Music to My Sorrow
Page 1
Music to My Sorrow
Mercedes Lackey
and
Rosemary Edghill
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2005 by Mercedes Lackey & Rosemary Edghill
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
A Baen Books Original
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
www.baen.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-0917-2
ISBN-10: 1-4165-0917-8
Cover art by Jeff Easley
First printing, December 2005
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lackey, Mercedes.
Music to my sorrow / Mercedes Lackey and Rosemary Edghill.
p. cm.
"A Baen Books original"—T.p. verso.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-0917-2
ISBN-10: 1-4165-0917-8
1. Banyon, Eric (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Parent and child—Fiction. 3. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. 4. Evangelists—Fiction. 5. Musicians—Fiction. 6. Brothers—Fiction. 7. Wizards—Fiction. I. Edghill, Rosemary. II. Title.
PS3562.A246M87 2006
813'.54—dc22
2005025956
Distributed by Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
Production & design by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH (www.windhaven.com)
Printed in the United States of America
To Brenda Schonhaut and "Molly"
In This Series—
Urban Fantasies:
Bedlam's Bard (with Ellen Guon)
with Rosemary Edghill:
Beyond World's End
Spirits White as Lightning
Mad Maudlin
Bedlam's Edge (ed. with Rosemary Edghill)
Music to My Sorrow
BAEN BOOKS by Mercedes Lackey
Bardic Voices:
The Lark and the Wren
The Robin and the Kestrel
The Eagle & the Nightingales
The Free Bards
Four & Twenty Blackbirds
Bardic Choices: A Cast of Corbies (with Josepha Sherman)
The SERRAted Edge:
Chrome Circle (with Larry Dixon)
The Chrome Borne (with Larry Dixon)
The Otherworld (with Larry Dixon & Mark Shepherd)
This Scepter'd Isle (with Roberta Gellis)
Ill Met by Moonlight (with Roberta Gellis)
The Bard's Tale Novels:
Castle of Deception (with Josepha Sherman)
Fortress of Frost & Fire (with Ru Emerson)
Prison of Souls (with Mark Shepherd)
The Fire Rose
Fiddler Fair
Werehunter
Lammas Night (ed. by Josepha Sherman)
Brain Ships (with Anne McCaffrey & Margaret Ball)
Wing Commander: Freedom Flight (with Ellen Guon)
The Sword of Knowledge (with C.J. Cherryh Leslie Fish, & Nancy Asire)
The Wizard of Karres (with Eric Flint & Dave Freer)
The Shadow of the Lion (with Eric Flint & Dave Freer)
This Rough Magic (with Eric Flint & Dave Freer)
BAEN BOOKS by Rosemary Edghill
Warslayer
Prologue:
Shut Out The Light
The moon's my constant mistress
And the lonely owl my marrow
The flaming drake and the night crow make
Me music to my sorrow
-—Tom O' Bedlam's Song
Another day, another stupid office. Devon Mesier was a veteran of offices, of waiting rooms. They all had the same happy-happy magazines, the advertisement flyers for this or that pill to cure depression, anxiety, ADHD, ADD, and every other clinical name that shrinks had thought up to slap onto kids who didn't come up to their families' standards of appropriate behavior. He almost wished his parents would try pills on him for a change. If he didn't like what the pills did to him, he could always throw them up; one of the bulimic chicks at the last concentration camp had taught him how to throw up at will, 'cause a good way to get a "camp counselor" off you was to projectile vomit on him. And if you started throwing up, they tended to get nervous and stick you in what passed for an infirmary and leave you alone.
He was fifteen, and long before he'd gotten anywhere near "troubled teenhood" he'd seen more of shrinks' offices than a clinical psychologist four times his current age. He'd been through every kind of "give in and submit" camp, therapy, program, and counseling there was, and by now he knew they came in two kinds: the kind that put the broken kids back together, and the kind that tried to break kids that weren't broken.
Devon wasn't broken, and he didn't intend to break.
He didn't know why he and his parents had been on a collision course ever since he could remember. It wasn't that he had a deep-seated hunger to set kittens on fire, or any of the more terrible things he'd found out that other kids did once they'd started putting him into those programs and groups calculated to turn him into a Good Little Robot. But . . .
He asked questions. He always had, ever since he'd been a little kid. He'd wanted to know "why," and how people knew what they knew. Dad said that made him "insubordinate." He'd gone and looked the word up in the dictionary, and said he wasn't. Dad had refused to discuss it. Mom had (as always!) taken Dad's side. Devon had yelled. He'd been sent to his room. He'd gone out the window. He'd only been gone a few hours and a few blocks before a policeman had brought him back, and Dad had been even more furious.
