A Lullaby of Virtues

by Jr Bienvenido Buten

  A Lullaby of Virtues

  A Lullaby of Virtues

  Midpoint

  © 2016 by Bienvenido Junior Buten.

  All rights reserved.

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  Novels-

  Songs of Virtue series:

  Songs of Virtue

  A Lullaby of Virtues (Prequel Short story)

  Hearts of Ashes series:

  Hearts of Ashes

  Enjoy!

  I: Yarrow Virtuesong

  Hopeless. Death bound. Words wrapped in steel.

  And the only way to describe Symphonist day for me. Merchants flood Virtuefalls with instruments, accessories, and illegal phoenix ashes. Damaged goods that didn’t sell. Of course we’re hopeless, they take our money. Death bound? Out of question without power. One million song parchments couldn't save me today.

  Chords of sunshine spear from above and bathe the water in yellow. I bend my head down to drink from it. Not recognizing the face reflecting in the water, I smile and it smiles back. Great, I'm still me... Hair, skin, and eyes the color of fallen leaves. A darkened white tunic and brown cloak I won at a song tag tournament, thank you very much.

  Vidanoche officers from Virtuesprings arrived today. Aristocrats in triple black suits, cloaks, and instruments slung across their chest, ready for combat. It takes months to travel so they must've left during winter. What people do for song parchments.

  The teal wind rippled lake joyfully washes over limestone rocks, so I follow the leaf-carpeted path toward the community of trees that guard this primitive forest. Resting on an emerald tree trunk, protecting it, is the world’s best companion. My rebec; cracked peg box, missing strings, chipped ivory paint. My mentor insisted I name her, but only those with power have the right to do so. Beggars can’t be choosers in Virtuefalls.

  The smell of ashes assaults my senses. I spin on instinct with my hand out. Stupid of me. My raven-black bow rests next to my instrument.

  A group of Vidanoche symphonists approach with Swords on their holster. Their kin symbol embroidered in phoenix hairs; A crowned golden phoenix singing to twin moon, from the infamous Vidanoche flag. As if the bandaged instrument cases slung around their captains back isn’t deadly enough. The nerve.

  The captain steps forward, tall and clean-shaven, anger flashing from his eyes. "This area is closed off today boy. Whether we let you walk away with your limbs depends on what kin you belong to?” A soft cold voice. Accent of Vidanoche.

  He examines the bandages wrapped around my right hand. This isn’t good. “I belong to no kin. Just let me grab my things and I’ll be on my way.”

  A short haired solider peers over his shoulder. “This kid painted his instrument white? How gullible.”

  Symphonists say distance is the only division between Virtuesprings and Virtuefalls. Lies. The true division rests in the instruments. This simple difference, makes them stronger, insidious, not death bound.

  A lone drop of sweat trickles down my face, leaving a trail of temporary coolness. I study the trees, expecting to see the silver armor and aqua cloaks of Vidanoche Symphonists, but the leaves remain still.

  A flash of pink shimmers from the corner of my eye.

  Impossible.

  “Go ahead, draw your weapons Vidanoche,” says a voice from above. She sits high on a tree branch; Pink cloak, brown hair, we even have the same mocha-brown eyes. We’re far from related, but she’s always watched over me.

  A pink glow flickers from her pupils. Pure, like a river without ashes, the perfect illusion. Pink fire is a hoax according to the Symphonist Guide to Understanding Phoenix Fire.

  She waves. "Yarrow! Long time no see."

  I wave back. "Hey!"

  The captain places his hand on his instrument case.

  Datura shows her hand. Her fingers grasp the neck of her pink rebec, one of the last ancient stringed instruments; Narrow boat-shaped body, three strings, and flower shaped peg-box figures. Pink fire lunges from the miniature-sun shaped f-holes, slithering down the tree like snakes in the Ashen Amazon. Datura jumps, her feet plunge the leaves and turns them pink. She draws her arched pink bow; short with orchid black flowers wrapped around its hairs.

  She guides her fire with her bow, trapping the soldiers in a circle.

  Instantly, they lower their heads and fall to one knee.

