by DAVID B. COE
With no piece was all of this truer than with the Paean. Normally it was sung only once a turn, on the Night of Two Moons. But their performance last night had been such that all those who missed it and heard others speak of what they had done demanded that they repeat it this day. Jedrek and the women had been more than happy to oblige, but Cadel hesitated. The previous night’s performance had been wondrous. Singing the second movement, Cadel had felt for just a moment that Ilias himself had reached down from Morna’s sky to add his voice to Cadel’s own. The others had sung brilliantly as well, particularly the woman singing Panya’s part.
But magic such as they had found the previous night was not to be taken for granted. They could not be certain that they would find it again. Besides, he and Jedrek had other things to do this day. It was only when one of the local innkeepers offered them twice the wage they had earned the previous night to sing the Paean again that Cadel realized he had no choice in the matter. Not that he or Jedrek needed the gold. But they were supposed to be wandering bards, and no bard could turn down such a wage without arousing suspicion.
So here he was, singing the lament again, and, much to his amazement, giving a better performance than he had the night before. All of them were. He had only to see the expressions on the faces of those listening to them to know it was true. Even sung poorly, the Paean was a powerful piece of music, capable of evoking tears from the most impassive audiences. But when sung by masters, it could overwhelm listeners with its splendor and arouse within them the same passion, longing, and heartache it described.
It told of the love shared by Panya, a Qirsi woman, and Ilias, an Eandi man. The two races were young then, and the gods who created them, Qirsar and Ean, had long hated each other and had thus decreed that the Qirsi and Eandi should remain apart. But what Panya and Ilias shared went deeper even than their fear of the great ones. Soon Panya was with child, and Qirsar’s rage flared like the fire magic some of his people possessed. For it was well known that Qirsi women were too frail to bear the children begotten by Eandi men. When Panya’s time came, she lived long enough to deliver her child, a beautiful daughter, but then she died. Ilias, bereft of his love and unable to find consolation in the birth of his daughter, took his own life, hoping to join his beloved in Bian’s realm.
Qirsar, however, had something else in mind for them. He changed the lovers into moons, one white and one red, and placed them in the sky for all to see, as a warning to Qirsi and Eandi who dared to love one another. For all eternity, the great one declared, the lovers would pursue each other among the stars, but never would they be together or even see each other again. Whenever white Panya rose, red Ilias would set, and only when she disappeared below the horizon would he rise again.
But so great was their love that even in death they were able to defy the god. The first time Panya rose into the night sky, brilliant and full, she paused at the summit of her arc. And there she waited until Ilias could join her. Ever after, they traveled the sky together, their cycles nearly identical.
Cadel moved slowly through the second movement, carrying his audience with him through the range of Ilias’s emotions: his passionate love for the Qirsi woman, his fear of the wrath of the gods and his joy at finding that Panya was with child, and finally, as the melody spiraled upward again toward the lament’s heartrending conclusion, his anguish at losing Panya. Jedrek and the second woman stayed right with him throughout, easing the tempo of their counterpoint as he lingered on Ilias’s passion, matching him as he quickened his pace to convey Ilias’s fear, and, at the last, slowing once more, to wring heartache from their melody as he sang Ilias’s grief.
The third and final movement, “The Lovers’ Round,” which described Panya and Ilias’s final defiance of Qirsar, was sung as a canon. It began with the first woman singing the lyrical, intricate melody in a high register. As she moved to the second verse, Cadel joined in, beginning the melody again, though at a lower pitch. He was followed by the second woman, who was followed by Jedrek. Thus the melody, first sung high, then low, then high again, then low again, circled back on itself, each voice drawn along by the previous one. Just as Ilias followed Panya through the sky, turn after turn, so their voices followed, one after the other, thirteen times through this final theme, for the thirteen turns of the year.
They finished the piece and the audience erupted with cheers and clapping. But much more gratifying for Cadel was the single moment of utter silence just after their last notes had died away and just before the applause began. For that silence, that moment of awe and reverence, of yearning and joy, told him more about what their music had done to those listening than all the cheers the people could muster.
He glanced at the woman beside him and they shared a smile. What is your name?
“You sing very well,” he whispered to her.
Her smile deepened, though she didn’t blush as some women might have. “As do you.”
Each one of them bowed in turn; then the four of them bowed in unison and they left the stage, the noise from the audience continuing even after they were gone. Four times they returned to bow and wave, and four times the people called them back, until finally the innkeeper came to them and asked if they would sing the Paean once more, for another five qinde apiece.
Once more, Jedrek and the other woman were willing, but this time Cadel and the dark-haired woman refused.
“But, Anesse!” the second woman said, turning toward her sister. “He’s offering gold!”
Anesse! Of course. Anesse and Kalida.
Anesse shook her head. “I don’t care if he’s offering fifty qinde. Twice is enough.” Her eyes strayed toward Cadel for just an instant. “We found magic twice with the Paean. We’d be fools to chance a third time.”
The younger woman opened her mouth, but Anesse stopped her with a raised finger. “No, Kalida. That’s my final word.”
