The concert continued on for over an hour in this way. After every song, the boy would swap his current instrument with one of the orchestra's that he had yet to play, and each time he seemed to get even better. By the end of the third song, the audience was too entranced to even applaud, instead waiting feverishly for the next song to begin.
I glanced over to see how much Hawke was enjoying it, but his reaction was even more than I expected. He sat at the edge of his seat, eyes wide and unblinking, and he gripped the armrests so tightly they creaked like they were about to break. It was disconcerting to see him so intensely focused on the performance, but when I nudged him his expression lightened and he assured me he was fine.
For the final song, a man stepped onto the stage with a most peculiar instrument: a twin-necked violin, ebony traced with jade. My confusion gave way to astonishment when he proceeded to play a harmony with himself for the entirety of the song, as the rest of the orchestra simply watched on in reverence. Even the conductor, who had been stern of demeanor for the rest of the performance, had a look of wonder on her face as his fingers danced along the strings and his bow carved an entire story out of sound alone.
When at last he rested, the entire room seemed to explode with applause, cheers, and whistling. Even I couldn't avoid clapping until my hands were raw, yet Hawke only continued to stare with mouth slightly agape.
“Who was that boy? He was amazing!” I asked Hawke as the lights came back on and the patrons chatting animatedly to one another. He startled out of his concentration and looked to me.
“His name is Claudio Johann. He's often referred to as the Young Genius – apparently he's been able to play like that since he was only nine years old. That was seven years ago…” he trailed off as his eyes lost focus, but he snapped back to attention quickly.
“Would you like to meet him?” he asked out of the blue.
“Wow, could we really?” I wanted nothing more at that moment than to thank the boy named Claudio for the wonderful show he put on. Hawke nodded and took me by the hand, leading me around to the side stage.
Two more guards with the face line stood close by the entrance to the backstage, but with a single scratch of Hawke's cheek they stepped aside and ushered him into the cramped hallway. Hawke walked so quickly I had to jog to keep up as he moved past several identical doors until stopping with purpose in front of one no more remarkable than the rest. Without so much as a knock, he twisted the knob and pulled me inside.
Claudio stood in the back of the lavish dressing room, staring into a wide mirror that covered most of the wall. I hardly noticed the expensive looking furniture that practically littered the floor, nor the gaudy paintings that papered just about every inch of the wall the mirror didn't take up. Both Hawke and I had our sights glued on the boy as he gasped in surprise and turned when we appeared in the mirror before him.
“Who the blazes let you in?” he said with a wild look in his eyes. “Where are the guards? Lousy oafs!” He spoke loudly and angrily, but it was easy to see how frightened he was as he looked around, perhaps for something to defend himself with.
“Come now, Claudio,” Hawke said in his softest tone, “is that any way to talk to your teacher after so many years?”
The Young Genius' eyes narrowed, taking in Hawke for a long time.
“No, that's silly,” he muttered as he tilted his head in thought. “He vanished after only a few lessons, and that was so long ago I almost forgot about him.”
“Yes, seven years to be a bit more exact,” Hawke agreed as he stepped closer. Though he was smiling at the musician, there was something terribly unsettling about it that made my flesh crawl. The boy shook his head.
“I think you're mistaken, my dear fan. Nobody has seen that lout in—”
“Seven years. Yes, we just discussed that.” Hawke's smile was gone now, replaced with the face I saw him wear when his patience grew too thin. “The name Morau should strike a chord with you, I should think?” Hawke gave a short mirthless laugh, taking another couple steps towards the boy. Claudio tried to back away but could only press himself ineffectively against the vanity on the wall. Glancing around in a panic, he gave a pained smile that could have been mistaken a grimace.
“W-why, Lord Hawke, is that really you!? Goodness, I'm so glad you could make it to my performance! I've come quite a ways, wouldn't you say? Even with those scant lessons you gave me, they most certainly shaped me as I climbed to the top of the music world!”
“Show me it.”
The growl that escaped Hawke's lips was unlike any tone I'd heard him give before. Hunger was drawn across his face, and now I recognized the other time I had seen him look like this: the night he accosted our old master, his impostor. Claudio wilted at his gaze.
“I r-really have no idea what you're talking about…”
Hawke had closed the distance and was now standing inches in front of the trembling boy. He reached a hand up towards Claudio, eliciting a cry of fright and a flinch, but he only set his hand gently on the mirror. Instantly cracks splintered from where he touched it, and Claudio tumbled to the side clutching his head.
“I could take it whenever I wanted to, child, but I need answers first. Who gave you the shinestone?” As if on instinct, Claudio put a hand on his chest where I saw a peculiar bulge protruding.
“It… was one of those wretched gypsies,” he said weakly. “Black hair, skin like strong ale. She came to our hut sometime after your last visit and gave it to me. 'Keep it safe. You'll know what to do with it,' she said and was gone. I would say she was beautiful if she hadn't been one of those—”
The rambling boy was dragged to his feet by his shirt, and Hawke's face scowled inches from his own tear and snot streaked pout.
