The Eagle & the Nightingales: Bardic Voices, Book III Page 7

  Now she took the cover off the larger of her two harps, the one she could only play while seated, and tuned it. She ignored her stomach as she did so—she could eat later, if need be, but at the moment she had to get the harp ready in good time before her performance. Kyran had told her that he would send one of the servers up to her room, to guide her to the Oak Grove when it was time for her to play—her performance would extend past midnight, just this once, because she would never have had time to bathe and change and ready herself before suppertime.

  It was very hard, though, to ignore the savory aromas wafting up from below. Most of them were as strange as they were pleasant—not exactly a surprise, if most of the clientele were not human.

  She was going to surprise Kyran, however. He probably expected her to perform human-made music only, but Lyrebird was a bird of a different feather altogether.

  Hmm. Perhaps I ought to have worn the black!

  She was going to sing and play the music of at least three nonhuman cultures, besides the Elves. Human music would comprise the smallest part of her performance.

  And again, since very few people, even among the Gypsies and the Free Bards, knew that she collected the music of nonhumans, this would be utterly unlike Nightingale.

  ###

  She retired to her room in a glow of triumph, harp cradled in her arms, two hours after midnight; entirely pleased with herself and her new surroundings. Her particular performance room—which was, indeed, decorated to resemble a grove of trees with moss-covered rocks for seats and tables “growing” up out of the floor—was far enough from the dance floor that her own quiet performance could go on undisturbed. She had begun with purely instrumental music, Elven tunes mostly, which attracted a small, mixed crowd. From there she ventured into more and more foreign realms, and before the night was over, there were folk standing in line, waiting for a seat in her alcove. Most of them were not human, which was precisely as she had hoped; word had spread quickly among the patrons of Freehold that there was a musician in the Oak Grove who could play anything and sing “almost” anything. Most of the nonhumans were hungry for songs from home—and most of the time she could oblige them with something, if not the exact song they requested.

  As she climbed the stairs to her room, oblivious to the cacophony of mixed music and babbling talk, she hardly noticed how tired she was. She was confident now that her salary would be in the three-or four-silver area, if not five. That would be enough; it would purchase the help of quite a number of children at a copper apiece. Kyran had checked on her during one of the busier moments, which was gratifying—he’d had a chance to see with his own eyes how many people were lining the walls, waiting for seats. His eyes had gone wide and round when he’d seen her in costume, too.

  He certainly didn’t expect that out of the drab little starling at the front door!

  Finally she reached the top of the stairs, the balcony overlooking the dance floor, and the hallway leading off of it. Though the hall muffled some of the echoing noise from below, she couldn’t help but notice that her room was just not far enough from the balcony for it to do much good. She put the harp down to open her door; set it inside and turned on the light, then closed the door behind her. The din outside vanished, cut off completely once the door was closed. She sighed with relief; her one worry had been that she might be kept awake all night by the noise. Evidently the Deliambren had thought of that, as well.

  She set the harp safely in the corner, and reached for the plate that released the bed. It swung down, gently as a falling feather, and she fell into it.

  And got up immediately at a tapping at her door. She answered it, frowning; had someone followed her up here, expecting the kind of entertainment that Kyran had sworn she would not have to provide? If so, he was going to get a rude surprise. Nightingale did not need a knife or a club to defend herself; her Lyncana friends made a fine art of hand-to-hand combat, and while she was a mere novice by their standards, she was confident that there was not a single human, no matter how large and muscular, who could force himself upon her.

  Many had tried in the past, and many had ended up permanently singing in higher keys.

  But when she opened the door, there didn’t seem to be anyone there—until she dropped her eyes.

  “Evenin’ snack for ye, mum,” said a tow-headed urchin with a pair of ears that could have passed for handles, holding up a covered tray. He had to shout to be heard over the bellows and cheers from the dance floor below. “Boss figgered ye’d be hungered.”

  She wasn’t about to argue; she took the tray from the boy with a smile, and before she could even thank him, he had scampered away down hall to the staircase, nimble as a squirrel and just as lively.

  Hmm. My first reward for a job well done? That could be; she wasn’t going to press the point. She was hungry despite a few bites taken here and there during the breaks in performing. After all, she hadn’t eaten since noon, and that was a long time ago!

  She took the tray over to her bed, set it down, lifted the cover, and nearly fainted with delight.

  There was quite enough there, in that “snack,” to have fed her for two days if she’d been husbanding rations. A tall, corked bottle of something cold—water beaded the sides and slid down the dark glass enticingly—stood beside a plate holding a generous portion of rare roast meat, sliced thin and still steaming. Three perfect, crusty rolls, already buttered, shared the plate with the meat. Very few humans would have recognized the next dish, which resembled nothing so much as a purple rose, but she knew a steamed kanechei when she saw it, and her mouth watered. To conclude the meal, there was a plate of three nut-studded honeycakes.

  Her stomach growled, and she fell to without a second thought. When she finished, there was nothing left but a few crumbs and a blissful memory.