Cadel nodded his approval and faced the innkeeper. “I’m afraid we must refuse.”
The man looked disappointed, but he managed a smile. “I figured as much.” He turned away and started toward the bar. “I’ll get your wage and you can be on your way,” he said over his shoulder.
Cadel glanced at Jedrek, who gave a small nod. The time for singing was over. They had business.
“Will you be joining us at the banquet tonight, Corbin?”
It took him a moment. The alias he had chosen for the Revel.
“I’m afraid not,” he said, meeting her gaze. It was a shame, really. He would have enjoyed passing a night or two in her arms. “Honok and I will be visiting with some old friends this evening.”
She gave a small frown. “That’s too bad. I had hoped to spend some time with you, away from all this.” She gestured toward the stage, giving him the same knowing smile she had offered earlier as they finished singing.
“I’d like that as well. Honok and I will be in the marketplace tomorrow, singing some Caerissan folk songs. Perhaps after we’ve finished?”
Cadel knew what she’d say. He had overheard the two women discussing their plans a few days before. Still, he had no trouble acting disappointed when Anesse explained that they would be leaving for Sanbira the next morning.
“So we’re not going to see you again at all?” Kalida said plaintively, looking from her sister to Jedrek.
“It seems not,” Cadel answered. “At least not for some time.” He smiled at Anesse. “But perhaps Adriel will bring us together again.”
“She will if she has an ear for music,” the dark-haired woman said, grinning.
Truly a shame.
They all turned at the sound of coins jingling. The innkeeper was approaching, digging into a small pouch as he walked.
“I believe we agreed upon four qinde each,” he said as he stopped in front of them.
Cadel gave a small laugh, but when he spoke his voice carried just a hint of steel. “And I’m certain it was eight.”
The man looked up. He was quite heavy, with white, wisp
y hair and yellowed teeth. He walked with an exaggerated limp. This was not a man who was looking for a fight.
He merely nodded. “Of course, I’d forgotten. Eight it is. And worth every qinde.”
He handed them each their coins and then smiled, his breath smelling of ale and pipe smoke. “If you’re back for next year’s Revel, I hope you’ll sing for us again. At the same wage, naturally.”
“If we’re back,” Cadel said, “we’d be delighted.”
The four singers left the inn by way of a rear door that let out into a grassy area near the west wall of Thorald City. Immediately, Jedrek and Kalida moved off a short distance to say their goodbyes, leaving Cadel alone with Anesse.
The woman stared after her sister for a moment before facing Cadel, a wry grin on her lips.
“Well,” she said, “if there’s any truth to the old legends, we’ll probably see each other again at Kalida and Honok’s joining.”
Cadel hesitated and Anesse began to laugh.
“Don’t worry,” she told him with obvious amusement. “Kalida doesn’t believe in the legends any more than your friend seems to.” Her smile changed, deepened. “I do, however, and I should tell you that I still was tempted to seek out your chambers last night.”
“I almost wish you had.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Almost?”
“I take the moon legends seriously, too. Even if you had come, I’m not certain what would have happened.”
“Fair enough,” she said. “But what about now? I don’t think Kalida and Honok would mind a few hours together before evening. And we have nothing to fear today from the legends.”
He was tempted by her offer. Who wouldn’t have been? But he had to meet someone before sundown, and on days such as these he did not allow himself any distractions. Except for music, of course, which actually served to sharpen his mind. Besides, he needed to speak with Jedrek.
“I wish I could. But Honok and I must rehearse for this evening. We’re visiting friends, but like all our friends, they’ll expect us to sing, and we have nothing prepared.”
“If I didn’t know better, Corbin, I’d say you were putting me off.”
He felt himself growing tense and he tried not to let it show. “I’m sorry if it seems that way. I meant what I said before: I hope the goddess will bring us together again. But I’m afraid this isn’t our time.”
Anesse shrugged and smiled. “Very well. Until next time then.” She glanced back toward where Jedrek and her sister had been and, seeing that they were gone, looked at Cadel again, a question in her green eyes. “Where did they go?”
“I think they went around to the side of the inn for some privacy,” he said. No doubt Jedrek had her pressed up against the building wall by now.
Anesse frowned. “Kal?” she called.
For several moments there was no reply.
“Just a minute,” her sister finally answered, her voice breathless and muffled.
The woman faced him again, looking uncomfortable, and they stood that way for a few more minutes, waiting for Jedrek and Kalida to return.
He’s gone too far this time, Cadel thought, his anger at Jedrek building as they waited. He and Jedrek had been together for a long time, but in recent turns Jedrek had started acting strangely, taking risks where once he never would have thought of doing so. Perhaps it was the inevitable result of success, or a natural response to so many years of caution. Whatever the reason, it had to stop before one of them got killed.
When at last Jedrek and the woman returned to the grassy area behind the inn, their hair and clothes disheveled, Cadel was ready to throttle him. Kalida, her color high, refused to meet her sister’s gaze, but Jedrek seemed far too pleased with himself. He grinned at Cadel sheepishly and gave a slight shrug, as if the gesture alone could excuse his behavior. At least he had the good sense to keep his mouth shut.
