by Anne C Miles
“Trystan dan Tenkor, we are gathered here today in the sight of cyntae and man. We call upon you to begin your Journey, to follow the call wherever it might lead and to become a master true,” said Master Standish, stepping forward.
“We call you to walk this path, to shape your destiny,” Master Hamish said, eyes twinkling beneath the hood of his robe.
“Journey to find the answers you seek. Find your melody and return in joy, my son.” Master Terre’s booming voice rolled across the courtyard. The Master Player was ever a showman. He stepped forward with a small flourish.
The last line of the call was spoken by the Master Crafter, the only master to hold the rank of cantor, also. The crafter not only served the Bindery, he wielded the Song. Master Aric Miller regarded Trystan, the supplicant.
Trystan bowed his head under the intensity of those eyes, the depth of the aged gaze from the young master. His mind raced.
The crafter alone has leave to use the Song as a cantor. Why? Trystan fought a frown as he realized why a crafter might need the skill. He needs to wield the Song to craft forbidden instruments, I’m sure of it. But does he know how?
“Journey under the arc, master your inner fire,” he said. “Do you accept the call?”
“Yes, Master Miller, I accept the call.”
“Witnessed and approved,” said Brother Bren.
“Witnessed and approved,” repeated the masters.
The ceremony finished, each bowed and drifted away.
Trystan was expected to pack and leave at once. He gulped. Highly unusual to be called before Pickell’s wedding. Trystan breathed, stilling his racing heart.
The morning sun warmed him. Here on the roof, the world’s business seemed distant. Faint city sounds wafted up, but Trystan concentrated on birdsong in the distance. He opened his eyes and looked up, lifting his hands in supplication. He was full of questions. Perhaps the Storm King would grant him guidance.
A jackdaw perched on the roofline, its beady eyes intent, unmoving and silent.
Trystan froze. Jackdaws are never silent. How does the proverb go? When jackdaws are silent, the cyntae will sing.
Outer Siarad wreathed the lake with thatch-roof houses and half-timber shops. A stone tavern jutted from a jetty at the lake’s edge. Cobblestone streets wound through the village. Thick fog marked the bounds of the Dread. It hung, wrapping every person, caressing.
The island of Anach glowed, spectral. Legendary home of the long-dead Majisterium, its tower flickered with cold lights through the mists. Sometimes lights flared, hovering above the remaining towers or moving along the shore. No sound issued forth. Not even birdsong trilled for those with the heart to listen. Where once the majisters wielded the Song, only the Dread remained.
Trystan must record local traditions and set them to new music. He’d perform these to earn his golden master’s ring. The Dread hindered Trystan’s work considerably. It was difficult to think, much less compose.
A master bard held an invitation to any court, to all guilds. Bindery bards were welcomed everywhere, as majisters once were. In a way, they were more trusted. Though learned, they could not use the Song to manipulate leaders. They also weren’t under the thumb of the Conclave, yet equal to it. That was why Father was counting on him to secure his master’s ring.
Trystan started with the townfolk, asking questions.
“Aye, they’re immortal,” said Ben, the earnest innkeeper, as he polished his bar to a dull shine. It was early. The inn on the jetty had not yet filled with its usual mix of townfolk and seekers.
“You never know when Caprices will appear. They look a bit like cantors, but no bodies, just empty robes…and the Dread. Some say they served the majisters in the Tower. Others say they’re spectres of the majisters themselves. Dead, but lingering.”
Ben made the sign of the arc.
“Caprices don’t come on a schedule, regular. Sometimes there’s only one, sometimes upward of twenty or more. ’Tis why they are called Caprices. They move on their own whims. One minute the bridge is empty and the next? The bell tolls, and there they are. But only one ever speaks.” He held up a declaratory finger, his round face solemn. “Mind you wear holly when you go to the seeking. Sprigs there.” He nodded to the pile on a table in the corner. “Will guard you from the Dread.”
“Why holly?”
