The Charnel Prince

by Greg Keyes

  So he fretted, and poked about the music room, exploring the manuscrifts in its cabinets, tuning the stringed instruments, then tuning them again.

  He was staring out the window at distant barges on the Dew when he heard a muffled sneeze. He turned to see who was there, but there was no one in the room. The door was ajar, and he could see ten yards of the hall beyond.

  The hair on his neck pricking up, he walked slowly around the room, wondering if he had imagined the sound.

  But then it came again, louder, from one of the wooden cabinets.

  He stared at the source of the noise, fear waxing. Had they found him, the murderers from Broogh? Had they come for revenge, sent an assassin, fearing he might reveal them?

  Carefully, he picked up the nearest thing at hand, an hautboy. It was heavy—and pointed.

  He glanced back out into the hall. No guard was to be seen. He considered going to find one, and almost did, but instead, he steeled himself, advanced on the cabinet, and brandishing the hautboy, quickly grabbed the handle and yanked it open.

  Wide eyes blinked up at him, and a small mouth gave a little gasp. The child within stared at him a moment, as Leoff relaxed.

  The cabinet held a little girl, probably no more than six or seven years of age. She wore a blue satin gown, and her long brown hair was rather disarrayed. Her blue eyes seemed guileless.

  “Hello,” he said after a moment. “You gave me rather a fright. What’s your name?”

  “It’s Mery, please,” she replied.

  “Why don’t you come on out, Mery, and tell me why you’re hiding in here.”

  “Yes, please,” she said, and scooted out of the cramped space. She stood and then backed away from him.

  “I’ll go now,” she said.

  “No, wait. What were you doing in there?”

  “Nobody used to be in here,” she said. “I would come in and play with the hammarharp. I like the way it sounds. Now you’re here, and I can’t play it, but I like to listen to you.”

  “Well, Mery, you might have asked. I wouldn’t mind you listening sometimes.”

  She hung her head a little. “I just try to stay quiet and not be seen. It’s best that way.”

  “Nonsense. You’re a beautiful little girl. There’s no reason to be shy.”

  She didn’t answer, but stared at him as if he were speaking Vitellian.

  He pulled another stool up to the hammarharp. “Sit here. I’ll play you something.”

  Her eyes widened further, and then she frowned, as if doubting him. “Truly?”

  “Truly.”

  She did as he said, settling on the stool.

  “Now, what’s your favorite song?”

  She thought for a moment. “I like ‘Round the Hill and Back Again.’ ”

  “I know that one,” he said. “It was a favorite of mine when I was your age. Let’s see—does it go like this?” He picked out the melody line.

  She smiled.

  “I thought so. Now let me play it with two hands.” He started a simple bass line and played through again, and on the third pass added a counterpoint.

  “It’s like a dance now,” she observed.

  “Yes,” he said. “But listen, I can change it into a hymn.” He dropped the moving bass line and went into four-part harmony. “Or I can make it sad.” He shifted into a more plaintive mode.

  She smiled again. “I like it like that. How can you make one song into so many songs?”

  “That’s what I do,” he said.

  “But how?”

  “Well—imagine you want to say something. ‘I want some water to drink.’ How many ways could you say that?”

  Mery considered. “Some water I want to drink?”

  “Right. How else?”

  “I’d like some water to drink, please.”

  “Just so. Politely.”

  “I want some water, now.”

  “Commanding, yes. Angrily?”

  “Give me some water!” She supressed a giggle at her feigned rage.

  “And so on,” Leoff said. “It’s the same with music. There are many ways of expressing the same idea. It’s a matter of choosing the right ones.”

  “Can you do it with another song?”

  “Of course. What song would you like?

  “I don’t know the name of it.”

  “Can you hum it?”

  “I think so.” She concentrated, and began humming.

  Two things struck Leoff immediately. The first was that she was humming the main theme from the “Song of the Malend,” which he’d just written down only a few days before.

  The second was that she was humming it exactly in key, with perfect pitch.

  “You heard that in here, didn’t you?”

  She looked abashed. “Yes, please.”

  “How many times?”

  “Just once.”

  “Once.” Interest went quicker in his chest. “Mery, would you play something on the hammarharp for me? Something you used to play when you came in here alone?”

  “But you’re so much better.”

  “But I’ve been playing longer, and I was trained. Have you ever had a lesson in music?”

  She shook her head.

  “Play something, then. I’d like to hear it.”

  “Very well,” she said. “But it won’t be good.”

  She settled onto the little stool and spread her tiny fingers on the keyboard and began to play. It was just a melody, a single line, but he knew it immediately as “The Fine Maid of Dalwis.”

  “That’s really very good, Mery,” he said. He pulled up another stool next to her. “Play it again, and I’ll play with you.”

  She started again, and he added only chords at first, then a walking bass line. Mery’s smile grew more and more delighted.

  After they were done, she looked at him, her blue eyes glittering.

  “I wish I could play with both hands,” she said, “the way you do.”

  “You could, Mery. I could teach you, if you would like.”

  She opened her mouth, then hesitated. “Are you sure?” she asked.

  “It would be my honor.”

