Mordraud, Book One (12 page)

The
theory was complex, but the training even more so. A chanter couldn’t rely on an instrument to support him during the development of melodies; he could only count on his voice alone. One simple mistake in pronouncing the syllables, in the rhythm, in a passage, or a mundane change in tone would irretrievably break off the resonance and cause no effect. In the best of cases. Usually, an interrupted chant tended to unleash its power against the chanter himself. Often killing him instantly.

The pupils had to be taught all
music’s secrets if they were to reach such levels of concentration. The logic behind choosing one rhythm rather than another. The bellicose beat of a war anthem had its advantages but also its weaknesses, while a hush and syncopated lament could produce other, totally different, results. The chanters could use dozens of scales. There were twelve notes, but the combinations studied at the Academy were countless. Dunwich asked for information on who’d formulated the theory of music, and how these conclusions had been reached. To his great surprise, he discovered nobody knew. Knowledge that had been lost in time – something done intentionally, he suspected. No books existed on what had been
before,
on the oldest theories. The twelve notes were always the same, tuned to perfection using silver forks that had remained unchanged over the centuries.

T
his aversion for instrumental music was another unsolved mystery. After entire generations of experimentation and assessment, it was deemed that a melody made by an instrument could not be a suitable vehicle for carrying the chanter’s intent. Thus, instruments were entirely eradicated from the studies. A very drastic choice, and one Dunwich accepted, but without ever being able to fully understand the reason. He asked many questions. Nevertheless, he kept the more controversial ones for himself, particularly during the early days. What was beneath the resonance? How could a ball of fire take shape starting simply from a candle flame? His teachers explained that it was all fruit of a specific state of mind, pushed to extreme concentration and steered by chanting’s harmonic guide. It sounded more like a dogma, rather than proven theory. He preferred to wait to discover the underlying mechanism himself, so as not to clash with anyone. He couldn’t afford to do that.

The most able students were encouraged by not having to pay for their education, and some could benefit from the privilege of a small grant.
He was certainly in no position to ask his parents for money. In fact, he hoped to soon find a way to send money home, even if his family’s village was inside the territories controlled by Eldain’s rebels, at over twenty days’ travel from Cambria. He focused on his studies with an obsessive passion. He learnt every detail of the Theory of Harmonies off by heart. He trained at modulating his voice by sleeping little and eating even less. And he discovered, to his great delight, that he was a born chanter. Seneo had no doubt about it either. Dunwich succeeded in developing a range and a mastery that were close on incredible. And even before he’d been taught, he’d already understood what the final goal of his studies was.

The real challenge was to
condense the melodies so that the necessary mental state could be reached as quickly as possible. A brief scale, a barely audible tune ushered out from between half-closed teeth. The choice of the right syllables to pronounce the notes. It was a constant quest for perfection. Once this was understood and mastered, resonances could be struck through just a few moments’ intense concentration.

In
a single year, Dunwich had already learnt all the basic notions, to the extent that another four introductory years with his tutor seemed pointless. His voice still had scope for improvement, even if it already showed remarkable ability. Seneo convinced him to attend another year’s training with him. He was too young to attempt joining the Arcane as a fully fledged student, and Seneo had yet to find the right means to overcome that hurdle.

Dunwich
still looked like a child. Nobody would welcome him at the academy unless a few details were worked on.

***

Dunwich blew out the candle lighting his desk and stretched his arms, rocking on the wooden chair. The volume
The Overlapping of Minor Nine Arpeggios
that he’d just finished reading had disappointed him somewhat. The usual stuff. How to combine minor scales to obtain a harmony respecting the main mental stages. A state of altered conscience, a moment of disorientation, augmented vision. An over-bright light, then an instant of darkness to mark the attainment of resonance. The fact that they were minor scales didn’t change anything, he reflected, amused by the author’s over-simplistic view. He found it astounding that there were still people willing to believe that a melody in minor could objectively sound sadder than one in major, or a chromatic one. ‘Ridiculous...’ he mused, as he poured himself a glass of water.

