Ships of Merior - Chapter Five - Masque
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i_read_whatSo last time, the Fellowship looked deeper into the curse afflicting the princes. Why it took them five years to do that is anyone's guess. It appears pretty hopeless though, proving the Fellowship to be as useless as ever. Also, Elaira has been chosen to receive longevity from her seniors, presumably so that they can use her as a weapon against Arithon for as long as he lives. Which...seems like a really dumb idea, honestly, given Elaira's openly mixed emotions about the whole thing.
Happily, this chapter brings us back to Arithon and Halliron. Sorry, "Medlir" and Halliron. Whatever. If you recall, as part of Dakar's sentence, Halliron has to perform at a big swanky party. So let's see how that goes!
So this chapter, "Masque" starts us in Halliron's attic apartment. Dakar knows how to make an entrance:
The door to Halliron’s attic chamber slammed with a gusto that rattled frame and hinges, but failed to disrupt the dancing play of arpeggios through an exercise in descending sevenths. The notes a seamless cascade beneath his fingers, Medlir raised his eyebrows at Dakar, tempestuously returned from the public baths with his nose buffed apple red. His clothing still hung half-unlaced, his hair was a wet, draggled fringe, and a virulent reek of attar of roses trailed from the bristles of his beard.
‘I didn’t know we’d given you coin for perfume,’ Medlir said.
I see you noticing Dakar's post-bath sexiness, Medlir, don't think you can hide it in snark.
We're told that they've been giving Dakar an allowance that is too small for him to get drunk. That seems wise, really. Anyway, Dakar's been earning his keep by bringing gossip. This time about warring seamstresses. We're getting close to the date of the Mayor's fete, and the excitement is causing some chaos. And fisticuffs!
Halliron is less than sympathetic:
‘They can choke on their ribbons and pearls,’ Halliron grumbled uncharitably.
You know, one thing I have to praise Ms. Wurts for is how vividly she paints her characters in the story. Halliron really hasn't had that much screentime when you think about it. A chapter here. A couple of scenes in Mistwraith. That's not a lot of time to really establish characterization, but I can absolutely appreciate how out of character this response is. And I can appreciate that this isn't an issue of clumsy writing discarding prior traits, but a reaction to the present circumstances.
So how's Medlir's learning coming along?
Critical of Medlir’s touch on the lyranthe strings, he tipped his head. Even his exacting ear could not be other than satisfied. The months cooped up in the inn’s cramped garret had set the finishing edge on Medlir’s style. Drawn in by the liquid transition of sevenths to fifths, the Masterbard felt a shiver thrill through him. He had always suspected his chosen successor might be gifted enough to outmatch him. But actually to hear the notes of repetitive practice raised to a lyric emotion his best technique could not equal stirred him to speechless delight. All he had left to desire in the world was reunion with his estranged wife and daughter.
...of course. Arithon is now the most amazing bard on the planet. We are all shocked. On the plus side, he's still a raging asshole.
Anyway, we're a week before solstice. I wish that didn't sound so much like "day before retirement".
Halliron outright tells Medlir that he doesn't need instruction any longer. Medlir says he's not yet willing to do without it (aw) and that there's one ballad that Halliron hasn't taught him. Halliron brushes the subject aside pretty quickly.
Medlir's got his own gossip, by the way, from the barracks. And whoo, this one's a doozy:
Leather scraped a plaintive whine from tensioned strings as Medlir slipped wrappings over the priceless instrument. ‘A scandal’s afoot over coin for the soldiers’ pay.’
‘No!’ Halliron slapped his knees in evil pleasure and whistled a fragmented melody. ‘Don’t say! The town bursar’s an embezzler?’
‘Better.’ Medlir set the lyranthe safely down in a corner and grinned. ‘Word goes he’s sold his sister-in-law’s ruby bracelets to hire a herb witch to hide how taxes from the town treasury found their way into the coffers of Gadsley’s pleasure house.’
Apparently, this pleasure house peddles little boys, by the way. So if Jaelot weren't already on my list of towns that I'd like to see razed to the ground, that would do it.
Halliron has some useful gossip too: the mayor's wife will be making an announcement about the theme of the feast: it's a festival and any couple who can't afford to buy a mask will be excluded.
This gives Medlir a great idea for assholishness as he suggests that Dakar leak this secret to his "doxy". The idea is that the "back-quarter courtesans" would act quickly and engage the best shops before the respectable ladies get a chance, forcing them to "settle for second shift".
Dakar is on board, though he's more occupied with listening to Medlir and Halliron banter. We're told that: "[a]s long and as hard as Dakar listened, he had yet to trace any regional accent in the younger man’s speech. Although a musician with a well-trained ear might be adept enough to change his intonation, the fact that Medlir’s relaxed moments betrayed no distinguishing trait preyed on Dakar’s nerves.
It's been six months, dude. That's a long time to be that attentive.
Dakar's also noticed something else though: even though he's been ignoring his assigned task for like a year now, there's been no sign of a pissed off Asandir.
I kind of think, at least subconsciously, Dakar does know what's happening and who he's with. He's choosing not to consciously address it because he genuinely seems to like Medlir and they get along very well. Obviously that won't work forever.
So we get an update on the preparations. Lots of very overworked seamstresses. Sadly, we don't know if Medlir's ploy worked, though we do know that the mayor's oldest daughter apparently got so excited that she ate so many sweets and spoiled her waistline. One of the fighting seamstresses nabbed the commission to sew her new gowns. (Dakar reports this as he returns from an assignation with a shop girl. I really do enjoy how, even though he's described as fat and unkempt, and is often comic relief, Dakar has no problem picking up women.)
There is one notable event, when liveried footmen come by with a trunk of clothes furnished by the mayor for the feast:
All but trampled by the pair’s flying haste to depart, Medlir stepped into the garret to find the Masterbard cursing in unmatched couplets, his rare and red-faced fervour focused to a frightening bent of rage.
When the old man’s tantrum at last succumbed to breathlessness, Medlir caught his wrists and sat him down. ‘Care to say what’s happened?’
Halliron shot back up the instant his apprentice loosed his grip. Pacing, distraught, his collar laces swinging undone and the hair at his temples hooked to snarls by the rake of his vehement fingers, he gestured toward the window that faced the inn’s muddy courtyard. ‘Never have I stayed to play for a man who insults me not once, but repeatedly!’
Medlir set his shoulders against the door post to keep from stepping back as the topaz eyes swivelled toward him, wide and snapping with fury. Quiet, he folded his arms.
I really do love the Halliron-Medlir dynamic, and how Arithon actually gets to be the calm, patient one sometimes. Or at least the quietly snarky one. That's probably more accurate.
Anyway, Halliron's enraged that the Mayor has the audacity to try to tell him what to wear. It doesn't help that it had been pink, with chartreuse shoulder ruffles and a lamb's head mask. Medlir admits that imagination fails him. I feel you, dude.
It's not really the costume though. As we'll see. What we really have here is a clash of culture. As we heard last time, Halliron isn't JUST a performer. He's essentially occupying a very important office. He weighs in on legal matters, he keeps traditions alive, he's a chronicler and an arbitrator.
But it's a traditional office. And Jaelot (like Etarra, but possibly even more so) is a modern town. They've rejected the old ways entirely after the revolution against the old kings. Now they're a petty little dictatorial city state, governed by one man's ego and his wife's whim. The mayor didn't force this arrangement because he appreciates Halliron's rank, or even because he likes his music (I think Halliron would forgive more faux pas if that was the case), but because he's heard that Halliron is important and it's a status boost.
Anyway, Medlir asks about his own outfit, and Halliron (cracking back in "caustic, protective sharpness") says he'll be staying out of it. Medlir proves he hasn't lost his sense of drama or temper:
‘Well, there we disagree.’ The flexible humour Dakar could never shake disappeared. Suddenly more killer than singer, his stance radiating leashed force, the man in the doorway shook out his right sleeve and used his teeth to yank more tension in his cuff ties. ‘I’m going. Don’t pretend you won’t need me.’
The Masterbard locked eyes with the musician he had apprenticed, and the whetted determination he encountered threw him back six years to the memory of a prince’s oath swearing in a woodland dell. ‘I’m no match for Torbrand’s temper,’ he said quickly. ‘But if you make this your duty, and harm comes to you, I’ll go to my grave without forgiveness.’
‘Oh Ath,’ Medlir said on a queer note of change. ‘If you’re worried only for me, then surely there’s hope left for both of us.’
