Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands (4 page)

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Authors: David B. Coe

BOOK: Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands
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“I’ll see to it that the final course is served early enough, Filib,” his uncle said. “I should have remembered. Forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Filib said with a shrug. “Mother says I’m foolish to do this more than once a year.” He smiled. “Actually she called it unhealthful. But I’ll have to stop anyway once I leave for Audun’s Castle, so I feel that I should continue until then.”
“Each of us honors your father in his or her own way,” Tobbar told him. “Including your mother. I see nothing wrong with your rides, and I’ll tell her as much the next time I speak with her.”
“Thank you.”
“Be watchful tonight, though,” he went on. “For all that the Revel gives us, it also attracts more than its share of knaves and vagrants. I’d feel better if you’d take one of your liege men.”
“I’ll be fine, Uncle. I ride every turn, and I always do so alone.”
“Very well,” Tobbar said, shaking his head slightly.
Filib glanced toward the window. The sunlight on the castle walls had taken on the rich golden hue of late day. He barely had time to find Renelle before he’d be expected back at the castle for the banquet.
“Go on, Filib,” the duke said. “We’ll see you soon.”
He was walking toward the door almost before Tobbar had finished speaking. He stopped himself long enough to bow to his uncle and nod once to the Qirsi woman. Then he hurried out of the chamber, down the winding stone steps of the tower, and out into the daylight. With any luck at all, he’d find Renelle in the markets. He could only hope that in her happiness at seeing him she’d forget her anger.
The singer beside him was nearing the end of the first movement, her voice climbing smoothly through the closing notes of “Panya’s Devotion,” finding subtleties in the piece that most singers missed. This was a difficult passage, although no part of
The Paean to the Moons
could be considered easy, and she was handling it quite well.
Cadel couldn’t remember her name, though they had been practicing together since the second day of the Revel. It was not unusual
for wandering singers in the Forelands to meet up with others of their craft, practice and perform with them for a short while, and then, after a most careful division of their wages, part ways to continue their travels. It was especially common in the cities hosting Eibithar’s Revel. Cadel and Jedrek had been making their way through the Forelands in this manner for nearly fourteen years; they had sung with more people than Cadel could recall.
He had never been very good with names, a trait that actually was quite useful in his other, true profession. But in this case, he would have liked to remember, merely as a courtesy. She had not been shy about showing her interest in him, allowing her gaze to linger on his face, even after he caught her watching him, and standing closer to him than was necessary when they sang. He liked bold women. Had he and Jedrek not had other business to which to attend, he might have been interested as well. She was rather attractive, with short dark hair, pale green eyes, and a round, pretty face, and she was just a bit heavy, which he also liked. But most of all, she was a fine singer, her voice strong and supple. For that reason alone, he felt that he should have known her name. Her interpretation of “Panya’s Devotion” had earned his respect.
Jedrek and the woman’s sister, whose name Cadel had also forgotten, were backing her with a strong, even counterpoint, their voices twined like lovers. The two of them had spent the previous night together, Cadel knew, and it showed in their singing. Jedrek gave little credence to the moon legends, although he wasn’t above using the promise of a lifetime of love to lure a woman into his bed. He had been doing it for several years. Nonetheless, it still angered Cadel to see him behaving so recklessly under these circumstances. He hadn’t gotten the chance to talk to Jedrek about it this morning—Jedrek and the woman had arrived only a few moments before their performance began—but he would as soon as they ended their performance.
The first woman—
what was her name?
—had reached the end of “Panya’s Devotion.” The counterpoint was to complete its cycle once, and then it was Cadel’s turn. He took a long, slow breath, readying himself. The opening of “Ilias’s Lament” was by far the most difficult part of the
Paean’
s second movement. It began at the very top of Cadel’s range and remained there for several verses before falling briefly during the middle passages. It rose again at its
end, but by then his voice would be ready. The opening, that was the challenge.
The counterpoint completed its turn. Cadel opened his mouth, and keeping his throat as relaxed as possible, he reached for the opening note. And found it. Perfectly. His voice soared, like a falcon on a clear day, and he gave himself over to the music, allowing the bittersweet melody and the tragic tale imparted by the lyrics to carry him through the movement.
Those who knew him—or thought they did—solely through his profession would have been surprised to see what music did to him. At times, he was surprised by it himself. How many times had he finished a passage of surpassing emotion, only to find that his cheeks were damp with tears? Yes, there was a precision to the art that excited him, just the way the precision demanded by his other craft did. But there was more. Music had the power to soothe him, even as it exhilarated. It offered him both release and fulfillment. In many ways, it was not unlike the act of love.
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.

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