There was nothing subjective about arcane
harmony: each aspect and detail could be traced back to the astonishing number of combinations that could be obtained through singing. Besides the harmony, a chanter also had to choose the scales he would move along, the modulations to perform, and the syllables to use to pronounce every note. He had to know how to move his hands to keep the rhythm and dictate it for others, using sign language to cue the tones for every row of vocals. It was an extremely complex and codified art.

There was no room for beauty, or feeling. A
rcane chanting was a set of procedures created to make the chanter a god. That’s what mattered, not whether the melodies were appealing or ugly. Happy or sad. Some people – and perhaps he was one of these – could pick up on sadness in a minor arpeggio, but every listener was different. That sentimentalism was merely a secondary, and undesired, effect.

B
y now he knew Seneo’s library back to front. His teacher still insisted on the theory, even if Dunwich had tried to explain to him that he was only too familiar with the ideas. To avoid any friction, he always restricted himself to acknowledging the level he’d achieved, without going into the topic dearest to his heart. That those theories were useless and, more to the point, inexact. Seneo wouldn’t take kindly to such an observation, he reflected, chuckling.

Dunwich
practised alone or with Seneo, improvising melodies on pieces chosen and performed by his teacher. Simple bass arpeggios, or sometimes long notes pounded out in mixed rhythms. It wasn’t easy, or rather, that had been Dunwich’s impression when he’d watched the older boys’ lessons. They got lost, couldn’t anticipate Seneo, tangled their voices as they tried to follow him. After a first few failed attempts, he worked out for himself where he was going wrong. He shouldn’t wait to understand what his tutor expected of him; he was supposed to lead. Conjuring up melodies was an almost involuntary act for him. He would amuse himself by sketching out wordless musical creations over Seneo’s bass lines, and he tended not to be taken by surprise when the teacher suddenly changed rhythm or tone. He tackled studying as if it were a game. And this was precisely the reason he was tired of poring over the theory, when all he wanted was to finally see the effects a resonance could have on reality. He’d heard the older lads say the choirs’ powers were constantly put into practice at the Arcane. Glorious epic refrains unleashed terrifying flames and lightning bolts. Murky and malignant murmurs stirred the shadows, making them slaves to the chanter’s will. Something could be created out of nothing or an existing entity could be expanded beyond all proportion by a chant. A burning torch could be the source to an ocean of fire, or a puddle in resonance with a chanter’s voice could spread and swallow up a whole road. He couldn’t wait to try it out himself, yet he had to respect the required academic years. True torture.

Theory
, theory and still more theory. Useful, of course. But he’d already memorised it all many a time. He had absorbed every single syllable that could be used in composing. He knew how to harmonise all the scales. Everything Seneo could teach him on the subject, Dunwich had learnt. He’d also gone beyond, asking himself who had structured that framework to music, and whether the past held other practices that had been discarded by history. Since nobody knew, he wasn’t obliged to make the effort to seek out an entirely new answer. He purely had to learn to mechanically repeat the same harmonic sequences, to use the right syllables, to choose the right rhythms, to pursue the right atmosphere. And leave his will to meld with perfection. Something he found extraordinarily easy. He didn’t understand why the others found it so hard, not even managing in some cases. When he wished, he could abandon himself to his voice after just a few notes. He wanted to do it, so he did it. A straightforward procedure.

T
he other boys studying under Seneo were morons, he concluded, in frustration.

I
n all honesty, he would much rather have spent the occasional evening enjoying some fun with his fellow students, instead of reading alone in his room. He could always hear them laughing and fooling around in the kitchen until late at night, when their tutor had already retired to his chambers, or was out of town on business.

But
they didn’t want him.

Hence, they were complete idiots.

“They’d have fun with me,” he told himself in annoyance, as he grabbed yet another book from his small library. A guide to a steady voice. “How to make full use of breathing... Thanks. As if I didn’t know,” he muttered sarcastically.