I really did miss this melodramatic asshole.
-
So here we go. It's the night of the solstice!
And the Mayor isn't quite done offering insult, as a footman arrives at the door to fetch Halliron. First there's a big question: where's Dakar?
The mayor’s footman tugged down his waistcoat, ridden up over the dome of his belly in his puffing ascent of the stairs. Taken aback by the tall elder in his black silk doublet, he fell back a step and ventured, ‘You speak of the mayor’s prisoner?’
‘I speak of a man who carries my personal word as bond on his civil behaviour.’ Halliron did not look aside as Medlir snatched his belt and stepped to his shoulder to back him.
The footman cleared his throat. ‘I wouldn’t know anything about that.’
‘But you do know where Dakar is,’ Medlir cut in. ‘Stop hedging.’
I may have just included this excerpt for the last part, because I ship Dakar/Medlir. But also, I like how, unlike other people (ASANDIR), Halliron doesn't try to wash his hands of Dakar when it's inconvenient.
Anyway though, Dakar's been already brought to the banquet hall, where they've got him chained up (!!!) only to be released after Halliron's performance.
Then Halliron spun on his heel to a near soundless whisper of rich silk. None of his temper showed, nor did his words reflect rancour as he said in terse quiet to his apprentice, ‘Ath forgive me, you were right. In every sense, I will need you.’’
Unobtrusive in his tunic of dove-grey linen, Medlir had no words. The silver-tipped laces of his shirt sleeves tapped and chimed as he hooked the last studs on his bootcuffs. He fetched his master’s wrapped lyranthe from its corner peg behind the bed, and wondered in silent and venomous fury whether any other ruler in Athera’s history had grossly flaunted such ignorance, to repudiate a masterbard’s given word before his very face.
The culture clash again. From Halliron and Medlir's perspective, this disrespect borders on sacrilegious. But what can they really do about it? Dakar's a prisoner and they can't really just leave him there. But there's a chilling thought: if Jaelot doesn't recognize Halliron's office, then what protection does he have if they try to go back on their arrangement?
Fortunately, he has force of personality. And when the footman relays one insult too far (the Mayor had sent a carriage to "collect" him), Halliron tells him he'd break all of his fingers before accepting the ride.
I suspect that if the issue was ONLY the carriage, Halliron might have let it go. But combined with everything else, it implies that Halliron might go back on his word. Instead, he and Medlir walk. It's not an easy walk, thanks to crooked streets and cobblestones, but fortunately Medlir knows the shortcuts, and his shadow mastery means darkness isn't exactly an impediment.
...actually, that's interesting. We don't actually get Arithon's point of view very often, and I don't remember that coming up. I also don't remember that being contradicted. Does Shadow Mastery mean he can see in the dark?
The Shadow Mastery is good for something else though, as Medlir uses it to mask Halliron's fancy clothes and discourage thieves. There's a nice bit where Medlir says that if Halliron had stepped foot in the carriage, he'd have broke the mayor's head for the insult.
The walk is nice, there's some easy banter. Halliron considers not side-stepping horse piss, wondering if he could get thrown out if he stunk. Medlir notes that the wife would probably just give him some fancy shoes with satin ruffles to replace them.
They also discuss how the city was once the site of "Paravian mysteries", which was touched on a little before. Halliron is surprised to not sense anything lingering. Medlir of course isn't really able to sense much of anything, magically, anymore.
They do make it to the banquet. Not too late, and it's a sight:
Medlir and Halliron suffered the man’s proprietary prodding across a vestibule banked with cut flowers, and on through the doubled doors into the grand hall. From the bowl of a recessed mosaic floor to the spans of its vaulted ceiling, the enormous chamber lay rinsed in dazzling brilliance. Wax candles and overdressed bodies pressed the air to steaming warmth. The reek of rich meats, fine sauces and expensively perfumed humanity stifled the senses in a wave.
Halliron ran a jaundiced glance over fake kiosks of gilded pillars, streamered in ribbon and decorated with cast-plaster orchids that dripped in swagged archways over tables packed to sagging capacity. The drone of too many voices stewed into punishing roulades of echoed noise.
Divested of feathered masks for their feasting, the aristocrats of Jaelot lounged on cushions, arguing stylishly, or exchanging sharp-witted jokes. Gilt cosmetics and jewels stung the eye in spattered flecks of light. The tinselled ruffles of discarded finery lay rowed like a milliner’s wares under silk and paper arbours crammed with sprites, whose rosy cheeks and blush-tinted bare buttocks were presented on display with the same artless candour.
A statement of brute contrast, a cleared space in the centre of the floor held a scaffold transfixed by a post. There, the miserable figure of Dakar languished, chained hand and foot in his laddered, striped hose and soiled shirtsleeves. The scuffle to retake him into custody had apparently cost him his garish orange garment sleeved with ribbon.
I'm reminded of Eulmore in Final Fantasy XIV actually. The whole corrupted opulence thing. Though, in Eulmore, they have the excuse that it's the end of the world, and they're trying not to face that fact. Jaelot's just this bad on its own.
So anyway, Halliron says he'll play nothing until Dakar's released. But he's not really holding the cards here. The Mayor says that Dakar will be freed only when Halliron makes good on his word. He warns him that he doesn't indulge impertinence and that oath-breakers can be executed.
So Halliron starts to play. It's a cheerful, fast paced melody that takes folks by surprise. He draws them in (meanwhile, melodramatic as always, Medlir "shut his eyes against anguish. Alone in awareness, consumed by crawling dread" because he realizes this is the ballad that Halliron didn't share.)
Don't piss off a bard.
Because of course there's a catch. The music is ridiculously catchy, nonsense words at first, with everyone getting into it. Then:
The change came with such masterful subtlety, Medlir alone could name the moment when senseless strings of syllables converged into order and meaning. Carried on exuberant melody, three stanzas passed before any guest of the mayor’s noticed the first prick of satire; another appalled interval before they connected the tales in the balladry to familiar names and faces. Distilled from six months of gleaned rumour, Halliron’s art exposed with rib-tearing viciousness the secrets of boudoir and council chamber, affairs of the heart and affairs of ambition that flaunted the rank lust and incompetence that riddled the channels of city government.
So, yeah. Suddenly, everything's out there. Affairs, gossip, corruption. Everyone's silent and paralyzed.
Once he's finished, the Mayor is outraged. Dude, you get what you pay for. Halliron says the same thing basically, the Mayor's got a song to epitomize his city's hospitality. Halliron's matched the demand to the letter.
But, remember my question earlier? Halliron's the Masterbard. But what does that mean when you're amidst people who don't respect it? The people are snapping out of it. They're angry and Halliron's right in the middle of it.
Medlir is watching, but he can't really do much of anything. If he tries using Shadow, he'll expose his identity, which will draw Lysaer's armies to a new battlefield (and I doubt it would calm the situation here any, for Halliron to be linked to the Master of Shadow). Some halberders, one of whom Medlir had sparred with as a friend, try to restrain him.
But worse:
The savagery of their scuffle passed unnoticed as the men at arms near the mayor converged to seize the Masterbard. Before they could close, their heavyset captain dealt a brute-fisted swing launched solidly out of his shoulder.
Halliron twisted by reflex to shield his priceless lyranthe. The blow struck him behind the temple, flung him staggering backward. Tripped by the stool, he overbalanced and fell. The crack as his frame smashed through split rungs entangled with Medlir’s wordless cry.
Oh no...
There's no protection in an office that no one recognizes. Dakar, by the way, gets a spectacular view of all of this. He's horrified and distraught. Medlir manages to get free and get to Halliron. He asks for a healer and a litter.
But no. The Mayor says that he'll have entertainment that befits his wife and guests. He tells Medlir to "Carol for us as sweetly as a lark, or else get no litter and no healer. Just the executioner's sword for the lot of you."
There's also nothing to hold a dictator to even the letter of an agreement. The Mayor's captain slaps Medlir and urges him to be sensible. Is a night's performance worth less than Halliron's life?
Dakar's our viewpoint character now, and he's not sure what Medlir will do, given the man's "oblique nature". But since Halliron had kept his promise with his satire, there's no real reason to trust these people. But the Mayor's provoked now and won't back down without bloodshed.
