by Terry Brooks
It was a rough-throat song. As all the line-songs shown to me that morning had been. Maesteri Divad liked to smile and say it was “controlled screaming, cultured hollering.” That made as much sense as anything else. The intent of these songs was destruction, aggression. Rasping the voice gave it a scouring, abrasive sound. It conveyed violent intent.
I filled my mind with anguish for my da. I recalled the words of the Song of Suffering’s War passage. And I let it all burn inside me. Suffering wasn’t meant for this purpose, but I was way past caring about that. I let myself feel indignation and hatred against those who had burned my countrymen.
And then I let it all pour from me in a stream of pounding vocal rhythms that shot out like a succession of iron-gloved punches. I didn’t know what would happen, but I’d studied intention in my Lieholan training. That’s a far cry from saying I’d mastered it. But on this chill morning, mine was clear.
The first few Sellari were ripped off their feet and sent crashing hard upon the frozen earth. I’d later remember the puffs of my own hot breath on the cold air as I shouted out Suffering’s War music, which had been meant for protection. I’d instinctively found the way to make that music a weapon. It was the difference between winning and not losing; between merely drawing breath and gasping it in after a mad dash. It actually taught me a practical lesson on intention in a way my Descant study of the principle never had.
At the far end of the great field, hundreds more Sellari appeared in full dress, rushing forward. The Shoarden tightened their circle around me, taking out runners my song didn’t seem to affect. When I saw that these runners’ ears had been cut off, I realized the Sellari had Shoarden of their own.
The sight of them only deepened my anger. The song itself began to live inside me in a way it never had at Recityv. The feeling was strange. It buoyed me up. But I was simultaneously aware that it was being fueled by some part of me that I wouldn’t get back.
I didn’t care.
I lengthened my stride. The next notes rushed up past my throat into the natural cavities behind my nose and cheeks, becoming a bright, powerful scream that I shrieked into the morning light. Thirty more had flesh ripped from their face and hands. I heard necks pop, and saw heads cock at unnatural angles, and then bodies falling to the hard earth.
Every attack made me stronger. And sicker it seemed. Though strangely, the burn of aggression kept me moving forward, each screamed musical line felling more of the others. I was soon walking over the bodies of Sellari, eager to take them all down.
I never got that far. The ill feeling soon outbalanced the vengeance, and I struggled to even take a breath. Before I knew it, the Shoarden had picked me up and were rushing me back across the great field ahead of the chasing Sellari. I blacked out to the sound of rushing feet pounding over brittle ground.
He’d laid the broken pieces of the viola out across his worktable like pieces of a puzzle. The sun bathed Descant’s lutherie, a haven where Maesteri Divad spent as much time as he could afford. Putting his hands to use in repairing broken instruments helped him think. Occasionally he crafted something new. But he much preferred mending what was broken. It allowed him to maintain his sense of an object’s intrinsic worth.
As he sat surveying the wreckage, he breathed deeply the scents of birch woodshavings, willow blocks aging nicely against the outer wall, and the Tamber steel of chisels and planes and fine-tipped paring knives. In the sunlight, motes lazed through the stillness, moving ever so slowly.
The viola’s single-piece flat-back had taken too much damage from Belamae’s smashing of the instrument. It would have to be replaced. The same was true of the side pieces. Divad picked up the inside blocks and soundpost, which appeared intact. He stress-tested them, gently trying to snap them with his fingers. They seemed fine, until two of the blocks broke where hairline cracks gave way. Those might have been there before Belamae’s outburst. Regardless, he resolved to replace all these, too. The gut strings, of course, had all snapped. Those would be easily replaced; Divad knew a good abattoir that specialized in gut drawn from young prairie sheep. That would be one element of repairing the viola where he’d use new material.
The tail, bridge, and neck had all cracked visibly. The bone points, pegbox, pegs, and scrollhead were all salvageable. And the fingerboard—a beautiful length of ebony—remained in perfect condition. That didn’t surprise him; ebony was strong.