  She aims. “Just kidding.” She waves her bow to dismiss her fire.

  A soldier faints and the rest help him up. The captain steps forward. "What is someone like you doing in these parts," his confidence diminished.

  Datura plucks a flower from her bow and shrugs. “You know, just enjoying the wonderful weather. The boy is with me. I have personal business to settle with him.”

  "For the sake of my men, I will walk away." He looks into my eyes. “I apologize for not handling the situation sooner.” His shift now on Datura. “Now you have to deal with her.”

  They rush off uphill, avoiding the pink leaves like a plague.

  Her aura adds weight to the air around us and momentarily I forget all else.

  She freezes. “Why do you have that look on your face? Is there a wild phoenix behind me?"

  I scratch the back of my head. "Its been three years since I saw you, can you blame me? And no, there isn’t a wild phoenix behind you."

  She sighs and puts her pink rebec away in a bandaged black leather case. She rushes my rebec and examines it. “A song from a good heart is always filled with virtues. I hope you still live by those words.”

  “C’mon, you know it’s not safe to mention song and virtues in the same sentence. Remember last time?”

  She collapses on the pink leaves with my instrument in her hand. "I thought you were dead. Once I heard of rejuvenating trees, I jumped on the first Fupsie I could find. Those phoenixes sure are fast on their feet.”

  Memories of her slow my breathing. I playfully throw a branch at her. “Why would you risk coming back? Things are worst than ever now.”

  She waves me off. “I’ll be fine. There’s a storm of songs coming and I came to get you out.”

  Datura and I don’t really see eye to eye when it comes to risking one’s life. “You’re the only fifteen-year-old I know that controls an ancient rebec. How would I survive out there with a beaten up rebec?"

  "Do you know how many Sixteen-year-olds I’ve encountered who can heal with fire?” She lifts one finger. “What are you afraid of Yarrow? The war is over; things are better now.”

  I cross my arms. “How would you know? You left me here without a word.”

  She rises and hands me my instrument. “Kind of hard to send letters when you’re in the front lines.”

  My chin dips to my chest. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know…”

  She smiles. "It’s ok. Come, let's grab a snack. I’m starving.”

  Datura’s glowing pink eyes guide us through the labyrinth of roads. Her presence pours heat into my veins. One of the many perks of controlling pink fire. Datura used to leave sweets by the ash-yard where the dead rest. This way she could meet death and ask him some questions.

  Death clings to me like a shadow, but those with power welcome it in Virtuefalls. So we used the only Virtuesong we knew as bait. I move closer to her light. “Remember the week you laid out sweets for the reaper?"

  Her light expands. "That son of a song. He never showed. I just wanted to take his weapon and stop this war. Seemed like a good plan at the time."

  Yeah. At the time…

  We reach a narrow path filled with lit torches. Scarlet phoenix fire illuminates the dark tree trunks that rise
steadily into the sky. We follow the path into a small village built on the hillside with rickety wooden stands used as shops.

  A harp guards the only open bread stand. Some still use its sound to keep thieves away. The old vendor greets us with a smile and fringe of grey hair around his balding. Datura taps her foot and places a finger on her lips. "I’ll have two sugared breads. Actually, make that four." She hands over three song coins, grabs her bread, and examines my face. "Oh right. Did you want one?"

  I wave her off. "No thanks. Sugar makes me fall asleep now."

  We sit by the benches near a performing stage made of stone. Datura gorges herself on bread as if she hadn’t eaten in days. But she always eats like that, so it’s hard to tell.

  She eradicates the first bread. "You should get that sugar thing checked out. That's no way to live.”

  Sad, but true.

  A group of kids no older than twelve jump on stage. Boys and girls dressed in grey cloaks made of bed sheets with rugged linen boots on their feet. They bow for their only audience and rush across stage with swords made of broom handles. A lust fills their eyes when the weapons clash.

  Another boy climbs on stage, older, and stands tall on top of a crate; Beaten scarlet lyre in his hand. He fills our ears with music, changing the torchlight fire next to Datura.

