse gives me a reason to travel, explore. I mean to find an enchanted instrument. So I will start my search in Siarad.”

  “Now, look here, Trystan. Every boy dreams of becoming the hero who sets the captive city free. Everyone wants to see the Caprices, hear them speak their oracles. You’re a noble, a young rogue, and a damned curious jackdaw. All of that is bold enough. But a forbidden instrument?” Jerome’s voice rose. “Are you mad? Do you realize what can happen? You could be ensorcelled. Trapped, unable to interact with the outside world. Caught, stripped from the Bindery, denied all music. You could be labeled dewin, put in chains. Your mind wiped of all you know. By the Wyrm’s fat fang, you could finish destroying the World Tree and end all things.”

  The scriv slumped, his eyes clouded with sickened fear. “Please. Tell me you jest.”

  “If I find what I seek, I won’t use it. I want to study. Learn. There are safe methods. I could keep it in Siarad. The instruments are forbidden because they—”

  Jerome interrupted. “Because they are dangerous. Playing such puts you in a frenzy.” His voice flattened, brooking no arguments. “Those instruments release the broken Song unfettered. You’ll lose your wits. Were you asleep in class today?”

  Trystan pursed his lips.

  “I’ve already played one.”

  “What?” Jerome’s eyebrows shot up.

  “The lute Pickell has me composing on, it’s ancient. The tones coming from it are pure. It’s…”—Trystan shook his head—“You cannot imagine. I’m not ensorcelled, I’m myself. The Conclave inspected his instrument long ago. They let it stay in his possession.”

  “Are you certain? It’s truly one of those instruments?”

  “I’m certain. According to the baron, a cantor inspected it. Pickell’s ancestor saved a high-ranking majister before the Breaking, before the Conclave existed. It was a gift.

  “House Pickell has had it for centuries without mishap. The baron wants a ditty for his wedding on this particular lute. It’s a diamond in his coal bin to have something no one else can dream of. I suppose he has permission.”

  “The lute might be the only one still in existence. Perhaps it’s just a clever copy or too old to function. Inert, no longer dangerous,” said Jerome.

  “It’s active. The music is special. It’s not plain melody. I feel a stirring, but with… I’ve never felt such before. The tones are palpable. Something…it defies description. But no ill effects. I’ve been playing it for weeks. Don’t you think if madness had affected me, you’d know?”

  Trystan sat down. “Jerome, it’s nothing like the demonstration. There have been no strange warts on my fingers, no festering sores. I haven’t been losing my temper. No fae have appeared to steal my soul. The music is haunting, but it’s not causing madness.”

  Jerome was silent. Finally, he nodded. “I believe you. If what you say is true, the masters and cantors are lying. The lute should be confiscated. But the Conclave cannot lie, can they?” He frowned. “There must be something we don’t know.”

  “That’s why I want to go to Siarad,” said Trystan.

  Jerome’s frown deepened. “We are musicians, Trystan, not cantors. ‘We craft in melodies and myth.’” He quoted Terre in perfect mimicry. “The Conclave and its Arcanum deal in the Song. Leave it to them. Unless you’re planning on joining the order?”

  “No,” Trystan said. “I’d rather marry the duke’s daughter than spend the rest of my life in chastity and devotion to the cyntae. I’m not fit to serve.

  “I’ve been reading any old text I can find. Whether I come across another instrument or not, I will understand how it works. Is it possible to use the Song without madness?”

  He stood and plucked a piece of vellum from a stack on the scriv’s table. “Th
is is the symbol on the lute,” he said, sketching the insignia he’d seen. Three stars within a circle.

  “Help me. See if you can find any reference to this. But be discreet.”

  Jerome accepted the drawing, studied it, and cast it into the fire. “I will. But I fear any answers will only lead to more questions.”

  Trystan’s mouth tightened. “I know. And Matins will come too early. It is late. I must go.” He made the sign of the arc, a half circle scribed from shoulder to shoulder over his head. “Did you still need me to inspect your scrolls?”

  Jerome waved him away. “No, I’ll get an apprentice or three to help me tomorrow.” His lips twisted in a wry grin. “Off with you, damned jackdaw.”

  Morning dawned cold over Bestua, mists covering its spires. Even in the dawn light, the Weldenland capitol bustled. Vendors hurried to shops and stalls. Carters loaded and unloaded wares from flatboats traveling the River Dyfi. The sound of Matins wafted from the Grand Arcade, blending with the dawn gray.

  Deep in the Bindery archives, Trystan pored over a scroll. He traced a finger along the lines of cramped script, reading. “Those below shall be as above…”

  The scroll was ancient. Trystan puzzled out the words and checked Jerome’s note. It held only numbers, shorthand they used when sharing oddments to study. Four. Three. Two. Fourth chamber, third shelf, second scroll. It was the right manuscript.

  Footsteps. He hastily pretended to be dusting, arranging scrolls as he worked. “Good morn, Trystan,” a voice whispered.

  “Good morn, Brother Bren,” Trystan said. He bowed from the waist.

  “The night has passed. Let us rejoice in the new day. You’re summoned to the masters’ circle.”

  Trystan followed, wondering why Brother Bren had fetched him, instead of an acolyte.

  The master’s chambers opened inward to a center cloister on the roof. They waited in full ceremonial robes. Bren took his place behind them.

  Trystan faced the masters.