Mordraud, Book One (53 page)

“
You have to sing louder!” he yelled, riding his own colossal voice.

Don
’t listen to him, Gwern. Don’t listen. Just concentrate on this frigging ditty. It’s crap, it’s idiotic, but it’s your life. You’ll die if you don’t learn.

“
If you can’t sing any louder, YOU CAN LEAVE AT ONCE!”

Don
’t listen to him, Gwern.

Was that his voice
?

Gwern
opened his eyes again and, without even realising it, he’d already finished. He hadn’t listened to any of the sounds he’d made. Without saying a word, he went straight back to his room. Without even glancing at Saiden’s expression.

‘
I can pack my things,’ he thought.

He wasn
’t hungry, and even his thirst had miraculously spared him. But a far more unsettling sensation had taken the place of physical pain. The humiliation of having done something right, but that nobody understood.

‘
If he doesn’t come and call me first, then tomorrow morning I’ll be off. There’s a stream not far away, in the wood heading north. I might be able to reach it before dying.’

Gwern
fell asleep on the bench carved with his diagram of lines and dots, permeated by a strange tranquillity streaked with a twist of morbid euphoria.

‘
At least this torment is over, and I’ve tried right to the last... Don’t be angry with me, brother.’

As he plummet
ed into an overpowering sleep, Gwern heard his thoughts reverberate in his head, as if he were speaking to himself alone. They had the same neutral and lifeless timbre as the voice he felt he’d heard before, while singing.

N
obody came to fetch him in the middle of the night and, as happened every morning, Gwern heard the two taps that denoted the start of his torture. He opened the door, ready to say he’d had enough, that he could not learn to chant because he wasn’t capable, but what he saw at his feet took the words straight out of his mouth.

He didn
’t find just the two customary glasses of water. Beside them were two bread rusks spread with butter and honey, arranged in a vertical line.

“
So the high range is fine...” he muttered, with a vaguely hysterical smile. “I need to work more on the low notes now.”

***

Once he’d identified the traps and reached the first goal, Gwern worked with a dedication bordering on obsession. The middle register was his strongest point but, as he adjusted it, he realised his high range could be bettered, and a great deal. He didn’t want to exhibit mere fragments of improvement, so every evening he sang as if it were the first time, doing it his own way. Without listening to his teacher. Only when he felt he could add something important did he expose himself to Saiden and attempt the assault. But his master was an insurmountable wall of harmony. Gwern often lost his focus and muddled everything up, so he had to return to his room without being able to provide evidence of his labours.

The second ration of rusks and honey came out of the blue.
Gwern wasn’t expecting it. Saiden must have picked up on something promising in the hard work the boy persistently pressed on with. He concentrated on what he’d shown, on what his teacher might have liked. Knowing he couldn’t sing in the low range since he just didn’t have the voice, he devised his own approach. He began partially modifying the catchy tune with which, playing Saiden’s part, he had to try to cover his own voice, in a sort of challenge of volumes. Gwern lost count of the days he spent shut up in his cell. The tower’s darkness, the night’s black disc in place of the sky, the practice. The exhibition sessions. He was absorbed by this succession. Every attempt made was the perfect repetition of a thousand other past ones. Note upon note grew on the bench, with lines and marks that only he understood. A language he was inventing to explain to himself abilities he already had inside, somewhere.

Gwern
sometimes felt overwhelmed by the worry of not succeeding or of being unable to improve. Other times he rode a wave of euphoria, with the impression of holding all his skill in his hand and of being able to shape it to his will. But the low range was his deadly pitfall. He’d felt on the brink of wanting to give up many a time. Thirst was no longer a problem. His hunger had vanished. His voice too had condensed to a toneless whisper, but what counted was how it sounded in his mind. Gwern was slowly disappearing within himself.

Until, one ordinary day, he managed to get to the end of the
tune with no mistakes. Alone, in his room, which now looked like a messy nest.

“
I did it! I did it!” he yelled, jumping about. “All the notes! Even the lowest ones! I’ve got it,
I’ve got it!
”

When
he presented himself to Saiden that evening, Gwern felt different. His fear had vanished, along with his hunger and thirst. He felt in great shape and full of energy. As charged as a spring compressed for centuries.

“
You won’t manage it!” shouted his teacher. He’d launched at the attack straight away. With even more ferocity than usual.

Gwern s
miled, and began.

The first passage came beautifully. His voice glided gracefully over every shift, it dallied with the enrichments, and plunged
like lead into the ocean to fish out the deepest notes. He wanted to dance, and perhaps he did without realising. The little song no longer seemed so silly – the contrary. Gwern was converting it into a war chant, keeping pace with the marching soldiers, blowing the bugles to signal the start of the onslaught. The melody raced until it developed into a murmur as dark as the blackest night. That was his nemesis, and he challenged it without pulling back. Saiden’s chanting was still above his, but by little. Gwern was twisting around his, resting on it when he needed, soaring in flight when he found the harmonic passage to exalt it.

The
finale was his act of grace. With an ever stronger and braver voice, he tackled the speed, the huge leaps, and the ridiculous feeble marching pace. Saiden passed beneath. The boy rounded off by swiftly grabbing the air with a fist.

It was only
then that he stopped to listen to the echo of his voice. He wanted to hear its reverberation on the walls.

Yet not a single note had come from his throat. T
he murky belly of the tower was dominated only by Saiden’s chanting, which was rapidly fading into the silence. Gwern was overcome by an awful sensation.

He
’d dreamt his singing.