“You are not allowed to speak like that about the gypsies ever again. As your teacher, this is my last lesson. Not one more foul slander will escape those lips ever again. Are we clear?” Claudio nodded once, his eyes locked onto Hawke's.
“Good,” said Hawke, “then all is forgiven.” He reached up again and tenderly touched Claudio on his cheek.
Almost instantly, a blinding light dazzled from the bump under Claudio's shirt, filling the room and forcing me to turn my head away. It only lasted for a moment, but after it subsided, I still had to blink furiously to clear the spots swimming before my eyes. Hawke was kneeling on the floor, gasping for air as sweat trickled down his brow. Behind him, Claudio stood stock still, save for a slight quiver in his lip.
“No, no, I can't remember. I can't remember!” The Young Genius screeched. “You took it from me! I can't remember how to play!”
Hawke had seemed to compose himself a bit, leaning against a large stuffed chair as he hauled himself up. His eyes floated around, looking at nothing, and his fingers flexed open and closed. He gazed at his hands, wiggled them a bit, and gave off a small chuckle.
“I really am sorry,” he said as he turned to look back at the panicking musician. “It's not your fault at all, but that talent you've been celebrated for was never yours to begin with. I merely took back what was mine.”
“How will I perform now!?” Claudio raved on, oblivious to Hawke's apology. He began staggering around the room, smashing anything he could get his hands on and flipping over anything too sturdy to be outright destroyed. “They're expecting an encore any minute! I can't show my face out there!”
I could only watch on confused. Hawke took my hand and led me out the door while the screams of Claudio Johann and the din of his tantrum slowly died behind us, ending with a horrible wail of despair.
“Will he be okay?” I asked as we marched down the tight corridor back towards the auditorium. Hawke sighed heavily.
“He's not hurt, but his performing days will be over. Possibly for good.”
“Oh no! His music was so wonderful, I would be so sad if no one to get to hear it anymore!”
Hawke slowed his pace, looking at the floor. We were right at the backstage entrance, the sounds
of happy patrons still bubbling from just down the stairs.
“You know, you're right, Micasa,” he said as he gave me a little smirk. “The least I could do is give the encore they've been waiting so patiently for.”
He tightened his grip on my hand and led me away from the stairs leading back to the seats, instead leading me behind the curtains and towards the stage. He stopped at the edge of the wing, pulling the curtain back and taking a peek at the full house.
“How lucky for you, Micasa, you're getting the best seat in the house!” He gave me a thumbs up, and stepped out onto the stage.
The idle chatter quickly became a buzz of confusion as Hawke strode towards the podium where Claudio had performed. The twin-necked violin had been leaning there, waiting for its owner's return, but it was my guardian who took it back into hand. One of the stagehands began to step out from the opposite side, but with a scratch of Hawke's cheek the bouncer stopped, nodded, and backed away. The confused murmur in the audience rose and made way to angry shouting as some people started to stand and leave.
Then Hawke raised his bow, gave a little bow to the mob, and attacked the strings.
Chapter 5: The Savage Man
We remained in Sapir for a couple days after the concert, and I spent most of that time reading through a few books Hawke had purchased for me while he was off running various errands. Most of them were schooling books, helping to reinforce my understanding of basic reading. I grew bored with them quickly and ended up spending more time letting myself out of the poorly secured room and walking around the inn instead.
You'd be surprised how many different types of locks you can find in the average building: doors, windows, pantries, the errant diary a careless guest had left lying around. The last one I enjoyed the most. I could honestly tell Hawke I had been practicing reading when he returned, though all it had were the names of various men and women and lists of activities that, had I been more world-wise at the time, would've made me blush.
It was midafternoon on our third day in town, as I was toying with the idea of seeing how difficult it would be to crack the lock on the safe behind the downstairs reception counter, that Hawke returned much earlier than usual and handed me a knapsack.
“Alright, Micasa, load up your things. It's time we get going,” he said as he piled his own belongings into his travel bag.
“Are we going on the coach again?” I asked expectantly. Another long ride in a caravan sounded great after so many dull days cooped up inside the inn.
“No, sadly, the caravan won't be going the way we are,” he said. Likely seeing the disappointment in my eyes, he gave me a reassuring grin. “I think you'll enjoy the next leg more than enough. There's a surprise waiting downstairs for us.”
With the promise of something special, I hurriedly lumped my few precious items into my new knapsack, save for my dress robe; that, I folded and placed carefully on top. With both of us packed, I scurried down the stairwell and out the door, bouncing on my heels as I waited for Hawke to catch up.
“There's our ride,” he said as he pointed toward the side of the road. I gasped as I caught sight of the beautiful chestnut stallion that stood tied to a post nearby. Its tail swished back and forth lazily while it looked around with mild disinterest at the goings of the passersby.
Hawke took my travel bag and tied it securely alongside his own behind the saddle strapped to the horse's back, our belongings joining a small pile of sacks and boxes already waiting on the horse. Apparently, all his time away had been spent on getting provisions for the journey to come. Once everything was secure, Hawke reached down and hoisted me up by the waist into the saddle.
“Can I pet it!?” I gushed while he pulled himself up.
“Of course!” said Hawke. “We'll be riding him for quite some ways likely, it's best for you two to get off on the right foot and make friends.”