It was the soundboard that worried him most. Besides being the face of the instrument, it was the piece most crucial to producing the sound of the instrument itself. Wood selection would be everything in its repair. But he loved the challenge of it. The work of carefully piecing this fine old viola back together would be a welcome distraction from the predicament of there being too few Lieholan to sing Suffering. It might also take his mind off the investigation the League of Civility had begun to make of Descant and its Maesteri.
Divad sighed heavily in the quiet of the luthier shop, then smiled to himself. Living would mean nothing without burden.
With that thought, he got up and crossed to the racks of wood used for building and repairing woodwinds and stringed instruments. An entire shelf of bird’s-eye maple sat in the cool shade on that side of the room. The shelf tag indicated that it had been cut in the forest of Pater Fol one hundred fifty-eight years ago. That’d do nicely for the back. He also found a shelf of willow taken from the Cantle Wood in Alon I’tol. This wood was fresher, a few years old, but would do just fine. It was lightweight, strong, and difficult to split—perfect for the blocks, which took a lot of stress.
As for the soundboard, Descant kept two shelves of old-cut red spruce. They had several different harvest years of the wood, all from the Mor coastal alps: sixty-one years old, one hundred twelve years old, and a short shelf with a tag reading H.G. 481. H.G., Hargrove, was the current age, so named for the poet. This spruce harvest was almost two hundred ninety years old. More than good.
But when it came to repair, Divad went on instinct as much as anything else. Every other component felt right: the bird’s-eye maple, the willow, the remaining bits that hadn’t taken any damage. But for the soundboard…he’d have to keep looking. This was no ordinary instrument. He knew of no replica. It accompanied the Johen triad. It was his best tool for teaching the resonance of absolute sound. The soundboard wood needed to be tried and tested. Regardless its age, any wood he had here in his shop would be like a sapling that bends and pulls free in a rough wind.
But Divad had no ready answer for where next to look. He had savvy contacts in the timber trade, of course. They might have suggestions for him. And he knew other luthiers in the city, as well as several more in the eastlands. But he tired at the thought of having to journey to call on them. And he couldn’t afford to be away from Descant anyway. So, he went where he always did when he needed to think.
He shrugged into his cloak and slipped through the streets of the Cathedral quarter and into a lesser-known performance tavern called Rafters. Coming here was a holdover from the time before he, himself, had entered Descant to train. Lulling conversation over a mild glass of wheat bitter always mellowed him to the point of inspiration.
Rafters was on a small lane far from the nearest major thoroughfare. Committed drinkers rarely found their way here, since there were closer places to start their binge. And they wouldn’t have come for the music, since music didn’t factor much in a drinker’s decision on where to begin. But musicians were a different tribe.
There were numerous performance taverns in Recityv. And truth be told, for the most part anyway, they were all unofficial audition halls for Descant. While Suffering lay at the heart of the cathedral’s purpose, there were hundreds of music students there who would never lay eyes on its music. Some harbored dreams of one day singing Suffering or maybe becoming Maesteri themselves. But most of them understood the reality of those aspirations, and had come to the Cathedral for its unequaled music training. Musicians who cared about the craft all wanted
admission. However, there was no formal process for that. Divad could accept a petition to become Lyren from anyone for any reason. Belamae had shown up from Y’Tilat Mor four years ago and done nothing more than hand him a self-drawn diagram of the circle of fifths and shared with him a model for altering it to produce a lovely dissonance. It had also been nice to learn he could “sing from his ass,” as the saying went. The kid had one hell of a voice.
Over time, and in the absence of a defined path, Recityv performance taverns had become the best way to build recognition for musical prowess. On any given night, Divad might hear a lap or floor harp, kanteles, psalteries, lutes, flutes, zithers, horns, cellos, violins, hand drums, chimes. And those who sang: soloists, ensembles, choirs, duets, tenors, altos, contraltos, sopranos, and so on.
The taverns on the main roads were pay-to-play. Musicians actually handed over a fee to the proprietor for fifteen minutes of stage time. The going rate stood at three plugs. The larger houses got four.
