Mother of Souls: A novel of Alpennia

by Jones, Heather Rose

  “Luzie, you’ve done well.” Her father’s gnarled hands encased her own and squeezed gently.

  “I know, Papa.” She smiled wanly at him. “Do you know? When I gave my first concert two years back, all I could think was that I wished you could be here to see it.”

  “My Luzie, the famous composer. Do you wish Henirik could have been here?”

  She blushed at the praise and shook her head. When had she last thought of Henirik? He deserved better than that. “But if my husband were still alive, I would never have written anything.”

  The thought carried guilt with it. Would she have traded all this to have Henirik back again? The loss had faded. The emptiness was being filled with other things, other people. In those first years, yes, absolutely. But now? To lose the music now would be like losing her soul. Now there was a devil’s bargain to drive a tragic plot. Perhaps…Her hand itched to scribble down ideas. And in that impulse was her answer.

  The cathedral hummed like bees around a hive when the Mystery of Saint Mauriz gave way to preparations for the Royal Guild’s ceremony. Luzie could bear to be still no longer and walked down the sloping road from the Plaiz to the edge of the river while her father went to the opera house to review the music one last time. She paced slowly upriver to the Pont Ruip and down to the Pont Vezzen and back to the Plaiz to wander aimlessly along the shops and arcades that lined the cobbled expanse. There were few stragglers like her. The cathedral was packed with every body that could find a space. Excitement had gripped the city—at least the upper city. She imagined the wharf district with its barges, the poorer eastern quarter, the dark factories south of the university…no doubt they went about their lives today as always.

  Would any of this touch them at all? The foreign plots, the arguments over ancient ritual, the singers strutting on a stage? They’d notice when the river ran its usual course, but there had been dry years and wet before and would be again. Would the absence of disaster be seen as a blessing? It was too easy, caught up in the excitement at the Tanfrit Academy, to think that what they did was all the world. For Mefroi Iannik, sweating before a furnace, or his wife, peddling cabbages in the market, what use were the soaring lyrics of “Let the waters rise up?”

  The distant chanting in the cathedral swelled to a rumbling babble as the doors opened and the celebrants spilled out. Luzie drifted over to watch for Serafina. There, in a cluster with Margerit and the rest of the small party from Tiporsel House. She made her way across the current of people to join them.

  “Luzie! There you are!” Margerit called. “This way. The Benezets and the other guilds have cleared out the cathedral. We have a quiet dinner waiting to fill the time while they’re working, if any of us can find an appetite.”

  She had expected them to work their way further toward the north side of the Plaiz where cafés clustered around the skirts of the opera house and the Grand Salle, but instead the armins cleared a path to take them past the fountain toward the western side and the gates of the palace.

  When she realized where they were going, Luzie exclaimed, “Oh, I couldn’t! I’m not dressed…”

  But Margerit tucked a hand under her arm, saying, “Don’t worry. There’s nothing formal in it. Just a chance to discuss the results so far and breathe a little. There’ll be plenty of time to go home for evening dress before the performance.”

  It was a blur of cryptic comments and obscure descriptions. At first Serafina and Margerit had their heads together talking in excited and hopeful tones but slowly they fell silent and Serafina stared with unfocused gaze in the direction of the cathedral. Luzie managed to eat a little: a buffet of pastries and little tarts. And then came a sudden hush and deep bows all around as a tall, elegant figure in russet silk swept in. Even without the glint of the jeweled gold band that adorned her head, there would have been no mistaking the Princess of Alpennia. Luzie felt the weight of those sharp, hooded eyes briefly, then was given a nod and the relief of being ignored.

  “How goes the mystery? Can you tell?”

  Margerit answered in subdued tones. “The Mauriz…there were some surprises but the charis worked outward as it should. The castellum was better than any previous celebration.”

  “I meant the present one,” the princess said.

  All eyes turned toward Serafina where she stood lost in her visions.

  Luzie knew every expression, every response Serafina might make as she watched the flow of mystic currents. But now her face was still. Gradually the rest of the room fell silent until the only sound was the servants, carefully replacing dishes on the long serving tables.

  When the outer doors swung open, Luzie jumped. With slow and solemn tread as if still celebrating their ritual, a procession of robed figures wearing the colors of their guilds entered the chamber. Luzie’s eyes darted among them. These were not the public guilds whose ceremonies were perfomed openly. Membership might not be secret but was rarely advertised. A familiar face turned toward her in brief recognition. Maistir Fizeir’s expression turned cold as he looked away again.

  “Did you succeed?” Princess Anna’s voice rang through the room.

  A tall man stepped forward and bowed. “Your Grace, we believe the ceremony has acted as intended. It may be some days before a certain determination can be made.”

  Luzie looked to Serafina and then to Margerit. They gave no sign of relief. Surely they would know? The new arrivals were bidden to the feast and a low rumble of conversation rose again. Luzie felt a presence at her back and turned. It was Fizeir, still with that carefully neutral expression.

  “So, Maisetra Valorin, you will have your triumph.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your performance tonight. You will have your revenge over me.”

  His voice was pitched low—not meant for others to hear—and she replied in kind.