Medlir agrees to play. With appropriate drama of course:
Head turned to track the brute who shouldered his unconscious master, Medlir did nothing to acknowledge his liberty as the guardsmen’s restraint fell away. Controlled beyond emotion, or else simply dazed, he held his sight on the side door until the burdened coachman vanished. Then he surveyed the breadth of the hall. Sea-cold and lightless, his gaze brushed past his flushed and vindictive audience: the men in their shimmering dazzle of jewels; ladies who wetted lips with pink tongues, their feathered trains and ostentatious finery jostled awry in the press. Defined by an incandescence of candle light, the mayor’s guests crowded and whispered among themselves, thrilled by the prospect of a spectacle.
When he tunes the lyranthe, some asshole heckler suggests that it's to keep his hand from shaking. Another sneers that he's probably fighting stage fright. Enough, Ms. Wurts, I definitely hate these guys as much as I hate the Etarrans.
So in comes the very purple prose, of course. We're told that Medlir doesn't choose satire for vengeance, instead In bruised and demented compassion, he spun cadence to settle and heal; and then, when he had commanded attention by the sheer depth and majesty of his pity, he struck silver strings a glancing, sliding stroke and racked sound through a sharp change in key.
Dakar senses true magic in this. And indeed, we're told a bit more, belatedly, about what a Masterbard does.
A masterbard’s gift could encompass a spirit, weave its essence in a tapestry of sound. So the lyranthe could be used to heal, to ease a stricken consciousness into death, or to summon back life and awareness for a week, or an hour; or to shape final tribute in grief. Medlir possessed as inexorable a perception. He used his talent now as Dakar had never heard him, his harmonies set in moving counterpoint as stark as clean sunlight over snow. In complex and awesome exactness, he unveiled before the citizens of Jaelot the nature of the bard they had tormented. He made them see Halliron through his own eyes, as a generous spirit of moral courage who had sacrificed his heart to humanity through his song, at the cost of love and hearthstone for himself.
Shame cut Jaelot’s perpetrators sharper than satire, deeper than their most visceral fear. Mourn with me, the notes cried; weep for what may have been destroyed. Then tears did fall, thick enough to blind, hot enough to scald, fast enough to fleck bright silk and velvet with a diamond spatter of pure sorrow.
Of course.
It's an effective Bardic Revenge, indeed.
But here's the problem. Arithon's not entirely in control right. And when it comes time to end the song, it starts going into a different direction...
The dawning emergence of changed theme raised the elements to primal awareness. Snatched into unexpected rapture by the harmonics called from substance and flesh, Medlir experienced a flash-fire bolt of inspiration. He yielded in consent before its riptide of insight: and the song that lurked dormant in the stones of old Jaelot quickened in rebirth and possessed him.
Chained by steel that chimed and warmed in shared resonance, Dakar experienced a chest-bursting joy that tore a cry of sheer wonder from his throat. He looked up, startled to awed disbelief; for the strains that thrummed from Medlir’s strings in a golden-white bloom of roused power were bitterly, fearfully uncanny. Somehow the bard’s talent had tapped the lost measures the Paravians had danced in past celebration of the solstice.
Jaelot's a Paravian stronghold remember. And the Masterbard is an office that dates back to them. And well, music is a big deal. And well, it starts pulling up a bit more than echoes of the Riathan Paravians. And well, that's a bit of a problem.
I know it seems like this is very excerpt heavy, but honestly, I'm skipping pages here! There's a LOT.
The spectacle was one to steal thought and stop the breath; to cauterize sight in grace and beauty. Ecstasy like reunion came paired with fierce heartbreak, a grinding, insufferable grief of recognition, that amid all the kingdoms of Athera, no living marvel existed to match these creatures whose ghost presence mirrored perfect purity.
‘Ath, oh Ath, let them go,’ Dakar pleaded.
His hurt was shared by every man, woman and child in the feast hall; from petty-minded, mollified old gossips to the most grizzled captain at arms; from the richest of merchants to the meanest scullion, no one was exempt. The guardsman who had struck down Halliron wept on his knees in appalled disgrace. Pride vanquished, the Lord Mayor of Jaelot clung sobbing and bereft in the arms of his sorrowfully humbled wife.
I included this part just because I really wanted to see these people suffer.
Anyway, Dakar knows what he's seeing in a way the others don't. He's just old enough to remember what the old Paravian solstice rites did, and it was more than just celebration. Basically, they were a means to guide magical energy through the hills and trees and mountains and other natural landmarks. Many of which Jaelot's long since defaced or paved over.
Medlir's basically calling that magic back to those old passage ways. And well, fuck the structures in between! Dakar tries to reason with the guy, but...
The only man blind to the grace of the spirit-forms, the only one tone rendered deaf, the musician bent still to his playing, his being now locked in alignment with the intricate lilt of the dance. While the key changed register to impel the litany’s consummation, the Mad Prophet looked down in desperation. He saw in an awesome, gut-twist of dread that Medlir’s brown hair had transformed to raven’s-wing black.
False identity had seared off like wax before the unalloyed blaze of pure energies. In shocked recognition, the Mad Prophet beheld the spirit’s unveiled form.
Then impotent rage rammed him hard against his chains and he screamed the name of Arithon s’Ffalenn.
...oops.
So anyway, the magic keeps going. It's ploughing up floor tiles, making columns sway, crashing over ornaments and arches, shattering crystal. People are fleeing in terror.
Stone walls are cracking, tapestries unravelling, flowers are blooming.
Some magic technobabble from Dakar explains a bit more of the problem: the ballroom is built on top of some kind of ancient power focus. So...oops. The magic spreads into the whole damn town:
The power streamed on its course like flung phosphor. Its passage hazed torches and lamps, and roused families in alarm from their beds. Women wept, and infants laughed outright. Men rushed in their night robes to grab weapons. Festival fires flared up in conflagration, scattering circles of dancers; while everywhere along the old energy paths, the roof-trees of shops and houses groaned and flexed and erupted into growing twigs and buds. Pulverized slates and chimney bricks kicked aloft in whining fragments. Every tower and wall and stone building built counter to natural alignments rang out in bell tones, then caved into collapse as the resurgence of a ritual denied for six centuries reclaimed its interrupted conduit.
Ruinous though the backlash became to human property, life and limb caught haplessly in its path took small harm beyond bruises and abrasions. A few who were elderly or worn with mortal sickness died with smiles on their lips; and miracles happened along the flux lines. A blind little girl was restored back to sight. Two cripples tried their legs and walked. A demented woman wept for sanity restored, while an accountant fell into wailing madness as he obdurately tried to reason through events outside the pale of mortal logic. Swept into the majesty of the solstice surge, no spirit in Jaelot passed untouched.
Holy Fucking Shit.
Lachlan, move the fuck over. We've got a new terrifying bard in town.
So at some point, Arithon stops playing and slumps over. Dakar, being chained up is still there and inclined to bicker.
The only individual still present to observe was the prophet chained fast on the scaffold. The wood that fastened his fetters rustled half-reborn into greenery, or else whittled wholesale into slivers. Dakar wrestled in a racked breath and said through his chattering teeth, ‘Daelion Fatemaster witness! This city will burn you for a sorcerer. That’s if Koriani witches don’t descend on you first and rip your flesh like bloodsucking harpies.’
Limp at the feet of his accuser, the Crown Prince of Rathain stirred; straightened. He turned the dry fabric of his sleeve cuff to wipe the sheen of oil from his lyranthe strings. Very slowly he stood up. The inimical eyes at his back could have speared holes in his dampened shirt as, in an edged and dangerous weariness, he said, Then it would be best, don’t you think, if we left?’
...I still ship it.
Anyway, Arithon whistles a note and Dakar's cuffs break open. Apparently this wasn't something he could have done before. But well. After musically destroying a city, I suppose a single set of chains is anti-climactic.
Arithon's barely standing, and Dakar chooses this moment to berate him for overspending himself. He accuses Arithon of raising the old mysteries on "spiteful purpose". Arithon only really meant to perform the eulogy, the rest was just intuition. But he's not about to be sorry.
Yeah, Jaelot sucks. Sorry about those old people, but that's what you get when you bully a dragon.
There is a pretty great bit of purple prose here though:
Self-effacing in his disregard, that a lesser man might have been destroyed by the powers he had thoughtlessly channelled, he cradled his borrowed lyranthe against his shoulder while the sweat sprang at his temples and trickled in drops down his jaw.
Anyway, Dakar ends up grabbing the guy by wrist and shoulder ("in a support he found abhorrent") and they go off to find Halliron.
I totally still ship it.