He
’d impressed them in the beginning with his arresting intelligence. But it hadn’t lasted long. Some of them started making fun of him, teasing him with an array of offensive names. Brat, sprog, freak child. Tiny shit head. Competitiveness was a lifestyle well-engrained from a tender age in Cambria. But when, during his one-to-one lessons, he’d shown he could thrash them in the swiftness with which he followed Seneo in chanting, the jeering and taunting turned to bitter hatred. They didn’t want him with them when they were out in town, or when they were eating or planning on fun. He’d tried having dinner with them now and again, but he’d been forced to get up and leave, infuriated by the imposed and mocking silence they’d used to convey he wasn’t welcome at their table. Since then he’d eaten alone in his room, picking at the hunks of bread and lumps of cheese the cook would set aside for him.

“
Oh, I can’t stand it anymore!” he burst out, leaving his open book to drop onto his desk. The ink-well and its tray wobbled threateningly. Dunwich secured both with a splayed hand, using his fingers like scissors. He stood them up straight and planted his heels against the table leg.

‘
I wonder how mum is.’

He hadn
’t seen his family for ages. He had to make do with the letters Eglade occasionally sent him. Each time he got one, he promised himself he’d set off for his old home the next morning. But he knew it wouldn’t be possible, at least not until he finished his studies with Seneo. He also wanted to chat to his father, and tell him about the progress he’d made. Varno was a simple man, who’d never really appreciated his son’s talents. But Dunwich knew he’d change his mind sooner or later.

‘
When I’m earning enough money... I could ask her to visit Cambria with Mordraud, so they can see the capital...’

He had n
o desire to go on studying, nor did he feel like going to bed. Thinking about home had made him want a night-time walk.

‘
A stroll in the Park of the Temples will help me relax a bit,’ thought Dunwich, as he hunted for his boots beneath his bed. ‘I could ask Enio if he fancies coming with me... I’m so small they won’t let me in the taverns, but if I’m with him... Even the guards make a fuss if they find me hanging around.’

He gave up on
his idea straight away when he heard, through the thick stone walls, the muted shouts of the other lads as they drank toasts in the building’s kitchens. Enio would tell him to get lost if he asked him, and the whole lot would jeer at him.

“
Okay... I’ll go on my own,” he muttered as he locked his bedroom.

***

Dunwich managed to be accepted at the Arcane the following year, ten years earlier than was customary and three years before the scheduled end of his foundation studies. He and Seneo agreed he should go on living with the teacher and continue studying under him, which meant he could send almost all his grant to his parents, month after month, keeping for himself just a few coppers to cover any extras he might fancy. He already had everything he could desire. A good library, fine food, luxury furniture and well-tailored clothing.

And this
was just the start of his impressive career.

Dunwich
’s presence at the new school stirred similar rumours and the same suspicions that he’d already had to endure when he’d studied with Seneo. His learning speed was incredible. He became a choir soloist after just six months. He’d sung in the rows for a mere few days before his teachers were forced to assign him a leading role. Not one of the other students could keep up with him – his voice embarrassingly stood out over theirs. Thanks to his tutor’s interest, he was able to move on, skipping the first years of study. This enabled him, at the age of fourteen, to join the ranks of the capital’s most renowned chanters.

It was then
he was able to experiment with his first resonances.

The
Arcane’s aim was not to train pleasing ballad singers. Instead music was used to achieve an array of exceedingly useful effects, particularly in military contexts. A synchronised choir could change a few passing drops of rain into a hammering storm. A solo chanter could open up the earth beneath the feet of a charging platoon. The wealthiest nobles paid experts to provide support during negotiations. A chanter submerged in his own concentration was able to pick up on threats and lies that were otherwise invisible. Or he could use his powers to free a merchant who had fallen into a trap. All he had to find was the right melody, with an appropriate tone and rhythm, to create a resonance. Candles that burst into roaring spheres of fire. The wind harnessed and shaped into murderous spikes. Light shining out from nothing. Tricks of the mind leaving rash listeners struggling for breath.