  “Maistir Fizeir, I do not desire or need revenge. If there is a triumph tonight, it will belong to all of us. I—” What could she tell him? That she had idolized him? That if he had ever given her an ungrudging word of praise she would have cherished it as a treasure? “Maistir Fizeir, if there is a quarrel between us, it isn’t my doing. The salles of Rotenek can hold us both.”

  “Indeed they can,” said a soft drawling voice at her other side.

  She saw Fizeir stiffen further at Count Chanturi’s rebuke.

  Chanturi took her hand and slipped it around his arm. “My dear, you have preparations to make. My carriage awaits.”

  * * *

  The strangest part of the day was returning home to dress. Charluz and Elinur buzzed around her, taking the place of Gerta’s more ordinary attentions. It felt strange that Serafina wasn’t there. The question had not been raised. Serafina was a guest at Tiporsel House. Soon, Luzie would find a stranger to fill her room, after her father no longer needed it.

  She turned to the glass. “Do I look like a famous composer?”

  Charluz checked the clasp of her necklace, and Elinur held out the long white gloves, a gift from the household.

  “You look just as you ought,” Elinur said. “You mustn’t keep the count waiting.”

  When they arrived at the opera house, the crowd parted as Chanturi escorted her through the entrance and up the grand staircase to Margerit’s box. For once, his courtesies were comforting instead of teasing. The faces were a blur: Margerit, Baroness Saveze still with her arm bound up, Jeanne and Mesnera Chazillen, shadowed by young Anna Monterrez, and Serafina of course, elegant in her crimson gown; others she barely knew. The box was filled to the edges, as all the others were. From the other levels she could hear a hum of bright, excited voices, but the mood in Margerit’s box was tense and somber.

  Serafina took her hand and squeezed it. “It all depends on us now.”

  And then it began.

  How could one view one’s own work and know if it were worthy? Her fingers knew the music as she knew her own face, but now it stood apart, like viewing a stranger in the mirror. Voic
es swelled as the chorus in academic robes entered from the left and parted to frame the entrance of Tanfrit, the welcome of the chancellor, the joyous greeting from Gaudericus, the cold and envious asides of Theodorus. Did she dare to feel proud?

  Luzie turned to Serafina as the first act drew toward a close, hoping to see in her face some reflection of the visions that the music stirred.

  Serafina was shaking her head slowly and muttering, “It isn’t right.”

  Margerit leaned toward them both and whispered, “Will it work?”

  “I don’t know,” Serafina said hollowly. “It’s there, you see it? But it’s just slightly…out of tune. Out of time. I don’t know…It may not be strong enough.”

  Luzie tried to work out what she meant. The orchestra was perfectly in tempo. No discordant notes jangled in the ear. The singers met their cues.

  “Can we do anything?” Margerit asked, as applause swelled around them. The audience seemed to feel no lack in the performance.

  Serafina rose abruptly, before the others had begun to stir and stretch. “Luzie, come with me.”

  She led the way briskly through the corridors, now beginning to fill for the usual promenade during the interval. Comments followed them as they passed. That’s her. Maisetra Valorin. Where are they going? Who’s the dark one? Some foreign thaumaturgist, I hear. Maisetra Sovitre’s student.

  A staircase took them down to the wings of the stage and into the orchestra where the musicians were taking their brief ease. What did she plan? What more could be done at this point?

  “Maistir Ovimen,” Serafina demanded, “I must conduct.”

  Luzie saw her father start and look affronted, but he turned to her.

  “Luzie?”

  It was in her hands. So much was in her hands: the success of the opera, everyone who had trusted in her, Margerit’s mysteries and—if they were all to be believed—so much more. No, it was in Serafina’s hands. She turned and echoed Margerit’s question, “Will it work?”

  This time Serafina answered with fierce conviction, “Yes.”

  Luzie nodded to her father. “She must conduct.”

  The orchestra were hanging on the exchange and looked to him. Serafina had led them in rehearsals, teasing out the visions that guided her as the last details of the arrangements were hammered out. This was a different matter.

  He bowed formally. The baton was passed.

  Luzie watched the second act from a chair at the side of the orchestra where she would be in no one’s way. It took much of the first duet before Serafina and the musicians had each other’s measure. It didn’t take mystical vision to see that something had begun out of balance. But during Theodorus’s solo, when he laid out the trap by which he would either win Tanfrit or destroy her, it began to feel that they were moving as one again. Serafina coaxed and commanded, roused and quieted, following a score that only she could see.

  Luzie could feel when the music caught hold of something deeper. It wasn’t in the sound, or the way the lyrics seemed to breathe life into the very air around them. It was more of a swelling feeling within her body, as if all her senses were on fire. She felt Tanfrit’s ambition and desire within her bones. The music washed over her like the touch of a lover, caressing, demanding, bringing her to the edge of passion again and again.

  When the cue for the second interval came, instead of thunderous applause there was an echoing silence. The audience held their breaths and all the world felt suspended. In an ordinary performance it would have been disastrous. Serafina looked back, almost wildly, at the ranks of spectators, the faces peering over the rails in box after box. The looming silence felt like the moment before a storm. It was a moment that must be seized. Frantically, Luzie scrambled up the steps at the edge of the stage and ducked behind the curtain.