--
The next subchapter, which is totally not going to live up to the awesomeness that just happened, is "Unmasking".
We're back with Elaira, who I do like. But come ON, Arithon just broke Jaelot with death harpering! Halliron still needs help!
At least it's not the Fellowship.
Anyway, Elaira's feeling the after effects of the ritual. It's as painful as Morriel had warned, but with bonus dreams. They're pretty nasty, nightmares of suffocating horror. Sometimes she doesn't even remember why she was afraid. Other times it's the "sordid terrors of her girlhood" and having to run from constables and getting betrayed by her friends. It's disorienting and sometimes Elaira isn't sure who she is anymore.
Apparently, she'll have to suffer through this for another three months. Elaira promises she'll learn to laugh again, live to a despicable old age, and hound Lirenda to twitching irration. Yes. I love Elaira.
But now, she's having a new, very vivid dream that she's never had before:
She's walking on silvered sands, with waves lapping at her. She's in the north somewhere and she feels a sense of wrongness. She follows it, only to stumble onto the Koriani's solstice ritual. The longevity process had attuned her crystal to the big Skyron crystal that they're using, so that's how she ended up here. Morriel lets her stay. They're searching for Arithon.
Poor Elaira gets to feel violated all over again as they drew from a love unasked and unwanted, and intermeshed its innocent essence to enhance their poisoned noose. Poor Elaira.
Though really, you only just met the guy. But I guess when you live by the principle of "fuck you", it's hard not to be drawn to a guy who embodies the same values. (Elaira/Arithon/Dakar threesome?)
The ritual is really emotionally excruciating for poor Elaira. Poor thing. But fortunately, the ritual ends up coming to nothing. The Koriani moan about the loss of their old Waystone (presently in Sethvir's basement, remember) and some of the Seniors start to blame Elaira for their failure to find Arithon. Since, well, she's not really in a position to hide her feelings.
Fortunately, Morriel defends her. Elaira, as a mere initiate, could not have sheltered Arithon from a grand scrying. I like that the defense is basically just that Elaira lacks the ability, not that she wouldn't if she could. It's that kind of pragmatism that makes Morriel interesting.
They're putting the Skyron away, when...OOPS. It suddenly bursts up with power.
See, that's what happens when you magically destroy a city. You attract the attention of nosy sorcerersses.
Elaira shared the vision that emerged, as the flow of the night’s uncanny vortex was traced down to its source. Along with Morriel’s seniors, she tracked walls and stonework torn apart and scattered like straw chaff; chimney bricks rammed askew from rafters, and roof-beams clothed green in budded leaves. She heard the wails of Jaelot’s terrified populace, that had seen half their town come unhinged. There at the core of destruction, exposed amid smoking mosaic and the overset tables of a feast hall, the hands that had unleashed the wild mystery: the mortal singer who had keyed the release of an earth force held mute through five centuries.
He proved a man slight in stature. A disarranged swathe of black hair could not quite mask green eyes, or the steep, angled features that marked the royal bloodline of s’Ffalenn.
Heh.
Morriel is appalled and outraged. Jaelot's destroyed! Innocent people have suffered! She rhetorically demands to know when the Fellowship sorcerers will deign to admit their mistake and curb Arithon.
I'm not going to defend the Fellowship, but where was this outrage when the clansfolk were all but wiped out?
Elaira is full of despair:
Released to the scent of summer flowers, and the night quiet of her bed in the hospice, Elaira stifled a shuddering sob against the heel of her hand. The terrible wait was over; her peace irrevocably fled. The Master of Shadow was betrayed, not by her, but worse, by his passionate love for the music he held dearest to his heart.
I may have included that bit just to laugh at the melodrama.
Creepily, she's not alone in her room though:
A figure poised by her bedside: not the initiate healer who brought her tisanes for the pain, but the uncanny presence of a broad, bearded man too ghostly still for breathing flesh. His florid features held a frown of thunderous proportions. He stood, fists planted on a belt like an ox collar, his eyes trained upon her as lightless as new sable velvet.
It's Luhaine, the ghostly Fellowship sorcerer. He's here to warn her and help her. So Elaira just asks point blank: how is he minded to help?
I love Elaira so much. Her directness takes Luhaine aback, but she points out, rightfully, that if the duty-watch sees him, she could end up reduced to a mindless husk for treason.
Luhaine tries to reassure her: Lysaer won't know that Arithon's been unmasked unless the Koriani tell him. And why won't they? They want Arithon stopped, right? And they're not afraid of Lysaer?
God, the Fellowship is useless.
Elaira warns him not to tell her anything about either brother, because Morriel can use it. Luhaine does end up giving her something though, with his magic, he can give her a painless, dreamless sleep.
...okay, Luhaine. You've actually been useful. Now stop being a perv and go away.
We do get a nice description of Elaira here though, before he goes:
Elaira gave way to his mastery with a whispered sigh of release. The strain that pinched her eyes and mouth settled and slowly relaxed. Entangled amid a sweep of auburn hair, a nose and chin too angular to be delicate smoothed over like fine-polished ivory. When she was not frowning, Luhaine thought, her allure wasmischievous and innocent, touched as though from within by the promise of lyric passion. Determination lent her the illusion of ruggedness; and the burden of betrayal that Koriani service set in conflict with her empathic link with Arithon.
Anyway, as it turns out, he's actually doing more than that:
Against the sworn obedience that ruled this woman, Luhaine could do nothing. But the longevity realignment she had undertaken for the sake of Sethvir’s augury: that was another matter. Fellowship intervention had set stakes on the attraction that tied her to Arithon’s fate. For that she would not be left to suffer; nor would his Fellowship colleagues sanction the surrender of her spirit to a second life binding to a Koriani spell crystal.
I'm glad that you're doing this only because she's useful to you. Jerk.
But anyway, what he's actually doing is getting rid of the Koriani style longevity and replacing it with something closer to what Dakar and the Fellowship have. She's still bound by her initial oaths, but Morriel won't be able to get any more power from her through the longevity binding. So yay!
-
The third subchapter is Nightmare.
Here, we rejoin Lysaer. And proving that the Fellowship is full of shit, he's woken up from a sound sleep, one fist already glowing. Gosh, I wonder why.
Anyway, Diegan rushes in, dark hair tousled, and body half-clothed in last night's crumpled hose and shirt.
...I do not ship it, by the way. Fucking genocidal assholes.
Apparently, Lysaer's been having nightmares of Arithon. This is the third this week. Lysaer broods fetchingly, while at some point a cloak is unfurled over his nakedness.
Diegan is creepy:
At his shoulder, Diegan said, ‘If the strain’s been too much, at least take Talith to your bed. Your hand-fasting’s lasted for years. As her brother, I won’t stand on ceremony now if you decide not to wait for the wedding.’
...dude, way to offer up your sister. Have I mentioned yet this book how creepily invested Diegan is in that relationship? Anyway, Lysaer refuses. Talith is supposed to be Avenor's queen, not a courtesan. And he intends to marry her properly.
Diegan warns Lysaer about talking sedition, but Lysaer is pretty sure that once Arithon makes his move, the towns will fall into line. Diegan is skeptical: Arithon's been hiding for six years. He points out that some of the newer mercenaries, the ones who weren't in Deshir, are wondering if Maenalle was right when she claimed Arithon didn't want war.
Lysaer agrees they'd been quartered too long, but he intends to hold fast with his plans. He thinks about the thousands who'd died because of irresponsible haste (and because they wanted to commit genocide) and he won't let that happen again.
There's a bit that's almost rivalslashy here:
Lysaer well respected the two-edged, deadly game the Teir’s’Ffalenn was wont to play.
Restored back to regal equilibrium, he caught the cloak’s rich fabric about his damp flesh. A small smile turned his lips as he reviewed the engineer’s drawings of Avenor’s proposed fortifications. However well-intentioned, his commander at arms was mistaken. A woman in his bed could never blunt his ardour to see Rathain’s prince bleed on his sword. Yet by Ath, if he had to set the example of restraint, a gesture was needed in counterbalance.
Everyone wants to bang Arithon, I swear to god.
Anyway, Lysaer has decided to offer a reward of a thousand royals for news of any unnatural event, which Lysaer can use against him.
...I suspect that Lysaer will be paying money out very very soon.
--
Our sneak peek section is Cross-currents:
1. Asandir has been diverted from his plan to check on the Mistwraith, and is now heading up toward Eltair Bay (and Jaelot). It's about fucking time.