  Following Deliambren tradition, she took the tray to the door and left it next to the wall, just outside. As she looked up and down the hallway, she saw another tray or two, which meant that she had done the right thing. The shouting from below had died down somewhat, but it sounded rather as if the drummer for the musical group was having some kind of rhythmic fit, and the audience was clapping and stamping their feet in time. She closed the door again quickly.

  Why is it that the drunker people become, the more drumming they want? Maybe the alcohol blunts their ability to enjoy anything subtle—like a melody.

  She had intended to read some of her own notebooks of nonhuman songs—but after that wonderful meal, and especially the light, sweet wine that had accompanied it, she could hardly keep her eyes open. So instead, she slipped out of her gown and hung it up with a care for the delicate cutwork; drew her nightshirt on over her head, turned off the light and felt her way into bed. She hardly had time to settle herself comfortably, when sleep overtook her.

  ###

  “Therefore, my friends and brothers,” the young Priest said, earnestly, his brown eyes going from one face below him to the next, “Yes, and my sisters, too! You must surely see how all these things only prove the unity of everything in the Cosmos—how God has placed the warmth of His light in every heart, whether the outer form of that heart walk on two legs or four—be clad in skin, hide, scales, or feathers—whether the being call God by the Name that we know him, or by something else entirely! What matters is this, only: that a being, whatever form he wears, strive to shelter that Light, to make it shine the brighter, and not turn his face to the darkness!”

  The homely young Priest signaled his musicians and stepped back with a painfully sincere smile. Nightingale slipped out of St. Brand’s Chapel just as the tiny—and obviously musically handicapped—choir began another hymn-song, slipping a coin into the offering box as she passed it. She stepped out into the busy street and blended into the traffic, squinting against the bright noon light.

  This was the fourth Chapel she had attended in as many days, and it had her sorely puzzled. In the other three—all of them impressive structures in “good” neig
hborhoods—she had heard only what she had expected to hear. That only humans had souls; that nonhumans, having no soul to save, had no reason to be “good.” That if they had no reason to be good, they must, therefore, be evil.

  This wasn’t the first time such an argument had been used against nonhumans; obviously one of the things that the Church absolutely needed in order to galvanize its followers was an enemy. It was difficult to organize opposition to an abstract evil—and even more difficult to get people to admit that there was evil inside themselves. That meant that the ideal enemy would be something outside the Church and outside the members of the Church, and as unlike the human followers of the Sacrificed God as possible.

  Easy enough to point the finger at someone and say, “he doesn’t look like you, he doesn’t believe in what you believe, he must be evil—and your natural enemy,” she thought cynically, as she settled her hat on her head and let the crowd carry her along toward Freehold. She had expected this; if the Church was snatching secular power away from the High King, Lyonarie would be the place where it would show its truest hand—and that would be the place where the Church officials would take a stand showing who they had selected to be the “Great Enemy.”

  What she had not expected was that here the Church was openly divided against itself.

  When her patrons first began telling her about this, in discussions she had started during the breaks between her sets, she had at first dismissed it as being a trick of some kind. After all, why in the world would Priests openly preach against what was, supposedly, Church canon? She couldn’t come up with a reason behind such a trick, unless it might be to lull the nonhumans into complacency—but what other reason could there be?

  She decided to take to the Chapels herself to find out.

  Thus far, she had discovered a pattern, at least. Chapels in certain districts—aggressively human-only—always held Priests who followed the canonical path. But Chapels elsewhere might just as often harbor Priests like Brother Brion back there; Priests who preached the brotherhood of all beings, and stressed the similarities among the most various of beings rather than their differences. They could have been operating the kind of trick she suspected—but they could not hide the feelings behind their words, not to her, not when she chose to follow the music of their emotions,

  And the music was of a sweeter harmony than that sadly under-talented choir back there. These Priests truly, deeply, believed in what they were saying. And if the stories her patrons told her were true, there were just as many Priests of this radical line as there were who followed canon.

  The crowd carried her up to the front door of Freehold, and she slipped out of the stream and onto the doorstep. One or two others followed her there, but she knew after a quick glance that these were patrons, not fellow staff, and she simply granted them a brief smile before opening the door and taking the other hallway to the right, the one that led to the back stairs rather than the stable. She really didn’t want anyone to know that “Tanager”—her street name—and “Lyrebird” were one and the same. Especially not customers.

  But as she climbed the dimly lit back staircase to the top floor, she couldn’t help thinking about the words of that so-earnest young Priest, and all the trouble those words must surely be causing him in certain circles.

  And in her brief experience, Priests, no matter how well meaning and sincere, simply did not do or say things that would get them in trouble with their own superiors.

  Except that here and now, they were.

  What, in the name of the Gypsy Lady and the Sacrificed God, was going on here?

  ###

  T’fyrr tried to concentrate on the music coming out of his friend Harperus’ miraculous little machine, but it was of no real use. A black mood was on him today, a black mood that not even music could lift.

  He finally waved at the little black cube, which shut itself off, obediently. He turned and stared out the windows of Harperus’ self-propelled wagon at the human hive called Lyonarie. Humans again. Why am I doing this? Surely I shall never interact with humans without something tragic occurring!