  She stands and claps. “Exciting!”

  The torchlight fire turns scarlet for a few seconds, then returns to it’s natural color. His lyre isn’t not strong enough to command it, and his instrument to cheap to hold the fire. The end result of using sono-vis, a way of syncing with fire through force. Without the right instrument, his fire will never cooperate. And in this world, without connections, resources, or song parchments, he is limited. Death bound.

  The other kids fall when he’s done. Not exactly how the war ended, but a spectacular show that earns them an applause from us. Datura and I used to perform here. I couldn't summon my fire, but I played all the villains to ensure her victory. We made good money. Symphonist kids perform for large crowds when no guards are around. Of course, if your fire resembles the color of any previous Warlord, Emperor, or Song Crown, you earn a lot more.

  Datura rewards them with a few song parchments and we make our way to the old park.

  A group of boys in grey cloaks walk by us and whistle at Datura. “Were heading over to a nearby campfire party,” one shouts. “You’re more than welcome to join us pink lady. But leave the boy behind.”

  Datura turns and greets them with a disrespectful hand sign. The group of kids return the favor and head off.

  My nostrils flare. Not for the reasons you think. Datura and I are far from romance. Not to mention friends are hard to find in Virtuefalls. She can fight, speak the ancient tongue, and holds enough heart to be merciful against the weak. With her inhumane tolerance for sugar, I’m sure she can sweet talk her way into anyone’s heart. But not here, not plotters.

  We reach the abandoned playground where two swings hang heavily from a sagging wooden frame. Spots of rust pepper the old steel chains that hold the ancient wooden planks. The unchecked grass brings memories of my first healing task.

  She tosses me a bread. "Eat it. I know how you handle news and I would rather you be less alert."

  My pulse pounds my temple just thinking about what news requires lost consciousness for my Virtuesong brain to process. I’ve learned long ago not to question Datura. I examine the sugared bread; whose rich aroma beckons me. Its delightful sensations whip inside my memories and I can’t resist. I devour the sugared bread down. Ravishing!

  She chips wood with a small dagger from the sagging frame and starts a fire. The chains creek when she sits on the plank; rebec on her shoulder with the flowers of her bow rested on the strings.

  Her song fills the air like waves from lavender beach. The same songs that resonated in previous wars under the trenches and created this world. One where every born Symphonist child is prey to those in power. That’s why we carry instruments with fire itching inside them.

  Her pink fire warms the air like phoenix breath. Her song increases in speed, swimming through my brain like wakeful dreams. That sound drowns when a speck of midnight-black rises from her fire.

  I fall to my knees.

  Her eyes glisten before she closes them. Telling me all I need to know.

  She’s poisoned. Dying…

  Power comes at a price. When our fire is stripped of life, their owner suffers the same fate. This is the bond between symphonist and instrument. A bond that betrays my mentor. I gaze at the wrapped bandages covering my kin symbol. The poison that infects her was created by my ancestors. And now their laughter fills the sky. As the only power I have, is useless if I can’t heal Datura.

  I gaze at the wooden plank that once acted as my favorite seat. It hangs from one side, the chunk of rotten wood to heavy for the rusted chains. The plank falls, reminding me that my situation is no different. Poison rusts the chains that holds the bond we share, and that too will dissolve.

  My heart soaks the sound of her magical shoulder instrument. It seems I’m simply tired. This world talks about peace, but their hearts lack virtues. We were young when Datura took me under her wing. She grabbed a stick and pierced my abdomen. That’s when I became an arson.

  A healer of gardens.

  "We live in a world that craves power. Maybe I deserved it Yarrow. My kin are responsible for your downfall."

  I slam my fist. "You're my fire twin. Stop being so simple. Maybe it's time the world sees my best Resona impression?”

  The creaking swings stop moving. "Resona? You never told me your kin name. Your allowed to tell me know since I won't be around long..."

  I unwrap my bandages. "The kids called me Yarrow the friendly before the attack. Right before we met, I earned the title healer of veins."

  My bandages fall. Fear blinks from her eyes when she observes my mark; A flying phoenix under a wall of flowers.