“Goodbye, Anesse,” Cadel said, as he and Jedrek turned to leave. “Gods keep you safe.”
He didn’t look back, but he sensed that she was smiling.
“And you, Corbin,” she said.
For some time as they walked, neither of them said a thing, and even when Cadel did begin to speak, he kept his tone low and casual, so as not to draw the attention of passersby.
“I’ve half a mind to kill you here in Thorald, and leave your body for the duke’s men to find tomorrow morning.”
Jedrek faltered in midstride for just an instant before resuming his normal gait. The smile had vanished from his lean face. He swallowed, then whispered, “Why?”
Cadel looked at him sidelong. “You have to ask why?” He shook his head. “Perhaps I should kill you,” he muttered. They walked a few paces in silence. “You understand your job, right? You know what I expect of you?”
“I’ve been doing this for fourteen years,” Jedrek said, sounding defensive. “I ought to know my role by now.”
“Yes, you ought to!” Cadel said, his voice rising. He glanced around quickly. Two or three of the street vendors were eyeing him, but no one else seemed to have paid any attention. “You ought to,” he repeated in a lower voice. “I need you to guard my back, Jed. I need you to keep anything unexpected from ruining my plans. You’ve saved my life more times than I care to count, and I need to know that you’re capable of doing it again should the need arise. And here we are in Thorald, the heart of Eibithar, on the verge of completing the most lucrative job we’ve ever had, and you’re acting like a rutting pig.”
Jedrek didn’t say anything for some time. When he finally did respond, he sounded contrite. “You’re right. It won’t happen again. I swear.”
“It better not, or I will kill you. This is a young man’s profession. We all get too old for it eventually. I’d hate to think that your time had come already.”
Jedrek halted and grabbed Cadel by the arm so that they were facing each other. “I’m not too old!” he said, his dark eyes boring into Cadel’s.
Cadel grinned. “I’m glad to hear it. And I’m glad to see that I can still get a rise out of you.”
Jedrek glared at him for another moment before giving in to a smile and shaking his head.
“You bastard,” he said, as they started walking again.
They reached the inn a short time later. Cadel had arranged to meet with their employer just after the ringing of the prior’s bells, which would come within the hour. He had agreed to come alone—his employers often asked this of him—and he gave Jedrek leave to wander the city and enjoy the Revel for a time while he changed clothes and kept his appointment.
He climbed the stairs and walked down the narrow corridor to their room. But as he approached the door, he saw that it was slightly ajar.
Instantly his dagger was in his hand, its worn stone hilt feeling cold and smooth against his fingers. He crept forward, each step as delicate as a kiss, and, laying his free hand gently on the door, prepared to fling it open and launch himself at the intruder.
“It’s all right,” a woman’s voice called. “I’d have thought you’d be expecting me.”
Exhaling, he straightened and pushed the door open.
He had never met the Qirsi woman he saw reclining casually on his bed, though he knew her name, and her title. Enid ja Kovar, first minister to the duke of Thorald. He also knew that she was right. He should have expected her.
Chapter Three
“We were to meet by the upper river gate,” Cadel said, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind him.”Why the change?”
Still reclining on his bed, the woman smiled at the sight of his dagger. “Was that intended for me? I hope not. It wouldn’t be prudent to kill the duke’s minister.”
He returned the blade to the sheath within his tunic. “Why did you change our plans?” he asked again.
She sat up and gave a small shrug. “You have a reputation as a dangerous man, Cadel. I prefer to meet with dangerous men on my own terms, at places and times of my own choosing.”
“Yo
u hired me because of my reputation. It strikes me as strange that you’d suddenly find yourself afraid of me.”
The smile sprung back to her lips, though her pale yellow eyes remained grim. “I never said I was afraid of you. If you deal with the Qirsi for any length of time, you’ll find that we’re not easily frightened.”
He shuddered at the thought. He had no desire to deal with the Qirsi for any longer than was absolutely necessary. It was not just that he found their powers daunting, though certainly that was much of it. But more than that, he didn’t even like to look at them. With their white hair and pallid skin they looked more like wraiths than people, as if they had been sent from the Underrealm by Bian himself to walk among the Eandi.
They had first come to the Forelands nearly nine hundred years before, crossing the Border Range from the Southlands intent upon conquering the northern tribes with their magic and their bright blades. Instead they were defeated, the survivors of their invasion scattered throughout the kingdoms. Yet somehow, no doubt owing to their powers, they quickly assumed positions of great importance in every court in the Forelands. To this day, they wielded tremendous influence in all the seven realms, advising kings and queens, dukes and thanes.
Enid laughed gently. “You don’t relish the notion of doing business with the Qirsi for an extended time. You should. We have access to gold, we live in every realm in the Forelands, and we don’t tend to live very long, a trait that should be especially attractive to a man of your talents.”
“I work for gold,” Cadel told her, keeping his tone neutral. “I don’t work for one set of people to the exclusion of others.”
“I realize that. I just hope that you’ll consider working for us in the future, when we have need. Everyone knows that Cadel Nistaad of Caerisse is the best assassin money can buy.”