  “I’d like to learn.”

  “Very well. But you must be serious. You must do what I say. You have an excellent ear, but the way you’re using your hands is wrong. You must place them thusly—”

  Two bells passed almost without Leoff’s realizing it. Mery picked up the exercises quickly. Her mind and ear were quite amazing, and it delighted him to see her progress.

  He certainly didn’t hear anyone approaching, not until they were rapping on the open door.

  He swiveled in his chair. The queen, Muriele Dare, stood there. She wasn’t looking at him, but at Mery. The girl, for her part, hopped down quickly and bent her knee. Belatedly, Leoff overcame his surprise and tried to do the same, though his splint spoiled the effect.

  “Mery,” the queen said in a soft, cold voice, “why don’t you run along?”

  “Yes, Majesty,” she said, and started to scuttle off. But she turned and looked shyly at Leoff. “Thank you,” she said.

  “Mery,” the queen said, a little more forcefully.

  And the little girl was gone.

  The queen turned an icy eye on Leoff then. “When did Lady Gramme commission you to teach her child music?” she asked.

  “Majesty, I know no Lady Gramme,” Leoff said. “The child has been hiding here because she likes music. I discovered her today.”

  The queen’s face seemed to relax a bit. Her voice softened incrementally. “I shall make certain she bothers you no more.”

  “Majesty, I find the child delightful. She has an excellent ear, and is quick to learn. I would teach her without compensation.”

  “Would you?” The chill was back, and Leoff suddenly began wondering who exactly Lady Gramme was.

  “If it is permitted. Majesty, I know so little of this place. I do not even know, frankly, if I am employed here.”

  �
�That is what I have come here to discuss.” She took a seat, and he stood watching her nervously, the crutches tight under his arms. In the hall, a guard stood at either side of the door.

  “My husband did not mention hiring you, and the letter you had from him seems to have left your possession.”

  “Majesty, if I may, the fire in the malend—”

  “Yes, I know, and Duke Artwair saw the letter, and that is good enough for me. Still, in these days, I must take great care. I made inquires about you in various places, and that took some time.”

  “Yes, Majesty. Of course I understand.”

  “I do not know much about music,” the queen said, “but I am given to understand you have an unusual reputation, for a composer. The Church, for example, has censured your work on several occasions. There were even allegations of shinecraft.”

  “I assure you, Majesty,” Leoff began quickly, “I have done nothing heretical, and am certainly no shinecrafter.”

  “Yet that opinion comes from the clergy in Glastir. They said that your works were often indecently orchestrated.” She shrugged. “I do not know what that means. They also report that one of your concerts provoked violence.”

  “That is true in only the most abstract way, Majesty. Two gentlemen began arguing about the worth of one of my compositions. They did come to blows over it, and they had—friends—who joined them.”

  “So there was a brawl.”

  Leoff sighed. “Yes, Majesty.”

  “The attish of Glastir said your music had a corrupting influence on the crowd.”

  “I do not believe that to be true, Majesty.”

  She smiled faintly. “I think I understand why my husband offered you this position, though it went long unfilled. He was somewhat at odds with the Church, and especially with Praifec Hespero. I suppose he did this to devil him a bit.” The smile vanished. “Unfortunately, my son is not in the position my husband was. We cannot afford to provoke the Church—at least not much. On the other hand, you did prove yourself a friend to this kingdom, and Duke Artwair’s good word in your behalf is worth its measure in gold.” Her brow creased slightly. “Tell me what the Church dislikes about your music. Precisely.”

  Leoff considered his words carefully. “Majesty, your last court composer—what was your favorite of his works?”

  She blinked, and he suddenly felt cold, for presuming to answer her question with a question.

  “I really cannot say,” she said. “I suppose it may have been one of his pavanes.”

  “Can you hear it in your head? Can you hum it?”

  Now she looked annoyed. “Is there a point to this?”

  He balanced on the crutches so he could clasp his hands in front of him. “Majesty, music is a gift of the saints. It has the power to move the human soul. And yet for the most part it does not. For almost a hundred years, music has been written not with the heart, but with the mind, almost arithmetically. It has become sterile, an academic exercise.”

  “A pavane should sound like a pavane, should it not?” the queen asked. “And a requiem like a requiem?”

  “Those are forms, Majesty. Within those forms, such sublime things could be done—”

  “I don’t understand. Why does the Church object to your philosophy?”

  And now Leoff knew he must choose his words very carefully.

  “Because some members of the clergy confuse habit with doctrine. There was a time before the invention of the hammarharp—it was hardly a hundred years old. Two hundred years ago, it was unheard of for two voices to sing different parts, much less four, yet hymns in the Church are now routinely written in four parts. And yet, for whatever reason, for the last hundred years, music has changed not at all. It has inertia, and familiarity. Some people fear change—”

  “I asked you to be specific.”

  “Yes, Majesty. Forgive me. Take, for instance, the separation of instrumental and vocal music. The music of the Church is of the voice only. Instruments never accompany a requiem. A concerto, on the other hand, never has a human voice added to it.”

  “Minstrels play and sing,” the queen said.

