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

With what composure and dignity he could maintain, he gently laid the splintered viola back down and stood. “You ungrateful whoreson. Get out of my sight. And by every absent god, pray I don’t forget myself and strike the note of your life. Mundane as I might now find it.”

He then watched as Belamae left the room, his student having failed to even try and understand absolute sound. Or perhaps the failure had been Divad’s. Belamae hadn’t been ready, he told himself. That much was true. But Divad hadn’t had a choice. He’d known the lad would feel duty-bound to return home. Still, he never imagined it would go this way. Looking down again, he grieved at the ruin of a beautiful voice—the viola—broken, and appearing impossible to mend.

TWO

MORNING FROST CRUNCHED under my boots as I crossed the frozen field. Several weeks of barge, schooner, overland carriage, and bay-mount had brought me from Recityv to within walking distance of the battle staging area. And more importantly, the captain’s tent. I’d left within the hour of my last meeting with Maesteri Divad, which still played in my mind like a vesper’s strain sung by an unpracticed voice. All sour notes misplaced by bad intonation.

I was able now, finally, to leave the memory of it alone, though. Mostly because of the dread that began to fill my gut. I didn’t know what to expect. I’d hoped to see my ma first, and my sister, Semera. To have some news. To offer some comfort. Probably to receive some of the same. But long before reaching Jenipol, I’d been intercepted by two tight-lipped drummel-men. It’s easy to spot men who make percussion a trade—their arms show every sinew. They escorted me here. That had been an alarmingly short ride. Our enemies had pushed deep into the Mor Nations.

The last twenty paces to the tent, my escorts fell back. That didn’t do much for my state of mind. I paused a moment at the tent flap, noting where the frost had condensed into droplets from the heat inside the tent. Then I took a long breath and went in.

The air carried the musky smell of warm bodies after a fitful night beneath thick, rough wool. That, and the odor of spent tallow. Four men sat staring down at a low table in the light of two lamps burning a generous amount of wick. They all looked up at me as though I’d interrupted a prayer.

As I started to introduce myself, the man farthest back nodded grimly and said, “Belamae. I didn’t think you’d come. Or I should say, I didn’t think the Maesteri would permit it.”

His name escaped me, but not his rank—this man held field command. I could tell by the deliberate and careful scarification on the left side of his neck in the form of an inverted T. Four horizontal hash marks crossed the vertical line. They weren’t formal signifiers of rank. The Inverted T was a kind of music staff—an old one, a Kylian notation. The number of lines across it indicated the number of octaves the man had mastered. Which would include complete facility in all scales and modes across each. It was breadth as well as depth. More than simply impressive. A second scar-line beneath the bottom one meant he could make good use of steel, too.

The men at his table had similar neck scars, but all with one fewer hash. One of these craned his head around, the act seeming to cause him considerable pain. I could see that he’d lost the service of one eye but took no care to cover the wound. A flap of lid hung like a creased drape over the hole.

The one-eyed man looked me up and down the way a tiller does a draft horse just before plow season. “Doesn’t look like much. Neck is thin. Skin’s soft. He’s not used to making sound on open air. He’ll quit in three days. Doesn’t matter if he’s Karll’s boy. I don’t believe none in loinfruits.”

A third man looked on, carefully appraising, but in a different way. The fellow looked up for a moment, as though framing a question. When he stared at me, his gaze was focused, the way Maesteri Divad’s became when he watched for truthful answers and understanding. “Do you want a sword?”

I stared back, somewhat puzzled. “That’s not why you sent for me.”

The last man at the table did not speak, but instead invited me forward with a nod. As I drew close, I saw what the four had been studying. Not terrain or position maps. Not inventory manifests. Not even letters of command and inquiry sent from the seat of the Tilatian king.

Across the table were spread innumerable scores. These leaders of war were sifting sheet music to prepare for the day’s battle. In my few years away from home, I’d learned this was uncommon. The Tilatians might be the only people to do it, in fact. And even among my own kind, it hadn’t been done in more than three generations.

Coming a step closer, and as I looked into the faces of the men around the table, it wasn’t the carefree good humor of conservatory instructors that I saw. Lord knows I’d come across a cartload of those in my travels as a student from Descant Cathedral. No, these were sober-minded men, reviewing the language of song written for an unfortunate purpose. The tent held the cheerless feel of an overcast winter sky.

Sullen, I thought. Bitter maybe. But sullen for sure.

“Nine of ten bear steel into battle. There’s no shame in that.” The field leader sniffed, refocusing on a score laid out in front of him. “But you’re right. That’s not why we ask you here. Sit down.”

I pulled forward a thin barrel and sat next to the captain, as he set before me a stack of music. “What?”

“I’m Baylet. This is Holis, Shem, and Palandas. These,” he gently tapped