2. There's a pirate ship with a laughing captain, evading pursuers.
3. Talith watches Lysaer march off to Avenor, outraged that he's compelled her to stay behind.
Happily, this chapter brings us back to Arithon and Halliron. Sorry, "Medlir" and Halliron. Whatever. If you recall, as part of Dakar's sentence, Halliron has to perform at a big swanky party. So let's see how that goes!
So this chapter, "Masque" starts us in Halliron's attic apartment. Dakar knows how to make an entrance:
The door to Halliron’s attic chamber slammed with a gusto that rattled frame and hinges, but failed to disrupt the dancing play of arpeggios through an exercise in descending sevenths. The notes a seamless cascade beneath his fingers, Medlir raised his eyebrows at Dakar, tempestuously returned from the public baths with his nose buffed apple red. His clothing still hung half-unlaced, his hair was a wet, draggled fringe, and a virulent reek of attar of roses trailed from the bristles of his beard.
‘I didn’t know we’d given you coin for perfume,’ Medlir said.
I see you noticing Dakar's post-bath sexiness, Medlir, don't think you can hide it in snark.
We're told that they've been giving Dakar an allowance that is too small for him to get drunk. That seems wise, really. Anyway, Dakar's been earning his keep by bringing gossip. This time about warring seamstresses. We're getting close to the date of the Mayor's fete, and the excitement is causing some chaos. And fisticuffs!
Halliron is less than sympathetic:
‘They can choke on their ribbons and pearls,’ Halliron grumbled uncharitably.
You know, one thing I have to praise Ms. Wurts for is how vividly she paints her characters in the story. Halliron really hasn't had that much screentime when you think about it. A chapter here. A couple of scenes in Mistwraith. That's not a lot of time to really establish characterization, but I can absolutely appreciate how out of character this response is. And I can appreciate that this isn't an issue of clumsy writing discarding prior traits, but a reaction to the present circumstances.
So how's Medlir's learning coming along?
Critical of Medlir’s touch on the lyranthe strings, he tipped his head. Even his exacting ear could not be other than satisfied. The months cooped up in the inn’s cramped garret had set the finishing edge on Medlir’s style. Drawn in by the liquid transition of sevenths to fifths, the Masterbard felt a shiver thrill through him. He had always suspected his chosen successor might be gifted enough to outmatch him. But actually to hear the notes of repetitive practice raised to a lyric emotion his best technique could not equal stirred him to speechless delight. All he had left to desire in the world was reunion with his estranged wife and daughter.
...of course. Arithon is now the most amazing bard on the planet. We are all shocked. On the plus side, he's still a raging asshole.
Anyway, we're a week before solstice. I wish that didn't sound so much like "day before retirement".
Halliron outright tells Medlir that he doesn't need instruction any longer. Medlir says he's not yet willing to do without it (aw) and that there's one ballad that Halliron hasn't taught him. Halliron brushes the subject aside pretty quickly.
Medlir's got his own gossip, by the way, from the barracks. And whoo, this one's a doozy:
Leather scraped a plaintive whine from tensioned strings as Medlir slipped wrappings over the priceless instrument. ‘A scandal’s afoot over coin for the soldiers’ pay.’
‘No!’ Halliron slapped his knees in evil pleasure and whistled a fragmented melody. ‘Don’t say! The town bursar’s an embezzler?’
‘Better.’ Medlir set the lyranthe safely down in a corner and grinned. ‘Word goes he’s sold his sister-in-law’s ruby bracelets to hire a herb witch to hide how taxes from the town treasury found their way into the coffers of Gadsley’s pleasure house.’
Apparently, this pleasure house peddles little boys, by the way. So if Jaelot weren't already on my list of towns that I'd like to see razed to the ground, that would do it.
Halliron has some useful gossip too: the mayor's wife will be making an announcement about the theme of the feast: it's a festival and any couple who can't afford to buy a mask will be excluded.
This gives Medlir a great idea for assholishness as he suggests that Dakar leak this secret to his "doxy". The idea is that the "back-quarter courtesans" would act quickly and engage the best shops before the respectable ladies get a chance, forcing them to "settle for second shift".
Dakar is on board, though he's more occupied with listening to Medlir and Halliron banter. We're told that: "[a]s long and as hard as Dakar listened, he had yet to trace any regional accent in the younger man’s speech. Although a musician with a well-trained ear might be adept enough to change his intonation, the fact that Medlir’s relaxed moments betrayed no distinguishing trait preyed on Dakar’s nerves.
It's been six months, dude. That's a long time to be that attentive.
Dakar's also noticed something else though: even though he's been ignoring his assigned task for like a year now, there's been no sign of a pissed off Asandir.
I kind of think, at least subconsciously, Dakar does know what's happening and who he's with. He's choosing not to consciously address it because he genuinely seems to like Medlir and they get along very well. Obviously that won't work forever.
So we get an update on the preparations. Lots of very overworked seamstresses. Sadly, we don't know if Medlir's ploy worked, though we do know that the mayor's oldest daughter apparently got so excited that she ate so many sweets and spoiled her waistline. One of the fighting seamstresses nabbed the commission to sew her new gowns. (Dakar reports this as he returns from an assignation with a shop girl. I really do enjoy how, even though he's described as fat and unkempt, and is often comic relief, Dakar has no problem picking up women.)
There is one notable event, when liveried footmen come by with a trunk of clothes furnished by the mayor for the feast:
All but trampled by the pair’s flying haste to depart, Medlir stepped into the garret to find the Masterbard cursing in unmatched couplets, his rare and red-faced fervour focused to a frightening bent of rage.
When the old man’s tantrum at last succumbed to breathlessness, Medlir caught his wrists and sat him down. ‘Care to say what’s happened?’
Halliron shot back up the instant his apprentice loosed his grip. Pacing, distraught, his collar laces swinging undone and the hair at his temples hooked to snarls by the rake of his vehement fingers, he gestured toward the window that faced the inn’s muddy courtyard. ‘Never have I stayed to play for a man who insults me not once, but repeatedly!’
Medlir set his shoulders against the door post to keep from stepping back as the topaz eyes swivelled toward him, wide and snapping with fury. Quiet, he folded his arms.
I really do love the Halliron-Medlir dynamic, and how Arithon actually gets to be the calm, patient one sometimes. Or at least the quietly snarky one. That's probably more accurate.
Anyway, Halliron's enraged that the Mayor has the audacity to try to tell him what to wear. It doesn't help that it had been pink, with chartreuse shoulder ruffles and a lamb's head mask. Medlir admits that imagination fails him. I feel you, dude.
It's not really the costume though. As we'll see. What we really have here is a clash of culture. As we heard last time, Halliron isn't JUST a performer. He's essentially occupying a very important office. He weighs in on legal matters, he keeps traditions alive, he's a chronicler and an arbitrator.
But it's a traditional office. And Jaelot (like Etarra, but possibly even more so) is a modern town. They've rejected the old ways entirely after the revolution against the old kings. Now they're a petty little dictatorial city state, governed by one man's ego and his wife's whim. The mayor didn't force this arrangement because he appreciates Halliron's rank, or even because he likes his music (I think Halliron would forgive more faux pas if that was the case), but because he's heard that Halliron is important and it's a status boost.
Anyway, Medlir asks about his own outfit, and Halliron (cracking back in "caustic, protective sharpness") says he'll be staying out of it. Medlir proves he hasn't lost his sense of drama or temper:
‘Well, there we disagree.’ The flexible humour Dakar could never shake disappeared. Suddenly more killer than singer, his stance radiating leashed force, the man in the doorway shook out his right sleeve and used his teeth to yank more tension in his cuff ties. ‘I’m going. Don’t pretend you won’t need me.’
The Masterbard locked eyes with the musician he had apprenticed, and the whetted determination he encountered threw him back six years to the memory of a prince’s oath swearing in a woodland dell. ‘I’m no match for Torbrand’s temper,’ he said quickly. ‘But if you make this your duty, and harm comes to you, I’ll go to my grave without forgiveness.’
‘Oh Ath,’ Medlir said on a queer note of change. ‘If you’re worried only for me, then surely there’s hope left for both of us.’
I really did miss this melodramatic asshole.
-
So here we go. It's the night of the solstice!
And the Mayor isn't quite done offering insult, as a footman arrives at the door to fetch Halliron. First there's a big question: where's Dakar?
