So I poured myself into it. For weeks. Things that matter to me converged on the page: family, loyalty, friendship, authenticity . . . music. I began telling a story set in the universe of my series. It’s the story of two men—one old, one young—each putting his music-craft to use in very different ways.
I imagine you’ve heard the adage, “Music has charms to sooth a savage breast.” Well, the phrase was coined by William Congreve in his play The Mourning Bride:
Musick has Charms to sooth a savage Breast,
To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak.
I’ve read, that things inanimate have mov’d,
And, as with living Souls, have been inform’d,
By Magick Numbers and persuasive Sound.
What then am I? Am I more sensless grown
Than Trees, of Flint? O force of constant Woe!
‘Tis not in Harmony to calm my Griefs.
Anselmo sleeps, and is at Peace; last Night
The Silent Tomb receiv’d the good old King;
He and his Sorrows now are safely lodg’d
Within its cold, but hospitable Bosom.
Why am not I at Peace?
I can’t even begin to unpack those lines in this short intro. But I’ll tell you this: It’s no accident that the central song of power in my music magic system is known as The Song of Suffering. And I’ll tell you that music in this story sometimes soothes, sometimes moves inanimate things. It has to do with numbers (more on that in book three of The Vault of Heaven). And it has to do with the notion of absolute sound. And harmony. And resonance. To calm grief. One way or another.
This tale was written to stand on its own. Meaning, if you haven’t read my novels, you’ll be okay digging into Broken Absolutes. But if you’re reading my series, this is the first really in-depth discussion and use of my music magic system. And it ties really well to book two, Trial of Intentions, which—for the uninitiated—was written as an entry point to my series. So, if you like Broken Absolutes, it’s possible for you to come along on the journey starting with Trial of Intentions, where music has a power of its own.
Music matters. It matters in real life. And it certainly matters in the world of my fantasy series.
And as for Richard Dreyfuss’ character, Mr. Holland, I think he’d applaud the fact that I’m not done writing about music.
February 2015
Peter Orullian
ONE
MAESTERI DIVAD JONASON gently removed the viola d’amore from its weathered sheepskin case. In the silence, he smiled wanly over the old instrument, considering. Sometimes the most important music lessons feature no music at all. Such was the case with this viola, an old friend to be sure. It served a different kind of instruction. One that came late in the training of a Lieholan, whose song had the power of intention. This instrument could only be understood when the act of making notes work together had long since been any kind of challenge. This viola made fine music, too, of course—a soft, retiring sound most pleasant in the shades of evening. But this heirloom of the Maesteri, generations old now, taught the kind of resonance often only heard inwardly while standing over a freshly dug barrow.
Behind him, the door opened, and he turned to greet his finest Lieholan student, Belamae Sento. The young man stepped into the room, his face pale, an open letter in his hand. Divad didn’t need to ask the contents of the note. In fact, it was the letter’s arrival that had hastened his invitation to have Belamae join him in this music chamber.
“Close the door, please.” Softly spoken, his words took on a hum-like quality, resounding in the near-perfect acoustics of the room.
Belamae absently did as he was asked. The wide-eyed look on his face was not, Divad knew, amazement at finally coming to the Chamber of Absolutes. Although such would have been normal enough for one of the Lyren—a student of the Descant—it wasn’t so for Belamae. Not today. Worry and conflict had taken the young man’s thoughts far from Descant Cathedral, far from his focus on learning the Song of Suffering.
“You seem distracted. Does finally coming here leave you at a loss for words?” He raised an open palm to indicate the room, but was really just easing them into conversation.
Belamae looked around and shook his head. “It’s less . . . impressive than I’d imagined.”
Divad chuckled low in his throat, the sound musical in the resonant chamber. “Quite so. I tend not to correct assumptions about this place. Could be that I like the surprise of it when Lieholan see it with their own eyes. But the last lessons in Suffering are plain ones. The room is rightly spare.”
The walls and floor and vaulted ceiling were bare granite. In fact, the only objects in the room were four instruments: a boxharp, a dual-tubed horn, a mandola, and the viola Divad held in his hands. Each had a place in an arched cutaway at equal distances around the circular chamber.
He held up the viola. “What about the instruments? What do they suggest you might learn here?”
Belamae looked around again, more slowly this time, coming last to the viola. He concluded with a shrug.
“Aliquot stringing,” Divad said, supplying the answer. “It’s resonance, my boy. And leads us to absolute sound.”
Belamae nodded, seeming unimpressed or maybe just overly distracted. “Do we have to do this today?”
“Because of the letter you’ve received,” he replied, knowing it was precisely so.
The young Lieholan stared down at the missive in his hands, and spoke without raising his eyes. “I’ve looked forward to the things you’d teach me here. We