  He examined the scaled skin of his wrists, where the marks of his fetters were still faintly visible, at least to his eyes. The invisible fetters, the ones that bound his heart, hurt far more than the physical bonds had.

  Why did I agree to come here? How is it that Harperus can charm me into actions I would never take on my own?

  Months ago, he had agreed to help Harperus in yet another of his schemes: a partial survey of the human lands. All had been well, right up until the moment that he had been caught on the ground by humans who claimed that he was a demon, a creature of evil, and had fettered and imprisoned him, starving him until he was more than half-mad. Their intent had been to kill him in some religious spectacle—

  That was what Harperus said. I scarcely recall most of it.

  Little had he known he had friends among the crowd assembled to see him die: a pair of Free Bards, who had provided him with a distraction, the means to his escape.

  Unfortunately, not everyone had been distracted at the crucial moment. A single human guard had seen that he was about to flee and had tried to stop him.

  To a fatal end . . .

  That was the reason for his black depression. It did not matter that he had killed in self-defense; the point was that he had killed. The man he had eviscerated in his pain and hunger-madness had only been doing his duty.

  In fact, no matter what Harperus claims, since he was doing his duty, to the best of his ability, he was as “good” as I—perhaps my spiritual better. Certainly he is—was—not the one with blood on his conscience.

  Could this mean, in the end, that the fanatics who had called him a demon, and evil, were actually right? The question haunted him, and Harperus, who had found him shivering in a field after his flight, had not helped. Harperus merely shrugged the entire question off, saying that the guard had followed the orders of a superior who was in the wrong. He further claimed that the man must at some point have known that his superior was in the wrong, and that evened the scales between himself and the man he had murdered.

  But Harperus is a Deliambren, and they are facile creatures. They can make white into black and sun into midnight with their so-called logic. Harperus simply could not understand why this should torment him so; after all, it was over and done with, and there was nothing more to be said or done but to move on.

  Oh, yes. To move on, without a load of guilt upon my soul so heavy that I cannot fly.

  T’fyrr sighed gustily, and turned away from the window, waving at the machine again. It started right up obediently. Not that T’fyrr didn’t know this particular human song by heart, but he wanted to have every nuance that Harperus had recorded.

  This was a love duet, sung by two of the finest of the human musicians—at least in T’fyrr’s estimation—that Harperus had ever captured in his little cubes.

  Lark and Wren. Why do so many of these humans bear the names of birds, I wonder?

  Of course, part of the passion here was simply because the two who sang this song of love were lovers, and they allowed their feelings free voice. Still, T’fyrr had heard other humans who were their equals since he had descended from the mountains of his homeland, and not all of those were represented in Harperus’ collection.

  The one called Nightingale, for instance . . .

  A Haspur’s memory was the equal of any Deliambren storage crystal, and his meeting with Nightingale was fraught with such power and light that for a moment it completely overwhelmed his terrible gloom.

  He and Harperus had taken a place for the Deliambren’s living-wagon in a park, a place created by Gypsies for travelers to camp together. This was enlightened altruism; they charged a fee for this, and the intent of the place was to sell them services they might not otherwise have in the wilderness between cities.

  Still, they erect and maintain such Waymeets; surely they deserve recompense. I cannot fault them for charg
ing fees.

  T’fyrr had been restless, and Harperus had not seen any reason why he should have to remain mewed up in the wagon—the Gypsies were very assiduous about protecting the peace of their patrons. So he had gone for a walk, out under the trees surrounding the camping grounds, and after an interval, he had heard a strange, wild music and followed it to its source.

  It had been a woman, a Gypsy, playing her harp beside a stream. He had known enough about humans even then to recognize how unique she was. Black-haired, dark-eyed, her featherless skin browned to a honeygold from many miles on the open road beneath the sun, she was as slender and graceful as a female of his own race and as ethereal as one of the beings that Harperus called “Elves.” With her large, brooding eyes, high cheekbones, pointed chin and thin lips, she would probably have daunted him in other circumstances, since those features conspired to give her an air of haughty aloofness. But her eyes had been closed with concentration; her lips relaxed and slightly parted—and her music had entwined itself around his heart and soul, and he could not have escaped if he had wanted to.

  They had shared a magical afternoon of music, then, once she finished her piece and realized that he was standing there. She had been as eager to hear some of the music of his people as he had been to learn the music of hers. An unspoken, but not unfelt, accord had sprung up between them, and T’fyrr sometimes took that memory out and held it between himself and despair when his guilt and gloom grew too black to bear.

  The wagon lurched, and T’fyrr caught himself with an outstretched hand-claw.

  Deliambren chairs were not made for a Haspur; the backs were poorly positioned for anyone with wings. Harperus had compromised by having a stool mounted to the floor of the wagon, with a padded ring of leather-covered metal that T’fyrr could clutch with his foot-talons a few krr above the floor. It was only a compromise, and T’fyrr found himself jarred out of his memory of that golden afternoon with Nightingale as the wagon lurched and he had to clutch, not only the foot-ring, but the table in front of him, to avoid being pitched to the floor.