He guessed he'd been seven, then. Things had never gotten any better. One of the few psychologists Devon met that he'd actually liked had told him his only problem was that he was twelve—which meant he was subject to whatever his parents determined was "best" for him, too bright for his own good—which meant he didn't just accept things passively, and didn't suffer fools gladly—which meant that when things didn't make sense to him he was always flapping his mouth about it. Unfortunately, in Devon's opinion, the world was full of fools. That headshrinker hadn't lasted long, not past the first "parent conference." Evidently the man didn't tell the 'rents what they wanted to hear.
But I can outwait them, Devon told himself grimly. Sometimes he wished he could stop fighting with his father, but he was damned if he was going to back down first. And he was double-damned if he was going to turn himself into the mindless drone his father wanted! Particularly this time.
While he'd been getting himself kicked out of the latest Stalag (for cheating—although he hadn't been; if there had been any copying going on, it was some of the others cribbing from his papers) apparently Mom had gotten Religion. He hadn't been home from Arizona a week before the behind-his-back phone calls started again—this time to something called Christian Family Intervention, which sounded pretty depressing—and then, as usual, Mom cancelled all her house showings for the afternoon and Dad came home from the office early and the three of them got into the Lexus to drive off somewhere.
Of course they didn't tell him where. It wasn't as if anyone in the Mesier family talked to anyone else. Certainly not to him. He was just supposed to do as he was told—or better yet, figure out what he was supposed to do and say by some sort of telepathy.
Screw that.
They didn't want him—they wanted their idea of him, which was something else completely—and they didn't want to let him go his own road, either. So by now Devon figured he didn't owe them very much at all.
They didn't go anywhere near the Boardwalk, where most of the casinos were, and the rest of the city was pretty thud. He'd almost decided they weren't stopping in Atlantic City at all when they pulled off into a business park on the outskirts of the city that said it was the location of—get this—The Heavenly Grace Cathedral and Casino. There didn't seem to be anything else here.
Cathedral and Casino. The sign made him tilt his head to the side like a dog hearing something weird. What next? Synagogue and cathouse? What kind of Christian yahoos built themselves casinos? Holy Dice-Rollers? Maybe his parents had finally gone crazy. Maybe he could become a ward of the state.
They parked around the side of the building—to Devon's great disappointment, since he would have loved to spend more time inspecting the front of the building, with its three-story-high light-up cross that looked like it was made of LEDs, which was excellent—and went in through a perfectly normal-looking door marked "Heavenly Grace Ministries." Devon's spirits sank. He hated preaching, whatever flavor it came in, and it looked like he was in for some gold-plated holy-rolling here, and no dice involved.
But inside it was a perfectly normal office building—they weren't even playing hymns on the Muzak—and when they'd taken the elevator to their floor and found the waiting room of Christian Family Intervention, it looked like every other "family counselor's" waiting room he'd ever been in, aside from the fact that they were the only ones there. They'd barely sat down—Mom looking like she was going for a job interview, Dad looking like he was the one going to be doing the interviewing, when an inner door opened.
Devon distrusted the man who stood just on the threshold on sight. There was just something too perfectly appropriate about him: distinguished, graying, kindly, tweedy . . . he would have been the perfect headmaster for an American version of Hogwarts.
In Devon's experience, nobody was that perfect. So he was the worst sort of counselor, shrink, whatever. He was an actor. He didn't care about why the 'rents had brought Devon here, and he especially didn't care about Devon. He cared about money, and the 'rents were the ones holding the checkbook.
Something else occurred to Devon then, something one of the other inmates of the last labor-camp had told him.
Look out for the religious places. Nobody has to be certified in those, and they can get away with anything they want as long as they don't actually kill you.
"Won't you come in?" the man said. "I'm Director Cowan, the head of Christian Family Intervention."
* * *
"Ours is a special program," Director Cowan was saying a few moments later, when the three of them were seated in his office. Devon was disgusted to see that it, too, was perfect—a little Christian (that was to be expected) but not scarily so; comfy chairs and dignified books. He'd seen offices exactly like it a thousand times before. "Normally—as our name implies—we are an intervention program, for cases in which a child is actively at risk in a hostile and dangerous environment—but Sarah—may I call you Sarah?—has eloquently convinced me that young Devon is indeed actively at risk, as much as any of the poor young souls we pluck from the streets."
Devon glowered. His father shifted uncomfortably at the mention of "poor young souls" and Devon smirked inwardly. Good! Let him suffer! It hadn't been Devon's idea to come here and get his soul saved.
"All I want is a little peace in the house," Mrs. Mesier said, sounding as if she were going for the Best Actress Award.
You've got that every time you and Dad pack me off to another boarding school, Devon thought with deadly accuracy. But that's not really "all" you want.
"And you, young Devon, what do you want?" Director Cowan asked, smiling at him.
"What do you care?" Devon asked.
"Keep a civil tongue in your head!" his father snapped. "And answer the question!"
Devon smiled his sweetest smile. "Never to have to answer meaningless questions like that again."
"Devon—" his father began, his face darkening. Director Cowan held up a hand.