“My gram said majisters wore it. When the Song was broken, folk took to wearing it. Mayhap it’s the berries? Blood of the Tree. Looks akin to it. All I know is, it helps. Talk to Old Shep when he wanders in. He might know more.”
Trystan nodded, wondering how to approach his real questions. Were instruments made here, outside the Conclave’s approval and inspection? They must be. But how?
When the Caprice finally appeared, it spoke with the hollow voice of a mountain echo. It stood upon the crest of an impossibly long, translucent bridge. A throng of seekers gathered behind him. The mist swirled in the chill.
“Small choices shall rule large kingdoms as the day draws ever near. Do not lose hope. The jackdaw shall linger, and the storms shall begin. Each shall flee to his place. Your work does matter. Do not give up. Do not falter. Those below shall be as above. Shadows will fall across fen and glade and forest. The game is not a game...”
The Caprice continued until Trystan’s mind wandered. Why am I doing this? He concentrated on recording the warnings, but he wanted nothing more than to pop ’round to the tavern, have a biscuit, and return later.
Much later.
When the caprices vanished, preferably.
He fought the urge to run.
That’s the Dread speaking.
Immediately, he felt an overwhelming fatigue. He stamped his feet, huddling into his cloak. The curse changed tactics; if he didn’t run, it would drain him.
Half the crowd was here to receive oracles. The other half, to ask questions. Each hoped for answers to their hardships. Tradition held a Caprice could solve any problem, so supplicants waited while the hooded monk spoke.
He fell silent. The crowd began to shout, all of them at once. Instead of motioning for order or answering them at all, the Caprice stood, silent and perfectly still.
The air grew thick as the cacophony continued. It dragged on, interminable. Trystan pinched himself as his eyes grew heavy. He nodded off once and just caught himself before he fell.
Desperate, he finally asked his question, hardly daring to hope he would be heard.
“Where can I find a starbound lute?” He wasn’t sure the Caprice would know his meaning. Pickell’s lute was marked with stars. But what else could he call it? A-lute-that-made-everything-it-played-living-and-real-and-golden? An enchanted lute? Trystan stamped his feet again, shifting his weight and tugging at his surcoat.
The Caprice fixed him with its empty gaze. It cast a shiver down his spine, piercing his weariness. The Caprice weighed his soul. A whispered voice answered, so close to his ear its cold breath chilled him.
“Seek Mod. Ask for a mirror, sing ‘The Spider’s Regret.’”
His skin prickled. The figure had not moved from the bridge’s parapet, despite the chill on his neck. He might have run had he not been paralyzed.
The Dread, an undercurrent to which he’d almost grown accustomed, surged in a flood. He clutched at his throat, choking. His fingers found holly, pinned with the clasp of his cloak. The spines pricked his fingers. He took a deep breath.
He exhaled and looked at his hands. Where the holly had bitten him, a small drop of blood beaded. He focused on the redness, the bright color filling his vision. He inhaled the scent of the crushed leaves. He breathed.
Mod. It was one name in a large land, but it was clearly all he would receive. Trystan bowed respectfully and backed away. He would leave the city before sundown.
For over a year, Trystan journeyed. He travelled to every city in the Middewelde, seeking Mod. All he had was the name, but the Caprice seemed to believe the name alone was enough direction. He found a fisherman in Ferriton who wen
t by Mod. The man enjoyed his song and gave him a coin.
In Teredhe, he heard of a woman named Mod who lived in the wilds near the Heyegrove. Trystan knew he couldn’t possibly be seeking a woman. He dismissed the rumor and moved south to the Lowewelde coast.
In the Sundered Cities, he found four who claimed the moniker, all tradesmen. Two cobblers, one shipwright, and a banker. Each rewarded his questions with a baffled expression.
Trystan found himself in Baehnt, dockside. An urchin had tried to pick his pocket. He’d hauled the little thief by the ear to the tavern and fed him instead of kicking him and calling for the city guard.
The best person to consult would be a young pickpurse. They would usually be truthful if you gave them food, provided you met the right one.