  “Yes. And the Church mislikes it. Why? I have never been shown a written doctrine to explain it.”

  “Then you want to compose for both the voice and instruments?”

  “Yes! It was done in ancient times, before the reign of the Black Jester.”

  “He banned it?”

  “Well—no. He encouraged it, actually, but like everything else he touched, he corrupted the form. He made music a thing of terror—torturing singers to scream in unison, that sort of thing.”

  “Ah,” the queen said. “And when the Hegemony defeated him and imposed the peace, they banned such music because of its association, just as they banned everything else associated with the Black Jester.”

  “Including artifice,” Leoff said. “If all such bans were still in affect, the malends that drain your Newland would never have been invented.”

  The queen smiled again. “Don’t think the Church didn’t try to stop that,” she said. “But to return to your own assertion—you say music has the power to move the human soul, and now you mention the Black Jester. It is said that in his reign, music was written which drove whole nations to despair, which could provoke madness and bestial behavior. If so—if music can move the human soul toward darkness—is it not better that it remain, as you say, sterile and harmless?”

  Leoff unclasped his hands and sighed. “Majesty,” he said, “the world is already full of the music of despair. Songs of woe are always in our ears. I would counter that with joy, pride, tenderness, peace—and above all, hope. I would add something to our lives.”

  The queen looked at him for a long moment without showing a readable expression. “Move my soul,” she said finally. “Show me what you mean. I will judge how dangerous it is.”

  He hesitated a moment, knowing this was the moment, wondering what to play. One of the stirring airs he had written for the court at Glastir? The victory march of Lord Fell?

  He had chosen that last, and set his fingers to the keyboard, but something else happened. He began playing the thing he had been avoiding, the part that had already formed in his head. Softly at first, a song of love and desire, a path to a bright future. Then the enemy, discord, terror, dark clouds blotting the sun. Duty, grim duty but through it all, the melody of hope returned again and again, unconquerable, until in the end, after death and grief, only it remained, triumphant despite everything.

  When he finished, he felt his own eyes were damp, and he gave silent prayer to the saints for what they had given him.

  He turned slowly from the keyboard, and found the queen staring at him. A single tear was working down her cheek.

  “What is it called?” she asked softly.

  “I have never played it before,” he said. “It is a part of something larger, a distillation of it. But I might call it the ‘Tale of Lihta.’ ”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “I see why the Church does not like your music,” she said. “It does indeed move the soul, and they would claim our souls as their own. But the saints speak through you, don’t they, Leovigild Ackenzal?”

  “I believe so, Majesty. I hope so.”

  “So do I.” She lifted her chin and stood. “You are in my employ,” she said. “And I would like to commission something from you.”

  “Anything, Majesty.”

  “These are dark times. War threatens, and creatures of terror that should not exist walk the land. Much has been lost, and as you say, despair is all around us. I had thought to commission from you a requiem for the dead—for my husband and daughters. Now I think we need something greater. I want you to write something—something like I just heard—not for me, or the nobles of the court. I want you to write something for this country, something that will unite the most humble servant with the highest lord. I want something for all of my people, do you understand? A music that can fill this whole city, that can float int
o the countryside beyond and will be whispered of over the gray seas.”

  “That would be—” Leoff couldn’t find words for a moment. “Majesty,” he began again, “you have named my heart’s desire.”

  “I’d like it performed on Wihnaht, in the Yule season. Could you have it ready by then?”

  “Absolutely, Majesty.”

  She nodded, turned, and began to leave, but she stopped.

  “You are dangerous, Mestro Ackenzal. I take a great risk with you, much greater than you can ever know, but since I take it, I take it fully and with conviction. If you do this, you cannot hold back from fear of the Church. You must do as I have asked to the best of your abilities and with all of your invention. Do it understanding that I may not be able to protect you, though I will do my best. If you are not willing to burn for this, tell me now.”

  A chill of fear went through Leoff, but he nodded. “I was, as you know, Majesty, in Broogh,” he said. “I saw the price they paid there for your kingdom. I am no warrior. In my heart I am not brave. But for what you ask—for the chance to do what you ask—I will risk burning. I only hope I am worthy.”

  “Very well,” she said. And then she was gone.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  GUEST OF THE COUNTESS

  NEIL SPUN IN HIS saddle, fearing treachery in the sound of steel behind him, but the Vitellian knight and his retainers weren’t threatening him. Instead, he realized, they had noticed what he had not—a group of armed horsemen off to the right, riding their way.

  They were dressed all alike, in sable surcoats and crimson robes over armor. None had donned their helms.

  Sir Quinte resheathed his sword, and his men did likewise. “Knights of the Church,” he said. “The order of Lord Tormo.”

  Neil nodded and said nothing, but he kept his hand near his sword. While he trusted the saints, he’d learned the hard way that their human servants were as corruptible as anyone.

  They sat their horses and waited for the knights to arrive.

  The leader was a giant of a man, with bushy black beard and swell-green eyes. He held up his hand in greeting and spoke in clear Vitellian. Sir Quinte answered, and they seemed to have a brief argument. Then the knight of Tormo turned to regard Neil.