The mayor’s footman tugged down his waistcoat, ridden up over the dome of his belly in his puffing ascent of the stairs. Taken aback by the tall elder in his black silk doublet, he fell back a step and ventured, ‘You speak of the mayor’s prisoner?’
‘I speak of a man who carries my personal word as bond on his civil behaviour.’ Halliron did not look aside as Medlir snatched his belt and stepped to his shoulder to back him.
The footman cleared his throat. ‘I wouldn’t know anything about that.’
‘But you do know where Dakar is,’ Medlir cut in. ‘Stop hedging.’
I may have just included this excerpt for the last part, because I ship Dakar/Medlir. But also, I like how, unlike other people (ASANDIR), Halliron doesn't try to wash his hands of Dakar when it's inconvenient.
Anyway though, Dakar's been already brought to the banquet hall, where they've got him chained up (!!!) only to be released after Halliron's performance.
Then Halliron spun on his heel to a near soundless whisper of rich silk. None of his temper showed, nor did his words reflect rancour as he said in terse quiet to his apprentice, ‘Ath forgive me, you were right. In every sense, I will need you.’’
Unobtrusive in his tunic of dove-grey linen, Medlir had no words. The silver-tipped laces of his shirt sleeves tapped and chimed as he hooked the last studs on his bootcuffs. He fetched his master’s wrapped lyranthe from its corner peg behind the bed, and wondered in silent and venomous fury whether any other ruler in Athera’s history had grossly flaunted such ignorance, to repudiate a masterbard’s given word before his very face.
The culture clash again. From Halliron and Medlir's perspective, this disrespect borders on sacrilegious. But what can they really do about it? Dakar's a prisoner and they can't really just leave him there. But there's a chilling thought: if Jaelot doesn't recognize Halliron's office, then what protection does he have if they try to go back on their arrangement?
Fortunately, he has force of personality. And when the footman relays one insult too far (the Mayor had sent a carriage to "collect" him), Halliron tells him he'd break all of his fingers before accepting the ride.
I suspect that if the issue was ONLY the carriage, Halliron might have let it go. But combined with everything else, it implies that Halliron might go back on his word. Instead, he and Medlir walk. It's not an easy walk, thanks to crooked streets and cobblestones, but fortunately Medlir knows the shortcuts, and his shadow mastery means darkness isn't exactly an impediment.
...actually, that's interesting. We don't actually get Arithon's point of view very often, and I don't remember that coming up. I also don't remember that being contradicted. Does Shadow Mastery mean he can see in the dark?
The Shadow Mastery is good for something else though, as Medlir uses it to mask Halliron's fancy clothes and discourage thieves. There's a nice bit where Medlir says that if Halliron had stepped foot in the carriage, he'd have broke the mayor's head for the insult.
The walk is nice, there's some easy banter. Halliron considers not side-stepping horse piss, wondering if he could get thrown out if he stunk. Medlir notes that the wife would probably just give him some fancy shoes with satin ruffles to replace them.
They also discuss how the city was once the site of "Paravian mysteries", which was touched on a little before. Halliron is surprised to not sense anything lingering. Medlir of course isn't really able to sense much of anything, magically, anymore.
They do make it to the banquet. Not too late, and it's a sight:
Medlir and Halliron suffered the man’s proprietary prodding across a vestibule banked with cut flowers, and on through the doubled doors into the grand hall. From the bowl of a recessed mosaic floor to the spans of its vaulted ceiling, the enormous chamber lay rinsed in dazzling brilliance. Wax candles and overdressed bodies pressed the air to steaming warmth. The reek of rich meats, fine sauces and expensively perfumed humanity stifled the senses in a wave.
Halliron ran a jaundiced glance over fake kiosks of gilded pillars, streamered in ribbon and decorated with cast-plaster orchids that dripped in swagged archways over tables packed to sagging capacity. The drone of too many voices stewed into punishing roulades of echoed noise.
Divested of feathered masks for their feasting, the aristocrats of Jaelot lounged on cushions, arguing stylishly, or exchanging sharp-witted jokes. Gilt cosmetics and jewels stung the eye in spattered flecks of light. The tinselled ruffles of discarded finery lay rowed like a milliner’s wares under silk and paper arbours crammed with sprites, whose rosy cheeks and blush-tinted bare buttocks were presented on display with the same artless candour.
A statement of brute contrast, a cleared space in the centre of the floor held a scaffold transfixed by a post. There, the miserable figure of Dakar languished, chained hand and foot in his laddered, striped hose and soiled shirtsleeves. The scuffle to retake him into custody had apparently cost him his garish orange garment sleeved with ribbon.
I'm reminded of Eulmore in Final Fantasy XIV actually. The whole corrupted opulence thing. Though, in Eulmore, they have the excuse that it's the end of the world, and they're trying not to face that fact. Jaelot's just this bad on its own.
So anyway, Halliron says he'll play nothing until Dakar's released. But he's not really holding the cards here. The Mayor says that Dakar will be freed only when Halliron makes good on his word. He warns him that he doesn't indulge impertinence and that oath-breakers can be executed.
So Halliron starts to play. It's a cheerful, fast paced melody that takes folks by surprise. He draws them in (meanwhile, melodramatic as always, Medlir "shut his eyes against anguish. Alone in awareness, consumed by crawling dread" because he realizes this is the ballad that Halliron didn't share.)
Don't piss off a bard.
Because of course there's a catch. The music is ridiculously catchy, nonsense words at first, with everyone getting into it. Then:
The change came with such masterful subtlety, Medlir alone could name the moment when senseless strings of syllables converged into order and meaning. Carried on exuberant melody, three stanzas passed before any guest of the mayor’s noticed the first prick of satire; another appalled interval before they connected the tales in the balladry to familiar names and faces. Distilled from six months of gleaned rumour, Halliron’s art exposed with rib-tearing viciousness the secrets of boudoir and council chamber, affairs of the heart and affairs of ambition that flaunted the rank lust and incompetence that riddled the channels of city government.
So, yeah. Suddenly, everything's out there. Affairs, gossip, corruption. Everyone's silent and paralyzed.
Once he's finished, the Mayor is outraged. Dude, you get what you pay for. Halliron says the same thing basically, the Mayor's got a song to epitomize his city's hospitality. Halliron's matched the demand to the letter.
But, remember my question earlier? Halliron's the Masterbard. But what does that mean when you're amidst people who don't respect it? The people are snapping out of it. They're angry and Halliron's right in the middle of it.
Medlir is watching, but he can't really do much of anything. If he tries using Shadow, he'll expose his identity, which will draw Lysaer's armies to a new battlefield (and I doubt it would calm the situation here any, for Halliron to be linked to the Master of Shadow). Some halberders, one of whom Medlir had sparred with as a friend, try to restrain him.
But worse:
The savagery of their scuffle passed unnoticed as the men at arms near the mayor converged to seize the Masterbard. Before they could close, their heavyset captain dealt a brute-fisted swing launched solidly out of his shoulder.
Halliron twisted by reflex to shield his priceless lyranthe. The blow struck him behind the temple, flung him staggering backward. Tripped by the stool, he overbalanced and fell. The crack as his frame smashed through split rungs entangled with Medlir’s wordless cry.
Oh no...
There's no protection in an office that no one recognizes. Dakar, by the way, gets a spectacular view of all of this. He's horrified and distraught. Medlir manages to get free and get to Halliron. He asks for a healer and a litter.
But no. The Mayor says that he'll have entertainment that befits his wife and guests. He tells Medlir to "Carol for us as sweetly as a lark, or else get no litter and no healer. Just the executioner's sword for the lot of you."
There's also nothing to hold a dictator to even the letter of an agreement. The Mayor's captain slaps Medlir and urges him to be sensible. Is a night's performance worth less than Halliron's life?
Dakar's our viewpoint character now, and he's not sure what Medlir will do, given the man's "oblique nature". But since Halliron had kept his promise with his satire, there's no real reason to trust these people. But the Mayor's provoked now and won't back down without bloodshed.
Medlir agrees to play. With appropriate drama of course:
Head turned to track the brute who shouldered his unconscious master, Medlir did nothing to acknowledge his liberty as the guardsmen’s restraint fell away. Controlled beyond emotion, or else simply dazed, he held his sight on the side door until the burdened coachman vanished. Then he surveyed the breadth of the hall. Sea-cold and lightless, his gaze brushed past his flushed and vindictive audience: the men in their shimmering dazzle of jewels; ladies who wetted lips with pink tongues, their feathered trains and ostentatious finery jostled awry in the press. Defined by an incandescence of candle light, the mayor’s guests crowded and whispered among themselves, thrilled by the prospect of a spectacle.