"No, Matthew—I hope I can call you Matthew—it's a fair answer. One of the things we see a lot of here at Christian Family Intervention is what I like to call 'Therapy Fatigue.' Many of the children who come to us have been failed many times before by the system, and they're understandably wary of it. In fact, I'd say that Devon's is a healthy response. It gives me hope for his healing."
"You can help him?" Mom said, just as if he were some kind of leper with six months to live. Good going, Mom. That Oscar was almost in the bag. I'd like to thank the members of the Academy . . .
Director Cowan's smile got even wider, and now he was dripping kindliness from every pore. Another five minutes, and Devon figured he'd have diabetes from all the sweetness. "I'm certain of it, Sarah. Now, if you'll just leave Devon here with me, we can start the evaluation process. My receptionist will assist you with the financial arrangements."
So they were dumping him here, right now, didn't even pack him a bag. Typical. And now that they'd fobbed him off on another expensive problem-solver, they couldn't wait to get out of here fast enough. Probably going to hit a couple of the casinos on the way home. Devon fought back a pang of fear. As soon as they were safely out of the way, these guys were probably going to load him onto a bus and take him off to a reeducation camp somewhere: bad food and bargain-basement brainwashing techniques. He guessed it was time to try his patented jailbreak routine again, because this didn't look like anything he wanted to spend time with.
The door closed behind his parents.
Director Cowan leaned back in his chair. "It's the same old thing, isn't it?" he said, as if to himself. "Two people who never should have met—let alone married—decide, for inexplicable reasons, to produce a child—and then are utterly stunned when the child becomes a person, with a will and opinions of its own. Woe to that ill-assorted family if that child's opinions don't march with theirs. What to do? They can't send it back. They can't very well sell it—alas. The only available course of action left is to crush all resistance, which works better in some cases than in others. It doesn't seem to have worked at all well with you, my fine young halfling."
Devon stared at Director Cowan, worried now in an entirely different way. He knew honesty when he heard it, and in his experience the only times people were honest with you was either when they had nothing to lose—and Cowan had a lot to lose—or when they didn't think there was going to be any comeback.
"Still," Director Cowan said, sitting up, "there's profit to be made from other people's pain, as well as enjoyment to be taken."
Devon got to his feet and began to back slowly toward the door.
"Oh, go ahead," the director said airily, not moving from where he sat. "It's locked, but do try it. And scream if you like—the room's warded. But as I was saying—and why not, since you won't remember any of this?—when we return you to your parents after a suitable interval, you'll be everything they ever dreamed of: docile, submissive, eager to please. Not a spark of rebellion left in you. Not a spark of much of anything, frankly, but they won't notice, because they will have gotten exactly what they want, a child-shaped Neopet. And you won't remember. It's horribly painful, of course, and quite terrifying, but—" he actually shrugged "—we must have our fun, you know."
Devon had reached the door. It was locked.
He didn't waste time screaming. The last seven years had taught him that much. He looked for a weapon.
All he found was the books on the shelves, but he picked them up and threw them anyway. In his experience, if you made adults angry enough, they made mistakes.
But Director Cowan simply laughed, and raised his hand. The books stopped in midair.
"Innovative, bold, and clever," he said admiringly. He shook his head. "But . . . promised, and it does not do t
o disappoint them. Stupid they are, but always hungry, and with a long memory if they are cheated. Were things otherwise, little halfling, I'd find them other food, and ask my master to craft a changeling to return to your parents in your place . . . but time is short. It is time to embrace your fate."
He gestured again, rising to his feet. The books dropped to the carpet with a dull thud.
And Director Cowan . . . wasn't there anymore.
There was still someone standing behind the desk. Only now instead of a kindly headmaster type, it was . . .
An elf.
Devon stared, feeling the bottom drop out of his world. Flowing silver hair, eyes that showed green even from the far side of the room, long pointed ears. The tweed jacket was gone, replaced by a velvet jacket with a high collar. It even wore gloves—no, gauntlets.
Unhurriedly, it moved around the desk and came toward Devon. Devon didn't move. He felt a profound despair settle over him like a coat made of lead, rendering him unable to move. Either he'd just gone deeply and completely insane, or the fundamental nature of reality was completely different from what he had always believed it to be.
And either way, there were two things he still knew for sure.
He was completely at this thing's mercy.
And it didn't like him.
Worse, it didn't like him in a completely dispassionate, impersonal way. As if he was an inconvenience that was easily dealt with, and didn't need to be considered for more than a split second.
* * *
Toirealach O'Caomhain clasped the young human's arm just above the elbow, savoring the shock and despair that radiated from him. These were the sweets that went with the tedious work among the groundlings. Alas that the greater feast was reserved for another, but so long as his liege-lord played this deep game among the mortals, Toirealach was bound to aid him in it.
As he pulled Devon toward the other door in his office, the boy roused from his stunned stupor and began to struggle, but the human had not been born who could prevail against Sidhe strength. And the creature was, after all, a mere child. Toirealach easily bore him through the door.