This boy looked hungry but without the hardness that haunted the faces of some street children. He might have something like a home or family. They sat together in the small tavern as the boy devoured a meat pie.
“What’s your name, boy?”
Dark eyes evaluated him over chewing. “Gint, milord,” came the answer.
“Well, Gint. Would you like some pudding?”
The boy’s eyes grew sharp, wondering. He didn’t answer.
Trystan sighed. No one was kind to a street urchin, not like this. “I just need information, Gint. I need honesty and information. I’m looking for someone to help me with my music. That’s all. In return, I’ll pay you. Consider this meal part of your earnings.”
The lad understood commerce. He paused a moment, calculating silently, and cleared his throat. “Yes, milord. I’d like pudding.”
Trystan waited for the pudding to come, reflecting on the extraordinary politeness of the waif. He waited, amused, until the sweet disappeared before asking his question. “My name is Trystan dan Tenkor. I need to find someone named Mod. Do you know the name?”
The boy’s eyes lighted up in recognition. “Spinner?” he asked. His eyes clouded. “I can’t take yer to Mod.”
Spinner. Was it a surname? A title?
“Can you carry a message? I’ll sing you a song.”
“What song?”
“‘The Spider’s Regret.’”
The boy leaned back, relaxing into his chair. “Sing it, then.”
Trystan picked up his lute, an ordinary but serviceable instrument. He fiddled with the tuning pegs and motioned to the tavern keep, asking permission to perform. The man nodded. He got up and stepped onto the small dais reserved for minstrels.
The spider spun a home
The spider did not roam
Silken lace
It made with grace
The spider spun a home
The spider did allow
A place upon its bough
To a wasp
That tried to cross
But became ensnared somehow
The spider did release
Its enemy in peace
The wasp returned
The spider learned
Some hatreds cannot cease
The spider, it did fight
The wasp in the moonlight
When it was done
The spider spun
Using its hindsight
The spider spun a home
The spider did not roam
Silken lace
It made with grace
The spider spun a home
Scattered applause arose as Trystan finished. Gint smiled as the bard reclaimed his seat.
“All right, milord, and what is it yer be wantin’?” Gint asked.
“I need a mirror,” Trystan replied. “Can you tell Mod?”
The boy blinked. He opened his mouth as if to say something but shut it again instead. Eyes glittering, he nodded. Then he was off, running.
Trystan ordered another ale and settled down to wait for his return.
Within the hour, the urchin reappeared in the doorway. He beckoned Trystan outside. The pair threaded their way through one of the narrow alleys that snaked through the city. This part of Baehnt was the oldest. Gray brickwork loomed over them, narrow and tall, houses and shops built in rows running together. They cast the streets and alleys into deep shadow. Despite the close quarters, the area was remarkably clean. No refuse lay in the gutters, and the smells of fish and seawater did not overwhelm.
Trystan looked up, spying the Takers and the Watchers. Their stone eyes surveyed the streets. Trystan would see their heads slowly turn if he looked long enough.
Gint followed his gaze and grunted. “They’re all over the city. I never saw ’em afore I came here.”
Trystan nodded, understanding. “The Takers and bilgeworks must be in good repair. The city is very clean.”
Gint shrugged. “I’ve seen a few of the Takers and Watchers moving about but have na spoken to one.” He spat. “T’ain’t natural to have stone move like tha’.”
Trystan grinned, remembering a similar feeling the first time he had seen a grotesque. It was a Taker, and it absorbed refuse. Takers didn’t eat refuse, but rather, channeled it away. A scribe had tried to explain to him how it worked once, along with the process that the grotesques used to transform the rubbish.
After an hour of listening, Trystan had decided it was easier to think of them as eating it, even though they weren’t really alive. Disgusting to think that way, considering all they must ingest. Still, Takers weren’t nearly as unnerving as the other types of grotesques, the Watchers and Speakers. Chymaera created all of them in their wild aeries.
“Where is the closest aerie?” Trystan asked.