When he tunes the lyranthe, some asshole heckler suggests that it's to keep his hand from shaking. Another sneers that he's probably fighting stage fright. Enough, Ms. Wurts, I definitely hate these guys as much as I hate the Etarrans.
So in comes the very purple prose, of course. We're told that Medlir doesn't choose satire for vengeance, instead In bruised and demented compassion, he spun cadence to settle and heal; and then, when he had commanded attention by the sheer depth and majesty of his pity, he struck silver strings a glancing, sliding stroke and racked sound through a sharp change in key.
Dakar senses true magic in this. And indeed, we're told a bit more, belatedly, about what a Masterbard does.
A masterbard’s gift could encompass a spirit, weave its essence in a tapestry of sound. So the lyranthe could be used to heal, to ease a stricken consciousness into death, or to summon back life and awareness for a week, or an hour; or to shape final tribute in grief. Medlir possessed as inexorable a perception. He used his talent now as Dakar had never heard him, his harmonies set in moving counterpoint as stark as clean sunlight over snow. In complex and awesome exactness, he unveiled before the citizens of Jaelot the nature of the bard they had tormented. He made them see Halliron through his own eyes, as a generous spirit of moral courage who had sacrificed his heart to humanity through his song, at the cost of love and hearthstone for himself.
Shame cut Jaelot’s perpetrators sharper than satire, deeper than their most visceral fear. Mourn with me, the notes cried; weep for what may have been destroyed. Then tears did fall, thick enough to blind, hot enough to scald, fast enough to fleck bright silk and velvet with a diamond spatter of pure sorrow.
Of course.
It's an effective Bardic Revenge, indeed.
But here's the problem. Arithon's not entirely in control right. And when it comes time to end the song, it starts going into a different direction...
The dawning emergence of changed theme raised the elements to primal awareness. Snatched into unexpected rapture by the harmonics called from substance and flesh, Medlir experienced a flash-fire bolt of inspiration. He yielded in consent before its riptide of insight: and the song that lurked dormant in the stones of old Jaelot quickened in rebirth and possessed him.
Chained by steel that chimed and warmed in shared resonance, Dakar experienced a chest-bursting joy that tore a cry of sheer wonder from his throat. He looked up, startled to awed disbelief; for the strains that thrummed from Medlir’s strings in a golden-white bloom of roused power were bitterly, fearfully uncanny. Somehow the bard’s talent had tapped the lost measures the Paravians had danced in past celebration of the solstice.
Jaelot's a Paravian stronghold remember. And the Masterbard is an office that dates back to them. And well, music is a big deal. And well, it starts pulling up a bit more than echoes of the Riathan Paravians. And well, that's a bit of a problem.
I know it seems like this is very excerpt heavy, but honestly, I'm skipping pages here! There's a LOT.
The spectacle was one to steal thought and stop the breath; to cauterize sight in grace and beauty. Ecstasy like reunion came paired with fierce heartbreak, a grinding, insufferable grief of recognition, that amid all the kingdoms of Athera, no living marvel existed to match these creatures whose ghost presence mirrored perfect purity.
‘Ath, oh Ath, let them go,’ Dakar pleaded.
His hurt was shared by every man, woman and child in the feast hall; from petty-minded, mollified old gossips to the most grizzled captain at arms; from the richest of merchants to the meanest scullion, no one was exempt. The guardsman who had struck down Halliron wept on his knees in appalled disgrace. Pride vanquished, the Lord Mayor of Jaelot clung sobbing and bereft in the arms of his sorrowfully humbled wife.
I included this part just because I really wanted to see these people suffer.
Anyway, Dakar knows what he's seeing in a way the others don't. He's just old enough to remember what the old Paravian solstice rites did, and it was more than just celebration. Basically, they were a means to guide magical energy through the hills and trees and mountains and other natural landmarks. Many of which Jaelot's long since defaced or paved over.
Medlir's basically calling that magic back to those old passage ways. And well, fuck the structures in between! Dakar tries to reason with the guy, but...
The only man blind to the grace of the spirit-forms, the only one tone rendered deaf, the musician bent still to his playing, his being now locked in alignment with the intricate lilt of the dance. While the key changed register to impel the litany’s consummation, the Mad Prophet looked down in desperation. He saw in an awesome, gut-twist of dread that Medlir’s brown hair had transformed to raven’s-wing black.
False identity had seared off like wax before the unalloyed blaze of pure energies. In shocked recognition, the Mad Prophet beheld the spirit’s unveiled form.
Then impotent rage rammed him hard against his chains and he screamed the name of Arithon s’Ffalenn.
...oops.
So anyway, the magic keeps going. It's ploughing up floor tiles, making columns sway, crashing over ornaments and arches, shattering crystal. People are fleeing in terror.
Stone walls are cracking, tapestries unravelling, flowers are blooming.
Some magic technobabble from Dakar explains a bit more of the problem: the ballroom is built on top of some kind of ancient power focus. So...oops. The magic spreads into the whole damn town:
The power streamed on its course like flung phosphor. Its passage hazed torches and lamps, and roused families in alarm from their beds. Women wept, and infants laughed outright. Men rushed in their night robes to grab weapons. Festival fires flared up in conflagration, scattering circles of dancers; while everywhere along the old energy paths, the roof-trees of shops and houses groaned and flexed and erupted into growing twigs and buds. Pulverized slates and chimney bricks kicked aloft in whining fragments. Every tower and wall and stone building built counter to natural alignments rang out in bell tones, then caved into collapse as the resurgence of a ritual denied for six centuries reclaimed its interrupted conduit.
Ruinous though the backlash became to human property, life and limb caught haplessly in its path took small harm beyond bruises and abrasions. A few who were elderly or worn with mortal sickness died with smiles on their lips; and miracles happened along the flux lines. A blind little girl was restored back to sight. Two cripples tried their legs and walked. A demented woman wept for sanity restored, while an accountant fell into wailing madness as he obdurately tried to reason through events outside the pale of mortal logic. Swept into the majesty of the solstice surge, no spirit in Jaelot passed untouched.
Holy Fucking Shit.
Lachlan, move the fuck over. We've got a new terrifying bard in town.
So at some point, Arithon stops playing and slumps over. Dakar, being chained up is still there and inclined to bicker.
The only individual still present to observe was the prophet chained fast on the scaffold. The wood that fastened his fetters rustled half-reborn into greenery, or else whittled wholesale into slivers. Dakar wrestled in a racked breath and said through his chattering teeth, ‘Daelion Fatemaster witness! This city will burn you for a sorcerer. That’s if Koriani witches don’t descend on you first and rip your flesh like bloodsucking harpies.’
Limp at the feet of his accuser, the Crown Prince of Rathain stirred; straightened. He turned the dry fabric of his sleeve cuff to wipe the sheen of oil from his lyranthe strings. Very slowly he stood up. The inimical eyes at his back could have speared holes in his dampened shirt as, in an edged and dangerous weariness, he said, Then it would be best, don’t you think, if we left?’
...I still ship it.
Anyway, Arithon whistles a note and Dakar's cuffs break open. Apparently this wasn't something he could have done before. But well. After musically destroying a city, I suppose a single set of chains is anti-climactic.
Arithon's barely standing, and Dakar chooses this moment to berate him for overspending himself. He accuses Arithon of raising the old mysteries on "spiteful purpose". Arithon only really meant to perform the eulogy, the rest was just intuition. But he's not about to be sorry.
Yeah, Jaelot sucks. Sorry about those old people, but that's what you get when you bully a dragon.
There is a pretty great bit of purple prose here though:
Self-effacing in his disregard, that a lesser man might have been destroyed by the powers he had thoughtlessly channelled, he cradled his borrowed lyranthe against his shoulder while the sweat sprang at his temples and trickled in drops down his jaw.
Anyway, Dakar ends up grabbing the guy by wrist and shoulder ("in a support he found abhorrent") and they go off to find Halliron.
I totally still ship it.
--
The next subchapter, which is totally not going to live up to the awesomeness that just happened, is "Unmasking".
We're back with Elaira, who I do like. But come ON, Arithon just broke Jaelot with death harpering! Halliron still needs help!
At least it's not the Fellowship.