St
unned, exhausted and gripped by utter confusion, Gwern staggered towards his room and collapsed on the bench. He didn’t even think about Saiden, about what he should maybe say to him. That he was going crazy. That he was losing his mind. It was an absurd and pointless effort. He’d convinced himself he could do who knew what, and instead he’d understood nothing. His memory was playing tricks on him. He dropped off to sleep while still groping for some logic in what had happened out there.

“
Quite frankly I didn’t think you could improve so greatly, alone.”

It was
Saiden’s voice. Gwern opened his eyes, and lacerating pains assailed every bone in his body, every muscle and every nerve. It seemed like a usual episode of his old illness, but more intense and more painful. He felt like he was reliving his fits all at the same moment. It was his first since he’d come to the tower, and Gwern found himself wondering why. After all, he had forced his body to endure shocking rhythms, when normally just an attack of cold or sudden strain was enough to knock him to the floor, the victim of the juddering.

“
You kept yourself alive alone. Another curiosity to add to your secret. What are you hiding, Gwern?”

“
Wh... where am I?! Did I sing? How many days have gone by?” he mumbled, nearly mauling his tongue in his mouth. If that wasn’t death, then it couldn’t be far away. The pain was unbearable. The shudders were shredding his insides. Saiden sat on the bench near him, placed a hand on the child’s chest, and the shaking instantly vanished.

“
I wanted to see if you possessed some concealed talent. I didn’t see what I was most interested in, but in any case you were impressive.”

“
At doing... what?!”

“
At improving. You have a great ability to strike resonance with yourself – truly remarkable.”

“
But I... Did I really...?”

“
Sing? More or less,” Saiden broke in. “You believed it, and that’s what counts. The physical act of chanting is secondary.”

“
Master Saiden, I don’t understand...”

“
Oh, that doesn’t matter for the moment. We’ll return to it,” he replied. However kindly he might be acting, Gwern picked up on a vague coldness in his voice. As if he were still intent on studying him.

As if he
saw something in his chest that Gwern didn’t know how to see.

“
I feel better...” he blurted in surprise, sitting up. “But how...?”

“
Good, I’m pleased. When the right time comes, we must also work on your... on this ailment of yours. When the time’s right. But now...” Saiden smiled and got up to go.

“
Now you deserve a decent dinner.”

***

“Move Rago’s group towards the valley. Keep the archers’ cover on their infantry.”

“
Right away, sir!”

Dunwich
was at Asaeld’s side, with his personal escort, at the base behind the front lines, scrutinising the enemy troops’ movements. The Lance commander had not deployed his battalion, and so there was no need to take part in the battle itself. Dunwich had received this news with frustration. He was missing the adrenalin buzz, the excitement of combat. He was weary of waiting, doing nothing. He hadn’t been on the battlefield in months.

“
Eldain’s cavalry is shifting along the river bank,” Dunwich narrated to Asaeld, “making the most of the lay of the land to penetrate our area. Send a couple of units to intercept, and you could point the archers in their direction.”

“
Excellent idea. DID YOU HEAR WHAT DUNWICH SAID? MOVE IT!” he yelled, waving his arms “WE WANT MORE ARCHERS!”

“
Heard anything on how the Long Winter preparations are going?”

“
Almost there,” replied Asaeld. “A few unexpected hitches with the first scouts, after one was found just a stone’s throw from the Rampart... But we’ll be ready when the first cold descends. We need an absolutely perfect map of the land. Assault quality directly depends on it.”

Dunwich
nodded, his thoughts elsewhere. Hitches. His spy too must have stumbled on an unforeseen hurdle, since his return was later than all expectations.

“
What’s taking your mind to wander, Dunwich?” Asaeld inquired, observing him in puzzlement. “You must never let your concentration slip, otherwise you could miss some of the enemy’s moves... Remember: you must let nothing and nobody distract you!”

“
Don’t fret, Asaeld, I was just musing on our foe’s stubbornness. The rebels are certainly not giving up an inch of land... not even down here, in the front’s backwaters. We’re south of Hann Creek
,
very close to Hannrinn. They know we won’t go any further down, so as not to risk leaving our back undefended.”

“
Eldain never takes anything for granted,” responded Asaeld. “He knows it takes very little to lose control. Here nearby is an apparently harmless stream. But since it flows into the Hann, it could be harnessed in a variety of ways. For instance, if we managed to take it and hold it for at least a year, it might be an excellent waterway for reaching Eld’s hinterlands. And their resources don’t include boats.”

“
I hadn’t thought of that...” admitted Dunwich.

“
You’re not the almighty, my boy!” Asaeld laughed heartily. “Otherwise, what use would I be?”

“
You’re definitely right! If we were to leave all the choices to... you know who, I can’t imagine the disaster...”

“
Well said, sir!” exclaimed a Lance behind them. “If we had more leaders like you, and fewer bunglers in power...”

He was little more than
a lad, and Dunwich had never noticed him. In fact, the Lance ranks had been much bolstered in recent years. Promising young men, who’d completed their studies with excellent results and on impressive timescales. Since Asaeld had been elected rector, the course at the Military Academy had changed significantly. Fewer years and far more practice. Almost all the tutors had changed too. And those who’d retired had been replaced with men selected by Asaeld in person.

“
We need to strengthen our position, and the classic methods are taking us nowhere. We need new sap!” was the attitude he’d expounded before the Emperor. “I know how to do it!”

Of course,
Loralon didn’t dare open his mouth – as always when Asaeld spoke.

“
Soldier, your words are inappropriate!” barked Asaeld, red in the face. “You’re to show the utmost respect for the government!”