Rafters didn’t take money for stage time. But you didn’t just show up and have your name added to the stage-side slate, either. In rare instances, you could play something for Ollie, the proprietor-bouncer-barkeep-and-gossip-curator, in private impromptu auditions. He’d been known to let an act or two play on raw talent alone. But most of those who took the stage had earned the respect of other established musicians. And they had followings of their own that came specifically to hear them play. Such clientele were less likely to wind up in a brawl or putting illicit hands on barmaids. Ollie curated his crowds as much as he did good rumors.
Which wasn’t to say it didn’t get lively at Rafters. Divad took great pleasure in watching the musicians’ skill whip the crowds here into a frenzy. It reminded him that music had a power all its own, well before the gifts of a Lieholan’s intention gave it influence.
He arrived ahead of the evening crowd. Regulars had already staked out their places—Chom, who’d been a promising violinist before a mill accident took his hand; Jaela, who cared mostly for the vocalists, having abandoned her own musical ambitions years ago when Divad let her know she was tone-deaf; Riddol and Mack, a pair of genial-enough fellows, as long as the music proved truly satisfying—they were fair but harsh critics. Divad nodded to them all, receiving enthusiastic acknowledgments—Maesteri in the house meant players would push themselves tonight.
He climbed onto his stool at the far end of the bar near the stage, and rubbed a bit of weariness from his face. Much as the prospect of rebuilding the viola excited him, another part of him felt the constant pull of worry and regret over Belamae’s departure. Odds were the lad would not survive his country’s war. A damn shame, that.
Before he could spend too much energy on the dismal thought, Ollie stood before him, a damp towel slung over his shoulder, ready to mop up a spill.
“Wheat bitter tonight?” Ollie gave him a close look. “Or are you here to drink heavy. Push out some of what’s botherin’ ya?”
“What makes you think something’s bothering me?” Divad replied.
Ollie just gave him an are-you-serious look.
“Wheat bitter’ll do.” Divad glanced up at the stage-side slate. “Who you got tonight?”
“Madalin is back in the city. She wants to sing something she wrote herself while down in Dimn. She won’t preview it for me. Told her she can live or die by it then. She’ll probably bring the house down. Woman’s got lungs.”
Divad nodded. “That she does. I see Colas. Is he playing alone?”
Ollie gave a wry smile. “Oh that. Yeah, Senchia took a lover. Her lines have gravitated to droning chordal roots. Colas is better off without her. He’s striking too hard though. I think he’s trying to fill up the same amount of sound without her. He’ll figure it out. He’s slinging new wood, too.”
The reference reminded Divad of his reason for coming to Rafters: to think, ponder how to tackle the viola soundboard. While he got himself refocused, Ollie slid a glass of So-Dell light grain in front of him.
“Tell me how that does ya.” Ollie smiled with bartender satisfaction. “Came in about a cycle back, but it’s a full nine years aged. Wheat was threshed late that season, full ripe kind of taste, if you follow.”
Divad took a sip, and his brows rose in pleasant surprise. “Enough of those and I might sing tonight.”
“You’re not on the slate,” Ollie said, half kidding. The man liked things planned and proper, but he’d put his towel to a name and write Divad in if he got serious about it.
“I see Alosol is singing last,” Divad said, taking a healthier draught off his glass.
“Still the best voice not to be taken into Descant,” Ollie observed, giving him a mock judgmental glare.
Alosol had an immense following, and for good reason. He had more control and range in his tenor voice than almost any vocalist in Recityv. Problem was, he knew it. There was a smidge too much conceit in the man. Maybe more than a smidge. But that took nothing from his sheer ability. He could sustain a note three octaves above speech-tone, and do it as softly or with as much volume as another singer would his first octave. Divad didn’t have a student that wasn’t envious of Alosol’s gift, save maybe Belamae.
“Put in with the Reconciliationists,” Ollie added, conversationally. “Best acquisition those religionists have had in some time. I imagine they weep when he sings the Petitioner’s Cycle over at Bastulen Cathedral. Shame.”
Divad said nothing. He’d denied Alosol’s several requests for admission to Descant. The man had Lieholan in him, all right. And Divad would have liked to take him in. But as important as talent was, being teachable mattered more. Alosol carried himself with a callow arrogance, the kind that smacked of someone who thinks he’s got the world figured out.