Anyway, Elaira's feeling the after effects of the ritual. It's as painful as Morriel had warned, but with bonus dreams. They're pretty nasty, nightmares of suffocating horror. Sometimes she doesn't even remember why she was afraid. Other times it's the "sordid terrors of her girlhood" and having to run from constables and getting betrayed by her friends. It's disorienting and sometimes Elaira isn't sure who she is anymore.
Apparently, she'll have to suffer through this for another three months. Elaira promises she'll learn to laugh again, live to a despicable old age, and hound Lirenda to twitching irration. Yes. I love Elaira.
But now, she's having a new, very vivid dream that she's never had before:
She's walking on silvered sands, with waves lapping at her. She's in the north somewhere and she feels a sense of wrongness. She follows it, only to stumble onto the Koriani's solstice ritual. The longevity process had attuned her crystal to the big Skyron crystal that they're using, so that's how she ended up here. Morriel lets her stay. They're searching for Arithon.
Poor Elaira gets to feel violated all over again as they drew from a love unasked and unwanted, and intermeshed its innocent essence to enhance their poisoned noose. Poor Elaira.
Though really, you only just met the guy. But I guess when you live by the principle of "fuck you", it's hard not to be drawn to a guy who embodies the same values. (Elaira/Arithon/Dakar threesome?)
The ritual is really emotionally excruciating for poor Elaira. Poor thing. But fortunately, the ritual ends up coming to nothing. The Koriani moan about the loss of their old Waystone (presently in Sethvir's basement, remember) and some of the Seniors start to blame Elaira for their failure to find Arithon. Since, well, she's not really in a position to hide her feelings.
Fortunately, Morriel defends her. Elaira, as a mere initiate, could not have sheltered Arithon from a grand scrying. I like that the defense is basically just that Elaira lacks the ability, not that she wouldn't if she could. It's that kind of pragmatism that makes Morriel interesting.
They're putting the Skyron away, when...OOPS. It suddenly bursts up with power.
See, that's what happens when you magically destroy a city. You attract the attention of nosy sorcerersses.
Elaira shared the vision that emerged, as the flow of the night’s uncanny vortex was traced down to its source. Along with Morriel’s seniors, she tracked walls and stonework torn apart and scattered like straw chaff; chimney bricks rammed askew from rafters, and roof-beams clothed green in budded leaves. She heard the wails of Jaelot’s terrified populace, that had seen half their town come unhinged. There at the core of destruction, exposed amid smoking mosaic and the overset tables of a feast hall, the hands that had unleashed the wild mystery: the mortal singer who had keyed the release of an earth force held mute through five centuries.
He proved a man slight in stature. A disarranged swathe of black hair could not quite mask green eyes, or the steep, angled features that marked the royal bloodline of s’Ffalenn.
Heh.
Morriel is appalled and outraged. Jaelot's destroyed! Innocent people have suffered! She rhetorically demands to know when the Fellowship sorcerers will deign to admit their mistake and curb Arithon.
I'm not going to defend the Fellowship, but where was this outrage when the clansfolk were all but wiped out?
Elaira is full of despair:
Released to the scent of summer flowers, and the night quiet of her bed in the hospice, Elaira stifled a shuddering sob against the heel of her hand. The terrible wait was over; her peace irrevocably fled. The Master of Shadow was betrayed, not by her, but worse, by his passionate love for the music he held dearest to his heart.
I may have included that bit just to laugh at the melodrama.
Creepily, she's not alone in her room though:
A figure poised by her bedside: not the initiate healer who brought her tisanes for the pain, but the uncanny presence of a broad, bearded man too ghostly still for breathing flesh. His florid features held a frown of thunderous proportions. He stood, fists planted on a belt like an ox collar, his eyes trained upon her as lightless as new sable velvet.
It's Luhaine, the ghostly Fellowship sorcerer. He's here to warn her and help her. So Elaira just asks point blank: how is he minded to help?
I love Elaira so much. Her directness takes Luhaine aback, but she points out, rightfully, that if the duty-watch sees him, she could end up reduced to a mindless husk for treason.
Luhaine tries to reassure her: Lysaer won't know that Arithon's been unmasked unless the Koriani tell him. And why won't they? They want Arithon stopped, right? And they're not afraid of Lysaer?
God, the Fellowship is useless.
Elaira warns him not to tell her anything about either brother, because Morriel can use it. Luhaine does end up giving her something though, with his magic, he can give her a painless, dreamless sleep.
...okay, Luhaine. You've actually been useful. Now stop being a perv and go away.
We do get a nice description of Elaira here though, before he goes:
Elaira gave way to his mastery with a whispered sigh of release. The strain that pinched her eyes and mouth settled and slowly relaxed. Entangled amid a sweep of auburn hair, a nose and chin too angular to be delicate smoothed over like fine-polished ivory. When she was not frowning, Luhaine thought, her allure wasmischievous and innocent, touched as though from within by the promise of lyric passion. Determination lent her the illusion of ruggedness; and the burden of betrayal that Koriani service set in conflict with her empathic link with Arithon.
Anyway, as it turns out, he's actually doing more than that:
Against the sworn obedience that ruled this woman, Luhaine could do nothing. But the longevity realignment she had undertaken for the sake of Sethvir’s augury: that was another matter. Fellowship intervention had set stakes on the attraction that tied her to Arithon’s fate. For that she would not be left to suffer; nor would his Fellowship colleagues sanction the surrender of her spirit to a second life binding to a Koriani spell crystal.
I'm glad that you're doing this only because she's useful to you. Jerk.
But anyway, what he's actually doing is getting rid of the Koriani style longevity and replacing it with something closer to what Dakar and the Fellowship have. She's still bound by her initial oaths, but Morriel won't be able to get any more power from her through the longevity binding. So yay!
-
The third subchapter is Nightmare.
Here, we rejoin Lysaer. And proving that the Fellowship is full of shit, he's woken up from a sound sleep, one fist already glowing. Gosh, I wonder why.
Anyway, Diegan rushes in, dark hair tousled, and body half-clothed in last night's crumpled hose and shirt.
...I do not ship it, by the way. Fucking genocidal assholes.
Apparently, Lysaer's been having nightmares of Arithon. This is the third this week. Lysaer broods fetchingly, while at some point a cloak is unfurled over his nakedness.
Diegan is creepy:
At his shoulder, Diegan said, ‘If the strain’s been too much, at least take Talith to your bed. Your hand-fasting’s lasted for years. As her brother, I won’t stand on ceremony now if you decide not to wait for the wedding.’
...dude, way to offer up your sister. Have I mentioned yet this book how creepily invested Diegan is in that relationship? Anyway, Lysaer refuses. Talith is supposed to be Avenor's queen, not a courtesan. And he intends to marry her properly.
Diegan warns Lysaer about talking sedition, but Lysaer is pretty sure that once Arithon makes his move, the towns will fall into line. Diegan is skeptical: Arithon's been hiding for six years. He points out that some of the newer mercenaries, the ones who weren't in Deshir, are wondering if Maenalle was right when she claimed Arithon didn't want war.
Lysaer agrees they'd been quartered too long, but he intends to hold fast with his plans. He thinks about the thousands who'd died because of irresponsible haste (and because they wanted to commit genocide) and he won't let that happen again.
There's a bit that's almost rivalslashy here:
Lysaer well respected the two-edged, deadly game the Teir’s’Ffalenn was wont to play.
Restored back to regal equilibrium, he caught the cloak’s rich fabric about his damp flesh. A small smile turned his lips as he reviewed the engineer’s drawings of Avenor’s proposed fortifications. However well-intentioned, his commander at arms was mistaken. A woman in his bed could never blunt his ardour to see Rathain’s prince bleed on his sword. Yet by Ath, if he had to set the example of restraint, a gesture was needed in counterbalance.
Everyone wants to bang Arithon, I swear to god.
Anyway, Lysaer has decided to offer a reward of a thousand royals for news of any unnatural event, which Lysaer can use against him.
...I suspect that Lysaer will be paying money out very very soon.
--
Our sneak peek section is Cross-currents:
1. Asandir has been diverted from his plan to check on the Mistwraith, and is now heading up toward Eltair Bay (and Jaelot). It's about fucking time.
2. There's a pirate ship with a laughing captain, evading pursuers.
3. Talith watches Lysaer march off to Avenor, outraged that he's compelled her to stay behind.
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Date: 2021-06-07 01:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2021-06-07 03:47 am (UTC)