The fur of the horse's mane was amazingly soft, and I laughed as I ran my fingers through it over and over. The horse merely snorted.
“I'm gonna call you Sir Brown Horse!” I declared. Hawke grabbed the reins and started our new steed off at a slow trot.
“That's, er, not bad,” Hawke said as he led us down the road towards the gate. “We can play around with names while we're on the road, though.”
I found myself continuously reaching out to pet Sir Brown Horse as we trotted leisurely through the countryside that flourished beyond the walls of the city. Between the abundant groves of trees and fields of uncountable flowers, I found it hard to believe I had spent most of my life believing the stories told about constant demon and raider attacks.
“Enjoy the scenery while you can,” Hawke advised. “The path we're taking will be a lot more barren before long.”
“I love the horse, but I wish we were still in that caravan. That was so much fun!” I said.
“It's because of where this road leads that we couldn't take it,” he explained. “We're going to be leaving these farmlands and heading into some dangerous territory. You have that map I gave you?”
I nodded and pulled it out of my sack with a bit of difficulty from the bouncing of the horse ride. Hawke held me steady with one hand while I clumsily unfolded the large piece of parchment, revealing a large jagged shape that covered most of the paper.
“All the land we live on is this one massive island, the land of Astra,” he said as he traced his finger over the shape. “The land itself is divided into two main segments. Where we are right now is known as the Fertile Lands.” He swept his fingers over the right side of the map. “Most food and other goods are made here, to be shipped all over the country. The other side is known as the Old Kingdom. It holds a massive amount of natural resources that they use to trade for those goods. Because of that, most people in the Fertile Lands are farmers or artisans, while people in the Old Kingdom tend to be nobility or simply wealthy.”
“What about this weird line between the two?” I asked, touching a large jagged red fissure that divided the two areas.
“That, sadly, is the only way to get between the two territories. It's a short expanse that runs from coast to coast, a desert area with no towns to speak of and where bandits and… other unsavory sorts like to hide out. No law touches that desolate little strip of land. The people call it the Madness for that reason: anything can happen there, and nobody will be there for you when it does. Don't fret, though,” he said reassuringly. “It only takes about a day to cross over it, and we'll make sure to be well prepared for the trip.”
I nodded, but couldn't really visualize what a lawless land could be like. Every place had to have some sort of rules, that much I knew from my experiences, so how a little line on that map could be any different was beyond me.
What I did know was that the bouncing motion of the horse had begun to hurt my backside, and I was hoping desperately for a rest. Hawke conceded and let us down near an overgrown oak to break for lunch.
“Hawke, will you tell me what a gypsy is yet?” I asked as I worked over an apple from our stores. I had broached the subject a few times after the night of the concert. The mean words Claudio Johann had used to describe the gypsies made them sound like terrible people, yet Hawke had been staunch in his defense of them. He always shook his head when I asked, or changed the subject abruptly, and it looked like he was about to do the same. He paused with his mouth open, then let out a sigh of resignation.
“Well, I suppose there's not much to say about them anyways. The gypsies are a group of people who travel in a caravan of their own, dozens of people with no one place they call home. They're sort of jacks of all trade, but they're particularly good at entertaining: music, acrobatics, parlor magic, they're the best of the best when it comes to those things. They rove around, only stopping to make some money or get supplies in exchange for their services.”
“They sound a lot like us. We travel a lot too.”
“True, but this kind of life is all they know. There is no one place the gypsies call home.” H
awke carved himself a piece of particularly hard cheese, sniffed it appraisingly, and took a bite.
“Why would Claudio have talked so badly about them, though? They sound nice.”
“People fear things they don't understand, Micasa. Their life is very different from most people's, so when they appear, others tend to get very paranoid about their intentions. It doesn't help that there are lots of horror stories – mostly untrue –” he added pointedly as he took a dignified bite of the cheese, “that float around about the gypsies and only stoke the fear more. Speaking of wandering, though…”
I noticed that his gaze drifted past me and down the road some distance. I turned to see what appeared to be a man hobbling slowly down the way, clutching at his shoulder where a dark red stain covered most of his tunic. Hawke stood and stepped between me and the approaching traveler, watching.
The man took almost a quarter of an hour to make it near our campsite, and as he came into view, it was clear something was very wrong. Where he clutched at his shoulder, only a bloodied stump remained, and his torn and battered clothing revealed innumerable cuts and bruises that peppered his body. One of his eyes was swollen completely shut, and the other was cast at the ground as he dragged himself one step at a time forward.
“Oy, you want to rest for a while stranger?” Hawke called out, “We've got food and some bandages for those wounds!”
The injured man startled, apparently just aware that there were people not a stone's throw from him. He stood transfixed like a deer, his one good eye lingering with suspicion. At last, he gave a furtive nod. Hawke jogged over and helped the man towards our picnic area, gingerly sitting him against the tree.
He ate almost nothing, but when Hawke offered him a water skin, he drank most of it in a few gulps and used the rest to clean the dried blood from his face.
Broken Soul (The Scholar's Legacy Book 1) Page 6