  The singers turned to stare. They’d heard the empty silence and had caught something of the tension.

  “We need to finish it now,” Luzie gasped. “Can you go on?”

  They looked one to another. The sets were in place. There would be a missed costume change.

  Benedetta Cavalli stepped forward and proclaimed, “Let the show continue!”

  The orchestra slipped into the music for the curtain like a hand into a glove. There had been no sound from the house, not so much as a cough or the closing of a door. The tension that had begun to fray and fade stretched tight once more, like the hairs on a bow drawing the rich tones of the violins into the waiting silence. And then Tanfrit, bringing the gift of the forbidden book, like a lover offering her heart.

  Luzie could almost hear hundreds of voices sigh as Gaudericus launched into “This I refuse.” And then the rising crescendo of Tanfrit and Gaudericus, their voices twining in the counter messages of “I pledge myself to you alone.”

  Serafina seemed to call out with her whole body, turning the music end over end, as the two singers held up the black bound volume between them, singing, “I abjure thee, I dismiss thee.” The chorus, standing almost in the shadows at the rear of the stage, chanted a slowly rising echo of the duet. The horns joined the strings and the kettledrums hammered a heartbeat, sounding, sounding, sounding, until Serafina—her eyes on some cue not of the world—brought her arms down with a violent jerk.

  This time the audience erupted with a roar, a catharsis of voice and hands that filled and overflowed the hall. Whatever it was they had meant to do had been done. They had succeeded. Luzie could feel it as a bone-deep certainty.

  A brief change of scene: a painted bridge of lath and canvas. Tanfrit and Gaudericus meeting on the arch. Gaudericus’s rejection and then, as Tanfrit reprised “I pledge myself to you alone,” the taunting by Theodorus as he left with the chorus of scholars.

  The tension became palpable once more as Madame Cavalli cast off the mask of spurned sweetheart and drew herself up in pride and fury. Let the waters rise up. It swelled, just as the waters of the Rotein would swell when the spring rains cast themselves against the mountain peaks. Let the waters rise up. The orchestra rose, not in trumpets and drums this time, but with the nearly imperceptible crescendo of flowing water. And wash away my sorrow. As before, it was not the despair of an abandoned lover, nor even the fury of jealousy—for how could Tanfrit be jealous of Sophia, the same goddess to whom she was pledged? Madame Cavalli sang it as a paean of triumph. The final victory of Tanfrit’s return. It was not sorrow that was washed away but shame, defeat, regret, all the things that had held her back in life. She didn’t cast herself into the waters but demanded that they come to claim her.

  Luzie could feel the power of the music, what Serafina might call the fluctus, pouring through her. In her imagination, she saw it flowing through the Plaiz and down to the Rotein to mingle with the waters and summon them.

  It was done.

  A soft gesture of Serafina’s baton called to the bassoon, and then to Gaudericus’s final aria. The soothing, mournful chorus brought the audience back to themselves. No woman past or yet to come.

  It was a lie, in the end. Tanfrit’s legacy might have lain forgotten, like her bones beneath the stone in Urmai, but her work lived on. It had spurred Gaudericus to defy those who would have dismissed his theories as heresy. It had inspired Margerit Sovitre to believe that a woman could become a great thaumaturgist, and to pledge herself to that same study. Perhaps she might consider rewriting that final chorus.

  * * *

  “What will you do now?” Luzie asked.

  She and Serafina had slipped away, at last, from the celebratory reception and wandered down from the Plaiz to the Pont Vezzen. They’d crossed to the middle of the span and leaned on the stone railing to watch the river flow toward them, glinting in the moon’s glow.

  “We did it,” she said softly. Even without Margerit’s reassurance, without the palpable relief on the faces of the guildmasters, she would have been certain. There was a weight lifted from the city, like the calm after a storm has broken and passed, when the earth smells damp and fresh and new.
<
br />   Serafina moved as in a daze, her eyes still full of visions. “I wish you could see it like I do,” she whispered. “It’s like a river of light.”

  A shiver ran down Luzie’s spine. It was a curious sort of magic that Serafina had called when she took up the baton. Not a magic like the alchemist’s fire that changed one substance for another. More a magic like what Jeanne achieved when she placed two people in conversation and created partnership, or the complex magic that a classroom could inspire, drawing in minds that would change themselves. Without the music, there would have been no magic, but without Serafina there would have been no music—at least none like what they had achieved tonight.

  “What will you do now?” she repeated.

  “I don’t know. It isn’t—” She fell silent and for a long time there was no sound but the faint splashes of the Rotein against the bridge abutments. “It isn’t how I thought it would come. The magic. I’ve been trying for so long. Maybe nothing is what I thought it should be. I don’t know.”

  The air was colder than either of them had dressed for, but Luzie didn’t want to be the first to break the moment.

  “Margerit asked me to teach,” Serafina said suddenly. “A real teacher, not just a student filling in. She said it was ridiculous for me to pretend otherwise. I’ll have a salary. A small one.”