“Speaking of religionists,” Ollie said, running the towel over the bartop by habit, “listen to this. I was laying up some of that there wheat bitter in the cellar, keeps the temperature right, you see. But I’m running out of room down there. So I’m moving shelves, and I find a cellar door I hadn’t noticed before. A closet. Inside, there are maybe eight crates sealed tight. Dust on ’em as thick as carpet. And what do I find inside?”
He waited on Divad to guess.
“More bitter?”
“You lack imagination,” Ollie quipped, proceeding with his discovery. “No, hymnals. And some other papers, besides. Turns out, before this place was Rafters, it was a chantry. Don’t you just love that?”
Divad smiled over the top of his glass. He did, in fact, love that. The idea that these walls had been a devotional songhouse of sorts, even before becoming a tavern, tickled him for no good reason.
“To a new kind of sacrament, then,” Divad said, hoisting his bitter. And part of him meant it. Songs sung in memoriam were damn important. Suffering itself took that theme more than once.
Ollie didn’t drink. He tasted all his stock, but he never finished anything. ‘I’ll keep my wits, thanks,’ he was fond of saying. But he took his bar rag and pretended to clink glasses with Divad.
“That’s not the half of it,” he went on, gleefully. “That stage, the balcony balustrade…my dear absent gods, even this bar,” he chuckled, “altar and pews, all of it.”
Divad drank down half his glass and nodded his amusement. Just then, the first musician of the night began. Divad swiveled in his seat to find a young woman slouching at the rear of the stage. Her first notes were hesitant, like a child stuttering. The melody—a mum’s lullaby known as “Be Safe and Home Again”—hardly carried past the first table.
The first musicians of the night were those Ollie thought had talent, but who had little reputation yet. They played mostly to empty seats.
Beneath her timid first notes, though, Divad heard what Ollie surely had. He got the young girl’s attention with a simple hand wave. When she looked over, he straightened up tall on his barstool, threw out his chest, tilted back his chin, and took an exaggerated breath to fill his lungs. He then narrowed his eyes, and screwed
onto his face a look of confidence. The young girl nodded subtly, mid-phrase, and at her next natural pause, drew a deep breath, stepped forward on the stage, and threw back her head and shoulders. The diffidence of her tone vanished. A clear, bright sound transformed what had been a plaintively beautiful lullaby into a clarion anthem of hope.
Now that’s teachable.
The rest of the night only got better. As music flowed from one to the next, Rafter’s filled to standing room only. Between acts, conversation buzzed with anticipation for the next performer. Divad would turn back toward the bar to try and avoid too many inquiries about Descant admission. Mostly that failed. But he did it anyway.
During one of the brief intermissions, an overeager percussionist sidled up close to him. To announce himself, he began to beat on the surface of the bar. With one hand he set a beat in four-four, while with the other he tapped increasingly faster polyrhythms: three-four, five-four, six-four, seven-four. He then repeated the entire cycle at double the tempo. It was rather impressive, actually. But when the young man reached out a hand in greeting, he knocked over Divad’s third glass of wheat bitter. The amber liquid washed over the bar, giving the worn lacquer new shine.
Ollie appeared out of nowhere with his rag, and began mopping up the spill. Some of the bitter remained in shallow grooves scored into the bar.
The indentations looked familiar somehow, and Divad sat staring, thoughts coalescing in his mind. All kinds of songs had passed across this bar, ribald tunes, laments, fight and love songs (which he thought shared more in common than most other types), dirges. And those melodies had risen from strings and woodwinds and horns and countless voices.
And all that just since it had become Rafters. What about its years before that? Divad found himself grinning at the idea of countless songs for the dead sung here when it had been a chantry.
It got him thinking about sonorant residue—the idea that exposure to music could create subtle changes in the fabric of physical reality. The notion found its roots in the Alkai philosophies of music. To Divad’s ear, the evidence was something you could hear in old, well-used instruments, and in the music of musicians who’d spent their lives listening, teaching, performing. It got in you, as was said. Not an elegant way to express it, but it got the point across.
