The Sound of Broken Absolutes by Peter Orullian (fun to read .txt) 📗

all do.” He paused, heaving a deep sigh. “But war has come to my people. We’re losing the fight. And my da . . . I have to go.”

“Aliquots are intentionally unplayed strings that resonate harmonically when you strike the others.” He held up the viola and pointed to a second set of seven gut strings strung below those the bow would caress.

Belamae looked up, an incredulous expression on his face.

Divad paid the look no mind. “A string vibrates when struck. There’s a mathematical relationship between a vibrating string and an aliquot that resonates with it. This is usually in unison or octaves, but can also come in fifths. We’ve spoken of resonance before, but always as a way of understanding music that must be heard to have a resonant effect.”

“Did you hear me?” Belamae asked, irritation edging his voice. “I’m leaving.”

“Absolute sound,” Divad went on, “is resonance you feel even when it’s not heard.”

“My da—”

“Which is what makes this instrument doubly instructive. You see, we play it in requiem.” He caressed the neck of the viola, oiled smooth for easy finger positioning. “Voices sometimes falter, tremulous with emotion. That’s understandable. So just as often, we play the dirge with this. And the melody helps to bring the life of a departed loved one into resonance with those they’ve left behind. Like the sweet grief of memory.”

Belamae’s anger sharpened. “In requiem . . . You knew my da was dead? And you didn’t tell me?”

Divad shook his head. “You’re missing the point. There is a music that can connect you with others in a . . . fundamental way. As fundamental as the sound their life makes. And once you find that resonant sound, it surpasses distance. It no longer needs to be heard to have effect.”

The young Lieholan glared back at the older man. Then his brow relaxed, disappointment replacing everything else. “You’re telling me not to go.”

“I’m telling you you’re more important to them here, learning to sing Suffering, than you would be in the field as one more man with a sword.” He offered a conciliatory smile. “And you’re close, my boy. Ready to understand absolute sound. Nearly ready to sing Suffering on your own.”

Belamae shook his head. “I won’t ignore their call for help. People are dying.” He glanced at the viola in Divad’s hands. “They wouldn’t have sent for me if it was my sword they wanted. But you don’t have to worry; I know how to use my song.”

“And what song do you think you have, Belamae? The song you came here with?” His tone became suddenly cross. “Or do you pretend you can make Suffering a weapon? That is not its intention. You would bring greater harm to your own people if that’s why you go. I won’t allow it.”

“You’re a coward,” Belamae replied with the indignation only the young seem capable of. “I will go and do what I—”

“You should let your loss teach you more about Suffering, not take you away from it.” Divad strummed the viola’s strings, then immediately silenced them. The aliquots hummed in the stillness, resonating from the initial vibration of the viola’s top seven strings.

The two men stood staring at one another as the aliquots rang on, which was no brief time. Divad knew trying to force Belamae to stay would prove pointless. Crucial to a Descant education was a Lieholan’s willingness. Especially with regard to absolute sound. But if he could get Belamae to grasp the concept, then perhaps the boy would be convinced to remain.

Divad reached into his robe and removed a funeral score penned specifically for this viola. It was a challenging, complex piece of music, made more difficult by the seven strings and their aliquot pairs. Even reading it would stretch his young protégé’s skill. Divad had written it himself in anticipation of this very meeting, knowing sooner or later Belamae would learn of the trouble back home. Its theme was separation, constructed in a Maerdian mode that hadn’t been used for centuries. It made use of minor seconds and grace notes as central parts of the melody. A listener had to wait patiently for a passage or phrase to resolve, otherwise the note selection might be interpreted as the performer misplaying the piece.

Learning to play it would be its own kind of instruction for the musician, precisely because of the instrument’s aliquots.

Divad handed the piece of music to Belamae. “Read this when you think you’re ready to hear it.” He gently tapped his young friend at the temple, suggesting he be in the right frame of mind when he did so.

Then, more gently still, he handed Belamae the viola d’amore. He wanted this Lieholan to know the heft of it, to run his hands over the flaws in the soundboard, to ask about the intricately carved earless head above the pegbox, to pluck the top-strung gut and listen for the resonating strings beneath . . .

Belamae received the instrument as he had the sheet music, giving it a moment of thoughtful regard. But almost immediately a sneer filled his face, and he slammed the viola down hard on the stone floor, shattering it into pieces.

The crush and clatter of old wood and the twang of snapped strings rose around them in a cacophonous din, echoing in the Chamber of Absolutes. Divad’s stomach twisted into knots at the sudden loss of the fine old instrument. The d’amore wasn’t crafted anymore. It was as much a historical artifact as it was a unique and beautiful instrument for producing music. And of all the aliquot instruments, it had been his favorite. At Divad’s mother’s wake, his own former Maesteri had played accompaniment on this viola while Divad sang Johen’s “Funerary Triad.”

He sank to his knees, instinctively gathering the pieces. Above him he heard the viola bow being snapped in half. The instrument’s destruction was complete. Divad’s ire flashed bright and hot, and escalated fast. His hands, filled with bits of spruce and bone points still tied with gut, began to tremble with an urge