Gint slowed and peered up, as if the Takers might be listening. He held up his hand and pointed to the web between his finger and thumb. “This is the harbor,” he said, pointing to the crescent. “The city is here.” He indicated the middle. “The closest aerie is here.” He pointed above the city where the Lowegrove began. “The aerie is in the tallest trees and cliffs there.” His tone implied they should be avoided. “The Conclave Chapterhouse is here.” He pointed above the northwest edge of the city.
Trystan nodded his thanks.
Another turn and they arrived at a series of steps leading down to a wide cellar door. Gint opened it and ushered Trystan into a wine cellar. Rows of bottles lined the walls, glistening in the light of hanging lanterns. They must have been below another inn or tavern, though he didn’t know the city well enough to name one. There were too many, this side of town.
A rakish man dressed as a sailor, all in black, separated himself from the shadows. He stopped a few feet from them and bowed, clicking his heels together. “A mirror, milord.” He gestured to a water barrel on a round platform, directly under a sconce.
“Are you Mod?” Trystan eyed the barrel.
It’s a barrel. Mirrors are made of glass or polished metal, not barrels and water.
“No, milord,” the man said, “but Mod can see you in the mirror. ’Tis a Spinner’s mirror, milord.” He pointed to the barrel again, as if this were explanation enough. Trystan looked from the boy to the sailor. He sighed and approached it. The lantern’s flame flared. He could see the shadow cast by his head in the water but little else. The sailor turned a crank Trystan had overlooked. It creaked in a steady rhythm. A strange scent filled his nostrils, and a soft tune began to play. The barrel rotated on its platform as if dancing.
The water swirled, then smoothed into a motionless dark surface. It transformed, becoming a night sky filled with stars. A glowing web sparkled in the perfect sky. Silence cocooned Trystan while he watched, the music fading. The sounds of crank and water muffled and were gone.
The scent intensified. Trystan recognized the Warrior and the Cup in the vision. The familiar constellations awakened a longing for home. As recognition dawned, they faded. His own face flashed in their stead. And then there was only a barrel full of swirling water. The silence ended. The creaking and sloshing startled him. Trystan felt nauseous and disoriented. He stepped back quickly.
“What did you see?” aske
d the sailor, straightening. The platform slowed to a stop.
“I saw stars. A web of light. There was a night sky from my home in Pelegor. Constellations, the Warrior, the Cup. I saw my own face.”
The sailor flashed a grin. Now his smile reached his eyes. He stepped forward, offering Trystan his hand in welcome. His voice changed as well, no longer accented or subservient. He clicked his heels together with the affectation of a Bestuan noble as he gave Trystan the half bow of an equal.
“I am Baron Tabor Demitri. It is good indeed to meet you. You seek a blessed lute that plays the true Song. We can help.”
CHAPTER ONE
LOUISVILLE, KENTUCKY
2001
When Sara got to her studio, she started the coffee maker. The dark scent of coffee filled the room like incense. She poured herself a cup and walked slowly around her sculpture, considering it. The tall form dominated the space, hidden under its plastic shroud. Three days a week, she went to classes. But as a senior, Sara had two full days to explore her art: sculpting.
Sara stood on tiptoe and unsealed the plastic, letting it fall. The writhing column swept up from a copper base. It morphed, at first craggy and jagged, before it rose like a tempest. It flowed, becoming a creature of grace and stern visage. A fire elemental? No. Maybe wind. Something with heat and light and passion. I’m still discovering you.
Sara frowned at the unfinished face and set her coffee down, retrieving her tool belt. She began carving detail. A violin piece, a Caprice, floated through her mind, unbidden. Paganini’s music often haunted her, the complicated strains sounding in her skull as if she were microchipped with her own private radio.
Images unrolled in her mind. She saw herself smashing the piece and starting over fresh. The scene hit her full force. She stopped, made a fist. Breathed. The desire to destroy the sculpture was so strong. The impulse would pass.
This urge to destroy alternated with its opposite extreme, when she knew her piece was perfect. Those days were really scary. She might decide to quit before she truly finished. She would fire the clay, and the piece would remain frozen forever. She would have to live with it, like an accusation.