  "Before Emperor Sinensis died he gave me a kin name. Harbinger of Alitura. The world will be a darker place when you’re gone. One of songs and fire. This I can promise."

  "And that's what I'm afraid of."

  She hums a wordless melody softer than a singing phoenix. Hymns of the old Virtuesong kin created by Resona during the first song war. A hoax to help her soldiers fall asleep before she turned them to ashes.

  The joyless moon shines like fingers stretching across the sky. A reminder that I too must stretch my fingers and grasp my bow if Datura is to live.

  Small pellets of water wet my hair, a foreshadowing of the day when the sound of her heart, no longer mutes my ancestors lust for power.

  II: Syringa Vidanoche

  Slung across my back, hanging from his midnight leather case, sits my rebec Nochi; a poison incapable of killing. A rebec for a poor girl, they joked. No one feared Nochi until I earned the kin name Reaper of Songs. But in Virtuesprings, titles don’t grant the freedom I seek. And without my instrument, I have nothing to say.

  Lady Niza wakes up and removes her sleeping fold. Her moon-round eyes blocked by the golden highlights hanging from her white hair. "Syringa!"

  I flinch at the cruelness of her tone.

  She yawns. “Syringa, we lost two hours of training. When armed symphonist show up at my gates, how will I regain them?”

  She holds my gaze to sniff out my fears like a phoenix fixed on their prey. I take a knee. “I’m worth more than two hours of practice Lady Niza.”

  I don’t have to study her hazel eyes to know she takes my measure, judges the way I hold my rebec, criticizes my clothing; Dark silk cloak, laced leather boots, and a leather tunic embroidered with a crowned phoenix signing for twin moons, symbol of kin Vidanoche. If you’re going to instill your enemies with nightmares, have sympathy and look your best, she always says.

  Niza hums her morning lullaby softly. A hymn of the old used by the Virtuesong to wake the spirit. I know it works. A silver glow rises from my eye pupils. Even as a Reaper, I haven’t
earned the right to wear highlights like Niza. But this will do for now.

  She falls back on her pillow and covers her face. “Prepare the garden Syringa. And make sure the phoenix is well fed.”

  I rush down the three-story structure of golden wood, covered with blooming white flowers and greyish vines. The jewel of her garden. A sweet phoenix sound vibrates outside like a great sea of songs. Sturdy onyx chest, three thin toes forward, the other grasped on the floating beige pads. Scarlet fire pumps from the hairs on his head like racing hearts. The fire mirroring his eyes.

  A vibrant tropical fish leaps from the coral pond. The phoenix inhales and releases a steady stream of scarlet fire, only to bathe the water with scarlet ashes. Poor guy, his fire outdid itself. This isn’t good…

  The lower fountain grass near the treehouse turns gold. Niza lands on the grass before it has a chance to summit to her power. She draws a small dagger from her golden cloak and cuts the remaining grass as punishment for their delay.

  Tiny charms ring softly from her ivory long braid scented with phoenix oil. She wears leggings of crisp black linen, leather sandals laced up to her knee, a white cloak, and a golden tunic covered with dandelion fluff ashes. Sunlight glimmers on the Virtuesong tattoo engraved on her neck; a phoenix wing wrapped around the sun.

  The phoenix flies to Niza’s shoulder. “Child, let me see your instrument.” She examines Nochi; Silver, half-moon shaped f-holes and peg box figures. She catches my bow and does the same. Arched, midnight, and covered with her favorite flower; The golden three petal iris. “Let me see what progress you’ve made.”

  I climb the sparkling white vines cascading the wooden wall that surrounds her garden. They sparkle with frozen phoenix ashes, protecting us from the phoenixes that fly over our heads at night.

  I sway my bow gently across Nochi. His sound soars through the garden like a phoenix on an up-draft. Niza places a wooden stick on her hair and the phoenix sets it ablaze. Silver fire slowly rises from the scarlet, it sparks, sending showers of silver into the grass. Nochi’s fire kindles with no thought of the flowers he destroys. How typical of a Vidanoche instrument.